#listen i doubt that some stranger would want to do that but alas i am lonely and my brain is running on overdrive

[risingroleakira]

if anybody would like to scream about tonights episode with somebody in a discord voicechat please do let me know bc i have the intense need to ramble with someone about what the FUCK that episode was and i have nobody i can talk to

[theirbbygirl]

Second Lead Syndrome

Word Count: ~8.7k words

liked this? there’s more on my masterlist!

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Comedy, Female reader insert

Description: Y/n and Minho have been friends for more than 2 years now, but suddenly she begins to see herself as the mere second lead in Minho’s story. Will she be the rare second lead who gets her own happy ending?

Warnings: some crying, themes of unrequited love (if there’s anything that I missed don’t hesitated to let me know!) 

I’d only ever encountered Second Lead Syndrome in the dramas I’d watched. Wanting the girl to end up with the second lead who was so obviously the better and healthier choice, but like every avid watcher of kdramas, it's more than likely for the main leads to end up with each other, that was just how it worked. What I never thought I’d encounter was seeing it happen before my own eyes and experience it firsthand.

Life was never supposed to be a kdrama. Life was supposed to be simple, a straight line, going from point A to B with no complications. But life never really went my way did it? It just had to throw in one variable, one man that had too much influence on my life. 

I couldn’t remember the first time I met Minho. It was probably sometime in the first grade when his family first moved in next to mine. But alas, we were both too young to remember exactly what sparked our friendship. One day we were strangers and the next we had given our parents a near heart attack when we both went after a stray cat on the way back home (my mom’s words, not ours).  From then my memories were filled with him, just us besties hanging out like anyone would with their best friend. First party, first mental breakdown, first drink, all with him. Soon enough we were in our final year of University, and ultimately, adults. 

The Minho I knew was laid back, not too extroverted but not too introverted either. While I completely contrasted him, always anxious about something, wanting perfection to the T, and completely and utterly introverted.  Our friendship, moving into University, sparked a lot of questions. You wouldn’t typically find the introverted straight-A student with the borderline badboy tsundere walking and laughing in the halls together, spending practically every waking moment together. But Minho didn’t care, and neither did I, so we moved through life pretty easily. 

One of the few things we had in common was our love for cats, and when we both foudn out there was a cat cafe just a few minutes walk from our campus, you best bet we spent too much of our time and money there. Studying, hanging out, anything you could imagine. If we weren’t in one of our dorms, we were more than likely to be in the cat cafe. 

Every day after class we’d go there and we’d complain about our least favorite professors and how lectures would seemingly last for longer than they should. Additionally, Minho had almost become akin to my own dormmate with how much time he spent in my dorm. He’d come in whenever he wished, stealing my frozen pizzas and sodas, using my Netflix account on my TV to watch weird National Geographic shows and make random comments like “that snake looks just like Kim Seungmin,” or “look its Hannie” whenever a squirrel came on screen. Minho was always there when I needed a drinking partner after bombing a test or assignment, pouring me shots of soju until I passed out and bringing me to my bed and tucking me in whiel he would sleep on the couch to make sure I wouldn’t do anything stupid in the middle of the night. 

Although, more people knew Minho’s name than mine, but that didn’t bother any of us. We continued on being friends as usual, and it felt like nothing would change that. Life was moving in a straight line like it should’ve always been.

At least, that’s what it felt like until February, just a few months before we graduated. 

I make my way to our usual spot in the courtyard after buying an iced coffee and a snickers bar from the vending machine next to my classroom, I walk up behind Minho sitting on a bench when I find him staring out in front of him instead of looking at cat videos on his phone like he usually does. Slowing my walk, I trail my eyes to the vague direction he’s facing and see that he’s looking at Kim Seungmin and a girl chatting outside the classroom. I ignore the thought, opting to think that Minho must’ve spaced out thinking about how he would irritate Seungmin next class. I plop down next to him when he still doesn’t take note of my arrival, so I get right next to his ear and blow cold air into it, snickering when he jolts in surprise. 

“What was that for?” He whines, fake annoyed.

“You got lost up in your thoughts for a certain Kim Seungmin there.” I snicker some more, opening my snickers (hehe) bar.

Just as I’m about to take the first bite of the sugary goodness, the chocolate bar gets snatched out of my hands and a certain Lee Minho takes an obnoxious bite out of it, not even giving it back but eating it like it was his. I pout, watching him devour my snack, knowing that I couldn’t do anything to get it back. 

“For your information, I was not thinking about Kim Seungmin.” He says pointedly, slightly muffled by the chocolate in his mouth.

I sigh, knowing I wasn’t going to get that chocolate bar back any time soon, and open my iced coffee. “So what were you thinking about then?” I ask before taking a sip.

“Don’t know, spaced out.” Is all the answer I get and I highly doubt him, but I brush it off anyways and don’t pry. 

Minho and I slide into our usual conversation about assignments, plans for the week, and everything under the sun. We talk about how he’s planning to visit home the next day and stay for a weekend and how excited he is to see his cats after a long time, I unknowingly smile at his ramble about how talkative Dori is, and just sit back and listen. I never took into account how healing it was to just watch and listen to him talk, the sultry of his voice and his little exclamations of frustration or excitement that came once in a while. I had to catch myself from staring when he turned to look at me, having asked me a question I didn’t catch.

“Sorry what was that?” I ask.

“Am I that beautiful for you to have lost your hearing to my handsome face?” I couldn’t just tell him that that was basically what had happened, it would inflate his ego by too much and reveal everything I’d hidden thus far.

“The heck? No, I was thinking about how great it would be to get some peace and quiet while you’re not around this weekend.” I lie, having Minho around is the only thing that brings me entertainment that isn’t endless sappy kdramas on my laptop, but he can never know that. 

Minho scoffs, says something under his breath that I don’t quite catch, then turns back to me. “You love me.” He says with a pout.

“Unfortunately I do.” 

That was the first of many inconspicuous confessions. 

It was nearing 3 or 4 am and I was about halfway done with another kdrama when several knocks resound through the small living space. Knowing exactly who it is, I only shout back “you know the code!” and moments later the door opens. 

I don’t bother to get up and greet Minho, this exact scene has happened too many times for either of us to care at this point, and it doesn’t surprise me that the moment he enters he shouts, “Honey I’m home!” like we’re in some cheesy romcom. 

“Mhmm, welcome home, leech.” I enunciate the last word purposely, but I know he won’t bat an eye at the term. I continue to chew my popcorn while he wanders through my cabinets, looking for snacks. “There’s chips in the cabinet next to the fridge and sprite in there too. If you want more food order Chinese takeout.” 

“I don’t have my wallet.” I can practically hear his pout from where I sat, eyes unmoving from the TV screen. 

“You know where mine is, but you have to pay me back.” A few seconds pass with no response until suddenly he’s next to me and kissing my cheek.

“I loveeee you!” He says too sweetly, retreating back to the mini-kitchen to order takeout.

“Mhmm, I love you too.” I say, not loud enough for him to hear the confidence missing from my tone. 

Continuing to watch the episode of in front of me, I remain in my comfortable position, only moving to lift my legs when Minho comes back to sit on the couch under my legs and the blanket. 

“Oh you’re watching this one?” He asks, reaching into the bowl of popcorn I offer him.

“Yeah, didn’t have anything else to watch so I put it on since everyone seems to like it so much.” 

“Mm,” he hums while also indulging himself into the scenes playing in front of him. “You’re probably team potato guy, right?” 

“What kind of question is that? Of course I am!” I scoff.

“I don’t know, I still think she should end up with Jae-eon.”

“Are you crazy? He literally leads her on like every playboy and is ruining her mentality by not defining their relationship.” 

“Yeah, but they’re so cute together, and you can totally tell he feels something for her.” He argues.

“Just cause they’re cute together doesn’t mean they’re good for each other, the entire guy is a walking red flag, I don’t understand why she doesn’t just walk away when she’s had experience with a shit boyfriend.” I sigh.

“You, have major second lead syndrome.” He points an accusing finger at me.

“So what? It’s for good reason, the main lead is toxic as fuck and you can’t change my mind.” I upturn my nose, turning back to the TV and continuing to watch the episode. 

The mentioning of the second lead sends a flurry of thoughts into my brain for a reason I can’t comprehend. Sometimes the main leads aren’t that bad but still we want the main character to end up with the second lead, maybe out of our own natural selfishness because we prefer the second lead more. I shake the thoughts away, trying to convince myself that kdramas were only works of fiction and too cheesy to be real, yet for whatever reason I always felt a connection with the second leads, like our emotions directed to our crushes were the same, because I knew that I would always be the second lead in Minho’s story. 

Minho’s name was always called out more times than mine was growing up, which I didn’t really mind until our hangout time would be seriously cut down because he had to hang out with other friends. Don’t get me wrong, I loved that he had friends, but there was a little bit of selfishness in me that wanted him to myself.

A new drama and a few episodes later, plus Chinese takeout, lead to our eventual demise. We both fall asleep on the couch in less than comfortable positions and wake up with stiff-neck, us groaning at the pain. 

We continue on with our usual morning routines, taking turns freshening up in the bathroom before heading out for breakfast at Paws and Pastries since we were both too lazy to make food ourselves. Besides, hot coffee in the morning plus good sandwiches AND cats? What more could you ask for?

When we enter the cat cafe I notice a familiar face behind the cashier, it was the same girl Seungmin was talking to on Friday, and the same girl I caught Minho staring at. We walk up to the cashier, I order my food first, a simple breakfast sandwich with a coffee to go with it and wait next to Minho to finish ordering. 

I made the mistake up glancing up at his face as he was telling his order to her, Ahra, her name tag read. There was something in his eyes that glinted that I had never seen before, not when he talked to Han and not when he talked to me. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of emotion in the middle of my chest before forcing myself to look back down, inserting my card and paying for everything. I sent the girl a thank you and a kind smile after she told us our food would be right over, and both me and Minho went over to our usual table in the back corner next to the cat’s jungle gym and right up next to the window. I get lost in my thoughts while we begin playing with the cats we were so accustomed to. 

Like most second leads, I knew exactly what my feelings were. I was practically an adult, how could I miss the fast beating of my heart or my clammy hands whenever I was around him? But again, like most second leads, I knew I’d never get a chance with him, not when everything we did together was purely platonic. It was painfully obvious that I’d be stuck with an unrequited love for who knows how long, and I couldn’t just detach myself from him all of a sudden to get over my feelings because a) he’d notice and force me to tell him what was wrong, ultimately leading me to tell him that I had feelings for him, and b) the moment I would come back or see him for even just a second I know I would develop those feelings all over again. Neither of which were choices I was willing to take so I suck it up and see him every day, ignoring everything my heart was telling me. 

I look up from the cat that I’m petting in my lap and look at Minho again, only to find him staring at Ahra who was taking people’s orders with a perfect pearly smile. It was in that moment that I knew, I had just found the female lead of Minho’s story.

3 weeks go by in a similar manner. Minho and I see Ahra around campus a few times and with some twisted fate, she’s on the clock every time we go to Paws and Pastries. Minho, being his smooth self, easily gets himself acquainted with her. They laugh and giggle so naturally and can slip into conversation so easily I’m almost envious of Minho and his non-introverted self. 

Not being one to try and stop fate, I watch it all happen. Telling Minho to ask her out already and teasing him about how lovesick he gets when he sees her nearby or at the cafe. I know Minho likes her when he blushes or gets defensive whenever I mention her in our conversations even though he’s never explicitly told me himself. I put on a face in front of him whenever these conversations come up, not wanting to get in the way of his happiness. 

One day some of our friends want to meet up outside of campus, we make plans to meet up at a bowling alley, ready to have fun until the late evening hours. Seungmin brought Ahra along with him, asking if it was okay to invite her since they were friends. Everyone agrees and we all meet up as planned. When everyone gets there, including Seungmin and Ahra, we introduce ourselves, Minho not having to introduce himself and easily speaking with her like they always did whenever running into each other. All the the boys have raised brows and mischievous smiles as they watch the interaction between the two, but only one looks at me in concern. 

A majority of the night passes by with laughter and teasing, how Chan was terrible at bowling this night and Minho easily beating him despite never doing too well on our previous adventures to the bowling alley. I spend the night with the rest of the boys, while Minho and Ahra spend time getting to know each other even more. There’s a point in the evening where I see Minho hold out his phone to Ahra to exchange numbers, I can hear her giggle when they take a selfie together, probably for her profile picture. I have to turn my head away quickly to ignore the cracking of my own heart when Minho puts his arm on the couch behind Ahra, he does it so naturally, yet he’s never done it with me. I will my thoughts to focus on the game and not on Minho, not noticing the same pair of concerned eyes until they speak up.

“Are you alright?” Hyunjin asks. 

“Hm? Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” My voice cracks halfway through and I try to hide my sad eyes, even though I was fully aware that Hyunjin had probably noticed that something was up.

“‘Cause you seem pretty affected by that scene over there.” He motions to Minho and Ahra with a nod of his head. 

“It’s nothing, Hyun, just nice seeing Minho talking to more people.”

“Y/n, you know he talks to people all the time, and you’re not nearly as affected then as you are now.” 

“Hyunjin, really, it’s fine.” I try to convince him but he says something that lets me know that he knows.

“You like Minho.”

“What? No that’s absurd I-“ He looks at me pointedly, and I sigh in defeat. “Yeah, okay, you got me.”

“Why don’t you say anything? Clearly it hurts you to see him like that.” He refers to Minho getting cozy with her.

“Hyunjin, it’s clear that everything we have is platonic, he even called me his sister several times. And who am I to get in the way of him getting into a relationship? That’s not my place to say anything, especially when his last girlfriend was 2 years ago.” 

“I get that, but shouldn’t he at least deserve to know? He says that he knows everything about you, but there’s one thing that he doesn't. You know practically everything about him, isn’t it a little unfair?” 

“We have choices as to what we share with each other and what we don’t, it’s his choice to tell me what he wants to and my choice to tell him what I want to tell him. Besides, he hasn’t even told me that he has a crush on Ahra yet.” 

“So maybe he doesn’t then.” 

“Hyunjin, just look at him, he’s a puppy in love.” I glance back over to Minho and Ahra sitting parallel to us. Minho is smiling brightly, more brightly than I had seen in a while and I can’t help but let my lips upturn at the corners just slightly in another sad smile. 

Hyunjin sighs next to me, and I look back to him. “I’m sorry y/n, I really wish he would end up with you instead of her, it doesn’t seem fair to you.”

“Hey, don’t say that, Ahra seems like a nice girl, she and Minho will get along great. And nothing in life is fair Hyunjin, that’s just something you come to accept.” I say, getting up. “I’m gonna get some drinks, does anyone want anything?” I ask everyone.

“Cola!” “Me too!” “Me three!” “A lemonade please.” A few of the boys shout back.

“Anything for you guys?” I turn to Minho and Ahra. They both shake their heads. “Okay then, I’ll be back in a minute guys.” I smile at the group before going to get the drinks. 

While walking away from the group I let a teardrop fall from my eye, wiping it away just before I order.

Life’s unfair, that’s just something I have to accept. 

A week goes by and Minho’s talking about how he and Ahra message often, how he thinks they get along well and he’s gonna ask her out.

Another week goes by and they’ve gone on their first date, he takes her to the beach and they have a picnic. 

Two weeks after that they’ve gone on several dates and are officially boyfriend and girlfriend, I don’t even find out separately at this point, I find out with the rest of the group over dinner.

A few days after that Minho calls off one of our late night binge watching sessions, texting me an apology and that Ahra needs him. I tell him it’s okay and to send my regards to her. 

It’s a week and half after and Minho regularly calls off our meetups at the cafe after school or at one another’s dorms to tend to Ahra. I tell him it’s fine each time and to not feel bad. He did the same today, and I sit alone at our usual table, mindlessly petting a cat in my lap while zoning out into in my mug of coffee. 

All while this happens, I watch, and I let it happen. I don’t fight for him because it didn’t feel right, sometimes second leads let their love fall for someone else, and that’s all it felt like I could do. 

Fighting for Minho felt selfish, especially when I knew I had no chance and he’d already fallen for Ahra. I couldn’t suddenly come out of the blue and tell him “hey, I have feelings for you,” when he’s already dating Ahra, I’d look like a major asshole if I did. All I could do was watch and see how we begun to drift farther and farther apart. 

With Minho being absent more often, I don’t get to tell him much. Like the internship offer I got to continue pursuing graphic design in Itaewon. I got the email almost a week ago, and I had two more weeks to decide if I was going to take the offer. With nobody to consult about it with I continue to push it to the back of my mind, not wanting to deal with more stress just yet. 

Just as I’m taking another sip of my coffee a familiar head of long blonde hair enters the cafe. My head tilts to the side in confusion as he scans the room for someone when he meets eyes with me, he makes his way over and sits in the seat in front of me and doesn’t say anything.

“You’re rarely on this side of town, why are you here?” I ask Hyunjin first.

“I heard something from Ms. Kim in our art class and needed to know if it was true.” He says seriously.

“What…” I feel like I know what he’s going to say, but I ask anyways. “What did you hear?” 

“That you were offered an internship in Itaewon.” 

“Hyunjin I-“

“Is it really true? She said you had two more weeks to decide, how come you haven’t told anybody? Does Minho know? Are you gonna leave? What about-” He begins to spurt out question after question and it’s almost too much for me to handle.

“Hyunjin!” I raise my voice just slightly to get him to stop but I have to turn it down again when the volume of my voice makes a few of the other customers’ heads turn. “Calm down, yes it’s true, yes I have two more weeks to decide if I’m going or not, I didn’t know how I would tell any of you, no, Minho doesn’t know and I don’t plan on telling him.” 

“Are you… Are you gonna take the offer?” He asks slowly.

I prop my elbows onto the table as the cat leaves my lap and my head drops into my hands as I sigh in exasperation. “I don’t know.” Tears are gathering in my eyes as I think about it. 

“Y/n, have you thought about the offer at all?” 

“Yes and no.” I don’t need to lift my head to sense Hyunjin’s confusion. “It’s hard to think about it when you’re watching your crush of 2 years date someone else while you’re also trying to finish up your senior year. But it’s also all I can think about when I’m alone, which I find myself a lot, thinking about having to find a place to live in Itaewon and transfer and mentally prepare to leave you all here, but if I don’t take it then it’ll be even harder to find an offer like this. It’s all I can think about and also something that I can’t bring myself to think about, Hyunjin.” I lift my head and my teary eyes meet his own. 

“Y/n…” His voice breaks saying my name.

“I think I’m going to take it.” I pause. “Once I finish all of my final assignments the only thing I have left to really worry about is graduating and finding a job, and I don’t think I can take watching Minho and Ahra anymore Hyun, I don’t think I can stomach it. I’m happy for them, I truly am, but it’s also affecting me and I don’t think I should ignore that anymore. If I’m in Itaewon I have a job and I won’t have to worry about feelings anymore, two birds with one stone.” 

I see the hesitancy in Hyunjin’s facial expressions before he speaks. “If that’s what you think you should do, then I’ll support you all the way. But shouldn’t you tell Minho about this?” 

“I’m not, because if I do, Minho is gonna find some way to get me to stay and I’ll crumble and stay because he affects me the most.” Hyunjin merely nods in response. “Hyunjin, you are the only one that can know about this, okay? I can’t have everyone else know this, especially Minho, okay?”

Hesitation again, and then, “Okay.” 

Hyunjin keeps his promise, he keeps the secret of me leaving from everyone. Even as graduation inches closer and our group begins to talk more about job searching, what comes next, and similar topics, the two of us keep it a secret. Whenever they asked me what I was thinking of doing next I always just told them “oh probably looking for internships nearby,” and no more questions are asked. 

Minho and Ahra were still very much in love, even more than before, if the growing absence of Minho’s presence was anything to go by. I barely saw Minho anymore, maybe catching him at the end of the hall every once in awhile, but he was always walking with Ahra so all I could say was “hello” and “goodbye.” 

Each goodbye begun to hold more and more weight as the days passed. Even the short ones I would tell Minho after passing him in the halls. I couldn’t even conjure how I would tell everyone, maybe send a letter to each of their places? A text message? Tell them after the graduation ceremony just before I left for the train station? I thought about how I would say goodbye as I begun to pack up my dorm. Graduation was nearing, I had already turned in all of my final assignments, and all there was left was to pack. I would leave after the ceremony ended, sometime in the afternoon. I wouldn’t even get the chance to properly celebrate being graduates with my friends because I was leaving in the afternoon. I’d get situated in my new apartment in Itaewon and get accustomed to new life outside of Gimpo. 

The thought of leaving panged my heart harshly, I had never left Gimpo permanently before. Sure, I had gone on trips to the US and Singapore and Seoul before, but I had never moved from Gimpo. I was born and raised in Gimpo, met Minho and all of our friends here, so the thought of moving for the first time did something to my heart. I attended all of our group hangouts with a nostalgic mindset, remembering the first time we all met, when we all got wasted one time on a Friday night after some big exam week. I look around our table of friends and think about how much I’ll miss all of this when I leave for Itaewon. 

Another thing that panged my heart, Minho and I distancing. I knew it was coming, Minho and I didn’t text or talk about hanging out anymore. He walked Ahra to her classes now, and had dates with her after class instead of meeting me at our cafe. Eventually I stopped getting apology messages, and stopped expecting him at the cafe anymore. I couldn’t blame him, Ahra was his girlfriend and I accepted that long ago. Instead I just played the supportive friend on the sidelines, and I’d continue to play that role for as long as I had to. 

It came to be the night before we graduated, and all of us minus Minho and Ahra were sat around a table in one of the restaurants we frequented, it wasn’t too late in the evening, and we all just sat in silence after finishing our food with bottles and glasses of soju now sitting in front of us. A majority of our meal was full of reminiscing, talking about memories that crack everyone up and left smiles on our faces. 

“So, we really graduate tomorrow, huh?” Changbin says when the table quiets down.

“Yeah, I guess we do.” Chan says quietly. 

My eyes tear up and I begin to sniff without control, the weight of my department tomorrow weighing heavily on my shoulders. Hyunjin puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a tissue, whispering “it’s okay, it’s okay” to me while I try to calm down.

Everyone looks at me in confusion before Chan speaks first. “Y/n are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I just…” I trail off, not sure what to say.

“Do you want to tell them?” Hyunjin asks softly.

“Tell us what?” Seungmin says this time.

Hyunjin looks to me first before nodding, and I begin to spill my secret. “I got an internship offer.” 

The table erupts in cheers and I get congratulations thrown back at me before I can even continue.

“But…” Immediately everyone silences and looks to me in expectation. “It’s in Itaewon.” 

There’s a tense air that falls around us. “What?” Felix says in disbelief.

“You’re not leaving us, right Noona?” Jeongin asks from another part of the table. 

I look to Jeongin with sad eyes, smiling sadly. “I leave tomorrow, after our graduation ceremony.” There’s some gasps around the table.

“What?! Y/n, why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Changbin blows up and Chan has to place a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.

“I didn’t want every time we met leading up to graduation to feel like a goodbye, Bin, I couldn’t handle that. So I kept it from you all so there wasn’t this tension every time we met.” I explained.

“Does Minho know?” Seungmin asks this time, and I shake my head.

“Y/n…” Han says worriedly.

“Guys, I know I’m not the only one that’s noticed that me and Minho aren’t that close anymore, so I haven’t really gotten the chance to tell him. But I told Hyunjin this a long time ago, that I wouldn’t tell Minho specifically, because there’s some things that I need to figure out and if I told him he’d find some way to keep me from going, or even worse, follow me. At least with Ahra by his side he won’t follow me to Itaewon.” There’s nods all around the table, understanding where I’m coming from.

“We’re gonna miss you a lot.” Felix sniffs and I coo, getting up from my seat to wrap my arms around him from behind. 

“I’m gonna miss you all too.” I sniff with him, a few tears escaping my eyes. 

Chan comes to join our hug, then Han, then Jeongin, and soon enough everyone has joined the group hug with me in the middle. All of us are crying, and I had never felt more loved than that moment. 

Eventually we break away from the hug and return to our seats, everyone dabbing at their eyes with tissues and sniffing. 

“Let’s all stop crying, tonight is a night to celebrate, all of us graduate tomorrow, and our dear Y/n got an internship offer in a big city!” Han holds up a drink and we all do the same, cheering and clinking our glasses together and celebrating the night away. 

The next morning I get ready for graduation early, putting on my makeup and doing my hair, and sending a message. 

to: [cat dad who’s a leech :D]

hey, can you meet me at p&p in thirty?

My heart picks up the pace as I send the message, I didn’t expect him to answer so quickly yet his message pings my phone within 2 minutes. 

from: [cat dad who’s a leech :D]

sure, i can be there

to: [cat dad who’s a leech :D]

sweet, i’ll see you there

I turn my phone off and take a deep breath, we still had a few hours before we had to be at the school for our graduation ceremony, I’d have to leave just a few minutes after the ceremony ended which wouldn’t give me enough time to tell Minho, so, I made the painful decision the night before to tell him in the morning. I’d do it in our favorite spot in the corner of our favorite cat cafe, tell him the news slowly and hope that he takes it well. 

I leave my house and 15 minutes later I’m in our usual booth, my coffee order sitting in front of me and the cats all wandering around as there weren’t too many people since it was relatively early in the morning. I already bought Minho his typical Iced Americano and it sat in front of me, awaiting it’s owner. 

10 minutes later Minho arrives and makes his way to the table, sitting in front of me, smiling, unknowing of what’s about to happen. 

“Hey.” I smile at him.

“Hey you.” He smiles back brightly. “Sorry I couldn’t see you guys last night, I took Ahra out for dinner last night on a date.”

“It’s completely alright, how are you guys?” 

“Pretty good, things are going okay right now.” He answers.

“That’s good.” Nervously I take a sip of my macchiato in front of me, my leg bouncing in anxiety. 

“Y/n? Is everything alright? Your leg’s bouncing pretty fast right now.” Curse Minho and the fact that he knows so much about me, he reaches out for my wrist and checks my pulse, quickly noticing how fast it’s beating as his brows furrow in confusion. 

“Minho, there’s something I need to tell you.” I say, retracting my wrist from his grip. He doesn’t answer me but instead tilts his head like a cat does when it looks at its owner questionably. “I’m leaving.” 

“What?” He asks.

How could one look so endearing, head tilted and eyes full of emotion as I break the news to him? I ask myself. “I got an internship offer for a company in Itaewon, I accepted it and I’m leaving for Itaewon, today.” 

“You’re leaving today?” He says in disbelief, sounding out of breath.

I nod and continue. “After the graduation today I have to catch my bus. I didn’t have any other time to tell you so I had to tell you now.” 

“You’re… You’re just telling me now? Do the others know about this?” 

“I only told them last night.”

“You couldn’t have thought of telling me sooner?” He starts to get angry.

“Minho I-“

“What happened to telling me everything, huh? What happened to when we used to know everything about each other?”

