#like. to be clear - Black Sails is NOT perfect by any means

[starbuck]

sometimes you read analysis that makes you want to tell the person to go watch Black Sails and then revise.

[ratuszarsenal]

clearing out my writing folder rn, some wips under the cut because I haven't finished anything in ages but need to externalise some of it

character study of a very lonely 400-year old guy, london c. 1660

William had come to refer to the days spent in his master's village as his childhood, even though he left it well into his adult years. That childhood, no matter how padded with his early twenties, was being stretched very thin when compared to the host of centuries that followed. William not so much missed his family, as the fact that he had had one. That before the curse, before Edward, he was just another fleshy, screaming infant. It never became less of a chore to breathe, but it is a rule of life that you can only scream that very first time. William was not spared the passage of time - he was abandoned by it.

Back in his childhood, he paid close attention to smells, because they threaded the difference between a good meal and a slow death; between a beautiful person and a person who looked beautiful at a distance; between a dying body and a body ready to be buried. As time went on, meals gained more flavour and deaths became quicker. These days he only afforded any thoughts to smell when it was on his own fingers. These days, it was mostly brass, snuff and ginger; smelted, manufactured, imported. These were scents untied to any one time. They were constant and constantly late - their conception divorced from their use by months spent in ships' hauls and merchants' carts. William felt similarly orphaned.

---

from what is basically a fantasy story stylised to be the English translation of an in-universe historical novel stylised to be a real (fictional) guy's real memoirs from the period.

Now, I owe the reader a very brief treatment on the significance of ink. [...] Red is a scribe’s way of hastening – not so much of the addressee, but the postman; for if one sees words in crimson, one can be sure that they may soon become old news, or untrue, or cease to be of importance – ‘This is a matter which lives and dies, and quicker than you think.’ On black ink, I will not dwell, for it is only a more expensive version of the common brown. [...] Often times, however, clerks of Orieu could predict and orient themselves further in the motions of international trade, by the few instances when their glassy, black ink would suddenly turn a foul-smelling violet – this was inferred to mean the shellfish shipments were delayed or withdrawn, and the scribes would then be supplied with vulgar plant pigments native to that country. In fact, remembering which years I know to have been lean, I prided myself on being able to track their accounts to the right drawer, by nose only. That Orieuan flower-ink has a truly rank odour, but some credit must be paid here to my nose; [he goes on like this for a while]

---

black sails ff, selkie!flint AU

James McGraw had always had two skins. One of them he showed to the world, keeping his dark-red hair in a perfect queue, keeping his back straight, his hands occupied. The other was kept in a sea-chest with three locks; and a chain for good measure. [...]

"I know your kind," he told James over a waning candle and eel pie. "The sea chooses her men. We all hear that call. But you - you are of it. You, she will not let go. I fear for your soul, lad. I fear for you."

And then he told the story of another man who crawled from the sea, just to return not one drink later. Darby McGraw spoke it like a parable, hopeful that his grandson would see that there is nothing waiting for him by the water and seek redemption from his nature on land. James decided that if the sea had chosen him, there was no good reason to keep her waiting.

---

novel stylised to be a travel memoir, nondescript time period

Miasto, gdy zdrowe, nie zwraca uwagi na twoją obecność, jego oczy są rozproszone pomiędzy wszystkimi drzewami i kawałkami bruku, wszystkimi okruchami i falbanami dachów. Ale miasto, gdy spalone, zyskuje przedziwny wampirzy charakter - nagle stojąc między ziejącymi szczątkami budynków, czujesz jak coś skupia się na tobie. Żąda czegoś od ciebie. Skruszone cegły i czarne żebra dachów są widokiem tak makabrycznym, że nie możesz odwrócić od nich wzroku; nie możesz odmówić.

Miasto podtopione jest inne. Nie umiera. Po szoku pierwszego wylewu, woda staje się jego częścią. Wszędobylski, srebrno-brązowy wykwit męczy kamień, materię miasta jak infekcja, której nie można się pozbyć. Ale miasto nie umrze od powodzi. Najwyżej zgnije, wciąż oddychając przez spleśniałe arterie. Gdy wiatr poruszał strumienie wody powodziowej biegnące wzdłuż ulic, czułam jak puls ten rozchodzi się tępym bólem po całej okolicy.

[scribbleseas]

The Indignant Pawn, Chapter XVII: The Inevitable Equalizer

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, kissing

CHAPTER WARNING: suicidal ideation, drug dealing, mentions of overdose, drugs, there’s debate as to whether drug abuse is the fault of the dealer or the individual, mentions of murder, detailed gore

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! Second to last chapter...how are we feeling? I’m so happy to have gotten this out for you, even if it was a little later than planned. This chapter was hard to perfect, and I’m very proud of it! Don’t hesitate to let me know how you feel about it. Another quick two notes: 1. MC’s views do not reflect my own & 2. I opened commissions! If you really like how I do things, have an idea you’ve always wanted to see on screen, and the financial means, maybe consider sending a request! I would seriously appreciate it, and it would really help me out. 

As always,

Happy Reading!

- Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢  

MASTERLIST  

. . . 

MAY 7TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“You are rather terrible at this,” Ciel noted, watching Y/n shift her croquet mallet to find a better angle. She opted for the red and yellow set of balls; she had aimed poorly throughout the game, making them painfully strewn about the garden. Meanwhile, Ciel hit his set concisely through the hoops, with a marksman’s precision. His blue and black balls consistently sailed through the course. It was clear that he was the victor in this game.

Sebastian taught him how to play properly since many betting men liked to stake claims on their prowess with a wooden mallet. Ciel wasn’t ashamed to admit that he closed one or two business deals based on the stakes of such a game. Humans were overconfident creatures, and it was a fault he would exploit in any way he could.

“Unlike you, I have not had the leisure to spend my time perfecting my proficiency in childish garden games,” Y/n replied instantaneously, a terrible loser. Ciel was an even worse winner, much in the same way she liked to gloat when besting him at draughts. They made fierce competition for one another, nearly equal in every aspect that was important, yet immensely unbalanced when it came to useless skills: croquet and board games.

“I’m not sure I would consider hitting a ball through a checkpoint proficient,” Ciel replied, confidently crossing his arms across his chest as he watched her aim her next turn. He squinted, the bright spring sun shining on the fresh garden. It caused a bit of sweat to bead in his hairline. The warm weather was a light at the end of a bitter winter, enriching his fiancée, as well. Y/n looked polished, yet attractively unsophisticated in her white linen dress. It was short, hardly falling past her kneecaps. 

With a frustrated exclamation, she hit the ball into the hoop’s thin leg, bouncing off the cast iron. It bounced down the cobblestone trail and into the bushes, causing Carl to sprint after it energetically. 

“Case in point,” with a nod, Ciel gestured to the dog as he crawled under the bushes and blindly swept with his paw in search of the fugitive ball. 

“I did aim, though I’m not sure how much smaller these bloody hoops can be before they’re too small to let the ball through them!” she protested.

“Right,” Ciel arched his eyebrow in an incredulous look before turning his attention to his mallet and the ball. After a brief moment of angling his hold, he gave the ball a sensible hit, sending it flawlessly through the course’s last hoop. With a self-satisfied chuckle, Ciel turned his focus back to her. “They are small, I reckon.”

“Watch yourself, or I might have to angle my mallet flat into your skull,” Y/n threatened with no real malice. In a silent surrender, she let her mallet fall into the manicured grass, opting to crouch and scratch behind Carl’s ears instead. Even though he retrieved Y/n’s adlib ball, the dog seemed unsettled, his head craning towards the tree line.

A growl rumbled in Carl’s throat, though it wasn’t entirely intimidating, considering his head barely came up past Y/n’s shin. His sandy-brown hair was stained with rich dirt, causing Ciel to wrinkle his nose; though the thought of ordering his butler to bathe the creature was amusing enough to make up for it. 

Frowning, Y/n faced the same direction Carl’s ardent gaze pierced into, and sure enough, Sebastian emerged from that direction with a man in tow. The man cursed in Spanish, his hands bound behind his back as the demon pulled him by his lapel jacket. However, the moment his gaze landed on Y/n, he stopped fighting Sebastian. 

“Y/n! It is Diego! Tell him to let me go!” he insisted, stumbling over a loose piece of cobblestone. “Please! He ties so tight, I cannot feel my hands,” Diego complained, making a show of pain in his tight facial expression. 

“Your hands will survive, you dramatic fool,” Sebastian clicked his tongue, fastening the man to an outdoor chair in seconds. He left Diego’s satchel limp in the grass to his side. “Do relax, Miss Y/n, I have already taken the liberty of disarming our guest here,” the butler said, but that did little to calm her stance. Her mallet merely dipped as Carl sniffed around Diego’s bound legs, each one tied to the chair’s front counterparts. The dog picked a sunny spot in the grass once he was satisfied. 

“Why are you here, Diego?” Y/n insisted suspiciously, her attitude did nothing to quell Ciel’s disdain. He made no effort to keep the disgust out of his face, quickly noting the dirty, yet well-made, clothing Diego sported. He was a young man, he couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five. His skin looked gold in the sun, a contrast to his dark brown eyes and hair. 

“Who are you,” Ciel demanded before Diego could respond. Y/n already told him that Doña, her former benefactor, was Spanish. Diego was clearly of the same nationality, and she seemed suspicious of him, and Sebastian had to disarm him. He had been lurking in the forest. He was likely a subordinate of this… Doña.

“You mean, Y/n didn’t tell you about us while you were falling in love?” Diego batted his eyes sardonically. Surely, he would have clasped his hands if his wrists weren’t tied to each arm of the chair. “That is rude. Poor, poor manners the princess has.”

“Falling in love,” Y/n repeated with enough dubiousness to nearly convince Ciel that they were far from such a relationship. 

“The paper. In my bag,” Diego snapped, gesturing to the well-loved leather satchel to his side. Sure enough, he had an issue of The Daily Courant rolled up and shoved into it. The paper was wrinkled in Ciel’s hands, as if someone had held it angrily, crinkling the pristine print. The front page’s expanse was overcome with a photograph of himself and Y/n boarding the S.S Highness before they left for Italy— the issue dated back to April 28th.

The public heard word of their engagement while they were overseas. 

“What does it say?” Y/n demanded, abandoning her mallet in the grass yet again and leaning next to Ciel to read the headline:

New Royal Pair: Queen’s Granddaughter: Her Highness Princess Marie Louise and Lord of Phantomhive Spotted. Engaged?

The photograph was unmistakably them, arms intertwined. At the time, what was likely a brief look to the side of Ciel’s, was pictured as a long, loving look from Y/n. 

“Everyone on this damn continent knows. Doña knows, we know,” Diego added. “Do you see why I’ve come here now?” 

“I have no obligation to tell you anything. I stopped being a puppet for that woman the moment she sent a dozen gunmen to kill me,” Y/n seethed, ripping the newspaper out of Ciel’s grip. “Get him out of my sight,” she told Sebastian. 

“My Lord?” Sebastian questioned, never one to take orders from Y/n.

“I order you to—” Ciel started to comply.

“Hey, hey, hey. Whoa! Stop doing that, you strange devil-man!” Diego protested, shifting violently in his chair to angle his front towards Y/n. Sebastian’s glowing eyes frightened him, but the light was subtle enough for Y/n to assume it was from the spring sun. She knit her eyebrows together in confusion. “I come here to warn you. I have information. I cannot tell you what she’s planning if I am dead. Can I?”

Ciel frowned. Of course, a powerful figure from the Underworld would never let such a mortifying betrayal survive. “Forget it, Sebastian,” he sighed, rubbing his thumb and index finger into his forehead. In her hesitation to protest, he suspected Y/n felt the same way. 

“Why would you betray her?” Y/n asked, clearly not believing Diego’s defense. Ciel was hesitant as well. 

“Doña is family— our sister-in-law. When Phantomheave killed Manuel, we wanted to kill him right back for it,” Diego said pointedly, his scowl dark enough for Ciel to be thankful that Sebastian had him bound tightly to the chair. “Ojo por ojo, though it seems my Lord is down one of ‘em already.”

Manuel.

“But now…it has been too long, and Doña has grown too dark and obsessed. Me and Carmen and Andrea just want to return home. I am a good painter, Y/n, this is not my life. Manuel was supposed to manage the family business,” he continued. Under his vengeful exterior, he did look tired, like a man who couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, recognize his life. For years, Ciel felt the same way. Especially the first several years with Sebastian; he’d look into the mirror and see someone completely different. 

“We just want to be home,” the man said, “but Doña wants you— both of you— dead, no matter what happens to her. She is planning to intercept your wedding.”

The wedding location was so minimally disclosed that Ciel was uncertain about it. How could she have the means to find out? 

But Y/n seemed convinced. “How?”

“She will not say, I swear,” Diego swallowed with difficulty, shifting uncomfortably. His stare didn’t leave hers, though sweat rolled down his low hairline. “Please, Y/n. Without Carmen and me, she has no one in England. The rest of us are home, managing business.”

Business. 

Manuel, business, Spain. Manuel, business, Spain. Manuel, business, Spain. 

“What is this Doña’s real name?” Ciel demanded. The sudden intensity in his voice was enough to startle both Y/n and Diego, while Sebastian’s grin only deepened. The demon knew what was going on. He knew how Ciel was related to this woman, Manuel, Spain, and why she wanted him dead. That grin of his made a joke of his imperfect memory— thinking nothing of a simple mission for Her Majesty that took less than three days of his time. 

Ciel told Elizabeth it was a business trip to discuss textile exports. He brought back a gown for her, and Spanish wine for her family as if it had been a vacation of leisure. 

“I cannot betray my family more than I have. Though, surely you know, Ciel Phantomheave. You would truly be a sick bastard if you did not remember the family you slaughtered.”

Y/n paled, taking a step away out of surprise. He didn’t blame her. It sounded horrific. The memory was more graphic than most missions. Sebastian and himself killed everyone that passed... all except for one woman, who Ciel found in the leader’s study, cradling the dead body of a man in her lap. Sebastian left a bullet precisely between his eyes. 

“Shall we finish this one, too?” Sebastian had asked him, approaching from behind. 

“No. We’re finished here.”

“Master?” 

“Look at her. She could not possibly rally now.”

Apparently, Ciel had been wrong about that. 

“What does he mean?” Y/n asked, looking every bit as queasy as the moment after she met her family and sicked every bite of her breakfast into Buckingham Palace’s shrubbery. 

Ciel took a sharp breath in, “I will not repent for harm that was just in its end. If you’ve come here searching for an apology, then I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed.” His voice came out steadier than he would have expected, given that he was the subject of such an unfiltered look of pain and confusion on Y/n’s face. 

For a moment, Diego looked as if he might curse Ciel out for his indifference, or sob over the loss of his family. But instead, he pursed his lips and retrained his gaze on Y/n, too hurt to continue looking at Ciel after such a blunt response. He tried his best to look detached, scarcely maintaining his composure.

“Y/n, I ask for the means to return home in exchange for this information. This man has claimed the soul of my entire family — and Doña’s. He will not have ours,” he said. 

“Mariana’s soul,” Ciel corrected. He had to have confirmation that it was his pity, his rare show of mercy, that put him in these circumstances. “That’s her name, is it not?”

“…It is,” Diego admitted hesitantly, still refusing to look at him. There was a new note of respect in his voice, less aggressive than when he presumed Ciel had forgotten about the family entirely.  “Manuel was her husband, me and Carmen’s brother.”

“Release him, Sebastian,” Y/n ordered after a halting pause, her nimble fingers quickly unclasping her earrings. They were teardrop diamonds set in gold, an engagement gift sent from her Uncle Edward and Aunt Alexandra. The Prince of Wales and Princess of Denmark, respectively. The heirs to Her Majesty’s throne.  

Those earrings sat between the flesh of generations of royalty, and Y/n unclasped them and offered them in her palm without a semblance of hesitance. When she refastened the stoppers on the back of the earrings, she repeated herself: “untie him, Sebastian.”

“Unfortunately, I take exclusive orders from my Lord, Miss Y/n. Forgive me,” Sebastian replied without a hint of apology. He was awaiting Ciel’s response, trying to predict which would win: his affection for Y/n or his pride.

“Ciel,” Y/n’s stare pried into the side of his head. “He wants to go back to Spain with his sister. You killed the rest of their—”

“His family was made of drug dealers, responsible for the overdoses of potentially dozens of English li—” he started to explain.

“Drug dealers coerce no one to take the drugs that cause overdose,” Y/n fired back incredulously, crossing her arms over her chest. She wanted Ciel to release Diego; therefore, she expected Ciel to release Diego. Sometimes Ciel wondered if she still thought herself a royal in their dynamic. 

“They supply it!” Ciel replied.

“The individual decides to take their supply! It’s a business! It is not the same as pulling a trigger and murdering like you did them.”

Sebastian observed the argument with the same amusement he would watch a sparring match. Diego seemed interested in expecting his boots, all too calm considering they were debating his future.

Y/n continued breathlessly, “Diego risked his life to come here and warn us today. We can make preparations against her now. Our wedding can be safe from her because of him. What will you do, otherwise? Kill him too? Make her more determined to kill us? You don’t wish to give him your money? Fine! I can fund their way. All you stand to sacrifice is your pride.” Her face was red.

Sensing the growing tension, Carl picked up from the sunny patch in the grass and whined, rubbing against Y/n’s dress. At least Ciel knew which side their dog was on. 

