#i want him in the sixtieth in the same way i want the others

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Prologue)

Haymitch x Fem!Reader

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

The Sixtieth Hunger Games will begin in five, four, three, two, one.

“Mom.” The boy at his mother’s bedside whispers, “Mom.” He shakes her shoulder lightly. She’s dreaming again and now, at the age of nine, he understands why he must be careful when waking her.

Y/N gasps, springing from the mattress, prepared to fight. But then she sees him. Everest, her sweet boy, forged in his father’s image. There is no denying, he’s her husband’s child through and through. “Sorry, sweetheart.” She sighs, letting both hands drop to her sides.

“S’ok.” He shrugs, stuffing worried hands into his pockets. “Dad’s with Arista, she’s pretty upset…doesn’t want you to go.” I don’t want you to go.

“Well,” Y/N forces a smile. “We don’t want to go without you either.” It was just like President Snow to demand they have children and then drag them away each year to mentor the games. Everest and Arista have only been required to join them in the Capitol for fanfare. The games are not about them anymore.

With Y/N aged twenty-nine and Haymitch forty, the novelty of their winnings has worn off. The most fascinating thing about them now is this, their love story and the family created from it. The anomaly that is Y/N Abernathy, Mayor Undersee’s eldest daughter, plucked from the reaping bowl at age fifteen. The girl who once hated her drunk of a mentor and grew to love him as the years passed.

The Capitol adores her, she is their darling. People hang off the edge of their seats, feasting on crumbs, anticipating her next move. What will she be wearing? Which victors sit within her inner circle?

Haymitch allows this, encourages it even. Because it keeps her safe. There is no cost too great. Y/N is everything Haymitch conditioned himself not to want. Snow knows exactly how deep his hooks are in. Killed Haymitch’s family because he didn’t appreciate the way he won the games; with an axe to the force field. Gave him a new family to dangle over his head years later.

Unfortunately for Haymitch, the cost of these theatrics means allowing Y/N’s former stylist to preen over her on reaping day.

Y/N can hear Vanity being ‘warmly’ welcomed by Haymitch on the first floor.

“Come on,” Y/N pats her son’s cheek. “Let’s go.”

Everest grins, racing toward the stairs. They do love their mother’s stylist and they only get to see her twice a year, if they’re lucky.

“You sure that headpiece is getting through the door, V?” Haymitch remarks, watching as the chandelier like dome attached to her skull pushes its way into their home.

Vanity scoffs, “good to see you too, Haymitch. What did you do to my darling?” The blue haired woman gasps at the sight of his five year old daughter, all but hysterical.

“I’m leaving her,” Haymitch sighs, shifting the little girl lightly in his arms.

“Tut, tut, my love.” Vanity coos, “Daddy will be back soon.”

“I want my Mommy to stay.” Arista sniffles, “you can’t take both.”

Everest reaches the bottom stair, saving Vanity from having to respond when he launches himself at the Capitol woman.

“Now this is a welcome,” Vanity ruffles his hair. “Look how big you are, my goodness.”

“I’ll be ten soon.”

“How the time flies.” Vanity catches sight of her victor. The first and only. “Y/N.”

“Hi.” Y/N smiles, wrapping both arms around herself. She is wearing a long sleep shirt with mismatched bottoms. The other woman is surely appalled at the sight.

“Let us…” Vanity’s eyes, unnaturally colored by contacts, flit about her, “get to work.”

————————————————————————

This year there is a bit of excitement at the reaping. Their female tribute actually volunteered, not something people really do in twelve. But it was for her sister and when it comes down to it, if Y/N was put in a position to choose between her little sister, Madge and herself facing the games, she would’ve done the same.

Y/N’s family will tend the children until they return, same as they have every year since the kids were born. Leaving them never gets any easier, especially if one or both is crying when they go. Y/N steps onto the train to the Capitol, still in her ridiculous mirror ball of a gown. Waving their children goodbye.

Haymitch is there, tense hands resting at her shoulders. “They’ll be alright.”

“I know,” Y/N nods.

“We’ll be alright.”

“I know.”

Part 1

[aslanscompass]

The Return of Russell

When Russell T. Davies stepped down as Doctor Who showrunner, the heir was obvious: Steven Moffat. Moffat had already written six Hugo Award-nominated episodes in the four series of the revived show, as well as having experience as an executive producer on other award-winning shows.

On the other hand, Moffat's successor was far from obvious. The announcement of Chibnall produced baffled shrugs and ambivalence. He'd written several episodes for Torchwood and the main show in the past, but none of his previous offerings stood out.

Chibnall's era was full of chaos and controversy. With only one Doctor and three series, spread over five years, he wrote or co-wrote 21 of the 30 episodes.

I'm not going to rehash all my thoughts on Chibs or Jodi in this post; suffice it to say a significant portion of the fandom was turned off by Chib's stories. I also don't want to go back and look at viewing stats either. I'm an English major; statistics scare me. However, the compiled viewing figures and the reduced episode count have contributed to a lower 'profile' for the show overall.

I'm not privy to bureaucratic politics, but the implications of Russell's return are blindly obvious. The BBC is scared. They know Doctor Who is losing ground with scifi fans; the cash cow is drying up. Who better to turn this ship around than the man who brought it back in the first place?

However, my initial response was "Don't they know what 'new' means?" Russell left on good terms; a small portion of his fans have been begging for his return ever since. While I am not one of them (I started with s5 and am a firm Moffat devotee), I find him to be a capable showrunner, even while I disagree with his politics.

RTD returning is one thing, especially in the lack of other viable options. Bringing back Tennant and Tate, on the other hand....I side-eyed that decision when it was announced. Now that the 60th-anniversary specials have aired, I'm even more ambivalent about the choice.

There's no way of knowing who suggested what element(s) of the sixtieth, especially now that Disney has a finger in the pie (although I've heard that Disney wasn't a player in those specials.) Tennant (and Piper) returned for the 50th, but Day of the Doctor was deliberately and consciously a multi-doctor special, with 11 retaining incumbent status.

Having Whittaker regeneration into Tennant... yeah... a poor choice. I've already posted here about an alternate, Big Finish-inspired take on the reappearance of that face. And of Tennant's companions, Donna is the natural choice for returning (both narratively and in terms of actor availability)

I'll go into more detail about the 60th anniversary specials in another post, but the upside of hiring a known quality is exactly the same as the downside: you know what you're gonna get.

[spacebetweenheartbeats]

to all the boys i loved before: two

he was my classmate. he was one of my best friends. he was also my first love - still is.

dear ayush bhatt - where do i start with you?

i will do my best to write about him, to make you know and love him as much as i did, but forgive me if i fail to do so. he shines as bright as the sun - and i might be unable to capture his brilliance with my words alone.

i met him seven years ago, in fourth grade, but we only talked two years later, as two ambitious sixth graders hoping to achieve great things in this world. despite belonging to the same section, and the same friend group, we'd never talked before. shocking and unbelievable, but true.

we sat together at school, and we quickly became the best of friends; we were both witty, shared a lot of interests and i thought he was one of the most charming people i'd ever met - still is. i'll never get over how quickly he wormed his way into my heart, even if as a friend.

he quickly became my best friend - he was smart, and kind and was willing to listen. he probably didn't understand much as to why i was so worried about the way i looked or my diet at age eleven, but he'd listen. and that's what i wanted. i wasn't looking to be judged or given advice, i just wanted someone who'd let me ramble for hours.

somewhere between the shared lunch hour and the whispered conversations to avoid being caught by the teachers, i fell in love with him.

if you've ever heard the quote - 'i fell in love with him the way you fall asleep; suddenly, and then all at once' - it would be apt for my situation at the time.

i don't even know how he wormed his way into my heart, but he did. i'm willing to bet it wasn't even that hard for him - he probably just smiled at me the way he always did, like we had a secret nobody else knew, and i fell.

i kept quiet throughout the year, of course - it was 6th grade, and everybody was confessing to their crushes. if he had rejected me, i don't quite think i could have dealt with the fallout and the ruination of a friendship i held so close to my heart.

and then we got shuffled, and we stopped talking.

we both made new friends, and our promises of remaining friends and eating lunch with each other and exchanging books soon fell by the wayside. we drifted apart - while we still said hi and exchanged small talk, our previous closeness had been eroded. he had new female friends, i had new male ones.

it was ok. i dealt with it the way you'd deal with a handicap - by ignoring it and working your life around it. i stopped going down shared corridors, choosing to go by the longer path - stopped going to the basketball grounds because i knew he's going be there, excelling as he always did at basketball. i hid away in the library, or in corners of the school nobody frequented.

in 2020, i made the decision that i would put him behind in my past and leave him as nothing more than a good memory. and then the lockdown hit.

the lockdown in india made it a lot easier to strengthen that decision. there were online classes, and we didn't see or talk to each other during that two year period. for all purposes, ayush bhatt and mira harris were no longer, and had never been anything.

when schools reopened for tenth grade, he wasn't the first thought on my mind. he was maybe the fiftieth or sixtieth, no one's counting. and then i saw him at school, and it hurt.

he'd grown taller - before, i was taller than him, and always made fun of him for that - and while his height changed, his smile hadn't. it was still beautiful, and it still bewitched me and made my heart ache for the things and time i'd lost.

i saw him around after that - we assumed the relationship of two acquaintances who were friendly enough with each other. every time i saw him, it would feel like somebody kicked me in the gut and the air had left my lungs and i'd have to start taking deeper breaths because i didn't want to cry in front of him.

i didn't have to worry about that after a while - the board exams happened, and we stopped talking completely. no time to - we were constantly studying, and revising and trying to do our best. we both did well, of course - he scored a 100 in math and 93.8% overall, and i got 94%. and now i've left school for fiitjee (derogatory), and he stayed back at school.

where are we now?

i know you probably expect us to have stopped talking completely. this is supposed to be a post about the one who got away, a boy i used to love before and miss to my heart's content.

but we haven't.

we still talk, over emails. ridiculous, but true - it takes nearly two weeks for him to respond to any of my mails, but he does reply. we talk about our lives - four years ago, i used to know a lot of things about him. i know that he got into playing chess, got sucked into the iit dream, and got a girlfriend. now, he knows quite a lot about me; my depression, dislike for MPC and the little things that make my life worth living.

i don't think he knows he's one of them.

i love him even now. he'll never know i loved him, or still do - to him, i will be a casual friend he drifted away from, and nothing more than that.

he's a little like the sun. he shines so brightly, i can't even look at him without flinching - and he's not mine to belong to, because the sun belongs to nobody. i don't regret any moment of it - i'd do it, live 2018 all over again if god let me.

maybe i will meet him in person again. maybe in another universe, i'll fall just as hard as i did in this one.

i love you. i'll find you in another universe.

[castrovulcant]

[Image description: a screenshot of what's trending on tumblr showing Doctor Who as number 1 and the tag #David Tennant. The next is the, "Shut up about the sun" meme from The Office. Gabe looks annoyed as he says "Shut up about David Tennant. Shut up about David Tennant." /end image description]

i have to say i don't like this. i'm absolutely a david tennant lover but i hate how his thirty seconds of screentime have overshadowed both jodie whittaker's departure and ncuti gatwa

and apparently he's being called the fourteenth doctor, which i like even less. he's already the tenth, three episodes with whatever explanation they're using shouldn't make him number 14 as well. no one calls the war doctor the ninth, or the metacrisis doctor the eleventh, or the fugitive doctor the first– this shouldn't be any different. just think up a nickname it's not that hard

[pollyna]

Maverick let's people organise for him birthday parties without sayin' much even if he hates every bit of the event. For his sixty they all are at the O-Club, Rooster is smiling and all the alcohol he wants appears in front of him. He can't say he liked it but he can't say he's sorry to have been there. The next two years are almost the same, it changes the location, Rooster isn't there for is sixty-second because he's away on mission but he receives presents from all his students. Penny is still around, still kissing him slowly and softly, still making him use the window to leave the house because he doesn't want to settle down and she doesn't want to settle for his idea of what they are. Some day it works some other they end up asking eachother what, why, are they doing themselves.

Then April comes around again and Penny is thinking of something special, not as big as for his sixtieth, and maybe just the two of them? But when the 12th actually comes around Maverick is nowhere to be found. Rooster is around, Mav's favourite cake is in the fridge, Penny's picnic spot is reserved. Maverick's phone is turned off and his bike is parked in front of his house.

The call comes around four, when everyone is a second away from loosing their collective minds, and Sarah's voice is as gentle and firm as possibile when she explains that Maverick is at her house and he needs a little more time to process. She doesn't say he spent all day in Tom's bedroom or he called out for him and Goose at some point, after the seventh or eighth beer. She let's them know he is safe and probably going to crush there, no need to come and pick him up. He will find his way back, she concludes before she hang ups the call.

Maverick comes back, the next day, smelling like a distillery and misery, if misery had a smell. He doesn't offer explanation nor touches a piece of his cake before disappearing again, this time in his own bedroom. It takes a week, of erratic behaviour and having to fight him on every single little thing, before he can find the strength to say I don't want to do anything for my birthday, next year.

And so it is, for a lot of the years that follows his sixty-third birthday Penny doesn't organise anything, his classes are still sending him little presents and Maverick just disappears in the Kazansky's house for a day and then come back. Sarah never say what they do when Maverick's around and Penny is almost terrifyed of the answer, even when she can't tell herself why.

The answer comes a couple of days after his sixty-eighth birthday, when they're all sitting around a restaurant table for Rooster's promotion, that Maverick spills it out and probably only his godson was suppose to hear about that but Penny is just too curious: Tom ha-had a pile of VHD, almost twenty of them, with long videos of our year at TOPGUN and a lot of other random moments in life. They're there, frozen in time, Ice and your dad and so many others, and I'm there with them. I'm with them there, back when we were young and I wasn't alone. I know is selfish but they give me the best birthdays, even without the cake and the alcohol. I miss them a year, every day, and it's already been so hard being older than your dad but the day I turned sixty-three I realised Ice wasn't never going to be sixty-four and it kinda shuttered me? I miss them more than anything Bradley, more than even flying.

Rooster is crying, Penny is crying too, and Maverick isn't looking at them but at the sky probably dreaming of planes, family bonds and love that has never really faded away. The only thing Penny can actually do is to hug Pete a little longer and a little tighter than usual, the cold of the metal of his, their, dogtags against her chest and the sound of a single beating heart that follows a complete different rhythm than hers.

[mooneloquence]

❛ it’s hard to sit here and be close to you and not kiss you. ❜ or ❛ maybe i’ll see you in another life if this one wasn’t enough. ❜ for sg prompts?

Okay, this one got angsty, but don't worry, it's just a conversation, and there's fluff and comfort for both of them in the end (I'm doing the second prompt because I already filled the other one here!)

I feel like there's a million different takes on lifespan angst already and they're all wonderful (even though I can't read some of them because they hurt my heart too much), but I figured this prompt was perfect to write my own. The next prompts will be quite fluffy and lighthearted to balance this one. Thanks, anon, for the prompts! Hope you enjoy 💜 I'm still taking prompts from here, send me an ask!

Maybe I'll see you in another life if this one wasn't enough. (850 words, G)

"Why?" A single syllable was all it took to break Caleb's heart.

He deserved it, he supposed, because judging the look on Essek's eyes, he had done the same with only a sentence. So I think it is time for us to go back to being just friends.

The older wizard—funny to think of it that way when it was Caleb whose face was wrinkled, whose hair was almost done silvering and thinning—looked like he had been struck across the face, eyes wide as his mind tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Why?" he repeated after not receiving an answer, and his eyes filled with tears as his voice cracked.

"Have you not been listening?" Caleb asked softly, a deep frown creasing his brow. He had been trying to explain exactly that for the past forty-six minutes and eleven seconds, saying—in many, many words—that at sixty-one, he was hardly a young man anymore. He knew he had postponed this conversation long enough, far longer than he should have, chickening out every time—at fifty, fifty-four, fifty-nine, and the previous year on his sixtieth birthday. And now, he had no buffer, there was no introducing the idea ahead of time anymore.

"Apparently not." Essek frowned as well, and in any other situation, Caleb would have been proud of how far the proud ex Shadowhand had come to allow himself to cry freely. Calloused, wrinkled hands came up to wipe the small diamonds that spilled down Essek's cheeks. No, no, no, please, don't, I don't deserve these, they are far too precious to waste on me. "I do not understand, Caleb, did I do something wrong?"

"What? No, of course not," he soothed him. "This was what I wanted to avoid, causing you pain." His throat had felt tight this whole time, but now it hurt.

Even through the tears, there was recognition and understanding in the elf's gaze. So now you see it. But it all turned into swift anger after but a moment; anger which quickly morphed again, mellowing down to something stubborn and fierce he knew all too well.

"Is this because you are not as young anymore?"

"I knew we should have had this conversation sooner, I—"

"What conversation?” the elf interrupted him. “Because as far as I know, there was no actual conversation until now."

"I am sorry, Essek." Caleb looked down. The drow's tears had stopped, but he still cradled his face in his hands. "I am an old man, and you are still... you; I don't want you to suffer when I am—" he swallowed— "gone."

Dark hands came up to encircle his wrists. Whatever marks they bore were not because of age, but because of twenty-eight years of a life on the run, constantly moving.

"I do not see any of the others doing the same. Not Fjord, not Beauregard, even though both Jester and Yasha will outlive them."

"I—"

"'For someone so smart, you can be real stupid sometimes, Essek.'"

"What?"

"That is what Jester tells me sometimes. Though it fits you at the moment." The unexpected accusation startled a chuckle out of the human. "I know you mean well, but I do not want you to mitigate my suffering. I do not need you to do that for myself, Caleb." Essek's hands glided up to cover the back of his, and they were as warm and as lovely as ever.

The tightness in Caleb’s throat became impossible to bear, and he could only whisper an I'm sorry before his face crumbled and he dissolved into sobs that had been building up for the past few years. Almost immediately, two arms came around him as Essek hugged him tightly and buried his face into his neck. And who was he not to hug back? It had been a while since Caleb had lost track of time, but by the point the tears of preemptive grief, of fear and heartache ceased, he found that he was glad it was the case.

"There is a saying in the Dynasty," murmured Essek, cheek still pressed against his shoulder. "It translates to maybe I will see you in another life if this one wasn't enough, and it is usually said quite literally. But," he paused to sigh into Caleb’s neck, "this is the only life we get before whatever is in the afterlife. Please, don't push me away. When I said I wanted to spend all the time I could with you, I meant it, Caleb Widogast."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he exhaled shakily into Essek’s shoulder. "You will grieve."

"So be it. I accepted the grief when I accepted loving the Mighty Nein, when I accepted loving you. But the happiness you have brought me far outweighs any pain that may come."

For a few minutes, there was silence as they breathed each other in, peace restored in their hearts.

Then, Caleb spoke again, "I never meant to cause you pain. Will you forgive my foolishness, schatz?"

He felt more than heard Essek chuckle as he nodded. "Always, young man."

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

I've never met ANYONE who actually likes the Chibnall era. Would you seriously say that it's objectively good?

Brace yourself for unpopular (albeit positive) opinions.

Objectively? I don't know, I tend to feel like media is very much subjective and down to opinion. But on the whole...yeah. I'm gonna say yeah. I think the Chibnall era thus far is every bit as good as the Moffat Era and Davies Era were. It actually blows my mind to see the fandom come together and almost universally agree that the show has gone downhill. It's part of the reason why I kind of stepped away from the Doctor Who fandom because there's something very demoralizing about re-watching clips from Season 12 and seeing literally every comment just talk about how the show is ruined. And if I re-watch old clips, very often I come across comments that talk about how the show "used to" be good, and should have ended with Twelve, etc. I know a little reluctance toward the new Doctor can be part of the transition process, but normally the fans are over it by now.

Things haven't really changed.

I've been re-watching Twelve's era, and found a new appreciation for him. But I re-watched Thirteen's era right beforehand, and you know what? It holds up. Season 11 is remarkably strong. I can't think of a single "bad" episode in that season. It focuses on the characters, and thus it doesn't have nearly as strong ambitions, compared to one of the Moffat seasons, which were clever but often convoluted. They couldn't always stick the landing. (Looking at you, Season 6) But every has it's good parts and it's bad. The same man who wrote The Wedding of River Song and betrayed the entire season's storyline in the process...also wrote The Doctor Falls, which is probably my favorite final episode of any season ever. The Chibnall Era is the same way. The Tsuranga Conundrum isn't really a bad episode, it's just kind of forgettable, apart from the Pting. But then it is immediately followed up by Demons of the Punjab, which is an exceptional story in every way. I want the Thijurians to return for Thirteen's regeneration, I'm saying it.

My point being that even if there are episodes you can't stand in the new era, is that really exclusive to Chibnall? All the way back in Season 1, they had The Long Game, which I remember disliking, but it was sandwiched between Dalek and Father's Day, which are in my opinion, the two best episodes of that season. A lot of people don't like Orphan 55, for example. But it's followed up by Nikola Tesla's Night of Terror. Does anyone really dislike that episode? You're valid if you do, but I think it's really good. Ask me about any episode in the Chibnall Era, and I'll find something to like about it. (Except maybe Arachnids in the UK...and that one's not even bad, just kind of weak.) Because like I said, there is good and bad in every season...and I do think that the fandom has overblown how "bad" the Chibnall Era is...though that may be in part because I think this era is generally good? Incredible companions, solid episodes, a great Doctor, and hey...this era actually made the Daleks scary again. That is impressive. Even most of the hated episodes, like Orphan 55 as I mentioned...I enjoy them.

I stand by that. I think this era is great. If anything, I don't like that they reduced how many episodes we get, because some of these stories, like The Witchfinders and It Takes You Away especially Fugitive of The Judoon, are just begging to be two-parters. Spyfall is the only real two-parter we've had, in my opinion (Ascension of the Cybermen and The Timeless Children feel like two separate stories to me) and the episode was much stronger for having the extra time. If I have one genuine criticism with the Chibnall Era as a whole, it is the stark contrast between Seasons 11 and 12. I love Season 11, I thought it was beautiful. I like it far more than most people. I also truly enjoyed Season 12. But they are worlds apart, with Season 11 feeling so standalone and Season 12 picking up with a big storyline that really hadn't been hinted at all in the previous outing. The tone is also different, with The Doctor and "the fam" having a distance between them that seems to have developed offscreen in between seasons. It was as though Chibnall wanted to give everyone a breather from big overarching plots after the Moffat Era, but then after one season he decided "break's over" because he wanted to tell his story. And that's okay! It is. But it's jarring. Anyway, let's talk about Chibnall's storyline. You know where this is going.

"That" episode.

I meant what I said before. There isn't a single episode that I actively hate as much as say, Listen. Now let's get very controversial, because I know what y'all are thinking. "Not even The Timeless Children?" And I'll just get this out of the way right now: I don't think The Timeless Children, or it's twist, ruins Doctor Who. I don't think it gets anywhere close. I mentioned before that I was demoralized reading the comments on a clip of Doctor Who...to no one's surprise, it was this episode. Now, I may just be biased...after all, I didn't even hate Hell Bent. But while I have my criticisms of Season 12, The Doctor's revised backstory accounts for exactly none of them. You want to know what really bothers me? That we had a seven season buildup to Gallifrey's rescue, a nine season buildup to it's return...only for the show to do nothing with it, and then just destroy it again a couple of seasons later. As someone who loved The Day of The Doctor, I'm mad about that. Among other reasons, destroying Gallifrey is the kind of card you can really only play once.