“Minho, those days are long behind us, you have bigger priorities now, like putting your focus on your girlfriend, Minho. I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d do something rash, and I didn’t even tell the others until last night because I knew every time we’d see each other it would be like preparing for the day I leave. You and Ahra have something so great going on for the two of you right now and telling you that I was leaving would take you away from that, and I can’t do that to you or her. Ahra is an amazing girl, and you have her now.”

“Will you at least visit?” His eyes are full of tears, some of the first I’ve seen in years and I hate that I’m the cause of it. 

“I don’t know yet, there’s some things I need to figure out myself first, before I can visit. But at some point maybe I will, when I’ve figured things out I’ll try visiting from time to time.” I offer him a sad smile. 

After a few moments of silence I get up from my seat. 

“We still have a graduation left, Min, I’ll still see you then.” I ruffle his hair and walk out of the cafe, no more secrets but one weighing down on my chest. 

The Graduation ceremony passes by in a blur. One moment we were listening to the speeches of each of the professors and the next we were tossing our caps into the air, cheering as we became alumni of our university. 

Our friend group met up in the front of the school, taking pictures with our parents and congratulating each other. Eventually, the time comes and I have to go. 

Our group stands in a circle, unmoving, as we all look at each other. 

“I’m gonna miss all of you so much.” I say in tears as my voice breaks.

“We’re gonna miss you too, Y/n.” Hyunjin says. At his words everyone gathers into a group hug full of tears and the weight of a goodbye on our shoulders. 

“You better promise to visit us, okay?” Felix holds me by the shoulders and makes a point to look me in the eye. Not trusting my voice, I nod and he brings me into one more hug. 

I hug each of them individually, saying a few words, before I reach the last person. 

I hug Minho and look into his eyes for the last time for a while.

“I’ll miss you.” He whispers.

“Me too.” And that’s all I can say. 

I leave the campus for the last time, hopping in my car to head to the station and start anew.

Second leads always leave in the end, they leave and let the two main leads have a happy ending. That’s what it felt like I was doing, and I couldn’t tell if I was content with my choice or not. 

Two and a half months in Itaewon passes quickly. 

The move into my new apartment was smooth, and it was odd to be in a bigger space than a small dorm room. It felt like I had more space than I knew what to do with. 

My internship was moving along smoothly as well, everyone I had met so far were really kind and taught me a lot. I was worried about feeling out of place but I had met a few other girls not much older than me who helped me feel at home. 

Being alone in a big city was unnerving, but what made it so much more comfortable was the addition of a cat that my parents had bought me as my graduation gift. She was a chartreux cat who I named Luna because I had always dreamed of naming my first cat that. My parents covered most of the costs of basic things like cat toys, a scratch post, her bed, and similar things. I thanked my parents endlessly when they came over to my apartment a week after I had moved in and gave me Luna. I wasn’t gone for too long during the day and always left food for her, she was great company when I came home and worked on projects late into the evening, curling up into my lap like the cats at the old cafe used to. She was my best friend in a city I was still getting accustomed to. 

I hadn’t talked to the guys much, I’d talked with them a few times in the group chat about how their job searches were going and trips they were planning to take soon. It was nice talking with them every so often but all of us were still pretty busy moving onto the next chapter of our lives. 

I hadn’t talked to Minho since I left, I’d assumed that he and Ahra were doing well, but that’s all that was, assumption. None of the boys talked about him and I couldn’t understand why, but I never asked since I was supposed to be moving on from my feelings in the first place. I thought I had been doing pretty well until something would come up that reminded me of him, like his favorite song would play in the cafe I bought my morning coffee in and spent my breaks at, or snapchat would send me “Today, 1 year ago” memories of him and me fooling around at Paws and Pastries. Whenever that would happen I’d be sent back to square one, and it felt like I’d never move on from Minho. 

I was on my way out to grab a coffee and spend my off day walking around, maybe looking into a few shops when I got a call from Hyunjin.

“Y/n! My favorite girl, how are you?”

“Hyunjin? What’s with the call?”

“What? Can I not call my friends from time to time?”

“Not when you’re notorious for calling your ‘friends’ after you’ve done something wrong.” I sigh.

“That was one time! Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”

“You dragged Jeongin to a party! And got him wasted!” 

“One. Time. Y/n. It was one time.”

“One time is enough for you to be in trouble for life, Hyun.”

“Okay, whatever, but I was meaning to ask you, what’re your plans for today?” 

“Me? I was just planning to go out, today’s my day off so I was gonna visit this one cafe and see some shops, why?” 

“No reason, what time do you think you’ll be home?” 

“Maybe five?”

“Great, okay, I have to go now, Han’s calling me, bye!” Hyunjin hangs up before I can ask him what’s with the weird questions.

“Hyunjin- Oh great he hung up.” I put my phone in my pocket before looking down at Luna who’s stretching near my legs. “Your uncle Hyunjin is quite the odd one, isn’t he Luna, hm?” I ask her and she meows back in response. “Weird indeed, but that’s just how he is. Mommy’s gonna spend her day out and then she’ll come home and we can watch the TV together, okay? I’ll be home soon.” I pick up Luna and set her on her little bed before ensuring everything is safe and make my way out the door. 

I spend the day eating at a large cat cafe that actually had an assortment of books with little reading areas while the cats roamed around everywhere. It was much bigger than the cafe in Gimpo, but I would always correlate that one with home. 

After I spent a bit of time reading there I went out and explored the shops for a few hours, bought some new jeans and a few blouses plus some makeup things. I got Subway for lunch and explored just a little bit more before heading home. Instead of going straight home, I decided to take the long way, going through the streets not minding the extra weight the few shopping bags I was holding in my hands gave me. The sun was just barely beginning to set as I walked into my apartment complex, getting into the elevator and pressing the button for my floor. 

I walk down the hallway to my door and am surprised when a familiar figure greets me there. 

“Minho?” I say as I walk closer. 

“Y/n!” He says happily, bringing me into a hug. 

“What are you doing here? Actually- Wait- Don’t answer that, do you wanna come inside?” I ask him.

“Sure.” He responds. 

I unlock the door and bring my bags in, setting them by the door. “Luna! Mommy’s home!” I call out automatically.

Luna meows and comes out of the bedroom, walking her way up to me before I pick her up. 

“You got a cat?” Minho asks.

“Yeah, parents brought her to me about a week after I moved in.” I put Luna back down and she moves to sit on the arm of the couch, her favorite spot to sit when the sun goes down.

“And you named her Luna,” He smiles fondly. “You always wanted to name your cat Luna.” 

“I’m surprised you remember that.” I chuckle. “Do you want some coffee?” 

“Sure.” 

“I’ll get that brewing, just give me a few minutes, you can take a seat on the couch and make yourself at home!” I tell him as I quickly retreat to the kitchen.

I have to take a few breaths when I’m far away enough from Minho, my heart beating just as fast as it would when I was around him back then. It was clear I hadn’t moved on at all. 

I brew the coffee as promised and wait next to the coffee machine with two mugs ready. A voice chimes in behind me.

“Your place is much bigger than the dorms.” He chuckles.

“Tell me about it, it was so weird buying more furniture than I was used to.” I laugh with him. 

The machine finishes brewing the coffee and I pour it into the two mugs, putting it on a tray with creamer and sugar before bringing it all to the coffee table in front of the couch. 

Minho and I take seats on the couch, separated by a bit of space between us while we sip on our respective mugs.

“So,” I start the conversation. “How’s home?” 

“Not too bad, same old same old, the guys being annoying as usual, you know?” He says.

“Sounds fun.” I chuckle. “And work, have you found anything yet?” 

“Not yet, I’ve got a few applications out, but I’m still waiting on some answers.”

“I’m sure you’ll get them soon.” I respond. 

An uncomfortable silence sets over the both of us, and I run my free hand through Luna’s fur who’s situated herself in my lap this time. I take a long sip of my coffee before asking another question.

“How’s… How are you and Ahra?” 

“Oh…” He trails off. “We broke up a few weeks ago.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that…” I had no idea that he and Ahra had broken up, in fact that was the completely opposite of what I thought had happened since they seemed to work together so well. 

“Yeah, it was a mutual thing. We didn’t really feel that kind of connection anymore, you know? So we just, broke it off.” 

“Are you okay?” I ask Minho.

“Me? Yeah, I’m actually not as affected as I thought I’d be, I don’t know if that makes me a cruel person or not but I was only sad for the first week or two. Nothing too bad.” 

“I see.” Another silence settles between us. This one is longer, more tense, there was something Minho wanted to ask but he wasn’t sure, and I couldn’t depict what question he was going to ask.

“Actually, I came her for a reason.” He says.

“And what reason is that?” I ask hesitantly.

“For answers.” My brows furrow, answers for what? “There’s something Hyunjin told me recently and it got me thinking, and I wanted to hear it from you if it was true.”  

I finish my coffee and place it down delicately on the coffee table, trying not to show how nervous I was with how badly my hands were shaking. “I’ll see if I have answers for you then.” 

“When you told me you were leaving, you said you had some, things, to figure out on your own. What was it that you had to figure out?” 

I take a moment to decide exactly how I was going to answer his question. Did I want to expose my feelings to him just yet? “Just, feelings.” I say vaguely.

“For?”

“Just feelings for somebody.”

“Is it Hyunjin?”

“No.”

“Chan?”

“Nope.”

“Changbin?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Me?”

I pause for just a half second, and apparently that was all Minho needed. “I guess Hyunjin’s big mouth was right after all.”

“Wait- What? What are you talking about?” 

Minho takes a long sip of his coffee before finishing letting out a sigh after swallowing, he slowly sets the mug on the table before making direct eye contact with me and silently killing me with the suspense. “Minho please just say something you’re killing me here.”

He only chuckles in response. “Hyunjin told me not too long ago that you took up the offer to work here because you were going to sort out your feelings, for me.” He says sweetly as I suck in a breath at his last words. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Minho-“

“Now now, Y/n, we shouldn’t hide things from each other anymore, should we?” His sweet, sultry voice was affecting me greatly as he leaned closer to me on the couch. I gulp and silently curse when Luna, the only thing keeping me sane, leaves the comfort of my lap for her scratch-post. 

“Minho…” I let out quietly.

“Tell me, Kitten, is it true?” He asks once again. 

“I-“ My voice catches in my throat when Minho leans in ever nearer, still making direct eye-contact with me. “Yes, it is.” I sigh out and Minho backs away. 

“He was right.” Minho whispers while my gaze drops to my hands that I fiddle with in my lap at the secret that’s let out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry.” I whisper.

“Why are you sorry darling?” He asks softly and uses his thumb and forefinger to tilt my head up by my chin. 

“I couldn’t tell you because I knew you didn’t feel the same, and then when you got together with Ahra we drifted apart because it hurt me to see you with her. Then I left and told you about me leaving so last minute. I made you cry, Minho, and I hate that I did. But I couldn’t see any other way out of it. I hurt you because I was cowardly and didn’t want to be selfish by telling you and having your attention move off of Ahra, when I was really being selfish by not telling you and hurting you in the end.” More tears escape my eyes as we look at each other.

“Princess, no…” He cups my face with his hands and uses his thumbs to wipe away my tears. “I’ll admit, it did hurt when you told me that you were leaving the day of, but I understood where you were coming from. Because you were right, I would have done something crazy to keep you by my side. Do you know why?” He asks, and I shake my head, still crying. “Because I need you by my side, kitten, even when I was dating Ahra I felt off but just didn’t pay any mind to it because I had her. But now I know it’s because you and I were drifting apart, I found out when after you left and me and Ahra broke up because I felt empty. I couldn’t text you to just come over anymore because you’re farther away from me now. I lied earlier, I said that I sent out some applications for jobs but didn’t get any answers yet, right?” I nod. “I got offered a job as a software engineer, here, in Itaewon, and I said yes.” 

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because I want to be near you, I need to be by your side Y/n, because I love you.” I let out a sob at his confession and he coos, bringing me to rest my head on his chest and rubbing his hands on my back and running them through my hair. 

“I love you too.” I say after a few minutes. 

Minho brings me out of his hold, and cups my face again. For the first time, he kisses me. His lips brush over mine before deepening the kiss, taking full charge of it yet somehow still being soft with me. His kisses were nothing short of addicting, and I knew I’d be in love with him for a long time. 

In that moment, kissing the man of my dreams, I remember that it may be rare that a second lead gets their own happy ending, but it’s not unheard of. Sometimes the main lead and second lead do end up with their own happily ever after. 

Notes from the author: I have FINALLY posted something y’all 😂 took a few months but she’s here, and she’s dishing out something at least. I don’t know how often I’ll be posting again, esp with school and whatnot, but I do know I need to drain out my drafts because phew, it’s getting a little full in there. 

But anyways, I hope you enjoyed this fic! I’m pretty sure it’s one of the longest I’ve written if not the longest. Hopefully it wasn’t too bad, I’m probably a little rusty but we can fix that (i think)

if you want more I still have my old stuff up on my masterlist on my account! hope to see you around :))

-nyx

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: Typical Vampire shenanigans + mentions of animal death Genre: Hurt + comfort Summary: Time to meet the family! What exactly has Cassandra told her mother? Can Bela convince her family to calm the hell down? We'll find out! Spoiler: there's the start of a cute date afterwards Notes: Once more we visit Bela's private study, which I first described in a chapter of Serenade. Added a few more details this time. PS reader is probably low-key a theater nerd with a hint of a goth phase, just saying. Also this chap is a little short, sorry. Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow, 2: Tangled Strands

3: Rumbling Thunder

Heart racing, you step into the dining room, just behind Bela. Both of you are nervous, but find comfort in each other. Still, what you see upon entering only makes you feel worse. At the head of a large table stands none other than Lady Alcina Dimitrescu. Besides her is her middle daughter, the one who confronted you earlier, who sends you a knowing smirk as you walk in. Lady Dimitrescu, on the other hand, is scowling. Her eyes are squinted in a clear display of disapproval. If not for Bela’s hand squeezing your own, it was likely that you would have fainted from fear.

“I see Cassandra has wasted no time in spreading rumors,” Bela said bitterly. You’re amazed by her ability to stand tall in the face of her family’s tension. Yet there was a part of you that wondered if you were worth the struggle, at least for your soulmate. Thankfully, you are not given much time to ponder the thought. No, you’re being pulled towards the closest side of the tabe, guided next to an ornate seat. Neither Bela nor yourself sit yet, however. “Please, mother, do not be hasty to make your judgement. I promise that-”

“Do not presume to tell me of my own business, daughter. The timing of my judgement is my prerogative, not yours,” Lady Dimitrescu interrupted, staring right at you. A shiver runs down your spine at the eye contact. What did Cassandra say to her? You wonder, struggling to breathe past the lump in your throat. Even Bela becomes visibly nervous at the interaction. “Now… are you certain, without a doubt, that this is your soulmate?” Did she really even have to ask? What were the chances that Bela would save you, one person out of at least a dozen in the cellar, for any other reason? Still, your soulmate straightens up at the attention, and replies as confidently as possible.

“Yes, of course, mother. I would not dare risk your anger for any lesser reason,” Bela assured. Then she gives your hand another soft squeeze, before pulling hers back a little, catching the thread that bound you together with her fingers. Lifting it, she tugs it somewhat absentmindedly. Out of habit you immediately return the action. Unfortunately, those around you would be unable to see the display. For all they knew, the two of you could be faking it, simply attempting to get out of the situation unscathed. Surprisingly though, you see Alcina hesitate. Her left hand twitches as if she was thinking of her own red string. Has she ever met her partner? Did she know the pure joy that her daughter had so recently felt?... Maybe she’d be more sympathetic to your situation if she had.

“We will see if your defiance pans out in time, Bela. For now… Why don’t we hear what your pet has to say about themselves, hmm?” Lady Dimitrescu suggested, giving a somewhat devious smile. Next to you, Bela grimaces, then sends you a pleading look. Alas, you cannot read her mind, and can only guess as to how you’re supposed to respond. Bowing is a sign of respect in virtually all cultures, you think, probably a good place to start.

“It is an immeasurable pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Lady Dimitrescu,” you said, before giving your full name. Then you rise from your bow, once more making eye contact. Out of the corner of your vision you see Cassandra rolling her eyes. “I know that I am a mere human, and hardly the epitome of a prime specimen. But I am determined to prove my worth, for there is no prize on this earth more grand than being allowed to love Lady Bela. Every ounce of my willpower is prepared to devote myself to this task, entirely, so that I may give Lady Bela the courtship and happiness that she is deserving. It is both an obligation and an honor.” Hopefully your soulmate wouldn’t mind you using the same line twice, at least under these circumstances.

In the seconds that follow, several things happen: One, you see Cassandra frown a little, and refuse to look in your direction. Two, Lady Dimitrescu makes a surprised face, but quickly shifts into an expression of satisfaction. Thirdly, Bela’s hand finds your own again, giving it an incredibly soft squeeze. Last but not least… someone you haven’t seen before enters the room. She has red hair, a green pendant around her neck, and eyes that light up with curiosity when she sees you. If you had to guess, you’d assume that she was another one of Bela’s sisters. Here’s hoping she’s a tad bit friendlier, you think.

“Did I miss anything? Ooh, please tell me we’re having this lovely stranger for breakfast?” She asked, grinning maniacally. So much for being friendlier, you think, figuring that she was being literal. Based on the way Bela tenses up in response, you’re probably right. Before she can protest, however, Lady Dimitrescu clears her throat and speaks.

“Ah, Daniela… This stranger-” she says the word with far less venom than you anticipated, but it is venom nonetheless- “is your dear sister’s soulmate. We will not be draining them of blood. Again. Assuming that they behave themselves. Is that clear?” She asked, staring down at the newcomer. There’s a slight pause, tension still lingering in the air, followed by a sigh of relief from Bela. Much to your surprise, neither Cassandra nor Daniela seem particularly upset by this announcement. In fact, the latter simply shrugs and takes her seat at the table. Next thing you know everyone else is sitting as well, including Bela, who gestures for you to follow suit. “I’ll have one of the servants fetch you some more… appropriate food. Cynthia, my dear?” Soon enough a maiden, perhaps a decade or two older than yourself, hurriedly enters the room. With a bow, she addresses Alcina.

“Yes, Lady Dimitrescu?”

“Have Miss Bouregard make an extra plate of whatever it is you sort eat, and bring it here. We have an… unexpected guest,” Alcina explained. At that, Cynthia glances at you, her eyes briefly widening in surprise. Without another word she turns away, giving another bow before heading away to fulfill her task. Once more you’re the only human in the room. Oddly enough, you manage to feel quite at ease, as if surviving one round was enough to guarantee you’d win the overall game. Well, at the very least you now had a chance. Regardless of what was to come, you were glad for that, for this opportunity to be with your soulmate. At the end of the day… little else mattered to you.

———————————

Much to your relief, the rest of breakfast proceeded smoothly. Conversation was sparse, with most of it being hushed whispers from the other side of the table, but you hardly minded. Normally you would find it rude. Now, you were simply pleased that they weren’t being up front with their hostility. More so, it allowed you and Bela to have your own conversation, which mainly pertained to your plans for the day. Several times during your discussion, a glance elsewhere would show you that Alcina was paying attention. Exactly once you even saw her attempting to hide a smile. A sense of pride had swelled in your chest at the sight.

It has remained there, even until now, as you move into Bela’s private study. One quick survey of the room tells you a thousand things about your soulmate. For starters, it’s clear that she’s musically inclined. There’s a harp in one corner, adjacent to a folded music stand, as well as a small bookshelf dedicated entirely to sheet music. A couple medium sized instrument cases are nearby, but you don’t immediately recognize their shape. Further into the room is a rather old looking desk, slightly worn, yet clearly cared for. Possibly passed down the generations? Next to the desk is a massive window with a couple spare chairs. All across the walls were bookshelves and mementos, including several skulls (at least one of them human). Every book you looked over appeared to be well read, with many bookmarks inside, some held together by tape and prayers.

“This… this is sublime, my darling. I could rest here for a month and hardly finish cherishing half the space!” You said, grinning at your soulmate. She’s equally pleased, seeming a tad relieved as well. Perhaps she had worried you’d be thrown off by the skulls? Wanting to reassure her, you approach that particular shelf, examining them closely. However, you do not touch them, not wanting to risk damaging her collection. “Truly marvellous. Dare I ask where you got these specimens?” It’s a joke, but Bela stiffens nonetheless, making you quickly redact your statement. “My apologies, I meant it as a jest. Though you are welcome to tell me more about them if you so desire! I will listen with rapt attention, I promise.”

“Most of them are gifts from Cassandra. During the summers we hunt, her more so than Daniela or myself. I… dislike wasting anything, and there’s only so much to be done with most bones. They have quite a few ornamental uses, however. Useful for study, as well,” Bela mentioned, smiling softly. Then she moves to stand next to you, carefully reaching to grab one of the skulls. “This was from one of our hounds, actually. I raised her from puppy to adult, took her on every hunt, even let her sleep in my quarters on colder nights. When she got sick I…” A pause, mouth open but unmoving, eyes slipping shut. “I couldn’t bring myself to put her down. Even argued with my mother, night after night, begging for another choice. None came, of course, and in the end even I could not deny her the softest embrace of death… Still, you must think me strange, to keep such a thing as a reminder of her.”

“Not at all, my dear. We all remember, and grieve, in our own ways. I’ve often found myself intrigued by skulls, of all sorts,” you admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck with your hand. “All we are, our minds or mayhap our souls, contained in one hard shell. It’s incredible, and terrifying, all at the same time, to hold one in my hands, or even merely examine one. Oh, what stories these bones could tell, if only they could talk… Though I suppose there are entire fields of science devoted to such a thought…” With that said, you look back at Bela just in time to see her staring fondly at the canine skull. Then she places it back on its perch, dusting her hands off afterwards, taking one last moment to appreciate her collection.

“I’m glad you and I agree on this,” she said softly. Once more she’s looking at you, smiling wide. “Now let’s make memories of our own, to hold in our bones forevermore, yes?”

[tomtenadia]

My knight in shining armour

Rowaelin month Day 2 - University AU

I literally just finished this. I wasn’t going to write for this prompt but then an idea finally hit me.

The title as usual is bad... sorry

2k words

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Aelin had days in which she hated men. That was one of those days. 

After finishing high school she decided to took a challenging course at the University of Terrasen. Her dad, before he retired, had been an airforce pilot. She had grown up going around his base, visiting him when he was back. In doing so, she had become obsessed with planes. As she grew up, her dad had let her get friendly with his engineer and the man had started teaching her all she needed to know about aircrafts. From the basic physics to the more obscure detail of how the jet worked. Aelin had been fascinated. She had started reading all the possible books, and as she got older, her dad’s engineer had also started having her to actually help her in the hangar. In the summer when school was out, she would actually get a part-time job as an apprentice at the base and she had loved every moment of it. She had also become very close with the two female pilots and together they had spent time talking about the life of a woman in a boys club. The two women had become her role models very quickly.

Terrasen was quite and open minded country but some ideas were still quite obsolete.

In high school at the question “what you want to be when you grow up?” She always answered an aircraft engineer for the airforce. She never faltered or never doubted. That’s what she wanted to, that was her path.

But when time for uni arrived and she applied for a degree in aeronautical engineering, that’s when she realised that the boys club extended far more than she expected.

She was basically the only woman in the class. None of the guys had approached her and on the first day she had walked in the classroom, one of them had the guts to tell her that the humanities department was in the annex c. She ignored the bastard and sat down at the front. She belonged in that room and she would prove it to every single one of them.

Day after day she had shown her knowledge and surprised her professor who was amazed at the fact that she could answer such in depth questions. Last time it happened, she had turned to Chaol - the asshole who had told her about the annex c, and gave him a smirk. That had removed his stupid grin from his face. It felt amazing.

During a private one-to-one with her professor she had confessed to him she had been working at the airbase as an apprentice during the past three summers. Her teacher had luckily been very supportive and encouraged her to keep up the good work.

Now, six months in, she still hated with a vengeance the arseholes she had to study with. Some of them even had the guts to ask her for some help after they realised she was actually good. She had answered that surely they didn’t want the help of a woman, and walked away.

After another class it was finally lunch time and she was meeting Rowan down at their spot on the grass. They were a couple. He had asked her out in the summer after high school was over and they had been together ever since. He was a med student and he knew her pain about choosing a challenging degree. Both their degrees were very intense and required a lot of time so they would just try and spend as much time together as they could. They had a flat together but the public library was were they spent most of their time.

And when their schedules allowed it, they would enjoy lunch together, venting about their academical choices.

“I fucking hate that bastard.” She raged, dropping her bag on the grass and sitting at his side, depositing a kiss on his lips. She felt better almost immediately, being in his arms was all she needed to feel okay again.

“What did he do now?” Asked Rowan knowing of her struggles in her classes.

Aelin grabbed her bag and pulled out her food, the dinner that Rowan had prepared the previous night and then packed away for both of them.

“The teacher gave us an exercise where we had to design an aircraft with what we had learned so far.” She told him, while munching away her food “He was up first and his project was a effing disaster. Seriously, I’d wouldn’t want to fly on a plane designed by him.” She took a sip of her water “the teacher asked us to say what was wrong and it took me ten minutes to stop. I mean, a two year old would have done a better job with lego bricks.”

Rowan giggled at her side “then my turn came and the bastard had the guts to tell me that the aerodynamics of my plane were off and that my ailerons where wrong as well and would not allow the plane to function properly. I took my laptop and shoved it in his face and told him to find the error in my math. He had no clue.” Her face turned smug “then the teacher took over and said that actually my project was, among all, the only one that could actually fly. I felt smug as fuck.”

Rowan pulled an arm around Aelin’s shoulder and pulled her to him. He was proud of her. Every damn day.

“Then after class, he threw me a paper plane and inside it had a message saying this is the only plane you will ever build or work on. I swear, the guy is still alive only because I am not looking forward to finishing my degree via distance learning from a prison.”

She calmed down “how was your day?”

Rowan leaned back against the tree “I had anatomy and physiology. Today we covered the endocrine system and it must be one most boring of them all.”

“Well,” she added with a big smile “when you cover the reproductive system you are welcome to practice with me…”

He laughed and squished her to her chest “I am a very big fan of your… bits.” She kissed him deeply not caring that they were in public, she wanted him and hated that they had more classes before being able to go home and then alas, study more. Maybe for one evening they could study something different.

“Aelin?”

“Yes, buzzard?”

His tongue gently teased her and she opened for him while his hand brushed off a rebel strand of hair.

He pulled back “Nothing, you had tomato sauce on you lips. I was just wiping it off. Did you think I wanted to kiss you?” 

Aelin gently punched him on the shoulder, in return he gave her a massive grin. Rowan was a very reserved man who struggled with stranger, but she had her own version, the goofy one, the one who made jokes and loved to cuddle with her. She would treasure that version forever. That was just for her.

They were busy chatting away and she was showing him on her laptop the exercise she had been working on and her plane prototype and although what she was saying was greek to him, he still listened to her in fascination.

She was telling him how a plane flew and the four forces when a figure stopped in front of them.

