#its never too late to become the stain on society you’ve always dreamed of becoming

[bronzesushi]

DSaF and Dialtown quotes for you to use <3

[kats-baku1999]

Play with Fire

Master List

Chapter Two: The New Generation

Shoto Todoroki walked through the halls of UA, halfway listening to his friend Izuku Midoriya go on about the hero that was coming to teach their new lesson. Honestly though, Todoroki couldn’t put much focus into Midoriya. There was too much happening in his home life to even think about it. His last visit with his mom hadn’t gone over well, she was in her own little world. Telling him all about his eldest brother, that Todoroki honestly couldn’t remember. Just remembered the sounds of the screams that came from Natsuo when he found out, and the sobs from Fuyumi trying to calm down her brother. That was one of mom’s last straws, that was the breaking point.

“Hey Deku! Todoroki!” Uraraka came running towards them, grinning widely, “She’s here! The hero Mimi!”

Deku let out an excited noise, and took off down the hall to the classroom. The entire reaction finally brought a small grin to Todoroki’s face, but then again Midoriya usually could. Midoriya did that for almost everyone though, so it was nothing new. Todoroki picked up his pace, walking into the classroom. The smile wiping off his face when he finally processed who was here.

The pro hero Mimi... One of the most public haters of his father. Mimi was never one to hide her distaste of Endeavor. She never disclosed why she couldn’t stand him, but was never shy reminding people she couldn’t. She was notable for taking down many villains, and was the number four hero. Right under Hawks, who just so happened to be her significant other. Their relationship was almost overly publicized, helping them both gain fans. There were so many supporters of the relationship, it was almost ridiculous.

Todoroki quietly walked to his seat, trying to avoid eye contact with her. She was in her civilian clothes, which was unusual for heroes that came to visit. Iida was absolutely losing it over the conflict of trying to not yell at a pro for so casually sitting on a desk. Tokoyami walked into the classroom, nodding his head towards her. Remembering her from his internship, she gave him a small smile and wave. Her eyes instantly going back to the boy who was avoiding looking at her.

Asami felt her chest clench up at how much like Touya he looked when it came to his face shape. Shoto Todoroki had gained a lot of his own fame outside of his father, thanks to his performance at the sports festival. Then there was the whole Stain situation. She couldn’t help but always feel stressed when it came to him, feeling protective over a boy who didn’t know her. She had known him though, and she loved his older brother. Maybe not an in love kind of love, considering they were only thirteen back then, but she did love Touya more than anything back then. Asami knew that she had to look out for his siblings, the way she knew he would have if he would’ve survived.

“Okay class, please direct your attention towards Pro-Hero Mimi for your lecture today,” Aizawa announced and everybody looked forward. All of their eyes focusing excitedly on Asami.

“So today’s lecture is a little, well heavy,” Asami sighed, “Your teachers believed you all needed to begin to be prepared for the worst situations possible, considering what you all have had to face this year so far,”

“You have all been told all your lives that being a hero had its risks, and sometimes those risks aren’t personal, but are towards the people you care about,” Her eyes focused in Todoroki, “Sometimes, we lose the people we care about in our line of work, and I am no stranger to this grief,”

“Ma’am I’m sorry, but what hero friends have you lost?” Midoriya questioned, “I just mean, I’ve never seen a report about it,”

“Well, I haven’t lost anyone since I was thirteen years old, he never got the chance to be a hero,” Asami smiled to herself, Touya’s laugh echoing through her head, “He would have made a fine one though, and would’ve been one of the best,”

“Sorry, I guess I’m just confused as to how this applies to anything, sorry I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Mina stumbled over her words, and Asami just smiled sadly at her.

“I’m just here to tell you guys, to really think this through, and to understand all of the burdens that come with our line of work,” Asami explained, standing up from the desk, “To also understand, that you do not have to be numb to these feelings, so from now on I will be working with UA to have a therapy section, for you to also work on controlling some of these emotions,”

“How does that have anything to do with us becoming pros?” Bakugo scoffed, glaring at Asami.

“Well, having good emotional control will help your control of your quirk, they’re all connected you know?” Asami smiled, tilting her head a little bit, “I will only be with you guys for a limited amount of time, but how long that limited time is, depends on all of you,”

“Asami here will be using her quirk to place you all in emotionally triggering situations, that you’ll have to pull yourself out of, we agreed that you all need to work on controlling your emotions too,” Aizawa also explained to the class.

“These sessions will have three parts, one where we get to know one another, two where you hopefully help me understand your emotional triggers, and then the third level is the use of my quirk,” Asami handed a stack of papers to be passed around, “These sheets explain your schedules and times with me,”

“I expect all of you to take this seriously, and to respect Asami, she will also be joining us on our summer camp, as yet another chaperone for you disaster children,” Aizawa sighed, “Thank you Asami, we look forward to working with you.”

Asami excused herself from the school for the day. Making her way home slowly, stopping for a few errands along the way. Texting Keigo to see if they were still on for their date. He was quick to respond with a yes and a bunch of winking emojis. So she made her way home, to shower and get ready for her date. Pinning her hair up and putting on a simple red dress.

Keigo didn’t even bother knocking on her front door, just letting himself into her apartment. Making himself comfortable in the kitchen, waiting for her to come out of her room. Asami walked out, and smiled at Keigo. Walking forward to place a small kiss on his cheek. He grinned back at her, taking in her looks for the night.

“Well aren’t you just a pretty little thing tonight,” Keigo smirked at her, “Now going to this uptight hero banquet doesn’t sound even remotely appealing,”

“You know what they’ll say if we aren’t there Bird Boy,” Asami grinned, stepping out of his arms. She walked over to her coat rack, grabbing her jacket and her purse.

“How’d it go with the kiddos today?” Keigo smiled, opening the front door for his girlfriend.

“They seemed more confused than anything, but I think it’ll be successful,” Asami explained, “You know how I feel about all of this, I think it’ll be exciting to watch these kids come to terms with their feelings, and be really successful as pros!”

“My dear Asami, you are really going to change this next generation of heroes,” Keigo grabbed her hand to bring it up to his lips to kiss it. She smiled at the gesture, and at his support.

————-

Asami’s first student session was with non other than Todoroki himself. He reluctantly stood outside of her makeshift office. Unsure of how to approach the situation. After all she hated his father, so surely she had some kind of distaste towards him. Asami slid open the door though, smiling gently at Todoroki and letting him in.

“Don’t look so scared Todoroki, you look way too tense,” Asami laughed at the boy who just looked at her, sitting down in one of the chairs across from her desk. She watched him for a second sitting down in her seat. Opening up his school file she read through it.

“You know who I am right?” Todoroki sighed, “I just don’t want you to-”

“I don’t blame you for anything to do with your father,” Asami interrupted him, “I am sorry for my public distaste towards the man, it has nothing to do with you though,”

“It has to do with your friendship with my late older brother, right?” Todoroki was straight to the point. She looked shocked at his words, and his knowledge of who she was, “My mother and my siblings do nothing but mention how much you’ve grown since playing with Touya,”

“I am sorry I have more memories with him than I’m sure you do, but it’s thanks to that I am painfully aware of how your father is,” Asami looked at the small picture of her and Touya sitting on her desk.

“So why not expose him completely to the press, you could ruin him with the knowledge you have?” Todoroki’s question stuck within her. She knew she had the power to but...

“Despite my anger towards your father, I care deeply for your family Todoroki, I used to play with your siblings, I even got to sneak you into play with us one day,” Asami grinned at the memory, “You were so small back then, but Touya told me it was the first time you had even got to interact with all of them,”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,”

“I didn’t expect you to, but I do, I remember all of him and again I am truly sorry I got more time with him than you did,” Asami frowned, feeling guilty, “But your brother he was one determined kid,”

Asami handed the picture of them across the desk to Todoroki.

“He is the friend you were referring to last week, correct?” Todoroki questioned, staring at the photo of his older brother. His hair both red and white, but not in the way Shoto’s was. It was sporadic, and unevenly placed.

“Yeah, he is the reason I am everything I am today, you know originally I wanted to be a teacher, but after Touya passed away I wanted to carry on his dream and become a pro,” Asami closed Todoroki’s file, and took back the photo from him, “Even ended up disowned from my parents, they aren’t exactly supportive of the superhero society,”

“You went against their wishes just for my older brother?” Todoroki seemed confused, “He meant that much to you?”

“I think I admired him more than anything, you know he always made it a point to say it wasn’t your fault,” Asami watched as Shoto showed a bit of emotion... Almost relief. She wondered if he had heard that his father was what pushed Touya past the breaking point. The only one she kept in much contact with was Natsuo, but he said he didn’t pay much attention to anything that happened with his father.

“Well, I need to get to my next class, uh we meet again next week right?” Todoroki stood up from his seat and looked nervously at Asami. Who nodded with a grin on her face.

“You can also get my contact information from Aizawa, and get ahold of me anytime you might need something okay?” Todoroki nodded, before turning around and walking out of the office.

Asami could only think to herself about how in another life they might know each other. How maybe if Touya would’ve been there, if he would’ve stopped his father’s obsession. If he would’ve made sure Shoto was more than some weapon. They could’ve watched him train, and been there for his accomplishments with UA... And the messes he made at UA.

A small, sad, sigh left her mouth. Her eyes focused in on the picture of Touya, and her bottom lip caught in between her teeth. After all, she had another session so she couldn’t be the one crying.

“I miss you, idiot.”

[auredosa]

i NEED a one shot of malistaire having a ptsd nightmare about their escape from dragonspyre then sylvia is there to comfort him when he wakes up

thank you for the prompt again, anon! i hope this meets your expectations! enjoy!

wet hands

tw; destruction, war collateral, trauma

Malistaire was tailing his father home from the Command Academy the hour it began.

Whispers of a riot, a coup, an attack had been floating around the mage division as of late. No, not floating, more like crawling up the grape vine and becoming the subject of many late night meetings between the senior members of their branch.

High General Vladan Drake, naturally, was required to be in attendance. At first, Malistaire was worried that the other correspondents wouldn't let him attend-he had a fraction of his father's experience in service, but to his surprise, he was given a seat at the table and even asked for his opinion on occasion.

"Just in case one of us drops dead before this all blows over. You have a youth to tell our story," one of them, a blunt Diviner, had stated.

"We have the crystals for that, Agatha," his father snapped back. "Why shouldn't we use them to keep record of our rendezvous?"

"You saw what happened when those little gems get into the wrong hands." She took a long whiff of her cigar and leaned back into her chair. The smoke smelled to Malistaire of burnt parchment and sandalwood; not something that he'd remotely want wafting in his lungs. "Can't trust anybody these days. One leaked jewel and the upper echelons of society go to-"

"Enough," commanded a third voice. He was seated at the head of the round table, rings of every cut and metal adorning each of his thumbs. "We will not be holding any proof of our meetings on this topic. My superiors are suspicious of us as it is-"

He was about to elaborate further when the crystal goblet before him began to tremble. The drink within started to ripple, then splash onto the table. Malistaire gripped the edge of his chair and looked towards his father.

"What is this, now?" Vladan hissed, looking to the door of the room. "Another experiment of the lower division?"

Suddenly, a frantic knocking sounded at the double doors to the conference room, accompanied by a voice too young to be a late attendee, too old to be one of the servants.

A white haired woman who had yet to speak raised her hand to the deadlock, and the chains fell apart at her will. The doors flew open to reveal a gentleman in harlequin robes, red as a child in the snow. His breaths came out in wild pants, and his fingers gripped his wand as if he were still in battle.

"Mikaeil," the woman greeted stoically. "What is going on?"

"The Titan!” he gasped, struggling to stand up straight. "The Titan is-is here."

"I beg your pardon?" Vladan probed, brows knitting in disbelief. "Tell the full truth, boy!"

"It is the truth!" insisted Mikaeil, rising to full height in the presence of the General. "And you must evacuate at once! The insurgency-"

Another tremor rocked the underground chamber. This time, dust cascaded above their heads. A hairline crack appeared in the stone, before splintering across the ceiling.

“The insurgency has begun,” the woman finished. She finally opened her eyes, revealing glowing ivory pupils which had scried their doom.

"But-" Vladan began, just as a stone column shattered the stone ceiling and appeared like a giant rusty nail in the center of the room.

"I said we leave! Now!" The mage repeated.

They were running. It was difficult to keep pace when the ground wasn't meeting his feet. The thunder and rumble were deafening to his young ears. When they were outside, the sky was blanketed in thick fog. Not fog, Malistaire realized. Smoke and debris from the destruction that had only begun.

"To our airships, general?" The cigar-wielding woman shouted.

"If we can!" Vladan called back. "There's a cargo ship near the commerce district. Meet there!"

As was taught in all schools of battle, it was too dangerous to travel together. While they couldn't quite see their enemy, it was better to assume they had the entire command academy surrounded.

"If this is an attack, then where is-"

A hellish roar tore through the quarter. They all gazed up to the sky, where the crimson, leathery wings beat mercilessly through the smog.

"The Titan . . ." Malistaire muttered in awe. The stench of burnt flesh and ash wafted from above. From the cloud cover, he felt a drop of rain hit his cheek. Placing a finger to his face, he found that it was warm. Blood.

"General!"

Behind them, an ornate pillar gave way. But not just the shattered stone beam. Shards of crumbling white stone, all fashioned into jagged points, were hovering in the air, like knives pointed at a target. Pointed at them.

An unseen puppeteer gave the command, and the pillar came down in unforgiving gravity.

“Father!”

“Malistaire?” came a soft voice beside him.

He gripped the cotton bedsheets in clenched fists. There remained an unyielding tightness in his chest, and sweat gathered on his brow. But the air was different: tinged with morning dew and waxy smoke wafting from the nightside table. The warm glow of an oil lamp filled the room, illuminating their shared bedroom.

No fire. No chaos. No blood raining from the carnage-stained clouds.

Just his wife, staring at him with a familiar concern.

Ah.

It happened again, hadn’t it?

Another nightmare to inconvenience those around him. Some sorry part of him wished he could carve his memories out of his head. The aftermath of this was never pretty. He didn’t need comforting. He didn’t need to recount the days of horror and warfare. It wasn’t as if that would change anything. Those events were singed into his brain like a brand on skin. No theurgist could fix that.

“Apologies,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “I . . . I’m sorry for waking you.”

“No need to say sorry, silly,” assured Sylvia. “It’s really nobody’s fault, you know. The mind can be a horrible foe sometimes.” As if she hadn’t parroted that to his brother too.

She slid off her side of the bed and stretched her arms. Her hair was twisted into unruly tangles, brushed aside to show tired green eyes. Despite her best intentions, he could tell she was tired, too. Now she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep until she had to get up for the day’s work.

“I’m going to make tea,” she yawned. “Raspberry leaf or the stuff from Marleybone?”

“Your call,” Malistaire replied. He was still unnerved by what he’d seen in his subconscious, and anxious about the trouble he was causing her. His throat was too dry to let him offer another apology.

There was nothing to do but stare blankly at the other end of the wall with his racing thoughts. Before he knew it, Sylvia had returned with two teacups of floral refreshment. He made a mental note to thank Arthur for introducing them to this custom.

“Here. Be careful.”

He took his own cup and wrapped his palms around the base, smiling at its fleeting but welcome warmth. Sylvia took her place next to him and they both said nothing for but a moment, quietly partaking in their drinks.

“Same sequence?” She asked once they’d both had a sip.

“Not quite. It . . . this took place earlier, minutes before we arrived in Wizard City.” It was easier to talk about if he treated it like a historical text from a book, not the horrors of his own mind. “It’s as if I’m going through all the motions in reverse, back to the start of it all. The problem is that I don’t think there’s any further to go back to.”

“Well,” Sylvia began, “that’s a good thing, isn’t it? You’ve completely exhausted the entire story, so it can’t get any worse from here.”

“Not necessarily . . .” Malistaire grumbled.

“I know.” She sighed and took another sip of her tea. The conversation always progressed this way. There was little she could do to quell his self-destructive subconscious. As far as either of them knew, there were no spells that took away bad dreams, at least not ones that didn’t require the favor of a fairy or a monetary fee of some sort. Those were simply fiction[SH1] .

“. . . I’m sorry there isn’t more I can do, my heart,” she said sadly, setting her cup on the nightstand. “And I understand that I don’t really understand the things you see in your dreams.”

“Sylvia, don’t bother.” Malistaire grumbled, putting his down as well. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Exactly,” his wife affirmed. “I’m not going to stop searching for something to make this easier. Dahlia might know something, or maybe a seraph on the Way could-“

“That isn’t what I meant.” He interrupted, more roughly than intended. “We would both know about that, wouldn’t we?”

