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lumosinlove · 3 years ago

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Well, this got longer than I thought it would, so I’ll have to publish in a few parts as I write...

But Happy Birthday, Finn, my favorite :)

Find it here on Ao3

Of Silence And Slow Time

part i of iii

New York City, 1920

Everyone told Finn that the statue looked like him, that he simply must go and see it.

“Really, Finn,” his older brother Alex said. “It’s the eyes, the face, it’s the mouth. It’s uncanny.”

Finn had just looked over Alex and the man and woman he seemed to always have at his side ever since the war ended. Natalie, a nurse whom he’d met in France, and Kasey a Canadian from another unit—they’d ended up in the hospital together.

“It’s in France,” Finn said flatly. “I know you’re forgetting about it all, but I’m not exactly keen on going back there. It took me ages to get home.”

It had taken everything for him to get home.

Alex, to Finn’s relief, nodded at Natalie and Kasey to go get themselves a drink at the bar down the street, told them that he’d meet them there. Finn stared down at the book open and unseeing in his lap. He wasn’t even sure what he was reading, on that he wanted to. His mind didn’t seem to follow him just right these days. Cars became bombs sometimes. Sleep was all dreams.

Alex sat beside him on their parents’ old sofa.

“Fish,” Alex said softly, and moved his hand slow, where Finn could see it, before resting it gently around his shoulders. “You can’t sit here all day. That’s not going to help you, and I know you don’t like it. You’ve never sat still like this.”

“I’m not going back to France.”

“It’s Paris,” Alex said, and gently flipped Finn’s wrist over to reveal the tiny globe his friend Jackson had dotted there with a needle and ink. “You’ve always wanted…don’t let this war stop you any longer.”

Finn stared down at the reminder he’d asked his friend for, ink permanent black. He’d never been farther than New England before the war. Paris, he’d always thought, gazing at his collection of books. Rome. Athens, Barcelona—

Finn swallowed hard. “Looks just like me, huh?”

Alex’s grin was enough to pull one out of Finn, just slightly. “It was bizarre.” Alex squeezed his shoulders. “I’ll even meet you there later if you want, once we’re through with Canada.”

Finn sent a wary glance towards where Natalie and Kasey had left.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You’d like them. And, who knows who you’ll meet over there. We ran into all sorts of people, people like you’ve never seen. It’s why—” Alex broke off slightly, and looked after the nurse and soldier, too. Finn blinked at the nervous bob of his throat, and then his smile. “There are all sorts of love and art in this world of ours. I know it feels like it’s all war, I felt that too, but it’s not. Please let me help you see that.”

Finn rubbed a thumb over his tattoo, and closed his book.

Everything felt like war. He was so tired of it he thought he’d be crushed.

He looked up at his brother. “I don’t have much money.”

Alex just grinned and slapped him on the back, then pulled him into a tight embrace.

Finn arrived in Paris with a lump in his throat. He stumbled through half-French greetings and requests to his taxi, who looked at him sourly and turned out to have dropped him off four streets away from his hotel—maybe on purpose. Maybe because it was barely six in the morning.

Finn was annoyed at first, and then he began to walk.

Paris’ cobblestones were like those in the West Village, only they weren’t. There were glimpses of his home in the uneven tread of his feet, but these stones were darker, as if soaked with more time and more place. It calmed him, while the brief glance towards France’s rolling hills had sent him back to his cabin on the rocky ship, shaking and gasping for air. He’d barely eaten during the entire journey besides forcing down the occasional breakfast sludge, and his legs had wobbled so fiercely upon stepping back onto land, he’d had to sit down.

Finn paused now, closing his eyes and leaning against the nearest building. He’d been so stupid the first time, decked out in his new uniform, eyes on the war like it was some prize to be won. The comfort waned with his scattering mind and Finn tried to draw a steady breath in. The lump in his throat only grew tighter and he squeezed the handle of his small suitcase.

“Monsieur?” came a voice, spilled over with concern.

Finn’s eyes flashed open and he pushed himself straight, blinking through the pale morning light. There was a boy standing there, around his age, with bright blond hair and worried blue eyes. He was tall, with a neat white apron tied around his hips.

“Ça va?” the boy took a hesitant step forward. His eyes glanced towards Finn’s suitcase, and he nodded in realization, then spoke in accented English. “Are you all right?”

Finn looked behind the boy to see the cafe, slowly opening, from which he must have come. There was an abandoned stack of chairs he was putting out for the day, and his apron had an embroidered name at one corner, Finn realized, that matched the sign above.

Le Lion.

“Yes,” Finn breathed, but found himself unable to speak louder. “I’m fine.”

The boy just shook his head, and gestured behind him. “Non. You must sit down. S’il vous plaît. Please.”

Finn didn’t know how to refuse him.

A few minutes later, he found himself stationed at one of the cafe’s tables with a steaming pot of coffee in front of him, a croissant, and a plate of softly scrambled eggs.

“You look like you need more than butter and bread,” the boy had said, wiping strong looking hands on his apron. “You are from America?”

Finn nodded. He had been worried he would be able to stomach the food after the boy went through so much trouble, but upon his first bite of eggs, he felt ravenous.

“Yes,” Finn nodded, brushing his hands off from croissant crumbs. “Sorry, yes,” he held out his hand. “Finn.”

“Leo,” the boy smiled, and took his hand. “It is a pleasure.”

Finn found himself returning that smile with one that, for the first time in a long time, felt like his own. He tried to put coins into Leo’s hand when it was all over, but Leo simply waved him off and said he hoped to see Finn again.