There was no reason for Ciel to kill Diego beyond wetting his own thirst for blood and self-righteousness. His morality wouldn’t let him kill uselessly, particularly when the man provided him with invaluable insight that could save the woman he was rather fond of, himself, and a significant day for both of their lives. Their wedding was a day that needed to go flawlessly, and the forewarning gave them time to make the preparations to ensure it.

His resolve melted, and judging by the way Sebastian’s smile fell, he sensed it as well. 

“Let him go,” Ciel said. “That is an order.”

Y/n released a long breath, watching Sebastian expertly undo the knotting around Diego’s limbs. The Spaniard cursed, rubbing at the red imprints the rope left in his skin. His movements lagged as he picked his satchel up and hung it over his shoulder. Sebastian returned his handgun.

“Take these,” Y/n said, offering the heirloom earrings. Just as Diego extended his hand obediently, Ciel interrupted.

“No, Her Majesty will notice if you stop wearing those. Sebastian, get him a cut of last week’s profits from the company. We wouldn’t want to have to explain to the Queen that you’ve given away a classic royal heirloom as a gift to a commoner,” he explained. 

“Consider this payment my reparations to you. Although I do not regret fulfilling the Queen’s wish— dispelling drug trade between Colombia and Britain — I will give you the means to move forward,” this was the best manner to proceed. At least it would take the target off his back, somewhat. Unless Diego was double-crossing him. That offense would have to result in death, no matter how Y/n pleaded with him.

“Thank you,” Diego nodded. “Y/n, I hope he makes you happy,” he tacked on, somewhat awkwardly. Naturally, he couldn’t fathom the idea of his family’s killer inadvertently romancing someone to the extent that they couldn’t kill him, abandoning their mission and lifestyle, altogether.

After all, being a princess was a full-time commitment. Surely, Y/n recalled that she could never return to the life she lived before stepping onto his estate. There was no feasible way for her to continue living the life she lived. 

“Thank you, Diego,” Y/n finished refastening her earrings. “Good luck, truly.”

“Come, I will show you the cut the Lord wishes to offer you,” Sebastian said, guiding Diego into the manor. The Spaniard sent Y/n one final wink before following the demon. 

The moment the two were out of earshot, Y/n faced Ciel once more. “To best prepare ourselves, we need to pool our knowledge. Tell me about her while we walk,” she motioned for him to follow. This was the trail that rounded the estate perimeter, weaving through the structures that were on the grounds; the guest house, main manor, stables, and conservatory. The sun had been at its peak during their game, and now it was beginning its descent for the early afternoon. 

“Fine,” Ciel said, offering her his hand while they walked. They were only able to act so frankly when they were alone, holding bare hands. Nothing was quite as grounding, save for the way she ran her thumb over one of his knuckles methodically. He could never tell if the repetitive motion was to soothe him or herself. 

He told Y/n about Queen Victoria’s request for her Guard Dog to sever ties between the Colombian drug trade and British consumption. The number of overdoses and drug-related theft in her nation was beginning to upset her, and her researchers traced some of the cocaine influx to Os Caeos, a branch of the Spanish mafia. The group was facilitating connections and trade over the Atlantic, and Victoria wanted it to cease.

She gave Ciel the assignment, and the best way to end the business was to pull it up by its roots. The family was too enshrined in its work to stop after a mere threat, and much too far removed from the British Underworld. They wouldn’t connect Ciel, a young British nobleman, to being the Queen’s Guard Dog. That left him with leaving them no choice but to stop— killing them. 

Ciel and Sebastian took a steamship into Barcelona. It wasn’t difficult to find the Baulo operations manor; the family lived there for decades. Civilians could point to it from the street. Everyone knew the Baulo family by face and name. Their mafia was a close, family-operated company, spearheaded by Manuel, the eldest son of the previous head. He was married to Mariana Baulo-Hernandez; they were expecting their heir. 

“Clear it out. I want the whole lot of them killed,” Ciel ordered, “I will find their records for Her Majesty.” He took his gun out of his deep pocket, the metal heavy in his hand. “Do not let them kill me, Sebastian,” he said, an ironic smile twisting his lips. His heart raced with adrenaline, excitement. Not fear. Anticipation. It was the same sureness and clarity he used going into any chess match, really.

Ciel would stomp out these enemies for Her Majesty. Such was his duty as a nobleman and a Phantomhive. He crushed who she wished silenced.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my Lord,” Sebastian chirped, pulling his gloves off neatly and tucking them into his pocket. He never liked to soil his gloves. The contract on his hand glowed now that it was exposed, a manifestation of the sheer supernatural power that flowed through the demon. He made easy work of bending the metal gate open, each hand holding one fortified metal bar and pulling it apart with the strength and disquieting pleasure of an automaton. 

The butler wasted no time afterward, shouldering through the main door and killing the servants who met him. Ciel heard their brief screams from a grotesque choir, each fallen one replaced by a new terrorized individual. It didn’t take long until gunshots accompanied those cries. Of course, nothing of such earthly strength could stop a demon. 

After another brief moment, Ciel took after his butler, looking at the sparse corpses adorning the halls with contempt stoicism. They were servants dirtying his shoes with their blood. No one aiding these criminals was innocent, whether that came in the form of cooking their dinner or washing their floors.

This was how to pull an ingrained institution out by its roots. Like a weed— the gardener doesn’t simply cut the plant down, he pulls it out of the ground and chars it. 

Ciel stepped over a maid’s limp body and started up the staircase. He already knew where he was set to go, forward-thinking enough to have mapped out the manor’s vague layout beforehand. Even so, any smart business leader would keep their office secluded on the top floor.

It was easy to ignore the pained screams from around him when he had a fixed mission in mind. No one was going to escape. Ciel was the cat, these foolish drug dealers and their staff were the mice, and he supposed…Sebastian was the trap.

Curiously, the office door was closed when Ciel reached it. There were notably more guards on this floor and near this room— loyal servants to their very end. How kind. 

Even still, blood pooled under the door and it stained the copper door knob. As the cacophony of sounds quieted, he could hear the soft, labored breaths of someone crying. 

Cry. Nothing in front of you will change if you cry. 

The knob only jiggled stubbornly when Ciel turned it. He frowned. 

Locked. 

The crying stopped, the person in there likely realizing that there was someone outside, trying to get in. Demanding to get in.

Ciel took one of the fallen guard’s truncheons. The weapon was about a foot long, and heavy in his hand. With a grunt, he put all of his strength into ramming the end of it into the knob. It gave slightly, the copper denting and leaning out of the hole. He repeated the process twice before it gave way, roughly falling to the floor. The door swung open, revealing a hastily made, and last-ditch barricade: two office chairs. 

He grew tired, but he forced himself to refocus on the new room. The office was a wreck, a mess of scattered papers, two bodies and books were strewn about the room. There was a bookcase next to where the door was, most of its books carelessly thrown across the floor. The piece of furniture seemed like someone pulled it several centimeters out, likely trying to add another layer to the haphazard barricade before they realized the wooden fissure was too tall and dense to move alone. 

Ciel wouldn’t have noticed her if she hadn’t stayed insistently close to the man’s body. His legs peaked out from behind the desk, but she was small enough to have stayed reasonably hidden if she wanted to. 

He unlocked his gun, but she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she sat on her haunches and cradled the man’s head in her lap. It made sense that Sebastian found and killed Manuel Baulo in his own office. A bloody serrated knife sat to her side, pulled out from between his eyes. She pushed his wavy hair down his forehead to hide the wound. 

She kept her eyes closed, surely aware that Ciel was with her, but she ignored him. Instead, she held Manuel’s limp left hand with both of hers, intensely whispering into it in Spanish. Likely praying. Her matching ring sat on her left ring finger as well, a big diamond set in gold. 

This was his wife, Mariana. 

“Descansa, fácil. Mi amor,” Mariana kissed his knuckles, leaving a smear of her crimson lipstick on him. Tears streamed down her cheeks when she opened her eyes again. She was rather young, but then again, her husband was as well. The previous head of Os Caeos contracted some unlikely disease and died early, leaving his eldest and his wife to run a business when they couldn’t have been older than thirty. 

Very slight smile lines creased on either side of her mouth, twin dimples on her cheeks. Her eyes were dark and soulful as if her pupils took over her irises entirely. They were intelligent, easily taking Ciel in— from the top of his head to the bottoms of his shoes. Despite his best efforts, they were stained. Her eyes lingered on his gun. 

“If you are killing me, you do quickly,” she said, finally addressing Ciel. She wore a white nightgown, dressed down like her husband’s body. After all, the sun was just beginning to rise, breaking through the gloomy clouds. It was rather untimely, the glorious light made the man look like a martyr when he wasn’t. 

“Or if you feel nervous to kill a pregnant woman, give the gun,” Mariana added, “there is nothing left for me in this world, Ciel Phantomheave.” Her position and small maternal bump would have concealed evidence of her pregnancy. It had slipped Ciel’s mind.

“You know of me?” Ciel asked, masking his surprise. He let his gun waver. She was in no state to so much as threaten him, much less attack.

“Of course. We thought we might meet you soon, although…Manuel thought we would have time to negotiate. His father thought we needed to kill you after your return. But…my husband disliked the thought of killing children,” Mariana sighed, gently running her fingers through Manuel’s curls. 

“I make it a policy not to negotiate with criminals,” Ciel said. She was not going to manipulate him. 

“I know that now,” Mariana replied, “almost my entire family was in this manor. Let me be with them. I only want to be with them.” She wiped a stray tear away with the back of her hand, collecting herself admirably, given that her husband’s lifeless body was splayed out in front of her. 

“My Lord?” Sebastian entered. He must’ve been silent coming in, given neither Ciel nor Mariana noticed his entrance. “Shall I finish this one off, too?” he questioned, knife at the ready. The demon was the trap. Mariana was the final mouse in the maze, but she didn’t want the cheese. She wanted the trap. 

“No, Sebastian. We’re finished here.”

There was nothing Sebastian disliked more than when Ciel showed mercy. “Master…?” he asked, confused. He was reluctant to put his knife away.

Mariana sighed as if she had been expecting Ciel’s response. She looked up at the two of them, her hands never left her husband’s body. She wasn’t a woman who wanted to die. She was stronger than that and smarter not to re-establish the Spanish mafia after Ciel had crushed it so decisively. Letting her go would let her raise her child in the country, and Os Caeos could remain some distant memory. A story Mariana would relay to the child when they were old enough to learn about their father.

“Look at her. She could not possibly rally now,” Ciel replied, gesturing to the broken woman’s scattered stare. They would be leaving her to her own devices— whether she survived would be up to her will. “I want to leave, Sebastian. Now.”

Y/n listened to Ciel’s recollection of that morning with surprising calmness. She merely nodded along, keeping her thoughtful gaze fixed ahead as they walked. Nothing about it seemed to surprise her, though he suspected she worried more than he was letting on. 

“I see why she would want you dead,” Y/n admitted. Ciel did as well; he went through a similar trauma to Mariana, and his sole purpose in life is to find those responsible and force them through the exact torment and pain he suffered through. She was no different. Those who Y/n killed for were no different. 

“Frankly, you might have asked this woman why she would want me dead before ensuing on this mission,” Ciel replied, “why did you never ask?”

 Y/n waited a moment, unsure how to reply. “I knew she was telling the truth. Sometimes…people go through suffering that goes beyond words,” if any kind of pain that would qualify, it would be cradling your killed spouse in your lap; feeling so hopeless that you’d prefer their murderer take you too as opposed to living in a world that he was ripped away from. 

“Ciel, she isn’t going to give up, even if Diego and Carmen really do go back to Spain. I know her,” Y/n added after a beat of silence.

“Then we will simply need to make every defensive measure,” he replied, not entirely believing his own words. Mariana showed what she was capable of— finding and locating the lost German princess, manipulating the monarchy into believing she was her sister, and even picking up a destroyed business and restoring it to its former empire without Ciel so much as noticing. 

To be able to out think a capable woman her would take immense planning and luck, but fortunately, Ciel had a demon for a butler. No matter what he thought of his fiancée, Sebastian would be duty-bound to protect them if that was what Ciel ordered him to do. It wouldn’t be the first time Ciel forced Sebastian to act despite his will. 

After all, that’s what their contract was. Sebastian obeyed him, and in the end, Ciel would let him take his soul.

Y/n shook her head, “she will find a way, no matter what we do. Whether it’s next week or next year.”

“You underestimate us, and the staff. We can handle her,” Ciel insisted. His servants were the most elite in the world, handpicked by Sebastian, the protectors of Phantomhive secrets. They’ve fought off mafia men, psychotic circus performers— even Y/n herself. He was unwilling to allow his confidence to tremble in the face of a grief-stricken woman, looking for vengeance as a means to give her life purpose once again. 

“But you would be underestimating…Mariana.” She said, stopping in the middle of the pathway. Saying the woman’s name made her face contort uncomfortably.

“Our wedding will be perfect, Y/n. Honestly,” Ciel said, stopping with her. He turned to face her properly and let her hand go to properly brush strands of her hair out of her face. The pads of his fingers settled on either side of her neck, touching her skin so lightly, he barely felt it. He could feel her pulse drumming beneath his thumbs, but her gaze softened. 

He’d put everything he had and more into protecting her, no matter what the cost. 

“There is nothing I would not do for you. And I know you feel the same,” Ciel insisted, unlike himself. He was always unlike himself when he opened his mouth and failed to filter what came out. It was disgusting, but no one could bear witness besides her. 

Her.

She was classically beautiful with a regal face that was unmistakably royal. How could anyone think otherwise?

Ciel’s thumb brushed over her scar, the only defining quality that separated her likeliness from her twin. It was so thin and faded, one would have needed to know where to look in order to notice it. 

“You’re right. I suppose we can sort it out,” she conceded reluctantly, but Ciel still disliked the worried frown on her lips. She was the most important person in his life— even if his priority was and would always remain vengeance. This woman was the first person to bring light back into his world. 

No one was going to ruin this for them, not when they’d finally gotten all of the rubbish out of their way. Life couldn’t be so cruel. The world was an inevitable equalizer. It was not cruel. It would not steal from Ciel more than it already had. 

“Whatever might happen, we can face it together,” Ciel said, internally bristling at himself. He loved the warmth he felt toward her. He detested the way it made him act, the vulnerability it gave him. 

Something you love is something you can lose.

Ciel wasn’t sure if the thought of losing her lit an irate fire in his stomach, or if it hurt so much it made him feel ready to be consumed by such an inferno. 

Though, of course, Ciel trusted her to fight for herself more than he trusted himself. Still, he wanted to kill her enemies, leave their bleeding bodies strewn about the corridor, left for dead. He wanted to be the person to tether her when the night tried to consume her.

Without realizing it, he had been leaning down, and closer, his stare locked on her pensive lips. Quick to react to any subtle movement, Y/n tilted her head and closed her eyes, meeting his lips with hers. 

Slowly but surely, they were beginning to improve each instance they kissed. They found a balance, a smooth rhythm that allowed control to oscillate between the two of them. Y/n’s lips pressed and moved impassionately, his would follow. Like a waltz.

Feeling her lips against his always awakened something in him.

The air around them grew thicker— and thicker— and if Ciel had half of his wits about him, he might have noticed the intertwining clouds in the sky. He might have smelled the musky smell of the earth moments before the rain. But at that moment, he was rather occupied, and the sheets of rain that fell came by complete surprise. 

The rain drizzled. The tree leaves whispered, and the sky rumbled. Ciel broke their kiss to regain a sense of their surroundings; unmoved in the middle of the pathway, lined with manicured rose bushes. The trail of dirt and paw prints told him that Carl was smarter than his owners, likely having sensed the new pressure in the air and rain back to the house. Sebastian installed small doors for the clever dog, and it took less than an hour to train him to find them. 

Ciel gasped in surprise, somewhat from the sudden rainfall, but more so from Y/n’s clenching on the front of his shirt to bring him back down to her level. She was commanding him to act, putting every bit of her assertiveness into the way she moved with him, channeling all of her worry into something tangible and intoxicating. 

“I want to go to your room,” she whispered against his lips. “That is an order.”

Ciel’s heart pounded. Y/n chuckled, clearly feeling it as her right palm trailed down his chest. Every touch electrified his skin. He was static. She was electric. The air was growing heavier by the moment, and it wasn’t only from the rain.

“Yes, sure,” even if Ciel wanted to, he couldn’t have made himself say no. He wasn’t sure he knew how to pronounce such a word.

Within moments they were making a horribly uncoordinated effort to run up one of the side staircases. Y/n was practically dragging him, her soaked dress was thin and sticking to her corset, a gown that would have been improper if they were anywhere but on manor grounds…simply playing croquet. Ciel remembered making a conscious effort to disregard the simplicity and inherent lewdness of such a dress. 

It hardly covered more than a nightshift. 

He closed his door and locked it before Sebastian could materialize and suggest Y/n leave and catch a warm bath before she caught a cold, or before he could offer a tray of tea.

There was something Ciel wanted much more than a steaming cup. He wanted her. He took a sharp breath in, so much that it made his lungs stutter in his chest. She was straining to unlace the back of her gown, pushing her hair over the side of her shoulder to get it out of the way. 

Something about the back of her neck…

“It’s cold in this thing,” she complained, her cheeks growing fiery. “Ciel.”