So no, I don't think The Timeless Children is perfect. The Doctor had a seven season character arc culminating in them learning the lesson that using The Moment would be wrong, and that it was never okay to do something like that. To hear her even consider using The Death Particle, that "Or, a solution" line in response to Ryan appropriately reacting in horror? Yeah, that upset me. I don't like that Gallifrey is gone again, and even if The Doctor wasn't the one to do it, she almost did, and she left someone else to do it in her stead. That bothers me more than The Timeless Child ever could. That being said...the Timeless Child doesn't bother me. Seriously, it blows my mind that people act like this twist ruins Doctor Who. It...really doesn't, guys.

It does not insult the legacy of William Hartnell. He is still The First Doctor. It's not like there isn't a precedent for secret incarnations from The Doctor's past. We didn't start calling Christopher Eccleston The Tenth Doctor after we found out about John Hurt. Nothing can change The First Doctor's status or take it away, nor do I think Chibnall is trying. He is doing what I've actually wanted Doctor Who to do for a while. Give us a story about The Doctor's childhood. (Listen doesn't count, I don't care, that was all kinds of bad.) Let me ask you, what does this really change? I've seen people complain about the revision of The Doctor's history...but there's a precedent for that too. We could play bingo with how many times Clara fundamentally altered or influenced the show's history. She is the reason he started traveling, the reason he chose his Tardis, and the reason he saved Gallifrey. Why doesn't that bother people, if this does?

I also understand it if people dislike this change because they feel as though it makes The Doctor a kind of chosen one, compared to them having just been an average person who wanted to make a difference. I get that. However, this is down to interpretation, and there are so many ways to interpret The Doctor. Some people love it when The Doctor goes dark, other people cannot stand it and view it as out of character. Some people love it when The Doctor is heroic and badass, when they save the day...others would prefer that they take the backseat, teaching the humans how to save the day themselves. "The man who makes people better." And which interpretation you get, where it falls on the spectrum...it will vary from writer to writer. Moffat loved to make everything about The Doctor, and Davies frequently compared him to an angel or a god. This is not the first time that the show has portrayed The Doctor as a godlike being. It's not even close to the first time. And honestly? I don't think this makes The Doctor special or supernatural. I think it makes them a victim, nothing more. A victim of child abuse.

People also disliked this episode for removing the mystery behind The Doctor...but I fail to see how it did that? There are so. Many. Questions. That this finale opens up. Where did The Doctor come from? How and why did they get to our universe? What exactly is The Division? What went down between them and The Doctor? Where is Tecteun? (No, she's not Rassilon...) As the Masters asks, "What did they do to you, Doctor? How many lives have you had?" Amid all of the comments that made me sad, I did see a great one about how the original creator of Doctor Who actually didn't like it when they introduced the Timelords, because she felt that it boxed the show in and removed the mystery behind The Doctor, and how "She would have loved this episode." I agree with that. (Still salty that they destroyed Gallifrey though...) You know, I am genuinely interested in this story and where it's going to go, especially with the sixtieth anniversary approaching. But it depresses me that they might scale it back now, after how much the fandom has risen up against it. Not that I'm saying the fans shouldn't be happy, but...it's clear that a story is trying to be told here, and I think it should have that chance.

To each their own, of course. But I will never understand why this era is so hated.

[halothenthehorns]

Chapter 18: Slow Down

AU For Serpinstaff, who asked for an alternate ending to Having Fun? without it ending with Sirius getting shagged since he was nearly raped.

This is probably not the answer you had in mind, and I actually feel kind of bad considering this, somehow, is even more grim...but it dose fulfill the request and deep dives a little more into Sirius's experience during that, so this is what came to mind.

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James glanced down at his watch for what had to be the sixtieth time in half as many minutes as the majority of his Quidditch team followed his fidgety pacing with ever growing concern, because there was a certain beater missing.

A very specific certain someone, like James's best mate, who had never once abused such a position to skiv practice and was now an hour late.

It was the first practice he was captain of! What was Sirius playing at?! James had sort of half expected him to be running a bit behind even, he would have graciously laughed off Padfoot coming in still sweeping his hair up into a bun and having a new hickey in place since Sirius and Remus had never seemed to make it back for dessert, but Sirius had never, not once, flat not showed up.

Except for those awful three weeks where he hadn't been speaking to his brother...

but that wasn't happening now!

Still, his skin was prickling with distress as he looked again at his watch and the door, before looking longingly at the rest of his team as if hoping one of them would volunteer a miracle. "He wasn't at dinner," James shamefully admitted. "Anyone seen him since?"

Silence for a few beats, before their Seeker, Bless Shilling, offered, "he was talking to Chelsea Magni in the common room, right before that." She rolled her eyes in the same way Lily had done at the girls chances of getting anywhere with that.

A long time admirer of Sirius herself, James trusted her answer, but it was also the same one Peter had given right before Remus had taken the map and jogged off.

He didn't know where Sirius was.

He'd never, not in his entire years here not known where Padfoot was in this castle.

Except for those horrendous three weeks where he hadn't been speaking to Sirius.

He was being paranoid, but the situation of his Quidditch practice here at the end of last year listening to his old captain ask the same of where Black was and James brushing it off as him just pouting while dismissing what he'd done to Moony could not be ignored. James had been riveted listening to Lily and barely glanced over his shoulder to see Sirius waving them on as he turned back for some reason...apparently talking to a bird flirting with him?! When he and Moony were not so secretly dating to anyone who paid attention for more than five seconds.

Where they up there arguing about it, and he was about to walk in on something neither would want his opinion on?

He glanced at his watch again. An hour and three minutes late.

He had to know.

Even if he went all the way up to the tower and walked in on them shagging, it would be better than this awful prickling sensation at the back of his neck screaming something was wrong.

"Dismissed while I go find him," he was already walking towards the door, to nobodies surprise. "We'll try again next week."

The whole walk up there James kept alternating in his head between annoyance and worry. Every time he talked himself out of thinking Sirius and Remus had been ambushed by wanabe Death Eater's or something with the Map on them, he wanted to hex them himself as he imagined them getting their rocks off and ignoring their other, very important obligations! Like Quidditch practice! Which Sirius wouldn't miss just for some fun with his boyfriend and let James down like that, embarrass him like that, not to mention his own vigor for the sport, so something must have happened...and around it went until he was giving the Fat Lady the password and trudging slowly through the crowded, noisy, chattering common room filled with students looking up from their homework to do double takes in surprise to see him in his Quidditch gear, with a grim look on his face as he took the stairs one step at a time.

Their door was cracked open, and he paused taking a deep breath as he heard no distinctive noise coming from inside under the low murmurers traveling up here, but that still might not prepare him for the shadows moving about in a curtained bed. Finally landing on annoyance when he braced his hand against the door and preparing an ear pulling speech for both of them when he yanked back the curtains and threw blankets over their bare asses about this mess, he pushed it open, and froze.

Relief flooded him with a staggering amount as he saw Sirius just sitting on the bed, gazing off into the distance.

It was quickly trounced with more anger than ever as he saw Padfoot was perfectly fine, not a scratch on him. He was in fact shirtless, his hair a knotted mess, his fly undone like he'd been about to change clothes and had simply sat himself on Remus's bed to visit lala land.

Fear finally dominated as he took a cautious step forward and instantly knew something was wrong.

The look on his face was dreamy, such a transparent blissfully stupid look it made him opaque to James who had never once in his life seen that look on Sirius's face. Not even when he talked about whatever he and Remus had been up to lately, that was always delivered with teasing grins and dopey smiles alternately as he enjoyed embarrassing James and talking about his boyfriend. This, this was...just plain wrong looking.

"Padfoot?" He asked tentatively, hand on his wand in case he was imperiused or something. That was extreme, he'd admit to himself, but something magically catastrophic had happened to his best mate and he had a stunner on the tip of his tongue to stop him just in case.

It took several moments for Sirius to drag his eyes slowly into focus, but they didn't stay there when he looked around at him and he spaced right back out. His voice came out wrong, bubbly and bright like he was trying to sing and speak all at once. "Have you seen Chelsea? She told me to wait here, and we're going to have some fun!"

James saw red, the world spun sickeningly as he took him in again, there was an ominous creaking noise from his wand threatening to break under his hand as he whirled around and spat without thinking, "that gash gave you a love potion!"

The stone stair-well wall smashed into his face and the world kept its spin as he tumbled down four before he stopped. His glasses had snapped, blood was pouring into his mouth causing him to splutter as Sirius stood over him, stumbling and fumbling for his wand in rage as he shouted, "don't insult her!"

Shit, shit, shit!

James scrambled madly to his feet as he quickly reprioritized he'd kill her later, not too much later, but Sirius first. Padfoot needed him first.

Sirius didn't seem to have his wand on him, mercifully, he kept patting his pockets with an increasingly bemused expression and then looked up and seemed to spot James for the first time again as he said, "have you seen Chelsea?" Then his face was awash with horror as he looked at the stair he was standing on and bolted back into the room, shouting, "she told me to wait here!"

Two quick charms fixed his glasses and nose, he spat one last mouthful of blood onto the stair and followed him back in with more forbidding than he had of their dorm, closing the door firmly behind him as his anger dimmed slightly, and fear took its place back in the top spot as he froze on what to do.

Sirius was sitting right back on the bed where he'd found him like nothing had happened, but something had happened, and he found he couldn't breathe as his mind pitched more than falling down every flight of stairs in this school could ever cause him. Sirius's wand was a few inches from his feet and James quickly summoned it to his hand and pocketed it least that cause any more problems.

"Padfoot?" His voice was shaking, and he couldn't make it stop. It wasn't a huge noticeable difference, but James swore he looked at him just the tiniest bit faster than last time, so some of his panic might have even gotten through to him. "Where is, she," he couldn't make himself say her name as he glanced at the closed bathroom door for the first time if she might have tried hiding when the door started to open, and he'd have to do some fast wand work.

"I don't know," James didn't even recognize his voice and actually jumped, turning back to see him pouting at the door behind him still. "She told me to wait here, and then we're going to have some fun!"

There was just no sense in trying to get any more of a clear answer out of him except she wasn't in this room right now as a three step process easily came to life in his mind.

Step one, Sirius first. Keep him safe and away from everyone and everything.

Step two, get this shit out of him.

Step three was the most daunting of all, but stay in order now! The captaincy he hadn't even a chance to flourish in yet sprang easily to mind as he encouraged himself like a play on the field.

Right, step two. That had some problems though as he didn't bloody know how to go about doing that himself. Lily had gone to hang out with Alice and Frank the rest of the night, but he was positive she hadn't said where, and it was just too dangerous to tote him all around the school and figure it out lest he somehow run into Sirius's bedeviler, where ever she was. Said couple had asked for their mirrors and hadn't given them back yet.

Peter would have been his next preference, but he was hanging out with Regulus somewhere too.

He had no way to contact anyone for help, and he felt trapped.

Pressure was building in his skull as he stood there paralyzed while Sirius still wasn't looking at him, still as a statue on Remus's bed, looking right through him at the door waiting for her to come back- wait! "Padfoot," he tried again, and coughed heavily. He really hadn't been breathing, and his head was spinning so much he had to lean against the door as he couldn't shake his terror, because step three frightened him most of all when he did figure this out.

One at a time, he steeled his resolve. One thing at a time.

Sirius definitely looked over at him with only a slight delay this time, and maybe, just maybe, it might even be wearing off already. "Padfoot, where's Moony?'

Where the hell was Remus! His arse had the map, he was supposed to be up here fetching Padfoot nearly two hours ago now while this was happening!

The question had nothing to do with her, so it seemed to take him a lot of effort to even have one word slip through an ear, but finally he shrugged and went back to mooning at the door.

Wrong, wrong, wrong! Had Remus interrupted that girl doing this to him and was out burying the body? He'd be happy to help but would have liked a little heads up! Remus wouldn't have left Sirius like this though, even to do that. At least he'd hope not, and that couldn't have happened without some kind of fight breaking out considering Sirius's vicious reaction just seconds ago.

He was running out of options on anything to do other than just, wait it out.

Slughorn, a tiny little part of his mind chipped in, but he was reluctant to somehow have history repeat itself...or get closer to step three...

No. Sirius first. Getting that shit out of him was his priority, and rather than scouring the whole castle with questions looking for his friends, he knew where his potions teacher was. In his office, one floor down. It would be altering step one and putting him far to close to step three, but he could do this for his Padfoot.

"Please, please don't let him get poisoned," James whispered into the universe before pushing himself off the door. "Oi, mate," he said in such a terribly cheerful tone, someone might have mistaken him for being love-potioned too. "I know where Che-Chels," he couldn't say her name, it caught and lodged in his throat with disgust like a child flinching over Voldemort. Whoever would have thought he'd rather be off dealing with that lunatic's horcruxes over this?

It was enough though, Sirius sprang up from the bed like he was his second favorite person on earth as he squealed, "you do?!"

"Mmmm," he agreed, probably sounding like a dying inferi. "Put a shirt on mate, and we can go see her."

Sirius blindly snatched one up off the floor and didn't even do up his zipper. It was one of Moony's cardigans and hung past his waist anyway, inside out, but the restricted blood still not making full circulation around James's body leaving him very light headed all seemed to be settling uncomfortably in his heart as it thundered in place. He couldn't see the evidence anymore, but he knew it was there.

"But I'm supposed to wait here," Sirius reminded as he looked back at the bed and the now open door with a hint of reluctance. "Did I do something wrong?"

That about sent James crying, and it took every last grain of determination for him to speak in a wobbly, unanimously uncheerfully bright voice. "No, never, this isn't your fault Padfoot." He had to stop and clear his throat. "Um, I um, ran into her up the stairs, she told me where to meet her," he quickly fibbed.

Something in those familiar gray eyes wavered like a bad reception, for the smallest of a second Sirius was fixing to come back and call out that idiotic story, after he'd been asking where she was- but it was gone just as fast and this mess was as real as ever as he squealed, "okay!"

Sirius started humming to himself while fidgeting and running his fingers through his hair, but quickly stopped and went back to passive haunting silence by the time they made it down the flight as he followed, a very good sign this stuff really was wearing off.

He might not even need anyone for step three; asking what exactly she'd done to him.

If Chelsea Magni had used her love potion to rape Sirius.

...

They caught Slughorn in the middle of grading papers. By then Sirius was starting to look a little gray around the edges and didn't pipe in once as James asked for the antidote. Even if he was back to normal, James rather erred on the side of caution and went through with it.

Praise Merlin Padfoot was not poisoned as he swallowed the goblet without any more fuss, and then James had to use some quick words as even their jovial teacher tried to ask some questions while James kept ushering Sirius back out, who still hadn't said a word. His face was blank now, somehow scaring James even more than his earlier love sick daze.

Escaping him mercifully wasn't that hard though as James quickly promised they were going straight to McGonagall next to report this before James pulled Sirius into the nearest empty classroom and then looked at him again.

To his horror, Sirius had that smooth, aloof mask in place as he surveyed James and brushed at the knots impatiently in his hair. "Didn't bring a comb did you?"

James kind of wished Padfoot had smashed his face into the wall again instead if he was going to play the indifference card.

"No, Padfoot, I did not," his voice was shaking, he wondered if it had been while talking to his potions teacher and that's why he'd been so oddly concerned. "What did she do to you?" The words came easily from his mouth to his own surprise as he braced himself for the knowledge that had rooted in his mind.

Sirius was fidgeting and looking all over, bunching up his hair and a rather peeved expression on his face as he answered casually enough, "it was disgusting, we snogged mostly. She told me to get undressed and then," years of being a practiced liar suddenly broke James's heart as he continued without a noticeable pause to any other person, "told me to wait, and that's it. Where's Moony?" He said quickly, clearly trying to redirect.

A very pertinent question, one James still vitally needed an answer for himself, but Sirius first. He gently, calmly put his hands on his shoulders and fought back the urge to kick him as Padfoot raised an unimpressed brow but at least didn't brush him off. "Brother, do we need to go see Madam Pomfrey?"

Sirius barked out a laugh! It was like a balm finally helping him to breathe again as his best mate laughed in amusement and now did give him a playful shove, "no! Merlin, and you lot call me the dramatic one!"

James believed him, she might not have gone through with the act at the very minimum, but Sirius's twitching hands weren't hiding what James still knew was evidence it was more than snogging. "What else happened then?" He asked, still oddly calm and clear headed himself now that this most dreaded task was being laid out.

Sirius bit his lip and looked away now, and obviously knew he couldn't deny it a second time. It would have been funny on a better day, James had never had to deal with a classic hand caught in the cookie jar face on his best mate, but this was anything but funny.

"Nothing major, relax Prongs," he tried one last time, his voice going just a bit high again with stress, though nowhere near the painful octaves they'd been before. "We really should go find Remus, I think I heard something weird-"

James leaned in and hugged him as he tried babbling his way out of it. It only occurred to him after the fact this might be making him uncomfortable, but as he started to lean back Sirius began hugging him back, holding him tight so that James felt the smallest shiver roll through him.

Padfoot still tried to sound casual as he admitted with his face hiding away resting on his shoulder, "she helped me take my shirt off and groped me, okay? She, she shoved her hand in my pants, and, when she didn't, feel, I mean, I wasn't, oh Merlin I can't believe I'm saying this out loud, so anyways she blushed and left after that, okay?"

James jerked back as he felt the blush before seeing Sirius actually looked embarrassed, there was a hint of red on him! "No, that's not okay!" James spoke with such ferocity that somewhere, somehow, Chelsea Magni felt a shiver roll over her spine. "I'm going to kill her!"

"Lovely plan, we can get right on it," Sirius nodded adamantly, clearly all for never speaking of this again, "right after we find my f'ing boyfriend! I mean it Prongs, I think I heard him, it's this awful noise in the back of my head, I-" he stopped, and some of James's whirlwind of emotions finally seemed to catch onto him as he looked anxiously at the door again. Fear, confusion, anger. "Did, did Remus really think that I-"

"I don't know," James whispered, his voice snatching uncomfortably up again, though for a different reason this time as yet another new problem rose to the surface if so. Padfoot's red tinged face was quickly draining into chalky, pale anger James liked least of all yet.

Sirius didn't say another word as he stalked out. The arsehole had even pickpocketed his own wand back from James, and he had never found anything less funny when he had no will to take it back least he be cursed from his own best mate in the right head this time going off.

It was almost as scary as living with the forbidding knowledge of his brother being raped, seeing this quiet, stalking Padfoot make his way calmly down to the Shrieking Shack. James was scared again. Had Remus really scene any of it and just assumed the worst and taken off?

James tried a couple times over the descending flights, "Padfoot, this isn't his fault."

No answer.

"Sirius, tell me you're not going to kill him first."

Silence.

"Let's at least go tell McGonagall so we can plan to kill her during her detention-" his best mate waltzed right past their head of houses office without looking at it or James.

So James kept up, and the deja vu' as Sirius maneuvered the tree aside and kept his wand in hand all through out the tunnel, the same horrible knowledge of the fight coming and knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it like the last fateful full moon before their world changed floated beside them as if Peter were here, the only thing changing this from being a total flashback.

Sirius's guess had been right, and they both instantly saw, so was their own assumption.

He was on the measly bit of couch still held together by its frame, pinching the bridge of his nose with tears streaming freely down his face. It was a heartbreaking sight to James and instantly vanished whatever misgivings he would have quibbled along with Sirius, but Remus had jerked upon the hatch opening and his expression grew defiant the moment he laid eyes on Sirius.

"Tell me you at least hesitated," Sirius's voice was scary soft, it blistered with such heat the walls should have started pealing and smoking. "Tell me, Remus, that just for once second it crossed your mind I'd never! That you trusted me!"

Whatever Remus had been about to retort back didn't seem relevant anymore. He swiped at his eyes and sniffled as he looked to James for help but looked back to Sirius, but his silence was answer enough.

Sirius screamed in frustration, a deep bellowing noise right from his gut as he shouted now, "you self-pitying, fucking- !" He chucked his wand at him, which was the most violently passive thing any wizard had ever done in their life as he gave an inhuman amount of strength against hexing him. It hit the wall over Remus's head and showered them in sparks as he screamed, "I am done!"

Only James saw the tears in his eyes when he turned away and vanished back into the whole.

Remus was stumbling to his feet, he looked so turned around like he'd found himself in Antarctica with no clue how.

James didn't have the heart to leave him totally clueless, but his voice was as brittle as Sirius's as he answered the unspoken, "she gave him a love potion," and then followed Padfoot fighting back a sob of his own for what he now knew was coming.

...

Sirius spent the next two hours in the shower, and it took all of James's willpower not to sit on the toilet and wait for him in there, especially as the loud downpour of water didn't quite hide what Padfoot had meant it to from his bed.

He came out suspiciously red tinted all over from the boiling hot water to hide the evidence in his own sweats and sweater, and promptly threw himself across his lap onto James's bed, curling his back against him. His hair nearly tangled up in the hangings the only thing between the stone wall, hugging his pillow tight to his chest and stayed like that for another chunk of time in silence until Lily showed up with vengeance on her face as the final curfew bell ran for the night.

James shifted to hide his best mate from further view as his heart shattered for the first battle to begin. "Now's not the time Lily."

She crossed her arms and spoke smoothly at least, didn't immediately launch into defending her best mate, so he relaxed just slightly when she said, "there's rumors all over the school you two tried to kill each other over that Magni girl?" Her eyes lingered on his face, and he scratched for the first time at the traces of blood he'd forgotten was there. "What happened?" She even sounded, almost, politely puzzled like she was hoping this was a prank winding up.

James talked in quick, clipped sentences, "she used a love potion on Sirius. Remus walked in, and right back out. Padfoot dumped him. We're not interrogating either of them about this right now, so if you could be a dear and go tell McGonagall for us-"

Lily's own temper snapped as she lashed out, "the hell's the matter with you two shit-heads?! This isn't Remus's fault, how could you blame him for this-"

"I don't!" James spat at once, "but Merlin, she could have done a hell of a lot worse than groping him, and I think that's scaring enough!" He stood up now, quivering with suppressed rage. "She only left him because he didn't have an f'ing hard on! What if she'd just gone to fetch another potion to give him one! Remus should have stopped her Lily-"

"We all left him in the common room with her without batting an eye! He destroyed him by dumping him without even-"

"Guys," Sirius's voice croaked, he sounded so broken James wouldn't have even heard it if he wasn't still keeping half an eye on him, and Lily only dropped her glare when she looked to where James was.

He sat up so shakily he might have been rising from his coffin as he looked blearily at Lily like he was just now noticing she was here, though James knew he hadn't been asleep. "I'm not mad at him Lils, and I'm well aware she's the one to blame in all of this. Please, Lily, please just go away."

Concern flooded Lily's face as she really looked at him properly for the first time and even gasped, taking a step forward, "oh Padfoot, are you- no of course you're not okay. Sirius, talk to us, what-"

"He told you what he wants," James said icily. "He wants some space, pass it along."

His girlfriend flinched and backed away, and James was shocked at himself how harshly he'd spoken to her. "I'm sorry," he said at once, finally dropping his arms he didn't even remember crossing and taking a tentative step to her, "we, we're all on edge. You know the basics, please tell the others to just, give him a little breathing room? And, and McGonagall-"

"I'll take care of it," she promised, coming forward and squeezing his hand. "We'll, talk, later," she promised before giving him a light kiss. She hovered over Sirius like she wanted to do more, but he smiled, a small but genuine one as he laid back down with his choke hold still on the pillow but closed his eyes and even gave a fake, exaggerated snore.