The Louvre was more than Finn could have imagined. It was like walking across the ocean floor, new rarities at every corner. And, of course, there was the matter of the statue. Alex had said it would be with all the other works from ancient Greece. He didn’t have trouble following the signs to the correct gallery, walking through the white marble hallways. When he did reach the Greek galleries, his first thought was that the perfectly white statues nearly blended in with everything else, at least until he found a plaque that said it had all been painted once. Finn smiled to himself. Maybe his apparent stony doppelgänger had had red hair, too.

Imagining Alex and his long stride in these halls was easy. And it was quiet here, and distracting, which let Finn close his eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of old stone, like a church, or a river’s bank.

When he opened them, he had found it. He was staring into his own face. His eyes were blank. He reached up to feel the shape of his own jaw as he looked at the statue’s, on display in the way the head was slightly turned, jaw set, brow low, as if in focus. Finn blinked, pulled out of the daze of seeing it, and his eyes landed on the museum card beside it. There was a word in ancient Greek, said to have been carved more visibly into the bust’s base. Future, it translated to. Thought to be made in the name of a God, though he may be lost now. There is no other surviving work by this artist.

Finn looked back at the eyes, so much like his own he could have seen brown there in the blank irises, and thought about when this strange statue had been carved. He’d always loved the way ancient Greece was sometimes described in poetry. It had gotten him through many long nights in the trenches. Serene, warm, and with nothing to do but lounge in the olive groves. Working the land and coming home at sundown to wine and honey and spiced meat. He’d longed for it. He longed for it still, this simple-seeming past.

The next thing he felt was warm wind. He smelled salt water.

The museum melted around him and his shoes slipped into sand before disappearing entirely.

Finn turned around to the sound of someone shouting, worried it was at him, only to find a brunette boy storming towards him—then past him—a foreign language continuing to fly off of his tongue. But more importantly, the boy was dressed in a simple garment of white cloth that left his strong, tanned legs and arms completely bare, and his feet were sandaled. Finn reached down to smooth his suit, only to find it gone, as well, replaced with a similar getup. He stared down at his bare skin, so pale in the bright sunlight.

And then the foreign language morphed, like a scratched record, and became English to his ears.

“—I’m telling you, Leo, I won’t go. Not without you.”

Leo?

And there the blond boy was, sitting in the shade of low trees at the edge of the beach. He was holding some sort of musical instrument, plucking at its strings almost sadly, head bowed.

“You have to,” Leo replied. “The oath says—“

He stopped mid-sentence, having looked up and spotted Finn. It made the brunette turn, and then Finn’s back was in the sand and there was a thin, rough blade at his throat.

Green eyes bore down into his own, a growl ripping from the boy’s throat. “Spartan.”

Finn choked out a breath, his hand going around the boy’s wrist. “No—no.”

“Logan,” came Leo’s voice, and then the knife’s pressure was released, pulled back by Leo, but the boy—Logan—was still sitting firmly on Finn’s hips. Finn felt his entire body flush with the sheer lack of fabric between them, but Logan didn’t seem to either mind or notice.

“I’m not a—Spartan,” Finn managed. “What the hell, I…” He looked to his left, at the sparkling waves lapping there, and then to the two boys looming above him. “Where am I?”

That made both of them freeze, the knife twitching in Logan’s hand.

“Ithaca,” Leo offered timidly, then glanced out at sea, as if that was where Finn had come from. Finn just stared at him.

He was the boy from the cafe. He was sure of it. His blue eyes filled with the same concern as they had on that early morning cobblestone street.

“Are you all right?” Leo asked.

“He is a spy,” Logan said, and went for him again.

Finn was ready this time. He knocked a leg around Logan’s waist, putting him on his back, and then rolled away from him and to his feet, knife in hand. He raised it for the two of them to see and then tossed it a little ways down the beach. “I’m not a spy. I…I’m just lost.”

It was true. In more ways than he’d even thought before.

“Please,” he managed more quietly.

He watched Leo and Logan exchange a look, unsure of what it meant, until Logan turned on his heel and Leo gestured for Finn to follow.

“Are you at war?” Finn asked he was led through the city streets. It had been a hot walk up a long road built into a steep hill, all the way up to what Finn assumed was the inner city and acropolis. Water ran along the side of the street—no doubt with sewage—and they crossed via stepping stones, pressing themselves against the walls whenever carts rattled by—carts filled with men with shields and swords or spears.

Logan, who brought up the rear behind him, having retrieved his knife, scoffed. “Aren’t we always?”

“And where are you taking me?”

“Where we take any question we can’t answer,” Leo said from in front of him, golden hair gleaming. “Pascal.”

#finn o'hara #hazelverse #Logan tremblay #Leo knut #o'knutzy #historical #historical au #ancient greece #1920 #wwi

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mothandpidgeon · 3 years ago

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Ok but since you are writing a Regency piece...could you imagine having Din Djarin and Marcus Pike fighting over you? Each of them is so different and you can't help it because you're attracted to both of them because Din is the brooding yet kind introverted man that quotes to you poetry and takes you on long boat rides (with someone else of course because he cares about your image) and you're head over heels in love but then Marcus comes along and he's dashing and sweet and a little introverted but mostly talkative whenever he has to be and although he doesn't read to you poetry, he does gush about how none of the Greek and Roman and Etruscan sculptures and Italian works of art come close to your beauty and he takes you on long walks in gardens and even invites you to go to Versailles one time with him and then the three of you run into each other during one of the balls and the two are begging just for a moment with you and you're dancing with no one else but them during the entire night and when you try to go to the garden to get some fresh air, you're bombarded by the two men and they get into a heated argument to the point where they say that they will duel for you but you stop them both because you don't want either of them to get hurt and then...oh my sweet lord...and then, you take each of their hands and kiss their knuckles and fuck you shouldn't be doing this because what if someone sees and your reputation and no no no...but they both grow even more shy and you smile at them and-

"How about you invite us over to your estate Captain Djarin? I'm sure we can all...come to an agreement. Right?"