“You would allow me?” Ciel felt as if he was barely in control of his transgressions, his fingers gracing over the delicately tied satin. “Are…you certain?”

“Yes,” she replied, keeping her hair out of the way. “You can do it, or I will.”

Ciel had it undone in seconds, and the wet garment fell to the floor, leaving Y/n in her corset, tall stockings, and surprisingly short drawers. They ended centimeters above her garters at mid-thigh. Ultimately, she exposed nothing entirely incriminating, but seeing the curve of her waist and her stockings’ garters wrapping around her upper thighs was certainly…more. Her necklace sat between her collarbones, guiding his focus down her corset’s hemline, which kept her breasts pushed upwardly. 

His face burned. He was sure if he were to put the back of his hand against his cheek, it would blaze. 

“Speechless. And this was all it took,” Y/n made a haphazard attempt to joke, clearly content with being stuck in wet undergarments for the time being. He didn’t blame her, and frankly, Ciel wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle her needing to dry off in front of him more. “If I knew this would be the outcome, I might have tried it much sooner.”

He rolled his eyes, “you’re impossible.’

“Perhaps,” Y/n fired back, growing more comfortable. She smiled at him, her eyes soft, yet searching. It was a strong façade, but she was nervous. Of course, she was nervous. He was nervous.

Ciel reluctantly shouldered off his jacket, which took the brunt of the rain. They didn’t stand out there for long enough to be soaked to the bone, so it was likely Y/n truly was much drier without her most superficial layer of clothing. 

He wanted to unbutton the top of his shirt, but his fingers stopped. He paused as if she’d slapped him across the face.

She would see the mark. The Mark of the Beast. 

If knowing the sorts of atrocities he pleasured in carrying out for Her Majesty wasn’t enough to fully drive her away, then surely, being marked by sadistic cultists would be. 

“Ciel?” The playfulness in Y/n’s face dropped the moment he hesitated. “Are you alright?”

Ciel was, but he wasn’t. 

He wanted to unbutton his shirt and bury his face into the floral scent of her hair, and kiss her lips until they chapped. 

But she couldn’t know yet, could she? Could she handle it?

Of course she could. She knew the worst of him. He knew the worst of her. This mark wasn’t something he wanted; it wasn’t a deal. 

He pursed his lips for a moment, swallowing despite his dry mouth. “If I am to show you this, then you must not tell a single living soul, do you promise?”

Y/n tilted her head but nodded once nevertheless. “Of course not. Your secrets are my secrets,” she said, and frankly, that sentence shot fresh jolts of electricity down Ciel’s spine. 

What’s yours is mine; what’s mine is yours.

They were one another’s great equalizer. 

“Alright,” he released a breath and went to unclasp the pair of buttons, but Y/n reached upwards to put a gentle hand on his chest. She stared at him— sometimes he detested the bloody eyepatch he wore — her face was stern. 

“Not if you are not ready, Ciel. I mean it,” she insisted, but he had his mind made.

Your secrets are my secrets.

“I am,” he said, carefully removing her hands from his shirt to unbutton it. Y/n stopped refuting him, newly distracted as he took his shirt off. Now he understood where her reluctance came from, once he’d finished unlacing her dress. She looked at him with a barely restrained passion, and it was a heavy gaze to be picked apart under. He imagined he looked just as intense and serious as she did. 

“Ciel…” Y/n frowned, immediately catching onto the brand on his left side. The mark was burned into his skin, slightly under and to the side of his torso, the far part of his ribcage. While all the redness and irritation were long-subsided, the brand left the afflicted skin slightly raised and swelled, like a stamp. It was going to remain there forever— until the day he died. 

“Who did this to you?” she asked, anger flashing in her eyes. Strangely, it was a comfort to him. The Queen on his chess board was prepared to fight for him, much in the way he wanted to kill every last one of her enemies. 

I returned to discover the same thing. We can take them down together.

“It’s an old wound,” Ciel guided her fingertips over the raised skin to show her that it didn’t hurt. He was healed, stronger than ever at one another’s side. The foreign touch made goosebumps raise in his arms, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. “Those who did this to me are dead.”

Sensing his unwillingness to speak about it further, Y/n didn’t press. She seemed satisfied knowing that the perpetrators were long gone, but almost sorry she couldn’t do it herself, judging by her frown and the protective toughness in her eyes. Ciel was sorry he couldn’t kill those cultists himself, either. Sometimes, he’d dream about aiming his gun and shooting them between the eyes, or in the heart. Anything to watch them bleed out.

Y/n kissed him, putting another intimate kiss further up his jawline, close to his ear. “I hope they suffered immensely.” Such a curse shouldn't have been erotic, but it was.

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to the edge of his bed to sit. Ciel moved without another thought, blushing when she stood in between his legs once more. She was ethereal in the orange candlelight, her skin deceptively soft, despite the number of healed wounds all over it. He wanted to trace each one. Kill everyone who inflicted pain on her, though he was sure most of them were dead. Not to mention, he was one of those people. Ciel’s gaze flittered to the light scar next to her throat. 

She was poetically beautiful. Pulchritudinous.

He thought of the first time he read William Wadsworth: she was a Phantom of delight, When first she gleaned upon my sight; A lovely Apparition… 

At the time, Ciel thought the man had been a lust-struck fool, thinking with the contents of his trousers. Now the American poet was beginning to make sense; did that mean they were both lust-stricken fools or was this idolatry normal?

Y/n chuckled when he pressed his lips into her knuckles, then the inner part of her wrist. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. 

Ciel didn’t have an answer for her. He preferred to find her lips again and let her climb onto his lap, her thighs bracketing his legs. Her garters were white and made of lace, matching the dress that they left in a heap on the floor. He couldn’t keep his hands from fiddling with them, grazing over the sheer material her stockings were made of. Eventually, his hands settled on her hips, comfortable on the junction between her upper thighs and waist.

This is why polite society made married women chaperone nobility. If Ciel had known that something this pleasing was possible between himself and Y/n he would have struggled much more. Truly, it was no wonder couples never engaged in such illicit acts until they were married.

Y/n attacked every one of his senses. The moment she had him unlace her dress, he was finished. Now he was touching her warm skin, close enough to smell powder and rosewater. She made soft gasps each time she rocked in his lap, sounds that would undoubtedly haunt him.

Ciel was not a gentleman with her; he was not the Queen’s Guard Dog; he was not the head of the Funtom Company; and most significantly, he was not the next head of Phantomhive.

For the first time in his life, his identity was irrelevant. Privately, Ciel found solace in that. 

Solace with her.

. . .

[thebiggestdogtbd]

Hello reader, before we begin, I am in no way any good at anything like this. I figured I would give it a shot, but I may not do another. This story is about Avin Palau, a 20 year old she wolf and Sigmund Black-Ear, a 23 year old red fox the night before they sail home.

The Knights

10/31/1367

Lying in the tall grass, beneath three bright full moons, a tailless; shirtless male fox watches as a female gray and brown furred wolf straddles his waist. Her blue cotton blouse shifts in the breeze. Her tail gently wags as she leans forward to meet his lips, their muzzles interlock as her tongue makes its way in to dominate his. She gently rocks her hips against the crotch of his trousers, feeling him throb beneath with every movement; with every dominating kiss of hers. She pulls away and gazes into his emerald green eyes, a lust alight within them; his mouth agape wanting more. With a grin, the she-wolf slowly unties her blouse to show the cream colored fur that travels from her neck to below the hem of her underwear. Her heart beating fast as she exposes herself to him, a thrill begging her to continue. His breathing quick in excitement.

“Are these too small for your liking?” she asks fearing his response.

“Avin, you are a goddess incarnate.” The fox pants as the wolf reveals her small breasts, “You’re perfect in every way.”

“Am I?” She asks coyly, “Perhaps I am not.”

She stops rocking against him, a whine from the fox follows. The wolf smirks, leaning forward and kisses his neck. Slowly, she starts kissing down his throat, her lips dancing across his chest. The lips waltz across his white furred abdomen down to his trouser hem, a large bulge formed. Humming, she reveals his erect cock, standing eagerly for only her. She hesitates looking at it. Her hand shakes as she gently touches it with her fingertips, softly she takes hold of the throbbing shaft, her face bright red as she feels every inch of it, touching the head with a thumb. A clear liquid sticks to her thumb as she lifts it to examine the substance.

“Avin, are you a virgin?” he asks as she refocuses on him and moves her hand to the base of his member.

“Is that a problem?” She questions his, her hand rising to the tip.

“No, but I want you to be sure about this.” He answers truthfully.

She smiles and leans her head forward, doing as the females did in her secret books. A fang grazes the top of his shaft causing him to panic.

“No teeth.” He quickly says as she corrects herself.

Her lips wrap around his erect shaft, the fox groans in delight as her tongue dances across the tip. The fox puts his hands on the back of her head, gently ushering her to keep going. Her tongue rests on the underside of his large cock as she slowly lifts her head before sliding back down. The clear liquid coats her tongue in a sweet taste foreign to her. She continues moving her head up and down, taking more of his shaft in her muzzle with each descent, his cock begins to throb as she increases her speed, more moans of pleasure come from the small fox.

“Don’t stop, Avin.” He pants as she takes all of him within her muzzle, her tongue caressing every inch of him.

The fox pushes her head further down as he thrusts upwards into her muzzle. Grunting, he spills his salty seed across her tongue and down her throat. She gags and forces herself away, his warm; white cum dripping down her chin onto his waist. He sends more of his seed into the air across the top of her muzzle. She laughs in surprise and wipes her snout and muzzle with her hands. She looks at his dumb smile and thinks for a moment as he pants in pleasure.

“Am I convenient lay for you?” the wolf asks, turning her cocoa brown eyes towards the green eyes of the fox.

He leans closer; kisses her muzzle, “No. You are someone special.”

“Do you mean that?” She asks, sounding more hopeful.

The fox smiles, “Of course I do. I love you, Avin.”

Their muzzles lock again, the wolf laying back as the fox takes control, her blouse opens to expose her small breasts to the cool autumn air, her fur stands on its end in the cool air. The orange fingers of the fox slowly travel to between her legs, they tease her eager lips beneath the cotton underwear and gently rubs. She gasps at the new sensation, never has she let anyone play with her like this.

The fox releases the kiss and copies what the gray and brown wolf has done to him. His lips travel down her neck to where he nibbles just above the left side neck base. The white lips of the fox meet her cleavage, he moves to the right and kisses above her heart, he begins to focus on her nipple and places his warm lips on it, causing a small moan from her. She watches in pleasure, squirming as his fingers continue to tease. Every teasing entrance to her eager lips making her restless.

His lips start kissing down her abdomen, and he slows his sluggish pace to tease her more. Her body yearning. His fingers stop their play and take hold of the hem of the cotton undergarment. He gently pulls her wet underwear away, careful of her soft; wagging tail. The cream colored fur between her thighs is matted to her as she eagerly waits.

He lowers his head, confusing her before she gasps in surprise. His lips kissing her thighs, purposely avoiding where she wants him to. He stops momentarily, letting her whimper, needing him to continue. He leans closer, listening to her shudders, feeling his warm breath on her needy entrance. Opening his muzzle, he licks her wet lips, feeling her shiver in pleasure. His tongue softly dances across her as he savors her sweet taste.

“Lunadai, Sigmund!” she pants as the new sensation drives her to want more, “Please! Don’t stop!”

He obliges, a thumb resting on the once hidden nub above her entrance. His tongue slips within, feeling her clench around him. His thumb slowly rubs as he continues to taste her.

“Shya, no eyatia!” her Pralsian tongue pants in pleasure, “Ektain! Mihan os Shya!”

He continues rubbing, feeling her wanting to hold his tongue as he keeps tasting her.

“My… my love?” She hesitates, not wanting him to stop, “P-please, I want you. Claim me.”

With a warm smile, the fox rises to his knees, his muzzle wet with her. The fox rests her left thigh over his as he lines himself with her eager; wet lips. He is in awe at the strong wolf’s body begging for him to fill her. He gently parts her, causing her to gasp in surprise at his size.

“It feels better than I could imagine.” she whimpers as he stops midway into her, “Please… keep going… I want it!”

He continues until he hilts her, she whines as he stops deeper than her fingers ever could. Gently he pulls back causing her gasp in pleasure, his shaft throbs as he tenderly seems to remove himself from her, only his tip stays within. Carefully he pushes himself deeper into her causing her to moan.

“You’re so tight.” The fox moans gently thrusting into her.

She braces herself to her elbow as she wants to watch him. The fox leans forward, his teeth gently latch where her neck and shoulder meet. He bites until he pierces the skin beneath the fur, a trickle of blood falling. She moans and tightens upon him, her elbow gives way.

“Sigmund, no eyatia.” she pants with his rhythm, her hips bucking to match his pace.

The orange right hand of the fox, runs up her side, cupping over her small; cream colored breast. He squeezes tenderly before running back down her stomach to her hip. The fox places her right leg over his left hip. He increases his rhythm, tilting his head back with a grunt. Avin howls in pleasure as the fox continues. The wolf pants her arms out stretched to find something to brace herself as she clinches.

“Sig… muh… I’m…” She moans tilting her down in ecstasy, her toes curling as her tail wags faster.

“Then cum with me.” The fox pants, picking up his pace, his cock eager to spill into her again.

Thrusting again, Sigmund forces his cock into the wolf. He thrusts five more times before he cannot hold back anymore. She clenches onto him as his seed spills into her. She screams in pleasure, her legs twitch as she feels the fox’s seed filling her, her eyes shut tight with a wide smile on her face. She opens her eyes and looks up to the fox, he lays his head on her cleavage and pants.

Stroking the top of his head she pants, “Gy shya o, Sigmund. Gy shya o!”

“Will you marry me?” he asks listening to her quickly beating heart.

“Mihan, Shya! A thousand times yes!” she cries out, her tail wagging.

“By the Gods, will you two shut up!” an old male shouts across the field, throwing a wooden pail at the two.

Gy shya o - I love you

Ektain- Fuck

Mihan- yes

Mihan os shya - Yes my love

[wonderfuldeath]

.o| Horror Island: Taehyung. |o.

Warnings : Violence, injury, self doubt, murder, graphic depictions

Please, consider support me on Ko-Fi !

The end of summer was announced by the trees becoming yellow, and soon no one could get to the lake. A strange feeling take the young teenager as he finishes to cash in the client in front of him. His tender smile and laughing eyes. Nothing to say, Jeon Jungkook was incarnate perfection. His heart races only the time of a blink and he has to clear his voice to get back a bit of seriousness.

« - Aren’t you’re scared of ruining yourself by coming here everyday sir Jeon ?

- You are making the best flour and the best rice of the whole village sir Kim. Without you we couldn’t make it through the winter.

- You are way too good, our products are far from the best of the whole village.

- And you way too modest. Accept the compliment as I sincerely mean it. »

His cheeks becomes red and he takes the changes in his frail fingers, their fingers touching the time of a shock, before he clear his throat again, playing with the paper between his thin fingers. Looking at the Jeon smiling maliciously at him, taking his basket without turning back or saying anything more. The life at the village was rather gentle, the time seems to run as the water bodies: running fast without allowing us to catch up. When the sun set down behind the big mountain Taehyung joined not without fear the lake where the dark haired wait him.

« - Where you followed ?

- Not at all. Nobody followed me, don’t worry.

- Perfect. I can’t only stay only staring at you. When will you accept to set sail ? Let’s flee together. Far from here and our stupids customs.

- Jungkook… And where would we go ?

- Beyond the sea. From where Jimin’s parents are. Let’s go all nine of us to conquest the world. Aren’t you curious ?

- Of course I am, but nothing promise us that it would be better elsewhere. And for Elyzabeth ? Her health is only lowering. Without her grand mother’s remedy she won’t survive and you know it.

- Then let’s go together, and when we are certain let’s invite the others to come. I only want to be able to spend my life with you. »

When their lips touches the butterflies in Taehyung’s stomach fly away and he answers without an hesitation, taking his hands in his. He lost himself in the black gaze and his fingers runs along Jungkook’s stomach. If they had to be damned then Taehyung would accept to be punished b any demon showing to him. The stones on his back are cold and still Jungkook’s skin is burning against his naked body. He can only feel whole when their bodies collide like this. Happy and in love like the first day Taehyung let’s go in a not so masculine growling, but it doesn’t matter, it wasn’t his problem.

« - For now, let’s just stay discreet on our intents. Let’s not lost ourself in our objectives. We only need a boat.

- And to make this pest of Martha to shut up. I am sure she sees us kissing.

- If that’s the case, then we would be in big troubles. Jungkook, I can’t live without you.

- Do you think I am able of ? I would die to lose you. »

His heart beats a bit faster again when they kisses until they can’t see the sun up in the sky. They only divide against the heart, joining their homes like they never meet from the evening. Taehyung pushes the door fo his house with a light heart, surprised to see the stern gaze of his father and the laughing one of the priest of the village.

« - Taehyung, sir Damarro comes to told me one a story the most… Disgusting.

- Truly ? What is it ?

- You and the Jeon, son of our banker. You would have a relationship… the most unpleasant.

- I beg you pardon ? Sir Damarro, visibly, staying in your temple to meditate the whole day turn your spirit upside down. Maybe you should stop medicinals herbs ?

- Are you denying this accusation ?

- Totally. Do not spread such nonsense.