He scowled at the floor, finally feeling better now that his anxiety was turning into frustration.

“My father and mother have been lost. My brother and I can’t return home because there isn’t one to return to, not even if we wanted. And for all we can do, between the both of us, we can’t bring them back.”

Cracks, shouts, fire, stone, shards.

"General!"

“Ever since then, every night, I am reminded of that, and I despise it.”

“Ah.”

Sylvia’s face was unreadable. It took her a moment to rationalize the horribly charged vent that’d spilled from his mouth. before her face gave way to kind understanding. The corners of her mouth turned up in a wistful smile, and he could only wish he could have her saintly patience.

“You are correct, love. Nothing you said was wrong,” she soothed. “However-“

She scooted closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. Her graceful hand clasped over his. The messy locks of her hair brushed against his face, daisies and rain under his nose.

“Your wounds are fresh, and they can still heal. Your parents may have passed, but their legacy is not entirely forgotten-thanks to you and your brother,” she added, smiling. “I promised you that I would save as many people as I could, and I know there are so many more, and that there is still so much work to do. So, so much work.”

Three tiny squeezes in the heart of his palm.

“I know it hurts, love. I know you’re tired. But I’m almost certain that one way or another . . .”

A tender kissed pressed to the stubble on his cheek.

“You can always find your way back home.”

[marzipan-moon]

Dress Rehersal

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Ship: Lorenz / Dorothea, Dorothea / Ferdinand Summary:  Lorenz watches Dorothea on stage, captivated.

Did she ever really come down from it?

The music swells, the war ends.

And somewhere, it's raining. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723957

OVERTURE

Her voice carried up through the rafters as a bird finally released from its cage, wingbeats reverberating through these shattered, destitute halls. War had come to claim everything; the beauties of old ravaged with as much savagery as had the people of Fódlan. And yet, to see her still standing here - with lungs that channelled air into art, singing the story of a defiant girl rising from nothing… she made this opera house feel fuller than it ever had been.

After all, he thought, even in its glory it could not have let the moonlight shine through to catch on her delicate skin, to roll in waves through her thick hair, to reflect itself so eagerly in her tear-stained, gemstone eyes. And even in their days of peace, she could not have sung with such verbosity, could not have acted on that stage with such sincerity, could not have wept the true tears she was spilling now.

War had taught him many things. More things that it had stolen from him.

So why was it that, as her voice reached its very climax, the jade in her eyes turned liquid and spilling as her spurned lover let go of the knife he had struck between her ribs… why was it that, as she collapsed to the floor, the last echoes of her voice dimming out, why was it that he rose to his feet, panic in his face, a scream of ‘stop’ drowned out by the audience’s thickening applause?

He’d seen her nearly die on that battlefield countless times.

Hundreds of others joined him to stand, his breath so tight and uncontrolled, so unlike hers that even when she died she had kept so loose and free.

He covered his face in shame and remembered that this was all just an act.

ACT I - RECITATIVE I That night, he asked her to marry him.

“You have become a symbol of hope for all the people of Fódlan, and I can think of none so fitting that could be my bride. Just as you have restored music to this ruined opera house, so too will you restore honour to my house.”

She tilted her head, the moon still trapped in her eyes, her smile curling.   “So, you made up your mind.”  

“Am I too late? I see no ring to bind your finger.” “I’m still in costume, Lorenz,” she laughed. “And you’ve seen what happens to a woman who remains unmarried.”

“Then all the more reason for you to accept my proposal. If she had had the protection of marriage, no man would have harmed her.”

Dorothea laughed again, turned his back to him, her eyes hidden from view. “Is that right? I’m not sure you understood the story at all.” Her words caught in his throat, his face souring. “You are straying from the topic. I have not come to swap narrative interpretations, Dorothea.” She lifted her head higher, the waves of her lovely hair brushing her back. “The tragedy is not that she dies, Lorenz.” He scoffed, the sweat pitying his brow. This was not how he imagined this proposal going at all. This was supposed to be his moment - the time he had dreamed of, over and over again, where his goals would finally be fulfilled! And here she was, blathering on about something else entirely. “I have always admired your intelligence, your wit. You outclass even I in charm, that much was apparent tonight. Even now, you return a proposal with a gift of philosophical moralising,” he hummed, attempting to look satisfied. “If I answer you correctly… if I satisfy you with my interpretation of this opera, will you marry me then?”

“I’m not so sure… Maybe I’ll consider it.” He latched onto any shred of hope still nestled here, his eyes widening. Of all the women he could have chosen, why had he been attracted to the most difficult?

“Very well. I think that it was an allegorical examination - an exploration of proletarian life, immorality and lawlessness. We are meant to expect it from the commoners, but be shocked when that same spark of madness afflicts the nobleman who kills her in a jealous rage. The tragedy is that he will likely go unpunished, our society so unfairly favouring his prestige over an orphan’s life.”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing expertly. “It’s that she died pursuing freedom, the one thing a woman cannot have in this world. Wartime, peacetime, it does not matter. Every man will try to snuff it out.”

He paused, red returning to his cheeks like she had slapped him. His mouth meandered for a while, twisting itself in shapes until he finally found the question he was looking for. “Then, are you saying you will choose freedom over me?” She turned to look at him now, her gaze somehow haunting, her wings now at rest. “No, silly.” His heart trembled, the colour in his face deepening. “You always look so cute when you’re embarrassed. Red is a colour that really flatters you. You wore such a brilliant shade of it when you rudely yelled at me from the audience. That wasn’t very noble of you, was it?”

He floundered, ‘well I’s’ mumbled in his mouth.

Her laughter filled it instead.

“Yes. I will marry you, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.”

--

 ACT II - DUET I

He had never… copulated before, it was true. Though such things were always on offer for one his stature, it was also his role to reject such pleasures in pursuit of something far more noble. In fact, some would suggest that this performance must always be… purposeful, focused on siring an heir, and to stray from that was indeed ignoble.

Yet, with Dorothea, he could not imagine this act being one born only of purpose. Besides, building a family was not yet in either of their interests. She had glorious heights still to rise to, and he refused to be the one who placed such a yoke upon her shoulders. Somehow, seeing her fulfilled was… well, satisfying in a way that, for now, burned far brighter than his desire for children.

So when she kissed him, delicately and then with opened mouths, when she gasped and giggled at his every reaction, guided his hands across her body in ways that demanded so little work from himself… he felt embarrassed. Ashamed of how little he knew, despite his long evenings fantasising. Yet he could not help but be in awe of her, how, when she moved his hands to her waist and then up and - yes, he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing - over her breasts, he forgot who he even was. She was like liquid pleasure, paralysing him in all ways but his breath. “I had no idea that the great head of House Gloucester had such a problem with his lungs,” she’d lilted in his ear, her perfect nails scratching gently at his chest.

“And I had no idea that you would dare use magic outside of battle,” he’d scowled, sparks of fire glowing in his belly, intensifying as she placed his hand over his and gently coaxed it to roll in circles.

“If this is all it takes to overwhelm you,” she whispered, pressing his awkwardly raised fingers against her nipple, “then I don’t think you’re quite ready for that.”

He groaned, forgetting his duties to be the one to please her, to follow the rules of all the men in all those operas she starred in. “How do you…” he gasped as another ripple of pleasure blossomed in him, her body pressing up against him. “Ahh, how, is it you maintain, such… such focus?” She was more experienced than he, he knew, but did not want to know. Such things he could barely condone in his fellow noblemen, but for a woman of any standing? He wanted to believe that this was as much her first experience as his, he wanted it so very much, and yet….

She slid her fingers down his chest, rushing over the outline of his arousal pushing against his white trousers. He almost went mad, then, a feeling as ecstatic as watching her voice climb to impossible heights, the swell of it pulling every soul to the edges of the body.

“It’s easy,” she said, her other hand losing itself in his long hair. She pulled herself into the nook of his neck, drowning herself in it. He didn’t much mind, the feel of her body perfectly aligned with his own, harmonising. “It’s all in the breath.”

He watched her through narrowed eyes, hardly aware of whatever earthly thing his lungs were doing. “What?” Oh. He should have been embarrassed at how inarticulate that was, but… “Just like in singing, you have to breathe from your diaphragm.”

She moved, fingers spreading, his breathing turning ragged. “Your chest shouldn’t be moving and,” she mumbled. “You want to tighten,” her fingers curled and gripped him through the fabric, “your stomach muscles.” From her instruction, he failed miserably. Whining helplessly into her hair, he forgot how to breathe at all.

When he felt himself returning into his body, he realised that she was laughing, warmth flooding into himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed to stop?” She squeezed her lips together, brows raised in faux-judgement. “Well, I, was… focussing on my breathing. Next time, it should be I who leads. This… this is exactly why a woman should not.”

His embarrassment sizzled, but not as brightly as the sudden look of anger that flashed hotly in her eyes, those green pools hardening.  

“And what should a woman do, Lorenz? Lie flat on her back for you, wait while you do nothing? Can’t you enjoy a little bit of teasing? You certainly seemed to only moments ago.”

“No, Dorothea, that’s -“ She decoupled himself from him, disappointment ghosting over his body as she left the room. — In Opera, all stories were ones of grand themes. War, love, death. And in every one she stared in, nearly always was she bathed in her own blood. Mezzo-Soprano, that was the colour of her voice, and the one that destined her to the role of villainess, of the rival, of tragedy.

Was that what they had seen in her when they plucked her from the streets? Heard the way she so perfectly embodied sorrow, as though her story and her style of singing were destinies perfectly entwined. If she had been born a noble girl, would her role be something entirely different? Would she had ever even been noticed? He thought such things as he watched her die countless deaths in the arms of countless lovers, torn between them and then torn apart. It was only an act, after all.

— Some nights, she would brush his hair. He was not entirely sure why, but she insisted on it. He rather enjoyed the attention, to be under her gaze in a way that was rather less dramatic than usual. “Do you remember that awful bowlcut you used to have?” She giggled, boar bristles sweeping gently through his hair. “What made you decide to grow it out?” “Awful?”

He narrowed his eyes, bending his head so he might catch a glimpse of her smirk. “Didn’t you think it cute?” “… As hard as I tried to see through your foul attitude to find something endearing in your personality, Lorenz, I really could not say the same about your hair.”

He guffawed to himself, frowning ever so slightly. “Well, I suppose I appreciate your honesty, but it is only a matter of taste. It makes sense that you prefer a more showy haircut, so normalised that has become to you with all your days spent in the opera. It is hardly a house for those with more… subtle tastes.” She gently and repeatedly went over the ends of his hair, pushing herself momentarily against his back. “That haircut,” she laughed, placing her head on his shoulder, “was anything but subtle.”

Before he could find some way to retort, she pulled her head away and began humming lightly to herself.

“It was such a shock, seeing how much you two had changed.”

He paused, turning to her. “Two?”

“You and Ferdie.”

Just as he saw the ghosts of all of her past lovers when she touched him, now he saw another figment rise up in her, clouding her eyes. “… Yes. Ferdinand and I were always similar in our tastes, from tea to mannerisms to… presentation. Long, supple hair is an apt symbol of nobility, is it not? To keep it so well maintained takes dedication and time.” She lowered her head, clamping her hands round that brush. “That wasn’t why he grew his out.”

The atmosphere in the room felt as though it darkened, somehow, her body crumpling like a snow edged leaf.  

“Did he tell yo-“ “He asked me to brush it, once. Well, no. That’s not true. His hair looked like a bird’s nest, and I insisted on fixing it. Then Ferdie kept coming back, asking me for style tips.”

She covered her face, eyes turned away from him, “He did everything with his all, didn’t he? I don’t think I ever fully understood why he was like that.”

He had to admit, he had never given much thought as to whether he ‘understood’ Ferdinand or not. He was simply not that sort of character. He had been a man who eschewed mystery, his heart as plainly visible as his sleeve. Right now, he was contemplating how well he understood his wife, never mind the machinations of a dead man. “Dorothea,” he said her name and enjoyed the way it played across his tongue, how it first wavered then arched, like a bird on the wind. “Please, what is the meaning of all this?”

The snow round her edges hardened. He reached to touch her face, fingers soft along her cheek in the hopes of thawing her. “Nothing, it’s… nothing,” her eyes crinkled, and he feared that he had accidentally crushed some piece of her into dust. Yet as her fingers played along his own, he realised that she was the one thawing him, the one crushing herself.

Her body uncurled and their gazes met, but she was looking without really looking, the remnants of a smile touching just the tips.

“Just memories, Lorenz, that’s all.”

— He found her singing, one day, by the lake… if memory served. It had been a foggy day, with beads of rain caught in the air. The water almost lapped up her voice, clouding it - but muffled though it was, he remembered it quite vividly. It had been nearing summer’s end, the weather unsettled and quite unusual. There are some memories that the body somehow knows to keep. Imprinted in finer inks, it felt like, as sharp and as ever-present as the crest that flowed through his family. Could they cut to his blood and find fragments of it, oozing there? Some days, he wished that they could, if only so he might experience that moment once more.

Her voice had flowed more smoothly than wine, its quality just as potent and intoxicating. At first, he had assumed it to be the haunting calls of a Loon - and, well, it was embarrassing to admit, but he had acquired a proclivity for studying nature. All the great artists… and poets, had. Those where the days where he yearned to emulate such things, as though one could simply mould oneself into a poet by adopting his personality and mannerisms.

So he had followed that calling, entranced. Yet it was only when he had begun to make out the outlines of words that pinpricked and then sizzled in his ears that he felt like he was going truly mad. This was not a voice that could belong to a human being. It had a way of… sinking into the body, of clutching the organs, of soaring; as though he too was flying with that conjured music that seemed to go only impossibly high and then higher still.

He could not stop himself following that voice, even if every part of him screamed out in fear. He supposed this was something akin to awe, though he could only have supposed such things in the retrospective - in the moment, there was no room left for words.

So when he finally saw her, her black school uniform the only thing that looked solid against the cold misted backdrop… he had gasped, giving up the last of his breath so that she might take it.

And just like that, the singing ended, and she’d whipped round to face him. Embarrassment was what first crossed her face, as though she had been caught disrobed and her magic discovered. Yet as soon as she registered who it was that caught her, that expression morphed into disgust.

He supposed, if he could have extracted that memory from his blood, he would prefer that it be snipped off here.

Yet, then he would have lost the passionate fire that still burned coal-hot in those verdant eyes. Those eyes that had not yet become haunted, eyes that could look at him with emotion in full bloom. Still, at the time, such a gaze had only evoked simple fear in him. She had not even said a word, and already he had been running. Ashamed of himself, afraid of what she might do, confused as to what exactly it had been that he was now feeling.

He had ran and ran and ran all the way back to his quarters, never telling another soul and recording only the silvers of it in the most abstract of writing.

He supposed it had to be found, one way or another. Magic like that can never be contained, no matter how desperately he tried to in the strained confines of words. Though, he had to admit, hearing Manuela sing her interpretation of a poem written about his youthful yearning for his now wife… It was a strange twist for the Goddess to ordain.  She had almost brought Dorothea’s innocence back into being, as though pulled straight from his memory. And to hear Dorothea herself remark upon it even though she herself would no longer be suitable to sing it, her fingers clutched within his hand, that disgust no longer present in her eyes… … It made him want to run, run and run all the way back to those old quarters.

-- ACT III - DUET II They tried that game with many euphemisms again, and by his insistence, he did indeed take the lead.

Needless to say, it was… not the most impressive of his accomplishments. In his defence, they had spent the last half-hour discussing the benefits of pomegranates and such-and-such herbs and their commitment to this decision… whatever the outcome. Why must all pleasure be tempered by duty? It was a question that Dorothea invoked in him more than any other woman, and he could not imagine taking such precautions if it were not for her.

Soon, someday, she would have to bear their heir. That, too, could be a pleasurable advent… but one that would bring an end to her life on the stage and usher in a new era for both of them. It was not one he wanted to charge into so recklessly, even if… even if he was aware of the rumours that would soon start to rise from forked tongues, and, worse still, the chastening within his own mind that would no doubt be roused to life. As delectable as she looked even as her soft lips sucked on the flesh of a pomegranate, he also knew such acts were deemed sinful and demanding of penance.

So, with those thoughts swirling in the back of his mind - he asked her to lie down.

“I trust you will tell me if I act improperly.” “You have behaved just as properly as I would have expected, Lorenz,” she said with a tinge of unkindness, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, well. Just as this is an experience of firsts for both of us, I do not wish to cause you any undue harm,” he stated, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Psychologically or otherwise. I refuse to handle a rose as rare and stunning as yourself without the utmost delicacy.” “And if I were not a rose? You seem intimidated by my thorns. Is the truth that you are afraid of handling me in case it will cause your hands to bleed?” “No, no - that is not what I… Even if you were a common daffodil, I would still -”

She rolled at her eyes at his expression, her laughter cutting his mumbling thankfully short. “What I meant to say is… come here. You look petrified.”