And the two are so confused but when they look at each other and return their gaze to you, they finally realize what it is you're talking about and they're both appalled by your offer but their shock slowly subsides because they fucking crave you and they nod and you throw each one of them a wink and-

"I'm looking forward to the invitation, good evening gentlemen."

And AHHHHHHHHHHH I DIE!!!!!!!!

Ok, Maggie, you went SO HARD on this one. Phew. You really know how to torment me!!! You are always welcome in my inbox. Considering the tale you wove, I really hope this lives up to it and you’ll have to forgive me I could go on but I was already approaching 1.5k words!!

Also I hope you don’t mind (and apologies to Regency!Din) but the mention of Versailles just screamed late 18th century (an important distinction in my nerd brain) so…

A/N: 18+! This ribbon bit comes from Barry Lyndon so apologies to the ghost of Stanley Kubrick.

It was a shame that Misters Djarin and Pike detested one another so when they had so many similarities. Both of them were kind and sweet and terribly handsome.

Mr. Pike accompanied you to the opera on more than one occasion. In the privacy of your box, he would whisper sweet words into your ear and nudge the soft skin of your neck with his nose. Mr. Djarin was more of an outdoorsman. He took you riding on his estate. When you were far enough on the grounds, he would help you down from the saddle and recite poetry to you beneath a shady tree.

And yet seeing them side by side now in Mr. Djarin’s parlor where you’d just shared a very awkward tea, tension straining the air between them, they couldn’t be more different. Mr. Djarin, so reserved, dark and modest. Mr. Pike, flirtatious and warm, cheek always dimpled with a smile.

You knew it wasn't going to be easy to break the wall between them but you’d been wise enough to plan for it.

“It seems I cannot force an accord between you but I know how men like their sport. I propose a wager. Nothing like a friendly competition to encourage affection,” you said.

Marcus cocked his eyebrow. He had wanted to win you since he’d met you last summer, pursuing you endlessly and yet this other man still stood in his way.

“I wonder which of you is a better hunter,” you said.

“And how would we prove that?” Mr. Pike asked. Din’s brow creased. He didn’t know how hunting had anything to do with your ludacris proposal, the one that they had both scoffed at at the ball. He wouldn’t have agreed to contemplate the thought if he hadn’t been so afraid of losing you.

You rose from your seat and both pairs of brown eyes watched you intently.

“I have devised a test. I’ve hidden a white ribbon somewhere on my person,” you said, trying to bite back your smile. “The better man finds it first.”

Both men looked at you in a stunned silence. Your heart was racing nervously but you were savoring their expressions. Mr. Djarin collected himself first.

“You’ll forgive me for being unfamiliar with the ways in which women amuse themselves but I hardly find such a suggestion to be entertaining,” Mr. Djarin said, his cheeks turning pink.

He couldn’t pretend that the idea of undressing you didn’t make his heart pound but he hated how easily you would give yourself over to Mr. Pike. He disliked the way Pike flirted with you so openly. Of course, he knew some of it was envy— he had never been a charmer.

“I do not speak in jest, sir,” you told him.

“That is what you want?” Mr. Pike asked, his soft eyes already slipping lower. He was already thinking of places to explore.

You watched Mr. Djarin look away from you when he nodded.

“And the better man, does he win something?” Pike asked, enjoying how flustered the other man had become.

“My highest regard,” you answered coyly.

Marcus chuckled.

“Then the lady should get what she wants, don’t you agree?” he asked Mr. Djarin.

Din cleared his throat.

“Very well,” he said.

Pike came to your side and took your hand to escort you to the couch where you sat between him and Mr. Djarin.

“Perhaps you should take the first turn,” you suggested to Mr. Djarin who was looking at you with a mix of fear and yearning in his eye.

He’d been so careful with you, always so cautious not to overstep or do anything at all that might invite scandal save a few soft kisses. And here you were laying yourself out for him. He swallowed dryly and met your eye with a shrug of surrender.

“Is it in your hair?” he asked, eyes darting up to your coiffure.

You smiled at him, nearly reached out to put your hand on his cheek. That protective nature was what drew you to Mr. Djarin in the first place. You knew what he really wanted, you could see it in his eyes, but he was too polite to take what was being offered. Not without convincing.

“I believe this requires a more thorough search, Djarin,” Pike said from over your shoulder.

He cupped your hands and turned them over as in a playful inspection, then lifted both of your arms. “No. Not there.”

You laughed and the noise made his heart jump. He’d found that he would make himself a fool if it put a smile on your face. Marcus was happy to take the opportunity to move in closer, to claim you with his touch. He brushed your neck so gently, his fingers tracing a ljne from your jaw to your shoulder where the bodice of your dress began. Goose pimples broke out on your skin and Marcus put his lips against your earlobe.

“I wonder,” he mused, leaning your back into his chest.