She chuckled, just a bit for his antics, and promised, "we're here for you, all of us. I'll take care of everything."

"Thanks," James and Sirius said at once.

James stayed hovering as she left, and whispered the moment the door clicked shut, "did you want me to leave too?"

"No," Sirius said at once as he rolled back onto his side. "Just don't want to talk." He sounded, tired. James longed to stab his wand through Chelsea's heart a million times.

"Okay," James promised as he sat right back down and sighed in relief when Sirius squirmed and pressed his back right against his hip again.

Nobody else came into the dorm the rest of the night, but neither of them fell asleep. Finally, in that awful space of time where no person should ever be up this late studying, Sirius whispered, "Prongs?"

"Yeah," he said at once.

Sirius took a harrowing breath and pressed himself even closer, starting to shiver even. "Thank you, for, before, but Chelsea had been flirting with me, not an hour before, but you know Remus, I still hadn't told her why I didn't want to sleep with her. I told Moony about it. It never crossed my mind not to take that drink-"

"This isn't your fault!" James said, aghast how he could have come to that conclusion. "Padfoot, she never should have pushed you into even snogging with that vile potion!"

"I know, I know," he said hastily, rolling onto his back again and staring up at him earnestly, sincerity on his face. "I still want to kill her, no, I was just saying, this isn't Remus's fault. I, I lost it at him for exactly what I said, I can't believe he didn't trust me not to-" he stopped, his breath hitched but he kept going, "whatever, that's between me and him. I just wanted to say, don't blame Moony."

"I-" James longed to deny it again, but felt that resentment lodged in place as he glanced at Remus's bed. With concentrated effort and Sirius looking so comfortably normal smiling up at him sprawled out on his bed, he forced himself to let it float away. "Okay, I promise."

Sirius smiled in relief and made to roll back over, but James dug the heal of his palm into his sternum, making Padfoot oof in discomfort as James asked casually, "anything else to get off your chest?"

He wondered how much terror could hit a person in one day before they hit their limit, because it hadn't yet as he looked again to see Sirius blushing once more and his heart seized up.

"It's pathetic," Sirius insisted, trying to push his arm away. "Just forget it, I'll deal with the others tomorrow, thanks for, this," he waved around their dorm and gave him a cheerful smile again.

"Tell me," James pleaded, even as he removed his hand. "You don't have to right this second, but whatever your thinking or feeling, I swear on my parents life I won't laugh Padfoot. I don't care if she made you say you're in love with Snape or braided your hair, please don't do, this."

He waited for Sirius to roll back over and adamantly promise he would eventually while faux falling asleep.

Padfoot's grip on the pillow went so tight he expected feathers to burst out of the seems as he closed his eyes, but he spoke, shame coloring every word, "I can't believe the first thing I felt when it wore off was embarrassment." He cracked one eye open, but James had never heard anything less funny, and it bolstered Sirius into continuing, "everything else came in, oh trust me, I feel violated and like I should still be in the shower, I could deck that woman without remorse and curse her great-great-great grandchildren. You would think I should have seen your face and been guilty as hell for nearly killing you, Merlin forbid! No. Sirius, sex stud of Hogwarts, didn't f'ing get it up under that potion."

"Padfoot," James didn't even know what he was going to say, but Sirius sat up, smoothing his hand down his hair, still talking adamantly now as his fingers trembled holding the pillow in place to his chest.

"I remember every detail," Sirius rushed on, waving his other hand in a wild motion, at himself or the world he didn't know. Possibly both. "Whatever nauseating blossom filled poetry you used to write about Lily had nothing to what I was thinking of that woman. I used to hook up with her, she was a good kisser and even better at giving a blow. When, when she grabbed my," he moved the pillow and covered his crotch in disgust as if fighting the urge to rip it off, "she turned so scarlet red and it was the most beautiful color on the planet to me, that potion should have worked, but it didn't! Am, am I impotent now? What's wrong with me? What the wholly bloody hell is wrong with me that that was my first thought!"

James pulled him back into a hug, and Sirius pressed his face against his chest gasping. He was out of tears, out of emotion, he just curled up against his brother and stayed there until the pillow fell from his hand.

"I'm so screwed up," Sirius spoke again as the first hints of light promised a new day.

"Perhaps," James sighed, "but your my brother, so what does that make me?"

"Even more screwed up for not laughing at me like you should have," he muttered.

"It's not funny Padfoot, it's," but he stopped, fumbling, there seemed no word, and he'd been desperately trying for ages now. "It's your thoughts mate, and to hell with everyone else."

"Like hell am I telling anyone else," he corrected, leaning back but giving him a grateful smile. "If you ever speak of this again I'll smother you in your sleep."

James didn't laugh, but he did assure, "I promise."

...

Sirius still looked miserable as he took another shower and put on his uniform, carefully doing up his pants, but did speak without prompting, "I am not looking forward to the others interrogating me today, especially Rem- Reg."

"Right," James agreed, pretending he'd heard nothing. "Lest they face Lily's wrath, I'm sure they'll all still give you some space mate."

Alice ignored James's warding off look and came right up to him outside the portrait whole and wrapped him in a hug without saying a word. Sirius smiled and chuckled at her as he returned it while Frank mouthed at James, 'need anything?'

He shook his head but mouthed thank you to both of them as they departed.

Lily caught up to them before they finished the first corridor and slipped her hand into James's, chatting to him about some new potion experiment she was trying to get Slughorn's approval for as if everything were normal, and Sirius's white knuckled grip on his bag slackened.

Regulus cornered them in the Great Hall and the two brothers stared at each other for a long time in silence before Regulus asked, "so what are we doing to kill her?"

Peter gave Sirius his wand back silently and sat next to Remus at a different table in every shared class, but at least Wormtail smiled at Padfoot when they caught eyes while Moony stayed studiously on his work. In Care of Magical Creatures, their only shared class alone, Remus continued the pattern, hovering beside Mary the entire time and never looking once at him.

It broke Sirius's heart he was still, doing it. Pathetic, hypocrite, he kept chastising himself every time he glanced at the missing space, but the curling feeling wrapping around his heart left him feeling more vindictively in the right than remorseful.

After a fortnight of this Sirius had begun to relax into his usual state. He laughed and made jokes next to James again, he made up for that Quidditch practice ten fold and was the life of the team, and Prongs finally stopped hovering so much when Padfoot stopped wincing when he went to take a piss. He and Remus fell into a comfortably quiet routine of just not acknowledging the other in the room at first, but even that didn't last as Padfoot began including Moony in the conversations fast again, always moving his bag first to whatever table Remus sat at. It was habit more than anything, and Padfoot's remarks were still a tad bitter, but Remus's responses were always polite, brisk, and quickly cut off as he simply read to himself and let the space continue.

Sirius had enough when Moony looked at him in surprise to see him back in the Shrieking Shack at the next full moon, and then just as quickly looked away. Padfoot waited until the next time he came up to the dorm to tell the other two, "get out, please. We need to talk."

Remus sat down on the edge of his bed with the same vacant expression since that first class.

Peter left at once, biting his nails but fleeing the scene.

James hesitated, swallowed, but reluctantly did as asked.

Remus set aside his bag but kept staring down at his empty lap, tense but still not looking at him.

It's what you asked him to do- didn't trust you- Sirius cleared his throat and asked, "well, you never answered me."

"It did not occur to me that you were under the influence of magic Sirius," it sounded very practiced and that made him even angrier. "I'm sorry that it happened to you," he whispered to his shoes, and while Sirius believed his sincerity, it made nothing feel better.

Sirius seethed, shifting his weight around on the spot endlessly as he waited for something that clearly wasn't coming. "It's not like I expected you to instantly guess," he tried to give Remus something to work with, "just, that you turned around, slowed down, anything!"

Remus finally did look at him, and he went for mocking. "Well I'm so sorry I didn't march up there and duel the woman for your hand Sirius! That's what you wanted, isn't it? For me to have flipped out and be begging for you back."

Sirius hated how his voice shook. He hated himself for wondering how long Moony had known this was his real ire. "You promised me you weren't going to just run anymore! I thought you trusted me!"

"Lily said-"

"When I screwed up you told me to piss off and that's what I did, but dammit Remus, you've not said a word to me! I just asked for some space, not this!" Sirius gestured in disgust at their horribly silent dorm.

The two just kept  looking at each other for a very long time, before Remus looked away first. His voice was hollow. "I don't understand, what do you want from me now?"

If Remus had made some stupid, oddly specific, bizarre promise that if this ever happened again he'd at least pause to ask what the hell was going on, Sirius might have given him another chance. If he'd started snogging him on the spot Sirius could never have pushed him away.

He just sat there.

"I don't know," Sirius admitted as he turned away. If Remus had said a word as he walked away, he would have hesitated. If Moony had just tried to stop him as he left, he never would have, but the door closed gently behind him without another word spoken.

...

The others took their breakup in silent acceptance and politely never brought it up if they could avoid it, except Lily, who was now avoiding both of them and having to be restrained by James at all hours not to lock them up together.

"We can't just do nothing," she insisted, hissing in the back of the library while her boyfriend stared blankly town at his textbook. "They're miserable, has Sirius still been sleeping in your bed?"

James didn't answer, again, he seemed to have opted for silence since the past few days of begging her to drop it hadn't worked.

"Remus hasn't been sleeping either! This is ridiculous!"

"Just," James dragged his eyes to look around at her solemnly. "Put it this way, what would you have done if you saw me snogging someone without explanation."

She snorted with mirth. "Ripped someone's head off, you've never been the subtle one dear."

"And if I'd seen the same I would have fallen on the floor weeping for what I'd done wrong," James said with a sad smile. "Thing is Lils, we're just, guessing. We don't really know what we would have done in the moment, and we can't force them to change who they are. Maybe they're to different, and just, shouldn't be together."

"So you're saying if rolls had been reversed and Sirius had hexed that girl for doing that to Remus, and Moony dumped him for it, you'd be accepting this too?" She scoffed.

"Yes," he agreed, turning back to his useless pile of work.

...

One of the finest, most exquisitely beautiful girls in the school was flirting with Remus. She was being so hilariously unsubtle that even he couldn't miss it, yet he felt the same disinterest in her as he did most things lately, just politely answering whatever she was asking about the DADA assignment a year above him and looking for an exit.

Sirius slipped out of class behind him, blinked at the scene, and then turned away with James.

A spark lit tight in his chest, and he quickly turned back away, really trying to listen now, get invested in whatever she was saying. He'd never be what Sirius wanted, he had to accept that and move on already!

It didn't work, he still hadn't taken in a damn thing she said and he walked off miserably.

The whole moving on thing was made even worse when he woke up in the middle of the night cuddled up into Sirius's lap.

It was so familiar, he was so damn warm, but the feeling was still wrong, and it took him a few disorienting moments to realize Sirius wasn't curled into him like usual. He was sitting stiff, practically half off the bed, but just letting him pant over him in his sleep!

Shoving him away hard, Sirius sprawled out on the floor as Remus shouted, "the fuck!"

"You were having a nightmare, I was just trying to wake you up," Sirius snapped, brushing his hair impatiently away. "You're the one who pulled me down."

Remus threw his pillow at him in disgust. "I don't need you hovering over me like a damn nanny! Maybe I'd grow an f'ing spine if you'd quit babying me!"

"Fuck you!" Sirius threw the pillow back with the force of a bludger as it walloped his face. "Scream yourself hoarse for all I care!"

"Enough!" James appeared between the two as Sirius jumped to his feet and Remus bunched up his pillow again. "Bloody hell you two, it's the middle of the night, shit this sort out in the morning!" He paused and groaned he was to tired for real chastising as he steered Sirius back towards his bed. Padfoot brushed him off and went to his own, rarely used one, slamming on top of the blankets and glowering out the window the rest of the night as Remus rolled over and did the same to the door.

...

Persephone 'Pepper' Iken was a Hufflepuff in their year who often commentated the Quidditch games and dyed her hair a different color every game to match. Sometimes in support of the teams, most often whatever color she fancied. She was bright and bubbly, inquisitive and loved to laugh. Most often it was her heart shaped face he pictured whenever Tonks had been described in those books.

They'd been paired up during the last few Herbology classes when the three to a plant rule was instigated and he'd decided against making Peter the odd one out. Sirius had neither acknowledged him nor ignored him, just kept treating him like a passive friend as he nodded and turned back.

Pepper had a snaggle tooth and a scar on her lip where she kept biting it, the freezing air made them looked chapped as they sat studying behind the greenhouses in burgeoning winter, sitting incredibly close together without a second thought. She wanted to be a photographer. He smiled and listened, it was so easy with her, she had an effortless charm that made him want to listen in as she kept getting distracted by picking up her camera and taking random, candid shots. Flurrying snowflakes in patters, the way the light crept through the forest, candid shots of students too far away to know whom it was.

For just a moment, he wanted to tell her about Colin Creevey, he wanted to share just a little bit of himself back and laugh about Prongs never shying away from a camera.

He didn't, but when she slipped her hand into his and smiled up at him, he laced their fingers together and smiled back.

It hit him like a tidal wave what was about to happen as she turned back away, her fluttering pink hair falling over her shoulders. He could ask her to a Hogsmeade visit, maybe not even as a date yet, just to keep hanging out and see if they had something in common. He might find a way to work in the topic of werewolves, find out just a hint of  how she'd react to the news before he plunged in as Sirius himself had once advised him to do.

Maybe not even her, exactly, but he could. He could move on. Fall in love again some day.

He didn't want to.

"Remus?" She asked in concern as he jumped to his feet, dumping a bottle of ink all over his own notes.

"Sorry," he gasped as the ruined plants they'd been studying where whisked towards the lake, and he truly meant it for her. "I can't, I have to, I'm sorry-"

He sprinted up the school in a blind panic as his revelation spurred his feet along with no idea what the hell was going to come out of his mouth when he found him, just one clear goal in his mind.  If he had to wrestle every student in the castle away from him to do it than so be it!

Padfoot was exiting the library with Alice when he finally tracked him down, and Remus snatched his arm and hauled him away so quickly their poor friend had to do a double take when she looked around and didn't see him beside her anymore.

"Guys, wait-" she tried, but to late, Remus had already shoved him into a broom closet among his spluttering protests and jammed a lock on it.

"The hell-?" Sirius demanded, but he wasn't pushing him back, just standing against the shelves with a haughty, annoyed little frown for being manhandled around.

"I can't be what you want me to be," he snarled into his face. "Dammit Sirius, if you ever wanted to be with someone else, like hell would I try to stop you, what the hell could I ever give you! I'll fight the world for you, but I can't fight you!"

Padfoot's startling gray eyes widened, he opened his mouth; Remus grabbed his face and kissed him.

That honestly, truly hadn't been his intention, but if he did have to force himself to move on he had to do it with a clear conscience, to admit to Padfoot and himself why he'd never tried to stop this shithole of events.

Sirius snogged him back, his fiery breath seeped life into Remus as Sirius pulled him closer, the softest little whimper as Sirius wrapped his hands tight around his neck and the shelves dug in his back only made Moony pin him harder. This part, at least, had always been natural and easy to them as their friendship from the beginning. The sex had been their high and low points because it was fuddling through the stuff in the middle where Remus had no clue how to be anything for Sirius, when Padfoot was his everything.

When Sirius yanked his shirt aside and began running his hands up his back still drawing him closer Remus finally was forced to pull back and gasp, rutting against him for how damn much he'd missed this and then Sirius moaned, the growing bulge in his pants as he shakily let one hand go and pulled Remus's mouth back was like ecstasy.

Sirius felt like he was waking up from a long nightmare, he'd never felt so right, alive as Moony's tongue worked artfully against his and held him in place. No matter how many people he'd tried to just kiss in the past months to get a little of this back it had never felt so good as it did now as Remus cupped his neck and his other hand fell to his waist, still pulling him closer, wrapping his fingers down, around his thigh and hitching his leg up as he pushed tighter against him, fire racing through his veins as he panted in pleasure for this not to stop...her nails scraped his stomach teasingly, she yanked his hair one last time as she undid the button and plunged her hand in to feel-

A loud, ugly gasp rasped his lips as he pushed her back like his body had wanted to do long after the fact, only for Remus to instantly let him go and smash into the door, panting with him and looking at him in horror.

"Don't, don't touch me," Sirius stuttered not at him, shivering in revulsion, he'd jump in the lake or a toilet or any body of water right now.

"Okay!" Remus panted, pressing himself harder into the door. "Merlin, I'm sorry Padfoot, I- I-"

"S'my fault," he muttered quickly, running his hands painfully over his shirt to fix how it had somehow ridden up, staring down in surprise to see Moony had in fact somehow unhooked his pants, it hadn't all been in his head, but his raging stiff cock had gone flaccid faster than a plunging quaffle. "Sorry, don't know what that was-"

"No, shit Padfoot, it isn't, I didn't come up here to, I mean," he gestured vaguely at his disheveled appearance, before taking a deep breath and stiffing his shoulders. "I swear I just, needed you to know, dammit Padfoot I can't change. Not even for you. It's, I'm not-"

"Fuck you," Sirius panted, wiping at his mouth to try and force the longing away faster. "Don't twist my words, I never asked you to! I'm so sick of you thinking, whatever! We've had this conversation a million times!"

"I do trust you though," Remus whispered, watching him with the most miserable green eyes, the golden flecks in them glowed in the dark. "More than anyone on the planet, you need to know that Padfoot. I told myself all the way up there it couldn't be true, but then I saw you and, I just ran. I, can't be, you."

"You don't have to be," Sirius sneered, hastily trying to redo his pants now, though his fingers were still shaking and he gave up, just panting and trying not to be sick as he gestured between them. "This, this right here! Bloody hell, I just wanted you to, to, damn I don't even know! I just wanted you to-" hold me.

He'd realized it the night Remus had been whimpering in his sleep, calling out for him. He really had been trying to wake him up when Moony pulled him down and held him tight in his sleep, it had taken every ounce of Sirius's will power not to relax and fall asleep next to him as he'd pulled away as much as he could while Remus refused to let go.

Working out a whole speech in his head that had sounded good and proper, he was so sure he and Moony could work this out until he was literally shoved away.

He'd wanted Remus, not James when he'd snapped out of that awful potion. The embarrassment, everything else that had happened after, he'd just wanted his stupid boyfriend to hold him and promise it would be okay. His brother had, but James wasn't Remus. Remus hadn't even tried, and it killed him. "What prompted, this?" Sirius spat. "It's been months you prick!"

Remus smiled, a really awkward little quirk of the lips as he tried to relax against the door. "I was thinking about asking Pepper out."

Sirius had no other choice but to laugh. "Good for you, now I'm the side piece."

"No, Padfoot, I didn't," Remus shook his head, hesitated as he glanced at the door and back. "I don't want anyone else, but I could try, if, if you," he sighed and did it again, "I know it was a potion, I know you hate me now because dammit Sirius this'll go round forever," he gestured vaguely to the castle beyond. "I know you mean it when you say you just want to be with me, but if this happens again I can't promise you I'll just waltz up and start beating the shit out of the next horrible person who decides to give you a love potion! I don't know what you want from me!" He finished with his eyes drilling into the floor as he waited for Sirius to brush him aside and leave at last, he'd said all he could say.

"Look at me."

Remus dragged his eyes up and stared at his haunted, haughty, scowling face. "I just want you to look at me. If you can't take to heart that I know what I bloody want than at the very least, trust this, I'd never go behind your back to do that. I would break up with you on the spot and turn around to snog someone, but never that. Just, Merlin Remus, take one second to look at me."

Remus took a shy step forward and a tentative nod. "Okay, I, I promise."

"I don't hate you Remus," Sirius held out his hand, and Remus instantly took it, both of them smiling like they hadn't since the start of term. "I'm just, having," he grimaced and didn't know how to explain he still felt like a leper in his own skin.

Moony's eyes flickered down, and Sirius blushed and looked away as he dropped his hands and tried to do up his pants again, managing it on the third try this time.

"I, I know you're not okay," Remus said remorsefully. "What did I do wrong? I swear I won't do it again?" If he was never supposed to touch his boyfriend again then so be it.

Do not, do not tell him that's the most action you've had since that mess, Sirius viciously scolded himself. Mostly he was just relieved he could get a stiffie again, he hadn't in so long. He'd been trying to, toys and kissing both bloaks and birds. When he could stomach it only in the shower, he could barely jerk himself off and it was mortifying, because nothing had happened and he'd quickly stopped from shame and fear. Sirius cleared his throat uneasily, but then found the words pouring out like a damn, "that god damn woman made me freak out about touching myself, it's been hell!" Then he smacked himself in the face and cussed himself out.

"Oh Merlin Padfoot," Remus reached out for him at once, but quickly dropped his arms.

Sirius stepped right up to him and took his hands back, placing them on his hips as he looked at him with a stubborn scowl. "Just, just take it slow," he promised, leaning in and feeling the warm thrill of bliss as Moony gently kissed him back, his fingers tightening just the barest amount like creasing a fold that would make or break an origami.

Sirius had never been very good at that whole take it slow thing as, with feeling driving in his soul, he pulled Remus in tighter by putting his hand on the back of his neck and stepping closer, the fervor of their lips, the taste of his Moony. Remus slowly, gently, maneuvered him so his back was against the door and Sirius melted into him, his embrace, those steady, rough hands that cupped his neck and kept his waist pinned so he couldn't be straddling him already as the natural, floating sensation of how damn good this felt over took him and he put his own hands around Remus's waist to feel him closer, feel their knobs pressed together-

He groaned, half pleasure half aggrieved as his boyfriend pulled back, eyes still shut, skimming his nose along his jaw now. "Slow down," Moony whispered into his ear.

"This isn't a test you bastard, fuck, just give it to me," he grumbled, even as he blinked his eyes open, knew he'd probably regret it in a few seconds, but damn he'd never forgotten how good this felt.

"Dammit Padfoot," Remus grumbled into his neck, rutting against him and making a lisping gasp pass Sirius's mouth as Moony scraped his teeth against his neck in-between words. "What did I just say? How the hell are we going to do this?" Yet his hand stayed clamped firmly in place only on his hip and in his hair as he gently, sweetly, hell almost teasingly rubbed their cocks together through their pants even as Sirius begged him to go faster by holding onto his waist and grinding, but Remus was stubbornly ignoring as he went leisurely at his own pace.

"Slow, mmf, slow," Sirius muttered in-between kissing his ear and cheek, and like some damn prepubescent teen, when Remus turned and let his tongue slip back into his mouth and gave a real thrust, Sirius moaned in satisfaction to feel himself cuming in his pants.

Remus chuckled and pressed their foreheads together, Sirius could feel he hadn't quite gotten himself off yet and Sirius licked his lips in anticipation as he knew damn well he could do something about that without having silly flashbacks. When Remus just pressed him harder into the door and laughed again, a low deep noise, it was damn seductive and he felt the heat rush through him again already. "We'll work something out," Remus agreed.

HPHPHPHP

Despite the fact that this is somehow longer than it's original, I dislike this one a lot more because I don't like making Remus regress back to how he was in All in the Family, but when it was asked for an alternate take where Remus's and Sirius's first response wasn't to shag each other, well, this was somehow the end results. Don't ask me how my brain works, I could not tell you.