Her fingers found their way to his cheek, her soft chest pressing against his arm, her wonderful mouth whispering something about him being ‘adorable’ as he finally willed his hands to her waist and requested, once again, that she lie down. In all honesty, just kissing her mouth felt overwhelming. She was demanding, and eager, and she had a way of hanging onto his lip for just a moment after the kiss had ended, drawing him back in again and again. He did not know how she knew to do such things, and did not dare to ask, even as her hands smoothed out and over the back of his nightrobe, loosening it without even touching the belt. Her fingers made gentle scratches down his back, across his scalp, losing themselves in his hair all while he was too focussed to do anything but kiss her.

Even as her bosom rose up against his chest (that she had, with some expertise and trick of the hand, already exposed) and that pleasant warmth began to sink through his skin and across his entire body… he could not help but notice how fixated she was on his hair. Tugging at it, letting it play over her fingers, and when she finally broke kiss, nestling her face within it, her teeth scraping the edges of his ear.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t that it was unpleasant - in fact, he welcomed the distraction. Having Dorothea, having all of her at once, this charming, incredible woman who had shaped her entire body into an instrument capable of producing music most holy (and, those soft sighing sounds that she now breathed into his ear - holy, holy too)… just the thought of caused an ache to erupt through him.

And he ached, and ached again, as he traced his hands down her skin, over the mole under her breast, the scars by her ribs that magic had not been able to heal. That this was her, that this was really, truly her, the woman whom he had denied himself for all those years and whom could so easily have denied him. “Dorothea,” he whispered, marvelling at how even saying her name left a man open-mouthed. “May I…?” His hand came to rest on her leg, toying with the edge of her robe. “I fear I may not be able to, ah. Concentrate much longer.” She laughed at that, the rumble causing her breasts to brush against him yet again, his face hot. Yet she did not pull her face away from the crook in his neck, her eyes hidden.

“Is that right? My. I thought the show might go on all night. It is a man who is leading, after all,” she dug her fingers into his scalp, pinching him. Even his yelp could not dim the sparks of euphoria that followed as her voice cooled, her laughter dying as her voice thickened dangerously, “But yes, you may.”

He’d dared not look at her. Did not think that he could look, as he pulled away that thin barrier between them. In his restless pursuits of a wife… of course he had considered what this might feel like, this ultimate act of consummation, of pleasure and love and union. But now that it was here, he ran at it like he was a young boy handling a spear for the first time, excitement coursing through him.

Finally undoing the knot in his robe, his soft cursing fading away, he held himself a chastely as he could. Her chest still pressed against him, their trim waists perfectly pressed together, her legs lifting and enfolding him like vines, her fingers twirling and pulling while she gently encouraged him…

“Ah, Dorothea, we truly are a natural fit, aren’t we?”

He was glad she had not answered.

For when he slid his hips forwards, imagining with his eyes half-shut and his breathing erratic what it might feel like to finally have an answer to all that aching, to quench this undying thirst that bled so many memories, to finally feel what it was to be one with her…

He found that he did not slip inside her at all, no smooth passageway, no yawning hole as eager and compliant as her mouth had been. No, he had to admit, when he brought himself forwards and felt only soft skin, he felt totally and utterly lost.

A coldness overcame him, and he tried to thrust in her direction once again, finding embarrassment as his only answer.

She uncoiled from his neck, finally deigning to fix him with a look, her expression making it clear that this had, well. This had been expected. That, he had to admit, embarrassed him far worse than the event itself. Not only was he a disappointment, but it had not even been surprising.

“Well, Lorenz. Would you like me to take the lead?”  

He was the one to decouple from her this time, cold washing over him as though a bucket had been spilled atop his head.

“This is not your first time, is it?”

He could hardly believe the venom that entered his voice, the heat on his face quite suddenly flaring on his tongue. “I do not believe you would have the capacity to mock me so, so… so ruthlessly if it was!”

He had never hated himself quite so much as he did in those handful of seconds, for just as he thought his fist tightening round a fistful of thorns, she crumbled.Her expression seemed to die.   No fire, no anger. Just… an emptiness wider than the whites of her eyes. Somehow, her lovely nakedness pushing through her disheveled nighty made her look more ghastly, as though somehow close to death, her exposure quite suddenly invoking nothing in him. “Dorothea, please, forgive me - I spoke out of tur-” “How do you think I got into the academy?” His mouth slackened, and he pulled his robe back up his back, too aware of his own nakedness as she seemed to care nothing for her own. “You heard the rumours, did you not? Of course you did. They were on every tongue, everywhere I turned. Like no one would let me forget. I suppose it was the penance I was due for cheating my way through life.” “You are wrong, Dorothea. You must be incorrect. You are a sublime talent, a beauty beyond the reach of any other…” “Oh, save it.” She drew her legs up to her chest, her head resting there. “After all this time, you don’t understand it at all, do you? The things we common girls had to do to have our talents recognised, to even be seen as something worthy of time, of care. Even then. I’m just a fleeting fancy, Lorenz. A pretty object to be remarked about, to entertain noble minds, to put the guilty at ease. To be used up and disposed of. It happened countless times.” “I spoke… I spoke thoughtlessly, yet, I… I had no idea you had experienced such pain…” “I did not enjoy it, if that makes you feel better,” she hissed, cutting him off. “I did not enjoy a single second of it. With any of them. Old and young, cruel and kind. The best I could hope for was… well, commiserating with the girls, afterwards. You begin to realise how common your experiences are, and that makes it a different pain, doesn’t it? Realising how much suffering there is. Realising that you aren’t anything special, no matter how much you have achieved.” “No, it does not make me 'feel better'… Was this really… Forgive me, please, forgive me for speaking of myself,” his face cracked, his eyes glittering as he began to take in the full weight of what she had been through, the burden of her secrecy, that bitterness that must have ate at every second of her day.

“But did you… When you agreed to marry me, had you thought me just another who would… use you, for the price of security?”

“Do you really wish to know the truth, Lorenz?” She peered at him through her own cracking eyes, the rest of her expression solemn. “It is not too late, you know. We have not consummated this marriage, after all. You could still find the virgin noble girl of your dreams.”

He looked away from her, watching his hands. “That is unfair, Dorothea. I did not marry you for mere fornication, nor to sire countless children, nor to fulfil some puritanical fancy. I am… I am helplessly smitten with you, that is all. With you, all of you, even when you humiliate me with your outstanding wit.” He dared not look to see if her expression changed, instead lowering his head and hiding behind a mess of hair. “But, yes, Please. Speak the truth, if you are ready.”

“I think…” he heard her voice crack, then come closer. Until she was right by his ear again, her breath controlled and slow. “I think you are a gentle man.”

He finally looked at her, at her sad expression, her soft little mouth lilting like it had so often during the war. “Gentle?” “And I am lucky for it,” she said, the edges of her eyes brightening. He could not say how happy hearing such a thing made him feel, for though the tension seemed to have evaporated and her pain pushed away… she had hardly given him the answer he was desperate to hear. That he was exceptional, that he had worked hard and overcome all those terrible beliefs that once mired his countenance, that he was one she was equally smitten by and that, with time, all sins would be forgiven.

Yet, as she took his hand in her own, and squeezed it ever so delicately… squeezed it as though it were both a chick fallen from the nest and a lifeline on which everything depended… He met her smile, and sat in easy silence with her, melting into her presence.

--

ACT IV - RECITATIVE II On stage, she could transform into anything asked of her. A witch, a nurse, a seductress - even a man, on command, for Opera so loved to play with themes that inspired shock in the masses. Yet she topped controversies with aplomb. How could she not? She was a heroine in her own right, and though he tried not to think often of that time, she had once worn the cowl of war as effortlessly as any of them.

Yet it seemed… when not on stage, it seemed that cowl was still wrapped tightly round her. In the years betwixt their school-days and their return to the monastery… he could have hardly believed the transformation in her. It was not that she had simply matured. It was that she had been worn down. She had never meant to be a solider.

Yet a solider she had been. Wild and brave, cutting through enemies with magic more effervescent and powerful than even he could hope to conjure. He should have been frustrated by this, infuriated, even. Yet he did not recall ever feeling that way when she summoned red earth from the sky that fell like a phoenix in its death spiral, slaughtering whatever helpless knave stood in their way. He distinctly remembered riding through flames she had conjured from miles away, wondering what part of the soul had to be pulled on to conjure something so raw. He supposed it must be the same part that she still pulled on now, wandering the halls of their manor late at night. She thought that he did not know - he was a lark, after all, to compliment her owl. He’d caught sight of her more than once, slipping from his embrace and into the black.  And he had let her go, each time assuming this was just some part of her artistic heritage, that those long nights at the opera still rung their clangour in her mind.

Yet after their second… attempt at love making, her words were what rang true in him all through the night. He was haunted by the thought of what she had endured, and by what she was casting herself into when she took those midnight strolls. Was she simmering in her misery? Alone, once again?

So he slipped from his bedchamber too, and followed after her.

Eventually, he caught sight of her in the gardens - down by the river. A score of red lit by the moon, back to the balcony from which he watched her. It was like his first memory of her singing, on that foggy day. Or perhaps it was more the memory of her in that destitute opera house, the moon curling in silky waves through her tresses. He took to the stairs, eventually finding himself by her side. She must have heard his footsteps, yet she did not turn to greet him with disgust. She did not turn to greet him at all, in fact. “… There’s no need for you to patrol the grounds, Dorothea. There is hardly going to be a raid anytime soon,” he laughed softly, but felt no levity. She sighed.

“I just can’t help but feel like… it isn’t over.”

“The war?”

“Yes. That war. I don’t know. It’s like… all I wanted was for it to be over, desperately believing that it would end this year or the next, that all this fighting would just. Stop someday. And now that it has?” She tilted her head up towards the sky, the river burbling and filling the silence. “I just… can’t believe it. Like the feeling hasn’t left me. Like there’s still so much to do.” “Ah, but, of course. That’s true. There is very much to be rebuilt, wounds that need salving, broken bonds that must be tied together again. You and I are in a key position to do just that,” he watched her, the night air somehow losing its chill.

“Doesn’t that all just feel… fake, somehow?” Moths fluttered by, a frog croaked somewhere in the distance. It was a peaceful scene, he thought.

“Whatever do you mean? Dorothea, is fighting injustice not the exact path you have always been following? Was it not you who challenged my every belief, changed me at my core? Think of the thousands you can inspire…!”

“It reminds me of when I first entered the opera troupe,” she said, finally lowering her head, playing with her hair. “When men began to shower me in compliments, gifts and advances. When all the bile they once spat at me turned to promises, and even then, false ones at that. It’s… Like I see through it all.” She turned to face him, then, and he could see that she had been crying. “How many people did we kill, Lorenz?”He took a step back, surprised as her voice lifted in such sudden rage, silencing the frogs. “I … I would not know the exact numbers, but Dor-” “Don’t tell me that it was fair just because we were at war! Don’t tell me that!” She pulled at her hair, eyes whirling. “How can we be such different people, wear such different skins?! We’re the same as those men, except… even worse. No doubt they were too busy cowering behind their knights, free from the blood that drips from our hands.”

She covered her face, her chest heaving.

“Come now, had we not fought, we would not be able to enjoy the freedoms we do now. The war was a tragedy, yes, but -” “How many, how many did we kill who were just like Ferdie?” In just one sentence, she opened up that man’s grave yet again, his red red hair spilling out. The smell of it, those rotting fields, the flashes of lightning and miasma and air turned to wailing. “And we took pleasure in it, I know we did. All that… drinking, and laughing, and dining. The thrill of still being alive… I saw that in you, and Claude, and all the rest.

Worst of all, Lorenz, I saw it in myself.” Touching her shoulder, he swallowed, guilt sizzling his gut as she effortless conjured those memories. How even Seteth would join them in toasts to one victory or another, that knot of hard-fought joy binding them all tightly together, their chanting and hymns and limericks brighter than the candles they lit around themselves. How she would dance with Hilda, barefoot and bellies full, their laughter lifting them all out of their shells. He still had a painting that Ignatz had somehow conjured of that scene, all of them just blurs of colours in the dining hall.

Was that before or after Ferdinand died?

“This is what has made this war so particularly tragic. People like myself, like Ferdinand… we were trained for this, Dorothea. We were trained to know the weight of what we were doing, sparring against men who shared in this equal philosophy. This was not a burden that should ever have been placed upon your shoulders.”

“How can you say something so horrible so easily?” She asked, both hands clasping the one upon her shoulder. “Is that all it takes? What I lack? Training?”

“He would have told you the same if it were he standing here and I lost in his stead,” he said, attempting to navigate his words carefully. “And he would have not wanted you to be standing outside in the dark, trying to catch pneumonia in his honour.” He began to walk her back to their home, hoping the darkness would not follow them inside. She seemed to be mulling over what he said, her steps uncertain.

“And… you know, I will not ask you to suppress your feelings. In fact, I think it an asset in ensuring that this war never occurs again.”

She looked at him then, in surprise.

“An asset? That is how you try to make light of this?” “Yes, please, hear me out,” he said as they reached the stairs. With one, wavering step after another, they made their way back up.

“The way you … you move, dance, sing, on stage… you bring the war to life. More so than any writing could ever hope to capture. In you, the raw despair of it all is captured so brightly. None can help but be moved, no matter the strength of their learned barriers. To see you die up there, a hundred times, a thousand… each time I picture it so vividly, and each time it shatters my heart.”

“Great, so that’s what I have to give to the world. Shattered hearts and endless grief,” she rolled her eyes, but he could sense that some part of her had been fished back out of the black.

“Yet I would never ask you to stop.” She glanced up at him as they reached the top of the stairs, the hallway beckoning them back inside. She stood there a while, as if unsure of something. “You could shatter the world’s heart, Dorothea. You teach us to remember our humanity. The true cost of these games we play as nobles in our selfish pursuits. There is value untold in that, a value only you possess. When you die, when you grieve, when you take character - none of it is false, to me. That is you at your most real.

So, that being the case, how can any of this be fake? I know none more sincere than you.”

As he watched her, she slowly found her smile, the mask that she’d been wearing so expertly weaving itself back into her skin.

It wasn’t a falsehood when she nodded, lifting herself onto her tip toes and brushing her lips to his own. Nor was it when she began to whisper how sweet he was, how kind, how gentle, how right. Not even when she said that she loved him, that she was glad that it was not him who had went in Ferdinand’s stead.

She was simply living, as all of them did, laughing barefooted on that stage.

--

 ACT V - ARIA I

It was… strange, standing here in this beautiful garden in the middle of the countryside. She was used to being surrounded by people, either to hide from or from those who celebrated the joy of her existence, given glares or gifts, but… Now she was alone. Truly alone.

At the monastery, she had occasionally found some quiet space to haunt - by the pier, the bridge, the rooftops. It was something she had noticed in Lorenz, in her… husband, too. She’d slip by him, discarding her yearning to gaze through stained glass or at what remained of the cathedral.

She supposed he craved these silent spaces for the same reasons that she did, for a chance to think. Still, she doubted their thoughts had ever crossed paths as much as their bodies had. That was alright. She was used to her own flow of narration having been shaped into something quite unique. Lorenz, on the other hand…. As a noble, as a man, as a nobleman, the trench had already been dug. All he had to do was allow himself to flow into it.

So why had he changed course so dramatically? Even now, when their thoughts flowed aloud together, it was clear their courses still clashed, no clear direction to this sea.

Maybe she enjoyed that, the drama of it.

Or maybe she simply enjoyed this estate, of its stillness, of its silence. When the hum and throb of the servants had ebbed away as they retired he basement kitchens, when their master had taken leave to go riding or entertaining or politicking in some other beautiful still green place, when she was the only one out on the grounds and all things settled into a chipping, wind whispered harmony…

It seemed… magic, somehow.

Today, in her wandering, she had ventured towards the stables. It hurt, in its own way, to stand here. Like ghosts could chase you from another time, another place, settle in the edges of your memory just because of a vague reminder of their imprint. Yes. Lorenz and she used to spend much time in the quiet, undisturbed spaces in the academy. Beautiful spaces. But Ferdie, this was where… he used to go, so very often. She never really understood it. It never suited his status. Knee deep in muck, our future prime minister? Wasting hours away in the hay, with the horses, smelling of… well, sweat and dirty work and a long, difficult day. It was one of things that had charmed her, back before she could accept being charmed by him. He treated those animals well. Weller than most treated people.