He hooked a finger under the fabric and followed the line down from your shoulder to the swell of your breast and you gasped. He had so often admired the rise and fall of your chest, Marcus couldn’t help but caress your skin with his thumb. Din felt himself stiffen as he listened to the soft moans Pike was drawing from you as he put a kiss on your skin. Watching your lips part, Din was frozen in place.

Marcus moved his hand down the straight front of your bodice and you felt yourself pulsing beneath your skirts.

“Perhaps under here?” he asked.

You allowed him to work the front of your gown open, the silk parting to reveal the creamy ivory stays below. Din felt twin aches in his chest and his groin as he saw the other man slide the bodice off of your shoulders.

Neither had seen you in such a state of undress before. Marcus took a moment to steady himself, admiring the figure below and sliding his hand across your middle. You were hardly naked, still clad in your stays, shift, and skirts but your underthings made his cock twitch.

“Now you see how the game is played and that Mr. Pike has been so far unsuccessful,” you said to Mr. Djarin, your voice more breathless than before. “Would you care to try, Mr. Djarin?”

You encouraged him by bringing your foot to rest beside his knee, leaning back into Mr. Pike. Din licked his lips, staring at the floral pattern on your delicate shoe for what felt like a century. Finally, he gave in to his longing.

He ran his fingers up your ankle over your silk stocking, revealing the smooth line of your leg. His large hands encircled your calf as he inched your skirt up further. You let out a shaking breath, squeezing your thighs together. You could hear Mr. Pike’s jagged breaths in your ear as he watched with anticipation. He had half a mind to release himself from his breeches to relieve the torment building there.

Din was careful not to reveal any of your skin, stopping just above the spot at your knee where your stockings were tied with thick ribbons.

“These are blue,” he said, running his thumb over the bow.

You were looking down at him flushed and breathing heavy and it took everything in his power to stop from taking you then and there.

You leaned to him, putting your lips against his and letting your mouth fall open to invite him in. You heard him whimper and he clutched onto your leg. Then you turned to Mr. Pike who kissed you hungrily, his wide palm kneading at your breasts.

“I’m quite disappointed in the both of you,” you said once you could speak again. Your whole body was thrumming with arousal.

You raised your skirts up around your hips and felt both pairs of eyes lustily watching. There, tied around the thickest part of your thigh was the white ribbon. But they only noticed the slick shining between your thighs.

“We shall call it a draw. But I’m afraid that means you’ll have to share me, gentlemen,” you said.

And from their twin growls, it was clear that they didn’t mind.

#Maggie the magnificent #I’m not sure what this is but I hope it was fun #historical au #regency au #regency!din #din djarin x reader #marcus pike x reader #ask the moth

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emsie-belleguarde · 4 years ago

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concept

a book that combines the main strands of the Academia aesthetic through a group of university friends, closely knit and inseparable

Clara - Darkest Academia (studying Classics) - She’s aloof, arrogant and sometimes cruel. She grew up in England on an old estate in the country, an only child who carries herself with the confidence of one thousand men. perhaps she can be wicked, but could you blame her? she grew up on the wild mores with no companion or play mate, her sole entertainer was the wind blowing the seasons past her watchful gaze. she found company in her studies, and now she finds joy in hours of Latin and Greek translations by the candlelight of her dimly lit university room. she curls up on an armchair, brushing her unmissable auburn hair from her face so she can squint harder at the words she is tracing with her finger, murmuring them as she reads. she scribbles with her fountain pen and deep down she is afraid (although she will never show it) that one day people will discover what they all did last summer.

Isabella - Light Academia (studying Ancient History) - coming from an old Italian family, Isabella is used to the long summers in Sicily where she would lie by the river making daisy chains. She’s soft and kind, with big, round, bella-donna berry eyes and a wonderful sense of fun. her curly dark hair falls to just above her shoulders and she daydreams incessantly and sketches her friends when they all go to Alfie’s beach house. she is far more wilful than her brother, Dante, and she admires his relaxed and considered ability to deal with situations without getting upset (she always cries when she’s angry). there’s an understated beauty to her which is untouchable. she wishes to move back to Sicily and become an Architect, but for now she is contented with her dear friends and her long elegantly written history essays that sometimes accidentally slip into Italian when she is writing late at night and feeling tired.

Alfie - Chaotic Academia (studying Philosophy) - he has sharp brilliant eyes that sparkle with trouble. Notorious for his gorgeous laugh and his painfully perfect good looks, Alfie wears soft corduroy trousers and can often be found sitting on the grass in the summer or in the library in the winter with Dante, hypothesising over strange and radical pieces of modern philosophy that no one’s ever heard of before. He gets on Dante’s nerves by talking incessantly and being so insufferably loud whilst Dante is trying to read or write, but Dante adores him really. Alfie always arrives late, with a skateboard under his arm and a cigarette between his lips. He’s quick with a joke and even quicker with a clever dare or an idea for a new and complicated game. no one really knows anything about his family, he never talks about them and it’s the one topic he will never smile about if someone else brings it up. He’s irritated by Daphne, he rather frightens Isabella, Clara owns all of his respect but it will always be the quiet and considered Dante that Alfie has the most time for. Alfie may come across as fun and charming but it is his cleverly assembled exterior - he is cunning and far more clever than he’d like people to know. And, more than once now, Isabella has walked in on Alfie and Clara having serious whispered conversations. Alfie is an artistic composition of wry smiles and sly winks, a scuffed up tweed jacket that he stole from Dante’s wardrobe (Dante pretends to be annoyed but it just looks so good on Alfie), and a look on his face that you can only spot if you look closely. A look that tells you those eyes that sparkle with trouble have seen some horrible things, and that face that is more beautiful than any sculpture has been treated cruelly.