- Then may I ask you where you were tonight ?

- Why should I answer ?

- Taehyung. Please answer sir Damarro’s question, would you ?

- At the lake, I get out to pick up mint for mother’s infusion. She has headaches. »

The green strands with the soft smell are put on the table, and he looks at his father outraged he can believe a word of this snake. Until he comes to the village with his precarious ideas, this pseudo priest was taking a malicious pleasure in spreading news to get anyone accused of fraud or slander them. But Taehyung wasn’t the kind to let things happen to him, and the man keep his head up, even if it means lying to his parents. Never he would let someone as disgusting as Damarro destroy his relationship.

« - Now excuse me, but I wake up early at dawn tomorrow. Why wouldn’t you go pray your pseudo god ? I am sure the poor one is waiting for you.

- This will lost you sir Kim. If I was you I would already ask for forgiveness. We never know what could happen to us.

- Are you menacing my son ? I would kindly ask you to leave now that the story is over.

- Good.»

But snakes aren’t far from the chicks. The announcement of Jungkook’s wedding get them both short. The hour was severe and Taehyung knows it better than anyone else that whatever Jungkook’s idea was he would follows him to the end of the world. Packing his stuffs, he meets him late at night, one week prior to the official wedding of the loved one who had left a note at their bands secret place. They meet at the forbidden area, Jungkook seemed as if Taehyung wouldn’t come, and the small man sigh as he joins his lover with joy, kissing him without a thought.

« - Did you make up your mind ?

- Yes, we are going tonight. But we can’t tell it without telling at least Jimin. He would be heartbroken and never come by from this.

- We would send him a letter.

- Jungkook, please. We are only miles aways, the boat won’t leave without us… Only Jimin and we leave. Together.

- Fine, but we only stay five minutes and we disappear from this damned island.

- Thank you my love. I love you. »

The path to the temple is sinuous and difficult, but they manages to stay as discreet as possible, both nodding their head in front of the temple heavy doors. Jimin was always working late in the temple, they were sure of always be able to find him there. Taehyung is the first to move in, leaving Jungkook at the entryway who intimates him to be quick. When the teenager move in, the curiosity sting him. Nobody at the village had ever learn the existing of a cave or an extension in the temple. He takes a small breath before deciding to go see, finding Jimin nowhere. He doesn’t see the shadow in his back, pushing him to his certain death in the sound of cracking bones. His head turned in a terrifying angle, he can only hear his lover running before seeing with horror the blade cutting through Jungkook’s stomach without pity. Just before the death comes to pick him first. The smell of blood in his nose making him sick.

-x-

The alarm clock gets Taehyung out of his sleep. The nightmare at his paroxysm, he cracks his painful neck, not so sure of what he dreamed of. A strange dream in which he had seen himself dying in a strange outfit. Pulling along to his sink, he watches at his phone to see again the stairs leading to an arched cave discovered a month ago. His editor-in-chief was wishing to see him writes an article on a marvelous discovery such as an unknown island, but that no other newspapers were talking about. A deep sigh escape his lips as he caresses the dog patiently waiting for getting food, before he laughs.

« - Glutton, comes Yeontan. We will eat. »

[threadbareturnbacks]

Black Sails and Facial Hair - Part 3, (Long) John Silver

One of the important aspects of character creation in Black Sails is that it proports to show not the Pirate Of Legend (a la POTC) but the Origin Of the Pirate Legend. But nothing can be created in a vacuum, you cannot reference pirate legend without engaging in some sort of historical storytelling that connects to the modern audience, which is, at its heart, the stuff of pirate legend. Narrative is an ouroboros, constantly eating its own tale. 

John Silver shows up bright eyed and busy tailed and a perfect picture of a late 18th century sailor, down to the black shoes. His hair is a little too short, but reasonable and he’s rocking just a shade of a five o’clock shadow, but nothing untoward for a merchant ship in 1715. He’s a bag of snakes and like any good bag of snakes, he could get off in any port in the New or Old World and slip into the crowd without being noticed. He is, like Flint in 1704, perfectly suited to his surroundings. Flint’s crew take him at face value, but we know that this is a skin he wears that gives him more freedom than the bewhiskered pirates around him.

Throughout the first season, he stays pretty well shaved and clean. I mean, look at our boy after 5 days at sea and a shipwreck. This is the face of a man who plans to disappear into civilization as soon as he can.  He even tells Flint, “I’ll find somewhere else to survive” - His appearance isn’t predicated on fitting in or telling a story, it’s predicated on survival. He’s handsome enough, but no one would look twice if they didn’t need to.

Unfortunately for Silver, everything he says comes true. And when he says “I don’t want to be a pirate”, well, I’ve got bad news for you snake man. He might say that out loud but his face tells a different story. After the capture of the galleon and his little Stomp Stomp routine, he stops shaving. It’s subtle at first. He’s still bright eye’d and bushy tailed (haired). But his hair is longer, his face is rougher. He’s starting to ingratiate himself with the crew, starting to become essential to Flint, starting to even find a place of belonging and in doing so, he drifts further from the safety of anonymity.  

By the end of S2, he’s teetering on the edge. He’s got the mustache but compared to almost the entire crew, he’s still relatively respectable. However, look at how different it shows up in the light verses the dark. He might look like a citizen in the day, but at night his true self comes through and it’s all pirate.

Just as Flint’s door is closed at the end of s2, so is Silver’s. He can never again be an anonymous citizen, a snake in the grass. He might be able to integrate, but never again without notice. And he reflects that in his face. A full, patchy beard, very long hair barely brushed or contained - this is not a man who can step off a boat in any city and blend in. He’s clearly not taking care of himself.

Amputees are occasionally depicted in 18th century illustration - often in two distinct ways: The Good - employed and respectable (and clean-shaven) and The Poor - unemployed, whiskered, and dirty. Silver’s decided that since he can’t blend in, he might as well lean into the stereotype.   

Additionally, there are instances of white men with beards living in the ‘civilized world’, particularly England and North America, but their lives are not easy. The beard is an essential feature of their Otherness, often Jewishness, and choosing to exist with that facial hair is a conscious statement. Whether as a statement of faith or as embracing his new condition, his beard is a clear rejection of reintegration or assimilation.

Contrast Silver’s unruly mop to Flint’s managed goatee, which he keeps neat and clean. The two of them, to an early 18th century observer, would make a terrifying pair, appearing as a mad Jacobean and a feral beggar, both ready to kill and not to be trusted under any circumstance. Quite literally the stuff of cultural nightmares and a sign of society unraveling. 

Madi’s presence helps a bit, as does his standing as Long John Silver in Nassau. His hair is more managed but the beard does not get any less wild. And he mostly stays this way through the rest of the show.  

(a side note: the slick hair from the doldrums on is actually a factor of the production. Many outdoor scenes were filmed in the wind and to avoid Silver’s hair flying everywhere, it was slicked back, from Fathoms Deep)    

By the time his in the forest, dealing himself his own emotional death knell, he is as uncontained as we see him. The beard and the hair are one, there is no pretense of return or control. He has become undone, he is scrambling to grasp at the last tendrils of his humanity.  

Which makes his final scene all the more fascinating. Because the last we see of John Silver makes him look downright professional. He’s still rocking the beard, but it’s trimmed, his hair is in a neat tail, he is no longer wearing heavy layers, or even sagging his back all that much. He looks, for lack of a better word, civilized. Certainly far more civilized than we have any right to expect him to look after what we’ve seen.

He’s made his choice. He has chosen the safety of society over the wild uncertainty of war and resistance. He’s back, in essence, where he started. Able to walk into any port in the known world and be just another invalid, returning from war. 

But the last year has done a number on him. He’ll never fully integrate. He hasn’t quite abandoned his pirate self (the beard remains), but he’s willing to work within the rules. He’ll never be fully in the system, but never fully out of it. He’ll always be on the shore, never on the sea or on land. He’ll always be a character archetype, never a full person. His existence is now essentially liminal, just as he wears a beard and a ponytail, a combination that is exceptionally odd for the period, but just perfect for our last view of the famed pirate king. 

Part 1 - History of Beards

Part 2 - Captain Flint 

[stirringwinds]

Arrival

(A short, experimental drabble, Kiku-centric. The Black Ships have arrived. No content warnings; references to historical events but no explicit violence.) 

Edo, 1853 

Forgive my insolence my lord, but you cannot go any further—

And why not? Kiku allows himself an ironic smile, as he turns around. What can the barbarians do? Kill me?

We—our lord said— 

The messenger that the shogun’s retainers had sent to chase after him can’t be more than seventeen years old. He’s fit and strong, but young and out of his depth, stammering and tripping over his words, going to pieces at the combined stress of the extraordinary situation—and not to mention, the utter terror of having to contradict a kami face-to-face.

He throws himself on the ground in front of Kiku, his face inches from the grass, prostrating servilely. Please, our lord said we cannot risk it—my lord, I mean—they will hold me responsible if you should come to harm—

If the early, breathless reports from the eyewitnesses at Uraga are to be believed, the American barbarians are holding a literal sword to his throat—in the shape of four enormous, dark-hulled, smoke-belching warships impudently sailing up the channel leading to the city of Edo. But instead of feeling panicked or weary at the news, Kiku finds himself overwhelmingly seized by a strange energy. Maybe it is the early stages of hysteria. Perhaps it is because the monotony has broken. Whatever it is, he feels hyper-alert, every sense heightened.

Get to your feet, boy, Kiku says drily. And calm yourself. Such theatrics are unnecessary. I cannot die, I assure you. 

At that, the teenager raises his head, stares up at him cautiously, a smudge of dirt on his left cheek, his expression equal parts incredulity and awe. But our lord said that—

Let me guess. He said that even the gods can die, did he? Well, I suppose that is true. Just not that easily. Not by the blade of even a hundred swords. Not even by the barbarians’ guns, no matter how fearsome.

Then, he fixes his gaze on the hill ahead, that would provide a perfect vantage point over the harbour in the distance. Climb up there, and you could see for miles and miles around when the visibility was good, as it was on this clear, bright summer day. It’s already crowded with people, young and old, all of them pointing and peering.

Once upon a time, on another hill far from here, he’d watched and waited, clad in heavy armour, next to thousands of other men similarly kitted out, sword in hand. It’s been almost six hundred years, but he remembers it like yesterday. The weight of his helmet, the brush of his fingers against the sharkskin hilt of his katana—as he stared down at the dread-inducing sight of the hundreds of ships in the Mongol fleet melting out of the hazy morning mist, a massive tide rolling into the bay. On his mind, the stories of the unstoppable fury and merciless terror the Mongol hordes had wrought, all of it long preceding their arrival on his shores. 

He’d felt fear, then. 

How times had changed indeed, Kiku muses, that with the power of modern technology, it now only took four vessels to create such a furore. How he’d changed, that he did not now feel fear, but only a strange, anticipatory sense of beginning a new journey, of being on the cusp of a new discovery. 

Perhaps he had grown as dull as his blades in his seclusion, his instincts and mind now befuddled and confused, that self-preservation failed to assert itself. Perhaps the fear and apprehension will flood in all at once later, when the magnitude of what is happening finally sinks in. 

No matter—in that moment, standing underneath the open dome of the blue sky, for one reason or another, he cannot bring himself to care, to muster up fear or apprehension. 

Come. He shoots the messenger a lopsided smile. Do you not want to see the ships that have created such an uproar for yourself? Let us climb that hill and see what awaits.

[hakasims]

The Most Important Review of Every Single Marwan Kenzari Film

If you’ve seen this one about Luca, you know the drill.

Now, Marwan’s brand is a little less defined than Luca’s but I managed to find similar tropes in a lot of his films. Also, rather than copy myself and give you a redundant Marwanmeter, I decided instead to recommend which Luca character best pairs with each Marwan character for your crossover pleasure. Let’s see if we ship the same things! Some of them are crack. You’re welcome.

(all gifs again by the awesomely amazing @weardes​ who did not ask to be my gif factory but life’s a bitch)

Het zusje van Katia (2008)

Will you miss him if you blink? Kinda. They talk about him a lot but his actual screen time is like 43.7 seconds. Also can I just say... he’s supposed to be from Italy?? The boy says literally one (1) Italian word, and you’ll never guess what it is. (Obviously, it’s “bella” like there’s a chance he could’ve said anything else.)

Is he hot? Painfully hot.

Is he naked? There’s this one scene where he’s wearing the sluttiest pair of speedos I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

Does his hair look great? Actually, yes. Perfect hair, perfect beard, he looks amazing.

Does he fuck? Yes, a lot - off screen, including an M/M/F threesome he presumably, probably, most definitely initiated.

Best paired with? From what I’ve gathered, this hoe ain’t loyal, so the best course of action is to find him a Luca that would benefit from a one night stand with no strings attached and wouldn’t fall in love with him. The obvious choice here is Valerio from Slam - Tutto per una ragazza. They meet, they fuck, then Giac makes his 4-hour drive back to Pisa, and they don’t see each other again until the next time he’s in Rome. Everybody’s happy, especially the two sluts in question.

De laatste dagen van Emma Blank (2009)

Will you miss him if you blink? Yes, absolutely.

Is he hot? Very.

Is he naked? Almost constantly.

Does his hair look great? He’s got those cute short curls, he looks so good.

Does he fuck? That’s literally why he’s there: to fuck and to die.

Best paired with? Man, I wish I had something to work with here. The only thing we know about him besides his sexual prowess is his affinity for white suits and toy helicopters. And as far as I know, those might be the exact things Fabrizio from Nina finds hot in guys. So like, why not?

Loft (2010)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s the fifth most important character.

Is he hot? Yeah, sure.

Is he naked? There’s a scene where he’s wearing underwear and a tank top but it somehow makes him look like a kindergartener.

Does his hair look great? It looks quite nice.

Does he fuck? Yes, though I wish he didn’t.

Best paired with? Tom is a very violent person and a drug addict. He does messed up stuff to his sexual partners I’d rather he didn’t do to any of Luca’s characters. Feel free to use him for your sadistic fantasies or as a villain or whatever.

Rabat (2011)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s one of the three leads.

Is he hot? Oh yes! And cute!

Is he naked? He’s at the beach wearing nothing but boxer shorts.

Does his hair look great? He’s got this extreme undercut thing that would look ridiculous on anyone less pretty, so like no, he doesn’t have great hair, but also like it’s Marwan, you know what I mean?

Does he fuck? Before he embarks on a road trip with his friends, he has an offscreen threesome with two girls he picked up at a wedding. Slut.

Best paired with? Gabriele from Waves. They’re both sweet guys who could meet in some Tunisian port and decide to sail the Mediterranean Sea together.

Black Out (2012)

Will you miss him if you blink? Not unless your blinking is very deliberate.

Is he hot? Not really. He’s a dirty cop with a shitty moustache and oral fixation.

Is he naked? No, but I wish he was: his clothes are awful. Marwan is 29 in this movie and he looks 50!

Does his hair look great? Nope. They took Marwan’s usual short hair and made it not work somehow.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? The one thing Luca’s characters all have in common is that none of them come off as bootlickers. All of them are either too soft for such a relationship or wouldn’t waste their spit on a cop.

Wolf (2013)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the protagonist.

Is he hot? *gestures wildly at the gif*

Is he naked? He’s got quite a few shirtless scenes.

Does his hair look great? It’s nothing special but suits his character well.

Does he fuck? Oh yes.

Best paired with? Hear me out. I know that some people ship him with Fabio, but in my opinion that pair, while hot, doesn’t work. Here’s my pitch: Cesare from Non essere cattivo. The drug connection is still there, but in this case Majid’s problem-solving skills won’t fall on deaf ears. Cesare needs a daddy, ok? Majid can be a daddy when he needs to, especially when he has a soft boyfriend to care for. And Majid needs soft, not psycho.

Hartenstraat (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the protagonist once again.

Is he hot? Painfully.

Is he naked? There’s that iconic scene where he’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and boots while carrying a tray...

Does his hair look great? He’s got Joe-like curls and looks like what every male romantic lead should aspire to look like and then cry because they all fail.

Does he fuck? There’s one very unfortunate sex scene played for laughs. I’m pretty sure he’ll need therapy afterwards. I certainly do.

Best paired with? Paolo from Il padre d’Italia. Paolo deserves the best boyfriend, and who’s better than Daan, an extremely hot man who cooks? They both have daughters, so they can talk about that, I guess, and Paolo can finally have a family. Honestly, this is so wholesome I just made myself cry.

Lucia de B. (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? For sure.

Is he hot? He’s a cop. Again. But he looks good.

Is he naked? Fully dressed, but man are his clothes ugly. Is that a cop thing?

Does his hair look great? He has slightly longer curls, which is fine and the best thing about this character.

Does he fuck? ACAB. (I know this doesn’t answer the question, I just wanted to make it clear.)

Best paired with? See my bootlicker comment from earlier. While Detective *checks notes* Ron Leeflang isn’t explicitly corrupt, he’s obviously a dick, so the best I can do here is recommend any Luca character that has ever been in trouble with the law for any fics about power imbalance you want to write but aren’t comfortable with a nice Marwan playing the villain.

Bloedlink (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? Oh no, he’s there the entire time.

Is he hot? In a weird way, yes.

Is he naked? So, so, so naked. Like, leave nothing to the imagination naked.

Does his hair look great? I’d say that little rat tail is the exact opposite of great.