So being around the horses always brought out those memories, like taking a bath in them. It made her feel… sad, yes, but good, too. She supposed she would rather remember him like this than…

Well.

She reached a hand onto the stable door, clucking her tongue towards a dark shape that turned and, ever so slowly, made its way towards her. When finally he arrived, his snout touching air and the light catching on the edges of his glossy fur and great round glass eyes, she smiled at him. Patting his long, firm snout, she pulled a sugar cube from her pocket.

This had been Lorenz’s horse, during the war. Somehow, he had survived when so many of them had not. A huge beast for a tall master, she had been terrified of him on the battlefield, decorated in black plate and huffing steam, white teeth flashing whenever it had galloped past her. Despite the burden of all that armour, Lorenz had commanded it to move like black lightning, arching and curving impossibly as he slit the enemy straight through, thunderous hooves clacking down. How much blood had soiled this creature’s legs, deep black on deeper black? “Here you go, Holst. I have a little something for you.”

Bringing the sugar cube to his lips, he seemed confused awhile, searching her arm before finally finding it. The poor thing was nearing the end of its days, just as tired as she from all that fighting. War carried on in its bones that now rubbed angrily together, carried on in its dimming eyes that had once seen flames lick forth from its masters hands. Never could it have understood the horrors of what had gone on around it, and yet, it had obeyed. No matter how afraid, it had obeyed.

Embodied its masters calmness - Lorenz, a whirring flash of purple black and red, magnificent and awful, a slash of death blotting out the canvas.

Lorenz, whose only concern he spoke of regarding death centred around how well he would be remembered, honoured, exalted by it. Smiling down at her, saving her from some warring lance, tossing his hair as he leapt - wild and controlled all at once - over the corpse that moments ago and a twist in fate would have been herself.  

Lorenz, who had told her that his father was a coward for not laying down his life in some barren field and spilling his guts out in agony for something more noble, more aspirational than a quiet, easy death in his bedchamber.

And now, its reward, for all that energy spent, for saving her life, for saving his?

A quiet life in the countryside, feeding from her hand.

--

 ACT VI - DUET III

There were no pomegranates involved in their third attempt, nor herbs, nor discussions prior. It was an act of raw passion, in part (but only part) lubricated by the joys of wine. He professed his enjoyment of Sagrantino and waxed lyrical about the fullness of its body, dark and dry and robust in its alcoholic strength. She hadn’t said much about it at all. Perhaps all wines tasted similar to her. Never mind, a palate could soon be developed, and he was more than happy to assist. Such was what he had been rambling about until she took both sides of his face and drew him into a deep kiss. It was full bodied. Dark. Dry. Utterly intoxicating. So much so that he’d gasped in surprise and almost spilled his drink onto her dress.

“Perhaps it is my palate that will need expanding,” he’d muttered, and she’d laughed (in a way that he knew was mocking, but he took pride in it anyway). “Then, you’ll let me lead?” She’d tilted her head, the room spinning with her.

“Lead me anywhere,” he’d said, following her mouth. She’d obliged with the softest little bites along his bottom lip, each time evoking a gasp deeper than before.

“You’ll do whatever I ask?” She’d asked, songstress, seductress. “Anything, anything,” he’d mumbled as he let his hands wander across her waist, the fabric of her dress smooth and obedient to his touch.

Sherry, that which he had labelled so unfavourably as a ‘beginners wine’, filmed the edges of her tongue - it drove him insane, that was the only word he could use to describe it, this madness that only Dorothea had the power bring out. In that moment, he loved that tongue, worshiped it, could hardly believe that it was her mouth, her taste, so sweet, and he chased after it again and then again.

He felt like he might wish to kiss that mouth forever, every time she indicated that she might break from it bringing forth a mewling out of him that surprised himself most of all. It was embarrassing, it should have been, but every time she rewarded him with an answer of that sweet, warm mouth he lost all sense of himself within it.

All his life, he had been taught to exercise restraint. To take the only the smallest bites, to appreciate each moment in turn as though each second were like the beats in a play worthwhile of literary analysis. Yet with her, with Dorothea… Daring to slide his eyes open, he caught sight of her mid-kiss, the finery of her lashes of the waves in her gorgeous hair of her cheeks set alight with passion… he felt as though there could be no such a word, no such a thing as restraint, of enjoying her in just the smallest of ways.

When finally she insisted on their parting, kissing the edge of his nose in an attempt to sate his soft groaning, she laughed at him as his breathing slowed, ruffling his hair.

“Are my charms really so deadly, Lorenz?” She smoothed a thumb over his cheek, squeezing along the red. “Look at you. Red as a rose,” she giggled again, touching her face to his, lashes smiling against his cheek.

“Yes,” he hissed.“Yes, yes. It’s you, all you,” he mumbled into her mouth, stealing one kiss from her before she clamped her fingers over his jaw, still laughing. “There’s no one-” he failed to squeeze out any more words, her nails digging into his lip and she brought her mouth against her hand, eyes locking with his as she imitated kissing him through it.

“Then… why don’t we try something a little different,” she whispered, before kissing the back of her hand again, brows raised. He could not answer, so he arched his brows in response, nodding. “Something I’ve done with… no other man.”

His eyes flared open at that, though, still unable to speak, he squeezed the side of her impeccable waist as answer.

Her chest rose up against his, the shape of her body searing through him as he tried to memorise the feel of those curves, pushing his hips forwards, chasing that pleasure. Her mouth came to brush against his shoulder, turned to whisper in his ear as she described in no uncertain terms what she wanted from him.

It was a sinful thing to ask, a truly embarrassing thing to be told, an act he had not ever even contemplated - even as she spoke it, he sputtered against her hand, eyes widening.

Yet. She moved his hand from her waist to her hips to her thigh, her breathing shuddering just ever so slightly in his ear.

“It’s just a kiss, Lorenz.”  

A kiss where no one else had ventured, that, that singular thought blossomed in his mind over and over. An experience as new as all those she had given to him - this thought that, even if it were a lie, made him tremble.  

Letting her hand pull free from his mouth, she looked up at him through those long lashes, those eyes endless rings of green. “The brave Lorenz Hellman Gloucester isn’t afraid of something like that, is he?” She said, her hands tickling down his rib cage, each movement of her delicate fingers like tongues of fire. “Of course not,” he croaked out before clearing his throat. Holding his head high, he slipped himself above the well of pleasure, trying his damnedest to ignore the fact that she was making the slowest, subtlest, most maddening rolls of her hips against his clear arousal.

“Well, shall we retire to the bedroom?”

She hummed at that, shook her head. “Ah, but! Dorothea, the servants -“ “They’re all in bed,” she mused, almost certainly a lie but, “Besides, can you really wait that long? All those stairs… Why, they might just tire me out.”

The room felt like it spiralled, the walls beating in his ears as he realised exactly what she was saying. The thought of being embarrassed sizzled away into the realisation that what she said was clad in white hot wanting, wanting for him. She parted from him and lay back on the méridienne, her hands gripping the edge of its curved back as she leaned into it, legs still clasped together. Standing there quite uselessly, he gazed at the way she was spread across the chaise lounge, eyes sliding thin. She was… unbelievable, truly. Unconsciously, he brought his hand to his mouth, breath growing hot as he lapped up the mere sight of her. She’d adjusted before his gaze, growing lovelier by the second, slipping off her tights with ease. “Kneel, Sir Lorenz.”

He did so without thought, his head swimming with the motion. Not even for Lord Holst would he have lowered himself so quickly for, so lowly. Yet, Dorothea’s legs spread out before him, her lithe body waved like the curls in her hair, like a bird’s wingbeats. She gazed down at him from above, her lips slightly parted, her eyes slipping shut. He crawled towards her, her leg coupling with his back, drawing him to the edge of the lounge.

The flare of her red, red dress framing the scene so nearly, but with one fluid motion, she pulled her underskirt above her hips, folding it into a neat line. And, just like that, she was exposed to him.

It was an overwhelming sight. Curved and curled, that unbroken line slowly opening itself up to him, (to him and to only him, him, him.) The leg dropped across his back had been making circular motions, but now, she pulled on it, daring him to go forwards.

Finally, he jolted from his paralysis. Slipping his head towards her, he did as she asked. He kissed her. Soft, close lipped kisses across that line, pausing only as she felt her entire body shudder, then relax. Tentatively, he continued, each kiss wholly its own drawn out motion. Her leg continued to guide him, its motions bringing his long, thin back into consciousness, as though nothing existed unless she was touching it.

He could not help but lose himself in this, relaxing as he threw his hair over his shoulder, tilting his head into her bare thigh. He sighed to himself, reminded himself that it would be best if it took this slowly, if he tried to better appreciate this, like any act of training required. Yet as his kisses began to blur together, each more rapid than the last, he felt her body jerk and the most wonderful noise escape her mouth.

That noise alone was enough to make him feel as though he were on the edge, his eyes flickering open and darting towards her expression. She had her head tilted back, her eyes totally shut, her mouth frozen in the hungriest of circles.

That look, combined with those soft little noises he had never heard her make, drove him onwards. He tilted his mouth, opening it and nestling his tongue into that line. He could not stop watching her, the theatre of her face as he explored what he could, each slip of his tongue making her body sing. Yes, she was singing now, that’s all he could see in this, in her melodic little sighs, in the way her body shuddered like the strings on a violin. And he was the one playing, now, playing her, playing with her - oh, that thought forced his eyes to shut, his mouth frozen over her as he gasped.

She muttered something, but he could not hear it, his world slowly spinning back into view. Sliding his eyes back open, he gazed at what he had done, at her obvious arousal, her want for him. Her thighs, shaped so lovingly and so unlike his own, her entire body soft circles upon soft circles where he was only sharp, cutting lines… his gaze returned to meet her face, her eyes still shut, her mouth now curled into a cheeky smile.

“You haven’t… already, have you?” She laughed as he spat out an urgent ‘no’, swiftly resuming his work.

“It’s alright if you do, I can only imagine how hard it is to stay composed around me.” Her teasing, her arrogance, only made him want to perform that much better for her. The fact that she could speak without stuttering, where as if he tried to now he felt as though he would only break into a cold sweat. Still. He appreciated what she was saying, appreciated the sound of her voice as it vibrated through her body… he followed after it, those deep vibrations, each sweep of his tongue inching in deeper and deeper… ah.

He could not stop thinking about the fact that this was the place where he was supposed to have taken her, far wetter and far warmer than he could ever had imagined, her sweet noises resuming. In a sense, he was inside of her now, truly one with her —

Suddenly, he felt her rising up against him, bumping against his teeth as he realised her tiny moans were now rippling together into a laugh. Sensing some inadequacy, he pulled his mouth away, brows knitting together in worry. “Did I … tickle you?”

She shook her head, catching her breath a moment.

“No, I could just feel your nose.” Frowning, he dipped his head back between her legs, gently nipping at one of her folds. Her sharp gasp brought him only the tiniest bit of vindication. “Now is not the time for such frivolity, Dorothea.”

Her laughter began to subside, her mouth tightening as her fingers came to sweep across his scalp, scratching it lightly.

“You’re right, Lorenz. I shouldn’t tease when you are in the middle of such… delicate work.”

He hummed an agreement, enjoying the little ripples her fingers induced through his scalp and down his back. As she began to play with his hair, mindlessly pulling it this way and that, he returned to her sex, biting along its ridges as enjoying every single desperate gasp she made.

It soon became unbearable. As much as he wanted to slide himself forward and take her like this, he… truthfully, he did not want to starve her of those noises. He was afraid of a repeat performance of last time that would sag into disappointment and anger, and, well. Tasting her like this, Goddess be damned, was rather more an enjoyable experience than he could ever have hoped for.

Sliding his hand down his chest, he wriggled in place - desperately trying to concentrate on keeping her satisfied while also moving himself out of his trousers. The angle failed him, so he made do through the fabric, his hand eventually finding a rhythm with his mouth, her own hand keeping time with each stroke through his hair.

Then, rather suddenly, he felt her fingers on his chin. Widening his eyes, he wondered if he’d hurt her in some way until she drew it forcibly upwards, her throat sounding like it might crack as she hissed, “there, right there.”

He embarrassed himself with the noises he began to make on her command, the thought of herself as his mentor somehow impossibly arousing. He leaned into his hand, his mouth following where she had led him, tongue sloppy but eventually finding what she had been searching for - her voice heightening immediately.

That noise, mixed with murmurs of ‘yes’ on repeat, rippled throughout her whole body and into his, making both feel whole. He began to moan in tandem with her, shedding any sense of self-consciousness as he gave into pleasure’s brilliant, hot glow. This was Dorothea he was making sing like this, his wife, the woman who had said yes, the woman who had overcome hardship after hardship, hatred after hatred, scorn after scorn and still - in the end - walked down that aisle in a white petal dress that turned had turned red before their very eyes. Even in ceremony, she would not leave the audience wanting.

For how many had she performed for? For how many had she brought pleasure to, spread her legs for, laid down in the hopes that their enjoyment might be a salve for her suffering? No, he soothed himself, listening to the wavering in her breath, feeling the desperate curving of her stomach, tasting her unconscious rolling of her hips as she completely and utterly lost control of herself… No, tonight, she was the centre of enjoyment, he the performer, and for once, he was determined, she would not be the one left wanting. And as soon as that thought entered his mind, she tugged on his hair, her face an utter, crazed mess. Her eyes still shut, but her neck craned back, her chest fluttering wildly. It was too much, it was simply too much - choking out a garbled whine, he pressed down hard with his fingers and rolled his hips against the lounge, frustration ebbing out into bliss as he turned his head and buried it into her thigh to suppress a cry.

Slowly blinking back into reality, he could still feel her body lifting up towards him, her thighs trembling against his cheek. She was… plainly requesting that he continue, and though by all accounts he should have been finished, he could not deny her.

Following her command, her fingers had spread herself apart, one nail pointing to where he now brought his mouth, her back arching delightfully as he followed through. “Dorothea,” he ached out, once, then twice, then again and again. Until he lost himself again in the edges of her name, in and out up and down and then ending, every single time, with an open mouth. He had hoped she would say his name in return, scream it, even - but she seemed incapable of saying anything, her cries first deepening, then lightening, then lifting to unbearable heights.

He did not stop, but he felt her tighten underneath him, pulsing in a steady rhythm as she undid herself with one singular, arching cry.

After a while, her breathing returned to normal, her body spent. Simply looking up at her for the longest time, he felt… utterly relaxed, despite the uncomfortable warmth in his trousers, the unnatural positioning, the fact that her eyes had not opened once during their entire encounter… but

“So, I trust that I impressed?”

She laughed, and he blushed, pulling himself up from the floor as she finally  opened her eyes, staring blearily at the ceiling.

“You certainly left an impression.” Smiling to himself, he took her hand, bowing his head onto her chest. She played idly with his hair, and both listened to their steading breaths. She thanked him, then. A soft, breathy little thing.

And that blossomed in him a feeling so much deeper, so much more intense than orgasm, all in that one lilting, gentle little thank you.

--

 ACT VII - CADENZA

Dorothea had been thanked many, many times before. Cordial thank yous, applause for a wonderful performance, a swell of glee because she brought treats backstage for a hoard of hungry singers. It hadn’t always been that way. Even now… it surprised her, that gratitude. How could anyone be truly grateful for what she brought into their lives?

She was a spectacle, a moment in time, a sparkling dress for a special night out, she wasn’t… she wasn’t the one who changed lives, who completed all the domestic chores every day, the silent figure who moulded students on their path to greatness. When she thought about the people she was truly thankful for… they all fit into those brackets. Mentors. Stage-crew. Saviours.  

It was terrible of her, wasn’t it? To not believe those people when they thanked her.

Yet…

She remembered the glow of his brown eyes, so bright that they were almost amber, his tentative, nervous little smile.

She remembered…

The White Heron cup, only… not. They didn’t have a name for it the second time they hosted it. Winter had come in full force, that bleak feeling that sank into everything since the war began only thickening as the daylight trickled down to just a handful of hours. This time of year… Enbarr used to be covered in lights, as though the city itself could become the sun. The opera house had always been so busy. What else was there to do in the chill and the rain, when travels were so often cut short?

Yet, since the war began… Well. The sparkle had left. People became colder. More distant. More keenly aware that time was running out, for them or for… something else, society as they knew it. Maybe there wasn’t any time left for frivolities like going to watch people pretend to die on stage, maybe it felt just a little too real while the world was falling in around them.

Yet… Garreg Mach kept that sparkle. No. Reignited it.

She felt ashamed of some of those memories now. Ashamed but… happy, too. Those were probably some of the most joyful times of her life, as terrible as it seemed. Back together again with Manuela, relived that they had made it through one battle and into the next, singing and eating and praying even when it made no sense at all. She’d grown closer to those people in that ruined monastery than she ever would with anyone ever again. To imagine marrying anyone, anyone, who had not experienced that total heartache, that surreal joy, would have been impossible.