Daphne - Art Academia (studying Fine Art) - Daphne is a golden aristocrat. Her father is an Opera singer and her mother was a French woman, an actress who left Daphne’s father and moved back to the French Riviera. Neglected at a young age, Daphne discovered Art. Now, she craves beauty and adores getting involved in scandalous affairs with many young men and women, she never falls in love because it does not suit her style of living - she thrives on passion. she is always clad in ridiculously eccentric designer clothes, it’s hardly a waste of money though, for the only thing more eccentric than her shopping habits are her parties which make the likes of Gatsby look like mothers meetings. She and Isabella are surprisingly good friends, perhaps because Isabella doesn’t require the constant attention that female close friends usually do, and Daphne likes the fact that if she simply isn’t in the mood for Isabella she can tell her so. She finds Alfie fascinating, and hates the fact that he doesn’t treat her with the same adoration that men normally do. More than anything, however, her passion is Art. She lives for the most raging and powerful pieces that exist, and despite her beautiful clothes, her most prized possession is her copy of ‘Ribera: The Art of Violence’. the earth is her canvas, the people she sleeps with are her muses, she is her paintbrush and she wants to see the world burn in a raging fire of beauty.

Dante - Romantic Academia (studying Poetry and Classical Literature) - he can come across as aloof and serious to those who don’t know him, but his friends know Dante to be considered yet absent minded, firm but fair. there is a quiet peaceful air that surrounds Dante. He never gets exasperated or angry, he is forgiving and patient and will always listen. In the summer terms he can be found lying on the grass of the university in a secluded and private place, reading avidly or writing. he will never show anyone his work (except maybe Alfie, not that Alfie would ever ask), but the last person who he would ever confide in is Daphne. She is the light of his world and the topic of all of his exquisite poems, everyone who knows him can see that Dante is completely infatuated with her. Alfie has told Dante more than once now that Dante only likes the idea of Daphne because she’s like something out of a fairytale. Dante ignores him and feels somewhat jealous of the attention that Daphne gives Alfie. Blinded by love, he is convinced that they are seeing each other in secret.

comment your favourites and any theories you have about them Let me know if you want to see more content like this/about these characters xx

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dreamywriterinthedark · 4 years ago

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Museum Dates: part 2

Part one

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (no specific pronouns used, Reader wears a dress)

Resume: Reader surprises Spencer for their first year anniversary, the same way he did with Reader, at an art gallery at night. They dance and it’s just too romantic (dream with me💕).

Category: so fluffy!

Trigger warnings: mention of alcohol (please let me know if i forgot something)

It has been one year since you and Spencer have been together. You have been together ever since you went on a date at that nocturne exhibition. To honour your love, he gifted you a bracelet with the time of when you first kissed engraved on it with a heart. This time you were the one who decided to surprise him. Your friend has this art gallery in the historic center; therefore, close to the historical museum where you originally went on your first date. You made her an offer to rent the gallery for the night, an offer she gladly accepted excited to hear your updates the next morning.

It took weeks of preparation since you wanted it to be perfect. It was highly challenging for you to keep this surprise a surprise; you were dating a profiler! He asked you to move in with him which you half declined. It would have been impossible to plan your surprise and move in with him at the same time especially if he gave you a hand, which he most definitely would’ve. He would’ve noticed all of the evidence therefore it would’ve been ruined! No body, no crime… Plus him feeling disappointed or left out was perfect to amplify the joy overcoming him when he discovers your entire mascarade just like in movies when the characters would pretend to forget someone’s birthday to surprise them later on. You told him you simply weren’t ready to move in with him which he completely understood.

However, since you were scared of getting profiled by him at work, you would make excuses to decline plans, you would panic and avoid to answer questions. It most definitely did not go unnoticed by him who took it as a clue you didn’t trust him or worse. Each time you lied to him a little piece of his heart broke. So he sat there at the edge of his desk hands in his pocket staring blankly at the ground, the last one in the bureau illuminated by the static flickering light above him. Those lights reminded him of hospitals, specifically the one where he stayed after getting shot, you would bring him jello and would read to him his favorite books.

He sat there, deep in thoughts, swallowing the lump in his throat. His eyes slightly open as if the truth was right in front of his eyes but he just couldn’t see it clearly and it was. His phone buzzed, it was you; “John Keats, p113.” He rose to his feet to grab the copy of poetry collection on his desk. The title of the poem was “An ode to autumn” and that’s when it hit him. In between the pages was a raven wax sealed envelope. He opened it full of apprehension, it read in your beautiful italic handwriting; “Meet me at the Melrose art gallery at 10PM sharp.” He grabbed his coat hurrying out of the office, a small smile displayed on his face as the elevator door slowly shut.

Once Spencer arrived he texted you because there was no way in, the doors were locked (safety measures). You started panicking adjusting the lights so they were dimmed. You checked your reflection, you were stunning. You wore a black dress with some sultry perfume that could be smelled from across the room. He waited in front of the door hearing your Mary Jane clicks progressively louder as you made your way to the door opening it up for him.

He walked in his eyes fixated on you, his cheeks flushed, you flet the tip of his nose cold on your cheek when he leaned in to kiss you. You turned your head grabbing his hand to lead him toward the biggest room in the entire gallery. There were peonies in white and blue vases along with many vanilla candles. The record player played soft muffled sounds, the song it was on was “Old enough to love” by Ricky Nelson. It matched you well, being the babies of the BAU.