“It must be exciting to brag with your boyfriend about your hopeless projects.” Said the man.

Rowan raised his eyes and finally saw the face of the man that had been making Aelin’s life miserable.

“What did you just say?” Rowan stood and towered on the brown-haired man by twenty centimetres. Chaol also looked frail compared to Rowan’s muscular frame.

“Chaol, you’d better go.” Not that she cared about the man, she just didn’t want Rowan to get into trouble for a petty man.

“You’d better give up while you still can, Galathynius. Aeronautical engineering is not a field for a woman.” He crossed his arms at his chest trying to look intimidating but the look in Rowan’s eyes told her it was a useless attempt. Her boyfriend was ready to attack. She knew he had never hit anyone, but had a feeling that if Chaol didn’t stop it could be a first for Rowan.

“Chaol,” she stood as well and growled his name in warning.

“Oh, so you are one of those arseholes who believes that certain jobs can be done only by those who were born with a penis. It’s the fucking 21st century. Grow up, idiot.”

Rowan swore, alarm bells rang in Aelin’s head. He only swore when he was extremely mad, something that her unflappable boyfriend rarely was.

“Oh look, Galathynius, you have a knight in shining armour.”

Aelin moved between Rowan and Chaol, trying to separate them when her boyfriend moved a step closer to the other guy.

Chaol chuckled “Did you sleep with every professor—” but Chaol never finished his sentence. She saw the scene develop in slow motion in front of her. At those words Rowan’s face had turned feral and as on instinct his arm moved and a second later his fist found its target in Chaol’s face. 

Rowan then grabbed Chaol by the collar and lifted him up slightly “You take it back, immediately or I’ll smash all the twenty two bones in your skull.”

“Go on,” said Chaol, nursing a broken lips.

Aelin stopped in between and grasped Rowan’s hand gently “Put him down, Ro, he is not worth it.”

Her gaze then turned to Chaol “now you go back to whatever shithole you came from and perhaps go back working on your project and design a real aircraft.” She moved closer to him “I know what the fuck I am doing. And I know I will have a job in the airforce after this. You will just go back being daddy’s little spoiled boy.”

Chaol glared at her and Rowan finally let go of him, bur before he fully released him he pulled the man close enough that his mouth was near his ear “you disrespect her like that one more time and you’ll finish your degree from a hospital bed while sipping your food from a straw.” Rowan flashed his teeth in a threatening gesture “you leave her alone, because if I hear you have been a bastard to her one more time, I will make your life a living hell.” And eventually released him. Chaol shrugged his t-shirt back into place and walked away without adding another word.

Rowan sighed and then turned to her, his expression back being soft as soon as she looked back at him.

“You didn’t have to punch him,” she said while snuggling against his chest. His arms quickly around her.

“Yes I had to. What he said….” She felt him tense up again “he made me so mad, fireheart.”

“Seeing you thump him was very sexy,” she kissed him gently on the lips “my knight in shining armour.”

Rowan chuckled and looked into he blue eyes “you don’t need a knight. You are fierce, brave and strong and do not need any protection,” he added, his lips on her head. Nesting under his chin was her favourite position. They fit perfectly “I, on the other hand, as a male who is hopelessly in love with you, felt the desperate need to avenge the sullied honour of my amazing other half.”

Aelin giggled hard “you really sound like a knight.”

“Come on, Sir Rowan Whitethorn of Wendlyn, let’s finish our lunch, I have an hour of mechanics of flight coming up and I need sustenance.”

“Yes, my queen,” he said kneeling in front of her.

Aelin laughed and kissed him deeply “maybe I can be your queen tonight in bed as well.”

His smirk grew wider and Aelin felt heat pool at her core at his expression.

“Whatever m’lady commands.”

They finished their lunch in peace without any more interruptions and eventually they parted ways, going to their respective classes.

Chaol did not bothered her anymore. He didn’t even met her gaze and him ignoring her was all she asked. She was there to learn, he could just go and sulk in the afterburner of a jet, perhaps while on, for all she cared.

Aelin texted Rowan a thank you and his reply was a simple To whatever end.

[snek-snacc-ficc]

One Is A Genius, The Other’s Insane

Summary: Logan had seen enough of the world to know it was a horrible place, greatly in need of a competent leader. That was a job he was more than willing to fill, and so, by the age of twenty, he began his tireless work to plan the perfect scheme for world domination. Things became much more complicated, however, when Remus, his complete opposite in nearly every sense, stumbled his way into his life.

(Pssst, it's a Pinky and the Brain au)

Words: 3,177

Logan Ackeroyd couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he realized the world was a horrible place. It had been more of a gradual thing really. He studied history in school and learned of all the horrors man had committed against man throughout the thousands of years of humankind's existence. Everyday he’d watch the news and see atrocities happening across the globe in real time. When he turned sixteen, he had to get a terrible job as a fast food cashier, enduring impatient, rude customers demanding cheap food that tasted like it had been chemically manufactured (and he figured it most likely was), just so one day college would be slightly more affordable. And, perhaps worst of all, when he did reach college, he was forced to listen to pretentious English professors take the likes of Sigmund Freud seriously. Listening to an old man tell a room full of his fellow peers that Hamlet wanted to copulate with his mother was the last straw, and so, by the age of twenty, Logan Ackeroyd decided that he would take over the world. 

He wasn’t the absolute perfect choice for Earth’s ruler, he knew, but he also knew that he had an immense amount of intelligence, and a righteous moral code, and that put him above nearly every other world leader in his book. 

Unfortunately, Logan found, working to become the world’s benevolent dictator didn’t pay well, in fact it often depleted his pocket book, and so he took up a job as a middle school science teacher by day, and would dedicate his nights to working out the perfect scheme for world domination. 

It was supposed to be a secretive, solo endeavor. Involving others in his plan could get messy and chaotic, which was rather counterintuitive to his goal. Along with that, it could prove disastrous to alert others of his plans for fear it could somehow lead to interference from the authorities. It was best, he decided, to simply keep to himself with a clear mind. All of that, however, was ruined the day he met Remus.

Logan’s trip to the hardware store was meant to be quick and simple. He was working on what he thought was the verge of a breakthrough, (a prototype of a device that would allow him to brainwash the masses through the use of a high pitched sound wave), but he was missing some of the tools needed for its completion. When he turned around from the shelf he had grabbed a collection of bolts from, he was brought face to face with a man with a handlebar mustache staring at him. He was startled for a moment, but the feeling quickly gave way to annoyance.

“Excuse me,” he said, pushing past him.

“Is that blood on your sleeve?”

Logan looked down at his long sleeved polo. He hadn’t noticed the red stain on it earlier and he thought it odd that the stranger would point it out.

“I don’t believe so. There’s a stronger possibility that it’s jam.”

“You should totally lick it to find out.” 

“That would be highly uncouth,” Logan deadpanned, hoping the peculiar person would soon leave.

“It could be cool. If it is blood then you’d be like a vampire.”

Logan moved towards the check out, delving into an explanation of the definition and proper pronunciation of “uncouth.” The man continued to trail behind him, apparently satisfied with his shopping trip of a cartful of spray paint, chattering on about what seemed like disconnected nonsense. By the time he was finished with his purchase, excusing himself once again to leave, Logan was relieved to no longer be burdened with the annoying distraction.

He rushed to his lab with the missing parts once he reached home, eager to begin work on the project once more. He had little time to do so though, as right as he began the door to the room swung open. Logan jumped, grabbing a screwdriver on instinct in case he had to defend himself, and spun around to see the man from the store standing before him. 

“What?!- Why’re you-” he sputtered, completely flabbergasted.

“You left this at the checkout,” the man said, thrusting forward a plastic bag with a collection of wrenches in it. Logan hadn’t even realized he’d left it behind, but his attention had been split when he was checking out thanks to the other.

“So your first reaction was to stalk me and break into my house?!” Logan’s voice rose with anger and unease. “How did you even find where I live?”

“I followed your car.” The man said it like doing so was the most casual thing in the world. “I almost missed ya, but I caught up just in time. Lost you for a second at a stoplight though. And when I found you again your car was already in the driveway and you were gone. I tried knocking at the front door but you never answered, so I just walked in and heard you doing...whatever this is down here.”

Logan was silent, both confused and slightly disturbed that the man’s first solution had been breaking and entering, but he had little time to dwell on that. His cover was blown. His lab had been exposed to an outsider who would most certainly bring an end to his work. It had always been a concern of Logan’s, but he didn’t think he would be faced with it so soon. He kept his composure though, already theorizing which high security prison he might be thrown into. 

“Well,” he said, “I suppose now that you know of my secret you will contact the authorities. I’d rather you do it now and get it over with. My phone is right over there if you need to use it.”

The man did not move to grab it however. He remained where he was, darting his gaze around the room.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, still taking in the surroundings.

“B-Because you know of my nefarious plans now, to take over the world.” Logan gestured to the large bulletin board on the wall labeled “Plans for World Domination,” using the same tone of voice he used when re-explaining concepts to students that had been zoned out in class.

“You’re trying to take over the world?!” the other sounded ecstatic, “Woah, how?”

That hadn’t been the reaction Logan expected at all, and he still was unsure whether it was a trap of sorts or the man in question really was this...dense seemed the best way to put it. Either way, he had little left to lose. If he was going to get arrested, at least he would finally get the chance to explain his genius plan to someone beforehand. He turned back towards the device on the work desk. 

“Well if you must know, I’m working on this prototype of a device that would send out a high frequency noise to anyone within a ten thousand mile radius. Once it’s finished, I was going to hide them on numerous radio towers and implant a message within it that would brainwash everyone that heard it, allowing me to gain total control of a large number of people quite quickly and efficiently. The only problem thus far seems to be a simple yet pesky error on my part; These wires on its main control panel keep falling in the way when I try to work on it, and there's no way for me to move them all at once and simultaneously continue my work.” 

“Well I can help with that Dr. Dork-enshmirtz, here.” He moved over to the control panel, lifting up the bunches of wires that hung over it. “That better?”

Logan, though still a bit stunned, dug around in the bag the man had brought over, taking out the wrench he needed to continue where he left off. 

“My name is Logan,” he said, “but that is quite helpful, thank you…?”

“I’m Remus,” the other chirped eagerly.

“Thank you Remus.” As much as he loathed to admit it, it was fairly nice to have some sort of companionship. Being able to share just a bit of his idea already gave him a rush of excitement, despite the odd circumstances it had occurred under. And having someone to be an extra set of hands was an added bonus.

“Would it be possible for you to further offer your assistance to me?”

“Sure thing Nerdy Wolverine, as long as I get Australia privileges when you brainwash everyone. I’m gonna make a spider army.” 

The plan fell through in the end (Logan hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to travel the globe, climbing thousands of radio towers), but from that moment on Logan had Remus as his partner in justifiable crime.

---

"Heeeyyy Logie, what are we gonna do tonight?"

Logan rubbed his temples. For ninety-five nights in a row Remus had asked this same question, and every single night Logan's response was the same.

"The same thing we do every night Remus, try to take over the world."

"Ooo neat! What are we gonna do this time? More sabotaging jam companies?"

"No Remus," Logan sighed, "after last night's disaster we're lucky we aren't on some government watch list." He was most disappointed that out of all of his plans that one fell through. Creating a utopia where only Crofter's jam was consumed would have been a dream come true. But alas, he had to move on.

"Truth be told I am rather stumped as to what our next approach should be, but I'm sure with some copious amounts of effort I will come up with another brilliant idea."

"Why don't you take the night off Brainiac?" Remus asked.

"Take the night off?" Logan scoffed, "When the world still remains in the clutches of corrupt, incompetent leaders? Never. Besides, what would I do if not plot to take over the world?" 

"You could take a nap," Remus suggested, "You've got circles under your eyes so dark you could pass for a MySpace profile picture."

"While I appreciate the concern, my friend, I am quite fine. Though my sleep schedule is a bit off of an average rhythm, rest assured I have calculated a routine that keeps me functioning regularly. Though, given that you sleep a full 9 hours each day I doubt a set sleeping pattern can do much to create normal behavior." Logan muttered the last bit watching Remus grind his nails against his teeth like they were a nail-filer.

Remus halted his movement, inspecting his hand with one eye closed as he spoke. "Well then we could do something fun. We could watch this one documentary I want to see about this religious cult that made all it's followers fuck each other on a bridge and then jump off," he let out a cackled laugh, "Crazy how all that religious stuff can control people like that."

Logan scrunched his nose. "Remus, I ask that you keep your disgusting documentary drivel to yourse-" He paused for a moment, the last thing Remus said sinking in. 

"Remus, what did you just say?"

"It's crazy how all the religious junk can control people," Remus repeated, "that's partially why I gave up organized religion, in fact…" 

He trailed off but Logan wasn't listening, the gears in his head turning, formulating a new idea.

"Remus," he exclaimed, eyes lit up as he cut the other off without realizing it, "are you pondering what I'm pondering?"

"Hm, well I think so Logie," Remus said, "but I'm actually allergic to synthetic body glitter."

Logan grit his teeth, face falling. 

"You would make for wonderful evidence to prove it's possible to de-evolve, Remus. No, I was referring to the idea of preying on the population through the use of religion. If I were to somehow convince the masses that I were a god I would have the world tied around my finger; They would do anything I commanded."

"Woah, you'd be a much better god than Sky Daddy Logan," Remus said, "but how are you going to get that many people to trust you?"

"From what I've observed, most people seem to distrust claims of the supernatural due to a lack of perceivable, verified evidence," Logan said. "If I could find a way to create some sort of projection of myself to a large number of people all at once, it might be enough to convince them that I am a deity. And right here in America would be the perfect starting point, because most people here are rather gullible and severely lacking in critical thinking skills."

Remus clapped his hands together. 

"Yay! We're gonna start a nerd cult!"

---

Tireless nights were spent working to bring the plan to fruition. Logan had to work out exactly how he could create a convincing projection of himself, as well as find a power source with enough energy to fuel it. After weeks of building, planning, and re-working the contraption was finally finished and ready to be put to use. 

It was about half past ten o'clock when Remus and Logan headed out to the nearby electrical company. Its small amount of security and large source of power made it the ideal location to put his plan into motion. When they arrived and had successfully snuck through the wired fence, Logan turned to Remus.

"Here," he said, handing him a thick metal pole he had under his arm, "you use this to knock out the security guards while I hack into the security system and cameras. Try and meet me in 15 minutes."

Remus gave a two-fingered salute. 

"You got it Dorkenshmirtz."

Logan rolled his eyes at the nickname, but couldn't truly be annoyed by it. So far everything was going perfectly according to plan. Logan even found himself grinning as he made quick work of disabling the security, the flow of adrenaline making him nearly burst with excitement. Once the system was completely down, he turned tail to head to the main center. He unzipped the bag he was carrying, carefully taking out the disk-like platform he would use for the projection, and untangling the series of wires and cords to put together. To his dismay, he found that the last cord was slightly bent, most likely from being shuffled around in the bag on the trip over, and wouldn't properly plug in to the outlet without hands on assistance. The concern was quickly diminished though. Remus would be able to hold it in place while he was on the platform. Just as the thought crossed his mind the door swung open and Remus stepped in. His hair was slightly more astray than usual and a noticeable bruise was forming around his jaw, but he was smiling madly, chipper as ever.

"Did you take all of the guards out?" Logan asked.

"Yup, I bonked 'em!" Remus said, proudly. "A few of them put up a fight but I went like this," he swung the pole through the air, "BONK!"

Logan couldn't help the amused quirk of his lips. 

"Wonderful," he said, making his way towards the platform, "Everything has been put into place, except the cord over there. I need you to hold it into the outlet for this to work. Do not let go."

Remus nodded.

"Amen Sky Daddy!"

He plugged the cord in, keeping it upright and steady. Almost immediately the platform lit up with a surge of power. Logan walked towards it, nearly trembling. Finally after years of work, trying and failing and trying again, he was going to succeed. The world would finally be his to craft to his perfect, peaceful vision.

Once it was completely charged up Logan took his step onto the platform. Outside an enlarged image of himself filled the sky for miles. He cleared his throat, preparing his speech for the people, when suddenly his moment was interrupted by the sound of Remus cursing to himself as softly as he could manage. His head whipped around and to his horror he saw sparks of electricity flying from the place where the cord met the outlet, sending repeated shocks through Remus, who was struggling through the pain to keep the cord plugged in.

Remus looked to Logan, seeing him hesitate.

"Go on," he whispered, though his voice was strangled with discomfort, "I'm fine."

Logan turned back around once more, but got no further in his speech as he caught the sparks growing larger out of the corner of his eye. 

Time seemed to freeze for Logan, his head was spinning, torn between the task at hand and Remus' pained whimpers.

He'll be fine.

He'll get electrocuted and die.

It's one person vs the future of the rest of the world. This is what I've worked towards for years, and I'm going to blow it.

But he's helped so much. 

Stupid, loyal Remus with his constant screw ups, and dumb jokes, and annoying nicknames, and laughter and chatter that always rang through the house, that filled a void I didn't even notice was there before, and-

Remus cried out, his body completely jolting with an electric shock, but still he forced himself to keep hold of the cord.

"Remus let go!" Logan shouted.

"N-no, y-you-" Remus couldn't get out another word before another strong shock struck him. The surrounding wires and cords were jumping with sparks as well, and Logan caught sight of a fire starting at the floor where Remus sat slumped weakly against the wall.

"Remus!"

Without thinking twice Logan bolted from the platform, heaving Remus into his arms just as the flames began to grow and approach his body. He rushed out of the building, lungs burning from the toxic fumes of smoke that filled the air, but he didn’t slow his pace until they reached the car, the sound of sirens already blaring in the distance.

The drive home almost certainly broke the speed limit, but Logan cared little about that, glancing at Remus, unconscious but miraculously breathing, every few seconds until they reached home.

---

It was evening two days later when Remus finally awoke. He groaned, blinking his eyes open. Just as he came to, Logan walked into the room, rushing over to the bedside.

"So Logan,” Remus said, flashing a dopey smile up at him, “what do you want to do tonight?" 

Logan threw his arms around Remus' neck, the position awkward due to him being sprawled out on the bed, but neither paid any mind to it. Tears leaked out of Logan's eyes, that he tried to hold back.

"I think," he said, sniffling, "that you can choose what we do tonight Remus."

Soon after, the two were curled up on the couch, Remus' head resting on Logan's thighs. Logan sipped hot chocolate from his #1 DICK-tator mug, a Christmas gift from Remus, carding his fingers through the other's hair as a true crime documentary played on the T.V. Maybe, he thought, world domination could wait a bit when he had his whole world lying right in his lap.

---

Ah! I’m so glad I finally finished this! Think of it as my own little celebratory work to welcome in the new Animaniacs reboot.

Taglist: @bullet-tothefeels 

[castielchitaqua]

kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R         my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

[todaydreambelieversfic]

Author Spotlight: Hippohead Day 3

Author: @hippohead​

How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

Two or three! And then I try to do another revise a day or two after I've posted it because I always pick up errors that I missed when I was just trying to get it done & posted.

If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

This one is a little tricky - I feel like I haven't been writing Klaine for long enough to feel the need to do this yet. However, I want to revise almost ALL of my Parks fics. Alas. I feel like that is a feeling that comes after a fair amount of time passes and you change and your writing styles changes or adjusts. No doubt in a couple of years I will have the same feeling towards my Klaine fics.

What do you look for in a beta?

I've never used one before because I'm terrified of the whole entire thing but I really should because, as aforementioned, tense trips me up A LOT.

If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

I really wish I had a cool answer to this but I just cannot think of a single fic that I could do justice. There are a million fics that I would love to have the original author write a sequel or prequel for!

Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

If I go into it wanting it to be canon compliant (like "I Noticed") then I am pretty strict about it being compliant. But in general when I write, I like to have a nice balance between canon things/moments/characteristics that make it feel recognisable, and also my own additions/changes. I think having some canon stuff in a story can ground a fic that's entirely AU - even if it's just that Kurt still likes cheesecake, despite being a super spy, or whatever the story is. It gives it some roots.

Talk about a review that made your day.

Oh my gosh, there have been so many. I'm going to talk about two if that's okay because they are the two that have stuck with me the most. BushDragon commented on "I Have Guidelines" and said: "Jane Austen would be very proud of your plot dips & turns." I barely even have the words to describe how much that means to me because Austen is very, very important to me and for someone who didn't know that to tell me she would be proud of me? I couldn't ask for more!

The second was on "and I'll be yours for the weekend" and it was from rougedraconteur. They said: "Please keep writing, every chance you get, since it is your gift." That one settled in my heart and has lived there ever since. There is so much generosity in saying that to a stranger on the internet, and I didn't take it lightly. I feel very honoured!

Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

I actually haven't had this happen to me yet! I think it helps that I only started writing recently; from what I've heard, it was a lot more crazy back in the day.

What advice do you have to people just starting to write?

Try and find a way to make sure this stays something fun for you; focus on the fun you have writing it, the fun you have discussing it with your internet friends, the joy of people enjoying it. Hold onto that.

Which fic do you most like to discuss with other people? Why?

Of my own? Probably "I Have Guidelines" which... well, she's gotten a lot of shout outs from me during this. I just really love that story. And in terms of fic not written by me... "The Hating Game" by the wonderful Sal (coffeeorderwrites). I will talk about that fic to anyone who will listen for the rest of my life. It's genuinely just my favourite thing to read and talk about and think about. ily to the hating game.

What's one aspect of writing fic that gets you really excited?

Getting to create scenes for Kurt and Blaine that we didn't get to see on the show. There was a big cast with a million different plots going on, so obviously we missed stuff in their story. Getting to write those moments or create new ones in different universes is so special and fun for me!

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Check out Hippohead’s Fics

gave me no signs - Blaine has finished up his run on Broadway and is getting started on his next album, having to spend time in LA with his label despite recording the album in New York. And Kurt is handling it well, mostly, but he gives in to the missing him on Halloween because he'd had to shelve couples-costume ideas and there's wine involved in the sadness. But then he has sex with a cowboy, so it ends up being a pretty good Halloween, actually.

Cardinal Sins - "Now, very explicitly, it has become almost unbearable how much Kurt is someone Blaine wants, feels desperate about. Like something inside of him is being hollowed out and replaced with a pinprick and narrow need for him; like he’ll forget how to breathe if Kurt doesn’t put his hands on him."or: Kurt Hummel, the seven deadly sins, rules, and breaking them.

I Think They Should Date -  Kurt loves his job and he loves his boss, Isabelle. He also loves having weekends and time for his skincare regime and the ability to go on dates. So, when he sets Isabelle up with Arthur, one of their coworkers, it’s only because he’s desperate. Desperate enough to go to Blaine Anderson for help. And it was just supposed to be a fling; enough to distract Isabelle during the weekends and no more, but hearts don’t work like that. Hearts fall in love and hurt people and get broken. And sometimes, hearts start to belong to the person you really want to hate.

[sepublic]

Luz’s Self-Punishment?

           I actually think that like Lilith, Luz has a tendency to overtly punish herself for mistakes, she’s just… WAY more productive and efficient about actually fixing the situation, even at the cost of herself- Maybe even especially because of it!

           I say this because Luz makes the understandable mistake of crashing Owlbert, who was fully willing to indulge in Luz’s antics during Escape of the Palisman by taking her to the Glandus game. And obviously Owlbert is also justifiably hurt and maybe reluctant to reconnect with Luz… But it’s also worth observing that Luz is clearly beating herself up mentally over her mistake, she doesn’t hesitate to throw herself into the Bat Queen’s trials and even risk her life to rescue Owlbert!

           And, obviously- Luz is a very impulsive kind of person in general, incredibly brave, and would do anything for her friends. But I am concerned about Luz possibly beginning to see herself as like, a burden, or even someone who keeps hurting people even when she tries to help them… Especially when they tell her not to. Take for example, Luz turning Willow’s memory photo back up because she still wants her and Amity to reconnect… and it leads to Willow’s mind almost being destroyed. Luz’s efforts DO pay off in the end; However, Wing it like Witches has Luz recklessly challenge Boscha to a Grudgby game, over Willow’s honor.

           That’s fine as it is… But the problem is that Luz says that Willow is challenging Boscha. And I think this is a scenario where Luz legit thought she was doing what was best for Willow, that this was of course what Willow wanted… And while she was justifiably mad, I think Luz may have projected some of her own anger onto Willow by assuming she felt the same way, while also seeing an opportunity to play out her Azura fantasies through a Grudgby match; Hence why moments before Boscha drops trash on Willow, Luz looks VERY intrigued by Amity pointing out that Boscha only listens to Grudgby… Amity wasn’t at all suggesting Luz challenge her to a game, but Luz is remembering that Azura movie she brought up earlier, and getting ideas.

           So when Luz does recognize she made a mistake… I think she’s just a tad too eager to both take on ALL of the responsibility and repercussions, but also doesn’t do too much to vouch for herself when Boscha starts attacking. Now, you could argue that this is just Luz being kind of impulsive and thoughtless, not thinking of herself in a genuinely forgetful way, while also not anticipating Boscha to be THAT intense; But I have to wonder if Luz will sometimes shoulder the blame and burden of her mistakes too much. Just as Amity did when she cut herself off from Grudgby after accidentally injuring Boscha and Amelia that one time… And it’s interesting that Luz is inspired to take all of the blame after Amity recounts this story; And it’s Amity who realizes what’s up and thus goes out to get Willow’s help.

           Or, take Witches before Wizards! Luz enrolls in Adegast’s Quest, wanting to play out her fantasies, and does so on her own, on her own terms… Ideally only Luz should be in danger, if any comes around; And yet Eda and King still get involved to rescue Luz, and Luz finds out that her getting into this quest was what endangered them in the first place, because she was meant to be a hostage! Then we have Agony of a Witch; Eda tells Luz to just mind her own business and be happy, and not concern herself. But not only is Luz legit scared for Eda… She also expresses a desire to ‘pay her back’, as if Luz thinks the happiness she provides isn’t enough. As if Luz feels she’s inadequate, perhaps a burden…

           Which, matches with Luz being the child of Camila, who’s single and occupied with the VERY time-intensive job of being a nurse, and is already stressful as-is. I think Luz quietly taught herself to not try to be a burdern on Camila… Or at least thought that was what she became, when her mother agreed to send her to Reality Camp. This is her mom, who objectively loves her and is supposed to, and likely was the only one supporting and indulging in Luz’s interests for her entire life. So when Luz DOES meet Eda and King, Willow and Gus, or Amity… While she’s still very much herself in a lot of ways, an utter weirdo and a cryptid;

           I AM concerned that Luz is going to be too conscious of the impact she has on others, a bit too much. She went ahead with trying to help Eda’s curse despite Eda telling her not to… And it led to a disastrous heist at Belos’ castle that led to Eda being captured and losing all of her magic, permanently. Luz let Willow and Gus help her in the heist, and they got in trouble as well… And I’m afraid that maybe Luz is beginning to think that any time she tries to help others, she just makes things worse. And/or, Luz feels like she should do things on her own so her loved ones don’t get involved… But even when she tries to in Witches before Wizards, her actions directly lead to Eda and King being captured.