Who else would understand why they’d chosen to host the White Heron Cup when there was no one but themselves to judge it? No prizes, no music, no atmosphere at all, really… Yet Claude had let them dig into the rations, pull out the wine, and lose themselves in the illusion that maybe there really was somewhere in this world that hadn’t been ruined forever.

Manuela had long passed out and Seteth had taken her to her room. Leonie and Raphael had lost interest and kept themselves to the dining hall, chattering about the fresh taste of wild game. Marianne wasn't saying much at all. Ignatz was busying himself away in his corner, colours bleeding from his brush as Lysithea and Claude argued about how well she was handling her drink.

So, the White Heron Cup was largely forgotten about, just an excuse, really. Yet she remembered leaning into Hilda’s shoulder, their shoes kicked off while they cheered the boys on. Lorenz and Ferdie, their peacock tails in full display, a whole night of one attempting to out-noble the other.

It should have been annoying. Infuriating, even. Spending time with three of the most privileged people in the world, listening to Hilda whine about how she couldn’t be bothered dancing right now despite her years of training, the static that droned everything else out as Lorenz and Ferdie seemed to act on script with one another. Honestly, though? It was … just. Fun. “Come now, Hilda, it is unbecoming that a noblewoman of your stature would decline such a prestigious invitation. Why, it was your very brother who, while he was a student at the academy, swept himself to victory at every Cup, was it not?” Lorenz had been staring at them both, though… Even then, Dorothea noticed how his gaze would linger.

“Well yeah, and that’s exactly why I’m not doing it this year,” she’d wriggled her legs, turning her toes inward. “It’s just not fair! Let someone else have a turn. Besides. I don’t see why you even need a woman part. Just, I don’t know, dance with the chairs or something.”

“Well,” Dorothea interrupted, half tempted to go up to Manuela’s room and drag down that awful mannequin - though, she supposed she didn’t exactly trust herself with the knife firmly lodged in its head while she was this inebriated. “I have an idea…”   Lorenz shifted on the spot, “Ah, of course. Lovely Dorothea, your talents were not all spent on singing, were they not? Why, the opera has some of the most complex choreography of all… Will you be volunteering tonight?”   “No,” she smirked, tilting her head. “I’ve never been a fan of these noble dances. They’re too prescriptive for my style. I’d worry about… stepping on your toes.”

Before Lorenz could protest any further, she raised her voice, “I think… Ferdie should play the woman’s role.” Lorenz’s eyes snapped open, his hand waving, “That’s absurd -!” “I don’t see why not. It happens all the time at the opera house, which you are a fan of, after all.” “Yes, well, this is not theatre! Ferdinand is a man of grand stature, stripped though he may be of his titles, and he would not… debase himself so egregiously, particularly not at such an important event!” “Um,” Hilda laughed, eyes only half-opened. “We’re in the reception hall. And we’re the only one’s here. Who cares!”

“Even so -” “Enough!” Ferdie finally spoke, stepping forwards decisively. Well… alright. There had been a little waver in his step, but he saved himself from stumbling, his confidence far more effective than his drunkenness. “I will not allow this debacle in my name to go on any longer. If there are but two to compete in this year’s cup, and if none will bend, then I will be the one to volunteer.”

Turning to Lorenz, he offered his hand towards him and bowed in a curtsey that was more than half elegant. “… Come now, Ferdinand. This is simply unfair. You cannot possibly know the correct movements. You are an able dancer, I admit, perhaps my most admirable competitor - yet that is precisely why I will not allow you to forfeit to me on purpose.” “Oh? Where did you hear it said that I would forfeit? You underestimate me, Lorenz. A true dancer learns not only the role of his own, but his partner’s also. Through this experience, and this alone, I have learned to anticipate my partner’s every move, timing my own movements precisely. This, my friend, is the spirit of the dance. If you can not understand this, then you have no hope of besting me!”

And so, it was this way, that Lorenz and Ferdie swept each other off their feet. Well. More accurately - locked into one another hands with awkwardly tangled limbs, their stiffness not faded on their first nor second dance, but yielding in the third. Those sweeps of long hair, one so straight and to the point, the other glorious but wavering. Their steps in time to music that Hilda and she drummed out with their hands and with their heels, laughter rising as their drunken faces contorted with such intense concentration.

They were beautiful.

They were all so… so beautiful.

She could not remember who they declared the victor that night - if any. That wasn’t in the spirit of the dance, after all. Not in the spirit of the night. Not in the spirit of this monastery, still surviving despite the gaping hole that pierced its heart.

What she did remember was walking with all three of them back to their rooms, up those endless, winding stairs, the gulf that separated them all. She recalled Lorenz drunkenly offering to guide her back down the stairs, lest she get lost, lest she miss his company, lest she wished to speak more words into that pitch black night. She refused, that night, though she found his persistent desire to impress her rather… endearing. He truly had changed, in those five years.

Yet it was Ferdie whose drunken offer she agreed to. Who invited her back to his room. Who had looked so dashing being bent over Lorenz’s arms, whose hair she fantasised about holding onto almost touching the ground as they’d leaned into one another. Ferdie who, that night, she knew might ask her for something that they could not take back, something she was… ready enough to follow him into his bed.

Yet that question never came.

Instead… He asked her to brush his hair. To do his makeup.

To borrow one of her dresses.

He told her… he always liked when she called him ‘Ferdie’.

He asked her… exhausted and trembling, his amber eyes fixing her with a look so vulnerable she felt that her heart might break that night, he asked her if he looked good. If she still liked him this way.

If she…

If she thought, after the war… That, maybe… He could be called Ferdie forever.

He’d seen her at her most vulnerable, nakedness so tantalising and so awe inspiring that he had run away. He knew the Dorothea before the stage, the Dorothea after it was crumbled and gone. He’d seen her anger, her spite, her ugliness that now, to this day, stung her with regret.

Yet, here he was. Naked in his own way, in… in her own way. Asking her for her approval.

“Thank you, Dorothea, for everything you have shown me.”

That gorgeous smile. Those insatiable eyes.

“Thank you for showing me myself.”

She remembered…

The tangle of vines that erupted from Ferdie’s stomach, sharp and thorned, laying still across her belly.

She remembered…

Every petal being shorn from her at once, red red red streaking across her vision as, in that moment, all she was left with were thorns.  

She remembered…

Lorenz dragging her by the hand, her screaming still echoing across the battlefield, every needle point of hers driving into him as she scratched his arm to ribbons. His face still in full bloom, his stalk artificially trimmed.

There had been no rain that day, just like there was no rain this day. The day they buried Lorenz’s horse in the rose garden, its body sitting wet beneath the vines. The clatter of war still echoed out in this quiet place, even if you had to strain your ears to hear it, even if they were putting yet another piece of it to rest.

The sun had been so bright, that day. Golden. Almost amber. “We say rest in peace. As though to live is to struggle, A war beneath the Eternal Moon. As though when is all said and done, All we can hope for, Is to rest.” Lorenz’s eulogy to his horse was… touching, in his own way. Yet. It was seeing the tremble begin in his arms, up through his shoulders, a trembling that opened up as wide as the wound in Ferdie’s stomach, a trench from which those thorn covered vines had never stopped spilling.

It was then, she realised, watching him weep for the first time that she had ever witnessed, that that trench lived on in him. She wondered if those scratches on his arms had scarred. She wondered if they veined out and came alive some nights, strangling him.

He choked out a wretched sob, covering his eyes.

He’d used to think that… anything truly beautiful could never be destroyed, that people would fight to preserve such beauty - even at the cost of themselves. He’d styled herself under that same rule. Something magnificent was almost something immortal.

A ravaged opera house. A dead war steed. A dear… dear friend. “I… I miss…” She reached for him, tangled him into her embrace, felt out whatever piece of softness she still had left in her, the petals that he had so diligently helped regrow.  

“I know, Lorenz. I know.” So quietly she barely heard it, the wind picking up and rushing through the endless green around them, he thanked her. A soft, breathy little thing.

She pulled him tighter into her embrace, the world melting through. “I know.”

--

ACT VIII - COLORATURA - CURTAIN CALL The opera house was in full bloom, bright lights and gilded smiles all around. Freshly painted decor was made all the more decadent by the hundreds of donations that had been poured into this place, rich azures and splendid reds that were as much a spectacle as those on stage. Ah, it was as though the war had never taken place at all. That was the point, was it not?

Still, he could not help but feel… for its artisanal beauty, like a fetching young lady newly jewelled and furred, he could not help but miss those impassioned days. Where Dorothea was the only focal point in a sea of dusty browns and greys, where the chill of the outside world was quelled by the warmth of her rich voice. It was unlike him to appreciate such aesthetics, never mind pine for them. Yet, regardless, just like that night, she stepped onto that stage and into a halo of light.

The music dimming, the calm tension as the sound began to swell within her throat, but not quite set free.

He leaned forwards in his seat, her eyes cast above him, her face a picture of mourning.

—

The roar of the rain outside, drops long and thin sticking to the window panes, the smell of wet earth and bodies spent. Her rolling curls of hair, her beautiful smile, her insatiable eyes.  

Her hands cutting through the black, cupping his face, the sound of rain growing ever louder.

—

The feel of her body pressed underneath him and into the grass, her nightgown soaked through, her mouth an elegant little bud that burst into the widest grin he had ever witnessed. “Now, Lorenz, do it now.”

—

After all that waiting, heaven finally spilled from her mouth. One endless, echoing note that ran on and on before it wavered, trembled, shuddered in time to the orchestra that could only hope to follow her lead.

— Daylight, mid-summer, the rose garden. She’s laughing, he’s trying to catch her. He can’t remember why, all he can remember is when she peels a rose from its stalk and hurls its petals at him. How he does the same. His precious, prized roses - and they’re throwing them over one another. She’s laughing, he remembers, she’s laughing because the petal’s stuck to his eyelashes. He looks an impossible spectacle, like a bird, like a butterfly.

—

She shudders underneath him, his fingers brushing over her and then inside her, and he’s gasping some mangled cry - her name, the goddess, it did not matter because all he can think about is the sound of her voice as it lifts and lifts and lifts the deeper his fingers go.

—

The rain grows heavier, and she nestles herself in the crook of his neck, her voice so soft and so tired as she says,“I was thirteen when I first had sex.”

—

The petals all come falling down. She’s ripped another rose’s head off, but she doesn’t tear its petals free, not this time. She stands by that horse’s grave, glancing up at him through her lashes, her smile melting the world away.

Between her fingers, she presents the rose to him. Nails brush along its edges, gently feeling their way across the inner petals before turning hard and stiff, crushing into the rose’s centre.

She looks up at him, and laughs.

— “He was… kind to me, even if I didn’t think so at the time.”

He stares out into the blearing rain, wondering if that whole garden might drown, wondering if there’s any roses left. — He forgot himself in that garden, her thighs squeezing against his waist, her mouth open and singing. There’s no such thing as anything else as he pushes his hips forwards and touches her - hungry, alive, wet enough to take him in one long, soft, wavering moan.

She wraps her entire being around him, the rain ravaging both their bodies, his hair bleeding into hers as it waves itself into violent, violet curls. He presses his forehead to hers, and lays still awhile, a protracted gasp as he fully takes in that he is tasting her without tasting.  

He gently, so so gently, drifts his hips forwards.

—

She plays a Countess in an opera that would prove to be her most controversial yet. All her sparkling wears and finery mask the wild thing that rests beneath. A woman in love, a woman mad with it, a woman set to destroy the world without it.

Her lover dies. Torn apart by a crazed murderer. She knows that he will soon take her too.

She sings, she sings, she sings.

—

She sings, she sings, she sings.

He clutches her hand, clutches her hair, clutches anything as he desperately tries to find air. He can feel her breathing beneath him, he can feel her every motion, he can be inside of her without really knowing her at all

Yet it’s an illusion, is it not? The grandest illusion of them all.

—

“I thought that he loved me,” she said, her chest so still. “On some level… it’s silly, isn’t it, but on some level, I still believe that he did.”

“It hurt, a lot. Physically, emotionally, all of it. I thought he… was going to save me. Take me away from all this - even though he was married, even though his daughter sang up on that stage right beside me, just a few years older.”

The pages spiralling open, her fingers in the rose, his body lost in hers, the lights on the stage dimming.

“He was the one… actually, who let me sing centre stage. Picked me over his daughter, just like I thought he would keep on picking me over his wife.”

She’s laughing at him, drunk and full of life, Sherry toed as she dances in their living room - crawling over the méridienne, kissing him on the nose, on the mouth, on the chest, on and on until he’s losing herself into her bliss again, his eyes never shutting, never once leaving her.

She’s glorious on that stage, wailing, howling in a rage that seemed beyond human. This opera… it should have been like any other opera, but there was but one fundamental difference.

The murderer comes for her, her voice growing higher and higher, defiant on defiant, as though challenging him to kill her, as though she is ready for anything. After all, this one link to earth has been severed.

Her lover, a woman.

They were going to cross the ocean, disappear somewhere, no church, no Crests, no memories.

The rain begins to fade away, and he strokes his hands through her hair, he holds her while she tells him, “I thought my only worth was in what could be done to me, not by what I could do, I… really, really did believe that, for the longest time. I’m not good for much. Half-decent in a war, I suppose.”

She’s wrong.

Of course she’s wrong.

Yet the knife goes in all the same, her voice lilting and howling, impossibly powerful. How could she not even be aware of that power? How can she simply stand there as he stabs her, again and then again, her body crumbling, her voice still ringing out across the stage. He asks her, over and over, if this is alright, if she is alright, if he is alright. He trembles with pleasure so intense he is brought to the point of weeping, made worse by the opening of her eyes, her gaze so wonderful and sweeping. She tells him,

“You have a petal on your lash, Sir Lorenz.”

And he laughs.

She never stops being able to make him laugh.

She disappears into the earth, the stage lights go out, yer her voice keeps going.

On and on and on into that night. As though that pulsing, ethereal cry could pierce the veil.

As though it were searching for her lover, still. She holds his face, looks him in the eyes while their bodies meet, infinite pools of emerald green, holds his gaze until he cannot hold on any longer, he

If there’s anything he’s learned it’s that…

He can’t hold onto this moment forever.

Pockets of bliss so bright it blinds him. Sadness so cruel and all consuming it swallows him.

Anger at this cruel and unjust world, at spectres that no longer exist, so potent it feels poisonous.

There’s nothing that he can hold onto. Nothing. He lets go while scrambling to hold onto the image of those green green eyes, and the world curls out with it.

—

The performance ends and he is the first to his feet. He’s the only one there, after all. It’s only a practice, just a trial run.

The curtains raise, and Dorothea’s chatting among the girls, Manuela’s fingers ruffle her hair, their faces lit up red with the effort and the fading adrenaline.

Lorenz waits until she turns to him, until the corners of her smile shallowed, until her sparkle faded.

The stage falls away. Silence echoes. She meets his gaze, the warmth in her eyes that had been there just moments ago now dried and cold.

The rain’s still falling, somewhere.  

Rose petals drifting in the wind.

Her voice reverberating, on and on, forever.

Which mirror was the truth?

He decided, then, that it did not matter.

He raises his hands and Applauds.

[puppetwritings]

To Heaven and Back || Pt. 1 || Junhui

Pt. 1 // Pt. 2 // Pt. 3 // Pt. 4 // Pt. 5 // Pt. 6 // Pt. 7 //

➢ Word Count: 6121

➢ Genre: chinese mythology, fantasy, angst, fluff

➢ Summary: You had been a martial god, sitting at the helm of Heaven’s armies, for a very long time. So long, that you had began to forget what your human life was like but for some reason, recently, you were dreaming of past events again. 

---------

You felt something soft and fuzzy nudge itself against your hand. Despite the pain coursing through your body, you slowly opened your eyes and smiled at the small white fox. You brushed your hand over his fur, making sure you didn’t use the one that was stained with blood. The fox looked up at you with worry in his eyes. Before finding this small fox, you never thought that animals could be so human and now, seeing the fox’s dark eyes and listening to his tentative whine, you didn’t think about your own pain—you thought about what might happen to this little fox once you died.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him, but the weakness in your voice gave away the lie. The fox crawled closer, curling beside you. You pursed your lips. “No…no, you can’t stay here…if you stay here then—”

It was just then that the doors to the old temple slammed open. Your vision was starting to fade but you heard the heavy footsteps of soldiers as they surrounded you. You could make out a dark, burly figure stomping towards you and when he spoke, you could see the disgusting and twisted smirk on his face.