“Will you dance with me ?” he responded by nodding because he was smiling too hard to be able to form any word. There you were slow dancing in the dimly lit room. He held your hand squeezing it from time to time, you felt his warm breathe fan over your neck. He pulled you in closer thanks to his arm being snaked around your waist. The next song to play was “Say Yes To Heaven” by Lana Del Rey. It reminded you of him, you found the lyrics quite touching; if you fight, I’ll fight//Give peace a chance, let the fear you have fall away. Spencer made you twirl watching your dress move gracefully in sink with your body. You almost fell from tripping on your shoes but he reaffirmed his gentle grip on you. You both chuckled.

Once the music stopped, the one you carefully chose since each part of your romantic evening was planned. You sat down on a pile of pillows while sipping on peach white wine. You handed him a heart shaped box that recollected all your favorite memories, from the museum tickets, to pressed flowers you made with the bouquets he would gift you (you made a journal of them where you would analyse them: the etymology behind their names, what they meant, for example lilies were symbolised death), to pictures, to love letters. Until he found a remote, you asked him to click on it, nothing happened.

You got up helping him up as well. You hand turned the lights off. The room didn’t have a ceiling but tinted windows in a sphere shape which was perfect for what he turned on; a projection of the sky on the night you first kissed. He looked up at the stars in awe of the beauty right in front of his eyes. You explained to him where this sky was from and why you were projecting it.

“Spencer, what time is it ?” You asked.

“11:29PM” he shut his eyes a second too long; again, it hit him, you first kissed at 11:31PM. He made his way toward you cupping your cheeks in hands while your hands rested on his waist. The kiss was passionate, slow, harmonious; everything you wanted it to be. You smiled out of it pointing at a constellation; “Look, it’s Cygnus!” Purposely expecting him to start his rambling.

“Cygnus is a northern constellation lying on the plane of the Milky Way, deriving its name from the Latinized Greek word for swan. Cygnus is one of the most recognizable constellations of the northern summer and autumn. It is symbolises weddings, romance, love, anniversaries…” his gaze drifted back to you. You were already staring at him an eyebrow cocked smirking at him. Again, it hit him. This date night was a game of chess which you were many moves ahead of him.

“I have to say, I’m impressed.”

“Oh but I’m not done yet!”

“What? Seriously?!”

You nodded leaving, he froze for a second before trotting to you like a lost puppy. He followed you to a staircase which led to the roof. There was not much space on the roof since it was mostly occupied by the sphere like windows but the edges were big enough to let you walk through them, sit and even for a telescope…

“See the sparkly dot right next to Scorpio ?”

“I guess…”

“Here take a look” you said to him gesturing toward the telescope.

“It is beautiful, Y/n, it truly is but what about it ?” He knew you weren’t the one that was going to give him a class on the universe. Spencer was one of kind, the most brilliant scientist you’ve ever met, he gave you the scientific facts about the stars and constellations, you would give him the spiritual meanings behind them. You would complete each other in knowledge just like that. You fished out a tube of paper with a bow tied around it. He took it and after a split second of shock which showed on his face started freaking out. He squeezed you so tight.

“Oh my god, Y/n, I can’t believe you got me a star! This is the best gift I’ve ever received!” His voice was so high from the excitement he almost squealed.

“The brightest star for the brightest mind.”

To top it off, you saw a shooting star and you could swear in this instance you both made the same wish.

#spencer x y/n #spencer #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #imagine #fanfic #blurb #prompt #fluff #love #romance #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #matthew gray gubler

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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

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Anonymous asked: I really enjoyed your book review of Sebastian Junger’s Homecoming. Perhaps enjoyment isn’t the right word because it brought home some hard truths. Your book review really helped me understand my older brother better when I think back on how he came home from the war in Afghanistan after serving with the Paras and had medals pinned up the yin yang. It was hard on everyone in the family, especially for him and his wife and young kids. He has found it hard going. Thanks for sharing your own thoughts as a combat veteran from that war. Even if you’re a toff you don’t come across as a typical Oxbridge poncey Rupert! As you’re a classicist and historian how did ancient soldiers deal with PTSD? Did the Greeks and Roman soldiers even suffer from it like our fighting boys and girls do? Is PTSD just a modern thing?

Part 1 of 2 (see following post)

Because this is subject very close to my heart as a combat veteran I thought very long and hard about the issues you raised. I decided to answer this question in two posts.

This is Part 1 and Part 2 is the next post.

My apologies for the length but this is subject that deserves full careful consideration.

Thank you for your lovely words and I especially find its heart warming if they touched you. I appreciate you for sharing something of the experience your ex-Para brother went through in coming home from war. I have every respect for the Parachute regiment as one of the world’s premier fighting force.

Working alongside them on missions out in Afghanistan I could see their reputation as the ‘brain shit’ of the British Army was well deserved. They’re most uncouth, sweary, and smelliest group of yobbos I’ve ever had the awful misfortune to meet. I’m kidding. The mutual respect and the ribbing went hand in hand. I doff my smurf hat to the cherry berries as ‘propah soldiers’ as they liked to say especially when they cast a glance over at the other elite regiments like HCav and the guards regiments.