[rjhpandapaws]

Deviations of Life

Chapter 2: You Make Better Company Than Restlessness

Within his first week Sixty resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be going into stasis very often. The times he didn’t come out of it screaming, he came out of it not knowing who he was. If he was Connor or if he was himself, and it wasn’t something he wanted to go through every night. He spent most of his nights on the roof of his apartment complex. The fear he felt at this height wasn’t his and he was determined to get past it. So he stood at the very edge of the building and looked out over the city. He wasn’t Connor, and he wasn’t afraid of falling. Some nights he even had company. A PL600 who still went by his given designation of Daniel. He never got too close and whenever Sixty looked at him his LED would go red and stay there. He was probably one of the few androids to cross paths with Connor and survive. He probably didn’t even notice that Sixty was a different model, no one ever did. It didn’t really matter though, it was nice to not be alone sometimes. Neither one of them ever made a move to start a conversation, beyond a nod of recognition before they stood at different ends of the roof. As the saying went, misery loved company.

They became familiar strangers. Daniel’s presence became a welcome one, if not a comforting one. Whichever of them made it to the roof first would leave a bottle of thirium for the other. It was the closest they came to actively interacting. That one act of unspoken support. Daniel was the closest thing to a friend he had. It wasn’t for lack of trying on Connor’s part, Sixty just didn’t want to be near him anymore than was strictly necessary. So he spent most of his nights in content silence with Daniel. He was curious by nature and couldn’t help but wonder what brought him to the roof each night. He knew it had something to do with Connor, but not much more other than that. Sixty could have probably figured it out if he found the courage to go through Connor’s memories. He didn’t have that kind of strength yet. Not to face the things he had been built to do and not the identity crisis that came after. The catch was that event the best build androids could only go without stasis for so long. With each day that went by he could feel his systems slowing down. He turned off his nonessential functions, but that only gave him a couple more days before he could no longer clear the shutdown warning from his HUD. Tonight was going to have to be a stasis night.

He spent the day in his apartment until stasis finally overtook him. He was on a roof this time, in a memory he hadn’t seen before. It was stamped with the first Connor’s serial number and would catch or skip at times. He got pulled along with it in the same way he always did. There was PL600 on the roof with a little girl. Connor-50′s scan came away with Daniel. His same PL600. Things spiraled out of control from there. Connor was shot, got the girl - Emma - away from Daniel, and then signaled for the snipers. It was over just that quick. This version of Connor felt no remorse, but Sixty felt sick. No wonder Daniel was so afraid of him. He was pulled out stasis abruptly by a hand against his arm. He opened his eyes to find Daniel staring down at him with worry carved into his expression. “I - he - it wasn’t - I didn’t - I’m sorry.” Sixty struggled to get his words out and he was still throwing errors, “I’m so sorry.” “Hey relax, “ Daniel coaxed gently, “You’re okay. I just came across the hall because it sounded like you were having a pretty bad nightmare. I get them too.” “It was nothing, I’m sorry for waking you.” He said as he sat up, “Daniel I’m sorry he did that to you, I’m sure you didn’t deserve it.”

Daniel shook his head, “You weren’t in control of yourself, and my emotions had the better of me.” Sixty bristled, “I wasn’t there. I’m the Sixtieth model in the line.” “My apologies,” He amended, “You were talking about the roof so I thought...” “No, I just have his memories.” He said and looked away from Daniel, “I was activated to eliminate him before the revolution, but i didn’t make it that far. Then the next thing I know, I’m being brought back.” “So you’re part of the Second Chance program too.” He remarked, “It’s nice to have some company, I thought I was the only one.” “Yeah.” Sixty said after a moment, “I suppose it is.” If anything he was glad not to be alone anymore. Daniel made better company than his restlessness.

[canonconspiracy]

Mystery Spot (Gabriel x Reader)

Fandom: Supernatural 

Fanfiction By: @rmorningstar21​ 

Pairing: Gabriel x Reader

Warnings: Maybe mild swearing?  I don’t even think I swore in this one, honestly.  Gabriel just being, Gabriel.

WC: 1460

This will be cross-posted between AO3 and Wattpad under the same username, and it is based off of the episode “Mystery Spot” S2 E(?).

"Hey, Sugar, what's got you down?" the Trickster spoke, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.  

Much like Sam, you were placed through the same mental torment that he had been, but you-  you stopped joining the Winchesters about fifty Tuesdays prior.  You figured out early on that it had been the Trickster, which he applauded, but it had not been you that needed to find this out.  There was a lesson to be had for Sam Winchester, and you learned it far before he had. 

"Well, I mean, it could be that this is the sixtieth Tuesday I've lived consecutively," you mused, though you found yourself leaning your head gently against his own, finding comfort in his warmth.  

"And who's fault is that?" He chuckled softly, his whiskey eyes gazing over at you.  "You haven't even told the mongoloid that you found out it was me." 

"I get what you're doing," you said with a frown, "and though it's unnecessarily cruel, I understand why." 

"Beautiful and smart," he complimented with another laugh.  "Who would have thought?" 

"How much longer is this going to be going on?" You questioned, moving your gaze to side glance at the man's handsome features.  "I don't even care to kill you.  I'm just kind of exhausted living the same day." 

"Who doesn't love Tuesdays, though?" He laughed, amusement clear in each word he spoke.  "And I would think you'd enjoy a little break from the two lumberjacks." 

"They're good people, you know," you mused with a soft laugh.  "Just a little too faithful to one another." 

"I know, and I know you care for them, Sugar," he replied heartily, moving his arm off of your shoulder as he spoke.  "Don't think I didn't see that self-sacrifice you did towards the beginning." 

You rolled your eyes before shrugging your shoulders.  "I already know that hunting's gonna kill me sooner or later," you replied.  "I'd rather it happened to help someone I cared for." 

"That completely screwed up my system, though," he said exhaustedly.  "I'm glad you realized what was actually going on." 

"Dying once admittedly sucked," you replied with a chuckle.  "At least you're not making Dean remember every time he dies." 

"Let's do something fun," he said with a gentle smirk, before snapping his fingers.  

Before you had the chance to say anything, the two of you were in an arcade that the Trickster made.  Your y/e/c orbs glanced over to him, noticing the excited smile against his lips, and you could not help the one that pulled at your own lips.  Something about this supposed monster had been understandable to you, and you realized in that moment that he was not nearly as much of a monster as the boys believed.  

"So, what's your favorite game, Sugar?" He said with a smirk. 

You pointed to the skeeball, your own smirk upon your face.  "Shall we, Trickster?" You questioned, an eyebrow raised in query.  Your voice held a sense of play in it that just seemed to make the man even more excited.  

"After you," he taunted, and the two of you began to play skeeball together.  

The two of you played in the arcade for what seemed about two or three hours, starting off with skeeball and then trying out some of the other games.  As time went on, he would occasionally throw a question at you to answer.  Nothing had ever been too deep, but as if the man was trying to get to know you.  

"Time flies when you're having fun," he mused, a confident smirk across his lips.  "I do have one last question for you, Sugar.  Would you care to spend another Tuesday with me?" 

"I couldn't think of a better way to spend a Tuesday," you said with a soft chuckle.  

*** 

By the sixteenth Tuesday you spent with the Trickster, you were already beginning to grow close to him.  You felt almost silly for it, falling for a very smooth, candy-loving monster, but you had been.  The two of you had been genuinely enjoying your time with one another, much to his shock.  

"Sugar, I have a confession to make," he said, his lips dipping into a frown as he sat across a candle-lit table from you.  The two of you had been talking for the last hour about this and that, as if you were just on a typical date.  "But I'm only gonna tell you because theoretically I can just throw you back into Tuesday if this goes south." 

You rolled your eyes at the Trickster, leaning forward with interest.  "I'm not sure you could truly make anything go south by this point," you said playfully, before your voice turned serious.  "But go ahead, I'm listening." 

"I don't want to lie to you," he said, his tone very serious.  "My name is Gabriel." 

It took a minute to click, as that clearly was not the name of a demigod.  You gave him a surprised blink of your y/e/c orbs before nodding in response.  Suddenly, everything made so much more sense to you.  "You're not a trickster at all," you mused, before allowing a chuckle to escape your lips.  "I should have figured that." 

"I'm in witness protection, though, Sugar," he warned sternly.  "So you can't tell a soul." 

"I wouldn't dream of it," you whispered, as if his fake world would hear.  Your hand met his upon the table, moving your thumb gently against it as they connected. Y/e/c eyes gazed at him, almost lovingly as you felt him shift his hand to hold your own.  

His lips curled upwards at the touch, whiskey eyes glimmering with something that you had not seen reflected in those eyes prior.  As if like clockwork, though, Gabriel's lips dipped down into a frown.  "Dean's about to die again," he said, almost morosely.  "They always seem to have the shittiest timing." 

*** 

This day, twenty four Tuesdays later, Sam figured out the ruse.  He had, of course, merely found the Trickster and begged for it to just be Wednesday.  Gabriel, though, had already warned you that it was coming soon, and that he had more plans than simply turning it to Wednesday.  

Gabriel knew that Sam would not learn his lesson that way, after all.  Watching Dean die on a Wednesday was nearly heart-wrenching, but as you stood next to Gabriel, you knew it was all a temporary thing.  Your heart went out to Sam, though the two of you stood far enough away that he would not be able to see either of you.  

"I'm not sure if this is going to teach him anything," you mused as you listened to the aching cries of the younger Winchester.  You stood beside Gabriel as your eyes glazed a touch, aching for the pain to just end for Sam, and yet, you didn’t disagree with Gabriel’s motives, either.  “It may just make him hate you more.”

“I’m not so sure, Sugar,” Gabriel mused softly, moving his arms to wrap around your waist as his chin rested upon your shoulder comfortably.  “It may take a while, but we could have a breakthrough.”

“I hope you’re right,” you replied with a soft, half-hearted chuckle.  You found comfort in the archangel’s warmth, nuzzling into his embrace as you watched Sam still screaming, still crying, still absolutely torn.  Though you wished to go to him, to tell him everything was going to be okay, you realized through this whole ordeal that they had been fine without you.  Even going through Tuesday after Tuesday losing Dean, Sam had not sought you out to attack the Trickster.  Neither had Dean, and you realized the only person trying to actually pay any attention to you had been Gabriel.  Agreeing with his mindset, you knew it was Sam that had to face all of this on his own.  “What do we do until he learns his lesson?”  

“Well, I have a few ideas,” he murmured into your ear, a smirk clear against his lips as he moved to press a gentle kiss against your earlobe.  “We were getting to know each other, after all, weren’t we?”

“What do you have in mind?” you questioned slyly, blush darkening against your cheeks at the affection.  

With a snap of his fingers, he had taken you far away from the life of a hunter, if just for a little while.  His little Trickster ways, or maybe it had simply been archangel magic, had conjured up unlimited possibilities for the two of you to spend your days, growing closer and closer to one another.  No matter how much you hoped that Sam’s suffering would end sooner than later, you relished in each moment you got to spend with Gabriel.  

[erzherzog-von-edelstein]

The Bust of the Emperor

This is for the fifth day of @historical-hetalia-week . This is the first day that I actually used the additional prompt, which was Nostalgia.

Plot: Ruling an empire for over sixty years forms a bond that is hard to break. Even once his reign is over, Austria struggles to deal with his attachment to Franz Joseph.

Characters: Austria, Prussia, Franz Joseph

Ships: Sort of PruAus

Content Warning: Blood, mentions of death

Word Count: 2K

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

1853

It was a pleasant day in the city, though the air still felt tense. It had not been long since the revolutions had been quelled, and there were so many who still opposed the monarchy.

Austria did not feel comfortable even within the streets of Vienna. He had seen the true intentions of his subordinates, and he no longer felt like he could turn his back on any of them.

He was walking behind his young emperor and a petty Count, keeping a close eye on them both. Franz Joseph was young, and the stable peace would rest on his shoulders. If he could establish himself as emperor and quell all of the rebellions, then all would be well.

Austria felt sick to his stomach when he thought about all the possibilities for betrayal. They were on the bulwark that surrounded the fortified center of the city. He should have felt safe here, but the Revolutions had shaken him.

Franz Joseph had the confidence of a young man, and he had told Austria that there was not a reason to worry about him going for a stroll. Usually Austria would listen to his Kaiser, but he did not feel like the young man adequately understand the danger. It would be ruinous for anything to go wrong; it could easily light the fires of revolution again.

There were people mulling around on the walk, and they put Austria’s nerves on edge. He wondered if the revolutions had really driven him to paranoia, and whether he would suffer the rest of his life from this terrible feeling of foreboding.

As the thought occurred to him, he turned his eyes away from the Kaiser and looked to the crowd. He let out a long breath that he had been holding and tried to let the tension out of his shoulders. He had to learn to live without forever seeing traitors everywhere.

As he watched, a man emerged from the mass of people and took several running steps. Austria realized a moment too late that the man’s hand went to his belt like he was about to pull a weapon.

Austria’s feet felt frozen to the ground as his worst fear played out in front of him.

The man, his face set in cold determination, lunged at the young Kaiser who had his back to the crowd as he gazed out over the city.

The knife seemed to hit its mark. Austria’s blood ran cold. He had aimed for the Kaiser’s neck. For the briefest moment the world seemed to freeze.

He couldn’t breath.

Then it all started moving again. The Kaiser fell to his knees. The word that had been stuck in Austria’s throat finally broke free, “Franz!”

His feet finally free to move again, he ran to the Kaiser. He knelt next to his emperor and, throwing aside any ideas of decorum, put his hands to the man’s face.

Behind him he heard the sound of the Count tussling with the would be assassin. Whether he detained the man or killed him, it was all the same.

Austria only had eyes for his emperor. Franz Joseph turned his face to Austria. He looked pale, and he was clutching the spot where his neck met his shoulder. There was blood between his fingers.

Austria felt the blood drain from his own face. He didn’t know how bad the wound was, but the blood terrified him. He said, “Franz, don’t you leave me yet.” The emperor met his worried gaze and said, steadily, “I’m not going to.”

He took his hand away from the wound to show Austria the damage. the collar was cut to the skin, but it seemed like just a superficial cut beneath it. It was a wound, but it was survivable.

It felt like a miracle. The blow meant to cut his throat  had been thwarted by the thick fabric of the collar. He had never been more thankful for his Kaiser’s habit of wearing military dress everywhere.

Austria let out a long sigh of relief and thanked God for a luck. For a moment he really thought that he had lost his emperor, and he would have to crown Maximilian.

He smiled out of sheer relief and said, “Your mother would have killed me if anything had happened to you.”

Behind him he could hear the assassin swearing in Hungarian. Austria could have easily guessed that he was a Hungarian nationalist. They were the greatest problem that he had.

Franz Joseph gave him something that was supposed to by a wry smile, but it still looked pained. He replied, “I still have work to do. I don’t think I am going to leave until it’s all done.”

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

1920

Austria walked into the living room leaning heavily on his cane. It felt humiliating to rely on it, but the war had left him so weak that it was a necessity. It was progress, since he was no longer bed bound, but not enough to soothe his pride.

Prussia stood when he saw him enter the room. For a moment, Austria had to repress the instinct to drop the cane. He had been focused on his rivalry with Prussia for too long for this sudden change to feel altogether natural. He still felt like showing weakness in front of Prussia was a political mistake, even though they were no longer enemies.

It hardly sounded real when Prussia said, “Do you need help?”

Austria could not remember a time that Prussia had offered him a helping hand. Or a time where he would have viewed that offer as something sincere. He replied, “I can manage on my own.”

In truth, a helping hand might have been nice. But it was not so easy to let go of a century of distrust. He settled himself on the couch across from Prussia, and let out a low groan. His joints still protested if he moved too much.

The other man settled himself on the other couch again, and looked over Austria like he was appraising him. It seemed like he wanted to know how bad the damage really was.

Austria decided he needed to break the silence, and solve the mystery of Prussia’s presence. He said, “Why are you here, Gilbert? I didn’t ask you to visit.”

He had the sudden realization as he looked at him that Prussia was wearing civilian clothing. How odd and out of place he looked out of uniform.

The Entente was intent on demilitarizing Germany, so it made some sense that Prussia had to live life as a civilian for the first time in a long time. But it felt wrong to see him without a sword at his hip.

Prussia leaned back on the couch like he was perfectly comfortable in someone else’s home. He replied, “I wanted to see how you were faring. I hadn’t seen you since the war and I was concerned.”

Austria did not restrain his natural reaction. He sneered and said, “You care about my well-being now?”

He couldn’t help the reaction, it had never seemed like Prussia cared about him before. But the other looked genuinely offended, like Austria had laid an unfair accusation at his feet. He said, “I have never tried to hurt you. I could have taken land in 1866, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to cause you pain.”

Austria had never even considered that there had been anything personal in Prussia’s lack of territorial demands. He had viewed it through the lens of Bismarck’s cold political calculations, and nothing more. It had certainly made Prussia seem like the rational party at the time.

He shrugged, unwilling to concede the point completely, “You can see how I am.”

He meant the cane and the pained expression he made when he walked. Anyone with eyes could see that he was not doing well, especially when immortals were supposed heal quickly. It was unheard of that anyone would take this long to heal from a war.

Prussia glanced around the room before saying, “Yeah, I can.”

Austria felt himself bristle at what was unsaid. Was there something wrong with the way he kept his house? It felt comfortable enough to him.

He was about to question the glance when Prussia clarified for him. He said, “I am going to assume that the decor is because you haven’t had the energy to redecorate.”

Austria glanced around, trying to figure out what he meant. It was the same that it had been for years. Golden curtains, lavish paintings, velvet couches. It was as it had always been. He asked, “What is wrong with it?”

Prussia raised a pale eyebrow and said, “Well, the Kaiser is still staring at me for one.”

He gestured over his shoulder at the mantle above the fireplace. Austria followed his pointing and his eyes lighted upon a marble bust of Franz Joseph. It had been there since it was made. It had been made as a loving gift on the occasion of the Kaiser’s sixtieth birthday.

Austria stared at it a moment before he thought he understood the point. He was clinging to the imperial normalcy. Nothing in the room had changed for decades, save for minor changes here and there to keep with the trends.

But, even the thought of removing the bust from its spot seemed painful. He said, “Franz isn’t going anywhere. He will go when I feel ready, and not before then.”

Prussia sighed and ran a hand over his face. Then he said with the air of a man speaking to a stubborn child, “But he has gone. You do know this, don’t you? He’s dead and buried. That is just a piece of marble.”

Austria knew, of course he did. He had held his emperor’s hand and heard his last word’s. Franz Joseph’s last act had been to make Austria swear to try to work with Karl and save the empire. And he had sworn, but no oath could have stopped the empire from falling to pieces in front of him.

He had been there to see Franz Joseph laid to rest beside his wife and son with all the proper pomp and ceremony. He had been old and venerable, and had worked to his last day for the good of the empire he loved.

He replied, “I do know. I am lame, not delusional.”

He knew he was being too curt, but the implication that he did not understand the present felt unwarranted. Prussia gave him a look of unusual sympathy and said, “I know it is hard. When Fritz died-“ Austria cut him off swiftly, “We weren’t like that!”

He knew the relationship Prussia had with his king, and would not have anyone imply that he had the same. But Prussia dismissed it with a wave of his hand, “I know you weren't. But, when Fritz died I locked myself up with my grief and refused to see the outside world. It made me less prepared when another threat came. I am trying to tell you not to do that.”

Austria had not intended to do anything of the sort. But he hadn’t been in any position to go out, since moving was cause him pain. He said, “What makes you think that I am locking myself in here? I have been in bed for nearly a year.”

Prussia pointed over his shoulder at the bust of Franz Joseph with a raised eyebrow. Then he said, “You can’t tell me that you’ve never woken up and thought it was still the 19th century and that you’re going to see him at breakfast.”

Austria couldn’t hide his expression of shock at how accurate the description was. He had felt like it was his own imperial nostalgia that sometimes made him feel like he had woken up in the old empire. He thought he would find Franz Joseph in the usual place until he saw how dark the palace was without servants to light the candles.

It always felt like remembering all of his losses at once all over again. It was uniquely painful, and he had never imagined that it would be a shared experience.

He let out a long breath through his nose and said, “It does. I feel like I am living in the past. But I don’t want it all to change yet.”

It felt bitter to say it, because he would still rather be in the disappearing world of empires than in the uncharted present. Prussia smiled, “I thought you might be. That’s why I’m here.”

Austria was slightly irritated to see how Prussia was lounging back into the pillows on the couch. Prussia really did just look comfortable like it was his own living room.

He replied, “And what are you going to do?” Prussia said, “Well, if you’ll allow me, I would like to visit more often. There’s a republic out there now, and you should see it.”

Austria chuckled. There were times he would have been so happy to have the chance to spend time with Prussia. He had never imagined it would take them both experiencing political ruin to make it happen.

It certainly sounded much more pleasant than spending time alone thinking about the empire.He replied, “Alright, I agree. Just don’t make me redecorate."

Prussia put his hands up  and said, “Fine, I won’t.” He paused for a moment and added, “Yet.”

[deejadabbles]

A Thousand Songs (Atem/Yami x Reader)

Chapter Two: Leave Out All The Rest

One /// Two /// Three /// Four /// [Five Coming Soon]

Summary: You knew that you and your band could make it big. Not only that, but stay together while doing it; the five of you were family, after all. The only problem was that despite all your musical talents...none of you were particularly good at lyrics. After years of struggling to put out your first full album, the solution finally made himself know in chance meeting on an empty stage.

Rock Band AU, Atem x Reader, gender neutral reader.

A.N. In case they weren't gay enough in the last chapter, Yugi and Jonouchi are boyfriends in this series <3 Is it a bit unrealistic to think they could be in a band and remain happy n healthy in their relationship? Probably. Do I care? No.

"This ain't working at all- and I told you it wouldn't!"

Yugi sighed as his beloved boyfriend tossed his phone on the table and leaned back in his metal folding chair.

Immediately, Yugi picked up the phone and handed it back to Jonouchi. "You can't dismiss them on looks alone," he scolded in a light tone.

Jou looked aghast, "He looks like he sacrifices cats on Sundays!" He waved the screen at Yugi, which displayed a bearded man who cast a purposeful scowl at the camera. He had lots of tattoos and piercings on top of the studded leather clothes, but that just made Yugi more annoyed with his boyfriend.

"People can say the exact same thing about me!" He waved a hand, encompassing his leather pants, studded belt, collar-style choker, and the tattoo on his arm.

Honda let out an unsure hum as he scrolled through his own phone, "But you're still a cinnamon roll under all that leather, Yugi, I'm not sure this guy is. Don't think he's a bad dude or anything, but I don't think he's the right fit for us," he turned his phone so everyone else sitting at the table could see, "just look at the titles of the songs he sent."

Okay, Yugi would concede that the examples the applicant had sent were a little...extreme, the title "bled like a pig" stood out in particular, but he still thought the boys were being a bit judgy.

"I think I'm gonna agree," you mumbled, "these are pretty heavy."

"You wrote a song called "we are broken" that sounds pretty heavy," Yugi countered, not unkindly though still trying to play the middleman.

"Okay, heavy isn’t the right word,” you conceded with a frown as you looked over some rather grotesque lyrics, “yup, “ edge lord ” is more fitting. Just look at the contents of the songs."

At the suggestion, Yugi scrolled down the application on his own phone, passed the profile pic and down to the bottom of the "examples of my work" section. ….okay, you guys had a point. Yugi doubted that the guy actually performed blood sacrifices, but his song style was definitely a little too demonic.

"Alright, I'll send him a thanks but no thanks note."