“So, even you can meet a day like this.”

You wanted to speak. You wanted to make a snarky response. You wanted to do something that would save you a little face but in reality, you couldn’t. What was face and dignity when you were already at death’s door?

The man stepped forward again, his rough hands outstretched and about to pull you up when the white fox beside you launched itself at him and bit down hard onto the man’s hand. You gasped and you wanted to reach out, to save your small companion but you could only watch as he was ruthlessly flung aside, slamming hard into the pole. A few worried soldiers circled the general.

“Take that little rat outside and gut it!” the general shouted. He ferociously turned back to you. “As for this girl—tie her up. We’ll see how the Wulian Kingdom feels seeing their beloved general’s head on a stake.”

When you woke, your forehead was coated with sweat. Your sleepwear clung to your figure and your bedsheets were moist from perspiration. You sat up, your heart hammering against your chest. You closed your eyes as you let out a shaky breath and tried to calm yourself.

“Another bad dream?”

Your hand instinctively flew to your sword but your fingers loosened around its scabbard when you realized who your uninvited guest was. You stood, pulling the robe from its hanger and slipped into it. “How rude, entering a woman’s room uninvited.”

Minghao let out a melodic laugh—one that would send most fairies, mortals, and even some lesser gods fawning over him. Instead of fawning, you stared and waited for an answer. “I knocked, did I not? That’s how you woke up.”

“So, not only did you come into my room uninvited, you also woke me up.”

“You were struggling, General, I think I have done a good deed,” Minghao replied, turning politely as you headed to the clothes that had already been laid out by your servant in order to change. “Thinking back on it, it has been about seven hundred years since you’ve ascended yet you’re still thinking about such a petty little event.”

“It wasn’t petty,” you spat, glaring at him as you shed your first layer of perspiration-soaked clothing. You paused a moment before adding, “Lord Xu.”

“Right, right,” Minghao nodded, tapping his fan against his chin as he listened to the shifting of cloth. “How insensitive of me. That was the event that caused your ascension! Your death didn’t break down the morale of your people but instead raised it—you become a martyr and after the war they erected temples in your name and burned incense to you. It was definitely not petty. Definitely not.”

You strapped the belt around your waist and slipped your sword into its strap before walking past Minghao. Minghao followed briskly.

“If you have no business here, then leave.”

“I have business,” Minghao said. “Of course, I have business. I wouldn’t wander into a martial god’s palace without business. I still value my little life.”

“Then say it, Lord Xu.”

The god of art and literature smiled his charmingly and looked as if he might begin reciting age old poetry but instead he simply said, “The Emperor has a job for you.”

“For me?”

Minghao nodded.

“Why have you come to tell me?”

“Because I play weiqi with the Emperor every Sunday and he knew of our relations so he asked me to pass on this message.”

“Our relations?” your eyebrow twitched when you looked at Minghao.

Minghao smiled, tapping his fan into his hand. “We are good friends.”

“When have we ever been?”

“In life and in death.”

“I never knew you in life,” you replied coldly.

“But you know me now in death,” Minghao spread out his arms, his sleeves lightly bumping against your leg. He smiled and retracted them when you glared at him. Your patience always hung by a loose thread, especially after a night of restless sleep, and Minghao knew this, but sometimes he couldn’t help teasing you. Through your years in heaven, you had developed the appearance of a young fragile maiden but your words were still that of a battle hardened general. It was amusing seeing and hearing the contrast. Disappointed that Minghao couldn’t hear you curse today without receiving a blow, he stepped back. “I will send one of my underlings to hand over the details later this evening. I still need to properly recount the details.”

“Why me?” you asked, stopping Minghao in his tracks.

Minghao’s fan spread out with a snap and he smiled, “Because the Emperor feels that you shouldn’t be cooped up in your palace for too long. Even a chicken would have lost all its feathers by now.”

“That—”

“See you, General,” Minghao waved his fan, not turning around to discuss whether his metaphor made sense or not.

You scoffed and shook your head. Still. Why you?

Your question was never answered and the timid underling of Minghao’s came late in the evening, like he said he would. You took the scroll from his hand and glanced at the hunched young boy who shivered despite there not being any cold air.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yes! Yes, General,” the boy stood straighter, but still did not look you in the eyes.

You let out a hm before turning back to the scroll after skimming it you waved a hand. “You may leave.”

“Y-yes, General,” the bow bowed several more times than he needed to and almost tripped on his way out.

You frowned at the boy. Were literary people always so fragile and on the verge of getting sick? Look at his pale face, one would think that Minghao never fed the little deities under him.

You turned back to the scroll. The details made you realize why the Emperor had chosen you for the job. You weren’t so powerful that you would cause the mortal realm to shake with your descendance but you were strong enough to take care of this type of job—an extermination of some vicious rogue demon. The scroll documented minor gods and stronger deities who had failed this job and that was why the Emperor now turned to you for help. You weren’t sure whether you felt elated or offended that the Emperor chose you. Minor gods and strong deities failed and now it was you? Does that you mean you were the bottom of the greats? Was he secretly giving you a chance to work harder with this new mission? You couldn’t help but feel your pride suffer a small chip.

Even when you were human, the people around you had always said you were sensitive about people discrediting your hard work. It was hard not to be. You had to strive and make great leaps and bounds to get to where you had been and you had to go further than that to keep your spot. If someone doubted you and slandered you, your progress would be set back. It had been a habit that developed. If someone pointed this out to you, you would have told them that you were a very sweet and humble child but it was just society that made you this much of a jaded grouch. And it wouldn’t have been a lie.

You sighed, tossing the scroll off to the side before leaning back in your chair and sighing. You looked up at the enchanted ceiling that twinkled like the night sky, mirroring the time of day outside. You felt a calm wash over you, but your fingers still tapped the arm of your chair restlessly. A mission. This would be the first time you stepped out of Heaven and into the mortal realm. The real mortal realm. Not just a place that was full of cultivation and strong spiritual energy.

You shook your head. You didn’t want to think about that right now. All you wanted to think about now was sleep. You prayed that you would actually get a good night’s sleep this time. Not one of those restless, nightmare ridden sleeps that you had been having the past few weeks. You wanted those dreams to fade off again like they finally had two hundred years ago.

As you got ready for bed, you wondered if this was some sort of ill omen. Why was it that suddenly, after two hundred years, your nightmares came floating back to you clearer than before? Was this trip going to be your demise? Were you going to get killed and have your soul crushed and grinded into fine dust?

No, that couldn’t be true.

Somehow, you stop thinking about the little white fox either. It wasn’t that you had forgotten about your animal companion completely, but it wasn’t until recently that he had resurfaced in your memories.

In every dream, he was there. Instead of focusing on battles, like you had in the later years of your nightmares, you found yourself making sure that he was okay. Of course, that was what it had been when you were alive but in dreams, the battles were usually the focus.

You slipped under the covers and stared up, your hands folded on your chest like a corpse ready to be buried. No, no, no. You shouldn’t think like that. Still, you turned on to your side your arm tucked under your head. The creepy feeling crawling up your back disappeared and you hoped, one last time, that you wouldn’t get any nightmares, before you cautiously fell asleep.

  ---------

Sleep had been sparse but at least you weren’t faced with the disgusting face of the enemy general, nor did you feel the soft fur of the little white fox against your hand. When you woke up, there had been a sense of longing for the soft fur under your hand but you pushed the ideas aside as you got ready for your journey.

“Would you like me to come along?” Minghao asked, following your brisk pace with elegance and ease. It almost annoyed you how he could keep up appearances while he was practically going at a jog.

“No, I would not. Lord Xu, I would very much like it if you stayed in your palace and busied yourself with poetry or art.”

“Ah, I see. You would like me to paint your gallant journey and write poems about your heroic feats,” Minghao said with a serious nod. s

You faltered in your steps and glared at him but Minghao only smiled politely, rendering you speechless. “You…you must have a lot of time on your hands, don’t you, Lord Xu.”

“I have enough time on my hands to be an idler,” Minghao agreed as his fan spread apart with a snap and as he flashed another charming smile.

“How did you manage to ascend,” you grumbled under your breath before stepping over to Heaven’s Gate.

“I will be here, General,” Minghao called over, your face reddening as the guards at the gates bit back a snicker. “If you need my assistance, just call for me. I’ll be watching your progress and painting glorious pictures of you.”

“Please, do not,” you said, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to be considered speaking to yourself. You accepted the badge that the guard gave you—the badge that would allow you to come back up to Heaven when the time came—and took one step out the gates.

Behind you, the gates shimmered and slowly became clouded. You looked down and gulped. Despite being a god for more than seven hundred years, heights still frightened you. You were used to horses and used to even boats perhaps. But heights? No. Flying humans were anything but natural. However, you were no longer a human. And so, you closed your eyes and took one more step, allowing yourself to gracefully fall down to the mortal world.

But, maybe, “graceful” wasn’t the correct word.

Falling from Heaven wasn’t as terrifying as it sounded but one couldn’t be graceful if they had never done it before. You had never done it before. Normally, when a god or a deity descended to earth they would hop on a cloud and they would slowly, peacefully descend.

You missed your step, thus fell through the cloud and after what felt like hours, finally made it to the ground. Did your fall create an impact? Yes. Was it loud? No. However, there were two footprint shaped holes in the ground now that you had trouble covering up.

You coughed awkwardly, your ears burning at the thought of your disciples, underlings, or possibly even that stupid art and literature god watching you from above. You awkwardly brushed your sword over the footprints and dusted yourself off before you started walking. Thank goodness you had landed in a forest and not in the middle of a city.

You pulled out the map from your sleeve and unraveled it, looking around in confusion. You allowed your hand to pass over it and you stared intently until the map glowed a tiny spot, revealing your location. You were currently in the Ren Ning Forest and only need to walk out a little to get to the town of Ren Ning. You smiled cockily, happy for your success. You nodded a few times, mentally patting yourself on the back before you tucked the map away again.

You let out a sigh and your hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of your sword. Only then did you frown. You grappled for it, but it wasn’t there. You looked down and thought to yourself. You brought it down, hadn’t you? Of course, you had. You never left your room without your sword. Then why—no. No, you just needed to calm down. For now, it was safer to just go back to Heaven and…the badge. Where had the badge gone? Had Minghao somehow snatched it from you before you left? Impossible, you would have caught him…then…then where did your belongings go?

You slowly drifted over to a tree and leaned against it, your hand massaging the bridge of your nose. Where…? Just…had they fallen? You had fallen so there would be no reason that they wouldn’t have fallen either.

You pushed yourself off the tree and began to wander once you made a mark on the ground, making sure to know where to come back to. You walked a long way to the east then a long way to the west, the south, and the north. You came back to your footprint but still. Nothing. Your sword and your badge had just disappeared.

A feeling of panic began to wash over you. Now what? Without your sword you couldn’t fight the demons or monsters but without a badge you couldn’t even return to Heaven to retrieve another one of your weapons. There was no way to declare a mission success or a mission failure!

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in your head. Aha! That freak, Xu Minghao. He said he’d be around to help you, right? He was an idler. There was no way this idler would have such bad timing as to choose now to have some business. You nodded, satisfied and happy with your smart solution. You can just tell Minghao to descend and hand you a new weapon. After fighting the demon, then you would find that badge. It wouldn’t be good to just leave the badge in the mortal realm anyway. Good, good, this was a good plan.

You sat on the ground in the lotus position and closed your eyes. You called out to him once. Then again. And then again. And several more times, but the god of art and literature didn’t answer. You frowned. Was he…upset with you? He might be. He was considered one of the top five most dashing gods and no one would dare to refuse something like poetry or art created by him but you had…no, no. Minghao might be frivolous and annoying, but he wasn’t petty. If he saw you, a friend, in this situation, there was no way for him to turn a blind eye.

You called out to him desperately again. Perhaps he was busy. Perhaps—oh. You just remembered something. The Heavenly Meeting. It was to take place for four mortal weeks starting today. Four mortal weeks was nothing for the celestial beings and sometimes nothing would even get done in that short period. But that also meant that Heaven (other than the guards that protected it) was out of commission. It would not be accepting wishes or complaints and the ones inside the Heavenly Hall were not to have any outside communication.

To put it simply? You were on your own.

You let out a sigh and leaned back against the tree. No sword, no badge—only your clothes and a pouch of money for emergencies. You didn’t need to eat and if you found one of your own temples, you wouldn’t have to pay for lodging…even then, you might just be able to camp out in the woods. You pursed your lips. This wasn’t the worst thing you encountered in your life time but you thought maybe after dying and ascending to godship, you wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore.

You sighed again and stood, brushing off the dirt. Some measly little spirit must be playing a trick on you. There has to be. Otherwise where would your sword and badge have gone! You looked all over and couldn’t find one damn—

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of giggling. Not just any giggling but the kind of giggle that echoed and rang all around you. That was never good.

You saw something run past you on the left and you frowned before chasing after it. You doubled your speed but still couldn’t catch the creature. You used a bit of your powers and yet you couldn’t reach it. It seemed the closer you got, the further away it travelled. Finally, you stopped. You let out a small huff in indignation. You looked around, knowing full well that giggly monster got away from you but your anger and irritation melted away to surprise when you realized where you were.

Ren Ning. This was the place that was experiencing the rank four demon. You pulled out the map again, just in case and scoffed. It really was this place.

You folded up the map and tucked it away. Had that little monster been leading you to town? Or had that thing been the one to steal your belongings? Either way, you realized you shouldn’t be dwelling on these details any longer. You sighed and walked into the city, the eyes of the townspeople naturally drifted to someone new.

Now, it wasn’t that you had the appearance of a god with twelve arms or had a snake head but it was obvious you were from out of town. Clothed in white, bathed in an almost ethereal light despite taking on the appearance of being a human. It wasn’t that you were a stranger and they were attracted to you but because you were beautiful. A beautiful maiden dressed in white. Nonetheless you continued forward before stopping at a street vendor and politely clearing your throat.

“Excuse me, where is the nearest in?”

“T-the nearest…” the woman running the stall stuttered a moment before pointing. “That way.”

“Thank you,” you frowned as you continued waling. Maybe taking on the appearance and energy of a mortal wasn’t enough. Perhaps you had to dull your appearance a little. This wasn’t a problem up in Heaven. In fact, you weren’t even ranked top fifty in terms of female goddesses. But why would that matter to you? You were a martial goddess, not the goddess of marriage or love.

Still, having learned your lesson you “dulled” your appearance before approaching the innkeeper. You asked for a room, paid the money, and was given the number. Only after you had checked your room for suspicious activities that you came back down to the restaurant and sat down.

Restaurants were nice in the mortal world because mortals liked gossiping. In a world where there was little entertainment, all there was to entertain was word of mouth. You sat silently, eating your lunch and sipping at the tea as you listened to the townspeople whisper and gasp over the details of the demon that had started haunting the outskirts of town.

This demon (according to villagers) was ugly. It was tall, had skin tight against its skeleton, and its mouth drooped open and drool dripped from it. The drool was naturally red, having been mixed with the blood of its prey. It also stank. It let out a putrid smell. And worst of all, it only ate virgins—male or female.

You choked a little at this detail. What was with demons liking eating virgins? Was this true or had this always just been a lore?

“Oh, gosh, I hope those Taoist cultivators would come and exterminate all of these terrible demons,” a frightened young woman moaned.

“Those Taoist cultivators won’t come unless we shouted loud enough for the Emperor of the Heavens to hear.”

Well, you thought, lucky them. He had heard. You took another sip of your tea before you sat down on a seat next to them and scooted forward. “Excuse me, I heard you guys talking about…about a demon?”

The men looked at her with raised eyebrows, but the previously frightened young woman nodded her head. “Oh yes, it’s quite terrible! This has been plaguing our town for two hundred years. The demon comes back once every ten years and the reign of terror starts all over again.”

“Oh, really?” you gasped.

“You don’t know of this legend? You must be a stranger,” one man noted, looking you up and down.

You gave him a polite, but mirthless, smile, “I am. I’m travelling through town to see my uncle. But if it’s so dangerous here, it would probably be safer that I take the longer path, right?”

The young woman nodded. “It truly would. It’s better to be delayed than lose your life, miss.”

You nodded, taking it into consideration. “Ah, but, hasn’t anyone tried to catch it? There are so many strong men in this town.”

One man spoke up, “Of course some fool has! But do you think they lived to tell the tale? Of course not.”

“I heard a rumor that they didn’t even see the thing and they were eaten.”

“Does that mean they were all virgins?”

A slight giggle passed through the group. But after a moment you spoke up again. “Why virgins?”

“Because they taste good?” a man shrugged giving you a weird look.

“Right,” you mumbled. You frowned. What other information grabbing questions could you ask? Well, even if you didn’t ask, the topic continued.