Does he fuck? Probably more than is good for him. I should also add that he’s canonically queer in this.

Best paired with? Rico is a pathetic loser in need of someone who’s got his life together and has a lot of experience dealing with fuckups. Enter Loris from Il mondo fino in fondo. He has a stable job and a savior complex, and with his little bro gaying it up in Chile and not needing him anymore, all he wants right now is someone to fix. I should be a fucking matchmaker in real life, for real.

Pak van mijn hart (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? Undoubtedly.

Is he hot? No. The whole point of his character is to be the lesser choice compared to a guy who looks like a completely ordinary bland white dude...

Is he naked? ...so of course he isn’t naked! What, are they gonna take this poor woman, show her Marwan Kenzari’s post-Wolf body and expect her to choose her deeply mediocre ex? Please! They’re gonna dress him in the dorkiest clothes possible...

Does his hair look great? ...and make him wear the most awful wig that was clearly run over by a truck.

Does he fuck? No. As you can observe, they tried really hard to make him unfuckable, but honestly, he seems like a perfectly nice guy.

Best paired with? You know what? Mattia from La solitudine dei numeri primi is in desperate need of some sweetness and normalcy. I’m sure Richard will treat him with kindness and respect.

Collide (2016)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s the fifth most important character. Out of five.

Is he hot? Very hot.

Is he naked? Not for a second! What’s up with American movies where people aren’t just casually walking around naked without any plot necessity???

Does his hair look great? His curls are so cute you guys! Look at them!

Does he fuck? Not explicitly.

Best paired with? Fabio from Lo chiamavano Jeeg Robot. Again, the drug connection is there, but Matthias is soft enough not to butt heads with Fabio and, by the end of the movie, rich enough to satisfy his cravings for good living and fame. Also look at how good their color coordination is with those dark wine red clothes! Sometimes planets just align, okay?

Ben-Hur (2016)

Will you miss him if you blink? Yes, especially if you aren’t watching the background.

Is he hot? Your usual Marwan hot.

Is he naked? No.

Does his hair look great? His typical short curls with a twist. I think the forehead area is supposed to invoke the Caesar cut? I don’t know. It looks fine when not hidden under that dumb helmet.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? A better script and a much better director. (Seriously, what is this blocking?)

The Promise (2016)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s there a decent amount in the first half of the movie and then almost completely disappears in the second half.

Is he hot? Very much, yes.

Is he naked? Unfortunately, no.

Does his hair look great? He’s got short curls again, but this time they’re fashionably styled, it’s magnificent.

Does he fuck? Oh yeah! And there’s no way he isn’t bi or pan in this. No way.

Best paired with? Roberta from L’ultimo terrestre. Listen, Emre Ogan may be a slut but he’s a gentleman, okay? He’d treat Roberta right and he’s got daddy’s cash to spare on hundreds of gorgeous white dresses for her.

The Mummy (2017)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s there, but barely.

Is he hot? Dangerously hot.

Is he naked? Not once! Instead we get a naked Tom Cruise literally no one asked for.

Does his hair look great? It’s your basic professional short hairdo.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? Malik is a member of an organization tracking and destroying various monsters and historical artefacts related to them. Guido from Tutti i santi giorni speaks four languages, including Latin, and is a literature and ancient history nerd which makes him a valuable asset. Malik can fight and protect; Guido is bumbling and in need of saving. Guys, this writes itself.

What Happened to Monday (2017)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, especially not in the third act.

Is he hot? He’s okay.

Is he naked? Very naked.

Does his hair look great? They shouldn’t have greased his curls back. He looks like another victim of Fabio Cannizzaro’s stylist. Also I wish he’d either shaved or finished growing out that beard.

Does he fuck? He fucks and he fucks good. He’ll go down on you, he’ll deflower you slowly and gently, he’ll choke you if you want him to, he’ll spoon you all night, he’ll give you emotional support, he’ll murder people for you - he’s down for whatever.

Best paired with? There’s one Luca character who needs a lot of sex and even more emotional support. Alright, most of them do, but I’m thinking of Ettore from Lasciate andare. He needs it, okay? Good dicking, good spooning, a good ear, a fine piece of ass to cry into - you get the gist. Most importantly: someone who’d love him for who he is and with whom he could relax and be himself. (Also, I see you, people comparing him to Fabio. Shame on you for sleeping on this soft boy and judging him based on his appearance.)

Murder on the Orient Express (2017)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s kinda always present, being very French.

Is he hot? Very hot.

Is he naked? No, but I’m willing to forgive that because he looks so good in his conductor uniform.

Does his hair look great? He never takes off his hat.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? Mickey Miranda. They’re both murderers morally dubious characters who would look hot together. What else do you need? (Again, I see you, people who want Pierre for Roberta because he’s a “nice guy”, and I know for a fact you didn’t watch the movie. Spoilers, I guess.)

The Angel (2018)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the protagonist.

Is he hot? Oh yes.

Is he naked? Not once, but you won’t regret it because he’s wearing excellently stylish 1970s clothes.

Does his hair look great? It looks fantastic. The sideburns (not yet seen here) are a good touch.

Does he fuck? He can definitely get it, but he’s loyal to his wife.

Best paired with? As the most aesthetically coherent and fashionably hot pair in this post, Ashraf and Primo are a no-brainer. Can you imagine Primo calling him “Angel” in different contexts? When he’s being intimidating, not realizing how palpable the sexual tension between them is, and later not even hiding his arousal? Sometimes things just work because they’re hot. That’s all, folks.

Aladdin (2019)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the main villain.

Is he hot? It’s not like he went viral for being the “hot Jafar” or anything.

Is he naked? No! Fucking thanks a lot, Disney.

Does his hair look great? He has a buzz cut under that turban but he looks good in the turban, so that’s something.

Does he fuck? It’s a Disney movie, so he doesn’t fuck - explicitly or otherwise - but he still comes off as a thirsty bitch.

Best paired with? Jafar ends the movie as a genie who’s obligated to grant his master three wishes but is enough of a petty bitch to exploit the hell out of the “gray area” and screw them over Wishmaster style. My unconventional pair for him is Lui from Ricordi? So many scenarios with distorted memories and magic-induced mindfuck. So many possibilities for awesome and messed up crossover gifsets! Don’t say I never give you guys anything.

Instinct (2019)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s very prominent.

Is he hot? I hate myself for finding him hot but I do.

Is he naked? He’s playing basketball shirtless in one scene, shaking his sweaty boobs everywhere.

Does his hair look great? His weird mohawk-like thing is honestly terrible, but if anything can make it work, it’s Marwan’s bone structure.

Does he fuck? Um, I’m pleading the Fifth on this one for the sake of good taste.

Best paired with? Prison. A very lonely, Luca-less prison.

The Old Guard (2020)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, unless blinking in your case means sleeping through the gloriousness that is the first ever canonically gay couple in an American action film.

Is he hot? Painfully.

Is he naked? Shirtless in one scene.

Does his hair look great? Soft curls courtesy of Luca Marinelli’s tireless lobbying.

Does he fuck? Not on screen, but you can just tell by the way he looks at his husband and reads impromptu poetry right to his face. And everybody knows nothing kindles the fires of passion quite like murdering homophobes together.

Best paired with? If you have to ask, you’re clearly reading this by mistake. In which case, kudos for finishing such a long and confusing post, now go watch The Old Guard and cry at the beauty that is The Immortal Marriage.

[solena2]

This is a continuation of my last analysis on this topic, where I explained why I hate the popular analogy of Tommy and Theseus.

That can be found here. I recommend reading it first, as I included a summary of what Theseus’ story actually is, (as opposed to Techno’s… abridged telling) so if you aren’t familiar with the myth, that post should help.

It’s also really detailed and I worked hard on it, so you should read it for that, too.

It’s not absolutely necessary, though. I’ll give slightly less context for this one, but the parts of the myth I’ll be talking about are pretty well known (thanks, Rick Riordan), so it shouldn’t be too tough to figure out what I’m talking about.

Without further ado, here’s why I think Wilbur is a better Theseus analogy than Tommy.

First of all, I’ll again be largely ignoring the early parts of the Theseus myth in order to focus more on the stuff with Crete and what came after, as the early bits of the myth don’t really apply well to any Dream SMP character, since they’re largely about using cleverness to defeat evil monsters and that’s… not really a story beat that happens on the SMP.

So we start in Athens.

Wilbur Soot joins the SMP and almost immediately starts a country. Dream declares war (contrary to common belief, he was the aggressor), and wins.

L’manburg is still granted independence, but they’re a vassal state and Dream still has a lot of power over them.

I’d compare this with Athens losing a war to Crete, resulting in them remaining an independent nation but being forced to send tributes to Crete every seven years.

It’s not a perfect analogy, but it lets me cast Dream as king Minos and honestly that’s too perfect a chance to pass up, given they both share the fatal flaw of hubris- being self centered pricks who think they’re equal to gods, though the consequences manifest differently.

Stuff happens, Schlatt gets elected, none of it is really relevant to the analogy so I’ll trust you to remember what happened. This isn’t a perfect comparison, after all. The Dream SMP has far too many inspirations for a single parallel to cover it all.

What is relevant: Schlatt is the Minotaur, here.

The seven year tribute comes due, Theseus volunteers.

Wilbur and Tommy are exiled from Manburg, with plans to return.

Theseus shows off when he gets to Crete, and his charisma gains him allies.

Wilbur and Tommy are slowly joined by almost all of Manburg.

Ariadne offers Theseus a way through the maze without getting lost.

Fundy comes to Pogtopia with the Diary of a Spy, revealing that Wilbur doesn’t need to worry about the morality of killing Schlatt anymore because Schlatt is likely to die soon whether they interfere or not.

Ariadne is abandoned alone on an island after giving up everything to help Theseus.

Fundy is still a traitor in Wilbur’s eyes.

Theseus takes his ball of string and enters the labyrinth, prepared to kill the Minotaur.

Wilbur and co attack Manburg, planning to kill Schlatt.

Theseus kills the Minotaur.

No one kills Schlatt, but in his final moments no one is closer to doing than Wilbur, angered by Schlatt questioning Fundy’s manhood.

Theseus forgets the white sails to signal his victory, sailing home with blackened ones instead. His father throws himself off a tower out of grief.

Wilbur’s won, but he’s lost sight of his vision for the country he founded. Though Schlatt is dead, he still can’t see L’manburg ever going back to what it was.

He goes to the button room, and Philza confronts him. If Phil knew the whole story, knew why Wilbur felt what he felt and why he did what he did, maybe things would have gone differently.

But the ship’s sails are black.

Phil kills Wilbur.

What kills Theseus, in his myth, is when he loses sight of himself. He starts with a very clear policy: whatever someone tries to do to him, he’ll do to them in kind. Someone tries to kill him? Well, more fool them, then.

But then he starts just hurting people for fun, hurting people because it makes him feel powerful, because he thinks he deserves to be groveled to.

He kidnaps Helen of Troy, tries to kidnap Persephone, drives away his family, kills his son-

Wilbur doesn’t follow quite the same path, but the resemblance is there.

He starts out nonviolent. He’ll solve his problems with words, not a sword. But that doesn’t work. Dream declares war. Eret betrays L’manburg, and L’manburg is violently slaughtered.

Wilbur loses trust, becomes paranoid.

He’s president of L’manburg, and he cries in his pillow because if he shows even an iota of weakness, Dream will just snatch L’manburg right back up. (Or so he fears)

He runs for president, and loses.

And he thinks- if L’manburg has become this, become Manburg, a cruel place ruled by a tyrant- that’s his fault, right? It’s his country, he should have done better, should have made it more resistant to this.

He loses sight of the hope and camaraderie the nation was founded upon. If he doesn’t trust anyone, how can he believe in a place built on trust?

If he’s not the hero, he must be the villain, he thinks.

And Theseus loses himself.

And Wilbur places eleven stacks of TNT.

And even then, the analogy doesn’t really tell you anything, because Theseus’ story ends with exile and a cliff, and Wilbur’s keeps going.

Because in the end, we can draw all the comparisons we want, but they don’t mean anything unless we let them.

We are not bound by the limitations of myth. There are no fates on the SMP, weaving lives into stories, and life goes on after the climax.

Wilbur thinks, if he is not the hero, he must be the villain.

But Wilbur is a person, not a moral. He’s more complex than that.

They all are.

SO STOP WRITING HIM AS A TWO DIMENSIONAL VILLAIN I’M GOING TO COMMIT CRIMES HE’S NOT JUST YOUR SCAPEGOAT SO YOU CAN PRETEND DREAM HAS ANY CANONICAL MORAL COMPASS WHAT THE F-

[wind0wg0blin]

Wolf Predator x Reader

Gender Neutral Reader 

You accidentally befriend Wolf. An AvP Requiem Fix it fic if you will.

Also I didn’t beta read this & I wrote it on my phone so like, if theres a bunch of issues you know why lmao

It had almost been a full week since you had been kicked out of your house. You had decided to come clean to your parents about how you truly felt and the things you had been doing and they did not take too kindly to this. Being far from the perfect Christian child they wanted they simply threw you out with only the clothes on your back and the things in your pockets. 

You had been lucky enough to couch surf at some friends houses for the first few nights but now your luck had run out. Now you found yourself trudging through the sewer system in one of the larger tunnels that ran under the city. You had gotten a tip that a group of homeless people often stayed down here during the colder nights and if you wanted any long term chance of living on the streets you would need to get in with them. 

You had little more than the light from your lighter to illuminate your path. The already pitch black darkness only seemed more menacing with each scuffle coming from within it. You knew better than to be put off though. As nothing down here could truly hurt you. Or at least, this is what you thought. 

The tunnel you had been traveling through eventually came to an end. Opening into a rotunda, where multiple tunnels came to an intersection. You were still a few meters away from the true end of the tunnel when you heard strange inhuman sounds. Then came the gunfire and screams. 

You couldn't help the startled jump as you drove down trying to hunker against the side of the tunnel. You could see the large silhouettes of some creatures ahead of you. It was clear that they were fighting. It was also clear that one was losing. 

Massive black snake like monsters swarmed after a more humanoid but still oddly reptilian creature. It was outfitted in some kind of armor that seemed to be doing little good as one of the black serpents sunk its teeth into his leg. You wanted to look away, you wanted to turn and run. Yet something in you compelled you to stay, it made you want to help your fellow underdog. 

Crouching, you rushed forward to the edge of the tunnel following the pathway to stay out of the sewage. A piece of copper piping was laying propped up against the flooring of the sewer. The perfect way for you to make a distraction. 

Your plan was to get the attention of the monsters saving the other and allowing them to escape possibly killing you in the process. But in the end you would rather die knowing you saved another life than to not try at all. 

Taking the pipe in both hands you slammed it into the metal wall beside you. The reverberating Tang was more than enough to garner their interest but not their attention as the largest of the serpents continued its assault on the now struggling humanoid. 

Without thinking you blindly charged forward and brought the pipe down as hard as you could on the serpents back hearing a satisfying crack as it hissed in pain turning now to face you. You acted on instinct as you turned your grip and swung the pipe like a bat striking the monster across the face knocking it away from you. The other smaller monsters that had been lurking in the shadows watching you took this opportunity to lunge. 

Dropping to your knees in the filthy sewage you braced the pipe against the floor and using the creature's own momentum against it. It leaped directly onto you and appropriately directly onto the tapered end of the pipe driving it into its chest. Green blood leaked out from the wound as the pipe hissed and you stumbled back as it ate through it like acid and finally cracked. 

Just as you fumbled to get away from the dying serpent. The other smaller one darted out to attack you from behind. You had no idea this was even happening until you saw a ball of white hot energy fly past you and incinerate the creature. 

You couldn't help your ragged breath as you looked back to the humanoid. The largest of the monsters had vanished during your fight most likely fleeing back to the surface. Leaving you and the reptilian humanoid remaining. They stood before you now and in the moonlight you could make out their visage. 

A large mask covered their face. They were gauntlets and some kind of full body fish netting. Multiple gadgets covered their wrist and belt. They easily towered over you. The emotionless eyes of the mask glaring down at you as you suddenly realized that this had been a very very stupid thing to do. 

Your moment of terrified silence was broken when you heard distant screaming and the cries of that monster. 

All in a moment an object was being thrust into your hands and you were pulled to your feet. As you looked down and processed that a much too large spear had been placed into your hand, the creature strode a few paces away from you before quite literally punching through the ground above you. 

You stared in stunned horror for a moment before you watched the monster clamber out. When you slowly approached you could see that he was standing there looking back towards you expectantly. 

You couldn't help but yelp as you were once again manhandled being hoisted up by your forearm. 

Before you could even question what was happening your accidentally acquired partner was leading you away towards the town. 

-----

You had been following Wolf, what you had nicknamed the lone hunter, all over town chasing down this alien as you have come to understand. Your chase has led you all over town and now finally to the hospital where it seemed to be making its final stand against the two of you. It had always managed to slip away at the last moment in your previous interactions though this time you were certain you would not allow it to escape. 

As you made your way through the hospital you tried your best to ignore the trail of carnage that was left in its wake. Soon enough you found yourself outside on the rooftop of the hospital. You were surrounded by people from the town that had somehow found their way here as well as a swarm of aliens. You couldn't tell which was worse as stray gunfire threatened to off you just as much as the aliens stalking you in the shadows. 