As Yugi brought up his email app to do just that, Anzu let out a frustrated sigh and scrubbed her hands over her face. "That was, what, the sixtieth-something application we've gone through?" she groaned, setting her phone down too, “It’s been over a month, and we haven’t gotten anywhere.”

"I still can't believe we got so many responses to our ads," Jonouchi grunted.

You set your head on your hand, expression dropping and making the dark circles under your eyes look more pronounced, "Everyone's pretty eager to join a band, now if only getting fans was as easy as getting people who wanted in on the fame prospect."

"All this work would actually be worth it if we found someone who even remotely appealed to us," Honda commented, "But everyone's just a little too…"

"Hardcore?" Anzu offered, then looked over at you, "Nah, you’re right, edge lord-y seem to fit most of them. I think that's the real thing, our band name probably makes people think we're more broody and grim than we actually are. We have plenty of darker themes in our stuff but everyone else seems to take it just a bit too far than our tastes go."

You ran a hand over your eyes, “Anyone else feel like we’ve wasted five weeks looking these applications over?”

"Hey, I'm sure we'll find someone soon though!" Yugi chimed in, a valiant attempt to elevate the mood. You and Jonouchi were always saying (much to his embarrassment) that he was everyone’s ray of sunshine, so surely he could salvage the night’s mood. “We just have to keep trying, I’m sure the right person is just around the corner!”

Anzu threw him an appreciative smile, “You’re probably right, Yugi, but I think I’m done looking for the night, it’s pretty exhausting.” She leaned back in her chair more, stretching her arms over her head.

“It’s probably a good time to call it quits now anyways,” you offered after glancing at the time, “If I hurry home now I can catch a shower before my shift starts.”

Everyone mumbled and nodded their agreements at that, followed by the five of you meandering around the room to get your stuff together. Honda offered to drive you back to your apartment like usual and everyone waved goodbye to each other in the tiny parking lot of the studio, Jou and Yugi climbing into Jou’s truck, Anzu into her beat-up car, and you and Honda zipping away on his motorbike.

It wasn’t until Yugi and Jonouchi were back at their place and Jou was cooking their dinner that Yugi realized something with great annoyance. After dumping the content of his backpack out on their bed, rifling through his desk drawer, and scouring the floor, Yugi wandered into the living room/kitchen area with a frown.

“Hey, sweetie, have you seen my adapters?”

Jonouchi looked thoughtful as he stirred the contents of the pan, “Uh, you mean the ones you use for your turntables? Haven’t seen them since the last time we rehearsed, that was what, three days ago?”

Yugi mumbled a curse under his breath, double-checking the tables and other spots he might have absentmindedly set them. Nothing. “Darn, I must have left them at the theatre yesterday.”

“Sure they aren’t in the studio?”

“No, I looked to make sure I’d have them when we rehearse tomorrow, but they weren’t there, that’s why I had it on my mind to find them when we got home.” Yugi shrugged and checked the time, thinking. After making up his mind, he grabbed his purple jacket from the armchair, “It’s okay though, if I hurry I should be able to sneak back into the theatre to get it. I think some members of the orchestra practice together tonight, and even if they aren’t the janitor should still be there.”

Yugi bounded across the tile floor as he slipped his jacket on, jumping up to place a kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek before turning to the door.

“I won’t be long, be back before dinner’s done!”

“You better,” Jonouchi called as he grabbed some spices from the cabinet, “I ain’t fixing this masterpiece for one!”

Yugi chuckled and closed the door behind him, as if he’d miss a chance to taste his boyfriend’s amazing cooking.

There was barely any need for a jacket as he walked down the sidewalk, but the vanishing sun assured that it would probably get colder by the time he was walking back home. Although their apartment was a bit far from the band’s studio, the location at least allowed Yugi easy access to his other work place: Domino City’s “Pegasus Theatre”. It was a popular spot for the upper crust of Domino, since they not only hosted ballets, but a talented orchestra as well. Yugi and Anzu both worked there, Anzu as a dancer in the ballet, and Yugi in the sound department, providing tech aid for the shows. Well, for the ballets at least, the natural design of the theatre meant that he wasn’t usually needed when the orchestra played.  

Yugi's assumption proved right and he found the door of the employee entrance unlocked. The sound of chatter greeted him as he approached the stage area, signaling that the orchestra was packing it in for the night. He took a brief glance at the stage as he walked up the rows of seats- he had to be quick, as there were only three lingerers, two chatting as they headed for the door and one quietly packing away his violin.

Yugi bounded up the narrow staircase to the sound booth, opening the door and crossing the room to the little employee cubbies. He found what he was looking for quick enough, after pushing aside his spare jacket and snack bag. The beat-up altoids case rattled, but Yugi made sure to double-check that the adapters were actually in there. They were and he sighed in relief, pushing the other contents back into the cubby before turning.

He peered out the booth's window to see if the violinist was still there, and to Yugi's surprise he was not only still in sight, but the man had actually lingered after packing away his instrument. Standing in the very center of the stage, the man was looking out at the empty seats, then trailing his eyes up to the magnificent red curtains.

Yugi smiled to himself, figuring the man was just having a moment of wonder or taking in a daydream during his moment alone, and Yugi couldn't blame him in the slightest. Yugi was slower when taking the steps down, letting the man have his moment before he ruined it by walking by.

Again though, Yugi found himself surprised. His pace slowed, the sound of a melodic voice carrying through the theatre like a wave that had Yugi stopping dead in his tracks.

I dreamed I was missing

You were so scared

But no one would listen

Cause no one else cared

After my dreaming

I woke with this fear

What am I leaving

When I'm done here?

The voice was deep, the rumble of a serene storm, almost haunting in a way.

So, if you're asking me, I want you to know

Yugi’s feet were moving before he even noticed and he soon stood on the red carpets leading to the stage.

When my time comes

Forget the wrong that I've done

Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed

And don't resent me

And when you're feeling empty

Keep me in your memory

Leave out all the rest

Leave out all the rest

The violinist stood there, lost in his own world- or rather the words of his song. His eyes were closed, listening to a chorus of instruments only he could hear as his hands moved in short but meaningful gestures.

Don't be afraid

I've taken my beating

I've shared what I've made

I'm strong on the surface

Not all the way through

I've never been perfect

But neither have you

So, if you're asking me, I want you to know

The chorus of the song came again and Yugi finally snapped out of his reverie long enough to pull out his phone. With quick thumbs he searched the beautiful lyrics he had never heard before, wondering why he didn’t know the song.

No results came up, the song was unknown.

That only got Yugi’s attention more, and he gazed back up at the man, whose voice was filling with more and more emotion with every lyric. His fist clenched at the front of his shirt, over where his heart was, eyes screwed shut as he continued to pour his heart out to the empty theatre.

Forgetting

All the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well

Pretending

Someone else can come and save me from myself

A pause, an intake of breath, and Yugi found himself hanging on to every second the man gave.

I can't be who you are...

...I can’t be who you are

The singer drew out the last lyric in a prolonged, sorrowful note; breathy as he bowed his head, the song- his raw expression, finished.

Instantly Yugi found himself clapping, bounding down the red aisle between the seats to the stage. He only felt slightly guilty when the other man jumped in fright.

“That was amazing! Your voice is amazing- that song too!”

The man (who Yugi only now noticed has a similar hairstyle to his own) stared back at him with wide eyes, body stiff.  “Uh- oh I- thank you. I...didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

The man’s speaking voice was deep too, and anyone could guess that he’d have a powerful set of pipes. Yugi was still too excited to pay the man’s nervousness much mind as he practically hopped to the foot of the stage.

“I didn’t mean to startle you- but I couldn’t help it, that was awesome! Did you write that song yourself? I googled some of the lyrics and nothing came up.”

The man took a while to respond and Yugi wondered if his dark complexion was hiding a blush. Eventually, though, the violinist/singer cleared his throat.

“Y-yes, I wrote it. I’ve never sung it in front of anyone though.”

“Do you write a lot of songs?” Yugi pressed and again it took his new friend a moment to respond.

“...Sometimes. I suppose it’s a bit of a hobby. Listen I-”

Finally, Yugi actually realized just how rude he was being with his aggressive ramblings, “Oh, gosh I’m sorry! I’m bombarding you with questions like some weirdo.” He gave a nervous laugh and to his relief, the man’s posture seemed to relax a little- though he still seemed a bit embarrassed. “My name’s Yugi, by the way, I’m one of the sound techs.”

The man gave a nod of his head, “Atem, I’m a violinist in the orchestra.”

“And a totally awesome singer, you’ve got some real talent,” Yugi reiterated, but pressed on before the man could get too bashful again, “The reason I asked you so many questions is because I think it’s fate that we met like this! See I’m in a band, we’re trying to put out our first full-length album but- honestly, we’re aren’t very fast at pumping out new songs. We’re great with coming up with the music, but the lyrics always get us stuck. We’ve actually been looking to hire a ghostwriter for our songs, but none of the people we’ve found seem right- but that song was amazing, just the kind of stuff we like!” Ignoring the unreadable expression on Atem’s face, Yugi dug out his cardholder and passed one of them up to Atem. “I don’t wanna blindside you more than I already have tonight- sorry about that again, but, I really think you’d be a perfect fit for us. Think about it, and if it seems interesting to you, come talk to me.”

Atem looked the card over for a second, before peering back at Yugi, “I’ve never really put my songs out there, it’s just a private hobby, I don’t want you and your bandmates to get your hopes up.”

Yugi waved off his concern, “Don’t worry about that. Like I said, just think about it, okay?” He didn’t move, nor look away from Atem until the man finally nodded in agreement. “Awesome! Take your time and come talk to me once you’ve thought about it some.” His outgoing steam was starting to run out, his bold and somewhat rude actions finally starting to catch up to him. In a sudden burst of embarrassment, Yugi brought his hand up to scratch at the back of his head. “Anyway, I’ll let you go now, I’m sure you want to get home or get on with your night. It was nice meeting you, Atem!”

And with a wave, Yugi was heading for the door, leaving a rather bewildered Atem in his wake.

[simplyclockwork]

Simplyclockwork Fic Recs

Alternate Universe/Crossovers

I am breaking my massive fic rec into pieces by genres.

Performance in a Leading Role - @madlori

Explicit. 156,714 words. 21 chapters.

Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?

A Moment’s Surrender - anchors

Mature. 64,272 words. 10 chapters.

Sherlock tours worldwide with the English National Ballet. John dances the Lindy Hop competitively all across the globe. That they would meet, then, by the slimmest of chances in one lonely city, is pure coincidence. The whole 'dancing together' bit is a little more planned. Dancer!AU.

Love or What You Will - @miss-frankenstein

Teen and Up. 31,987 words. 11 chapters.

John is an English professor who specializes in War and Post-War Literature and Sherlock is the brilliant yet impossible Ph.D. student assigned to be his TA because no one in the Chemistry Department is willing to put up with him. And - somewhere between Waugh and Plath, e-mails and takeaway, novels and villanelles - they fall in love.

Two Two One Bravo Baker - abudantlyqueer

Explicit. 114,574 words. 27 chapters.

Captain John Watson of 40 Commando, the Royal Marines, is assigned to protect and assist Sherlock Holmes as he investigates what appears to be a simple war atrocity in Afghanistan. An intense attraction ignites between the two men as they uncover a conspiracy that threatens everything they’ve ever known, but Sherlock is as much hunted as hunter, and everyone close to him is in deadly danger. Can he solve the case in time to save himself and John?

The Jewel in the Tower - PoppyAlexander (@fuckyeahfightlock)

Explicit. 207,079 words. 39 chapters.

"Xie [...] had invented an entire pleasure-industry by combining superior visual aesthetics with impeccable personal attention. Drasha salons were by that time a feature of any even half-decent house of repose in every pleasure district in the British Isles, but once upon a time, when Xie debuted, there had been only one, and Xie had named it: the Icehouse."

* In a contemporary dystopia, Unity is peace--despite the fact unsanctioned information, illicit currency, and every sort of danger flows unchecked in the world's pleasure districts.

John Watson, a weary hired gun, is assigned by the mysterious Mentor to investigate a subversive element lurking in the Icehouse, the world's most famous House of Repose. As accustomed as he is to dealing with the unexpected, John is nevertheless woefully unprepared to meet the gem of the Ice house, Xie, the world renowned "drashaskaya," the living work of art after which all other drashas are modeled.

In sumptuous suites, amid trailing puddles of silk and fervent whispers in the night, John soon learns that nothing is as it seems in the floating world of London's pleasure district. *

Modern-day dystopian/one-world government/espionage/geisha!lock AU

The Loss of Flesh and Soul - deuxexmycroft 

Explicit. 60,000+ words. Unfinished.

Five years after John Watson puts the murderous Sherlock Holmes behind bars, a vicious copycat killer emerges. A reluctant John is pulled out of retirement to seek the expertise of the only man who can help, a man who has developed an unsettling obsession with John himself.

Crossover with Red Dragon/Silence of the Lambs

Simplyclockwork note: Not fully finished, but an alternative ending was posted. Still worth reading without a full ending.

I wake up and I wake up and you’re still dead - thisprettywren (memento/Sherlock crossover)

Mature. 24,226 words. One-shot.

Sherlock isn't the only one who's lost.

The Sinking of the Titanic: Sixty Years Later - flawedamythyst

Teen and Up. 15,340 words. One-shot.

John Watson is interviewed for a documentary being made for the sixtieth anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. The story he tells is not the one the interviewer was expecting.

The Bachelors’ Handfasting - Jberry

Explicit. 30,624 words. 20 chapters.

After her son is caught in a compromising position, Victoria Holmes must make arrangements for a quick marriage between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Simplyclockwork note: Kilt!Lock and Soft Bab Sherlock (but of age)

Just to Hold You Close - @sussexbound

Explicit. 70,841 words. 18 chapters.

When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

Summit Fever - @jbaillier

Mature. 78,867 words. 18 chapters.

After graduating from medical school, John Watson followed his heart to the Himalayas. Ten years later, he's a haunted cynic working for his ex-lover's trekking and mountaineering company. Will leading an expedition to Annapurna I — the most lethal of all the world's highest mountains — shake John out of his reverie, and who is the mystery client added to the group at the last minute?

The Last Companion - standbygo (@blogstandbygo)

Explicit. 34,101 words. 14 chapters.

Thirty years after the Miranda Wars, there is peace, both on the Rim and the Core planets. There are a number of old social mores still in place, such as the Order of Companions, but there is a sense that even such respected practices are coming to an end…

Sherlock is a Companion - the best Companion on Persephone. With a bit of detective work on the side, of course. Then he meets a man named John Watson, encounters a series of bizarre cases, and finds his world is getting turned upside down.

Simplyclockwork note: Sherlock/Firefly AU!

Out There - @discordantwords

Teen and up. 131,695 words. 10 chapters.

FBI Special Agent John Watson, medical doctor and army veteran, is assigned to assist eccentric genius Sherlock Holmes with paranormal investigations on the X-Files project.

This is a fusion with The X-Files, written for the Fall TV Season Challenge.

Say You’ll Stay With Me - justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)

Explicit. 63,349 words. 21 chapters.

It was just supposed to be an ordinary business trip, but when John's car stalls out on Hollywood Boulevard, he meets someone who just might change his life.

Simplyclockwork note: Pretty Woman/Sherlock AU.

Gimme Shelter - @sincewhendoyoucallme-john

Explicit. 159,368 words. 21 chapters.

All John Watson wants is the feeling of a freshly waxed surfboard under his feet and the hot California sun baking down onto his back. To finally go pro in the newly formed world of professional surfing and leave the dark memories of his past behind him as he rips across the face of a towering blue barrel. To lounge beside the beach bonfire every evening with an ice cold beer tucked into the cool sand beside him and listen to Pink Floyd and the Doors while the saltwater dries in his sun bleached hair.

That's all he wants, that is, until the hot young phenom taking Oahu and the Hawaiian shores by storm steps up next to him in the sand in the second round of the 1976 International Surf Competition.

Apokalypsis - songlin

Mature. 12,125 words. 4 chapters.

There were things I never told you because I thought we had time. There is no time left in the world anymore.

Sensory Science - @sussexbound

Explicit. 80,017 words. 24 chapters.

John Watson has been invalided home from Afghanistan and is struggling with anxiety, depression, PTSD and insomnia, when an old friend from med school recommends something that might help: An ASMR YouTube Channel run by a friend.

One session in and John is hooked, not only by the way the ASMR seems to calm him after nightmares, and help him sleep, but also by the mysterious man who runs it.

Comparative Literature is for Idiots - lookupkate

Explicit. 8,173 words. 4 chapters.

Sherlock thinks he's very bohemian, smoking cigarettes and wearing patchouli oil and writing poetry in the attic. In truth he's just your average seventeen year old, not showering enough and being hit particularly hard by his continued path through puberty.

John is getting his masters in literature. He's the TA for comparative literature and yearns for romance. Romance has other plans, plans that require him to go without for at least ten more years. Plans that put in front of him the exact man he'll finally fall in love with, but in boy form.

When Sherlock happens to see John reading poetry at a coffee shop he is immediately smitten. John holds him at arm's length because he's a bloody child.

How will ten years and miles apart change that view, and will John be able to understand how he's fallen in love with someone he doesn't ever get to see?

Stay tuned for puberty hi jinx and the passing of time to find out. And yes, there will be love.

An Everlasting Inferno - thatawkwardfriend

Explicit. 108,389 words. 15 chapters.

Sherlock and John are both men who operate outside the law. John works for Mary and her hitmen in order to keep a roof over his head. Sherlock does anything his drug dealer asks of him in exchange for free drugs and housing.

They meet one night in a darkened garage to negotiate a deal. But they soon find out that neither of their bosses are being entirely honest with them about their goals or motives. With a little poking around, they stumble upon something much bigger than themselves and discover that perhaps, it might be in their best interests to work together.

(Loosely inspired by StartUp and Little Favour)

Only To Be With You - @sincewhendoyoucallme-john

Mature. 40,768 words. 4 chapters.

I tell myself that next time I’ll come near this same place again. Wait around for the mysterious stranger in his coat to dash past me, hot on the heels of a new criminal in black.

I think this all the way back to my Exit, planning where I’ll wait and what I’ll say when I see him. Scheming on how to get his name. It’s only once I reach the Exit Point door that I realize two hours and forty-five minutes have passed, and I realize that this won’t be the last time I Visit. It won’t be the last time at all.

You Give Me Fever - michi_thekiller

Explicit. 16,122 words. One-shot.

Thou givest fever when we kisseth, fever with thy flaming youth Fever I'm afire; fever, yea, I burn forsooth "He's the kind of boy you want to take apart."

Gratuitous Greaserlock. It's essentially 16k of mostly-porn. Warnings for underage sex between teens.

If you’re one of the authors listed here and have a Tumblr, and would like me to link it (if I haven’t already), please let me know! 

[1833outboy]

@carbonbased000 gave me the prompt, “Is that... my shirt?” from that list i reblogged forever ago, and it took me 84 years to fill it, but here it is finally! i hope you like it, carbon, sorry i took so long.

When Patrick rouses from his bunk it’s way past noon and the bus is almost empty. 

Empty but for Pete, who’s lounging in the living area, watching The Nightmare Before Christmas for what must be the sixtieth time this month. It’s October, so it’s necessary, according to him. Patrick isn’t so sure.

As Jack starts to sing of the magic of Christmas on the TV, Patrick wanders to the kitchenette, eager for coffee. 

“You in a better mood today?” asks Pete as he lies back on the sofa, socked feet resting against the arm rest.

Patrick mumbles some affirmative, guilt curling his insides. He has to admit he was a bit short with the guys last night. Utterly exhausted, convinced the show they put on wasn’t great and tired of being near people, he’d told them all to leave him the fuck alone before climbing into his bunk. Maybe he could’ve handled it better. He feels kind of shitty about it now.

Which is probably why when Pete asks, “Hey, can you pass me some chips while you’re up there?” Patrick grabs a packet of Lays from one of the cupboards — Joe’s, Patrick is pretty sure, but if you put something in a cupboard on this bus you know it’s a free for all, so it’s his own fault — and throws it at Pete without a word. He’s just about to turn back to the fridge and his hunt for milk when something about Pete catches his eye. More specifically, something about Pete’s clothes.

“Is that… my shirt?” That’s definitely Patrick’s shirt Pete’s wearing. Nothing particularly special, a black Bowie shirt he probably wears far too often than might be strictly healthy. But Pete definitely doesn’t own a shirt like that.  

Pete glances down at his t-shirt, looking almost surprised to see Ziggy Stardust staring back up at him. “I’ve got nothing clean,” he says with a shrug. “All my clothes smell like ass.”

Patrick is sure that his shirt won’t smell much better; he’s been wearing it for several days, prior to today at least. “Okay...” he says instead of addressing that, and tries to get back to his coffee. 

It’s strange though. He finds his eyes drawn back to Pete, lying back and staring at the TV in his jeans and Patrick’s Bowie shirt. It reminds Patrick, with a stab of something too bitter to be apathy and too sad to be anger, of last summer when Pete used to come back from the MCR bus wearing one of Mikey’s shirts. Patrick’s shirt looks a little more baggy on Pete; unsurprisingly, since he’s a bigger size than either Pete or Mikey.  

But more than that, it looks… good on him? It looks good, for reasons Patrick can’t quite identify. Not because it’s an especially fashionable or snazzy looking shirt, just because… because of reasons. Because Patrick likes seeing Pete wearing a shirt he owns. For reasons. It sets off a strange sort of spark deep in his chest.

“Scooch,” he mutters, nudging Pete’s legs as he wanders next to the sofa, coffee in hand. Pete pulls his legs back, allowing Patrick room on the sofa, then immediately rests his feet on Patrick’s lap. Patrick lets him, trying desperately not to let his eyes move from the TV to Pete. Pete, who’s eating chips and wearing Patrick’s shirt like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

This is so stupid; it’s not like Pete hasn’t worn one of Patrick’s shirts before. It’s not like Patrick hasn’t worn one of Pete’s shirts before. Back when they shared an apartment with Joe, and therefore threw all their clothes in the same washing machine, they used to mix up their shirts all the time. Patrick had often grabbed any shirt that would fit from the pile of clean laundry none of them bothered to put away.

Patrick’s not sure what feels so different here, but something definitely does feel different.

“Why didn’t you borrow one of Andy’s shirts?” Patrick asks suddenly, unable to keep his stupid, useless thoughts to himself for some reason.

“Huh?” Pete blinks away from the movie, frowning. “Why would I borrow one of Andy’s shirts?”

“Because… you’re the same size.” Also, Andy’s shirts are probably cleaner, he doesn’t say.

Pete stills Patrick with an odd, curious sort of look. “Does it bother you?”

Patrick feels his face heat up somewhat. What the hell is wrong with him? Why is this bothering him? “No… No. Why would it bother me? Just don’t... destroy it somehow. It’s… whatever.” 

There’s a small titter of laughter before Pete simply shrugs and says, “This shirt smells like you,” as he turns back to the TV. 

Well. That seems kind of seems like an odd thing to say. Probably just one of those Pete things, right? Pete says things like that sometimes, things he doesn’t really mean. At least, he doesn’t mean them as they sound.  

“So, like sweat and lucky charms?” he asks, thinking of the cereal he spilled on the bottom of that shirt yesterday.

Pete frowns, still watching the TV, and he’s quiet for so long, Patrick thinks he isn’t going to answer. Then there’s a shift and suddenly Pete’s feet are no longer resting on Patrick’s lap. Patrick allows himself a moment of loss, then wonders why he should feel loss for that. 