           Am I saying Luz is a bad or thoughtless person? Absolutely not- She can be a bonehead sometimes, but all of her mistakes are completely understandable. Luz needs to remember that a lot of her friends chose to get involved for Luz’s sake, they mutually care for her and vice-versa, she is by no means a burden and her own presence lights up their world. Eda reassures Luz that she chose to sacrifice herself for the girl, and hopefully the advice will stick there… But even so, Luz is a fourteen-year-old who was ostracized for a LONG time.

          She’s no doubt been conditioned to think of herself as a screw-up who hurts people… Hurts her mother by lying to her, Luz should’ve been honest when she had the chance; Hurting Amity by accidentally reading her diary when she just wanted to be friends… Making a statement that Viney and the others justifiably take out-of-context, but Luz interprets this not just as Viney and the others being valid in their initial fears; She thinks it means she HAS done wrong and hurt people, and so she accepts Viney’s rejection without a second thought and really lets it get to her.

           I’ve seen others speculate that Luz has Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, and I really think this could be the case? Luz normally is herself, but lately, when things suggest otherwise… Luz starts to doubt her world-views, at least in application to herself- For others she’ll always vouch for them! But it takes a lot to love oneself… Take for example, Luz clearly berating herself for being too forward with Amity when she tries to initially approach her in Lost in Language, perhaps acting on some confirmation bias; That if Luz fails, then clearly this means she shouldn’t have tried in the first place, and of course nobody is interested in her.

           Luz knows to unapologetically be herself and encourage others to, and then fully support them… But does she expect a lot of support herself? Is Luz resigned to the idea of being rejected either way, so she just goes ahead with who she is… And just waits to see what people DO respond to her, without getting her hopes up? Luz gives it a try, see what happens- And if they don’t respond, alas. If they DO respond… New friend, and Luz can get a bit carried away. Like her plan for Willow to sneak into Hexside and get a better grade… Luz was also legitimately altruistic, but I certainly hope that Luz doesn’t blame herself for getting Willow into trouble, especially since Willow ended up in the Plant Track because of her. Like Eda, Luz has accepted being herself unapologetically and not needing the approval of others- But Eda was also clearly lonely for a while too, having to wait for fellow weirdoes to resonate with her and reciprocate. For Luz, I imagine it’s a very different scenario with just passively waiting for someone to respond to your open invitations about who you are…

           …VS actively WANTING someone, wanting them to accept you, etc., hence Luz’s apprehension about confessing to Camila. And maybe this could lead to some dynamic between her and Amity, where Luz doesn’t know how to handle actively desiring a connection with a specific person that may or may not fully reciprocate her… Luz loves intensely and affectionately and she focuses on making others happy so they don’t suffer like her; Is there the fear, the resignation that they won’t return the same? And that’s okay because they’re already doing so much for Luz just by tolerating a screw-up like her and her mistakes…? Coupled with how stressed Amity is and the abuse she has, and Luz might be afraid that Amity won’t ever feel the same way- So Luz should just be content with what she has, and then not move forward. Don’t get her hopes up.

           Believe me, I don’t find this at all contradictory with my past takes of Luz as being someone who constantly asks why can’t she have it all, both for herself and others… I think she’s rightfully defiant and demanding in that self-respecting way, thanks to Eda especially. But when it comes to emotional love and whatnot, that kind of intimate connection, unconditional kindness and favors… I’m not sure if Luz ever expects that from others, nor does she ask it of them? It’s of course because she’s so kind and selfless towards people, her own demands and challenges towards the system are also into consideration of others just like her.

           But maybe it’s because Luz is partially demanding because she sees it as helping others in a roundabout way… Or she’s only ever like this with strangers, with people she expects to already not think much of her, to not accept her, so Luz doesn’t have too much qualms with trying to be all perfect and subdued for them… But for people who DO accept Luz, it suddenly feels like a lot of pressure and responsibility, because she’s not used to this. She doesn’t want to screw it up, making friends who like her, because this is so rare, and it requires a lot more mutual reciprocation from others, VS an attempt to change the system or fight against the law, cause a prison break, etc.

           Luz seems like the person who can handle learning a lost form of magic, fighting monstrous demons, all that jazz incredibly well; But when it comes to navigating actual emotional relationships, Luz has a lot more difficult navigating. Sometimes she copes with her fear by just going for it, sometimes she forgets about it entirely in her eager excitement, getting her hopes up… But in general, I don’t want Luz to think that she actively causes trouble for people, and that she hasn’t done enough to deserve the people who actively choose to be around her; Much less Luz’s potential apprehension about not being enough for someone she ‘forces’ interaction with because she wants to be with them, like Amity. I think Luz’s growing mistakes and incidents could contribute towards a growing sense of being a screw-up in her own way… And when you’re an insecure teen, you tend to forget about and disregard your good actions in hindsight, even as you’re performing them.

           While Luz’s efforts do sometimes pay off, it’s usually after something goes wrong and everyone grapples with the situation. Sometimes Luz has to wonder if it could’ve been done in a much better way, and if her friends had to do too much heavy-lifting to make things right, to pick up after Luz’s mess- Like maybe her friends could’ve just fixed this on their own, it was only Luz getting into a mess that made them get involved sooner rather than later. The thing about Luz’s mistakes is that a lot of them are understandable, or while bad, nevertheless escalate past a point she could’ve feasibly expected, so maybe she’s being too hard on herself for the consequences.

           I think Lilith is someone who also has an issue with this, as does King- And both have learned to confront that they cause messes that they didn’t intend, but still contributed towards. Of course, King is way more adjusted than Lily… And I can see Lilith and Luz potentially bonding over that feeling of being ‘cursed’, like any attempt to make things better for others just causes problems… And they’re already so much of a liability and a burden as-is. Even when they do things alone and for themselves, issues for their loved ones can develop as a direct result… So maybe they should just cut ties? To protect the ones they care for… Besides, their loved ones probably don’t need them THAT much anyway, their friends are too cool for losers like them.

           I kind of feel like Luz and Lilith could have a potential issue of really undervaluing themselves and their achievements… That when they do bring them up, they don’t really mean it and it’s just a shallow attempt at making themselves feel good- But deep inside they know it means nothing. Lilith knows that being Head Witch of the Emperor’s Coven means nothing, not without Eda’s approval, and especially because she got it as a hand-me-down from Eda… But she still boasts of it anyway to invite other witches, and to lie to herself. If Eda contrasts with Lilith and can teach her sister to engage in some self-love… Then consider that Eda does the same to Luz; And what this could say about Luz and Lilith as two people on the receiving end of Eda’s support, who have a lot to learn and benefit from Eda and already have.

           Maybe Luz expects herself to do a lot, because she recognizes that she IS a lot… So she tries to take advantage of this, and tries to compensate for past failures, by doing something good with it. This isn’t to say that Luz never acts in her self-interest, ever, because she’s still a fourteen-year-old kid with a loving and supportive family, who’s allowed to have fun and has still had genuinely positive lessons and growth in the Boiling Isles… Any issues she suffers in the Boiling Isles, if Luz gets them, would’ve been less worse than that of the Reality Camp, minus the physical harm bit of course. But that doesn’t seem to register to Luz that much because that’s not what really matters to her in the end.

           Regardless, I’m afraid that Luz is going to pick up on the idea that each time she innocently tries to go forward and do something for herself and/or others, without their permission… It just makes things worse, forcing others to not only fix the problem, but also make things better so Luz doesn’t mess up again. In other words, Luz probably thinks her friends are doing all of the actual work in making things better, which could play into how Luz thinks the world of her loved ones and is incredibly supportive of them. Perhaps she thinks they’re way cooler than her, too cool for Luz… It’s not too much of a prevalent issue NOW, I think, but it could be in the future. Luz could begin to wean herself off from doing what she enjoys, just for herself, because she thinks she’s a screw-up…

          And then her friends have to reassure her otherwise about everything, that even if Luz seems to be a disaster-magnet, it’s part of the charm and not her fault, she shouldn’t hold herself back! If anything, Luz should keep weaponizing her chaotic energy, making the most of what she has as always! Considering the school system that Luz grew up in, and how she’s ND-coded… I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of schools really punished her and forced Luz to dwell a lot on her mistakes, without much room for productively fixing things; It’s a common neurodivergent experience to be unproductively yelled at for messing up, and then to internalize that. And it could contribute to Luz focusing on what she’s done wrong over what she’s done right. If Amity is learning to love herself, then… I sincerely hope Luz isn’t contrasting, by learning to doubt herself. Especially since the Boiling Isles has been almost objectively superior to the Reality Camp; Because there, she would’ve REALLY internalized even worse lessons, and not gained any of the good ones.

           Now, maybe I’m looking too deep into it; But hey, what if I’m right? At the very least this provides food for thought… You may as well take a chance, because what do you have to lose if you’re wrong- Nothing! But if you don’t try, you could lose the opportunity to really think and enjoy and anticipate something… And be right, or wrong- Either way you had fun!

[greennightspider]

Teddy Bear (Kili x Reader)

Author’s Note: Just a very fun, light hearted fic! I like writing goofy oneshots full of the unexpected and funny scenarios, so I hope you enjoy!

Summary: You are a stranger, dropped right from your bedroom in the modern world into the middle of Thorin Oakenshield's company. At the behest of some of the more welcoming members like Bofur and Bombur they take you on, and you do your best to prove yourself. Until one habit from your old world comes back to bite you. Or cuddle you, per se. 

Rating: Suggestive, but ultimately fluff.

Tagging: @bewareofmyinside​

Kili x Female Reader

Two weeks into travelling in Middle Earth and you felt like you were getting the hang of things. It was amazing how the things you thought were necessities in the modern world, turned out to mean so little now. And you were surprised at how little you missed it. 

Luckily, before you were thrust into the land of no cellphones, no working plumbing and no UberEats you had actually enjoyed camping rough, tramping, and exploring the outdoors. You were also pleasantly surprised when a lot of the plants you foraged for back home could be found in this wilderness, and so Bombur and the company were very pleased at the new herbs/flavors at mealtimes. You had started to feel like one of the team, and you very much enjoyed their company.

The only thing that was bothering you during your journey was your lack of sleep. It wasn’t due to the cold or the terrain as one would have thought. Yet as the nights went on you found it harder and harder to find rest. You had hoped the different circumstances would have curbed your sleeping routine, but alas no luck.

Even still, there was no way. No. Way. That you were going to admit to a throng of burly men that you still needed a teddy bear to sleep with at night. All of your hard earned respect? Gone. And Thorin had just managed to start looking at you with a normal frown instead of an annoyed frown! No way. It was too embarrassing to ever admit. 

So you resigned yourself to your tossings and turnings, never thinking that your lack of cuddles would one day, get the best of you.

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Kili poked at the fire with his sword, the embers sparking into the night sky. He watched them dance, glad for the cool night air. It was only himself, Dwalin and Thorin left awake, Fili already taking an early night. Kili didn't mind the night watch. Dwalin and Thorin had always been late sleepers and early risers. Kili smiled as he listened to another of Dwalin's battle stories, hoping that one day he would be able to have fierce battle stories of his own. 

However, in the lull of it all the young dwarf heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. The young prince instantly put his hand on the hilt of is sword as he spun around, but his face softened as he saw it was just you.

"Y/N," Kili chuckled a sigh of relief. "You scared me for a minute."

You stood there silently, looking down swaying from side to side.

"Are you alright there lass?" Dwalin asked, turning his head sideways as you seemed a bit..off.

"...teddy..." You mumbled.

"What was that?" Kili tried to lean forward to make out what you said, but no sooner was he leaning forward than inching away.

Kili squirmed under your intense gaze as you bent down, getting closer and closer even as the young prince neared the edge of the log he sat on. Even Dwalin nudged Thorin who was looking out to the mountain and nodded to your peculiar display.

"Uuum, Y/N?"

The young dwarf prince gulped as he stared into those beautiful hazel eyes of yours, his cheeks starting to become rosy. He couldn’t deny it, having you around was definitely a welcome vision after staring at rugged dwarves for weeks on end, half of which were his family. But the way you were staring at him at this moment, so intensely, he couldn’t tell if his body was responding in fear or attraction.

Suddenly you stopped peering, and your eyes lit up with a dazed smile. "There you are teddy, I missed you."

Before Kili could register what that meant, all of a sudden he felt you hoist him off the ground and into your arms.

"I was looking everywhere for you!" You squeezed him to your unbridled chest and swung him around. Kili could do nothing but turn red as you nuzzled to his bristled cheek, helpless as a ragdoll. His arms pinned to his sides, even squirming didn’t help much as you held him in such a strong bear hug, cooing contentedly. In all honestly he was surprised at your strength, managing to lift him with such ease, although your strength was the least of his worries right now. 

As his mouth was inadvertently covered by the sleeve of your coat Kili tried to make panicked eyes at his uncle and Dwalin, hoping for some much needed assistance.

But Dwalin just hollered and burst out laughing at the sight of the young fierce warrior at the mercy of a sleep-walking Y/N. "You go lass!" Dwalin cheered, and Thorin spat out his drink as he watched his nephew get dragged into the night with wild, fearful eyes.

Just as Thorin was about to follow them Dwalin's hand stayed his shoulder. “Leave em be Thorin, I doubt those two younglings will get up to much.” He chuckled. 

"Uh- Y/N?" Kili stammered, as he was dropped onto his back on your bedfurs. For all of Kili's confident flirting, Kili had never actually been in a woman’s bed before. Or been taken to bed before. He gulped as you maneuvered around him, still half over his body preventing him from escape.

Did he want to escape though? Never in a million years did he think Y/N would be so bold, but he still was a male. He watched as the moonlight caressed the nape of your neck, as you held him to your clavicle while you prepped his makeshift pillow. Oh, it had been a long time since he had felt such intimate care and affection.

"Its bedtime now Mr Teddy." You murmured, tucking both of you into the bed. The young dwarf couldn’t resist breathing in your musk, drowning in your scent as it lulled him to relax. Kili was helpless to your sleepy smile, and once again let you cuddle him close to your breasts. He blushed as you snuggled your chin to the top of his head, giving him a small kiss that almost made his heart explode.

"Sleep now Mr Teddy." You murmured, and for once this was a prison Kili never wanted to escape.

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As the sun peeked over the mountain tops your eyes filtered open,having had the best sleep in weeks. You stretched your arms outwards, reveling in the dawn before hearing a small cough and looking down, to see a young dwarf looking up at you with big eyes nestled to your chest.

"Uhm, morning Y/N." Kili looked up sheepishly.

The shriek that would have left your mouth would have ended up being the alarm clock that woke the entire company, had Kili not clapped his hand over your mouth instantly. You skirted to the corner of your bedmat, Kili still peeking timidly from the opposite side.

"Um Kili, why are you in my bed?" You tried to keep your voice low and unpanicked. Well, in all honesty Kili himself was not an unwelcome sight, and you had more than once caught yourself gawking at the handsome dwarf, in all his 5ft glory. But the fact that you couldn’t remember how he’d ended up here had you more than alarmed.

"Well, I was hoping to ask you the same thing." Kili replied.

"What do you mean?"

Kili rose on his elbows, careful not to see who else was awake. “You’re the one who dragged me here, calling me ‘teddy’?”

“Oh no.” You covered your face with your hands, mortified. 

"Back home I'd always slept with a big teddy bear in my bed, which is like a children’s doll in the shape of a bear.” You tried to mimic the shape with your hands. “I find it really hard to sleep otherwise. But I guess in my sleep I must’ve mistaken you for- oh Kili I’m so sorry I’m so embarrassed."

"No no no its okay." Kili held his hands up. "No harm was done, nothing except having an extra warm bed." He chuckled then winced, instantly regretting his joke in the awkwardness of it all.

“Once again I am so, so sorry.” You held your hands up. “I promise it wont happen again.”

But it did.

The next night you picked him up like a baby, while Bofur and Bilbo who were on night-watch looked on, eyebrows raised to their foreheads, Kili trying not to make eye-contact with either one.

“I’m so sorry Kili I promise I won’t do it again.”

The night after that you still managed to find him while being a sleepwalking zombie, plucking him up in his nightroll, again to Dwalin and Thorin’s amusement. 

“Stop trying to run away Mr Teddy.” You mumbled, tossing him over his shoulder.

“Yea laddy, stop trying to fight it.” Dwallin snorted. “The girl’s obviously picked you for a reason.”

“Its because I look like her bear teddy!” Kili tried to argue over your shoulder, obviously not looking in any shape to defend himself.

The next morning as you awoke with Kili in your arms again, you sighed.

“Kili, I’m so sorry about this, I know it must be annoying.”

The young dwarf gazed at your face with wide eyes, trying really hard not to look at the soft breasts he was pressed up against. “Well there are worse ways to sleep.” He grinned.

You laughed and gave him a small knowing nudge, to which he chuckled.

Kili bit his lip and leaned his head back on the pillow. “You know, Y/N, I don’t mind being your *ahem* your ‘teddy’, if it helps you sleep.”

Your eyes widened, a blush start to creep up your cheeks. “I couldn’t ask that of you. I mean, wouldn’t it be a burden?” You shuffled closer to him, your doe eyes already doing a number on his beating heart.

“Well it would save you from having to hunt for me in the middle of the night.” Kili chuckled, shuffling so that he was eye to eye with you and ever that much closer to your lips. “And its my duty to look after the company, and blushing maidens when they need me.”

“Well, as long as its okay with you, its okay with me.” You uttered softly, inching closer to Kili. 

The two of you slowly closed the gap, eyes lidded, lips a hair’s breadth apart when suddenly the sound of Dwalin banging Bombur’s pot and spoon jolted you apart.

“Wakey wakey!” Dwalin bellowed, walking around the camp before side-eyeing the two bundles of embarrassment that were Kili and Y/N on the ground, looking like two children at a sleepover.

“Aight ya two lovebirds that’s enough for this morning.” He laughed, leaving Kili sitting up flushed trying not to make eye-contact with anyone especially his brother, until he felt a soft, quick kiss on his cheek, and a whisper in his ear.

“Until tonight, my teddy.”

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BONUS: If Fili had been the Teddy Bear

FILI: *marches right up to you* Y/N, I accept your offer. I have talked about our engagement to Thorin, he's said yes, all things going well in Erebor. Thorin just said no children before we take the mountain. *Fili walks away as if nothing has happened*

YOU: *standing there, dumbfounded, mouth agape* We who the what now

[twoidiotwriters1]

Déjà Vu (Or are we losing our minds?) XIII -Modern!Shirbert

A/N: Next week is the final chapter! There's also an epilogue, so keep your eyes open :) -Danny

Words: 1,178

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Thirteen: 3rd. Déjà Vu

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

-Walt Whitman.

Christmas came and ended without anything to add. No more strange dreams or déjà vu's. There was, however, a strange and deep longing for the person they couldn't reach.

For Gilbert, it was close to a dead end. He had nothing but a name, he searched for every Anne, sure that he was bound to find her, but then he started to doubt, perhaps she wasn't real. Perhaps it was the combination of a known face with some actress or a classmate he'd only seen while walking through the halls... and yet there were these random things he would remember that didn't quite belong in any of his dreams. A broken slate and the distinct smell of lilies of the valley; but was it truly real?

Anne, on the other hand, found Gilbert's Facebook page and Instagram in less than a day, but her finger would always linger above the 'follow' and 'send friend request' button without actually doing anything.

She didn't believe her dream had been real, not in the way her brain wanted her to think it was. She hadn't spoken to Gilbert, not really, it was just some version she'd created in her mind. The real question was why had she been dreaming about him? How was that even possible?

Her theory was that she might've seen him the day she'd gone to the diner, although she couldn't understand how had she overlooked him, the guy was really handsome, there was no way she would've forgotten that face! But alas, she had— Or not really, considering he'd been stalking her dreams for almost an entire week.

Which brought her to the next question, why had the dreams stopped?

As soon as she started to remember her dreams all of that ceased to happen. As if the universe were telling her 'You saw that? Okay then, now go and get it.'

Anne couldn't though, because it was all in her head. What was she supposed to say to this guy? 'Hey, I know you don't know me, but I've been having dreams about you so I think we should date', the guy would run away so fast she wouldn't even get to say her name was spelt with an e.

What if he had a girlfriend? He had this picture with a lovely blonde, who was beyond beautiful, what if he was dating her? Oh my god, what if he was married?

She couldn't possibly be crushing on a stranger! That was too much, even for her.

'He isn't a stranger!' Some voice at the back of her mind tried to argue, but even she knew she couldn't be talking to this guy in her dreams, it was so stupid!

As she continued her research, she discovered he was indeed studying to become a doctor, and that his father had passed away. His first job had been at a flower shop (this guy was perhaps too open about his life on social accounts) and he and fucking Roy Gardner had actually been highschool classmates?

How could she know all that?

***

"Are you listening to me, Blythe?"

Gilbert snapped out of his sulking and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, party preparations, music, some pictures. Yeah."

Bash frowned, fed up with his response.

"You're acting weird. What happened with the dating, weren't you trying to go out and meeting people?"

"Change of plans, I actually don't want a date anymore," He said with a tone of sarcasm. "We have things to do, and my love life can wait."

"Oh, no," Bash groaned. "You promised you would try! What part of giving up after the first date makes you think that's how you get a girl? What did Winifred say about this?"

"I haven't told her, she'll get mad and I'm trying to delay her shouting," Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Let's move to the next thing on the list, okay? We should have discounts on the—"

"I don't like this, I don't like what you're doing at all, you hear me?"

Gilbert stood up to refill his cup of coffee. Although he knew it wasn't ideal to live his life waiting to be asleep so he could dream about Anne, it was the only thing in his current life that was exciting, and he just knew no amount of dates would change that.

His phone buzzed and Bash picked it up.

"Hey," He smirked. "Maybe I was wrong— are you hiding some secret girlfriend from us, you moke?"

"What?" Gilbert's head turned to his friend abruptly. For some reason, his mind went directly to Anne, fearing that Bash would've found out about his search. "What are you talking about?"

"Who's Diana and why is she asking if she can bring her friends to the party?"

The young man felt the disappointment sharply stabbing his heart. He walked back to the table, snatching the phone away.

"Diana is an old friend from Avonlea," He explained. "She said she'd been to the Orchard before and was hoping that I'd like to catch up with some of my old classmates. I invited her to the party."

Bash chuckled. "So you are still trying to have a social life, I'm proud of you."

"Shut up," Gilbert replied, but a tiny smile formed on his face as he said it. "Okay, Diana says she's bringing around seven or eight people, you think we can reserve a table?"

"Dunno, Blythe, can we?" He smirked.

"It's done," He nodded, texting Diana with the confirmation.

"Are you excited about meeting with your old friends?"

"I can hardly remember their faces," Gilbert smiled wistfully. "God, it's been so long since I saw them..."

"Do you have pictures?"

"I left when I was thirteen, no one had a cellphone then... but maybe Diana has some old pictures in her— let me just..."

He went to her profile and scrolled directly to the oldest album he could find.

"Look," He laughed. "That's the play Josie Pye forced me to act on, she wanted me to be her prince... man, I look tiny!"

Bash laughed, starting to scroll through the pictures.

"Aw, man, that's all she has," Bash shook his head in slight disappointment. "You look happy in those pictures, Blythe. I think you really used to like the people in them too."

"Well, yeah, they were nice," He smiled, still looking through Diana's photos. "You know what? I'm glad she—"

Gilbert inhaled sharply, dropping his phone and quickly diving to the ground to retrieve it with shaky hands.

"What the hell was that?" Bash asked anxiously. "You okay?"

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm fine!" He stood up. "I'm great. Yeah. I had a cramp, but it's gone. I think I need to pee."

He rushed out of the room before Bash could interrogate him further, his phone tightly held in one hand. The screen was showing one of Diana's latest Instagram posts with the description:

'The love of my life... Anne is here too, ig'

She had her arm wrapped around a young woman with fiery red hair and big, beautiful green eyes.

Taglist.

@ninizkd @http-itsrebecca @fuckthisshitimoutyall @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @little-boats-on-a-lake @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @skarlygonzalez

[phykios]

the marble king, part 9 [read on ao3]

“Have you ever seen snow before?” Alejandro asked him, one bright and startlingly cold morning, as though all mornings here were not equally startlingly cold.

He had enlisted Percy’s participation in a round of hunting this morning, something light-hearted and fun to occupy their time while their spouses dealt with the latest political nonsense from the big cities, something to do with a union of nations and a dissatisfied noble class. Annabeth had done her best to explain it to him plainly, but his ears simply could not hold onto all the people, places, and events she discussed, and he had unwittingly begun to filter out her words after a few minutes or so. Rather than volunteer his no-doubt clumsy and ill-witted assistance, he had reluctantly agreed to be dragged outside.

At the very least, the garments the family provided him were quite warm. Still, he had a very large nose, and he was certain he could no longer sense the very tip of it.

“I have, sir,” he grumbled, flexing his frozen fingers inside of their large, furred mittens. “It did, in fact, snow on occasion in the South. As well, I have spent some time in Dardania, where it would snow heavily and frequently.” That had been the few months he had spent under the tutelage of Lupa, mother of Rome. She had been a harsh teacher, sterner and far less forgiving than Chiron, but she had beaten into him a kind of fastidiousness and respect for the harsh, wild climate of the mountains, teaching him to see the beauty in the rugged, barren landscapes.

“Terrible stuff, no?”

“Absolutely wretched.”

“In my hometown, Sevilla,” he said, “there usually falls a soft layer of snow, but only up in the mountains. When Magnus first brought me here, I had assumed the land was under some sort of magical spell, and we had been charged with freeing the people from the grip of endless winter. Alas, imagine my sorrow when the curse was not lifted, and winter came once again in a few short months.” He sighed, melodramatic, and Percy snorted. “Still, I have grown used to it. It is not so bad if you dress warmly, as you have discovered for yourself. The summers are my favorite, of course--I believe you may feel the same.”

Percy, wisely, held his tongue. To admit to your host that the thought of staying here for nearly a full year made your stomach roil, was nearing the absolute height of rudeness. Rather, he swallowed instead, stretching his mouth in a grimacing smile that, he prayed, looked convincing.

“You would not think it, but the summers can be quite warm. Not nearly the temperature to which you are accustomed, obviously, but warm all the same. But the true joy is the length of days; to make up for this endless, blasted darkness, the summer days are stretched far beyond their natural limit, and believe you me, my friend, by the end of summer, you will tire so much of the bright nights that you will beg for a little darkness.”

“I have heard tell,” he said, with a faint touch of horror, “that some days, the sun never rises, and the people are plagued with eternal night. Is this true?”

He shook his head. “Not so far South, but yes. The ancient peoples of this land lived quite comfortably in such darkness, and still do, if you can believe it.”

Closing his eyes against the bright glare of the sun on the snow, he tried to imagine a life lived in perpetual night, to never have seen the glory of Apollo’s light, to live only in the wan glow of fire, to never be able to ascend the tip of a mountain and look out into the beyond, the peaks and valleys bathed in the warm, golden glow of the sun.