Wolf had the predalien busy for most of the fight as you and the other towns folk focused on picking off the rest of the swarm. Things eventually came to a head as the once formidable swarm of aliens now dwindled in number and the townsfolk were clambering into the helicopter as it prepared for take off. Wolf though was nowhere to be seen. 

The only sign you had of his position was the deep roar that sounded out through the worsening rainfall. Stumbling over the slick roofing you forced yourself to move as fast as you could in the direction you heard the fighting. With the spear gripped tightly in your hand you could see just vaguely through the veil of rain that Wolf was pinned with his back to the wall. 

Panicking you did the only thing you could think of in that split second. Smashing the blunt side of the spear against the exposed air conditioning unit you screamed out towards the predalien in a means to draw its attention towards you. 

In all honesty, you had done this as a desperate attempt to draw it away from Wolf not expecting it to actually work. You felt your heart stutter in your chest as suddenly the predalien was charging at you roaring over the thunder of the storm. You screamed now this time in true terror as you threw the spear at it. 

The spear sailed cleanly over its shoulder clattering somewhere beyond it as the predalien now leaped for you. With nowhere to run you ducked back and forced yourself between the air conditioning unit and the wall of the hospital. You were able to squeeze down just out of the predalien initially swipe as it now tore at the metal of the unit to get to you. 

As you stared up at the hideous beast you honestly hoped this would not be the end of you. Everything had just seemed to be getting interesting for you. 

Closing your eyes you held your breath as you prepared for pain as the top panel of the unit was torn away exposing you to the predalien. Though just as you feared your end was upon you it was the aliens screams that filled the air and not yours. You were yanked back as the aliens blood splattered the ground where you had stood moments before eating holes through the flooring. 

The alien staggered a moment before collapsing into a pool of its own acidic blood. A spear protruding from the carapace of its skull. Wolf was standing behind you, his hand still firmly on your upper arm as he stared down at the body of the alien. 

You felt as if you didn't have time to do so much as catch your breath. Wolf was already moving, ushering you to follow him as he pressed buttons on his wrist thingy. You all but ran after him, his strides normally dwarfing your own but now his hurried step left you behind. 

You stopped and watched him feeling more than a little frustrated as to why now he had a sense of urgency. Wolf all but yanked his mask up off the floor before pointing at you forcefully and motioning hurriedly for you to follow. 

Though obviously you were not moving fast enough for him as he doubled back and threw your soaking wet form over his shoulder. You feel like you didn't protest as much as you really should have as you watched Wolf take what looked to be a step straight off the edge of the building. Though instead of plummeting to your death, his feet found surface on something you just had yet to have seen. 

Your eyes widened in shock as a spaceship materialized around you. Wolf dropped you down in a much too large chair as he sat down in a matching one to your left. The dash in front of you lit up in an array of switches, dials and buttons. Wolf hit something and suddenly the view of your hometown from the front window slipped away and transformed into the night sky. All in the matter of a night your life up until that point disappeared. Leading you to where you were now. Sitting in the pilot's chair of an alien spacecraft with an alien you accidentally befriended soaked to the bone. 

So much for being the perfect Christian child huh?

If you enjoyed please leave a like and reblog! Thank you so much <3 

[bisexualdaemon]

mad woman: iii (nessian)

a/n: *taps mic* does this thing still work? OH hey! hello! yes, this fic is properly old now and probably everyone thought I abandoned it but joke is on everyone including myself lmao...turns out I love these two..and after acosf well I would 10/10 die for them. so here we go! a ride to be sure! people do be getting naked!

warnings: 4.8k of smut (like woah). language. guilt. 

Nesta wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing.

It had seemed like a good idea. Everyone in certain social circles knew the truth about Hewn City. Knew the dance club for the front it was for the shadowy bowels beneath. Here, she had thought yesterday morning, here she could be on even ground with him.

Him.

Cassian's hand was still in hers as she led them both down the long hallway toward room 3B. His words before hadn’t completely hidden his reactions to her clothes, her face, her body. She smiled to herself remembering the slight widening of his eyes. He probably thought he hadn’t reacted, but she knew. All men are weak. Just put on a dress and show some thigh and she knew she’d get his attention. Even if it was probably all for show. Cassian was a fine actor.

She thought back to four days ago. Or was it five, she thought. They had started to bleed together after the bender she’d gone on after wishing Cassian death on the phone with Amren.

Feyre was in her apartment for the second time in a week. An unprecedented occurrence. If the judgment in her eyes was any indication, she had come to check on things. Baby sister coming to her rescue. How rich. She stood on the carpet again, with her perfect heeled sandals and her tidy camel trench coat. Thankfully, she’d left the hat at home this time. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest as she surveyed the room.

“I see you’ve already made yourself at home again,” she observed, picking up a half-empty bottle of gin, “I’ll send Alis this afternoon.”

“I don’t want anyone else in my fucking apartment, Feyre,” Nesta cringed at the lingering slur in her voice.

“So you can drown yourself in this shit alone?” She held up an empty bottle of vodka in her other hand. “Nesta, it’s only been a few days since I was here the last time. Can you even stand right now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Nesta sneered, settling back into the couch cushions. She couldn’t, but Feyre was a bitch for even asking, so she spat back, “At least I cope with my problems legally, High Lady.” In a fantasy world, smoke would have curled from her lips when she exhaled those last words.

Feyre stilled, breathing evenly. Nesta wasn’t sure if she was containing her rage or accepting the shame she had to be feeling.

“I see you gave Amren a call.”

“She didn’t tell you?” Nesta was surprised. Amren had seemed like one of Feyre’s inner circle, no matter how much money the High Lord and Lady may have given her.

“No, I told Amren that what you did with her number was your business,” she wrung her hands. She was….nervous. How odd. Feyre Archeron was a lot of things, but nervous was rarely one of them.

“Well,” Nesta exhaled, the anger fleeting like wind taken out of her sails, “yes, I called. Everything was very cryptic until someone showed up here who was not a therapist and started taking his clothes off. Honestly, what were you thinking, Feyre?!”

“I…” she hesitated, sinking down on the other end of the couch with Nesta, bracing her elbows on her knees, “I don’t know. I was desperate. I just want you to feel something again, Nes.” She hadn’t called her that since they were children. Nesta felt a little pang in her chest. I need another drink. “I know it’s...unconventional, but it really does help. Rhys and I...well, you know there’s a lot of stress involved in our lives.”

“So you fuck it out with strangers that you pay to keep silent??” Nesta asked incredulously.

“When you put it like that it sounds a lot seedier than it actually is, but,” she huffed, swallowing back some kind of emotion, “yes. There’s a lot of….relief, if you just give into it. Amren knows what she’s doing.”

“Are you and Rhys having problems?” It was the only explanation Nesta could understand for this. I mean it was one thing to hire a hooker if you weren’t getting any, but from the forced lunches and “sister dates” that Elain made the three of them go on, Feyre had always seemed to have a very active sex life.

“Oh, God, no,” Feyre visibly relaxed, caught off guard by even the implication. That made Nesta’s stomach relax. She hadn’t even realized she cared. “Rhys and I are fine, stronger even. There is power in giving up power, especially when you grapple with it on a daily basis. But this isn’t about me or Rhys.” Feyre leaned over and reached out to take Nesta’s hands, but stopped when Nesta visibly tensed at the mere idea of contact. “I’m really not lying when I say I think a little relief would help you.”

“Why do you insist I need help?” Nesta ground out through her teeth.

Feyre sighed and stood. There was something settling over her face, deep in her eyes. Sadness. “Suit yourself, sister.” She stood and, to Nesta’s surprise, took a swig from the half-empty gin bottle she’d pushed in Nesta’s face earlier. Her face screwed up in a grimace, “Jesus, how do you drink that shit?”

“I don’t even taste it anymore.” Nesta looked off, toward the window. Toward the empty corner where the wedding dress had hung for months. She’d taken it down that night after he had left.

That bone-deep sadness returned to Feyre’s eyes, “Alis will be here this afternoon.”

She left without another word.

Nesta sighed, catching Cassian’s attention, but she said nothing. She kept a steady flow of booze in her veins after Feyre left for three more days, sometimes just laying in bed for hours while the world spun. She saw Tomas, saw Elain, but most often she saw hazel eyes and bold, dark lines inked across a broad, tanned chest. Those were the torturous hours, when the desire would rise in her, when she would feel something just like Feyre said. Even if it made her soul burn. He was haunting her. He’d left her alone, angry and wet, for what? Because she refused to accept his “help”? Wasn’t this all just fucking anyway? What difference did it make how she responded?

The frustration had overwhelmed her until she finally realized that it didn’t matter how much she drank, he wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t chase him into a whiskey-soaked oblivion like she could the memories of her fiancé and her sister. He was real. He was still breathing. He was making her life a living hell.

He was going to pay for it.

So, she’d called Amren back. Had made him meet her here of all places. Had put on a dress and a pair of heels and more makeup than she’d been planning to wear at her own wedding. A costume. A mask. If he was going to “help” her, at least it wouldn’t seem like her that he was helping. She’d fuck him out of her life on her terms. Just once wouldn’t damn her to hell, right?

Nesta had never been to Hewn City before. Clubbing had never been her style. She was more of a library, bookworm kind of girl. But now that she was here, she kind of liked the secrecy of it all, the discretion everyone had whispered about. It made her feel like a character in one of her books, a different kind of escape than booze offered, with the rouge-tinted lights and shadowy, padded hallways. She could be anyone here. She would be anyone here. Anyone but herself.

“I think this is it,” Cassian’s deep rumble sounded behind her. They stopped in front of a painted black door, the marker flickering “3B” in the light of the candle sconce behind them. Nesta fit the key into the lock and turned it.

The room was cooler than the hall, but she wasn’t sure the temperature was what made her break out in gooseflesh. There was a massive four-poster bed in the center of the room covered in black satin sheets drawn back against a deep crimson comforter. Only a handful of hanging exposed bulbs lit the space, giving the boudoir decoration some industrial finishes. It was like a scene out of some vampire film noir. The light reflecting off heavy restraint cuffs at each corner of the bed only heightened the effect. A dark armoire loomed in the corner. Nesta was sure that if she opened it, she would find any number of instruments with which to tease and taunt Cassian with. This place was a sex dungeon and she had paid to be a mistress tonight.

Cassian’s mistress.

Nesta took a deep breath and settled into this new character, some confident woman who knew exactly what she wanted and knew exactly how to take it from a willing participant. She sauntered over to the foot of the bed and leaned back against it to look at him. He was so quiet tonight, looking around the room like she had, taking it all in.

“Cat got your tongue?” Nesta proded.

“No,” he hesitated, stuffing his hands into his front pockets like an embarrassed school boy rocking forward on his toes. It only lasted for a second before he hid it behind a smirk, “no, just a little….confused?”

“About what?” She crossed her feet at the ankle and let the deep slit on her dress fall open, revealing almost every inch of her long legs. His eyes widened momentarily before he cleared his throat. Was he….nervous?

“Well, uhh,” he was stammering now, the false bravado unable to keep up with the situation unfolding in front of him, “if I’m being honest, I’m not sure what to do.”

“You mean, Cassian, self-proclaimed sex therapist, doesn’t know what to do?” The teasing in her voice blushed his cheeks pink, “well, color me surprised. I thought it would have been clear by now.”

“It’s not that it’s...you’re…” he cocked his head, “different.” His eyes followed every inch of bare skin from her painted toe to the top of the slit an inch below her hip. “Something changed.”

Why does he make this so damn difficult?

“Yes, well,” she replied, biting her bottom lip for effect, “I decided that I want you to help me.” His head straightened.

“Do you?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, emphasizing the size of his biceps. His nervous energy cooled in seconds, giving way to something else, something that had been simmering beneath the ice.

“I do,” she slipped back a little farther onto her palms, tilting her head back. She was a predator, setting a pretty, needy trap for him. If he got off on a savior complex, she’d play the part until she got what she wanted. “I just want to feel normal again.” She smiled internally as she watched her words wash over him. Watched him take a few deep breaths, watched him move for the first time since they walked in the room.

He kept his body closed, his arms a barrier between the two of them, as he stalked forward. Nesta stopped breathing, feeling his gaze shift from confusion and questions to calculated assessment. He paused in front of her and bent down, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of her slim waist. The space between them was thinner than the air atop the mountains in Illyria.

“I think…” he looked her in the eye, no blinking, no touching, just a wisp of mint from his mouth, “that’s a load of bullshit.”

A rush of fury, so white hot it blinded her, licked down her arm. She raised her open hand and ripped it through the air.

Only to be caught in an iron grip.

“Ah, ah, dear Nesta,” his lips curled up on one side, “I like a little pain with my pleasure, but not without my consent.”

All she could do was stare him down as she huffed, imagining the breath leaving her nostrils in puffs of hot smoke. A caged dragon in pretty clothes begging to get out. But hell would freeze over before she moved first. She could feel the tension between them, feel the electricity pulsing through him where his fist gripped her wrist. Maybe it was her pheromone-laced delusion but she thought he might want this as much as she did. He wanted her challenge, her adamant wall. He wanted to break her, remake her. Little did he know that you can’t break what’s already broken.

Just a character, just a role to play...

“Oh, come on, Cassian,” she tried to free her hand but he remained hard as stone around her wrist. He hadn’t pinned her legs though. She slid one bare leg up the inside seam of his jeans. The muscles flexed and contracted underneath the well-fit fabric, higher and higher, until she reached the apex. He hissed. A feline smile spread across her face when she felt it, felt him, hard and begging for her. “I think you want this a little more than you’re willing to admit, more than you’re allowed to admit.”

His nostrils flared, barely imperceptible, but even the smallest changes in him drew her notice. Why? It was a question she didn’t want to even ask herself, but it kept coming, night and day. Why did this night feel like the edge of a dangerous cliff? Why did his agreement to come tonight feel like more than just a business arrangement? Why did the tension between them feel like her only anchor to this life? She pressed harder into him, needing to move, to get this over with, to fuck him right out of her head.

“Nesta.” His voice brought her back from those questions that haunted her like the inked lines hidden underneath his t-shirt. So close now, so close to her fingers, her mouth. She looked up at him, aware of her knee still cradled between his legs.

“Cassian.” Her voice practically sang. The song of his own personal siren.  

He was so still. If he hadn’t said her name she wouldn’t have been sure he was even breathing. He placed his hand between his groin and her knee and stepped backward. His pupils were wide, endless pools, black as tar and eating at the hazel surrounding them. He was drunk on the lust, drowning in it just like she was.

“Take off that dress before I rip it off.”

A bone-deep shiver ran from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes at the command, reaching back up to settle between her thighs. She flushed from the heat of his gaze on her skin as she stood, reaching behind her neck to loose the three pearl buttons between her pride and her desire. Fuck it. The dress pooled at her feet.

The corner of her lip tugged upward when she heard his breath catch. She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. Lingerie had felt like too much and her regular cotton cheekies would have been too conspicuous beneath her close-fitting dress, so nothing had been the only choice. The right choice if Cassian’s jeans had anything to say about it, clearly growing tighter by the second.

Nesta backed herself onto the bed again, digging in with her heels to push herself toward the headboard as gracefully as she could while burning alive. And she was burning under his gaze. Every flick of his dilated pupils, from her bare legs, to her full breasts, to her smooth stomach, to her glistening cunt, she burned. When her head thudded against the carved cherry wood headboard, his eyes finally met hers. A low growl sounded in the back of his throat.

“See something you want, Cassian?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone innocent, indifferent.

“Depends, Nes.” She ignored the heat that pooled at the nickname, especially when he said, “what are you offering?”

She bit her lip at his words. And spread her knees open for him. Now, come and take it.

He went wholly still as pink creeped into his tan cheeks. He was fucking blushing at her cunt on display for him. A filthy thought entered her head and before she could shut it down, she reached between her legs and traced a finger over her slit. The low lights flickered in the reflection off the wetness laced there before her finger disappeared….

Right between Nesta’s wine-colored lips.

His eyes tracked that finger in and out of her mouth as she sucked and swirled her tongue around it, moaning at the taste of her arousal, the eroticism of the gesture. She released her finger with a pop and smiled wickedly at him.

“Want to taste?”

Cassian moved swift as a thunderclap, as if her words were paddles jumpstarting his heart into quick, heavy beats. He pulled off his shirt. Those thick, black lines of ink that haunted her dreams were on full display, curling around his biceps and across his broad shoulders. She wanted to trace them with her tongue, taste the salt on his skin. He didn’t bother with some cliché striptease. His fingers fumbled with his belt, fumbled with the top button and zipper of those tight jeans. He tripped out of them, splaying his hands across the rumpled comforter as he kicked his pants somewhere across the room, losing his shoes and socks at some point between.

She would have smirked at the clumsiness, questioned his self-proclaimed prowess as a sex therapist, if her throat hadn’t gone completely dry at the size of him. Even through his underwear there was no mistaking it—massive, just like every inch of the rest of his body. Of course, he had a cock to match.

He grinned, following her eyes, guessing her train of thought. The bed dipped as he crawled toward her, full prince of cats on display again. A man who knew what people saw when they looked at him and enjoyed that power, that raw sexual energy dripping from his every pore. With that glint in his eye, she was happy to play along—for now.