Pete’s sitting up now, frowning and apparently still considering Patrick’s question very seriously. “It smells more like... sweat, that sweet deodorant you like, and... your bunk, I guess.”

“My... bunk?”

Pete nods before turning himself round, letting his head rest on Patrick’s lap instead of his feet. Patrick brushes his hand through Pete’s hair almost without thinking.

“And all of that… makes you want to keep wearing my shirt?” says Patrick after a moment, staring at the Jack Skelington running along Pete’s arm rather than the one on TV. 

“Dude, you…” Pete sighs, eyes on the TV. “You smell like... relief, man. I don’t know what to tell you. You smell like being safe after a nightmare. Or like— draining away all the fucked up thoughts. The opposite of anxiety. That’s what this shirt feels like.”  

Pete doesn’t say, I needed that today, but Patrick suddenly feels like he might want to. His gut clenches as he wonders if Pete had wanted — needed — to climb into Patrick’s bunk last night, but decided against it because Patrick had been such a little bitch. Because Patrick knows that’s what Pete usually does when he needs relief. When he needs to stop the anxiety. 

“Oh,” he says softly, fingers moving from Pete’s hair to touch at his jaw. “I— Are you okay?”

Pete smiles up at him. “Right now? I’m awesome.” 

“Sorry, I… I mean, sorry I was kind of an ass last night.”

“You’re an ass sometimes, Rick. So am I.” He grins. “It’s why we’re made for each other.”

Patrick snorts, shaking his head. He feels warm. “You need to stop saying shit like that.”

“Before you believe me?” Pete asks, and something about his tone makes Patrick meet his eyes, silent for a few seconds. There’s a lot to be said about the golden glint in Pete’s eyes, the glint that seems to say a thousand things. “You know,” Pete continues. “I think you kinda like that I’m wearing your shirt.”

Patrick swallows thickly. “You’re... an idiot.”

“Is it because, since I’m wearing your shirt, I’m also labelled property of Patrick Stump?”

“My clothes don’t have labels with my name written on them,” Patrick says immediately. “I’m not five.”

“Is it cause I look hot in this shirt? I know you’d look hot in one of my shirts.”

“I’d look like an overstuffed plushy in one of your shirts,” Patrick replies, because he can’t imagine looking anything resembling hot in a shirt at least two sizes too small. 

“Nah, hot as hell.” Pete scratches absently at his stomach, the Bowie shirt riding up a little and revealing the tight, tanned skin underneath, marred with ink from his bartskull. 

It’s getting very difficult for Patrick to convince himself that he isn’t really, really turned on by Pete wearing his shirt right now. He’s extremely close to getting extremely hard, which is a problem because Pete’s head is on his lap, inches from his dick.

It’s possible Pete already knows this, judging by the golden glint in his eyes as they stare at each other for a few moments. “Patrick?”

Patrick tries to concentrate on something other than how much he wants to kiss Pete right now. He can’t. “Mm?”

“Just so we’re clear…” Pete’s tongue peeks out briefly to wet his lips. “If you wanted to kiss me right now, I’d be totally cool with that.”

Yes, yes, yes! he thinks immediately, even while his mouth contrarily says what it thinks he should probably be thinking, “I don’t— Pete, I don’t know if this—” 

That glint in Pete’s eyes dulls almost immediately and Patrick feels the loss on a visceral level. As Pete tries to sit up, lifting his head from Patrick’s lap, Patrick squeezes his hand against Pete’s shoulder, halting him midway to a sitting position, their faces way too close now. 

Pete frowns. “Look, dude, I—” 

Patrick kisses him.

Pete’s gasp of surprised pleasure seems to vibrate through Patrick’s bones, and he pushes deeper into the kiss, shoving Pete back onto the sofa and almost toppling them both to the floor in the process. 

Pete pulls back briefly, “So, should I keep this shirt on while—”

“Oh my God, stop talking.” Patrick pulls Pete back against him. 

Pete keeps the shirt on.

[hellouniversegoodbyeworld]

Martial, Epigrams. Book 1. Bohn's Classical Library (1897)

BOOK I.

TO THE READER

I trust that, in these little books of mine, I have observed such self-control, that whoever forms a fair judgment from his own' mind can make no complaint of them, since they indulge their sportive fancies without violating the respect due even to persons of the humblest station; a respect which was so far disregarded by the authors of antiquity, that they made free use, not only of real, but of great names. For me; let fame be held in less estimation, and let such talent be the last thing commended in me.

Let the ill-natured interpreter, too, keep himself from meddling with the simple meaning of my jests, and not write my epigrams for me.1 He acted honourably who exercises perverse ingenuity on another man's book: For the free plainness of expression, that is, for the language of epigram, I would apologize, if I were introducing the practice; but it is thus that Catullus writes, and Marsus, and Pedo, and Getulicus, and every one whose writings are read through. If any assumes to be so scrupulously nice, however, that it is not allowable to address him, in a single page, in plain language, he may confine himself to this address, or rather to the title of the book. Epigrams are written for those who are accustomed to be spectators at the games of Flora. Let not Cato enter my theatre; or, if he do enter, let him look on. It appears to me that I shall do only what I have a right to do, if I close my address with the following verses:----

1 Let him not make them his own, by the false interpretation which he puts upon them.

TO CATO.

Since you knew the lascivious nature of the rites of sportive Flora, as well as the dissoluteness of the games, and the license of the populace, why, stern Cato, did you enter the theatre? Did you come in only that you might go out again?

I. TO THE READER.

The man whom you are reading is the very man that you want,----Martial, known over the whole world for his humorous books of epigrams; to whom, studious reader, you have afforded such honours, while he is alive and has a sense of them, as few poets receive after their death.

II. TO THE READER; SHOWING WHERE THE AUTHOR'S BOOKS MAY BE PURCHASED.

You who are anxious that my books should be with you everywhere, and desire to have them as companions on a long journey, buy a copy of which the parchment leaves are compressed into a small compass.1 Bestow book-cases upon large volumes; one hand will hold me. But that you may not be ignorant where I am to be bought, and wander in uncertainty over the whole town, you shall, under my guidance, be sure of obtaining me. Seek Secundus, the freedman of the learned Lucensis, behind the Temple of Peace and the Forum of Pallas.

1 That is, a copy with small pages; a small copy.

III. THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK.

You prefer, little book, to dwell in the shops in the Argiletum,1 though my book-case has plenty of room for you. You are ignorant, alas! you are ignorant of the fastidiousness of Rome, the mistress of the world; the sons of Man, believe me, are much too critical. Nowhere are there louder sneers; young men and old, and even boys, have the nose of the rhinoceros.2 After you have heard a loud "Bravo!" and are expecting kisses, you will go, tossed to the skies, from the jerked toga.3 Yet, that you may not so often suffer the corrections of your master, and that his relentless pen may not so often mark your vagaries, you desire, frolicsome little book, to fly through the air of heaven. Go, fly; but you would have been safer at home.

1 An open place, or square, in Rome, where tradesmen had shops. 2  Have great powers of ridicule, which the Romans often expressed by turning up or wrinkling the nose. 3  People will take you into their lap, and then jerk you out of it, as if you were tossed in a blanket

IV. TO CAESAR.

If you should chance, Caesar, to light upon my books, lay aside that look which awes the world. Even your triumphs have been accustomed to endure jests,1 nor is it any shame to a general to be a subject for witticisms. Read my verses, I pray you, with that brow with which you behold Thymele 2 and Latinus 3 the buffoon. The censorship 4 may tolerate innocent jokes: my page indulges in freedoms, but my life is pure.

1 In allusion to the jests which the soldiers threw out on their generals while they were riding in the triumphal procession. 2  A female dancer. 3 A dancer in pantomime; a sort of harlequin. 4  Alluding to Domitian having made himself perpetual censor.

V. THE EMPEROR'S REPLY.

I give you a sea-fight, and you give me epigrams: you wish, I suppose, Marcus, to be set afloat with your book.

VI. ON A LION OF CAESAR'S THAT SPARED A HARE.

While through the air of heaven the eagle was carrying the youth,1 the burden unhurt clung to its anxious talons. From Caesar's lions their own prey now succeeds in obtaining mercy, and the hare plays safe in their huge jaws. Which miracle do you think the greater? The author of each is a supreme being: the one is the work of Caesar; the other,2 of Jove.

1 Ganymede. 2 Comp. Eps. 14, 22.

VII. TO MAXIMUS

The dove, the delight of my friend Stella,3----even with Verona4 listening will I say it, ---- has surpassed, Maximus, the sparrow of Catullus. By so much is my Stella greater than your Catullus, as a dove is greater than a sparrow.

3 A poet of Patavium, who wrote an elegy on the dove of his mistress Ianthis. See B. vi. Ep. 21; B. vii. Ep. 13. 4 The birth-place of Catullus.

VIII. TO DECIANUS

In that you so far only follow the opinions of the great Thrasea and Cato of consummate virtue, that you still wish to preserve your life, and do not with bared breast rush upon drawn swords, you do, Decianus, what I should wish you to do. I do not approve of a man who purchases fame with life-blood, easy to be shed: I like him who can be praised without dying to obtain it.

IX. TO COTTA.

You wish to appear, Cotta, a pretty man and a great man at one and the same time: but he who is a pretty man, Cotta, is a very small man.

X. ON GEMELLUS AND MARONILLA.

Gemellus is seeking the hand of Maronilla, and is earnest, and lays siege to her, and beseeches her, and makes presents to her. Is she then so pretty? Nay; nothing can be more ugly. What then is the great object and attraction in her? ----Her cough.

XI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Seeing that there are given to a knight twice five pieces,1 wherefore is twice ten the amount which you spend by yourself, Sextilianus, in drink? Long since would the warm water have failed the attendants who carried it, had you not, Sextilianus, been drinking your wine unmixed.2

1 Ten sesterces, the usual sportula, or donation from the emperor. 2 The Romans used to drink their wine mixed with warm water.

XII. ON REGULUS.

Where the road runs to the towers of the cool Tivoli, sacred to Hercules, and the hoary Albula 3 smokes with sulphureous waters, a milestone, the fourth from the neighbouring city, points out a country retreat, and a hallowed grove, and a domain well beloved of the Muses. Here a rude portico used to afford cool shade in summer; a portico, ah! how nearly the desperate cause of an unheard-of calamity: for suddenly it fell in ruins, after Regulus had just been conveyed in a carriage and pair from under its high fabric. Truly Dame Fortune feared our complaints, as she would have been unable to withstand so great odium. Now even our loss delights us; so beneficial is the impression which the very danger produces; since, while standing, the edifice could not have proved to us the existence of the gods.

3 A plain near Tivoli.

XIII. ON ARRIA AND PAETUS.

When the chaste Arria handed to her Paetus the sword which she had with her own hand drawn forth from her heart, "If you believe me," said she, "the wound which I have made gives me no pain; but it is that which you will make, Paetus, that pains me."

XIV. TO DOMITIAN.

The pastimes, Caesar, the sports and the play of the lions, we have seen: your arena affords you the additional sight of the captured hare returning often in safety from the kindly tooth, and running at large through the open jaws. Whence is it that the greedy lion can spare his captured prey? He is said to be yours: thence it is that he can show mercy.

XV. TO JULIUS.

Oh! you who are regarded by me, Julius, as second to none of my companions, if well-tried friendship and longstanding ties are worth anything, already nearly a sixtieth consul is pressing upon you, and your life numbers but a few more uncertain days. Not wisely would you defer the enjoyment which you see maybe denied you, or consider the past alone as your own. Cares and linked chains of disaster are in store; joys abide not, but take flight with winced speed. Seize them with either hand, and with your full grasp; even thus they will oft-times pass away and glide from your closest embrace. 'Tis not, believe me, a wise man's part to say, "I will live." To-morrow's life is too late: live to-day.

XVI. TO AVITUS.

Of the epigrams which you read here, some are good, some middling, many bad; a book, Avitus, cannot be made in any other way.

XVII. TO TITUS.

Titus urges me to go to the Bar, and often tells me, "The gains are large." The gains of the husbandman, Titus, are likewise large.

XVIII. TO TUCCA, ON HIS PARSIMONY.

What pleasure can it give you, Tucca, to mix with old Falernian wine new wine stored up in Vatican casks? What vast amount of good has the most worthless of wine done you? or what amount of evil has the best wine done you? As for us, it is a small matter; but to murder Falernian, and to put poisonous wine in a Campanian cask, is an atrocity. Your guests may possibly have deserved to perish: a wine-jar of such value has not deserved to die.

XIX. TO AELIA.

If I remember right, Aelia, you had four teeth; a cough displaced two, another two more. You can now cough without anxiety all the day long. A third cough can find nothing to do in your mouth.

XX. TO CAECILIANUS.

Tell me, what madness is this? While a whole crowd of invited guests is looking on, you alone, Caecilianus, devour the truffles. What shall I imprecate on you worthy of so large a stomach and throat? That you may eat a truffle such as Claudius ate.

XXI. ON PORSENA AND MUCIUS SCAEVOLA.

When the hand that aimed at the king mistook for him his secretary, it thrust itself to perish into the sacred fire but the generous foe could not endure so cruel a sight, and bade the hero, snatched from the flame, to be set free. The hand which, despising the fire, Mucius dared to burn, Porsena could not bear to look on Greater was the fame and glory of that right hand from being deceived; had it not missed its aim, it had accomplished less.

XXII. TO A HARE.

Why, silly hare, are you fleeing from the fierce jaws of the lion now grown tame? They have not learned to crush such tiny animals. Those talons, which you fear, are reserved for mighty necks, nor does a thirst so great delight in so small a draught of blood. The hare is the prey of hounds; it does not fill large mouths: the Dacian boy should not fear Caesar.

XXIII. TO COTTA.

You invite no one, Cotta, except those whom you meet at the bath; and the bath alone supplies you with guests. I used to wonder why you had never asked me, Cotta; I know now that my appearance in a state of nature was unpleasing in your eyes.

XXIV. TO DECIANUS.

You see yonder individual, Decianus, with locks uncombed, whose grave brow even you fear; who talks incessantly of the Curii and Camilli, defenders of their country's liberties: do not trust his looks; he was taken to wife but yesterday.

XXV. TO FAUSTINUS.

Issue at length your books to the public, Faustinus, and give to the light the work elaborated by your accomplished mind,----a work such as neither the Cecropian city of Pandion would condemn, nor our old men pass by in silence. Do you hesitate to admit Fame, who is standing before your door; and does it displease you to receive the reward of your labour? Let the writings, destined to live after you, begin to live through your means. Glory comes too late, when paid only to our ashes.

XXVI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Sextilianus, you drink as much as five rows of knights  1 alone: you might intoxicate yourself with water, if you so often drank as much. Nor is it the coin of those who sit near you alone that you consume in drink, but the money of those far removed from you, on the distant benches. This vintage has not been concerned with Pelignian presses, nor was this juice of the grape produced upon Tuscan heights; but it is the glorious jar of the long-departed Opimius 2 that is drained, and it is the Massic cellar that sends forth its blackened casks. Get dregs of Laletane wine from a tavern-keeper, Sextilianus, if you drink more than ten cups.3

1 Seated on the benches allotted them in the theatre. See Ep. 12. 2  The vintage of B. C. 121, in which year L. Opimius was one of the consuls, was extremely celebrated, and is frequently mentioned by the Roman writers. 3  The number to which persons at feasts usually restricted themselves.

XXVII. TO PROCILLUS.

Last night I had invited you----after some fifty glasses, I suppose, had been despatched----to sup with me to-day. You immediately thought your fortune was made, and took note of my unsober words, with a precedent but too dangerous. I hate a boon companion whose memory is good, Procillus.

XXVIII. ON ACCERRA.

Whoever believes it is of yesterday's wine that Acerra smells, is mistaken: Acerra always drinks till morning.

XXIX. TO FIDENTINUS.

Report says that you, Fidentinus, recite my compositions in public as if they were your own. If you allow them to be called mine, I will send you my verses gratis; if you wish them to be called yours, pray buy them, that they may be mine no longer.

XXX. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus had been a surgeon, and is now an undertaker. He has begun to be useful to the sick in the only way that he could.

XXXI. TO APOLLO, OF ENCOLPUS.

Encolpus, the favourite of the centurion his master, consecrates these, the whole of the locks from his head, to you, O Phoebus.1 When Pudens shall have rained the pleasing honour of the chief-centurionship, which he has so well merited, cut these long tresses close, O Phoebus, as soon as possible, while the tender face is yet undisfigured with down, and while the flowing hair adorns the milk-white neck; and, that both master and favourite may long enjoy your gifts, make him carry shorn, but late a man.2

1 Encolpus, a favourite of Aulus Pudens the centurion, had vowed his hair to Phoebus, is order that his master might soon be made chief centurion. Martial prays that they may both obtain what they desire. 2 Extend his youth as long as possible.

XXXII. TO SABIDIUS.

I do not love you, Sabidius, nor can I say why; I can only say this, I do not love you.

The following lines, in imitation of this epigram, were made by some Oxford wit, on Dr John Fell, Bishop of Oxford, who died in 1686:

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell; The reason why I cannot tell. But this I'm sure I know full well, I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

XXXIII. ON GELLIA.

Gellia does not mourn for her deceased father, when she is alone; but if any one is present, obedient tears spring forth. He mourns not, Gellia, who seeks to be praised; he is the true mourner, who mourns without a witness.

XXXIV. TO LESBIA.

You always take your pleasure, Lesbia, with doors unguarded and open, nor are you at any pains to conceal your amusements. It is more the spectator, than the accomplice in your doings, that pleases you, nor are any pleasures grateful to your taste if they be secret. Yet the common courtesan excludes every witness by curtain and by bolt, and few are the chinks in a suburban brothel. Learn something at least of modesty from Chione, or from Alis: even the monumental edifices of the dead afford hiding-places for abandoned harlots. Does my censure seem too harsh? I do not exhort you to be chaste, Lesbia, but not to be caught.

XXXV. TO CORNELIUS.

You complain, Cornelius, that the verses which I compose are little remarkable for their reserve, and not such as a master can read out in his school; but such effusions, as in the case of man and wife, cannot please without some spice of pleasantry in them. What if you were to bid me write a hymeneal song in words not suited to hymeneal occasions? Who enjoins the use of attire at the Floral games, and imposes on the courtesan the reserve of the matron? This law has been allowed to frolicsome verses, that without tickling the fancy they cannot please. Lay aside, therefore, your severe look, I beseech you, and spare my jokes and gaiety, and do not desire to mutilate my compositions. Nothing is more disgusting than Priapus become a priest of Cybele.

XXXVI. TO THE BROTHERS LUCANUS AND TULLUS.

If, Lucanus, to you, or if to you, Tullus, had been offered such fates as the Laconian children of Leda enjoy, there would have been this noble struggle of affection in both of you, that each would have wished to die first in place of his brother; and he who should have first descended to the nether realms of shade would have said, "Live, brother, thine own term of days; live also mine."

XXXVII. TO BASSUS.

Yon deposit your excretions, without any sense of shame, into an unfortunate vessel of gold, while you drink out of glass. The former operation, consequently, is the more expensive.

XXXVIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

The book which you are reading aloud is mine, Fidentinus but, while you read it so badly, it begins to be yours.

With fruity accents, and so vile a tone, You quote my lines, I took them for your own.  Anon.

XXXIX. TO DECIANUS.

If there be any man fit to be numbered among one's few choice friends, a man such as the honesty of past times and ancient renown would readily acknowledge; if any man thoroughly imbued with the accomplishments of the Athenian and Latin Minervas, and exemplary for true integrity; if there be any man who cherishes what is right, and admires what is honourable, and asks nothing of the gods but what all may hear; if there be any man sustained by the strength of a great mind, may I die, if that man is not Decianus.

XL. TO AN ENVIOUS MAN.

You who make grimaces, and read these verses of mine with an ill grace, you, victim of jealousy, may, if you please, envy everybody; nobody will envy you.

XLI. TO CAECILIUS.

You imagine yourself Caecilius, a man of wit. You are no such thing, believe me. What then? A low buffoon; such a thing as wanders about in the quarters beyond the Tiber, and barters pale-coloured sulphur matches for broken glass; such a one as sells boiled peas and beans to the idle crowd; such as a lord and keeper of snakes; or as a common servant of the salt-meat-sellers; or a hoarse-voiced cook who carries round smoking sausages in steaming shops; or the worst of street poets; or a blackguard slave-dealer from Gades;1 or a chattering old debauchee. Cease at length, therefore, to imagine yourself that which is imagined by you alone, Caecilius, you who could have silenced Gabba, and even Testius Caballus, with your jokes. It is not given to every one to have taste; he who jests with a stupid effrontery is not a Testius, but a Caballus.3

1 See Juvenal xi. 163, and Mayor's note. 3 A play on the word Caballus, which, as an appellative noun, meant a hack-horse.

XLII. ON PORCIA.

When Porcia had heard the fate of her consort Brutus, and her grief was seeking the weapon, which had been carefully removed from her," You know not yet," she cried, "that death cannot be denied: I had supposed that my father had taught you this lesson by his fate. She spoke, and with eager mouth swallowed the blazing coals. "Go now, officious attendants, and refuse me a sword, if you will."

XLIII. ON MANCINUS.

Twice thirty were invited to your table, Mancinus, and nothing was placed before us yesterday but a wild-boar. Nowhere were to be seen grapes preserved from the late vines, or apples vying in flavour with sweet honey-combs; nowhere the pears which hang suspended by flexible twigs, or pomegranates the colour of summer roses: nor did the rustic basket supply its milky cheeses, or the olive emerge from its Picenian jar. Your wild-boar was by itself: and it was even of the smallest size, and such a one as might have been slaughtered by an unarmed dwarf. Besides, none of it was given us; we simply looked on it as spectators. This is the way in which even the arena places a wild-boar before us. May no wild-boar be placed before you after such doings, but may you be placed before the boar in front of which Charidemus was placed.1

1 By Domitian, to be torn in pieces. See Sueton. Life of Domit.

XLIV. TO STELLA.

If it seems to you too much, Stella, that my longer and shorter compositions are occupied with the frisky gambols of the hares and the play of the lions, and that I go over the same subject twice, do you also place a hare twice before me.

XLV. ON HIS BOOK.

That the care which I have bestowed upon what I have published may not come to nothing through the smallness of my volumes, let me rather fill up my verses with Τὸν δ̕ ἀπαμειθόμενος.1

1 Let me rather use frequent repetitions, just as Homer frequently repeats these words.

XLVI. TO HEDYLUS.

[From the Loeb translation]

When you say "I haste; now is the time," then, Hedylus, my ardour at once flags and weakens. Bid me wait: more quickly, stayed, shall I speed on. Hedylus, if you do haste, tell me not to haste!

XLVII. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus, lately a doctor, is now an undertaker: what he does as an undertaker, he used to do also as a doctor.

XLVIII. ON THE LION AND HARE.

The keepers could not snatch the bulls from those wide jaws, through which the fleeting prey, the hare, goes and returns in safety; and, what is still more strange, he starts from his foe with increased swiftness, and contracts something of the great nobleness of the lion's nature. He is not safer when he courses along the empty arena, nor with equal feeling of security does he hide him in his hutch. If, venturous hare, you seek; to avoid the teeth of the hounds, you have the jaws of the lion to which you may flee for refuge.