He found he could not.

“You mentioned you had lived in, what was the name? Sev--Sevi--”

“Sevilla,” he said. “Perhaps you may know it better as Hispalis, or Isbiliyah?”

Oh, blast these slippery tongues which he could not speak! “Hispalis, yes,” said Percy. “I have never been myself, though I could indicate its location on a map.”

“In that, we are once again quite similar,” joked Alejandro, “for I could say the same of your fair city.”

“What was it like?” he asked, hoping that all this talk of warmer climes would help him to forget the cold. “Your Hispalis?”

Alejandro smiled, bright and free, his face shining in the sunlight. “Even I have heard tell of the beauty of your Constantinople, and though I have never seen the famed St. Sophia, I know in my heart that Sevilla outshines her even on her darkest days. The summers are long and hot, the wind from the sea bringing the scent of salt and spice in through the open windows of the old stone walls, curling and twisting as they wend their way towards the sky! Oh, Perseus, you have not known true beauty until you have seen the arches and gardens of the Real Alcázar, or watched the sun set from atop the Torre del Oro!”

So ecstatic was he, that Percy could not help but smile alongside him. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Only every day of my life. Well,” he amended, “the city, yes. There is no fairer jewel in the world than Sevilla, and I shall fight any man to the death who should disagree, but I can say with certainty that all that I have here, with Magnus, is infinitely better than what I had left behind.”

“What did you leave behind?” Percy asked. “If you are comfortable sharing with a stranger, of course, I should very much like to know.”

Trudging forward in the snow, Alejandro shook his head fondly. “You are no longer a stranger, brother, and I am happy to share. Much like your wife, I, too, was sent by my father to live in a religious order at a young age--the Monasterio de San Clemente --only I did not run away before my foot ever touched consecrated ground. Though,” he acknowledged with a sardonic tilt of his head, “I am certain you can imagine just how little I cared for monastic life.”

“Because of your…” he trailed off, unsure of how to phrase such a delicate topic. “Your situation,” he finished, lamely.

Alejandro snorted a laugh, the corner of his lips curling upwards. “My situation, yes. In any case, by the time I was expected to take certain vows, it came to the attention of the Abad that not only had I been shirking my duties at the monastery to a level previously unheard of, but I had, at the same time, also been in training at the convent around the corner, as one of the sisters.”

Startled right out of his chest, Percy laughed, a bark in the cold, quiet forest. “Malaka,” he chuckled. “I cannot even imagine what they might have thought.”

“It was quite the eventful week,” he said, suffused with an odd sort of nostalgia. “But, unlike my dear sister, my own father was not so accommodating, nor so open minded. There was nothing for me in Sevilla but beautiful buildings and a family who no longer wanted me--thus, I had no qualms about accompanying my husband to his ancestral home. After all,” he shrugged, gesturing to the dense forest, its dark green needles nearly black against the bright, white snow, ��one could argue that this is my ancestral home as well.”

Yes, that was a topic about which Percy was somewhat perplexed. “Forgive me if my question is indelicate, sir,” he said, “but I confess, I am not so knowledgeable about your pantheon. If the Aesir hail from the far North, how is it that Loki came to sire you in Hispania?”

“You misunderstand me, friend, for Bölvasmiðr was not my father, but my mother instead.”

Percy blinked, stopping in his tracks. “Oh.”

And he had thought his family tree was complicated.

A rustle in the trees, then Alejandro held up his fist, a gesture for quiet and stillness. He cocked his head, listening intently, slowly turning round. Only when no further sound presented itself did he relax.

Percy blinked again, suddenly feeling as though he had somehow lost a handful of time.

“Well,” said Doña Alejandra, “onward, good sir.”

Trudging forward, she charged on ahead, leaving Percy to scramble behind her in her wake.

“Think you,” she asked, “that the Magians did not command the southern seas as skillfully as they did the northern ones?”

“The Magians?” he repeated, dumbly. Percy’s head swam, the cold freezing all his thought processes until he was as stupid as all his enemies claimed him to be.

“Ah, I do not know the word in your tongue,” she said, frowning. “The northern raiders, the ones whom Anja tells me were contracted to protect your precious emperor.”

Percy looked away, attempting to recall the word. Annabeth had said it, months ago, in the little room with the single candle in Athens--”The Varangians?”

“Yes!” she snapped her fingers. “That’s the one. Magian, Varangian, here they call them Vikinga, meaning one who seeks adventure. Charming, no? They certainly ventured as far as their ships could carry them, all the way round the western coast of Christendom until they sacked Sevilla some six hundred or so years ago. They must have brought their gods with them, I presume, and then the cabrónes never left. How amusing it must have been,” she laughed, “to suddenly find themselves in a land of endless summer, vying for attention with all the rest of the divinities who had already made themselves quite at home.”

“I suppose,” said Percy.

“Sevilla has always been a city of many faiths, all bumping up against each other. The Christians, the Moors, the Jews; they all brought their Lord with them when they settled on the beaches of Andalusia. What is one more, I say? The gods, without fail, shall always follow their believers.”

Would that were true, Percy mused, at least as it pertained to himself.

He shivered, a cold wind blowing against his face quite unexpectedly.

“Hold.” Alejandra thrust out her hand, stopping Percy in his tracks. “Quiet.”

Magnus had authorized Percy the use of his crossbow for hunting, but given how hopeless Percy was with a standard bow and arrow, he did not have much hope that he would be able to successfully target and kill any mobile creature with it, but Alejandra appeared to have the situation well in hand, raising her own crossbow, her mismatched eyes staring intently above the tree line, her finger near caressing the trigger.

With a crack, a thwack, and a loud braying noise, something large toppled over beyond a few trees, landing in a snowdrift with a soft thump.

“¡Guau!” she crowed, pumping her fist in the air. “We shall have a feast tonight, I can promise you! Now, make haste, thalassinos, for it is cold, and I am in dire need of a skirt.”

They did, indeed, have a feast that night, a feast of venison and good, red wine. Percy had been privately dreading what strange and terrible creation might the cook have prepared, such as the sour, fermented cabbage, or the meatballs in a brown, cream sauce which Annabeth had sworn up and down tasted just like his mother’s keftedes. She had been so incorrect in that assumption, Percy had briefly considered divorcing her on the spot for such an infraction.

Yet the meat was simply, marvelously prepared tonight, roasted with salt and paired with a wine imported from somewhere in Francia which was a little too sour for his taste, though Percy certainly was not one who frequently partook of the beverage. At the agoge, wine had been strictly forbidden as part of Lord Dionysus’ punishment, and so Percy had only really gotten to have it during his brief period with Legion.

After days and days of salmon, Percy almost felt guilty to be enjoying meat other than fish, as if his father would somehow be aware of it, and be displeased with him.

The thought strikes him about as quickly and severely as a bolt from the heavens--a sensation with which he was, unfortunately, well acquainted.

His father. Gods above, his father.

Startled, he dropped his cut of meat, wincing internally as it landed on the wooden table with a soft thud, disrupting what had been a lively conversation which he still could not understand. As a hawk, Annabeth sharply turned towards him, grey eyes full of concern. “Percy? Are you alright?” Fredrik, Magnus, and Alejandra looked on him as well, all in varying degrees of worry or bewilderment.

“Ah--yes. I am fine. Please, do not let me interrupt.”

She raised a brow, unconvinced, but with pursed lips, turned back towards her cousin, resuming what must have been an utterly fascinating debate.

Alejandra reached out towards him, laying her hand on his upper arm. “Truly, you are well?” she asked, her voice low.

He nodded. “Yes, of course. I merely--remembered something which I had forgotten.”

“Oh?”

A part of him, deeply held and strikingly jealous, did not really wish to share with Alejandra, even though he considered her his closest friend in Svealand, but given how patient she had been with him, how supportive and understanding she had been, he supposed he owed it to her. “At the agoge,” he said, slowly, “before every meal, it was our custom to make an offering to the gods. We would take a portion of our food, the best portion, and toss it into the hearth, so that our parents may bestow us with their blessing when next we had need of it.”

“Into the fire?” Her expression was dubious, one eyebrow delicately arched.

He had the distinct sense that she did not believe him. “The gods, they feed off the smoke,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “They do not eat food like you and me.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that,” she said, “I am merely surprised, is all.”

He frowned. “Regarding?”

“That your father demands so much praise.” She tilted her head, considering. “My divine progenitor expected quite a lot from me as well, but usually not so much sycophancy.”

“It--he--” Percy stammered. “He did not--it was not demanded of us, that we praise them so.”

“Was it not?”

“No,” he insisted. “It was respect, politeness, not… not groveling or fawning or the like.”

Alejandra still looked quite skeptical, but she did not push the issue further. “Well, if you feel so strongly, then you are free to use the fire,” she said, indicating towards the large hearth against the wall. “Go on. Make your offering.”

It was a simple enough task. There was a particularly fatty piece of meat, glistening in the firelight, all ready to go. All Percy had to do was walk over to the hearth, place the food onto the coals, and speak the words which he must have said thousands of times: here’s to the gods. The ritual was uncomplicated.

And yet.

Percy glanced towards Annabeth, deep in conversation with her father.

He racked his brain, but he could not recall a single instance of Annabeth making an offering during their stay in Birka. Styx, he could not even recall a single instance of her making an offering during their journey North. If he truly thought about it, long and hard, he vaguely remembered throwing a fish into the fire one night, camped next to those horrid, horrid rapids, as he gave thanks for Annabeth’s life, and then… and then the days had begun to blur together, day after day of endless sailing, of a sick, hard pit in his stomach that screamed at him to turn ‘round, to go back to where he belonged.

“Would it be rude, do you think,” he asked his hostess, “to make such an offering to the Olympians in the land of the Aesir?”

“I should think not,” said Alejandra. “Certainly, neither Magnus nor Uncle Fredrik would take offense.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I care not,” she said, with a twist of a grin. “Neither, I think, would your wife.”

Would she? He could not say. Perhaps she would think him a fool to be chasing after the approval of one who had long since abandoned him, or perhaps she would take it to mean that he was ungrateful to the land and the family which had housed him during these long winter months.

In the end, he could not make a decision. The evening meal stretched on, with Alejandro, for he had become a man during the meal, attempting to corral him into some kind of conversation, and sadly failing, until only Percy remained. “Will you be along shortly?” his wife had asked him.

Percy had nodded, though he could not say for certain how long he would linger at the table. To be alone in the dining hall was far different than it was to be alone in his bedroom. At least out here, he could pretend that he was still in the pavilion at the agoge, or the villas of the Legion, lingering over a pleasant meal and more pleasant company.

The fire still glowed, nearly burned all the way down to its embers, warm and soft, pulsing.

Many years ago, on the eve of the final day of a great and terrible battle, he had met with the spirit of the flame, the goddess of the hearth, and had entrusted her with the task of safe-guarding Hope so that he would not be tempted to give it up, and surrender to despair. She had challenged him to a riddle, of sorts, and in solving it, he had gained the key to defeating Lukas and the Titan king.

Hope survives best at the hearth, he had told her.

Hope now fluttered in his breast, weak and small, but there, alive.

If he made his offering, here in this foreign land, even after all this time… would his father, somehow, hear him?

He stood up, the chair scraping on the floor. Snatching up the last portions of his dinner, he stepped over to the hearth, whose light slowly dimmed with every passing second.

Percy went down on one knee, and laid the last slice of wheat bread on the still-glowing coals. His fingers trembled so much, he nearly dropped it.  “Lord Poseidon,” he murmured, “ Asphaleios, Epoptes, father.”

For a moment, there was only quiet.

Nothing happened. The flames did not rise, sudden and hot. There were no voices, speaking to Percy within the corners of his mind.

There was nothing. Nothing, just as it was when he was but a child, and he did not yet know of his father who had been too much of a coward to claim him until it was nearly too late.

Slowly, he blew out a breath, his shakes easing. At least now he knew.

When he returned to his bedroom, Annabeth was already asleep. Wasting not a moment, he shed his daytime clothing, slipping on as many pairs of socks and undergarments as he could get away with, then slid in beside her, turning on his side away from her.

At least now he was certain.

***

There is the smell of salt. Figs. Flowers, and smoke.

Percy opens his eyes. There is sunlight, bright and pulsating, the sun itself far closer to the earth than it should be.

He sits up, taking in his surroundings. Lush, green fields, an undulating sea of flowers in full bloom. Sea birds calling overhead, crying out for each other, swooping careless and free.

He knows precisely where he is.

Having gone to bed bundled up in the warmest clothes he could find, it is something of a shock when he stands up and sees himself clothed in nothing but a chiton and a pair of sandals. It is all well, however; the morning sun is hot, and the rocks are sharp, and he is grateful for the protection.

The wind, sharp and tangy, pushes him towards the edge of the plateau, and he goes willingly. It is one, two, three, ten steps before he reaches the edge of the cliff, the breeze buffeting his clothes, his hair, and he holds out his arms, letting the force of the air weave between his outstretched fingers. Dried grass crunches beneath his feet. Before him, the bluest expanse of the water, a dip-dyed cloth of lapis lazuli stretched all around him, bunching about the islands off in the distance. Far, far off, he can see the top of a mountain, can see the snow as it dusts the very points and tips, the fingers of the earth which still reach for the dome of the sky.

Down on the beach, at the very edge of the water, he sees a man. A moment’s hesitation, then he begins the long trek down the cliff.

With each step forward, the earth comes up to meet him, a staircase down from heaven, until he has joined the man on the beach. The man does not turn to greet him.

He is tall, with thick, curly black hair, skin tanned nut brown from hours in the sun, hours upon hours and days upon days of burning, peeling, healing, over and over and over again. He, too, wears a plain white chiton, a rope tied about his waist in a simple sailor’s knot, and on his head, a crown of celery leaves.

Beside him, his trident has been stuck in the sand.

“Father.”

The earth-shaker turns to him, his twinkling eyes the color of the water beneath his feet, the same as his own. “Perseus,” he rumbles in return. “There you are! I was wondering where you had gotten off to.”

A child all of twelve, Percy had knelt upon first meeting his father. Now, he does not move a muscle.

With a groan, Poseidon eases himself down onto a nearby rock, one hand pressed to his back. “Come,” he says. “Come and sit with me awhile. You have traveled quite far, no? I would hear one or two of your adventures, should you wish to share them.”

Percy cannot move, too busy drinking in the sight of him.

During the war, the great Titanomachy, he had looked every bit as ancient as he truly was, with white hair and deep furrows carved into the skin of his face, but he does not look so haggard now. Indeed, he looks much the same as when Percy last left him. Still, Percy can plainly see that he is hounded by some grievance, some great worry that will not leave him, hung around his neck like a stone collar. He can plainly see, for it is the very look Percy himself wears when something is troubling him.

His request rebuffed, still Poseidon does not appear to be too bothered by Percy’s immobility. He looks out to the sea, lifting his face to the salty breeze coming off of the water. “Thálatta, thálatta,” he murmurs, an ancient litany. “The sea is never the same twice, but oh, how I have missed this view.”

Heart slowly rising up his throat, Percy tries to calm his breathing. It would not do, he thinks, to go into hysterics before the lord of the sea.

Above them, Helios’ chariot races across the sky, faster and more quickly than any natural day, shadows shifting from West to East before his very eye, growing longer with each breath.

“Our time is short,” says Poseidon, gently, the calm, even push and pull of the tides. “I know you must have questions. Speak, and I shall answer.”

Questions, yes. He has a thousand, each one vying for his breath and his tongue. But there is one question which will always come first. “My mother?” he croaks, his voice hoarse.

The god of the deep smiles, affection softening the harsh lines of his face. “Safe,” he promises. “She and her family both. Where they landed, I cannot say, but I saw to it myself that they passed the blockade unharmed.”

Good. That is good. His mother, Paul, dearest Esther; they are all of them safe.

His heart thumps wildly, sorrow and rage blocking his throat. The core of him shakes so violently that he is worried he will shake himself apart, here on the rocks, dissolving into nothing more than sea air.

“You have always been a good son to your mother,” Poseidon says, “and you are right to ask after her, yet I cannot imagine that you have no more questions for me. Go on.”

Percy draws in a shuddering breath.

“That night, in the city…” It haunts him still, the flash of light above St. Sophia, the vision he’d had of the lords of Olympus as they took flight. “What happened?”

He looks towards Percy, frowning, his thick, bushy brows drawing together. “I am sorry that you bore witness to it. Such sights are not made for mortal eyes.”

“Rachael saw it, too,” he says.

“Indeed. My nephew’s oracles are blessed, yes, but cursed as well, to see more and know more than any of their peers. No doubt she still suffers as well, wherever she is now.”

“But what was it?” he presses. He will not be denied answers, not after so long.

Poseidon sighs, casting his gaze down to the sandy beach. The wind blows in cool from the placid waters, ruffling the fabric of his clothes.

In his mind, in his memory, Poseidon always looms so large. The first time he ever saw him, his father had towered above him on his fisherman’s throne, a pillar of might, a beacon of strength, the power humming just beneath his skin, even when he brought himself down to Percy’s size. To see him among the mortals, no one would have mistaken him for anything other than what he is; a lord, a king, a divinity of unimaginable strength.

Now, though. Now he simply looks tired.

“What you witnessed,” he says, “has happened twice before. Always have we accompanied our believers, even through metamorphosis and transfiguration. Once, we dwelt atop Olympos, and there we ruled over the land of Hellas; then, they built temples to our glory on Roma’s mightiest hill. And then when the emperor moved his seat of power to that village on the coast, the place they called Constantinopolis, there we followed, and there we remained for a thousand years. But no empire can last forever, my son. Not even Rome, for all its glories, all its might and all its power.” He smiles, softly, sadly. “Not even us.”

The birds call overhead, singing as they soar above the caldera, as they always have, as they always will. Percy cannot hear it for the pounding of his heart.

His father’s shadow falls over him as the sun begins to more fully set, dipping below those far off mountains. The dome of the sky burns a bright orange now at its edges, blue turning to deep, inky purple, as a few glittering stars appear, a latticework of light.

“The hour grows late,” intones the god of the sea. “Choose your last question wisely.”

He raises his head, looking into his father’s gaze. He can feel his edges blurring, his fading form as he is called away from this sacred space.

There is only one thing he wishes to know.

“Why?”

His father does not require him to further specify.

He sighs, turning finally to face him.

“Because it was our time,” is all he says.

The sky shifts above him, the blue glow of the moon as she rises above the horizon casting the waters in a cool, otherworldly green. “What,” Percy breathes, “what does that mean?”

“It means, my son, that there are powers far older and stronger than my brothers and I. Powers that we cannot overcome. Laws that we must obey.” His eyes are hard, sharp like the cliffs. “I could not have stopped the siege anymore than I could have stopped the tides--and even if I had possessed such power, I would not have used it.”

The cries of the city echoed in his ears, phantom screams and ghostly wails from nowhere but the inside of his own mind. “All those people,” he whispers. “The city of Constantine stood for a thousand years, and you simply sat by and watched it happen.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “We did.”

Percy shakes his head. “I know--I know that the Romans gave themselves over to the trinity god, and I understand why your lord brother would be angry with such disrespect, but all of those who still believed--everyone at the agoge --what reason did you have for abandoning them? I--we made our sacrifices to you every day, walked the earth and vanquished monsters in your names and for your glories. We died for you,” his voice rises with each word, a dragon in his chest, “Carlo and Silena and Lukas and countless others--and what of the sailors who prayed in your name without knowing it every time they put to sea? Or the soldiers who petitioned the heavens for mercy, or the women and children who ran through the streets in fear and in terror and begged for your protection,” and he is weeping now, tears falling easily from his eyes, “were we not enough? Had we offended you in some way? Had I--was I--”

He cuts himself off with a curse, turning his head to the side. He cannot go on.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Percy looks up through the veil of his grief and sees its mirror image in his father. “Of course not,” he murmurs.

“Then,” he sobs, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, stuttering, shaking, “then why? Why did the lady Athena abandon her ancient temple? Why did you l-leave me?”

Valiantly, he holds his grief to his chest, his fists wrapped tightly around it, nails digging into his palms. Yet Poseidon sees right through him. “Do not hold back your tears, my son,” he kindly commands. “I see that you have not given yourself the time to grieve. There is no shame in your sorrow. Let your lamentations fill the sea, until its very borders have burst, and you have drowned us all with the force of it.”

And so he shatters.

He weeps, weeps for the end of the world and the passing of time. He weeps for the thousand year old walls reduced to ash and dust, for the celestial dome of St. Sophia, for the last breath of Rome and the desecration of her body.

He weeps for his mother, cast adrift from the only home she had ever known. He weeps for his friends and allies, vanished into the air. He weeps for Annabeth, for the shattered look on her face when she first beheld the ruined Parthenon, for the loss of her home and her freedom, so indelibly tied to him as she is now.

And he weeps for himself, for the loss of the city which had raised him.

“There,” says his father. “Let your grief be a raging river--let it wash all away.”

Percy crashes to his knees, the sand rough against his skin, and he weeps, his hands tearing at his hair, beating his breast.

And then, eventually, he can cry no more.

Poseidon has fallen to the ground with him, down on one knee, his hand still on Percy’s shoulder. There is no shame in his gaze, no cloying pity, only understanding. “I prayed to you,” he says, broken, battered, bereaved. “Every night, I prayed to you. And I know Annabeth did the same. Was it not enough?”

“You could have martialed the whole of the world to our ways,” Poseidon says. His voice is impossibly soft, the whisper of a rope on a sail. “It still would not have been enough.”

Percy dips his head to the earth, his eyes stinging. “And so the city is lost,” he murmurs. “And the gods alongside it.”

All those temples and shrines, the streets and churches, the ancient walls and the little alcoves, the city cats and crowded marketplace, all that history--lost, lost forever, swallowed up by the inexorable march of time.

“Lost?” Poseidon hums, rubbing at his chin. “I suppose, yes. I daresay, should you ever return to the city of Constantine, you shall find it a very different place from how you left it. Buildings shall have gone. Streets shall have been renamed. Even their beloved St. Sophia shall become unrecognizable. Such things are static, and easily taken by prideful men who reanimate corpses in order to demonstrate their own sick sense of superiority.” He speaks with such authority, such sureness, it cuts deep at the heart of Percy, that even one of the city’s protectors could cast it aside so easily.

“And yet,” he goes on, “are there not still people within those walls? Are there not men and women, at this very moment, who will slowly come to call it their home? Who will learn to love the street corners and the smell of spice markets, and the way the sun rises over the seven hills?”

Percy tilts his gaze up towards his father.

“There are many thousands of people to come who shall make their homes within the ancient walls--more than you could possibly imagine,” Poseidon says. “The city shall not die, but endure; perhaps not in the way that you remembered it, but endure nonetheless. Countless souls will come to live, love, and die in the city of Byzantion, in the footsteps of all who have come before them. And as for the gods, my boy,” and then he grins, roguish and knowing, as though he is privy to a humor which no one else can tell, “think you so little of us? Though we may no longer haunt the dome of St. Sophia, we are by no means gone.”

Despite himself, he gasps lightly, filling his lungs with air and with hope. “Truly?”

His father nods. “ Olympos, this thing that they shall come to call the flame of the West: it still lives, somewhere in this world, and it can still be found, by those brave enough to seek it out.”

Standing, Poseidon rises from his crouch as a tidal wave, a fluid column of grace and strength, and turns to the sea, stepping forward. Before his very eyes, the years seem to fall from his countenance, his shoulders pulling back, shedding the pain and sorrow of a thousand years until he looks out onto the sea with nothing but unbridled wonder, sheer curiosity, unfettered joy.

Was this how he was before the dawn of mankind, Percy wonders, when the world was new?

Percy joins his father again on the edge of the beach, that liminal place between land and sea, night and day, life and death, dream and wakefulness.

“Do you know why the gods have children?” his father asks. Percy shakes his head. “It is so that they can do the things that we cannot. Immortal we are, yes, yet not omnipotent, nor all-powerful. There are restraints on our hearts, chains around our hands, even as we ourselves so desperately desire it to be otherwise--and so we sire heroes, to undertake the mightiest and noblest of quests, to bring about the changes we wish we could do ourselves. Yet there is another reason, one far greater and more powerful to my mind.”

He lifts his face to the night sky, gazing into the blackness between the pinpricks of light.

“Try as we may, nothing lasts forever in this world--no man, nor empire, nor thought. Not even the gods. One day, we, too, shall fade from the memory of man, and the last traces of us shall only be found in the ink of the poets--and in you.” Turning to Percy, then, he puts a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “You, Perseus. You carry me within you, as surely as you carry the power of the sea itself. You and your children, and your children’s children, they shall carry the echoes of us into eternity: proof of our very existence. What is it your wife likes to say? Ah, yes,” he says, eyes twinkling. “‘Something permanent,’ I believe.”

Percy flushes. He was not aware that his father knew about that particular development.

Night has fallen in the dreamlike wilderness. The stars wheel overhead, thousands of them, in shapes and stories more vast and complex than Percy can make sense of, even as the fog of morning begins to set in.

“Oh, my son,” says his father, faintly, as if from very far away, “it seems our time has ended. Soon the dawn shall break, and so I must go now.”

Caught in that soft place between wakefulness and sleep, Percy reaches out his hand, suddenly so full of fear. He has so many more questions. He has so much more to know. “Wait--” he pleads, “Father--”

“If you should like,” he says, “you may seek me out in the city of old soldiers. Even so, I do not think we shall see each other again.”

The city of--“Where are you going?” he cries.

“When you see your mother again,” Poseidon says, smiling, “do give her all my love.” The lord of the sea then raises his hand, a final salute. “Know that whatever else you do in this life, it has been an honor to be your father. Hail, Perseus, prince of the Diolkos, hero of Olympus. Hail, and farewell.”

“Father!” Percy begs. “Please!”

The mist covers him in totality, swallowing him up like the stone of the Erechtheion, stealing him back out to sea, leaving Percy alone on the cold, dark beach.

He awoke to the cold, dark bedroom of the manor on Lake Malӓren. Annabeth had already vacated the marriage bed.

It was all very well, for there was no way Percy could hide from her the tears as they fell onto his cheeks.

***

Winter persisted, its grip on the land fierce and unyielding, and the festival season came to an end--not that Percy could tell, cooped up in the manor as he was. For what purpose was there to go outside? The sun did not shine in the accursed North, it seemed, a heady dream for those who had never known its warmth and splendor.

He was aware, distantly, that something was wrong with the state of his emotions. This constant, endless disinterest and apathy, it was not like him. Food did not satisfy, rest did not soothe him, nor company chase away his grey, drab feelings. One night, Annabeth had even invited him to accompany her on a midnight excursion; the moon had been dark, she had said, and the stars very beautiful. But he had declined, turning over in his--their--bed, and attempting, in vain, to find some kind of unconsciousness.