“I heard Luo and his gang are going to take a few guys to go and try to kill the demon tomorrow.”

“That crook? Good riddance to him then.”

You felt that these mortals were cruel but curiosity prickled at you. “Who’s Luo?”

“Luo is the town’s bully. He goes around and picks on people just because he has a bit more money than the rest of us,” the previous young woman told you quietly. You nodded in understanding. What an odd town this was.

Once you felt you had gathered enough information, you dragged yourself back up to your room and sat down. You laid on your bed. As the scroll had said, it was a demon that ate humans. But a demon that specifically ate virgin humans? How were you going to lull that sort of thing out? Unless you grabbed a handful of virgin villagers…would a virgin god work?

You laid on the bed in silence, pondering this for a very long time. Say, even if a virgin god worked—how would you kill it once you lured it out? You had no sword. You had no badge to send up an emergency flare if things did go awry. You could use your spiritual energy, definitely, but in the end would that be enough? Perhaps some talismans…you turned to your bag and shuffled through. You let out a small sigh. Thankfully, your servant had been smart enough to pack a few for you. Of course, you could draw them out but you weren’t the most skilled at using talismans, as embarrassing as it was to say. But alas, you were a warrior not some great Taoist cultivator.

Once you had checked your inventory, you decided to spend the rest of the day planning. It was early in the morning when you decided. You would tag along with Luo and his crew but first, you needed a sword.

You stopped by the blacksmith with your new appearance—a handsome young man. Men, somehow, were more respected so you only did what you had to do. The blacksmith was skeptical at first because of your flowery appearance but after seeing how you handled a cheap sword, he willingly handed over one of the better ones. And it was a good sword. You made a mental note to not lose this one. When you got home, you would add it to your collection.

Once equipped, you went off to find this Luo and his group. They weren’t difficult to find. A bunch of bumbling, burly men who were too loud and obnoxious for their own good. Luo was a talker, you could tell as you joined them. He was giving the crew a pep talk. It reminded you of the soccer games back in Heaven when each individual team would have a huddle up before the actual game. It was ridiculous to the point that it made you smile.

“Hey,” one man glanced to his side and pulled you over by the collar of your shirt. “Who is this shrimp?”

You cupped your hands in front of you and bowed (as best you could with your current predicament). “My name is Wei Jialong, sirs. I have heard about the demon and I have come to offer my assistance.”

“You? You’re just a puny pretty boy!” the man grabbing you by the collar of your shirt laughed. The others followed.

You smiled politely, “But I am skilled.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it!” the man released you and took up a stance. He was on the ground in a second.

There was a stunned moment of silence as you put your sword, still sheathed, back in its holster. Luo stepped forward, “Fine, kid, you can come with us.”

You smiled, pretending to be grateful when in reality they should be the grateful ones. Who were they to act so high and mighty around you? But alas, puny humans didn’t know better.

The woods…felt normal. Compared to what you were expecting, there were only slight traces of demonic energy here and there. And on top of that, they were very weak. It was comparable to that of an ant trying to cultivate into a demon. It was threatening, but with one step that ant would do. That was how weak the demonic energy was.

You began to wonder if you had come to the right place. The energy level was the same as everywhere else. Contrary to popular believe, not every place could be completely clean—unless it was sacred places like Heaven or Kunlun Mountain. But down in the mortal realm? If there wasn’t demonic energy, then it would be fishy.

However, the further the group walked, the eerier the forest got. It was like those stories that you spent most of your time reading nowadays. The group huddled closer, their eyes darted in every direction. It was entertaining but you couldn’t be too relaxed, after all you didn’t have your personal sword with you.

Suddenly, there was a crunch. The group stopped. Everyone looked around and after a moment you frowned, “Is anyone here actually a virgin?”

“What?” Luo asked, glaring at you.

“I mean, the monster likes virgins, right? If there’s not virgins here why would it come out?”

“Are you not a virgin kiddo?”

You scoffed and put on your best cocky look, almost asking “with this face?”

Luo cleared his throat. “There is one among us. I won’t tell you though.”

Of course, of course. The most important thing to a man was his pride. How could he out his comrades?

With the assurance that there was in fact a virgin on board, you silently continued to follow the men, your instincts on high alert as your own eyes began to flutter around. There was something ominous about this place. This one area…

One of the man inhaled sharply and his friends looked at him. “You guys…you guys don’t hear that?”

You didn’t hear it. His friends didn’t hear it. Ah, you thought, this was the virgin. “What is it?”

“There’s…there’s a kid singing…” the man looked exponentially more frightened upon hearing that his comrades couldn’t hear this child.

“What’s it singing?”

“Just a nursery rhyme…any old nursery rhyme on the streets,” the man said.

You frowned, his eyes had glazed over and he stepped forward. His friends stepped back, afraid about this sudden development, but you followed him, your hand on the hilt of your sword.

Suddenly, there were echoing screeches from all around and the men drew out their weapons. You remained calm and slowly breathed in; the demonic energy was strong. Where had it come from that you hadn’t noticed?

“Everyone be careful,” you warned, unsheathing your own sword as a four-legged creature approached.

“W-what is that thing?!” one of the man asked, stepping back as the moonlight revealed its gnarled form.

The four legs were twisted and black and where paws might have been were human hands with skin taught to the bones. It had a face, yet it didn’t have a face. There were vague outlines of where its features might have been but instead there were two milky white eyes, set one above the other. Just the sight of one was enough to cause grown men to pee their pants, much less the crowd that slowly began emerging along with this first one. From the trees or on the ground, more pairs of milky eyes blinked open. You guys were surrounded.

“Th-this—”

“I have three words of advice for you all,” you said, your sword suddenly levitating, “Stay behind me.”

The men watched in absolute awe as your sword (though shaky) soared through the air and cut down ten of the gnarled monsters at once. It swerved back around and did the same. The monsters hesitated a moment, reluctant to come closer but eventually they bolted forward at an inhuman pace.

You quickly pulled out one of the talismans you had tucked against your chest and held it up. You muttered a quick spell before tossing up the paper. It formed a glowing ring above your heads which quickly dispersed and the men cowered as the first monster jumped on top. To their surprise, it burst into black ash and disappeared.

Although you had many fancy tricks up your sleeve, they continued to come in waves and waves. As this newly bought sword hadn’t yet completely absorbed your energy, it was shaky and you had to expert yourself more in order for it to levitate like this. After a moment, it flew back into your hand and one of the men gulped. “W-what’s wrong?”

“You guys stay in this circle.”

Honestly, these were low-level monsters that you normally would just walk away from. They never bothered gods but they always ate humans. You were human and one that seemed to have a high spiritual power, thus they were attracted to you. It was only until you released the seal you had put on yourself a little that the monsters realized their mistake. But the realization was too late.

With three more talismans, you conjured up the fire spell and threw them. Yes, it was a forest and yes it was prone to catching on fire. But what other choice did you have?

Fortunately, none of the trees caught fire and only the monsters did. Once there was a thin sprinkle of monster ash all around the area, you released the protection spell and the men stumbled forward.

“It’s best if you go back,” you advised calmly.

“Go...go back? Alone? What if the monsters—”

“There won’t be any. If you leave, they won’t attack you. They’re concentrated on this area and since they’ve received a warning already, nothing will happen to you if you turn back now.”

There was a moment of deliberation. Or pretended deliberation. As soon as the word “now” left your lips, several men had already started leaving and the rest only hurriedly followed. You let out a sigh. Of course, heroes were plentiful like trees in the forest up in Heaven, but on Earth? Thinking about accidentally running into a hero now made you laugh. A ridiculous idea.

You let out a sigh and continued onward, your sword held to your side. It was just then that there was a commotion to your left. At first, you thought that the humans had returned but to your horror it was more of those low-level monsters. A wall of them to be exact, crawling all over each other to get to you. What was happening? Weren’t they supposed to be afraid of gods?

You braced yourself but all movement stopped at the strum of four strings…four strings? Why would there be strumming in the middle of the forest?

You and your enemies halted—stupefied by the sudden, haunting sound. Each individual string was plucked and you suddenly recognized the sound. It was the sound of the guqin. Was it Minghao coming to your rescue? No, he specialized in flute playing. Aside from that, he wouldn’t be able to be here because of the meeting. Then…

As you searched your brain for who could possibly be lending a helping hand, you watched as the leaves swirled around your feet, piercing a few of the monsters. You heard a distant howling but it was not the howling of wolves. You looked back to the monsters. Their eyes squinted and their faces scrunched, they screeched in anger and displeasure.

The guqin’s sound grew louder until it echoed, like the monsters’ screeches had previously. You frowned and circled around, hand tight around the hilt of your sword as you searched for the source of the music. Detering monsters from interacting with you was one thing but frightening them into retracting was completely another.

The high-pitched howling sounds only grew in number and you turned back to watch the monsters slowly shrink away. In their milky eyes, you saw confusion but also fear. A copious amount of fear. That sent shivers down your spine. These monsters were supposed to be brainless—they only struck and ate and grew but now they were afraid? Who was the person playing the guqin?