XLIX. TO LICINIANUS.

O you, whose name must not be left untold by Celtiberian nations, you the honour of our common country, Spain, you, Licinianus, will behold the lofty Bilbilis, renowned for horses and arms, and Catus1 venerable with his locks of snow, and eased Vadavero with ita broken cliffs, and the sweet grove of delicious Botrodus, which the happy Pomona loves. You will breast the gently-flowing water of the warm Congedus and the calm lakes of the Nymphs, and your body, relaxed by these, you may brace up in the little Salo, which hardens iron. There Voberca 2 herself will supply for your meals animals which may be brought down close at hand. The serene summer heat you will disarm by bathing in the golden Tagus, hidden beneath the shades of trees; your greedy thirst the fresh Dercenna will appease, and Nutha, which in coldness surpasses snow. But when hoar December and the furious solstice shall resound with the hoarse blasts of the north-wind, you will again seek the sunny shores of Tarraco and thine own Laletania. There you will despatch hinds caught in your supple toils, and native boars; and you will tire out the cunning hare with your hardy steed; the stags you will leave to your bailiff. The neighboring wood will come down into your very hearth, surrounded as it will be with a troop of uncombed children. The huntsman will be invited to your table, and many a guest called in from the neighbourhood will come to you. The crescent-adorned boot 3 will be nowhere to be seen, nowhere the toga and garments smelling of purple dye. Far away will be the ill-favoured Liburnian porter 4 and the grumbling client; far away the imperious demands of widows. The pale criminal will not break your deep sleep, but all the morning long you will enjoy your slumber. Let another earn the grand and wild "Bravo!" Do you pity such happy ones, and enjoy without pride true delight, while your friend Sura is crowned with applause. Not unduly does life demand of us our few remaining days, when fame has as much as is sufficient.

1 Catus and Vadavero are names of mountains near Bilbilis. Botrodus is a small town; Congedus and Salo, riven.   2 The name of a town. Dercenna and Nutha are fountains.   3 Worn by senators. 4 See Juvenal, iv. 75.

L. TO AEMILIANUS.

If your cook, Aemilianus, is called Mistyllus, why should not mine be called Taratalla?1

1 A meaningless jest taken from Homer's words (Il. i.465).

LI. TO A HARE.

No neck, save the proudest, serves for the fierce lion. Why do you, vain-glorious hare, flee from these teeth? No doubt you would wish them to stoop from the huge bull to you, and to crush a neck which they cannot see. The glory of an illustrious death must be an object of despair to you. You, a tiny prey, canst not fall before such an enemy!

LII. TO QUINCTIANUS.

To you, Quinctianus, do I commend my books, if indeed I can call books mine, which your poet recites.1 If they complain of a grievous yoke, do you come forward as their advocate, and defend them efficiently; and when he calls himself their master, say that they were mine, but have been given 2 by me to the public. If you will proclaim this three or four times, you will bring shame on the plagiary.

1 A poet that recited verses to Quinctianus; the same, probably, that is mentioned in the next epigram. 2 Manumitted; released from my portfolio.

LIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

One page only in my books belongs to you, Fidentinus, but it bears the sure stamp of its master, and accuses your verses of glaring theft. Just so does a Gallic frock coming in contact with purple city cloaks stain them with grease and filth; just so do Arretine1 pots disgrace vases of crystal; so is a buck crow, straying perchance on the banks of the Cayster, laughed to scorn amid the swans of Leda: and so, when the sacred grove resounds with the music of the tuneful nightingale, the miscreant magpie disturbs her Attic plaints. My books need no one to accuse or judge you: the page which is yours stands up against you and says, "You are a thief"

1 Earthen pots from Arretium, a town of Etruria.

LIV. TO FUSCUS.

If, Fuscus, you have room to receive still more affection, (for you have friends around you on all sides), I ask you one place in your heart, if one still remains vacant, and that you will not refuse because I am a stranger to you: all your old friends were so once. Simply consider whether he who is presented to you a stranger is likely to become an old friend.

LV. TO FRONTO.

If you, Fronto, so distinguished an ornament of military and civil life, desire to learn the wishes of your friend Marcus, he prays for this, to be the tiller of his own farm, nor that a large one, and he loves inglorious repose in as unpretending sphere. Does any one haunt the porticoes of cold variegated Spartan marble, and run to offer, like a fool, his morning greetings, when he might, rich with the spoils of grave and field, unfold before his fire his well-filled nets, and lift the leaping fish with the quivering line, and draw forth the yellow honey from the red1 cask, while a plump housekeeper loads his unevenly-propped table, and his own eggs are cooked by an unbought fire? That the man who loves not me may not love this life, is my wish; and let him drag out life pallid with the cares of the city.

1 Stained with vermilion.

LVI. TO A VINTNER.

Harassed with continual rains, the vineyard drips with wet. You cannot sell us, vintner, even though you wish, neat wine.

LVII. TO FLACCUS.

Do you ask what sort of maid I desire or dislike, Flaccus? I dislike one too easy, and one too coy. The just mean, which lies between the two extremes, is what I approve; I like neither that which tortures, nor that which cloys.

LVIII. DE PUERI PRETIO.

[Untranslated]

LIX. TO FLACCUS.

The sportula1 at Baiae brings me in a hundred farthings; of what use is such a miserable sum in the midst of such sumptuous baths? Give me back the darksome baths of Lupus and Gryllus. When I sup so scantily, Flaccus, why should I bathe so luxuriously?

1 Sportula. A present from the richer class to the poorer; nominally the price of a supper. See Dict. Antiqq. s. v.

LX. ON THE LION AND HARE.

Hare, although you enter the wide jaws of the fierce lion, still he imagines his mouth to be empty. Where is the back on which he shall rush? where the shoulders on which he shall flail? where shall he fix those deep bites which he inflicts on young bulls? why do you in vain weary the lord and monarch of the groves? 'Tis only on the wild prey of his choice that he feeds.

LXI. TO LICINIANUS, ON THE COUNTRIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS.

Verona loves the verses of her learned Poet; Mantua is blest in her Maro; the territory of Apona is renowned for its Livy, its Stella, and not less for its Flaccus. The Nile, whose waters are instead of rain, applauds its Apollodorus; the Pelignians vaunt their Ovid. Eloquent Cordova speaks of its two Senecas and its single and preeminent Lucan. Voluptuous Gades delights in her Canius,1 Emerita in my friend Decianus. Our Bilbilis will be proud of you, Licinianus, nor will be altogether silent concerning me.

1 See b. iii. Ep. 20.

LXII. ON LAEVINA.

Laevina, so chaste as to rival even the Sabine women of old, and more austere than even her stern husband, chanced, while entrusting herself sometimes to the waters of the Lucrine lake, sometimes to those of Avernus, and while frequently refreshing herself in the baths of Baiae, to fall into flames of love, and, leaving her husband, fled with a young gallant. She arrived a Penelope, she departed a Helen.

LXIII. TO CELER.

You ask me to recite to you my Epigrams. I cannot oblige you; for you wish not to hear them, Celer, but to recite them.1

1 To plagiarise them from me, and then to recite them as your own.

LXIV. TO FABULLA.

You are pretty,----we know it; and young,----it is true; and rich,----who can deny it? But when you praise yourself extravagantly, Fabulla, you appear neither rich, nor pretty, nor young.

LXV. TO CAECILIANUS.

When I said ficus, you laughed at it as a barbarous word, Caecilianus, and bade me say ficos. I shall call the produce of the fig-tree ficus; yours I shall call ficos.1

1 An untranslatable jest on the double meaning of the word ficus, which, when declined ficus, -i, means piles or someone afflicted with it; and when ficus -lis, a fig-tree.

LXVI. TO A PLAGIARIST.

You are mistaken, insatiable thief of my writings, who think a poet can be made for the mere expense which copying, and a cheap volume cost. The applause of the world is not acquired for six or even ten sesterces. Seek out for this purpose verses treasured up, and unpublished efforts, known only to one person, and which the father himself of the virgin sheet, that has not been worn and scrubbed by bushy chins, keeps sealed up in his desk. A well-known book cannot change its master. But if there is one to be found vet unpolished by the pumice-stone, yet unadorned with bosses and cover, buy it: I have such by me, and no one shall know it. Whoever recites another's compositions, and seeks for fame, must buy, not a book, but the author's silence.

LXVII. TO CHOERILUS.

"You are too free-spoken," is your constant remark to me, Choerilus. He who speaks against you, Choerilus, is indeed a free speaker.1

1 Free from all restraint, for he may say all sorts of things against you without fear of contradiction.

LXVIII. ON RUFUS.

Whatever Rufus does, Naevia is all in all to him. Whether he rejoices, or mourns, or is silent, it is ever Naevia. He eats, he drinks, he asks, he refuses, he gesticulates, Naevia alone is in his thoughts: if there were no Naevia, he would be mute. When he had written a dutiful letter yesterday to his father, he ended it with, "Naevia, light of my eyes, Naevia, my idol, farewell" Naevia read these words, and laughed with downcast looks. Naevia is not yours only: what madness is this, foolish man?

LXIX. TO MAXIMUS.

Tarentos,3 which was wont to exhibit the statue of Pan, begins now, Maximus, to exhibit that of Canius.

3 Tarentos, a place in the Campus Martius, in which was a temple consecrated to Plato, and filled with statues of Pan, the Satyrs, and other deities or remarkable personages. On Canius, a humorous poet of Gades, whose statue, it appears, was put there with Pan's, see above, Ep. 61; B. iii. Ep. 29.

LXX. TO HIS BOOK.

Go, my book, and pay my respects for me: you are ordered to go, dutiful volume, to the splendid halls of Proculus. Do you ask the way? I will tell you. You will go along by the temple of Castor, near that of ancient Vesta, and that goddess's virgin home. Thence you will pass to the majestic Palatine edifice on the sacred hill, where glitters many a statue of the supreme ruler of the empire. And let not the ray-adorned mass of the Colossus detain you, a work which is proud of surpassing that of Rhodes. But turn aside by the way where the temple of the wine-bibbing Bacchus rises, and where the couch of Cybele stands adorned with. pictures of the Corybantes. Immediately on the left is the dwelling with its splendid facade, and the halls of the lofty mansion which you are to approach. Enter it; and fear not its haughty looks or proud gate; no entrance affords more ready access; nor is there any house more inviting for Phoebus and the learned sisters to love. If Proculus shall say, "But why does he not come himself?" you may excuse me thus, "Because he could not have written what is to be read here, whatever be its merit, if he had come to pay his respects in person."

LXXI. TO SLEEP.

Let Laevia be toasted with six cups,. Justine with seven, Lycas with five, Lyde with four, Ida with three. Let the number of letters in the name of each of our mistresses be equalled by the number of cups of Falernian. But, since none of them comes, come you, Sleep, to me.

LXXII. TO FIDENTINUS, A PLAGIARIST.

Do you imagine, Fidentinus, that you are a poet by the aid of my verses, and do you wish to be thought so? Just so does Aegle think she has teeth from having purchased bone or ivory. Just so does Lycoris, who is blacker than the falling mulberry, seem fair in her own eyes, because she is painted. You too, in the same way that you are a poet, will have flowing locks when you are grown bald.

LXXIII. TO CAECILIANUS.

These was no one in the whole city, Caecilianus, who desired to meddle with your wife, even gratis, while permission was given; but now, since you have set a watch upon her, the crowd of gallants is innumerable. You are a clever fellow!

LXXIV. TO PAULA.

He was your gallant, Paula; you could however deny it He is become your husband; can you deny it now, Paula? 1

1 He was said to be your gallant when your first husband was alive. You then denied it. You married him as soon as your husband died. Will you deny it now?

LXXV. ON LINUS.

He who prefers to give Linus the half of what he wishes to borrow, rather than to lend him the whole, prefers to lose only the half.

LXXVI. TO VALERIUS FLACCUS.1

Flaccus, valued object of my solicitude, hope and nursling of the city of Antenor,2 put aside Pierian strains and the lyre of the Sisters; none of those damsels will give you money. What do you expect from Phoebus? The cheat of Minerva contains the cash; she alone is wise, she alone lends to all the gods. What can the ivy of Bacchus give? The dark tree of Pallas bends down its variegated boughs under the load of fruit. Helicon, besides its waters and the garlands and lyres of the goddesses, and the great but empty applause of the multitude, has nothing. What have you to do with Cirrha? What with bare Permessis? The Roman forum is nearer and more lucrative. There is heard the chink of money; but around our desks and barren chairs kisses 3 alone resound.

Though midst the noblest poets you have place, Flaccus, the offering of Antenor's race; Renounce the Muses' songs and charming quire, For none of them enrich, though they inspire. Court not Apollo, Pallas has the gold; She 's wise, and does the gods in mortgage hold. What profit is there in an ivy wreath? Its fruits the loaden olive sinks beneath. In Helicon there's nought but springs and bays, The Muses' harps loud sounding empty praise.

1 The author of the Argonautica. 2 The city of Patavium, founded by Antenor 3 As tokens of applause.

LXXVII. ON CHARINUS.

Charinus is perfectly well, and yet he is pale; Charinus drinks sparingly, and yet he is pale; Charinus digests well, and yet he is pale; Charinus suns himself and yet he is pale; Charinus dyes his skin, and yet he is pale; Charinus indulges in [infamous debauchery], and yet he is pale.1

1 That is, he does not blush at his infamy.

LXXVIII. ON FESTUS, WHO STABBED HIMSELF.

When a devouring malady attacked his unoffending throat, and its black poison extended its ravages over his face, Festus, consoling his weeping friends, while his own eyes were dry, determined to seek the Stygian lake. He did not however pollute his pious mouth with secret poison, or aggravate his sad fate by lingering famine, but ended his pure life by a death befitting a Roman, and freed his spirit in a nobler way. This death fame may place above that of the great Cato; for Domitian was Festus' friend.2

2 Cato said that he died to avoid looking on the face of the tyrant Caesar.

LXXIX. TO ATTALUS, A BUSY-BODY.

Attalus, you are ever acting the barrister, or acting the man of business: whether there is or is not a part for you to act, Attalus, you are always acting a part. If lawsuits and business are not to be found, Attalus, you act the mule-driver. Attalus, lest a part should be wanting for you to act, act the part of executioner on yourself..

You act the pleader, and you act the man Of business; acting is your constant plan: So prone to act, the coachman's part is tried; Lest all parts fail you, act the suicide.       L. H. S.

LXXX. TO CANUS.

On the last night of your lift, Canus, a sportula was the object of your wishes. I suppose the cause of your death was, Canus, that there was only one.1

1 He had hoped for several largesses; he died of mortification at receiving only one.

LXXXI. TO SOSIBIANUS.

You know that you are the son of a slave, and you ingenuously confess it, when you call your father, Sosibianus, "master".2

2 The mother of Sosibianus had been guilty of adultery with a slave. When Sosibianus calls his reputed father Dominus, as a title of respect, but which was also a term for a master of slaves, he confessed himself a verna, or born-slave.

LXXXII. ON REGULUS.

See from what mischief this portico, which, overthrown amid clouds of dust, stretches its long ruins over the ground, lies absolved. For Regulus had but just been carried in his litter under its arch, and had got out of the way, when forthwith, borne down by its own weight, it fell; and, being no longer in fear for its master, it came down free from blood-guiltiness, a harmless ruin, without any attendant anxiety. After the fear of so great a cause for complaint is passed, who would deny, Regulus, that you, for whose sake the fall was harmless, are an object of care to the gods?

LXXXIII. ON MANNEIA.

Your lap-dog, Manneia, licks your mouth and lips: I do not wonder at a dog liking to eat ordure.1

1 A sarcasm on the foulness of Manneia's breath.

LXXXIV. ON QUIRINALIS.

Quirinalis, though he wishes to have children, has no intention of taking a wife, and has found out in what way he can accomplish his object. He takes to him his maid-servants, and fills his house and his lands with slave-knights.2 Quirinalis is a true pater-familias.

2 Equitibus vernis. (See Heinrich on Juv. ix. 10.)  Eques verna, the offspring of a knight and a slave.

LXXXV. ON AN AUCTIONEER.

A wag of an auctioneer, offering for sale some cultivated heights, and some beautiful acres of land near the city, says, "If any one imagines that Marius is compelled to sell, he is mistaken; Marius owes nothing: on the contrary, he rather has money to put out at interest." "What is his reason, then, for selling?" "In this place he lost all his slaves, and his cattle, and his profits; hence he does not like the locality." Who would have made any offer, unless he had wished to lose all his property? So the ill-fated land remains with Marius.

LXXXVI. ON NOVIUS.

Novius is my neighbour, and may be reached by the hand from my windows. Who would not envy me, and think me a happy man every hour of the day when I may enjoy the society of one so near to me? But, he is as far removed from me as Terentianus, who is now governor of Syene on the Nile. I am not privileged either to live with him, or even see him, or hear him; nor in the whole city is there any one at once so near and so far from me. I must remove farther off, or he must. If any one wishes not to see Novius, let him become his neighbour or his fellow-lodger.

My neighbour Hunks's house and mine Are built so near they almost join; The windows too project so much, That through the casements we may touch. Nay, I'm so happy, most men think, To live so near a man of chink, That they are apt to envy me, For keeping such good company: But he's far from me, I vow, As London is from good Lord Howe; For when old Hunks I chance to meet, Or one or both must quit the street. Thus he who would not see old Roger, Must be his neighbour----or his lodger.    Swift

LXXXVII. TO FESCENNIA.

That you may not be disagreeably fragrant with your yesterday's wine, you devour, luxurious Fescennia, certain of Cosmus's1 perfumes. Breakfasts of such a nature leave their mark on the teeth, but form no barrier against the emanations which escape from the depths of the stomach. Nay, the fetid smell is but the worse when mixed with perfume, and the double odour of the breath is carried but the farther. Cease then to use frauds but too well known, and disguises well understood; and simply intoxicate yourself!

1 Cosmus: a celebrated perfumer of the day, and frequently mentioned.

LXXXVIII. ON ALCIMUS.

Alcimus, whom, snatched from your lord in your opening years, the Labican earth covers with light turf, receive, not a nodding mass of Parian marble,----an unenduring monument which misapplied toil gives to the dead,----but shapely box-trees and the dark shades of the palm leaf, and dewy flowers of the mead which bloom from being watered with my tears. Receive, dear youth, the memorials of my grief: this tribute will live for you in all time. When Lachesis shall have spun to the end of my last hour, I shall ask no other honours for my ashes.

LXXXIX. TO CINNA.

You always whisper into every one's ear, Cinna; you whisper even what might be said in the hearing of the whole world. You laugh, you complain, you dispute, you weep, you sing, you criticise, you are silent, you are noisy; and all in one's ear. Has this disease so thoroughly taken possession of you, that you often praise Caesar, Cinna, in the ear? 1

1 When his praise ought to be proclaimed aloud everywhere.

XC. ON BASSA.

Inasmuch as I never saw you, Bassa, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and report in no case assigned to you a favoured lover; but every duty about your person was constantly performed by a crowd of your own sex, without the presence of even one man; you seemed to me, I confess it, to be a Lucretia.

XCI. TO LAELIUS.

You do not publish your own verses, Laelius; you criticise mine. Pray cease to criticise mine, or else publish your own.

You blame my verses and conceal your own: Either publish yours, or else let mine alone!                                                   Anon. 1695.

XCII. TO MAMURIANUS.

Cestus with tears in his eyes often complains to me, Hamurianus, of being touched with your finger. You need not use your finger merely; take Cestos all to yourself if nothing else is wanting in your establishment, Mamurianus.2 But if you have neither fire, nor legs for your bare bedstead, nor broken basin of Chione or Antiope;3 if a cloak greasy and worn hangs down your back, and a Gallic jacket covers only half of your loins; and if you feed on the smell alone of the dark kitchen, and drink on your knees dirty water with the dog;

Non culum, neque enim est cuius, qui non cacat olim, Sed fodiam digito qui super est oculum.4 Nec me zelotypum nec dixeris esse malignum: Denique paedica, Mamuriane, satur.

2 Mamurianus is ridiculed for his sordid and licentious life. He had but one eye, as appears from what is said below. Cestus was Martial's servant. 3 Names of courtesans, from whom Martial intimates that Mamurianus would accept broken vessels. 4 A play on the words culus and oculus. A common threat was, "Oculos tibieffodiam," often used in Plautus.

XCIII. ON AQUINUS AND FABRICIUS.

Here reposes Aquinas, reunited to his faithful Fabricius, who rejoices in having preceded him to the Elysian retreats. This double altar bears record that each was honoured with the rank of chief centurion; but that praise is of still greater worth which you read in this shorter inscription: Both were united in the sacred bond of a well-spent life, and, what is rarely known to fame, were friends.

XCIV. TO AEGLE THE FELLATRIX.

[Not translated in the Bohn - adapted from the Loeb]

Badly you sang while you fornicated, Aegle.  Now you sing well; but I won't kiss you.

XCV. TO AELIUS.

In constantly making a clamour, and obstructing the pleaders with your noise, Aelius, you act not without an object; you look for pay to hold your tongue.

That bawlers you out-bawl, the busy crush, No idler you, who bring to sale your hush.                                        Elphinston.

XCVI. TO HIS VERSE, ON A LICENTIOUS CHARACTER.

If it is not disagreeable, and does not annoy you, my verse, say, I pray, a word or two in the ear of our friend Maternus, so that he alone may hear. That admirer of sad-coloured coats, clad in the costume of the banks of the river Baetis, and in grey garments, who deems the wearers of scarlet not men, and calls amethyst-coloured robes the dress of women, however much he may praise natural hues, and be always seen in dark colours, has at the same time morals of an extremely flagrant hue. You will ask whence I suspect him of effeminacy. We go to the same baths; Do you ask me who this is? His name has escaped me.

XCVII. TO NAEVOLUS.

When every one is talking, then and then only, Naevolus, do you open your month; and you think yourself an advocate and a pleader. In such a way every one may be eloquent. But see, everybody is silent; say something now, Naevolus.

XCVIII. TO FLACCUS, ON DIODORUS.

Diodorus goes to law, Flaccus, and has the gout in his feet But he pays his counsel nothing; surely he has the gout also in his hands.

XCIX. TO CALENUS.

But a short time since, Calenus, you had not quite two millions of sesterces; but you were so prodigal and open-handed, and hospitable, that all your friends wished you ten millions. Heaven heard the wish and our prayers; and within, I think, six months, four deaths gave you the desired fortune. But you, as if ten millions had not been left to you, but taken from you, condemned yourself to such abstinence, wretched man, that you prepare even your most sumptuous feasts, which you provide only once in the whole year, at the cost of but a few dirty pieces of black coin; and we, seven of your old companions, stand you in just half a pound of leaden money. What blessing are we to invoke upon you worthy of such merits? We wish you, Calenus, a fortune of a hundred millions. If this falls to your lot, you will die of hunger.

C. ON AFRA.

Afra talks of her papas and her mammas; but she herself may be called the grandmamma of her papas and mammas.

CI. ON THE DEATH OF HIS AMANUENSIS DEMETRIUS.

Demetrius, whose hand was once the faithful confidant of my verses, so useful to his master, and so well known to the Caesars, has yielded up his brief life in its early prime. A fourth harvest had been added to his years, which previously numbered fifteen. That he might not, however, descend to the Stygian shades as a slave, I, when the accursed disease had seized and was withering him, took precaution, and remitted to the sick youth all my right over him as his master; he was worthy of restoration to health through my gift.1 He appreciated, with failing faculties, the kindness which he had received; and on the point of departing, a free man, to the Tartarean waters, saluted me as his patron.