Tonight, during the evening meal, as he pushed his food around his plate without ingesting a single bite, listening to the rest of the household prattle on about whatever the intriguing developments of the little town were, he felt it particularly strongly. The evening wore on, and all Percy could manage to stomach was a slice of bread and a little bit of fish. By his calendar, they were well into the Lenten season, and by rights should not have had such a spread before them; then again, none who ate at this table were remotely interested in a fast for a faith they did not follow, so he supposed he should be grateful that they were not obliging him to eat only bread and salt for six long, cold weeks.

His apathy must have been quite apparent, for he saw Annabeth sneaking glances towards him all during the meal.

At last, his wife was finally paying attention to him, and he could not even enjoy it.

Eventually, the noble household departed to their various evening activities, whether it be reading, writing, swordplay, what-have-you, until only Percy and Annabeth remained. Still she looked queerly on him, worry creasing her brow in that way that he remembered thinking was beyond adorable. Tonight, it barely even crossed his mind.

“Percy,” said his wife.

He grunted in response.

“You should have some more fish.”

He shrugged, pushing his meal away. “I am not hungry.”

“You have barely eaten of late,” she argued.

Be that as it may, it did not change anything, so he stayed silent.

Annabeth sighed.

More often than not, their conversations would end in an awkward, stilted silence. It was as if, during those months that they traveled together, they had spoken every possible word to each other that could be said, and now there was nothing left for them to discuss. They awoke, ate their meals, went to sleep as husband and wife, but there was no affection between them, nor friendship, nor even the bitter words of their famed, legendary rivalry. There was, plainly put, no feeling to be found. She was trying, he recognized, trying her very hardest to give him space and patience, but unfortunately for her, he had nothing left to give in return. He had nothing left at all.

Annabeth took a draught of her wine. “I was wondering,” she asked, cautious, “have you had any odd dreams recently?”

Percy glanced up from the table.

She did not look at him, but swirled her drink around in her glass, her brow furrowed. “No,” he said. “Not recently.”

It had been several weeks since he had dreamed at all. After his last one, he had preferred to keep it that way.

She nodded, lips pursed. “I only ask because I--well, I have.”

“You know as well as I that our dreams are stranger than most,” he said, turning back to his half-eaten food. “I would not dwell on it too deeply.”

“But it was not just a dream, I am sure. I am confident that I had a vision.” Setting her glass down, her tone turned pointed, urgent. “I had been transported to the Acropolis--not as we had seen it, but in its prime, every temple perfectly restored, the pride of Athens, and there I saw my mother. We even spoke for a time.”

Against his better judgement, he looked back up at her. Some details were too similar to write off entirely.

“She spoke of many things, but at the end, she told me that, if I were to ever seek her out again, then I could find her in the city of--”

“The city of old soldiers,” Percy murmured.

Taken aback, she blinked, her words momentarily lost. “Yes,” she said. “Precisely. How did you know?”

Percy closed his eyes against her shock. He did not like to think about that night, nor his frightening dream. “Because my father told me much the same.”

“Lord Poseidon spoke to you?” Annabeth gaped, a faint tinge of indignation coloring her features. “Why did you not tell me?”

Percy swallowed once, but he decided that he had one thing to hide from his wife, and one thing only. It need not be this one. “Because all I did was weep as I begged him not to leave me,” Percy said, flatly, “and that was not an experience I wished to relive.”

So much for all his heroics. Inside, it seemed he was still the same child he had always been, full of a deep, desperate longing for a distant father.

“I have never heard of this place before, this city,” he said, eager to shift her thoughts from her piss-poor husband. “Have you?”

Annabeth pursed her lips, not at all fooled by his tactics, but she relented anyway. “Sadly not,” she replied, slumping in her seat. “Old soldiers can be found in every city in the world; to find one particular city… it seems almost impossible.”

“Perhaps the gods meant it to be impossible.” It was not an idea he wished to entertain, but he felt that it had to be said. “Perhaps they wish to remain unfound.”

Despondent, she laid her head on her hand, indelicate, unladylike. “Much as I am loath to admit it,” she said, “you may be correct. If that is the case, and the gods have made themselves impossible to find, then…”  

Then, nothing. She trailed off, out of words, out of ideas, out of hope.

That, more than anything else, had proven just how far they had fallen. The Annabeth whom he had dragged from Constantinople would never have said anything of the sort, would never have given up on a quest so easily. But they were drained now, sad and broken in ways they did not realize they could be.

Silence fell between them, thick, heavy, a suffocating fog.

Then, a thought occurred to him.

“During the last crusade,” he began, slowly, knowing that this was a sore topic for her, but also giving himself time to piece together his logic, “the Latins stole several treasures of the city for themselves, yes? Some statues, gold treasures, and the like?”

She grunted her assent.

“Where did they take them?”

So exhausted, Annabeth did not even scowl as she spoke. “Your precious Venetians carried them off to their home, in Enetoi.”

Thoughts whirled inside of his head, a typhoon of barely-heard words and half-cocked theories. “My father, and Alejandro, they--they said that the gods always accompanied their believers,” said Percy. “If the spoils of Constantinople are in Venice, then perhaps that is where the people fled to after the siege--”

“And if the people are there,” said Annabeth, sitting up, fire in her eyes, “then perhaps the gods are as well.”

“Exactly,” he breathed.

They stared at each other, the same idea springing to life before their very eyes.

It was not much of a theory. There was no way to confirm it, halfway around the world, and the journey South would doubtless be just as harrowing as the journey North--if not more so.

But it was something, at the very least. Solid and tangible, something to which he could cling with both hands.

And it made his next steps so much easier.

“By your leave, then,” he said, standing from his seat, “I should like to return to the middle sea, and to seek my fortune in Venice.”

As though she had been struck, she flinched back, eyes wide. “What?”

“You and your family have been most kind and hospitable, but you know as well as I that I do not belong. I cannot learn this slippery northern tongue of yours, nor can I support you financially. But more than this, wherever it is that I end up in this world, a larger part of me will always feel the call towards the lands of our ancestors.” Of course, his most compelling reasons to leave, he could not share. If she truly wished to be his wife, then he would forget the gods entirely, and would live out the rest of his days here in Svealand, amongst the Aesir--yet he knew that she did not want that life for herself. He had allowed her to play that part on their wedding night, even when she clearly had not been of her right mind, and for that alone, the only proper thing to do would be to exile himself from this land, from her smile, from all memory of her for dishonoring her so, and the twisted pleasure he took in the act.

Wordlessly, she gaped up at him, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form sentences. “But--I--”

“But I want you to know, I have not regretted a single moment of the adventures we shared.” He bowed to her, in the fashion of the court of Constantinople, avoiding her gaze so he could not tempt himself any further to stay. “It was an honor, my lady, to accompany you home.”

He turned, and began out of the dining hall.

From behind, he heard her stand as well.

“I understand you had limited examples of good husbands growing up, Perseus,” she nearly hissed, the use of his full name an unexpected knife in his chest. “But allow me to be blunt: abandoning your wife a few months after marriage is not generally considered desirable in a husband, even if you warn her beforehand.”

He stopped and turned, frowning at her, too stunned to be angry. “Abandon you? You and I both know you will thrive without a forced partner. You are just like my mother in this way; she, too, had to marry a man for the air of respectability, but she only truly blossomed after she was free of him.”

“You--” She thrust her hands down on the table, a sharp, angry sound. “Then I shall come with you!”

“It took us the better part of four months to bring you here,” Percy said, sternly. “Four months and gods only know how many miles. I have no desire to tear you away from your family again, not when you are clearly so happy here.”

She gazed at him, grey eyes full of an unreadable emotion. “And when you are not,” she quietly confirmed.

What was the use of being dishonest when he was sure his dissatisfaction was written so plainly on his face? “No. No, I am not happy here.”

For a brief, brief, moment, she looked as though she had been stabbed in the back, a terrible, tortured concoction of shock, pain, and disbelief. Percy had only ever seen that look on her face once before, in a dream; he had once borne magical witness as Lukas had forced her to carry the dome of the sky in his stead through the use of trickery. To have such a look directed now at him nearly shattered his resolve. It certainly broke his heart.

Clenching her fists, grinding her teeth, something clearly warred inside of her as she struggled to keep her words in her mouth. No doubt she was crafting an insulting tirade worthy of the greatest poets, something suitably cutting aimed at his manhood or his courage, or lack thereof.

But squaring her jaw, she relaxed her hands, and swallowed her anger. “That you think so lowly of yourself, Percy, it pains me in ways I cannot describe.” Coming to some sort of decision, she squared her shoulders as well, drawing herself up to meet his gaze. “As your friend, I must protest at such slander of your character.”

He laughed, a little hollow. “As your friend, I thank you.” If only she knew just how deep the rot inside of him went.

“And as your wife,” she went on, “I will not allow you leave without me.”

He sighed, unwilling to have this argument again. “Annabeth--”

“No,” she interrupted. “I know all too well what you have given up by coming here. I cannot make amends for your misery the last few months, but I can move forward with you, wherever it is that we go.”

“What of your father?” he asked. “And your brothers? What of Magnus and Alejandro?”

“I love my family, dearly,” she said, “and I am so grateful that I have been able to spend this time with them. I never imagined I would be able to have this chance, and I thank you for making it so--yet I, too, am a Hellena. Do you not think that I also long for the warmer climes and familiar coasts of Sigeion and Constantinople? Do you not think that I also wish to see our friends again, to see my mother again?” Emboldened, she stepped towards him, rounding her edge of the table to stand before him. “As you once did for me, let me now return the favor. I shall accompany you to Venice, and there we will begin our search for the soul of Olympus.”

Percy was… he was speechless. He was aware he looked like a fool, his mouth hanging open, blinking stupidly.

As though she had only now just realized the boldness of her claim, she faltered somewhat, heat rushing to her face. “And I must again repeat, phykios, that abandoned women do not usually fare well in polite society. I would prefer to stay with you, if… if you would have me.”

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. How could she wish to stay with him, after all that he had done to her? But his weak heart could not resist her siren call; to return home with Annabeth at his side was nothing short of a dream.

“To Venice, then?” he asked, quiet, full of hope.

“To Venice,” she agreed. “And there, I pray, may we find what we seek.”

***

They set out from Birka on a cold, foggy morning.

In the weeks that had passed, Annabeth had successfully sold her inheritance to her cousin in exchange for monetary value. When Percy saw how much her lands had been worth, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She had somewhat understated their value to him at first, claiming it was no more than a few measly acres, when, in fact, she had been in possession of two huge tracts of land, exchanged for more money than Percy had imagined could be possible.

Usually, he did not mind the matter and circumstances of his birth, his lowly station, but he allowed himself, just this once, to be passively jealous of the aristocracy, even as he, essentially, entered that class with the value of his wife’s inheritance. The whole thing made his head hurt, just a little.

In any case, Fredrik had arranged for a boatman to see them off once more to Stadsholmen, where they would board a much nicer ship than the one they had stolen which would take them South, to a city called Danzig. From there, they would travel in a westerly direction, so that they circumvented the religious struggles which had broken out in that area. Annabeth, grudgingly, even admitted that Percy’s history with the Legion might even prove useful for navigation, scowling so preciously that Percy’s heart felt three times lighter.

Fredrik had come to see them off, along with Alejandro and Magnus. A far, far cry from the first days of their previous journey, Fredrik had loaded them down with food and other supplies, fine, warm clothes, and of course, their new fortune, in both coins and official documents. There was one other new addition as well, gifted to them by Magnus and his spouse. “It was a traditional wedding gift among the Norsemen,” Alejandro promised them. “She will bring you luck.”

“She” turned out to be a small, white kitten, with large blue eyes and grey ears. She had taken one look at Percy, sniffed his hand, then immediately made herself at home in the folds of his winter cloak, purring softly.

Oh, even he could not resist the lure of a small cat. He kissed its head, scratching it behind the ears. Annabeth smiled at him, full of an emotion which he could not name, but could only describe as being soft, somehow, full of affection that just transcended the boundaries of simple friendship.

And then all at once, their things had been loaded onto the little boat, and they were ready to begin their journey. First, Stadsholmen; then, the South and the ancient lands.

He could not deny that the very thought of Italy, of its warm summers and green seas, made him feel more alive than he had in months.

“Percy,” Annabeth said, “would you permit me to linger a moment longer?”

“Of course.” He had noted her furtive glances towards her father, and assumed that she wished to give him a proper farewell. “I shall await you on the boat.”

So that he would not be left alone with a boatman who did not speak his language, Alejandro volunteered to walk him to the dock, allowing Fredrik, Magnus, and Annabeth to have their solemn goodbyes. “Despite your sour attitude, please know that we shall all miss you terribly,” he said, his mismatched eyes dancing. “Your arrival was, by far, the single most entertaining thing that has happened to this little village in years.”

“Does this include your own misadventures with Loki as he attempted to bring about Ragnarok?”

“Includes and exceeds, my friend.” Perhaps with a little impropriety, Alejandro kissed him on both cheeks, embracing him as a friend and brother. “Do watch out for my cousin, won’t you?”

“She will watch out for me, of that you can be certain.”

As he went to speak with the boatman, Percy cast his gaze to Annabeth and her father, further from the shore. They spoke very quickly, hushed words in Swedish traveling on the breeze towards him, syllables he could neither parse nor comprehend. He observed as Fredrik brought his hands to his mouth, an expression of shock and wonder, then embraced his daughter, tucking her head into his shoulder. He watched as Annabeth allowed herself to melt into his embrace, standing on her toes to reach him.

That she had willingly chosen to give all this up for him… it made him feel as though he could do anything, take on any quest. She had but to ask him.

“You are very far gone for your lady, aren’t you?” he heard Alejandro ask from behind him.

Percy nodded, for that was the beginning and end of it all, that he loved her so desperately, that he was content to let it go unreturned, as long as she deigned to keep him by her side. To deny it would be a bald-faced lie, and one easily overturned.

He chuckled. “She is fortunate to have you, then.”

“On the contrary,” said Percy. “I am fortunate to have her.” After all, this amazing woman was willing to leave her family and journey with him into some great unknown. How many men could claim such an honor?

Finally, her father brought Annabeth to shore, visibly holding back his tears. “Shall we, then?” asked his wife, shoulders squared and eyes straight ahead.

Percy held out his hand, and she took it, using it for balance as she stepped onto the craft. “We shall.”

A final word to his employer in Swedish, then the boatman pushed off from the dock. “Farewell!” called Alejandro, waving from the shore. “Safe travels!”

It was not long before they were swallowed up by the morning fog, the house on the hill disappearing into the mist, like a dream come first light.

Beside him, Annabeth yawned. “I apologize,” she said. “I had not slept well last night. Would you mind terribly if I took a brief rest?”

“Not at all. Here,” said Percy, setting the cat down on a parcel of Annabeth’s clothes. “You may use me as your pillow, if you wish.”

Grateful, she rested her head on his shoulder, nearly cuddling into his side just as enthusiastically as the cat had. “If you please, wake me when we arrive in Stadsholmen.”

“Of course, for who else shall translate for me?”

She huffed a laugh through her nose, once, sharp and short. Then, trapped between the bark of the boat and the weight of her body, Percy was content to simply bask in the feeling of her shoulder against his chest, her arms cradling her stomach for warmth, even after he wrapped his cloak around her.

[emospritelet]

Heatstroke - chapter 2

This prompt made me burst out laughing...

Okay, I made it the diner rather than the Rabbit Hole, but here:

Please send me ficlet prompts for this verse!

[AO3]

x

Lacey hurried back to her house and locked the front door behind her, as though the naked man from next door was hot on her heels, furiously seeking retribution for being doused with a cold drink. She could imagine it now: his limbs pumping as he chased her, and his genitals swinging from side to side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

The mental image proved too much for her to cope with, and she burst into a fit of the giggles, leaning back against the door to catch her breath. That’s one way to get to know the neighbours. God, how the hell am I gonna face the guy? She shook her head, pushing herself away from the door. It’s his problem. He was the one sunbathing naked.

She opened the door, gathering up the box of her things and carrying it into the house. She’d have to find Darcy; he had got back into the garden, but he didn’t know the place, and the last thing she wanted was to spend all day searching for him. She went through the kitchen and out onto the small back porch. There was a tiny garden behind, a small square of overgrown grass and bushes bordering the forest to the rear. Darcy was sitting on the top step of the porch, back arched and tail fluffy, as though something had spooked him.

“Yeah, you may well look like that,” remarked Lacey. “Because of you I can never go next door to borrow a cup of something. Bloody voyeur.”

Darcy mewed, glancing at her before staring out at the garden again, and Lacey followed his gaze, eyes widening as she saw a brown rat sitting on its hind legs in the middle of the patch of long grass and staring at her insolently.

“Hmm,” she said. “Pretty sure you shouldn’t be here.”

Darcy mewed louder, and Lacey looked at him.

“Oh, you’re expecting me to get rid of it, huh?” she said. “Typical.”

The rat rose further up on its hind legs, sniffing the air. She could see it was a male, and wondered if there were others of its kind around. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to call out pest control to remove a nest of the critters. The rat had started washing itself, and Lacey sighed, stomping down the steps. At the sound of her footsteps it scurried off, giving her a view of a long tail and impressively large testicles. She stopped at the bottom of the steps, hands on hips.

“All I’m getting today is guys flashing me,” she remarked, and glanced over her shoulder at Darcy. “Don’t you start, you hear?”

She climbed back up the steps, Darcy making a chirruping sound as he followed her into the house. It was edging towards four o’clock, which gave her plenty of time to get unpacked, get showered and make dinner. Then she planned a trip into town to check the place out. There had to be more to Storybrooke than naked men and brown rats.

x

Logan Gold had suffered many indignities in his life, but having a young woman throw an ice cold gin and tonic at his crotch in the privacy of his own back garden was a new low. She had run off before he could say anything, and he had been left seething in outrage, hands clamped over his genitals as they tried to retract into his body from the frigid drenching. Once he was sure she had gone, he grasped the cane from beneath the sun lounger and made his way stiffly to the house, heading for the shower to wash off the gin and tonic before going to the kitchen to make himself another.

He drank it sitting in his library wrapped in a thick silk robe, looking out over the rear garden and brooding to himself. He had never seen the young woman before. She certainly wasn’t a resident of Storybrooke, as far as he was aware. He would have remembered if she had signed a rental contract with him. With any luck he would never see her again.

He followed the gin and tonic with a coffee to revive himself before dressing in his three piece suit and the darkest of his silk shirts. It was rent day, and he was in a bad mood. If anyone wanted an extension, they were out of luck.

x

He wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved when his tenants all paid in full and on time. He had expected Keith Nott, at least, to make some pitiful excuse, but to his surprise the man had counted out a handful of crumpled bills and only scowled at him once. 

Gold always visited the diner last on his rounds, and the sun had set by the time he reached it, residents of Storybrooke hurrying past him on their way home. Glancing through the window, he could see Miss Lucas, the owner’s granddaughter, seated at the bar with a drink in front of her and a dark-haired woman to her right. Miss Lucas looked to be off duty, having changed out of the ridiculously revealing shirt and shorts outfit she wore as waitress and into leather pants and a mesh top over a black bra. The young woman next to her was showing the back of her bra completely in the blue thing she wore that passed for a dress. He wondered how they didn’t catch their death.

He opened the door to the diner, cane tapping on the floor. Miss Lucas was listening to the young woman talk, a grin curving bright red lips. Her friend sounded Australian, of all things, and Gold felt a sudden sinking in his stomach. A dark-haired young woman, a stranger in the town. Oh, for fuck’s sake...

“...and there it was, looking at me,” she was saying. 

“Oh God.” Miss Lucas wrinkled her nose. “That is so not what you want to see on the day you move in. Or any day, come to that.”

“Right?” The young woman took a slurp of her drink. “He was just - there. Not giving a single fuck. All big balls and unimpressive cock.”

Miss Lucas burst out laughing.

“Seriously? You looked?”

“I couldn’t help it!” protested the young woman. “I tell you, if he has a lady friend, I feel sorry for her.”

Gold clenched his teeth. It was tempting to turn around and walk out, but he had a schedule to keep, and he hated breaking it. He squared his jaw and walked resolutely to the bar, slapping a hand on the somewhat sticky counter and making the two women jump. The Australian woman swivelled slowly on her stool to face him. Clear blue eyes stared at him, dark red lips pursing.

“Hey,” she said. “Nice suit. A little over the top for a diner, but gotta admire a man who makes an effort.”

“Oh, wow…” Miss Lucas shook her head. “Don’t.”

“What?” The young woman glanced back at her. “I’m just being friendly.”

“I believe the phrase ‘does not play well with others’ is relevant here,” said Miss Lucas dryly, slipping from the stool and heading behind the bar.

“Are you talking about me or him?” The woman glanced back at him. “Hey, if I’m gonna settle here I have to get to know people, right?”

“We’ve met,” said Gold, his voice icy, and she blinked.

“We have?” she said.

He was positive that she was feigning ignorance, and he felt his jaw tighten.

“Earlier this afternoon,” he said stiffly. "No doubt an encounter you wish to forget. My own recollection is quite clear, alas."

“This is Mr Gold,” added Miss Lucas helpfully. “He’s the landlord for pretty much everyone in this town. You’re here for the rent, right, Mr Gold? I’ll just get it.”

Miss Lucas hurried off, and the young woman settled back on the stool, looking him up and down insolently before grinning. 

“Mr Gold,” she said. “Of course. I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on.”

Well, he supposed that he should have expected that.

“If you insist on breaking into people’s gardens, you can expect to see sights you’d prefer not to,” he said dryly, and gestured at the drink she held. “Do you want to throw it over me now, save me waiting around?”

“Huh?” She looked confused.

“No matter,” he drawled. “I’m here to collect rent, not bandy words with drunk young women. Excuse me.”

“I’m not drunk!”

Gold had already turned away, and Miss Lucas hurried back into the bar, brandishing a roll of notes.

“It’s all there,” she said breathlessly, and he nodded.

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Miss Lucas. Give my regards to your grandmother.”

He tucked the money into his jacket, heading for the diner door with as much swagger as he could manage with a limp. So she was staying? Fucking marvellous.

[forestdivinity]

the spirits of my past lives still follow me around

Dear Daddy

What are ghosts but people stuck out of time? What am I but a body stuck out of its grave? 

You killed me, once, twice, a thousand times. How many minutes did I spend in that damn crypt? How many hours did you listen to me scream and scream and scream? You always were a sadist - and not even the fun kind! 

Metaphor meet truth. 

They make us write letters in rehab - why depends on the shrink of the day but all the ones I’ve met seem to think writing out your thoughts will make them more coherent. I haven’t been coherent since I was four years old, ear drums blown out from the screaming.

Hah, you believed me then! Before that, you thought I was as ordinary as Vanya. Worse even, because I wouldn’t stop crying. Least Vanya was quiet. Sure you hated her too, but least she rarely annoyed you. Not the way I did. 

Sorry! I’m a chronic pain in the ass.

I’m not actually sorry.

I want you to know I’m not sorry about any of the fucking stuff I did to piss you off. Wish I’d done more. Wrapped my fingers around your throat and squeezed maybe - wonder if that would have killed you. You always seemed so untouchable, Dad. What’s a little more murder in the family, anyway?

Fuck you, fuck you. Why was I never enough? 

You shoved me in with the dead, maybe you just wanted me to join them. Sounds like a you thing. Got a screaming, sobbing, unruly child you can’t be bothered to deal with? Well, have I got just the thing for them, a crash course in their worst fears, woo! Great fucking plan, Daddy! That’s ironic, Bee-Tee-DoubleU.

Wish you’d let me get into the medicine cabinet earlier. Not like I did anything to please you before that. I don’t think They ever realised. 

Man, I miss drugs. Rehab is like a crash course in trauma. There’s always like one Screamer lurking where you least expect it, Dad. 

Sometimes it’s me, you know. Sometimes I’m the screamer. Everyone is a fucking ghost here, I swear, we’re all stuck in this white walled little crypt, all dreaming of the same fucking pills. I’m like dreaming of ecstasy lately. I see those little babies every time I close my eyes, like they miss me too. Klaus, Klaus, Klaus, they call. Just like the ghosts.

Ever think I was destined to be this? If there're ghosts around and boys with tentacle portals in their stomachs, then maybe destiny exists too? Does god exist then?

Maybe I’m a just fucking psychotic Daddy! Maybe I burst my own ear drums just to get you to look at me, ever think about that? Wouldn’t that be disappointing? I was always a disappointment to you, should have just gone to that little grave early. It might have been pitiable then, not just pathetic.

I want heroin. I love her like a daughter, like a mother, like a wife. I always thought about being a wife, having a wife, but looks like it wasn’t in the plan, huh? Huh! It’s your fault! All of it!

I wish I’d never been born. Fucking miracle birth my ass.

Funny, I wanted to get deep in this, but you just make me so mad and I’m disastrously sober. You never liked me sober, didn’t like me high either. Then again, maybe you just hated kids. Weirdo.

I want the drugs now. I’m so tired and so angry. You ever feel like the walls are just closing in on you? Probably not, I doubt you’re claustrophobic. Honestly, you never seemed scared of anything, like you weren’t even human. Just some monocle wearing robot come to torment us all. Unfair comparison for robots really, Mom definitely tried her best.

I am an imploding star, Dad. Nothing you can do to change that - BEN!! STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER! 

I’ve been burning up since the day I was born. 

Lovecraft wrote “and with stranger aeons, even death may die” - he was a racist, piece of shit bastard, but I’m waiting for it to come true. Maybe then I’d get some fucking peace. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

All I ever wanted in life was peace, Dad! Why d'you have to go and leave me to the screaming. Sometimes I don’t know if I ever got free? What if this is all some strange fever dream, the last moments of an addled mind? What a nightmare to dream up as you die. Maybe I’m just in Hell - this life is certainly an eternal torture. 

Seems too easy though, doesn’t it?

I bet the Devil is like, a cowboy. Everyone depicts him as some big, red, fork-tailed thing, but I think a cowboy would be funny. Unexpected. And you would hate it, which only makes it better, you know? Recently I’ve been asking myself “would Dad hate this?” and if the answer is yes, I do it. Wrote a whole ass soliloquy on cock a few weeks back. I was so fucking high. Thought I’d be the next Shakespeare or something.

Turns out I just waffled about dick cheese for three pages. 

Eh.

You’d still hate it, so I count it as a win.

Daddy, I have officially lost the fucking plot of this letter. I blame Ben; he keeps trying to read over my shoulder, you should tell him to leave me alone. Not that he’d listen to you! Like any of us bar, Luther listened to you in the end. I think it would have been a better world if we’d all run away like Five, but alas, it was not the case.

What was even the point of this?

Oh yeah. I hate you. You fucked me up.You left me to rot and die in that crypt and I haven’t been alive ever since. It’s funny, you can go through life as a ghost and no one ever notices.

I hope one day, when you die, I get to piss on your ashes. It would be a fucking fitting end.

Fuck you.

Klaus Hargreeves.

-

The letter never gets sent. For three weeks and a day it sits in the bottom of his coat pocket until Klaus forgets he’d ever written it in the first place. He gets high, beautifully, soaringly high and uses the paper to roll joints when he runs out of skins. 