Don’t worry I’ve been called a lot worse! But I am grateful you don’t lump me with the other ‘poncey’ officers. Not sure what a female Rupert is called. The fact that I was never accused of being one by any of those I served with is perhaps something I take some measure of pride. There are not as many real toff officers these days compared to the past but there are a fair few Ruperts who are clueless in leading men under their charge. I knew one or two and frankly I’m embarrassed for them and the men under their charge.

I don’t know when the term PTSD was first used in any official way. My older sister who is a doctor - specialising in neurology and all round brain box and is currently working on the front lines in the NHS wards fighting Covid alongside all our amazing NHS nurses and doctors - took time out one evening to have a discussion with me about these issues. I also talked to one or two other friends in the psychiatric field too. In consensus they agree it was around 1980 when the term PTSD came into usage. Specifically it was the third edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-lll) published by the American Psychiatric Association in 1980 partly because as a result of the ongoing treatment of veterans from the Vietnam War. In the modern mind, PTSD is more associated with the legacy of the Vietnam War disaster.

The importance of whether PTSD affected the ancient Greeks and Romans lies in the larger historical question of to what extent we can apply modern experience to unlock or interpret the past. In the period since PTSD was officially recognised, scholars and psychologists have noted its symptoms in descriptions of the veterans of past conflicts. It has become increasingly common in books and novels as well as articles to assume the direct relevance of present-day psychology to the reactions of those who experienced violent events in the historical past. In popular culture, especially television and film dramas, claims for the historical pedigree of PTSD are now often provided as background to the modern story, without attribution. Indeed we just take it as a given that soldier-warriors in the past suffered the same and in the same way as their modern day counterparts. We are used to the West to map the classical world upon the present but whether we can so easily map the modern world back upon the Greeks and Romans is a doubtful proposition when it comes to discussing PTSD.

Simply put, there is no definitive evidence for the existence of PTSD in the ancient world existed, and relies instead upon the assumption that either the Greeks or Romans, because they were exposed to combat so often, must have suffered psychological trauma.

There are two schools of thought regarding the possibility of PTSD featuring in the Greco-Roman world (and indeed the wider ancient world stretching back into pre-history, myth and legend) – universalism and relativism. Put simply, the universalists argue that we all carry the same ‘wetware’ in our heads, since the human brain probably hasn’t developed in evolutionary terms in the eye blink that is the two thousand years or so since the Greco-Roman Classical era. If we’re subject to PTSD now, they posit, then the Greeks and the Romans must have been equally vulnerable. The relativists, on the other hand, argue that the circumstances under which the individual has received their life conditioning – the experiences which programme the highly individual software running that identical ‘wetware’, if you will – is of critical importance to an individual’s capacity to absorb the undoubted horrors of any battlefield, ancient or modern.

Whichever school one falls down on the side of is that what seems to happen in any serious discussion of the issue of PTSD in the ancient world is to either infer it indirectly from culture (primarily, literature and poetry) or infer it from a comparative historical understanding of ancient warfare. Because the direct evidence is so scant we can only ever infer or deduce but can never be certain. So we can read into it whenever we wish.

In Greek antiquity we have of course The Illiad and the Odyssey as one of the most cited examples when we look at the character traits of both Achilles and Odysseus. From Greek tragedy those who think PTSD can be inferred often point to Sophocles’s Ajax and Euripide’s Heracles. Or they look to Aeschylus and The Oresteia. I personally think this is an over stretch. Greek writers do; the return from war was a revisited theme in tragedy and is the subject of the Odyssey and the Cyclic Nostoi.

The Greeks didn’t leave us much to ponder further. But, with rare exceptions, the works from Graeco-Roman antiquity do not discuss the mental state of those who had fought. There is silence about the interior world of the fighting man at war’s end. So we are led to ponder the question why the silence?

This silence also echoes into the Roman period of literature and history too. Indeed when we turn to the Roman world, descriptions of veterans are rare in the writings that survive from the Roman world and occur most often in fiction.

In the first poem of Ovid’s Heroides, the poet writes about a returned soldier tracing a map upon a table (Ov. Her. 1.31–5):

...upon the tabletop that has been set someone shows the fierce battles, and paints all Troy with a slender line of pure wine: ‘Here the Simois flowed; this is the Sigeian territory, here stood the lofty palace of old Priam, there the tent of Achilles...’

This scene provides an intimate glimpse of what it must have been like when a veteran returned home and told stories of his campaigns: the memories of battle brought to the meal, the crimson trail of the wine offering a rough outline of the places and battlefields he had experienced. The military characters in poems and plays show a world in which soldiers are ubiquitous, if somewhat annoying to the civilians. Plautus, for instance, in his Miles Gloriosus, portrays an officer boasting about his made-up conquests – the model for the braggart in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum – and Juvenal complains about a centurion who stomps on his sandalled foot in the bustling Roman street.

Despite this silence, compelling works have been written that interweave vivid modern accounts of combat and its aftermath with quotes from ancient prose and poetry. At their best, these comparisons can illuminate both worlds, but at other times the concerns of the present-day author are imposed on the ancient material. But the question remains are such approaches truthful and valid in understanding PTSD in the ancient world?

So if arts and literature don’t really tell us much what about comparative examples drawn from military history itself?

Here again we are in left disappointed.

According to the Greek historian, Herodotus, in 480 B.C., at the Battle of Thermopylae, where King Leonidas and 300 Spartans took on Xerxes I and 100,000-150,000 Persian troops, two of the Spartan soldiers, Aristodemos and another named Eurytos, reported that they were suffering from an “acute inflammation of the eyes,”...Labeled tresantes, meaning “trembler,”. It is that Aristodemos later hung himself in shame. Another Spartan commander was forced to dismiss several of his troops in the Battle of Thermopylae Pass in 480 B.C, “They had no heart for the fight and were unwilling to take their share of the danger.”