Every thread in the expensive duvet cover beneath her set a thousand sparks rocketing across her skin. His movements were measured, purposefully kept from touching her skin. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off of him with every inch forward, every inch toward where she wanted him. All of him. His fingers, his mouth, his cock. Nesta started to fidget with anticipation, ready for him to spread her open and take, take, take, but she wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t reach or claw or whimper, no matter how much she wanted to.

Feyre might be paying, but she would own him before the end. Even if she had to sacrifice her soul to do it.

When his mouth finally made contact with her skin, a whisper of a kiss along the inside of her thigh, it was a struggle not to moan. Loud. She was strung tighter than a bowstring and he knew. Her traitor body was going to beg for him with or without words, so she opened her mouth instead.

“Gonna fuck me senseless, Cassian?”

His head jerked up from between her thighs, that feline smile turning her molten. “You know, Nesta. I think I’ll shut you up instead.”

Someone as big as he was shouldn’t have been able to move that fast. Shouldn’t have been able to cover her entire body with his and claim her mouth between one second and the next. His hands curled behind her neck to pull her firmly to him and devoured her. Their tongues clashed, dancing together, as she moaned into his mouth. Whether it was surprise or pleasure or both that pulled it from her, she wasn’t sure. The mint and adrenaline still laced his tongue, this time with a natural smokiness that she hadn’t noticed before. He licked at her, sucked at her lower lip. She nipped at him, teeth as much a weapon as her words, her hands. She dragged her nails down his naked back and drew a hiss from him, maybe some blood too if the tang of iron was any indication.

It only spurred him.

“You know these lips taste better when they’re not liquor-stained,” he panted. He studied her face, she knew it must be flushed from his kiss, and slowly ground his hips into hers, with the same bruising intensity he claimed her mouth, drenching himself in her through the thin fabric of his underwear. Those really need to disappear. Her fingers continued their violent path down his back to the waistband of his boxer briefs, the only barrier left between everything she wanted. Wanted, never needed. They danced around to the front of him and sought purchase.

Another moan, loud and throaty filled the space between them.

My God.

“Off, off, off, off,” she was chanting when he finally released her mouth to move down to her neck, surely to mark her like she’d marked his back. It was going to be tit for tat with him. “OFF,” she clawed at his hips. He raised up and smirked at her.

“You just have to ask, Nes.” His lips curled to the side, “maybe say please.”

She held his gaze. Please. It was a chant in her head but she couldn’t say it. He saw it there, the challenge, the struggle, but this was a battle of wills. And Cassian was a seasoned general.

He ducked his head and nosed at her jaw, along her throat, peppering her skin with close-mouthed kisses. “Just say the word,” he ground into her again, not nearly the friction she wanted. His hands found her peaked breasts and traced her nipples, slow circles at first, then quick pinches accented by his teeth at her throat. There was no pattern, no guessing, no preparation. Every nerve ending was a live wire, screaming for his touch.

Nesta Archeron was going to die here. The flames in her belly were going to consume her and she was going to die at a high-priced sex club. And maybe she should. It might be worth it. Rhysand would never live it down. She wouldn’t sacrifice her pride for an orgasm. But, as his hips did another slow roll against hers and he scraped at her neck with his teeth, her resolve imploded.

“Please,” she croaked. She felt his smile against her skin.

“What was that?”

“Please,” she said a little louder, still barely a whisper.

“That’s awfully quiet, Nesta,” he licked at her collarbone and made her eyes roll back into her head. “Makes me think you don’t really want it.”

“Please,” she repeated, her head thrashing, “please, PLEASE.”

“Okay, okay,” he pushed up to lean back on his heels above her. “No need to shout.” The tease in his voice forced an impatient growl from her. He cocked an eyebrow as he toyed with the elastic waistband on his underwear, slowly pulling it down below the defined V set low on his abdomen, revealing inch after inch of smooth, tanned skin, until finally they were gone and there was nothing left between them but sexual tension and a promise of release.

Her eyes raked down his muscled body, unable to keep her hand from reaching to touch the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, reaching lower. His fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“Uh, uh, princess,” her cheeks flamed as he lifted her hand to his lips and left a tender kiss on her palm, “it’s my turn.”

She blinked and his mouth was on her. His hair, tufted at the back of his head, bobbed between her legs as he lapped up the wetness that had been pooling since they started their games tonight. Since he first leaned against her door frame, if she was being honest with herself. His lips wrapped around her clit and when he moaned around her, she saw stars. Her toes curled. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair. Her knees bent to capture his head forever between her thighs but he caught them before she could crush him with the force of her pleasure.

It might have been hours, days. He held her spread open and licked and suckled and fucked her entrance with his tongue. Careful, slow strokes to stoke the fire ripping through her veins but not enough to send her to her peak. Her thighs began shaking; her fingers knotted into his hair and held his mouth against her. His name was a holy chant in this unholy place.

“Cassian,” she sobbed as a tear rolled down her temple and into her sweat-soaked hair.

He groaned and release ripped through her. Waves of pleasure locked her body in a silent scream, her head tilted back and her mouth wide open. He kept stroking her through it, his tongue undulating against her clit over and over as her body jerked involuntarily once, twice before relaxing completely, melting into a warm, soft puddle of flesh.

There were no words. No thoughts. Nothing inside her head except for the truth of it. No one has ever made her feel like that, forced that kind of pleasure from her. Her harsh breaths were the only sound in the room as Cassian traced patterns on her inner thigh. She blinked furiously, clearing her eyes of any emotions that might betray her. Looking down, she caught his eye and his answering smile made her forget her own name.

He was looking up at her, his cheeks pink from the heat and pressure between her thighs. His hair was a fucked out mess. He looked...content. As if her orgasm was all he wanted, like he could do it again and again and not care if she ever touched his cock even though she’d never wanted anything more in her life.

But...what if he doesn't want that?

She tensed suddenly. He was an escort after all. This wasn’t his choice. What if all of this is just an act? She knew she shouldn’t care. She was a paying customer and shouldn’t care what he wanted. What his desires were. She should just take her pleasure, satiate her own desire, and leave. That had been the plan when she came here. Hell, she had just been acting when this all started.

Until he gave her the best orgasm of her entire fucking life. Until he called her on her bullshit, got naked, and got on his knees for her. Until he made her gasp his name and fucking cry for the privilege.

This was wrong. She shouldn’t—couldn’t—

I don’t deserve this.

Her breath caught in her throat. I need to get out of here.

She sat up so quickly her head spun. Her fingers caught on the restraints attached to the headboard and she recoiled. What am I doing? Why did I think this was a good idea? Cassian jerked up from between her legs at the motion, the perfect window for her to rip her legs from his vicinity and swing them to the floor.

“Nesta, what’s wrong?”

She heard him, confused, still panting, but she couldn’t find the words to answer him. The panic was bitter, the taste in stark relief to Cassian’s tongue. Stop! Where is my fucking dress? Her head swiveled frantically. A slip of navy stuck out from under the armoire in the corner. She lurched forward, grabbing and pulling on the dress that barely covered her ass, left nothing to the imagination. What have I done?

“Nesta, what is happening?” Cassian was louder this time. Loud enough to draw her eyes. He was leaning on one elbow, wide-eyed and still painfully hard. At this angle, she could see the angry red marks across his shoulder, darkening with dried blood in some places. A damning souvenir for what she had done. A claiming.

She couldn’t ignore the voice in her head. A betrayal.

“Was—” he sat up and leaned on his knees, “was it not good?” Some unfamiliar emotion danced across his eyes as he waited. She stared and stared and stared. “Did I—“ he kept hesitating, “did I not make you feel good?”

It was the doubt, thick and traitorous, in his voice that made her silently turn around and walk out the door.

------ *runs away*

tags: @sleeping-and-books @greerlunna @sjmships @cupcakey00 @queenestarcheron @awesomelena555 @mysticalunicole​ @lordof-bloodshed​ @courtofjurdan​

[booksandwords]

Let's Talk About Love by Claire Kann

Read time: 2 Days Rating: 5/5

The quote: "I use Tumblr, which is probably the best support system for me right now. I mean, it's a super garbage fire of discourse sometimes, but really, we all just hyper-love everyone and everything and want our ships to sail, regardless of canon or what anyone else thinks. And there'll be posts with literally thousands of notes that'll make the rounds saying things like, 'If you're Black and ace, you're valid and I love you.,' which is really nice to read when you're not expecting it. You know the saying, 'love is love,' right? I've heard it thousands of times, but I've learned it, internalized it, because of the blogs I follow on Tumblr." — Alice

I'm on an aspec binge apparently. Two of my three of most recent books feature asexuality prominently, as does my next one. Anywho this one has been on my tbr for far too long, that is the prompt it's filling on my Dymocks Reading Challenge List. Quick review because I am so backlogged on reviews right now. To start with it is worth reading, especially for ace people.

I enjoyed Let's Talk About Love is uses friendship well, in that way that friendship is so, so messy. There is perfect ignorance of asexuality and the truth of it. Or at least the truth of Alice's experience. Alice biromantic (as with Upside Down that dual label is unusual) and maybe most importantly Alice is African American. Alice is fun and funny. Her personality is perfect for this kind of story. She will make you laugh and you will feel her pain. Love interest Takumi is a lot for the reader to deal with, because we see him through Alice's eyes. We never see him objectively. That said he's my type anyway nerdy, cute and charming as hell. His reaction to Alice and her truth is while not natural almost understandable given the lack of education on asexuality in the broader community (even among young people), that lack of education is part of the point. One of the things that Claire Kann wants to improve.

If I have any complaints about Let's Talk About Love it's that the ending feels a little bit rushed. It feels kinda like a few more pages would have made for a more comfortable resolution to Alice's relationships with Feenie and Takumi. There is something about Alice's narrative style. It feels like she is talking, not to the reader, to a friend. It's written with lots of brackets adding comments. The story does ultimately leave a lot of questions about Takumi's background and especially his family though in some ways this does fit due to his reluctance to talk about them. The twins, Megumi and Mayumi, are fecking adorable though. I'm not entirely sure who the intended audience is but it does feel like it suits the aces of all ages that came to terms with their sexuality on tumblr. There are quite a few of us, many of us older, many of us learning about our sexuality through the internet because there is little to no local support or queer education in high schools.

I do still have some quotes to add. Beware most of these are from the second half of the book.

"Calm down. What happened?" "I just wanted to wear a cute costume, you know? And everything was great, but Feenie and Ryan left me and boys are awful when they're drunk and I can't even get drunk to drown my disappointed sorrows because Jesus knows it's not safe in there. And I'm just so "I just wanted to wear a cute costume, you know? And everything was great, but Feenie and Ryan left me and boys are awful when they're drunk and I can't even get drunk to drown my disappointed sorrows because Jesus knows it's not safe in there. And I'm just so mad I could spit." — This quote and the scene it comes from are so much to read. They are confronting in a way that is relatable for all women. I quite like it though. (Takumi and Alice, p.119-20)

"Can you sing? Because that sounds like something a siren would say. Warn me before you sing me to my death so your conscience can be clear." — I think that line may almost be on par with a fallen angel line for pick up lines. Though at least this is somewhat cerebral. (Takumi, p.223)

"Before, you said 'bisexual minus the sexual' but didn't add in a substitute. If you don't care about sex, what do care about?" — I like Alice's description of her sexuality. It is so simple but so accessible for those who aren't fluent in the ace world but at least know the queer basics. (Takumi, p.236)

"Sex is too much a part of everything, and I don't think it's reasonable to tell my partner I don't ever want to sleep with them and expect them to stick around. I'm not saying they wouldn't agree. I personally am not okay with asking. And I'm not saying I wouldn't want to try again someday, but I don't want them to have the expectation that I will. It has to be my choice and a lot of people don't respect that." — Alice

[slut4supersoldiers]

Happy And Sad

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Bucky Barnes

Summary: A world where Thanos has been defeated and everyone is still alive. Things are normal. Steve and Bucky are still pining over each other. But maybe Tony’s party might bring them a little closer to admitting their feelings.

OR

Happiness is fleeting and so is sadness. And bucky is aware of that. But for once he just wants to be happy. Even without the promise of permanency.

Based on Kacey Musgraves: Happy and Sad.

Warning: If you don’t ship Stucky then don’t read this! Also: Alcohol consumption, self doubt slight mention of ptsd and nightmares, maybe a bard word? major pining.

Rating: F for fluff, A for (slight angst)

A/n: i think this is my second time posting this. The first time it didn’t do so well but I had a surge of confidence so I reposted. Please be kind and please leave some feedback. It means a lot x

Tony has thrown yet another party. A ball room dolled up with expensive decorations, lights, chandeliers and happy faces. Pristine marble floors and a fountain with crystal clear water (or is that champagne?) right in the centre of the room. Guests; superheroes, agents, family and friends all dressed to the nines, black tie of course. And Bucky is standing in the corner of the room.

A forlorn expression; a thousand yard stare. He is fidgeting nervously. Left hand covered completely (in spite of the disapproving look from Shuri). His long hair is conditioned and tied in a low man bun, although stubborn strands still fall on his face. He is nursing a glass of whiskey. Nothing gets him drunk because of the damning super soldier serum but he loves the burn from the amber liquid. Imagines himself getting inebriated enough, just enough to forget the pain that the horrid of his past inflicts upon him mercilessly. He deserves it, he thinks. Before he could let the thoughts consume him he consumes the alcohol.

He can hear music being played but he doesn’t recognise it. Doesn’t recognise anyone. Yes he knows everyone but doesn’t really know anyone. Do they know him? No one does.

He is about to take another sip willing himself to push the pain away but his breath gets caught in his throat.

It's not you, it's the glow of the party

The way that you've got me lit up inside

It's the song that they're playin', the words that you're sayin'

It's never felt so right

There in the throng of the guests he sees a familiar face. A very familiar face. A very familiar person. His person. His Stevie.

Dressed in a velvet blue tuxedo, blonde hair gelled back, a very light scattering of stubble adoring his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. Bucky thinks he rather likes the look. And by the look of it so do all the women who suddenly gravitate towards America’s golden boy. Bucky doesn’t blame them. Instead he breathes a sigh and chugs the drink along with the harsh truth, that it’s not his Steve anymore. Probably never was…

Sulking, he is about to turn and walk towards the guest room (that Tony hesitantly offered him for the night) when he hears someone call his name and that familiar feeling of his world coming to a halt takes over him. Steve.

And I'm the kind of person who starts getting kinda nervous

When I'm having the time of my life

“Buck, where are you going? Join us?” Almost hesitantly Steve asks.

And Bucky turns around. The soft voice leaving Steve’s lips calling out to him like a siren to a sailor sailing through troubled waters. Calming and alluring.

He looks at Steve, really looks at him. He is still that scrawny little punk from Brooklyn, he thinks. Charming, stubborn and god damn beautiful.

“Buck?” Steve raises his eyebrows in concern.

Is there a word for the way that I'm feeling tonight?

Happy and sad at the same time

You got me smiling with tears in my eyes

And Bucky gives in.

Joins the former captain and mingles with everyone. Or as any bystander would’ve said, spends the night making heart eyes at the Adonis like blond man who refused to leave the former Sergeant’s side the whole night.

As the clock nears midnight, the party begins to lose its swing. New agents, and other guests having already left it’s only the avengers and their new comrades relaxing and talking, appreciating being reunited. No one addresses the lost time, the tragedies; the nightmares that will come later are reminder enough so everyone enjoys the company instead.

So does Bucky. With Sam by his side and Nat, his Natalia, sitting beside him, chugging a bottle of vodka like water, Bucky feels comfortable but he is still on the edge. Almost as if he knows that this will be taken away from him someday. That’s his life. Nothing good ever lasts. Nothing good is ever permanent. A forlorn look. A thousand yard stare.

I never felt so high

No, I've never been this far off of the ground

And they say everything that goes up must come down

But I don't wanna come down

“You’re doing it again.” Nat says.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“That lost puppy look. We won Barnes. It’s time to celebrate. We can sulk later.” She raises a well groomed eyebrow at her.

Natalia, always the snarky one. He chuckles and shakes his head as she offers him the bottle.

“10 o clock, sarge! Lover boy is closing in on us.” Nat nudges Bucky. And he is suddenly alert. Doesn’t notice Sam and Nat slowly sneaking away. Doesn’t notice the red covering his cheeks. Doesn’t notice the way Steve’s eyes take him in; adoration, love, lust, longing.

“What is this? The famous James Buchanan Barnes, not dancing?” Steve jokes. Tries to make the situation lighter.

And Bucky feels lighter. Like he is floating on air but that might have to do with how close Steve is standing to him. Shoulders touching, hands brushing against each other.

“You got the wrong guy!” Bucky shrugs half heartedly.

“No. I’ve got the right one.” Steve looks at Bucky. Cerulean eyes stare into each other. Lips parted, slightly. Awaiting.

So is there a way to stop all this thinkin', just keep on drinkin'?

'Cause I don't wanna wake up

When they're turnin' the lights on and it turns out the joke's on me

'Cause it feels so right

Suddenly Steve pulls Bucky away from the wall and to the dance floor. The floor now almost vacant.

“What’re ya doin?” Bucky scratches the back of his neck.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how you taught me dancing back in the days?” Steve suggests the red of his cheeks matches Bucky’s.