A fitting end. Gone in the wind.

Klaus laughs when he realises, fingers itching for another hit. Time to move on. Not like it would have made a difference anyhow.

[aubergineanathema]

Esteemed guests of the Vorsfeldes

This is Part 15. To see all parts, or to start at the beginning, click here: Fiction Updates -----

Part 15.

There were no velvet curtains in the dungeon.

That was the first thing Helga noticed as she crept as quietly as she could down the stone stairs and saw the bright streams of light entering from the small, barred windows near the ceiling. As dark as this place had been the last time she had visited it, in the daytime it was notably lighter than the rest of the castle. Dust seemed to collect here, too, even more than on the other floors. There were small piles decomposing hay and dirt all over the floor, and any movement seemed to disturb the hazy air, full of musty flecks of debris.

Helga had decided to look here first for Lucian’s guest from the night before. She had considered, briefly, sneaking into the room where Lucian slept, but one glance at the dried mud and blood upon the door had convinced her that it was not a place she should dare to go—at least, not without Angelika. She resolved instead to check the dungeon, for it seemed a likely place for a guest of the Vorsfeldes.

As she had wandered, she had kept an eye out for Franz. Helga had begun to expect him to be looming around every corner, considering his orders and how she had disobeyed them. However, the steward of Vorsfelde castle was nowhere to be seen. This was, she assured herself, a good thing, for she did not want him following her any more than she wanted to sleep during the day. But even so, his absence was conspicuous as she made her meandering journey down into the dungeon. Indeed, she encountered not a soul on the way there.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, she stared down a simple hallway, with cells and bars on either side. In total, there seemed to be eleven: five on each side, and one at the very end of the hall. This was, more or less, as she had remembered it.

Except for one thing, of course.   

It was quiet, and something was certainly missing. Helga’s eyes fixed upon the cell facing her at the very end of the hallway. Its bars seemed new, shiny and polished, but the cell itself appeared to be empty. The beast that had resided within some nights prior seemed nowhere to be seen, and this came as a surprise to her. If Lord Alastair had moved the beast, she assumed she would have heard of it from Angelika, but her lady had been silent on the matter.

Also pricking Helga was a strange twinge of disappointment. Part of her had hoped that seeing the creature in daylight, even if only sleeping, might assuage some of her fears, and banish it from her dreams. Alas, she instead began peering into the other cells. They seemed empty, too, until a glance into the cell closest to her made her gasp. At first, she thought it was just a pile of rags, but she recognized something in the torn and soiled leather. There in the cell was the man from the night before. Or, at least, what was left of him.

Helga rushed over to the bars. These were not polished in the slightest. They seemed old, caked with grime, and made of rusting iron. Still, she hesitated to touch them as she tried to get a better look at the man. He was lying on his side, facing away from her, and so she found it difficult to see anything that might indicate his condition. Staring hard she was able to see, after a long tense moment, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and she let out a sigh of relief.

“Sir?” Helga whispered, “can you hear me?”

She watched as he seemed to tense slightly, and tremble, but he did not turn toward her, or give any other sign that he had understood her.

“Hello, sir—are you alright? I just wanted to…” Helga’s voice faltered as it became clear he was not in any fit state to hear her words.

It was then, as she watched the man cowering there, that Helga felt a sudden, creeping despair, accompanied by an unexpected pang of loneliness. What had she wanted to do, anyway, help this man? She was helpless to do anything to better this man’s situation, and she did not even know how to help herself, let alone this prisoner. She knew the Vorsfeldes did not care, and indeed, she did not imagine that Angelika would react positively if she knew of her maid’s plain disobedience. The loneliness was harder to place, but she felt empathy with this man—more so than with her masters, or even the other servants of the castle—and to go unacknowledged left her feeling even more alone than before.  

Slowly, she turned away, thinking she could still at least bring him something from the kitchen, so long as Franz remained elsewhere occupied.

“I wouldn’t bother him.”

A sudden voice echoed through the hall.

“He only got to sleep about an hour ago.”

The voice was so unexpected and unfamiliar, Helga stifled her surprise and stared around for the source of the sound. Her eyes scanned the other cells and saw no one in the cells nearby.  

Then she walked through the hallway, guarded and tense, as she moved closer and closer to the cell at the very end of the hallway. All the other cells were clearly empty, but the last cell was more expansive, and as she approached, she saw it had walls that afforded slightly more privacy, at least from a distance.

Behind the shining bars a man sat, with his back pressed against the wall. His dark eyes met hers briefly, as she approached the bars, but then he looked passed her, nodding towards the other occupied cell.   

“I heard him throughout the night. Awake, but exhausted… I think he was also in a great deal of pain.”

Helga was stunned for a moment, having not expected to find anyone else down here. “He is.” She found herself stammering, before she could think to stop herself. “They—they took his hand.”

The man gave a quick, understanding nod. “To wake him just now would be a cruelty.” The voice was softer now, and plainly sorrowful.

Helga found herself intrigued by his voice. It was deep, and almost melodic in its cadence, with the intonations of certain words in odd places. She had never heard anything similar from anyone in the village. The closest she had ever heard to such a speech was from certain of the merchants that travelled through the region, but never lingered long.

Indeed, she could see that he was not from the lowlands. His eyes were a rich brown, and his complexion was a warm tanned color—such a sharp contrast to the pale faces of her masters and the servants of the castle—as though he was accustomed each day to linger in the hot bright sun. His face was not that of a farmer, however, as she had known many such men. His skin bore some of the scars of old injuries, but none of the roughness of exposure, and was not at all weather-worn. Wiry dark hair drooped down about his shoulders, blending at the edges of his cheeks into a thick black beard, the disheveled state of which hinted at the extended nature of his captivity.

“If he’s lucid when he wakes, I can tell him you came to see him.”

Helga started as she realized not only that she had been staring, but that now the man was staring back at her. “What?”

“I can tell him,” he repeated slowly, “that you were here. I’m sure he would take some small comfort in knowing he has not been completely forgotten.”

She suddenly felt flustered and a little self-conscious as his eyes continued to bore into hers. As she processed the words, she found herself searching for any sign of ire or malice in them—for he was a prisoner after all—but saw only concern.

“Oh, no! He doesn’t even know that I’m—it’s fine.” Helga shook her head and looked over her shoulder. “I’m not even supposed to be down here. I just couldn’t sleep, and…”

The prisoner gave a solemn nod again, but said no more.

Helga felt too nervous not to fill in the silence. Her mind teemed with questions for the stranger. “Why would you do that for him? Do you know him?”

“No,” the man shook his head. “Do you?”

“No, I only saw them bring him into the castle last night.”

“Then why would you seek him out?”

Helga shook her head with a sigh. “I don’t know. I was worried about him, and I couldn’t sleep.” She looked over her shoulder again, hoping she was not being so loud that Franz would hear. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this either. I don’t even know who you are.”

The man smiled wearily at her. “You’re afraid of something.”

Helga tried to deny it, but her voice wavered in a way that made clear her discomfort. “No—not really. Not of you! But I’m really not supposed to be down here,  like I said and, well a few nights ago—before you were here, there was this huge beast that Lord Alastair was keeping down here, behind these very bars, and I am a little concerned about where he’s moved it to.” She laughed nervously, as Angelika had gotten her into the habit of doing.

The man listened quietly, his eyes now pensively considering the floor. He had not moved from his sitting position against the wall since she had encountered him there, with his bare feet flat against the stone and his knees bent towards the ceiling. His hands were clasped, and his arms draped casually over his bended knees. She could see, however, through the tattered clothing he wore, that the muscles of his arms were tensed tightly, and his hands gripped each other so firmly his fingers were constricted and ruddy.  

“And what are you, to Lord Alastair?” He asked after a moment.

“Me? Oh I’m nobody.” She was surprised by the question, and unsettled by his tone. “I doubt he even knows my name.”  

“An esteemed guest of the Vorsfelde family, perhaps?”

“No, I’m not a guest!” Helga recalled keenly that the Vorsfeldes had taken to calling the bloody man in the cell behind her a ‘guest,’ and the word brought a fresh wave of dread upon her. “I’m just a servant: Lady Angelika’s lady-in-waiting!”

The man paused, and wearily he looked upon her again, his expression softening slightly. “My apologies, Miss Nobody. I saw the paint on your face and the jewels upon your neck and made assumptions. It is a shame that only noblewomen wear their hair so beautifully coiffed.”

Helga’s hand flew up to her neck and hair in a rush, as she could feel her face grow beet red. She remembered the makeup, and the dressing up of the night before. She could not believe she had worn the necklace, which suddenly felt so heavy, all the night long. But she had, and not even Franz had bothered to mention it to her.  

“Angelika—She likes to do this do me. It’s nothing. I’m just a servant from the village. I swear it to you.” She felt so exposed, all of a sudden, in front of this strange man, even though he wore only a shirt and garments of rags, and she was fully dressed, she rarely saw anyone except for Angelika without her wimple, and she knew how Angelika’s paints accentuated her face.

Beautifully coiffed. Those were the words he had used.

Slowly, the man rose and approached the bars—but did not touch them—regarding her carefully with his dark eyes. Some far away part of her mind noted with surprise that he was only a few inches taller than her.

“Please, let me start again.” He did not really give Helga time to respond. Indeed, he seemed himself a little anxious about whatever he desired to say. “I do not believe that you are nobody, but I do believe that your heart is untainted by this evil place. You came down here to comfort a man you don’t even know, and you have no idea the danger you’re in.”

“Helga.” She said quietly, feeling frozen in place. Danger from what? “My name is Helga.”

The man nodded in acknowledgement.

“My name is Masud al-Dahia ibn Sulayman al-Hasif ibn Qasim al-Aziz.” He paused and watched as Helga stared at him, easily overwhelmed by the pronunciation and cadence so unfamiliar to her.

He smiled slightly, seeming bemused. “But you can call me Masud.”

“Masud.” She repeated softly, trying to ignore how lightheaded she felt.

“Yes, and sometimes they also call me Masud al-Dhiyb: Masud the Wolf, in your tongue.”

“Oh?” Helga asked, and wondered fleetingly when he had gotten so close to the bars. He smelled like a warm day, but she felt cold. “Why would they call you that?”

“Well, Helga.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, second guessing before taking a deep breath. He collected himself, and strengthened his resolve.

“Sometimes, I am also that beast of which you speak.” ------- This has been Part 15. For more, see my Fiction Updates -------- Don’t be shy! I would like to hear any feedback or comments anyone might have! Very PM/ask friendly. Please never share without attribution. ---- I am trying out tag-lists. Let me know if you want to be added or removed from this list. <3 @jenifersaturn​ @hypnoticwinter​ @leannehuang​ @writingvenusian​ @tomato-greens​ @ocdsensei​ @springtimebat​ @myhoagiemakerplaid​ @alphazao​ @donthavechoice​ @freedominique​ @lost-in-fiction​ @odysseywritings​ @adelinemwriting @concreation @yo-imagino @contra-passo @indiiig0 @worlds-tiniest-puff-pastry @themoondidntloveme @autumnsky01 @unforgettable-sensations @maddiviner @missmercurymoon @peloblancophoto @be-i-ng @beautifulimposter25 @johnnyabbate @bloodorange-sacrifice @sulfurandbrimstone74 @illessayano

[honkytonkdyke]

Essential Services

pairing: ironstrange

word count: 4,001 (unintentionally too!)

warnings: mentions of COVID-19, but not by name. alcohol and smut are heavy topics in this as well. 

a/n: well @babywarg and @merelypassingtime, it’s here! it only took me ages, but i did it. i’m pretty proud of this one too! i hope you both, and anyone else who reads this fic enjoys it!

BREAKING NEWS: STATEWIDE CURFEW IN PLACE. PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOMES AFTER 8 PM. 

The local news station's theme blared from his television's speakers as the headline scrolled across the bottom of his screen. Tony rolled his eyes and sighed, checking his watch for the time. 

7:23, his watch read, and he laid back against his couch, fighting the urge to leave the house. He knew it wasn't safe, and of all places, where would he go? His favorite eateries and restaurants were closed due to nationwide quarantine, and he couldn't find the motivation to rummage in his pantry to make a meal. Tony certainly didn't want a drive-through fast-food meal at this time a night, but there was something he did crave. 

Was it the boredom that had finally gotten to his head? Had he been isolated for so long that he had lost a grip on all the positive progress he had made? Maybe it was the lack of communication with the people who helped him make that uphill climb that plunged him this deep. 

Whatever it may have been, Tony hadn't the slightest clue why he had made the decision to search for the address of the nearest liquor store. But alas, he clothed himself in a long-sleeved shirt, warm pants, and a heavy sweatshirt before slipping on his thick shoes before stepping out into the bitter cold New York City air. 

Stephen sat in his chambers at the sanctum, a book opened on his desk before him. His phone beeped every few minutes with an update on this wretched disease he hated to hear about. 

The governor of New York has issued a statewide curfew. Please do not exit your homes after 8 pm. 

The sorcerer groaned at the message and stuffed his phone in his pocket. Stephen turned the volume down to silent and focused on the spellbook he currently studied. As he read through the materials needed to perform the unlearned divination spell, he recognized liquor was a key ingredient, much to his dismay. The sanctum didn't house liquor for the safety of its inhabitants, so Stephen would have to venture out into a sickness ridden realm to retrieve this key component of the spell. 

Stephen donned himself in a woolen sweater and sweatpants; his appearance did not matter in these trying times. He sighed and prepared himself for the cold he had to face.

Stephen read the directions to the liquor store once more and embedded the street name and storefront in his mind. As much as he despised going out this late in the evening, he spoke to Wong before stepping into the bitterly cold and diseased realm.

The liquor store seemed to act as a common ground for the two men, even if they had gone to the shop for uncommon reasons. When they did meet, it was at the door, both of the men rushing to shield themselves from the cold. 

“Excuse me!” Stephen exclaimed as he fell in behind the stranger. “I am terribly sorry, are you alright?” 

Tony shot around at met the man’s eyes. With a spark igniting in his chest, he responded, “I’m fine,” he lied, hiding his enthusiasm beneath his low tone. “Thank you though. And yourself?” 

Stephen nodded. “Yes, thank you.” As he walked further into the shop, he began to realize that he and the man were tracking the same aisles, possibly for the same alcohol. 

The shelves had been climbed over, Tony noticed. All the best and cheapest brands had disappeared. However, if he had wanted the best, he could have had it imported and at his doorstep tomorrow morning. Tony wanted something to distract himself and ease his mind for the night.

Tony skimmed the shelves, jumping from one liquor to another. He hadn’t drunk in ages, and the names of the beverages felt like people he didn’t want to associate with any longer. Something in his heart tugged him to the door, but the longing in his chest to relieve his boredom overcame that urge and kept him between the shelves. 

Stephen came to an aisle where the stranger from the door stood, and he found himself at the alcohol he needed for the spell. His fears had been relieved, for there was a singular bottle left of the shelf. Now he just had to hope that the man adjacent to him would not be on a quest for the same bottle. 

Tony noticed the man a couple of feet away from him. He gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye, but he decided not to speak. Just as he reached for the final bottle of his preferred alcohol on the shelf, his hand collided with the stranger from the door, and he felt heat run to his chest. Their eyes met, and quickly, Tony pulled his hand away. 

Stephen’s heart jumped in his chest, and his eyes darted between the man and the bottle. “I need that,” Stephen spoke, “more than you do, I’m sure.” His tone exuded confidence, but the last thing Stephen wanted was to find himself in a fight with a drunk. 

Tony rolled his eyes and an eyebrow rose on his forehead. “Yeah, I highly doubt it. I’m bored out of my mind, this is all I got.” 

“Bored?” Stephen scoffed and grabbed the liquor from the shelf. “There is a  for this bottle, one I cannot disclose to you.” 

“Oh, a secret?” Tony let a smirk crawl up his face and stepped forward. “Do tell,” he fake whined, “why you need this exact bottle of liquor so badly.” 

“It’s got the highest percentage of alcohol in the store. It’s the purest, just what I need for my endeavor,” Stephen explained while still keeping his wizardry secret safe. “It also explains why it’s so understocked.” 

Tony nodded and looked the man up and down. “Listen, I don’t want to hear your vague, half-assed excuses about why you need it more than I do. Give me a straight reason and I’ll let you keep it.” 

Stephen rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m arguing with a stranger in the liquor store about a bottle of alcohol. Okay, at least before I tell you, will you give me a name?” 

Tony’s eyes looked to the shelves and back to the man. “Tony,” he told. “And I need yours.” 

“Well, Tony,” Stephen replied and crossed his arms, the neck of the bottle in his tight grip. “My name is Stephen. And I have some questions for you.” 

“You have the questions for me? I don’t understand why you’re hoarding the alcohol when you make it pretty clear, based on the fact that you haven’t given me an actual answer as to why you are so persistent in keeping it to yourself,” Tony rebutted as his voice began to grow in volume. 

Stephen shook his head. “You haven’t given me a chance to explain myself!” He glared at the man. “Do you really want to know?” his voice was low as he eased closer to the man. “There’s so much you would have to know if I told you why.” 

“You’ve got until eight o’clock, and it’s already seven forty-five. I’d suggest you hurry this up, or we’ll get caught walking home,” Tony reminded, his eyes focused on the bottle. “If you’re afraid of someone hearing you’re a drunk, need I tell you we are in a liquor store. Just say what you have to say.” 

Stephen exhaled, his glare never letting up. “I don’t have anything to say. You’re making me say why over a bottle of alcohol. You know what?” He summoned the cloak. “Woah, now,” Tony exclaimed as the red seemingly sentient cloth wrapped around his torso and began to pull him from the aisle and through a doorway. 

Stephen smirked as he followed Tony and the cloak into the backroom. He shut the door with a wave of his hand behind himself and snapped his fingers. The clock on the wall stopped ticking. “I have as long as you do,” Stephen spoke as he took a chair from behind the desk and moved it against the wall. He commanded the cloak to set Tony in the chair. 

The cloak did as it was told, throwing Tony’s restrained body into the empty chair. After performing its task, the cloak disappeared into the air. 

“What the hell was that?” Tony exclaimed. His eyes were wide and his mouth was agape at the sheer unbelievability he just witnessed. “Who are you?” 

Stephen smiled. “I’m a sorcerer, a master of the mystic arts. I need the liquor for a divination spell that requires the highest alcohol concentration I could find. Since I can’t make alcohol in a night, I decided I’d visit the nearest liquor store. If you can give me an answer better than being bored than maybe I’ll decide to give it to you. However, based on how it’s looking with this virus, this might just be the only alcohol I’ll be able to get for a while. So you better have a damn good reason.” 

Tony realized why the man was so reluctant to tell him his true reasons. They were odd but based on what he had just witnessed and the fact that he was tied to a chair with seemingly no bondage, his claims were incredibly believable. He was no longer bored by the facets of his life, for this wizard had graced him with excitement. Maybe he could find a bit more of that excitement before he departed empty-handed. 

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Tony spoke and eyed the man and up and down. “You leave me with a memory of you and I’ll let you have the bottle. Something to ease my boredom for the time being. Based on the red in your cheeks, I’d say you might want something more than alcohol as well.” A sly smirk climbed his face. 

Stephen’s chest jumped in an internal gasp. His mouth parted to speak, but the intensive, desirous gaze of the man before him took the words from his tongue. “The deal wouldn’t be fair. I’d be getting two things and only one of them I actually need,” he managed to say as a tightness grew in his stomach.

“But you know you want to make it, Stephen,” Tony continued, a glimmer of lust in his eyes as they met Stephen’s. “You haven’t had a distraction in years.” 

Stephen pulled his eyes away from the man for a split second, but the strength of Tony’s gaze brought his eyes back to the man. He bit his lip. “Here?” 

“Yes, here,” Tony answered. “I promise, no one will know and unless you want this again, we can part ways.” 

Stephen lowered his eyes, succumbing to his deepest wants for the first time in years He placed the bottle on an empty wooden carton and eased back over to the man in the chair. He broke the man’s bonds to the chair and watched him stand. 

“Thank you,” Tony said with a slight smile and brought his hand behind the sorcerer’s head, resting it at the base of his neck. 

Stephen flinched at the sparks of arousal under Tony’s fingers. He wished to speak, but a thick silence lingered in the air he refused to break. He tried to calm his heart rate as Tony rested his arms on Stephen’s shoulder. 

“Relax, Stephen,” Tony crooned and began to sway with the man. “Enjoy this.” 

Stephen nodded and leaned into the embrace, his tight muscles slowly starting to loosen under the man’s touch. He let out a sigh as Tony’s lips began to trail down his neck, planting soft but eager kisses on his collarbone. Stephen’s hands eased to the hem of Tony’s sweatshirt, and he grabbed the shirt underneath as he lifted the clothing above his head, exposing the man’s bare chest to the warm, wet air of the cellar. He set the clothes in the empty chair. 

Tony slowly undid the buttons of Stephen’s sweater and draped it over the chair where he had sat. He ran his hands across Stephen’s chest. His body was warm to the touch as heat radiated throughout the sorcerer’s body. He continued to kiss the man’s chest lightly as his fingers played with the seam of his sweatpants. He dragged his fingers down his groin and let them dance beneath the waistband and along the sorcerer’s hips. He loosened the sweatpants and let them fall to the floor at Stephen’s feet.

Stephen gripped the fabric of Tony’s trousers and pushed them to the floor, suddenly becoming eager for the man’s touch once again. He wished to please the man and leave him with the touch of which he asked. 

Tony let out a chuckle and he did the same to Stephen as the couple eased over to the desk in the corner of the room. He leaned against the desk underneath Stephen.

Stephen, as he regained his confidence, stated, “Turn over. I think you’ll be more comfortable if you’re propped against the table.” 

Tony bit his lip and did as he was told, feeling the arousal build in his chest once again. Even if the man’s hands were scarred, the touch of his fingers was soft and tender. He anticipated the blissful feeling he was about to experience for the first time in a long time as Stephen pulled his boxers below his knees. 

Stephen eased his underwear off as well and leaned his hips against Tony. “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice low.

Tony looked back at the man and exhaled. “Of course, Stephen. Give it your all.” 

Stephen let out his nervousness with a breath and positioned his hips at the correct angle for comfortable entry. He held his hands against Tony’s side and swiftly thrust into the man, stroking his skin softly to comfort him. 

Tony moaned deeply, pleasure seeping through his voice. “God, Stephen,” he managed and bit his lip, suppressing even louder cries of his pleasure. “Keep going,” he said through clenched teeth. 

Stephen thrust into the man slowly, rolling his hips at a bitterly pleasurable pace, careful not to tire himself out, for both of them. He loved the tightness around his cock, the likes of which he had not experienced in ages. Beads of sweat rolled down his bare chest, his hands becoming slick at the sweat from Tony’s skin.

As Stephen plunged himself further into Tony with each roll of his hips, Tony moaned his name like a mantra, begging for more and faster at that. But Stephen wished to go as long as he and Tony’s bodies would let them, for he didn’t want to end this moment for either of them. He wished to sustain his energy and prolong their shared pleasure to the very end. 

“Are you still enjoying yourself, Tony?” Stephen spoke, his lips lowered to the man’s ear as he bucked his hips, not able to break his wave of movement into the man. “I do hope you are.”

Tony nodded and let out a moan as his lips parted to speak. “God, yes, Stephen. You are - agh!” he exclaimed as Stephen gave a harder thrust than the pattern before. “Right there, Stephen!” 

Stephen’s thrusts became quick and rough as their skin began to clap against one another’s, the sound of sex filling the room. As Tony moaned and writhed in pleasure, Stephen held his grip on Tony’s hips as he felt the man contract around his cock. He knew the man was close to his climax. He continued his quicker and uneven thrusts, wishing to bring the man to his peak. 

Tony’s mind became clouded with bliss and his body rocked in ecstasy as he was brought to orgasm by the man. He rode the waves of his climax as his chest heaved and he was unable to speak or open his eyes due to the intensity in which he came. 

As Tony returned from the pleasurable high of his orgasm, he wished to bring Stephen the same bliss in which he gave him. “You haven’t come yet, have you, Stephen?” 

Stephen found himself caught off guard by the question and still enthralled by the convulsive nature of Tony around his cock. He hesitated as the question took a moment to process through his mind. 

“No, not just yet,” Stephen answered, his chest rising and falling as his breathing began to steady. “Would you like me to continue until I do?” 

Tony let out a chuckle and shook his head. “Let me get you there, Stephen. If you would, go ahead and slide out of me.” 

Stephen nodded and brought himself out of Tony. He moaned at the sudden change, immediately desiring the feeling of the man around his cock once again. He watched the man turn around and come to his knees on the ground, smiling at Stephen as he did so. 

Tony ran his thumbs down Stephen’s groin and looked up at the man. “Are you okay with this?” 

“Go ahead,” he replied and grounded himself in the echoed grasp of Tony held against Stephen’s hips. Arousal continued to build in his abdomen as the man’s fingers inched closer to his groin and stroked undefined patterns into the skin. 

Tony leaned into the man and kissed the tip of his length before stroking the shaft ever so slightly with his tongue. He steadied the man as he jerked under his touch, guiding him into the act. Tony gradually took Stephen’s cock into his mouth, tasting the saltiness of his juices as they eased down the back of his tongue. 

“Dear God, Tony!” 

Stephen let out a bright moan, his hands seizing the table for leverage. Pleasure surged through his veins, and he was unable to focus on anything but the man before him. His hips bucked impulsively as if to ask for more of the heavenly sensation from the man. Stephen fervently cried the man’s name as Tony ran his lips up and down his length.

As the tip hit the back of Tony’s throat, Stephen quickly came undone before the man, his seed spilling in Tony’s mouth. His body trembled in euphoria, and a sea of moans fled from his lips as the effects of his orgasm spread throughout his body. He chanted Tony’s name under his breath as he slowly came back to full awareness of his surroundings. 

Tony removed his mouth from around Stephen’s cock and let out a heavy breath. He smiled as he caught his breath and stood to meet Stephen’s eyes, gathering their undergarments from the floor. He wiped a bead of sweat from the other man’s forehead and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

“Are you satisfied, Stephen?” Tony asked sweetly, handing Stephen his pair of underwear and pulled his over his groin. 

Stephen donned himself in the garment. “I am.” He smiled. “And you?” 

Tony nodded and wrapped his arms around the man’s waist. “Get dressed. I’ll walk you home.” 

Stephen gathered his clothes from the chair and the floor and dressed quickly, making sure he was tightly wrapped in each article of clothing. He dreaded going back out into the cold. The effects of their sex still lingered, however; for his mouth still formed a euphoric, soft smile. 

Tony clothed himself in the many layers that had been strewn across the floor and smoothed out the fabric. He still felt Stephen’s tight grip on his hips as he pulled over shirt over his head and smoothed out the wrinkles at his waist. He gazed at Stephen. 

“Are you ready?” Tony asked and walked over to Stephen. He pushed Stephen’s dampened hair off his forehead.