The monsters retreated further until you could barely hear their whimpering screeches. You turned around a few more times, finally finding the source of the sound. But as soon as you laid eyes on this figure, it disappeared. A swirl of leaves replaced where they had been standing and the forest was quiet again.

~~~

(A/N: check out the description or the thb ff tag on my blog for new chapters!)

[k-renne]

soft vampire paterson hc’s as promised! 

tagging: @thecurlycaptain, @oh-adam, @dreamboatdriver, @damagedren, @autumnlovesadam, @taylovren

Paterson never imagined that he’d be a vampire, and that he would hate so much the monster that he would eventually become.

When he realized what he was, and that there was no changing it, he resolved himself to one aim and that was to not hurt people. Of course, that was virtually impossible and it made him isolate himself in all sorts of ways

He worked the graveyard shift for his bus, finding his meals in the folks that rode his bus. Afterwards to his victims his late night feeding would be nothing but a strange dream.

He missed the sun, but anything out in direct sunlight left him with painful burns. He became a man of the night, though he still enjoyed those cloudy days where he could go outside.

Poetry was his one solace, his outlet. It gave him the humanity that he so dearly wished for, he spilled his heart onto paper, his soul spelled out in inky letters. Though he did talk to the patrons of his bus and people occasionally in town, each interaction felt hollow, reminding him that he didn’t belong in this world.

He often wondered about his own soul, if he still had one, if he could still love. He hoped so, as much as he shouldn’t, he longed for a companion to bring a warmth into his life that he missed so dearly.

You were a regular on his bus, taking it to work on your way to your night shifts at the hospital. You always would smile at Paterson, and just that alone would inspire words in his head that he had to write down later.

To him, you smelled so good - too good, he wanted to devour you. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t hurt you - he didn’t want to make you feel fear in any way. No, you were too precious. He never wanted to show you that side of him.

But now Paterson is starving, he’s way past being due for a feeding, but you’ve been coming on his bus so regularly that he hasn’t had a chance. And a part of you makes him want to suppress his appetite, to be human again. He even tries eating real food, but of course that just makes him very sick

Being a nurse, you take notice that Paterson is looking a lot paler than normal, and with your compassion for people and him you want to help. “Paterson, are you alright? You’ve been looking very pale lately.” You ask him, concern in your soft voice before you get off for your stop.

Paterson is taken aback by your concern, and it just makes him want to love you right there, press his nose against your neck and taste your sweet sweet-NO! “I’m fine,” He says, but weakly, he turns his face away from you as he feels his fangs making an unwanted appearance. His hands trembling just slightly

“Okay, but please, call me if you ever need help,” You hand him your business card. He chokes up seeing it...because he doesn’t have a phone. It’s for the best, he thinks. That way he won’t be tempted to call you and confess the way his heart beats desperately for you, feelings always threatening to spill over

He’s always admired you on his bus, checking on you in the mirror and sighing at your sweet face. It gives him the desire to touch, to hold, to kiss - so much so that he clutches his pillow ever so tightly as he sleeps, burying his face in the soft fabric in a feeble attempt to replicate a body

It gets to be too much one day, and overcome with hunger Paterson makes his way to the local hospital. The one that you subsequently work at. You find him there, rummaging through a supply closet in panic and you call his name, “Paterson! Are you alright?”

Worried you go over to him, but he’s turned away from you, the scent of your blood singing to him and bringing out his very vampiric nature. He’s shaking as he tries to keep control, “Please, leave-I don’t want to hurt you,” He begs you.

“Oh Paterson, you won’t hurt me. You need help, please let me help you.” You place a gentle hand on his shoulder and that breaks him. Suddenly he spins around, revealing his true nature. The way his stands, the way he towers over you is all too predatory, and you can see his fangs poking over his lips. But what shocks you most is how much fear is in those dark brown eyes of his - now almost black with how dilated his pupils are.

Vampires, though not completely unheard of, where incredibly rare to come into contact with in society. Years ago, they were hunted to pretty much extinction, and for sweet Paterson to deal with this affliction made your heart ache. You knew you had to help him.

“You must be starving then, that’s why you came here,” You place your hand on his cheek and he immediately leans into your touch, huffing as he tries to control himself.

He grabs your wrist in the gentlest hold, cold fingers curling around it. “Please, go,” His eyes are filled with so much sadness tears threaten to spill over.

“No.  Take me,” You shake your head, and then offer your neck to him.

Paterson begins to babble on a list of reasons just why he cannot do that, but you’re determined to help and unafraid. “Please go-I can’t, no I can’t hurt you, I’m so hungry. What if I take too much? What if-”

“Shhh, just think of it like I’m you’re donor, I trust you not to take too much.” With your closeness and your sweet sweet blood singing to his empty soul Paterson finally gives in to his needs. He’s gentle with you, brushing his hand over the skin of your neck and shuddering at the feel of your major pulse points. 

He savors how you feel before taking a taste, nuzzling your neck as he braces on hand on your waist and the opposite on your shoulder. His teeth pierce your skin but it doesn’t hurt, and the moan that Paterson makes just oozes sensuality.

You can feel his hunger in how hard he sucks, but he keeps it quick, even if he knows he could take much more from you. “I’m sorry-I’m so sorry,” He keeps apologizing after. Now in a state of bliss from your sweetness he’s kissing your neck, sealing his mark, thanking you for your kindness.

You’d never expect it to feel so good, but it does, and the way that his tongue just lathes over the mark makes you putty in his hold. You would have never expected Paterson to be so sensual, and it makes you want to see more of that side of him

You thread your hands through his soft hair and he just purrs, nose pressing against your skin in agreement. “Thank you, you’re so sweet, a sweet precious thing,” He murmurs.

When he pulls away he has a lazy smile on his face, and you’re happy to see color return to his face, making his cheeks nice and rosy.

“You’re so beautiful,” He just stares at you in awe, shaking his head in disbelief. Right now he just wants to take you home, make love to you and have his sheets stained with your heavenly scent. And then afterwards hold you, as you sleep the day away with him

As Paterson takes you home you tell him that he can do that again if he needs to, you hate seeing him so sick and you know he has a good heart. Losing a little blood like that wasn’t going to kill you.

He starts to leave you little anonymous gifts, love poems from a secret admirer and always flowers, somehow you just know its him. Or at least, you like to think it is. You don’t miss the little smiles he’s started to give back to you.

Paterson becomes your lover first, as both of you become consumed by your passion. He showers you with kisses and affection in the morning after work, his shades drawn but candles littered around the room so he can still see the beautiful woman he’s worshiping.

He’s always very gentle, purposeful, making sure never to hurt you with his fangs or his strength. Though sometimes, when he’s feeling playful he will nip at you. And he does like to leave marks on hidden places over your body, he’s particularly a fan of the soft skin of your inner thighs.

You’re everything to him, and you bring wholeness into his life that he never had even when he was human. Paterson loves you so much, his beloved, his future wife. You answer his greatest question, a Vampire can love.

[ehstarwar]

a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves (7/8)

“You’re needed at the office.”

Five short words accompanied by a dial tone that made Ben’s blood pressure spike. It sent him in such a rage, which the leather interior of his car paid the price for. A rage that hadn’t at all calmed, but rather sizzled under a cool exterior that Ben had been mastering controlling ever since he presented.

-

Ben deals with the interruption that allowed Rey to slip from him.

-

Rating: Explicit 

Word Count: 2K

Read on AO3

A/N: ....... hi guys. so, so sorry this took so long. life got in the way of fandom which is honestly just so rude of her. but real life has now been thwarted and can return to the hell-hole in which it amended from. thank you so much to everyone who's kudos and commented. i would literally d word for you. plz enjoy!

chapter 7: they stumble that run fast

-

Ben has his fists clenched by his sides as he marches into the building. It’s late, but there are still plenty of people working; that First Order for you. If they don’t work you to death, they’ll hire someone to see it through. 

Ben has never particularly liked his job. But liking something wasn’t a criteria Ben considered when entering the work force. If Ben only ever did things he liked, there’s a strong chance he wouldn’t have survived this long. So he continued on with a job he didn’t like, surrounded by people he didn’t care for, doing things that didn’t particularly matter to him. It suited him; it was fine.

Until now.

Ben wants to burn First Order to the ground. He wants the entire board of directors to be nothing but particles floating away in the air. He was Alister Snoke thrown off the highest cliff on Earth, and reduced to nothing but molecules that will be sucked into space. 

Snoke had the audacity to call when he did, throwing Ben off his game when he should have begged Rey to say. He should have told her that he loves her and that not mating her was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do and that the incoherent babbling of their picturesque lives together will be the only thing that could make living bearable any more. 

But Snoke interrupted him, with a cataclysmic timing that makes Ben paranoid he really is bugging his car, and sent Ben into such a rage that going after his omega would have been… less than ideal.

Ben’s heavy footsteps echo thought the dark halls, lit only by the few ceiling lights still shining. The hallways is long on the best of days, but right now it’s never ending. It gives Ben more time to stew in his own mind.

“You’re needed at the office.” 

Five short words accompanied by a dial tone that made Ben’s blood pressure spike. It sent him in such a rage, which the leather interior of his car paid the price for. A rage that hadn’t at all calmed, but rather sizzled under a cool exterior that Ben had been mastering controlling ever since he presented. 

Ben yanked the doors to his boss’s office open, not at all caring for any sense of decorum. Snoke was behind a sleek desk, piled with papers and office supplies and absolutely no personal touches whatsoever. Ben honestly doubts Snoke had a life beyond work and he had done nothing to the contrary.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, calling me after hours, saying nothing of use only commanding me to-”

“Six days.”

The gravely, sodden voice speaks. It’s commanding, sure, but weak. To make matters worse, Snoke hasn’t even looked up from his desk. His work never ceases, even when berating Ben.

“You went on…”heat leave” for six days with only a text to your assistant as a warning.” Ben steels himself against the floor, willing himself not to charge at him like he so desperately wants. “Do you have any idea what has been left in your absence? Of the missed opportunities? The board is hunting for blood,” Only then does Snoke raise his gaze to meet Ben’s.

“Heat leave is federally required for all employers to extend. You’re lucky I warned anyone at all,” Ben says through clenched teeth. Snoke scoffs.

“All this… designation business. It’s pathetic. You want society to treat you like an equal and yet give you a hand to hold when you ask for it. And you’re not even the worst of it. Fucking omegas and their pathetic whining. At least Alphas act like they have something to prove other than to be bread and coddled.”

Ben’s nails bite into his skin as he hold his fist down. A warm drop of blood snakes its way down his pointer finger. 

“If you’re done insulting my designation now, I’d like to go clean my office out.” This makes Snoke’s whole body snap up to look at him.

“…You can’t be serious,” Is all he says.

“I am.”

Snoke rolls his eyes, and looks back towards his work. 

“You quit now, and everything you’ve ever worked for, everything you’ve ever desired, will be gone. The opportunities, the status; you’ll be reduced to the same knot-headed child your mother was never able to outgrow. All for some omega with a tight cunt. You’ll be the worst version of yourself, young Solo.”

“No,” Ben starts, “The worst version of myself is whoever I am when you’re involved.”

Ben doesn’t wait for another retort before he whirls around and leaves as quickly as he came.

-

Tap. Tap. Tap. “…Rey?”

Rose’s voice is full of concern as she stands outside her bedroom door. Rey doesn’t respond. She just burrows further into her cocoon of blankets and tries to keep the early morning light out of her eyes. 

She appreciates Rose’s concern, really, but it’s too much right now. Rey can’t concern herself with what her friends think of her when all she really wants to do is crawl back to Ben. The opportunity she took in the car, escaping him while he was distracted, was a vain attempt at something she now knows as fruitless.

She’d called him a good friend. A friend. Not boyfriend. Not mate. A friend. 

It sounds awful even to her own ears.

Half of her wondered why. Why would you call him that? Why would you leave him? Why would you rebuke the best thing that has ever happened in your life? But the other half of her knew why. It’s the same reason he’d driven her back to her apartment. The same reason that they’d been friends for god knows how long without it ever becoming more. The same reason Ben hadn’t gone after her. 

When Rey had arrived home, to a shocked Rose preparing dinner, and quickly said something about ‘still coming down from that heat high’ and promptly gone to her still-destroyed room, she’d known she wasn’t okay. Now, hours later, it was somehow worse.

Rey heard the gentle padding of Rose’s feet move away from her door as a fresh wave of tears flooded her eyes.

Go back to Alpha. Alpha will understand. Alpha will welcome you back. Alpha will mate you, fuck you, give you strong pups, hold you, be with you. Go back to Alpha.

Rey bit her pillow, willing her hindbrain to just stop. 

(Like many things in her life, Rey was unsuccessful in her pursuit.)

There had been a faint twinge of a scent of Ben when she’d first come back. Rey attributes it to that first night, only a few days but a lifetime ago, when Ben had come back with Rey to her apartment to get things for her nest. She can still picture him, on his knees, face smashed into her dirty, slick-stains sheets, breathing it in like his life depended on it. 

There a bag of sheets, still smelling like Ben, in the living room calling out to her, but that would mean getting up, potentially facing Rose, and having to tackle a new world head on. She wasn’t ready for that yet. 

Right now, all Rey wanted was to fall asleep and dream of Ben and their almost-life together, if she hadn’t been such a fuck up.

She tries to remember him, his scent, the way his hair falls in his face when he’s above her, how he manages to make any item look bite-sized in his massive hand, how he can explain something to her without mansplaining it, the way his lips aways betray his pokerface, how he’s never even given Rey the opportunity to pay for anything when he’s around, his ability to always answer the phone before the third ring; how much she loved him even before all… this. 

She imagines so well, that her brain starts to pretend that his scent is getting stronger. Like, somehow his face rolling around above her mattress had somehow garnered enough of his scent to make it seem like Ben himself was coming closer. 

It was a cruel, ill-fated trick that made Rey want to vomit. 

Stronger and stronger it grew, until Rey had to lift her head up because she was getting dizzy off her own brain’s torture. But the moment she lifted her head, she knew. 

Ben’s scent was getting stronger because he was getting closer. 

Without a second thought, Rey ripped herself from her bed and thew herself out of her room and into the living area. Rose was facing away from her, standing in the doorway to let in a very disheveled looking Ben. 

Rey froze. 

Ben entered the room just as Rose left it, seemingly knowing that they needed to be alone. Rey stood, still only a foot away from her door, and Ben mirrored her.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave,” He says, by way of introduction. Rey remains silent. “I should’ve come after you, but I got so angry with Snoke that if I’d gone after you, I could’ve hurt you.”

His lips tremble as he speaks, but his eyes shine with determination. 

“I went back to the office, because he called me, and I quit. Right then and there. I quit and Snoke told me that I was turning my back on the best version of myself, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.”

He takes a step towards her. 

“The best version of myself is not the Ben that keeps working for a blood-sucking mummy and agrees to remain friends with the the most amazing woman that’s ever existed. It’s not the guy who lets you go without telling you how he feels.”

He takes a deep breath and another step.

“The best version of me is the one with you. It’s the one where I tell you that I’ve had feelings for you since we first met. How much I wanted you but was so afraid that telling you meant loosing you and that wasn’t an option for me. The one where I tell you I love you and that not mating you this past week is a wound that I’m not sure will ever heal. But I won’t let it happen again during your next heat. Because between now and then I’m going to take you out on dates and court you properly, give you anything you could ever want so that the next time you ask me to bite you, it’ll be because you want it. Not just your omega.”

He’s inches away from her now.

“I love you, Rey. I want to spend ever heat with you. I want to mate you, to have children with you, to take you to horribly awkward family dinners where we’ll escape to go fuck in the pantry. I want to be there for you as we both find new jobs with new employers who respect us and our designations and support us when we need to leave for biological necessities. I want to be that disgusting mated couple that constantly smell like sex and spring. I want you, Rey.”

Rey throws herself at Ben. He catches, her of course.

His mouth is on hers and they’re kissing for dear life, holding onto each other with such a possessiveness that Rey isn’t sure they’ll ever part. She doesn’t mind one bit. His hands hold her, wrapping around her stomach, and her’s are tangled in his hair. She knows her breath stinks and that she’s still wearing the same clothes he dropped her off in. But Ben doesn’t seem deterred by that, so neither will she.

The kiss is intense and fast, but it feels like coming home.

When they finally break for air, and rest their foreheads together, Rey knows that everything that’s happened, her shitty childhood, his shitty job, her shitty insurance, his shitty boss, all lead her to right here. She is so, so eternally grateful.

“I love you, too, Ben. I don’t think I said that before.” Her breathing is heavy and so is his, but that doesn’t stop him from leaning down for a quick peck. 

“You didn’t; but I’d very much like to hear you say it again.”

“Then I will, hopefully forever.”

-

come say hi on twitter!

[kansascityhappenings]

She used to scrub toilets for $9 an hour. Now her book about it is a best-seller

https://embed-prod.vemba.io/vemba-embed.js

MISSOULA, Mont. — Five years ago, Stephanie Land was slumped over on her hands and knees scrubbing a bathtub. The single mom was a semester away from graduating college and pregnant with a second child.

She was broke. People cautioned her against it. But she decided to quit her job as a house cleaner and go all in on her studies with the hope of becoming a freelance writer after graduation.

“It was incredibly difficult to turn my back on paid work and have faith that my dream would pay off,” she said.

It did. The former cleaning woman has written a rags-to-riches story that’s long on rags before finally offering a hint of riches.

Her memoir about her years cleaning houses, “Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay and a Mother’s Will to Survive,” debuted two weeks ago at #3 on The New York Times nonfiction best-seller list.

The book is an illuminating window into the mundane, low-paid service work that much of America never notices or chooses to ignore.

And now, after years of grueling poverty, its sudden success is changing Land’s life.

She was on a plane last month when her book made The New York Times’ list.

“As soon as I landed, I got a huge amount of texts,” she told CNN. As the plane was taxiing to the gate, she broke down crying.

She put herself through college by cleaning houses

“Maid” begins in Land’s late twenties, when she was living in a homeless shelter with her infant daughter. One excruciating early scene describes Land’s mother flying in from Europe with her husband to help her daughter move from the shelter into a transitional apartment. Land wrote that her mother refused to even buy her lunch, forcing her to pay $10.59 for a burger — “twenty-eight cents less than what I had in my bank account.”

A later scene shows Land having a falling out with her father, with whom she and Mia were staying.

For more than a decade, she’d nursed a dream of becoming a real writer, quietly scribbling away with reddened eyes and a cup of coffee late at night after her daughter Mia had drifted off. She’d become a mother at 28, but lost the support of her family. Cleaning became about the only job she could find without a college degree in the small town where she lived near Seattle.

On her own, without financial support, Land often relied on government assistance programs. In addition to the indignity of being poor, she said even providing the documentation to prove she actually was poor became exhausting in itself.

“You’re having to prove again and again that you’re doing what you say you’re doing,” she said.

Land enrolled in the University of Montana’s creative writing program because of the school’s reputation for launching authors’ careers.

But between cleaning houses and caring for her daughter, Land was a thirtysomething student who didn’t get invited to many parties with her fellow English majors.

“They were all writing about their year abroad and I was writing about cleaning toilets,” she said.

After earning her English degree in 2014, Land finally began to put food on the table with her pen instead of a mop. She became a writing fellow with the Washington, DC-based Center for Community Change. An essay in Vox, in which she dished on all the prescription painkillers she found in the mansions she cleaned, went viral and led to bylines in the New York Times, Washington Post, and other news outlets.

But clicks on her articles didn’t always mean dollars in her bank account.

Land was still struggling when she landed a publishing contract and received her book advance in late 2016. She still had $50,000 in student loan debt and $20,000 in maxed-out credit cards, but she finally gained some breathing room to focus on expenses beyond just basic necessities for herself and her two girls — such as seeing a chiropractor for a case of scoliosis that had worsened through years of scrubbing stains out of carpets.

And she bought the nicest car she’d owned in years: a 2006 Subaru. Even now, though, she said, “I haven’t been to the dentist in years.”

Now her fans include author Neil Gaiman

“Maid” landed high on the Times’ best-seller list, between memoirs by former first lady Michelle Obama and Senator Kamala Harris, who is running for president. Her publisher’s office “was jumping up and partying and hugging” when they got the news, Land said.

Amazon named “Maid” one of its best books for January. Barnes and Noble has the book on its recommended list for February. And author Neil Gaiman has praised her book on Twitter. Land named her younger daughter Coraline after Gaiman’s book of the same name.

Land’s book comes as director Alfonso Cuaron’s “Roma,” a film told from the point of view of a young Mexican housekeeper, is up for 10 Academy Awards, including best picture. Both take a working-class character who’s often on the margins of society and give her a leading role.

Land has been traveling around the US the past couple weeks speaking about her story. She reads sections of her book describing how her exhaustion as a mother, a maid, and a student defy the misconception some have that welfare recipients are lazy.

One fan, who lives the same meager existence Land knew for so long, splurged for an $18 train ticket to see the woman who had written herself out of poverty.

“I just took a train for two hours to see you. I blew my budget for the day,” the woman wrote in a handwritten note she gave to Land. “And from what I read, I know you understand what it’s like to have a daily budget.”

Land has been writing for broad audiences for the last few years, and her hard lessons about poverty didn’t always land softly.

“Most of the responses have been from white men trolling me on the internet,” she said.

But things feel different this time.

“I’m surprised that people really are seeing how hard it is to get on public assistance and to get off of it,” she said. She is mindful of how hard it can be to earn a living, citing the federal employees working paycheck to paycheck who lined up at food banks during the government shutdown.

“I think (the book) tells the stories of our times.”

And Land is speaking out about poverty

Land says a long list of grants, loans, and assistance programs helped her and her family eventually climb out of poverty. But she found these programs could constrain recipients as much as empower them.

Her book describes how meeting government assistance programs’ work requirements while taking college classes and raising her daughter was a constant, near-impossible balancing act. If the government is going to ask for work requirements, they should let college credit hours count for that, she says now.

“My job offered no sick pay, no vacation days, no foreseeable increase in wage, yet through it all, still I begged to work more,” Land wrote in the book. “Wages lost from missed work hours could rarely be made up, and if I missed too many I risked being fired. My car’s reliability was vital, since a broken hose, a faulty thermostat, or even a flat tire could throw us off, knock us backward, send us teetering, falling back, toward homelessness.

Some leaders are pushing to alleviate the hardships “Maid” portrays.

Sen. Kamala Harris is pushing a Domestic Workers Bill of Rights that would support those who work as nannies, house cleaners, home health nurses and similar jobs.

The proposed legislation would introduce federal requirements for domestic workers to receive many of the same benefits routinely expected in other professions, including paid sick days, affordable health care and retirement savings, rest breaks, and fair scheduling practices.

And next month Land is slated to speak on a panel about poverty alongside major progressive public policy figures in Washington as part of an event organized by the Center for Community Change, the same group that first offered her a writing fellowship.

She did it all without a man

Today Land, 40, lives in Missoula, Montana, with her two daughters: Mia, 11, and Coraline, 4.

The girls’ fathers aren’t much involved in their daughters’ lives. Land married another man in 2017, but she said her husband was abusive, and their partnership was brief.

Now she is adjusting to the life of a literary star, even if she doesn’t feel like one.

“I’m not a literary writer. I tell it very plainly, like it is,” Land said. She admires the sparse, meaning-laden sentences of Ernest Hemingway, who advised, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

She followed that admonition in Maid’s first line: “My daughter learned to walk in a homeless shelter.”

As she mapped out her memoir, she turned to heroes like John Steinbeck and Kurt Vonnegut and scoured breakout memoirs from contemporary female writers like Cheryl Strayed, author of “Wild.”

In the months to come Land plans to work as a public speaker and mentor low-income writers. Once she catches her breath, she’ll start thinking about another book.

Land says she chose a “hero’s journey” structure for “Maid’s” narrative, believing that memoirists should “show growth and that you’ve learned something about yourself.”

But the single mom also introduced her own modern twist: “I wanted to do it without a man at the end.”

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/2019/02/18/she-used-to-scrub-toilets-for-9-an-hour-now-her-book-about-it-is-a-best-seller/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2019/02/18/she-used-to-scrub-toilets-for-9-an-hour-now-her-book-about-it-is-a-best-seller/