“You were smaller then. Now you’re...big.” Bucky averts his gaze. Steve bends down a little, a tiny, teasing smile plays on his lips. Cautiously, he grabs Bucky’s hand. The metal hand. Brings it to his lips. A soft, shy brush of lips against the gloved surface. Puts it on his shoulder. A weapon, a burden, an appendage, an embarrassment now an object of admiration. Bucky feels his heart beat getting erratic but the gradual mingling of Steve's heart beats with his own makes it sound like a symphony. Mingles with the music softly playing in the background. Bucky notices how his hand fits right on Steve’s shoulder. Steve places a hand on Bucky’s waist. Pulls him closer, just a little bit. And then a little bit more.

“I am still that kid.“ Steve smiles. Eyes filled with love for the broken but brave man before him. His friend. His love. His Bucky.

“Punk.” Bucky whispers.

“Jerk.” Steve chuckles.

I don't mind at all, no, I'm used to fallin'

I'm comfortable when the sky is gray

But when everything is perfect, I start hidin'

'Cause I know that rain is comin' my way, my way

Bucky is still a little sad. Nothing is permanent. But for now he is happy because for now he is with his Stevie. And he is fine with that.

'Cause I'm happy and sad at the same time

You got me smilin' with tears in my eyes

I never felt so high

No, I've never been this far off of the ground

And they say everything that goes up, goes up must come down

And I don't wanna come down

No, I don't wanna come down

Tag:

@mydarlingharry

[t-o-m-hollands]

And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

*

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

*

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

*

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

*

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

*

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

*

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?” he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

*

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

[keltonwrites]

I bought a house in the middle of nowhere

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.” It was something akin to that, at least. He didn’t mean any mischief, no deceit or planning. It was an honest take on what, at the time, was true. I saw the road into town on Google Maps, noted that it was closed during the winter, acknowledged the reality that a person can own a snowmobile, and I said, “we are not moving there.” But, all good truths are just dares in the making.

And here I am, living in the “there” I said I would not. Two years ago, I left my job at Headspace for a life reset. It was pre-pandemic, and Ben and I were planning a big road trip. Our perfect paradise in Topanga, CA, had crystallized itself as many people’s perfect paradise, and those “many people” all had more money than us. Our options to buy a home were nil, and home-buying was essentially all we wanted. Ben’s a builder and I’m a world builder, and we wanted somewhere to invest that didn’t belong to someone else. We packed the car with the tent and the bikes and the dog and all the things that come with tents and bikes and dogs, and off we went on our own Tour de l’Ouest, looking for a place to call home. We knew what we wanted, knew our odds of finding it, and hit the road anyway. Here was the dream list — concocted by two pie-in-the-sky dummies who married each other:

Not rainy or consistently windy

Notable access to the arts

Remote and challenging to get to/close neighbors

Wild West influenced architecture

Progressive community

Exceptional trail access out the front door

High-speed internet

In our budget

And my personal favorite: had to “feel right” Good luck to us with a list like that, but thus began our hunt. We camped in the snow, tried every dirty chai in the Rockies, and explored every town we could. Whatever a good time it was, it felt useless. Every town Ben was OK with, I hated. Every town I was OK with, Ben despised. And the few places we both loved required money we just didn’t have. We came home with our sails down, limping into the harbor of our rental. But as is the way with romantics, our dreams began to slowly eclipse our reality. Books fell victim to Zillow and Trulia. TV was replaced by the MLS. All writing time was dedicated to Realtor.com. Hours were spent pouring over maps, county records, and updating spreadsheets that tracked price per square foot compared to beds and baths. Over time, all that internetting led to one singular town of 180 people at 10,000 feet in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado with a road that said “Closed Winters” on Google Maps. Look, I don’t know what happened. Ben found this town on a map, I said don’t be ridiculous, and after a year or so of him telling people I'd never move here, here I am, being ridiculous. Was it reverse psychology? Maybe. Was it the charming “town plan” that mandated all houses be rustic cabins and forbade AirBnB? Could be. Was it the fact that when I looked at Strava’s Heatmap, it showed what seemed like thousands of miles of trails just out the front door? I mean, yes. All these things played a part, but all I know for certain is that one day I woke up and said, “we’re going to move there.” Ben doubted this conviction (and the realities behind it) thus cementing it into place in my head. In a town of 180 people there’s only ~60 houses, which means maybe 2 or 3 get listed per year — but my spreadsheet had the proof: we hadn’t missed our chance yet in this tiny town. The data showed a strong likelihood there would be at least two houses listed within the calendar year. This, however, was also our last chance. The spreadsheet also showed that if we didn’t find a house this year, we wouldn’t be able to afford one the next. We called a realtor, made our case, and harangued her until she believed us that we were truly the kind of yahoos who would move to an avalanche field and stay there. And then it happened. A pocket listing. It was a darling home built in 1890. It had the beds, the baths, and the views. We were the first and only to know. We put in an offer, they agreed, and we would come to see the house in a few weeks. But in those few weeks, the circumstances changed. The sellers lost their own sweet deal, and they couldn’t sell yet. Their agent promised we had right of first refusal, it was only a matter of time. Ben lamented, I preached patience, and we went to see the house that was no longer for sale anyway.

It was a quiet winter morning in Covid when we drove across the packed snow to meet our realtor outside the house. The sun was out and the 13 degrees Fahrenheit felt warm. I unzipped my jacket, mask on my face. I took long videos and talked about where I would set up my office and where we’d put the bikes. As we closed up and I settled into a future where this house would eventually be mine, our realtor told us there were comps in the area — other residents quietly interested in potentially closing out. Would we like to see them? Sure, let’s.

One home came with an incredible commercial kitchen. The whole house was a whopping 3500 sq ft if my memory serves me correct, which falls under the category of “houses too big to find your cat in."

Another home had an open-air-to-the-kitchen bathroom.

The third was dark and overpriced with cracked windows and open beer cans scattered about.

And then, plans changed.  “Hey guys, there’s actually one more house we can see.” The last house we saw was a log cabin, nestled in the hillside by itself, with massive A-frame windows looking out onto the peaks beyond. Inside was a labyrinth of a life lived long and large. The cabin was built and loved by a man we’ll call Jack. Jack was 82, and as we walked toward the front door on that sunny winter morning, he exited with two beers in his pockets, headed to the mountain to ski. Jack was an attorney — in his life he’d been both criminal and defender — and from the stories, somewhat interchangeably. There were artifacts from running in the same scenes as Hunter S. Thompson and Willie Nelson; there were stuffed birds, bad books, sheet-covered couches, smoked spliffs, and piles and piles of mouse shit. Every inch of the house was lived in, and not just by people. You think millennials like plants? No. This man likes plants. The biggest monstera deliciosa I’ve ever seen, spanning some 10 feet wide and 15 feet tall. Draping cactuses, spider plants, massive aloes, and an ambitious hoya carnosa clawing its way to the top of the massive fireplace. But there were problems. I’m trying to be diplomatic saying the house was lived in. The wood by the door handles was dyed black from years of hand grease rubbing against it. The carpet in the upstairs was soiled almost everywhere with bat scat. Newspaper was stuffed between the massive logs to keep the wind out. There was cardboard taped over almost every window, blankets nailed over the others. Half the doors wouldn’t open. It was unnerving to touch the crusted light switches. It was early enough in the season of Covid-fear that touching anything felt like gambling. On our way back to our rental in the bigger neighboring town, we shared our awe and our no-ways, lamenting how long we’d have to wait for the little 1890s fixer upper. That night, I sent the video I took of the cabin to my parents. “Can you believe this?” I asked. And do you know what my dad said? “Great log construction.” After that, the cabin was all we could talk about. “Could you believe those plants?” “Did you see how big those logs were?” “I just googled Jack, look at this.” “Do you know what the insulating factor of logs is?” “How much did he say he was asking?” It came down to the plants. Amidst all the chaos in that house, the tender care of those decades-old plants sung the clearest. This wasn’t just a place Jack lived in, it was a place that wanted to be lived in. We made an offer the next day.

Jack had six months to clear out his 30 odd years of collecting, and the town had six months to speculate about the worrisome Californians moving to their high-altitude, high-risk town. The town itself is an old mining town. It rests in a high valley, surrounded by peaks over 13,000ft, and is over six hours from the nearest major airport. Five people died around this town in avalanches this past year. The dirt road into town is littered with avalanche fields, warning visitors to not stop when driving in. The other way out is a pass road, only drivable in the warm months, but you could skin out if it was dire. Most August days, the high is in the mid-60s. The valley is blanketed in wildflowers, and the aspens littering the mountainsides suggest a promising fall display. The town had a heyday, a low day, and now it’s a community of preppers, adventurers, appreciators, and “get all these idiots away from me”ers. We don’t know these people yet, but the ones we’ve met have the same like to live hard attitude we do. Heli-ski guides, ex-CIA agents, woodworkers, bakers, teachers, just a general can-do group of people. The kind of people that see a California license plate and peer with skepticism between the thin gap over their sunglasses and under their caps.

You might say I’m romanticizing the place, but the residents are worse. Like all good old-timers, they’re full of threats: “wait’ll you see the snow drifts,” “let’s see how you do outrunning an avalanche,” “good luck with the winds,” “the last Californians didn’t last a year.” God, what does that remind me of?

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.”

With every taunt, my teeth ground more enamel, fingers rolling into a clench. And maybe Jack recognized this intensity, because on the day of closing, he hosted a gathering for us in the town's open space. He had us introduce ourselves to the skeptical locals, and I made my case in court, eyes narrowed and lips curled. “I’m the daughter of a smokejumper and wildlife biologist. I grew up watching the wind and the door. I’ve lived in big cities, small boats, and more than one cabin. I always take the stairs, I never use air-conditioning, and I’m a very good shot.” I’m just a girl, standing in front of a town, asking them to give her a fucking chance. Jack stepped forward to speak. “You know, I had my doubts about a couple Californians coming to look at my house. But these people? These are the nicest people you’re ever gonna meet.” And then I helped Jack set up his cot so he could spend his last night under the stars in the town that kept him young. Cooper ran circles with the other dogs. People brought homemade cocktails and bowls of dip and we felt welcomed. Even the mayor, a fellow writer, came and she struck up a conversation. “I hear you’ve got a little bit of a following on social media!” She teased. “I guess, nothing wild.” “Well I just wanted to let you know if you ever geotag this town, I’ll drag you out of it.” She grinned. This was a special place. And every visitor who couldn’t handle the realities of being here threatened the very wellbeing of the people who lived here. This town survives on a delicate balance. They source their own water, manage their own roads, and fervently protect the land and the people around them. Their stories about racing avalanches, snowmobiling in the dark of night to the doctor’s house, hunkering down in each other’s homes as the storms pass — these stories were bylaws. You can join when you’ve proven you’re ready to join. By their own projection, they are hardy and steadfast people, and when they see a Californian, they see something fleeting. Many years ago, I worked in the British Virgin Islands. The people born and raised there were called Belongers. At the customs office, the placards above the lines literally read, “If you belong, stand here” and “If you do not belong, stand here.” Whether or not we belong isn't up to the town council, and it's not up to these residents. It's up to years spent drifting my old Mustang in the snow on the way to school, up to Ben's months and months spent in the backcountry, up to my years of reading fire reports and assisting with evacuations, up to Ben's ability to read the landscape and the weather, up to my doggedness, his diligence, and our pathological love to do difficult things well. It’s up to us, to these old logs, and to this valley. Doesn't mean we'll belong, but it does mean we'll try. And for the record, the road is open in the winter. But do these sound like the kind of people who’d tell Google that? Next week, a tour of the house that we get to call ours — stuffed with newspaper, run by plants, and filled with mice. P.S. Here's where we get our mail.

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[shunchitaro]

How haikyuu characters would react to you crying

(Ofc we're starting with my #1 simp😌💅)

1. Tsukishima Kei

Tsukishima was walking down the hallways. He had forgotten his Maths notebook in one of the classrooms he'd been in that day and he desperately needed it to review for next weeks test. He was strolling down the halls with his headset hanging on his neck, his hand in his pocket and the other holding his phone as he scrolled through social media. He was about to go to the classrooms on tje floor above him when he heard a small snifle from one of the classrooms he'd decided to skip (he knew he didn't go in them the whole day). Not knowing what made him do it, he walked up to the classroom door and discreetly opened the door, peering inside.

He saw a small figure at the very corner of the room, knees up to their chest, their hair covering their face. Tsukishima cleared his throat. "Uhm...e-excuse me?" He says. The person at the end of the room flinches as they realize there is another presence. The person looks up, but Tsukishima couldn't recognize the person. Suddenly, a gush of wind blew through the window, letting in the light.

Tsukishima felt as if his heart would break into a million pieces. The person at the cor er of the room was Y/N. Tears were streaking down her face, her eyes sore and red and her hair a mess. Tsukishima didn't like seeing Y/N like this. He quickly walked over to Y/N and knelt in front of her. He didn't know what to do. He quickly took off his volleyball jacket (the black one idk what it's called sooo😗✌️) and set it on Y/N's shoulders. "How dumb can you get pipsqueak? You'll get a cold, it's freezing outside." He whispers harshly, but not too harsh so as to not scare you. You stare up at him through your hair and give him a small sad smile. "A-arigatou, Tsukishima-kun." You whispers and grip onto the fabric. 'Weird..smells just like green candy apples...' you think. The scent calms you down and you soon stop crying, the tears drying on your face.

Tsukishima crawls next to you. You tense up as he puts his hand on your hair, making your head lean on his shoulder. You smile a bit. "I thought I had the 'shorty virus'?" You ask jokingly. You move your head to look up at him and you see a smile about to form on his face, but it immediately goes back to poker face. (Like BrUh just smile already I need it🤧) "This is a one time thing you pipsqueak...you look like you need it." He says, whispering the last bit in embarassment. You give a small laugh as you turn your head to look back at the classroom floor. "Thank you Tsukishima-san, I really did need it." You whisper. "What happened" he says, and you begin to regret saying you really needed the comfort. "I'm not in the mood to tell--" "I wasn't asking pipsqueak. What happened" he cuts you off mid-sentence, and tou could immediately tell he was serious. You sighed. "My team mates have been...a-against me lately." You whisper. You could feel Tsukishima move and you knew he was staring at you. "Be specific, I don't speak 'shorty language" he says. It takes you a while before responding. "You know how i'm part of the girl's volleyball team right..?" You ask, to which you recieve a "hmm" (which meant yes) and you continue your explanation. "We...had a match against Miyamura (was it Miyamura or--) Girl's School. I was the only Middle Blocker available. I couldn't hit Aoi's (random girl from club) sets and we lost." You whisper. "And..? What does the loss have to do with you?" He asks. "They've been giving me the cold shoulder all week and I think it's because they blame me for losing the match." You whisper, tears dripping down your eyes again. "Tch, why the heck are you thinking that?! It's not your fault. Ari or whatever her name is didn't practice setting to you properly. In order for the middle blocker to have a perfect spike, the setter has to make sure that their sets match with the middle blocker's timing. If there's one person to blame it's Ani." He says. You start laughing a bit and you try to cover up your laughs but he hears. "Why are you laughing?" He asked. "Th-thanks for cheering me up Tsukishima-san but her name isn't Ari or Ani. It's Aoi." You reply, laughing a bit. You feel.him ruffling your hair.

"So did it work?" He asks. "What do you mean?" You ask, looking up at him. "Do you feel bettet getting it off of your chest?" He asks. You look back down at the ground and smile. "Yes, thank you Tsukishima-san." You say. You feel him tug at a bit of your hair. "Tsk, just call me Kei pipsqueak, saying my whole last name is a waste of breath." He says. "But what about the others? They all call you Tsukishima." You ask. He snickers "I could care less about the amount ot air that leaves their lungs everytime they say my name." He says and you laugh. You see him take something from his pocket. it was earphones. He inserts one in your ear and one in his. "Wanna listen to music? It'll help you calm down. Your choice" he says and you smile. "Uhm..what about...Einaudi Experience? (Or any song you want)" you ask. This time, you finally see a smile on his face. "That's...my favorite song." He says. He looks at you and you look at him and you both smile and you both look away at the same time, and he played the music, and you both fell asleep.

Sugawara, Tanaka, and Kiyoko were going around the school, looking through classrooms. "Where is Tsukishima? And Y/N? Practice started 15 minutes ago! Kiyoko, look over there." Sugawara said, half worried and half mad. They looked separately until they heard a gasp. They turned to Kiyoko and was able to see her hold her ohone up and snap a pic. "What are you doing, Kiyoko-san?" Suga asks. They come over and they see Tsukishima and Y/N sleeping with each other. "aww...Y/N had a really bad day today and I think Tsukishima found her here." Kiyoko said, her "MY SHIP HAS SAILED" expression seen on her face. Tanaka suddenly felt glad but didnt know why. "So the salt has gone sweet eh? That's new" tanaka says. "oi Goddess, send me that picture. Blackmail reasons." He says. Kiyoko immediately send the picture and Suga has to drag them away to the clubroom

They walk in and Daichi is looking around them. "Where are they?" He asks. Suga grabs Kiyoko's phone and tosses it to Diachi, and he catches it. "The salt is sweet today." Suga says as Daichi looks in shock at the picture. "This is nice and all but they should do that after practice--" daivhi gets cut as Tanaka suddenly appears in front of Daichi holding a volleyball. "Finish that sentence and I won't hesitate to let your friend the floor greet your face with open arms." Tanaka threatens, and Daichi shuts up. "I'd rather live, thank you." He says and walks away.