“Not looking forward to going out in the cold, but let’s get this over with,” Stephen answered and let out a soft chuckle.

The room, still silent as before they engaged with each other, suddenly came back to life as the clock began to tick once again. 

“You know, I forgot you had done that,” Tony admitted as they exited through the doors of the backroom. 

Stephen, with his liquor bottle in hand, shut the door behind himself and approached the front desk. He took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and his identification, handed it to the man behind the counter. “Keep the change,” Stephen stated. 

The store clerk lit up. “Thank you! He slid the card back to Stephen. “Would you like a bag or receipt?” 

Stephen shook his head. “No, but thank you, sir. Have a wonderful evening.”

Tony opened the door for the sorcerer and held it open as he walked through. He waved to the shopkeeper as he shut the door behind himself. The cold engulfed the two as they walked down the New York city streets.

“How often do you have sex with strangers?” Stephen asked and smirked at Tony. “If you mind me asking.” 

Tony chuckled. “Not much anymore. This was the first time I had actually done something with a person in almost a year, since my last relationship.” He sighed but smiled at the man.

“Maybe we could do this more often if you enjoyed it enough tonight,” Stephen suggested, his hand trembling by his side. He looked to Tony, his eyes filled with the hope of a budding relationship. He truly did enjoy this man’s company.

Tony nodded, his eyes falling to the man’s side. “That’d be really nice, actually. Maybe sometime soon if this quarantine doesn’t last too long.” He paused and took Stephen’s hand into his. “Thank you for tonight. I really needed it even if it was over a bottle of alcohol.”

Stephen smiled and raised the bottle, his hand struggling to hold it in the air. “I did too.” 

They walked together in comforting silence for the next couple of blocks before reaching the sanctum on Bleecker Street. The stopped at the steps to bid one another farewell.

“Here’s the address of this sanctum and my phone number,” Stephen spoke and conjured a small card in his hand. He gave it to Tony, pressing the card into his hand. He chuckled again and met the man’s eyes. “Do you think the government would consider this trip essential?”

Tony shrugged and placed the card in the pocket of his pants. “I don’t know, Stephen. But it may be a while before we see each other again.” 

Stephen nodded. “My full name is Stephen Strange. I realized I didn’t tell you at the liquor store, I thought you might need to know if we’re going to keep in touch during this. I hope to see you again.” He smiled. 

“Tony Stark,” the man responded and pressed a kiss to Stephen’s cheek. “I do too, Stephen. I’ll call you soon. I’ll even visit if I can.”

Stephen blushed at the affection of the other man. “I can portal to you with my magic. That way I won’t have to get out in this mess and risk getting sick. Do you think you’ll be able to make it home before the curfew starts? I’ll open you a portal if you want.” 

“That’d be wonderful. How would you be able to get the right location?” Tony asked, in awe of the man’s ability as a sorcerer. 

Stephen smiled and twisted open an orange sparkling portal in front of the man. “Location charm. The portal recognizes the target and where it wants to go.” He signaled for Tony to enter. 

“Goodnight, Stephen. Stay safe,” Tony said, a bright smile on his face. “I hope I don’t have to meet you at the liquor store again.” 

Stephen shook his head. “You won’t. Goodnight, Tony.” He smirked as the man waved and walked through the portal. Stephen brought his hands together, and the sparks disintegrated before him. He took his bottle from the steps and entered the sanctum for the night.

[jenovahh]

Comm 03 - NSFW - Glitter

Rating: NC-17/Explicit Tags: Female!WoL, Cunnilingus, Penetration

The commissioner has chosen to remain anonymous! Thank you so much for this prompt it was fun to write and challenging!

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Warrior of Light.

Liberator of Doma. Savior of Ala Mhigo. Retriever of Coinpurses.

Warrior of Darkness.

Enough titles to sing your praises to fill an entire book, by this point you were sure.

Have books been written yet? You hadn’t been approached yet for a biography. Mayhap you were on the move too much for anyone to sit you down long enough to talk to you about your life; not that your life is much of a secret. 

Any news of your deeds and miracles had reached nearly every part of the continent. At the very least, the only thing missing would be the more trivial escapades or your humble beginnings.

Sometimes you miss those days. The days of stepping out and actually exploring. Choosing to help the occasional stranger but still going your own way, seeing the world at your own pace. Some might think not knowing where your next meal would come from daunting, but you had never worried. You could fish. You could hunt.

You could be yourself. For yourself.

It pained you sometimes, to think of the life you could have lived. If you hadn’t met wonderful people like Y’shtola or Thancred...if you hadn’t encountered Lyse in the forest. Or...Papalymo.

Grimacing, you heave out a sigh, trudging along behind the Scions through the Rat’tika Greatwood, its muggy swamps and blistering heat doing nothing to improve your mood. 

After nearly being accosted by the Night’s Blessed, fending off a potential Vauthry invasion, and held at knife point by small army of Viis, you believe you’ve earned a well deserved break, especially knowing that exploring the looming temple nearby is on tomorrow’s list of events.

You are provided with a rather cozy room, given to you by the Viis in exchange for their seal. They are all quite lovely and so is their home, your eyes drifting to the beautiful women of the village as they lead you to your room that you’ll be staying in for the night.

To your surprise there is a plush feather bed resting against the far wall, instead of a hammock like you were expecting giving what all you had seen of the village. A small basin with a mirror rests in a corner of the room as well as a desk, but the room is otherwise for the most part barren. 

None of the luxuries or comforts offered to you back at your room in the Crystarium, and you are just now aware of how concerned the Exarch is for your overall well being and happiness.

You returned to your room after a hearty dinner provided by the ever hospitable Viis, waving to the Scions as you announced you would be retiring to your room for the night, practically falling onto the bed for some well earned rest. 

You had already bathed in their bathhouse, feeling a bit better considering you had dove into the murky waters of the nearby lake filled with Hydaelyn knows what. It wasn’t all bad, being able to dive below and explore the ruins, feeling that sense of discovery and adventure you had longed for when you were a child.

You couldn’t hate the job entirely, even if the stress was monumental.  There was absolutely no way you would be able to explore an entirely different world if you had kept to your path as a young adventurer, if you had never joined the Scions.

There might not even be a world at all.

“Really hero, must you think so loudly?”

You’re on your feet before you can blink, dagger in hand as you immediately turn towards the voice. Vision focusing, you meet stark, gold eyes, twinkling in obvious amusement in what must be considered your antics.

“My, you sundered souls are so easily excitable. Though I suppose there would be drawbacks to being unable to sense the very aether around you…” Emet-Selch trails off, hands up turned as he shrugs his already sunken shoulders.

 He looks exactly as you had seen him earlier this morning, dressed in the same imperial robes with the same silly white streak in his hair. You twirl the dagger in your hands with ease, scoffing as you move to lie back down in your bed. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Ascian?” you question harshly, not at all willing to play nice. You weren’t quite ready to throw your life away, mouthing off to a being such as he; you were no fool. You were sure that even a child could sense the danger he exuded from his very being, but you also weren’t in the mood to deal with mind games.

“My, my, aren’t we touchy.” He comments, crossing his arms and looking down at you from his nose, his lips pulled in a condescending smirk. “I come to pay the vaunted hero a visit, and am only met with hostility. Surely you are not so inhospitable to all your guests?” He asks, voice lofty and teasing, making your brow furrow in irritation.

“If all you came here to do was mock me, I would prefer you leave me be.” Is your answer, wanting to close your eyes and ignore his presence. Sadly, even with his rather hands off approach to “aiding” your group as he had said he would, you didn’t quite trust him enough to blink, let alone rest around him. 

Choosing to lay on your side, you keep your eyes on him, taking notice of how his own rove across your body in a way that is almost curious. 

“Normally I would follow your request and be on my way, however I find my curiosity weighing out my apathy.” He crosses over to the nearby desk and you watch as he snaps his gloved fingers. With slight wonder, you watch in awe as the simple wooden chair transforms into an extravagant, plush lounge chair.

He reclines as a royal would, crossing one leg over the other as he stares you down, eyes somehow serious and taunting at once. “I find myself interested, and perhaps a tad too invested in what could possibly be upsetting you so. So by all means, let it out.” He grins, making a sweeping motion of his hand.

You regard him silently for a moment, wondering if he’s actually serious. It’s not often you find yourself presented with the opportunity of someone who will listen. Listen to your frustrations, your woes, your chagrin at having to be you. 

Of what it is to be the Warrior of Light.

“You’re not going to run off and tell Elidibus what a sad sack I am if I do talk to you, are you?” You question, moving to sit up to put you on equal footing with the Ascian sitting across from you. He rudely snorts, the action somehow still elegant on him. “Hardly.” He scoffs.

“There’s not much to say really. I wish I wasn’t me.” You offer nonchalantly, missing the slight look of concern on his face.

“Do not waste my time by giving me clipped statements.”

Something in his voice makes you look at him again, reevaluate his presence in your room. He might be relaxed in his chair, but his focus is entirely on you. There is a muted demand to his last statement, an edge to his tone that maybe, just maybe, he actually does want to listen to you.

“I don’t enjoy being the Warrior of Light.” You begin slowly, trying to judge his reaction but his face is as impassive as ever. 

“There was no way for me to predict that I would be Hydaelyn’s chosen,” you can’t help but giggle at how his face twists with disgust at Her name but you continue, “and be the sole Champion of Eorzea. I had only left home to go and see what the world had to offer, only to find that I was the sole savior the world had.” Just saying the words irritates you all over again, losing what calm you had.

“It’s not enough that the Source can’t stay saved, but I must also be the savior of this world!” You hiss, baring your teeth at the ancient being before you. “Was it not enough that I had to liberate two nations? Strike down three Ascians, beings so old and powerful that I cannot even begin to imagine what any of you can do. More and more is constantly asked of me, and I…” 

You let out a staggered breath, shoulders slumping much like the man across from you. “I’m tired of it.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air between you, somehow heftier by the weight of his stare. You wonder what is going through his head. You take the time to quickly analyze his features, seeing as any time he deigned to make an appearance, the tension in the room would skyrocket and he would scurry off after sowing his chaos. 

He looks as tired as you, if not more so, the dark circles around his eyes strangely enhancing his sharp, handsome features. His golden eyes twinkle like the finest cut topaz, shimmering as if the very sun itself lights them despite how dimly lit your room is. His hair seems to fall a little too perfectly in place, the white streak of his hair standing out even against his pale skin.

“Perhaps you need a way to relieve the tension.”

His words snap you out of your silent appraisal, finding his expression has changed, his voice teasing. “Sadly screaming into my pillow and beating things up don’t make me feel better.” You huff, leaning back on your hands.

“Screaming into your pillow you say?” He echoes, chuckling at his own personal joke. “That very well may happen. My proposal was one of a far more pleasurable method of, as you mortals say, blowing off some steam.” He purrs, voice low and seductive, a baritone as smooth as a fine brandy.

You arch a single eyebrow at him, wondering if he was really offering what you thought he was offering.

“Are you propositioning me?”

Always best to make sure.

He barks out laughter at that, making a show of wiping his eye. “Never let it be said that the Warrior of Light went into things half sure.” He snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, hero, I am offering you release; a union of our bodies to ease all that turmoil you’ve got building inside you.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice, and you quietly wonder if he has any secret motives by sleeping with you. However his words from days prior, that he only speaks the truth, leaves you doubting that he would use sex as a means to silence you.

Though you can’t deny, it would be very dramatic, and very much like him.

“If it is your own pleasure you worry about, fret not; I have had...years of practice.” He murmurs, bringing one hand to his lips to slowly pull his glove from his hand. You watch the action from start to finish, mind already wandering to how smooth his hand looked, and how great it would feel on your body.

“Very well.” Standing to your feet, you move to tower above him in even strides, looking down at the ancient being before you. “If it is release you’ll grant me, then I will allow it. However, it must be on my terms.” Your voice leaves no room for argument, and you take pride in watching as his eyebrows raise toward his hairline for a moment. 

“By all means, hero. State your terms.” He makes no move to stop you as you move forward to kneel on the chair, straddling his lap with ease. He’s warm, which strikes you as strange, though you suppose that despite being an Ascian, he still has taken a mortal form. 

There is desire in those molten pools of his, and knowing it is directed at you is empowering. You place your hands, worn and torn from battle, upon his shoulders, shuddering beneath his touch as his hands settle themselves at your hips.

“If you wish to help me find release, then you must please me.” You begin, taking care to watch for any change in his expression. “You must do as I say. Touch me how I wish. Take care of me.” His hands play with the hem of your nightshirt, his fingers sending sparks racing down your spine as he just barely brushes against your skin.

“So the vaunted hero wishes to be worshipped?” Though phrased like a question, it one of rhetorical nature, his eyes half lidded as they trail down your body. “A mere mortal asking worship of a Paragon. Hydaelyn’s chosen consorting with a bringer of darkness…”

His smirk is roguish as he finally slides his gaze back up to your own. “Why, if I were not here to hear the very words straight from your lips, I’d find myself disinclined to believe them.”

You take his chin by the hand, keep his focus locked on you. “I’m surprised you’re still alive, with all that pride you have.” You tilt his chin and he allows it; it is a control he bequeaths to you. “You probably don’t like that; having to bow to the whims of a mortal.” You finish with a click of your tongue, watching as fire lights behind his eyes.

“Is that a challenge, hero?” He mumbles, bottom lip poked out in a pout, eyes sparking with indignation.

“It’s your pride on the line, not mine.” You reply easily, taking his hands in yours and placing them on your waist. “However, I am not so callous as to prevent you to do anything you dislike. You will speak up if I do something you don’t like, won’t you?”

His eyes twinkle for a moment, his hands creeping underneath your shirt to finally grasp at your skin. “Of course.” he murmurs, eyes drifting from yours as he raises your shirt, exposing your skin to him. His eyes are hungry, and you wonder if he is more eager for release than you are.

“Let’s put these skills of yours to the test then, Ascian.” You huff, allowing him to raise your shirt high enough that his fingertips graze the underside of your breasts, glad he had chosen to come at this hour when you’ve forgone your undergarments. His touch is confident, self-assurance shining through every glance of his fingers on your tender flesh.

“Does the hero want me to sing her praises?” He questions, tilting his head as he looks at you from beneath his lashes. “To worship her as one would a god?”

“Yes.” You answer without hesitation, raising your arms to help him get your shirt off but he wills it away with a mere snap of his fingers. His hands climb higher, eyes drinking in your form though there is a distant look to them; as if he is looking through you. “Touch me.” you demand, watching as his hands cup your breasts gently in his hands, running his thumbs across your nipples, now pebbled from his attentions.

“Your mouth...I want you to,” you don’t even get to finish the sentence before he leans forward and his lips press to the skin of your breast, teeth lightly nipping on a pert nipple that has you shuddering above him.

You must say that he is as skilled as he claims, his movements practiced and calculated as he tugs delicately with his teeth, knows just how much suction that has you writhing in his lap. He releases your breast with a pop, his breath ghosting across the now moist skin. “I do hope you are up for the challenge yourself, hero.”

His tone hints at pleasures unknown and stories untold, that you find yourself momentarily shaken, enraptured by the lust pooling in those gold eyes. Eager to take back control you fist your hand in his hair roughly, brows furrowing at his smirk. “Did I say you could talk?” you hiss, to which he snickers.

“Then what would you have me do?” He asks, hands moving to slip themselves to running down your back once more, his hands dipping to play with the top of your waistband. “Simply say what you desire, hero. I am more than willing to play the part.” The huskiness in his voice spurs you on, fuel to your already raging desire.

“I want you between my legs.” You state without pretense, not dropping your gaze as he rises from the chair, moving the two of you to the bed. When he lays you down you find that it too has changed, much like the chair from earlier. Gone are the cotton sheets, replaced instead with fine silk, caressing you much like his hands are. 

“I want to see you too.” You add, stopping him before he can settle himself above you. 

“As you wish.” He acknowledges, his robes dissolving into mist before your very eyes, baring his lean form above you. You didn’t expect him to have no meat on his bones, but it is still somewhat jarring all the same to see him bare before you; all hard lines and lean edges, a faint musculature that betrays the awesome power you know lurks beneath the surface.

You reciprocate the same shamelessness he had shown earlier with his appraisal of your own body, watching with rapt attention as he climbs into the bed to hover over your body.

You expect him to go straight between your legs but instead he busies himself with your neck, pressing feather-light kisses to your skin as his hands roam across your naked skin. “So quiet. Must I work for it?” He purrs against your skin, the sound going straight between your legs. 

He trails down with more kisses across your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. You slip your fingers into his hair as he continues his way downward, parting your legs so that you may hook them over his shoulders.

“Feeling inadequate Ascian?” You tease despite the breathlessness to your voice, seeing that mahogany hair with a streak of white between your thighs. With another snap of his fingers your bottoms are gone, leaving you fully nude to him.

“Never.” He says with a smirk, pressing gentle kisses to the skin of your inner thigh. You unintentionally jerk in his hold, knowing you are dripping wet for him and yet he will not touch  you where you need it most.

“What are you doing?” You ask, a growl rising in your throat at his teasing. 

“I am between your legs, as requested.” He croons, caressing your thigh gently, pressing more kisses to your skin. “Or did you desire more from me?” 

He is obviously having too much of a good time with this, and that will not do.

“Eat me out.” You order, pressing your hips to his face. “I want you to make me come.” 

He holds your gaze for just a moment before he finally presses his mouth to your folds, testing the waters with small flicks of his tongue. The sight of his golden, hawk like eyes peeking from over your curls is erotic in itself, his tongue growing braver until he finally slips pasts your folds to seek the pink bud he knows is lying underneath. 

Whimpers begin to slip out as he devotes himself to his task, annoyance shining his eyes momentarily before they have that far away look to them once again. His tongue circles around your clit in a way that makes your head spin, your breaths coming fast until he pulls away.

“I will be the first to say that while your physical form is appealing…” He murmurs close to your dripping sex, breath sending shivers racing up your spine. “However...with my sight I find your soul far more beautiful.” 

You flush red at his praise, shivering as he brings a finger to slowly drag across your clit, his gaze almost awestruck at how you keen out your pleasure. “Loathe as I am to take demands from a mortal…” he trails off, moving to press a kiss to your folds, drinking down your nectar. “Your soul shines far too wonderfully like this.” 

You’re sure you feel your heart skip a beat for a moment, caught halfway between embarrassment and affection. He resumes his task with ardor, his eyes fluttering shut despite his prior comment on enjoying the appearance of your soul. 

Perhaps he doesn’t need to actually see to look upon your soul, but most coherent thought goes out the window as Emet-Selch flicks his tongue at your sex, unashamed of the mess you’re making of his face in his bid to please you. His eyes are open again, staring through you, into you, and you wonder what you must look like to him.

The thought of someone as powerful and ancient as him steals your breath away.  It makes your thighs clench tighter and your heels dig harder into his back. If it hurts, he doesn’t complain, if anything it spurs him on further, his movements growing more insistent. The moans finally begin to flow forth, filling the room that you haven’t realized has slowly changed, so caught up in chasing your pleasure.

 He’s found what rhythm you like, what makes you moan loudest and it’s a continuous push to the edge with no signs of stopping. You pray that none of the Scions will suddenly require your presence, for you’re sure that your moans are quite audible from outside the door, and this is the last thing you want to explain to them.

How does one explain taking an Ascian to bed? What words could smooth over the fact that one of your greatest enemies currently lies nestled between your thighs, lapping at your folds as if a man dying of thirst and gazing at you like a blind man seeing for the first time? 

It’s wrong, it's oh so wrong and you know it, and yet you find yourself unable to convince yourself to push yourself away from the Ascian to stop him, though from his grip on your thighs, he wouldn’t let you leave if you tried.

You watch hazily as one of his hands reaches downward, a moan pulled from his throat as he strokes his length. While his moan excites you, how deep and rich it was, you will not let him be distracted from his task.

None too gently do you pull his mouth away from your sex, urging him upward so that you may flip him beneath you. “It’s not your turn.” You huff, warmth blooming in your chest at how his eyes rove across your form in a way akin to reverence, eyes still glittering as he uses his sight to peer at your soul.

Pressing him on his back you climb higher until your hips rest just above his face, and from there he needs no further instruction as he presses his mouth to your clit once more, a low and throaty moan tugged from him as you pull at his hair.

You can’t help but take a peek at his length behind you, noticing just how hard he is, and you haven’t even touched him. You wonder if he really is that excited solely from pleasuring you, a pearl of precum leaking from the tip that you’re eager to taste, but not right now. Not when he slips a finger into your aching hole and thrusts it in time with his tongue working your clit, his name torn from your lips in a sigh as you press your hips further into his face. 

He makes no sound of protest as you do so, that eagerness he had displayed before returning full force that has your legs quivering to keep yourself upright. Pleas for more tumble forth from your lips, his eyes holding yours in a gaze so intense that you find yourself unable to look away.

A second finger slips in with the first, thrusting at a fierce pace that practically has you sobbing in ecstasy atop him. It feels so godsdamned good, you feel ready to overload after having denied yourself release for so long.

You’re not sure when you started begging for him to make you come, for him to finally give you that last push you needed, but he curls his fingers just so and you fall apart atop him, crying out his name in abandon as your orgasm shakes you, barely able to support yourself on your arms as white hot pleasure shoots to every nerve ending in your body. 

You moan in light protest as he continues to lap at your core, his fingers having retreated but his attention has not. “E-Enough,” you breathe shakily, hardly able to move yourself from atop him to flop on the bed. You feel him shift to move and as you turn to face him you freeze, feeling every bit the proverbial lamb before the golden eyes of the wolf. 

His lips shine with your juices, pink tongue coming to swipe across them. His eyes are half lidded as he stares down at you. Though he is currently in the dominant position, his gaze speaks of subservience; a need to please that has your lust spiking all over again as you roll to your back to fully face him.

“Where would you have me next?” He asks, moving to hover above you, caging you with his arms. You let your own snake around his neck, tickling the fine hairs at the nape as you bring him closer to you. 

“Inside me.” You whisper, feeling suddenly hesitant to kiss him. The decision is made for you when he closes the gap, teeth nibbling on your bottom lip to get you to open up for him. 

Soon enough do you take over the kiss, having him moaning into your mouth as you reach between the two of you to stroke his cock. “I want you to fuck me.” You hiss, feeling how hot and ready he is in your hands. 

He lets loose a low chuckle, the baritone of his voice rumbling through you. “Such vulgar words, Warrior of Light.” he purrs, lining himself up with your entrance. 

You feel the head nudge past your folds, your hips already angling to try and take him inside before he can even push himself inside. “I find myself quite willing to obey, so long as you let me see that wonderful soul of yours.” 

“What’s so,” Your inquiry is cut off as he finally pushes inside, feeling as if the breath was knocked out of you at his girth. He just barely pushes your limits, your body doing it’s best to adjust to his length as he presses kisses to your jawline. “Twelve above…” you moan, rolling your hips against him that has him thrumming against you.

“Yes, just like that.” He praises, pulling out slowly, letting you feel the length of him before thrusting back in, making sure you’re adjusted. He continues that slow pace, watching you closely for any discomfort, but you haven’t the heart to tell him you’re simply wrapped in so much bliss that your body feels as if it can barely take it.

“W-What does it look like?” You ask, breath hitching as he just barely brushed against that spot inside of you. “My soul, I mean..” 

It took every ounce of effort you had to form coherent sentences with Emet-Selch thrusting inside you, his strokes measured and purposeful. Even in this was he skilled, as if he was determined to make sure the only noises you were making were lustful sighs or wanton moans.

When he smirks at you, his own hair mussed, skin flushed, you find he looks incredibly charming. “Normally it is the color of the sky. What the sky is supposed to look like. A dazzling, brilliant blue.” 

His hands move to clutch your hips, gripping with surprising strength as the same smirk turns devilish. He brings you down hard on his cock, pleasure shooting through you as he stays hilted inside you. “It flares crimson like a sunset when you make your demands.” 

You gaze up at him in wonder as he finally sets a steady pace, making your back arch in invitation to which he readily accepts. Bending over he takes a nipple between his teeth, nibbling lightly until his mouth engulfs it entirely, tongue swiping over the sensitive bud in perfect synchronization with his thrusts that has you mewling like a cat beneath him. 

“Fuck me,” you demand, though it comes out a plea with how pleasure filled your voice is, your arms clutching him tightly as you meet his thrusts. “Fuck me like you mean it,” Your taunt is cut off by your own moan as he plunges deep inside, his moan dancing with your own as he pistons his hips into your wet sheathe. 

You’re glad he had changed the bed, the room to much finer material because you are positive that the old, rickety cot would’ve left no pretenses as to just what was going on in your room with how forceful his thrusts were. 

You had forgotten that there would be strength in the lean muscle that was currently flexing beneath your greedy hands; muscle that was now being put to use as Emet-Selch drove himself inside you, his mouth hanging open to make room for his sharp breaths as he plunged deep inside you.

He buries his face in your shoulder, your hand fists in his hair as he rocks into you at a brutal pace, giving you just what you desired, or rather at this point needed. There is something else you need, before it is all said and done.

You carefully roll the two of you over, the surprise in his eyes endearing as you straddle yourself atop him, hands flat on his chest as you begin to raise and lower your hips onto him. Now he’s hitting that sweet spot inside you, your eyes fluttering shut as you race toward oblivion, your body seemingly moving on its own accord. 

“E-Emet,” you whine, feeling yourself so very close that edge. Distantly you realize you’re not ready for it to be over yet, not ready for him to stop looking at you as if he had not seen something so magical. 

The choice is taken from your hands as he rubs at your clit and you come undone, crying out his name in release. Stars dance behind your eyelids as your orgasm sweeps you away, feeling Emet-Selch follow you soon after with your body clenching him so tightly.

The two of you lie there for a few moments, catching your breath as you bask in the afterglow. He is the first to move by trailing a hand lightly on the skin of your back, seeming to be content with the silence as you come down from your high. 

You shift to meet his gaze, which you’re surprised to find calm and affectionate. “Well?” He prompts, the corners of his lips pulling into a satisfied grin. “I made good on my word, I hope?”

You hum thoughtfully for a moment to tease him, giggling at his displeased expression. “Yes. It was more than satisfactory.” You concede, giving him a mischievous grin of your own as you trail your finger across his chest. “And you? You seemed to enjoy yourself quite a bit.” You tease, pleased to see him suddenly unable to look you in the eye.

“Yes, well...it certainly wasn’t a waste of my time.” He scoffs, giving your skin a light pinch, smirking at your yelp of pain. 

“I have half a mind to crush my head between my thighs Ascian.” You snarl, giving him a hard jab, to which he gives a genuine laugh. 

“If that is your way of asking for another go Warrior, I find myself ready for the task.” His touch turns heavy as it snakes down your body, his voice but a whisper as he holds you close. 

You try to ignore the way your heart flutters at his amorous actions, but find yourself unable when his eyes glitter, knowing he is looking upon the beauty of your soul. It is certainly not the strangest compliment you’ve received, but it is by far the best.