1 I.e. I wish my gift could have restored him to health.

CII. TO LYCORIS.

The painter who drew your Venus, Lycoris, paid court, I suppose, to Minerva.2

2 Represented Venus less beautiful than she is, in order to please Minerva, her rival for the golden apple.

CIII. TO SCAEVOLA.

"If the gods were to give me a fortune of a million sesterces," you used to say, Scaevola, before you were a full knight,1 "oh how would I live! how magnificently, how happily!" The complaisant deities smiled and granted your wish. Since that time your toga has become much more dirty, your cloak worse; your shoe has been sewn up three and four times; of ten olives the greater portion is always put by, and one spread of the table serves for two meals; the thick dregs of pink Vejentan wine are your drink; a plate of lukewarm peas costs you a penny; your mistress a penny likewise. Cheat and liar, let us go before the tribunal of the gods; and either live, Scaevola, as befits you, or restore to the gods your million sesterces.

1 That is, before you had four hundred thousand sesterces; which was the fortune that a man must have before he could be a knight

CIV. ON A SPECTACLE IN THE ARENA.

When we see the leopard bear upon his spotted neck a light and easy yoke, and the furious tigers endure with patience the blows of the whip; the stags champ the golden curbs; the Libyan bears tamed by the bit; a boar, huge as that which Calydon is said to have produced, obey the purple muzzle; the ugly buffaloes drag chariots, and the elephant, when ordered to dance nimbly, pay prompt obedience to his swarthy leader; who would not imagine such things a spectacle given by the gods? These, however, any one disregards as of inferior attraction who sees the condescension of the lions, which the swift-footed timorous hares fatigue in the chase. They let go the little animals, catch them again, and caress them when caught, and the latter are safer in their captors' mouths than elsewhere; since the lions delight in granting them free passage through their open jaws, and in holding their teeth as with fear, for they are ashamed to crush the tender prey, after having just come from slaying bulls; This clemency does not proceed from art; the lions know whom they serve.

CV. TO QUINTUS OVIDIUS.

The wine, Ovidius, which is grown in the Nomentan fields, in proportion as it receives the addition of years, puts off, through age, its character and name; and the jar thus ancient receives whatever name you please.1

1 Being mellowed by age, it maybe called Falernian, Cecuban, or any other name given to the best wines.

CVI. TO RUFUS.

Rufus, you often pour water into your wine, and, if hard pressed by your companion, you drink just a cup now and then of diluted Falernian. Pray, is it that Naevia has promised you a night of bliss; and you prefer by sobriety to enhance your enjoyment? You sigh, you are silent, you groan: she has refused you. You may drink, then, and often, cups of four-fold size, and drown in wine your concern at her cruelty. Why do you spare yourself, Rufus? You have nothing before you but to sleep.

CVII. TO LUCIUS JULIUS.

You often say to me, dearest Lucius Julius, "Write something great: you take your ease too much." Give me then leisure,----but leisure such as that which of old Maecenas gave to his Horace and his Virgil -- and I would endeavour to write something which should live through time, and to snatch my name from the flames of the funeral pyre. Steers are unwilling to carry their yoke into barren fields. A fat soil fatigues, but the very labour bestowed on it is delightful.

CVIII. TO GALLUS.

You possess----and may it be yours and grow larger through a long series of years----a house, beautiful I admit, but on the other side of the Tiber. But my garret looks upon the laurels of Agrippa; and in this quarter I am already grown old. I must move, in order to pay you a morning call, Gallus, and you deserve this consideration, even if your house were still farther off. But it is a small matter to you, Gallus, if I add one to the number of your toga-clad visitors; while it is a great matter to me, if I withhold that one. I myself will frequently pay my respects to you at the tenth hour.1 This morning my book shall wish you "good day" in my stead.

1 The tenth hour from sunrise, corresponding to our four o'clock is the afternoon. SeeB. iv. Ep. 8.

CIX. ON A PET DOG AND THE PAINTER.

Issa is more playful than the sparrow of Catullus. Issa is more pure than the kiss of a dove. Issa is more loving than any maiden. Issa is dearer than Indian gems. The little dog Issa is the pet of Publius. If she complains, you will think she speaks. She feels both the sorrow and the gladness of her master. She lies reclined upon his neck, and sleeps, so that not a respiration is heard from her. And, however pressed, she has never sullied the coverlet with a single spot; but rouses her master with a gentle touch of her foot, and begs to be set down from the bed and relieved. Such modesty resides in this chaste little animal; she knows not the pleasures of love; nor do we find a mate worthy of so tender a damsel. That her last hour may not carry her off wholly, Publius has her limned in a picture, in which you will see an Issa so like, that not even herself is so like herself. In a word, place Issa and the picture side by side, and you will imagine either both real, or both painted.

CX. TO VELOX.

You complain, Velox, that the epigrams which I write are long. You yourself write nothing; your attempts are shorter.1

1 Imperfect; abortive; ending in nothing.

CXI. TO REGULUS, ON SENDING HIM A BOOK AND A PRESENT OF FRANKINCENSE.

Since your reputation for wisdom, and the care which you bestow on your labours, are equal, and since your piety is not inferior to your genius, he who is surprised that a book and incense are presented to you, Regulus, is ignorant how to adapt presents to deserts.

CXII. ON PRISCUS, A USURER.

When I did not know you, I used to address you as my lord and king. Now, since I know you well, you shall be plain Priscus with me.

CXIII. TO THE READER.

If, reader, you wish to employ some good hours badly, and are an enemy to your own leisure, you will obtain whatever sportive verses I produced in my youth and boyhood, and all my trifles, which even I myself have forgotten, from Quintus Pollius Valerianus, who has resolved not to let my light effusions perish.

CXIV. TO FAUSTINUS.

These gardens adjoining your domain, Faustinus, and these small fields and moist meadows, Telesphorus Faenius owns. Here he has deposited the ashes of his daughter, and has consecrated the name, which you read, of Antulla;----though his own name should rather have been read there. It had been more just that the father should have gone to the Stygian shades; but, since this was not permitted, may he live to honour his daughter's remains.

CXV. TO PROCILLUS.

A certain damsel, envious Procillus, is desperately in love with me,----a nymph more white than the spotless swan, than silver, than snow, than lily, than privet: already you will be thinking of hanging yourself, But I long for one darker than night, than the ant, than pitch, than the jack-daw, than the cricket. If I know you well, Procillus, you will spare your life.

CXVI. ON THE TOMB OF ANTULLA.

This grove, and these fair acres of cultivated land, Faenius has consecrated to the eternal honour of the dead. In this tomb is deposited Antulla, too soon snatched from her family: in this tomb each of her parents will be united to her. If any one desires this piece of ground, I warn him not to hope for it; it is for ever devoted to its owners.

CXVII. TO LUPERCUS.

Whenever you meet me, Lupercus, you constantly say, "Shall I send my servant, for you to give him your little book of Epigrams, which I will read and return to you directly?" There is no reason, Lupercus, to trouble your servant. It is a lone journey, if he wishes to come to the Pirus;1 and I live up three pairs of stairs, and those high ones. What you want you may procure nearer at hand. You frequently go down to the Argiletum: opposite Caesar's forum is a shop, with pillars on each side covered over with titles of books, so that you may quickly run over the names of all the poets. Procure me there; you will no sooner ask Atrectus,----such is the name of the owner of the shop,----than he will give you, from the first or second shelf a Martial, well smoothed with pumice-stone, and adorned with purple, for five denarii "You are not worth so much," do you say? You are right, Lupercus.

1 The pear-tree. The name of some spot near which Martial lived.

CXVIII. TO CAEDICIANUS.

For him who is not satisfied with reading a hundred epigrams, no amount of trouble is sufficient, Caedicianus.

This text was transcribed by Roger Pearse, Ipswich, UK, 2008. This file and all material on this page is in the public domain - copy freely.

Greek text is rendered using unicode.

Early Church Fathers - Additional Texts

[mor-rigan]

An Alliance of Fire and Night

Its here! My ToG/ACoTaR crossover fan fiction!

I’m so excited to finally be able to start putting this story out and having people read it. I’m hoping for it to be a longer fic, so stay tuned! As for updates, I’m going to try to get new chapters up every week, if not sooner. I don’t live on Tumblr, so please have patience. Sometimes it will be longer than a week before I update. Thank you all for your understanding, and happy reading!

Tags: @viajandosinalas @dagypsygirl @aelin-godkiller @bookworm-lovemarvel @starrynightren @throne--of-sass @princess-of-eyllwe @shyvioletcat @badwolf084 @blades-are-for-skating-ya-dingus @smartass-mee @sassysaltysarcasticstupid @maadsrevolution @resignedcatservant @admantum (I’m sorry if I missed anyone else that wanted to be tagged!)

Chapter One

~ Aelin ~

Aelin Galathynius sat with her eyes closed in the gardens of her castle; her face was upturned to the rain. It ran down her forehead to pool in the corner of her eyes, then fall down her cheeks like tears. The queen was not sad, however, and when she got sick of the droplets, she would lift the water from her face with that kernel of water magic and flick it away.

It was a joyous day despite all that was going on and all she had to do. It was her and Rowan’s sixtieth wedding anniversary, and also the day they celebrated winning the war against Erawan and Maeve. It hadn’t been an easy road, and many rules were broken. Elena had defied those self-proclaimed gods all those years ago, so she had as well.

But that was a thought for later. Her mate was away hunting with the rest of the cadre while Lysandra planned the festivities. The rain had been unexpected but manageable. The ballroom in the Palace of Orynth was more than accommodating for the guests that would arrive, and Manon would arrive with her witchlings soon.

Not witchlings anymore, Aelin reminded herself. The Crochan and Crown Princesses of Adarlan, Asterin and Rhiannon, were approaching fifty years old. Gods, Aelin couldn’t believe she was almost eighty herself. Perhaps immortality would never fully sit right with her. Especially since she’s seen so many comrades - no, family - die over the years. Sam, Nehemia, Elide, Lorcan, Chaol, Yrene, Dorian, and so many more that worked to help her in the war.

Part of Aelin always hoped that her little group would live forever, but not everyone is blessed with immortality. Elide may have had witch blood in her veins, but it wasn’t enough to make her Settle. Lorcan had tied his life to hers, and they both passed from old age in the same year, four summers ago. Elide passed first, and Aelin truly believed that Lorcan died of a broken heart. The idea originally made her laugh, considering how cold the bastard once was.

Chaol and Yrene were only mortal. Yrene was the best healer both Adarlan and Terrasen had ever seen after Mab; and Lydia - Chaol and Yrene’s daughter - was doing her mother proud by carrying on her legacy. She even taught her son his grandmother’s magics. Chaol was a tough son of a bitch, Aelin knew for sure, and one of the best friends she ever had despite their rocky history. They both died peacefully in their sleep, slipping into the afterlife together because of their bond. Something, Aelin realized sometime later, she was grateful for. There was a time when she didn’t think any of them – regardless if they were fae or human – would see old age.

Dorian had been one of the hardest to come to terms with. Aelin had thought for sure he would Settle since he was Mala’s scion just as much as she was. But as time went on, there were no tell-tale signs of Settling, and his hair began to turn gray. Manon had become with child when Dorian was thirty, and he was able to give his daughters a full life before he passed just last year. Aelin teared up just remembering the last time she had seen him – so frail and delicate in old age despite still having the spark of the friend she always knew. He had been a good King of Adarlan and rebuilt his country’s legacy after his father destroyed it. When he finally passed from difficulties of illness, it had been a difficult time for everyone, but Manon took it the hardest.

The Crochan Queen went into recession, and only brief letters from her daughters gave peace of mind that the White Witch was alright. This celebration would be the first time since Dorian’s death that Aelin would talk to Manon or the witchlings in person. And she was honestly anticipating it. She admitted to herself often that she missed her ally and friend.

A sigh heaved Aelin’s shoulders at the same moment a pine-and-snow-scented breeze disturbed the rain. It was a different scent from Terrasen’s; something alive tethered it to her mate, as true as an actual rope. Aelin could follow that smell for miles and know Rowan would be waiting for her at the end of it.

The breeze seemed to say, Why are you sad, Fireheart?

Aelin tried to shake her mood off and changing the subject by sending a wave of heat dancing with sparks along that invisible rope in answer. I must truly be irresistible if you’re thinking of me even when hunting beings from the Rift.

You’re always on my mind, milady. That answering breeze had more of an icy bite to it, but Aelin blushed as she remembered the truly depraved things they did last night. They never needed an occasion to fuck each other until the early hours of morning, but there was something different when their anniversary came. Like a deep instinct that beckoned their bodies together.

I’m sure, Aelin sent back with flame instead of sparks, I’m surprised you can even walk.

Aelin could practically hear Rowan’s chuckle on the wind, as if he carried it directly to her. I should be saying that to you.

Indeed, Aelin closed her legs tighter together, and the hickeys on the inside of her thighs slightly throbbed. They were healing, but still prominent. They had been sore enough this morning that she opted to wear a flowing gown instead of a tunic and pants. Damn her king. Her wonderful lover of a mate.

Unable to help herself, she sent a bone-warming stream along the rope. A gentle, suggestive caress. Perhaps we can fit in a round two before the party tonight.

Oh no, my queen, Rowan replied instantly, With the things I want to do to you, I’ll need much longer than an hour. The wind he sent with that particular comment had her breasts tightening.

Fine, King, Aelin said back, that mated tether singing with heat and ice, I’ll be waiting here planning the party with Lysandra and the others. And though she was known for her sass and snark, after a heartbeat, the Heir of Fire sent another soothing flame down the bond. Be safe and return to me in one piece.

Always, Fireheart. Then the bond went silent.

It was likely almost noon, so the queen figured she should at least check on the progress of things. Hesitantly, Aelin rose from her spot and peered over her kingdom. Finally healing, it seemed, and the Kingsflame was still in full bloom even after all this time – showing the safety and prosperity her rule promised. It warmed her heart, and she could only hope that her uncle and her parents were proud of all that she had accomplished. She felt proud of herself, at least, given everything she had been through and everything she had sacrificed to get here.

Finally pulling herself from her thoughts, the queen made her way to the ballroom. As she traversed the palace, noises from the planning became louder. The union of their King and Queen was something all of Orynth celebrated. The night was celebrated as a liberation from darkness and a promise for a brighter future. It has already become a tradition that carried through a generation. Initially, people had even tried to bring gifts, but Aelin refused them after so long. She was grateful, but she wanted her people to care for themselves before her. Merciful and caring, but a leader, nonetheless.

Aelin finally reached the ballroom where most of the planning and decorating was occurring. She couldn’t spot Lysandra, but she knew the shifter was in here.

“Your Majesty!” A familiar voice called. Aelin’s head snapped to see a small, plump woman waving her hand at her. She couldn’t help but smile and stifle a giggle.

“Hi Loralei,” Aelin greeted through as the woman approached, “Did you need help with anything?” The queen honestly hated talking so formally, but she felt it odd to speak otherwise outside of her inner circle of family. Even though this woman may as well be her best friend with how many escapades she’s made to the kitchen for a late-night snack when Rowan was fast asleep. Though, she’d never tell Lysandra that.

“Not so much help as a confirmation,” Loralei said, “I pride myself in knowing your favorite foods at this point, but I just thought I would make sure.” The cook listed off the menu for the night, which only made Aelin’s near empty stomach gurgle. Gods, she was starving and hadn’t realized. Loralei could probably tell and beckoned for the queen lower.

Aelin stooped enough for the woman to whisper in her ear: “There’s leftover cinnamon bread in the kitchen. I’m sure no one would notice if you slipped a piece over the fire with some butter.” Aelin stood and received a wink from the cook, which made her smile. She could kiss this woman. Woman – a funny word to describe the girl Aelin had seen grow up from the time she was born, to then take her father’s place as the palace’s head cook.

“Thank you,” Aelin replied at last, “Everything sounds great. Just tell Rowan and the rest of those vultures that the hazelnut cake is reserved for the ladies.” They both shared a friendly laugh, then the cook was off to start and finish her duties. Aelin was off to find Lysandra.

* * *

~ Feyre ~

“Is there any news?”

The Inner Circle gathered in the House of Wind. Strange portals had started opening around Prythian, letting beasts as foul as the Attor back into the land. It wasn’t anything Rhys or the Inner Circle or even I couldn’t handle, but it was concerning. Cauldron knows what else may come out.

“None,” Amren said as she studied all of our faces, “From any of the other High Lords anyway. The rifts aren’t becoming more frequent, but they aren’t slowing down either. As for the Shadowsinger – he, Nesta, and the other Heir of Night are still dealing with a rift that was sighted near Illyria.”

The news wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst. I didn’t particularly like that Demetra was with them, but she was sixty years old this year – long since becoming a woman. As for the portals…Manageable. It was manageable for now. I just had to remind myself of that.

“Have you consulted the Book?” Rhys asked without missing a beat. Amren’s sharp eyes snapped to him. They were a dull gray color now, but her years alone held the power she needed to make anyone cower.

“I read that book cover to cover eighty years ago. Anything I can get out of it, I did when we fought Hybern.”

“That means there’s more,” Leirus spoke, “You read everything you could, which implies there is something you couldn’t.” Everyone’s attention was on him, but he did not balk – even from Amren. Something I’m sure he learned from his father, though he was probably just as nervous as the rest of us.

“Yes, Heir, there is more,” Amren admitted as she crossed her arms, “The rest of the text is in a language even older than me.”

Older than Amren – the only person we had that could remotely understand any ancient or otherworldly texts we encountered.

“There has to be someone,” I chimed in, “A historian, a librarian, someone who has the ability to read it.”

“Perhaps in the Prison, or maybe even Bryaxis, but none have interacted with him since the War,” Rhys said, and it went quiet for a moment. It was left unsaid, but I know at least Rhys thought of the Bone Carver or the Weaver – Stryga as she was named. But they were truly lost in the War. Bryaxis had merely taken an extended vacation it seemed.

“What if Bryaxis is the cause of the portals?” Leirus suggested. Cassian seemed to consider it for a moment but stayed silent.

“It’s possible, but the portals are appearing all over Prythian,” Rhys pointed to the blots of dark ink on a map where we had marked portal sightings, “If it were him – or one person – I would think that they would appear in a consistent location.”

“Unless he – or whoever – is doing this isn’t trying to open a portal to their home world, like we thought, but to bring something to us.” By the Mother, I saw so much of Rhys in our son. Not only from his appearance, but from the way he talked and took lead in trying times. It made me proud as his mother, but I worried all the same.

The Inner Circle contemplated his suggestion with true possibility. He did have a point, but –

“Who would do that?” Mor asked what we were all thinking. And none of us knew. Unless a Hybern sympathizer was trying to spark a resurgence, there was no one we knew of who would ruin this time of peace.

Before more discussion could be had, the doors opened. Azriel, along with Nesta and Demetra, walked in. Their gates were tense – as one would be after a battle – but not urgent.

“How did it go?” I was the one to ask. Still, Cassian said nothing.

“The same as usual,” Demetra answered, “The portal was already closed by the time we got there, but the beasts were still in the area. Our shadows were able to scout them all out, and we exterminated them.”

Manageable, I heard in my mind. I looked to Rhys and his eyes softened, and I gave him a grateful smile.

But for how long? I didn’t have to ask it – everyone was already thinking it.

“None of them can – or would – talk,” Nesta added, “When interrogated, they only growled or made other animal noises. So, I doubt they’re intelligent beyond the desire to kill.” Azriel didn’t need to speak his confirmation, we all saw it in his face.

It went quiet again. Then: “What if we went into one? A portal, I mean.”

All of us visibly recoiled as Cassian made the suggestion. “Are you an idiot?” Amren demanded, “We speak of not even being able to understand their origins, but you want to walk into one without second thoughts?”

All of us seemed to be in agreeance. It would be suicidal to go through one of the portals with no understanding of them.

“Look, I know it’s not the best idea –”

“It isn’t an idea at all,” Mor snapped.

“But,” Cassian continued after giving the blonde female a pointed look, “I’ve been thinking that the portals aren’t coming from someone in Prythian at all. Beings from other worlds have been coming to Prythian for eons. Think of the Bone Carver, Bryaxis – hell, even Amren.”

“And look at those of us you mentioned,” the Second practically growled, “We were stuck here, never to return to our worlds because we did not know a way.”

“Besides,” this time, to my surprise, it was Azriel who spoke, “Even if we knew a way back, what good would going through one of the rifts do?”

“It could take the fight to whoever is causing this.” Cassian sounded sure – almost too sure. I caught Rhys’s eyes with my own, and they mirrored my concern.

“It isn’t an option. At least right now,” Rhys said. I couldn’t help the sinking in my stomach at the words right now. Like the suicide mission could be a possibility later on. “If we could find a way to open a portal home, then it’s a possibility. But for now, we deal with what is happening here. We protect our lands and people.”

We all looked to Cassian, and he nodded his understanding, thank the Mother. I felt the whole room relax just a bit more.

“Good,” Rhys continued, “Amren, continue with the Book. Have Elain help you search the library, as well.”

“I’ll help as well,” Leirus added, earning an acknowledging nod from Rhys.

“Azriel and Demetra: stay on portal duty. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to have your shadows out scouting.” A nod from our daughter and Azriel.

“Mor, if you could act as an ambassador for us. Just go to the other courts and see if you can find out anything more from the other High Lords. Try to access any archives they may have.” Mor nodded.

“The rest of us will act as protection. Nesta, if you could go back to Illyria and watch over things there – Feyre, Cassian, and I will handle here and anywhere else on the continent that needs help.”

With all of our duties assigned, the Inner Circle dispersed, leaving Rhys and I alone in the room. “Everyone seemed so quiet and grim. I don’t like it,” I admitted as I brought my arms around myself. I never like seeing my family so serious, especially Mor and Cassian. And for Cassian to suggest such a ludicrous idea…

“They’re all just tense, darling,” Rhys said. I felt a caress of night in my mind, settling my reeling thoughts, “We all are. But I promise it will sort out.”

I nodded this time, something I noticed a lot of during the meeting. None of us have anything left to say, I suppose, as we all knew the general problem. The portals started appearing months ago, and the beasts that came with them wrought havoc on anything they came in contact with. They were foul and vile creatures – a darkness that was near indescribable.

“You’re still thinking too much, my love,” Rhys said softly. His hands cupped my face, and I couldn’t help but to relax with him this close to me.

“How can I not? Our Court and our family are in danger.” I thought of our children, but Rhys already knew.

“Leirus and Demetra are young in terms of Fae, yes. But they are smart and powerful, just like all of us. We will still be here for them, just as they are here for us.”

I smiled and pressed my forehead to Rhys’s. “I know.”

Rhys tilted my head up and gave me a grin that still had my heart leaping, then he pressed his lips gently to mine. To soothe, not to arouse despite myself. Cauldron damn me. And Rhys knew, too, though he pulled away.

“Feyre, darling,” he teased, “Right now? In the middle of such turmoil on the continent?” I slapped his chest mockingly. He says that as if he didn’t have me screaming only last night. A wicked grin followed by a wink told me he knew exactly what I thought about. Bastard.

“You –” I didn’t get to finish my banter before a thundering boom shook the mountain. All of Velaris, it seemed. It had Rhys and I separating immediately, and both of our clothes were replaced with Illyrian armor and steel blades.

Darkness filled the sky as a vortex formed in the clouds. The darkness was forming from the center. A rift was forming right over Velaris.