Herodotus again in writing about the battle of Marathon in 490 B.C., cites an Athenian warrior who went permanently blind when the soldier standing next to him was killed, although the blinded soldier “was wounded in no part of his body.” Interestingly enough, blindness, deafness, and paralysis, among other conditions, are common forms of “conversion reactions” experienced and well-documented among soldiers today

Outside the fictional world, Roman military history tell us very little.

Appian of Alexandria (c. 95? – c. AD 165) described a legion veteran called Cestius Macedonicus who, when his town was under threat of capture by (the Emperor-to-be) Octavian, set fire to his house and burned himself within it. Plutarch’s Life of Marius speaks of Caius Marius’ behaviour who, when he found himself under severe stress towards the end of his life, suffering from night terrors, harassing dreams, excessive drinking and flashbacks to previous battles. These examples are just a few instances which seem to demonstrate that PTSD, or culturally similar phenomena, may be as old as warfare itself. But it’s worth stressing it is not definitive, just conjecture.

Of course of accounts of wars and battles were copiously written but not the hard bloody experience of the soldier. Indeed the Roman military man is described almost exclusively as a commander or in battle. Men such as Caesar who experienced war and wrote about it do not to tell us about homecoming.

It seems one of main challenges when we try to see military history through the lens of our definition of PTSD is to first understand the comparative nature of military history and what it is we are comparing ie mistaking apples for oranges.

The origin of military history was tied to the idea that if one understood ancient battle, one might fight and, more importantly, one might lead and strategise more effectively. In essence, much of the training of officers – even in the military handbooks of the Greeks and Romans – was an attempt to keep new commanders from making the same mistakes as the commanders of old. Military history is intended to be a pragmatic enterprise; in pursuit of this pragmatic goal, it has long been the norm to use comparative materials to understand the nature of ancient battle.

The 19th Century French military theorist Ardant du Picq argued for the continuity of human behaviour and assumed that the reactions of men under the threat of lethal force would be identical over the centuries: “Man does not enter battle to fight, but for victory. He does everything that he can to avoid the first and obtain the second....Now, man has a horror of death. In the bravest, a great sense of duty, which they alone are capable of understanding and living up to, is paramount. But the mass always cowers at sight of the phantom, death. Discipline is for the purpose of dominating that horror by a still greater horror, that of punishment or disgrace. But there always comes an instant when natural horror gets an upper hand over discipline, and the fighter flees”

These words offer insight to those of us who have never faced the terror of battle but at the same time assume the universality of how combat is experienced, despite changes in psychological expectations and weaponry, to name but two variables.

Another incentive for scholars and researchers is to turn to comparative material has been the growing awareness of the artificiality of how we describe war. A mere phrase such as ‘flank attack’ does not capture the bloody, grinding human struggle. Roman authors – especially those who had not fought – often wrote generic descriptions of battle. Literary battle can distort and simplify even as it tells, but if the main things are right – who won, who lost, and who the good guys are – the important ‘facts’ are covered. Even if one intends to speak the truth about battle, the assumptions and the normative language used to describe violence will affect the telling. We may note that the battle accounts in poetry become increasingly grisly during the course of the Roman Empire (perhaps owing to the growing popularity of gladiatorial games),while, in Caesar’s Gallic War, the Latin word cruor (blood) never appears and sanguis (another Latin word for blood) only appears in quoted appeals (Caes. B. Gall. 7.20, in the mouth of Vercingetorix, and 7.50, where the centurion M. Petronius urges his men to retreat). The realities of the battlefield are described in anodyne shorthand. In much the same way that the news rarely prints or televises graphic images, Caesar does not use gore, and perhaps for the same reason – to give a sense of reportorial objectivity.

Another element in the interpretive scrum is a given author’s goal in writing an account in the first place: Caesar, for example, was writing about himself, and he may have been producing something akin to a political campaign ad. Caesar makes Caesar look great and there is reason to believe that, if he was not precisely cooking the books, he did give them a little rinse to make him look more pristine. Given the many factors that complicate our ability to ‘unpack’ battle narratives, Philip Sabin has argued that the ambiguity and unreliability of the ancient sources must be supplemented by looking at the “form of the overall characteristics of Roman infantry in mortal combat”. Again the modern is used to illuminate that which is obscured by written accounts and the “the enduring psychological strains” are merely unconsciously assumed.

These legitimate uses of comparative materials have led to a sort of creep: because military historians have used observations of how men react to combat stress during battle to indicate continuity of behaviour through time, there appears to be a consequent expectation that men will also react identically after battle. This creep became a lusty stride with modern books written about the ancient world and PTSD.

After I finished my tour in Afghanistan I read many books recommended to me by family and friends as well as comrades. One of these books is well known in military circles - at least amongst the thinking officer class - as an iconic work of marrying the ancient world and the modern experience of war. I read it and I was touched deeply by this brilliant therapeutic book. It was only months later I began to re-think whether it was a true account of PTSD in the ancient world.

This insightful book is called Achilles in Vietnam by Jonathan Shay. Shay is psychiatrist in Boston, USA. He began reading The Iliad with Vietnam veterans whom he was treating. Achilles in Vietnam, is a deeply humane work and is very much concerned with promoting policies that he hoped would help diminish the frequency of post-traumatic stress. His goal was not to explain ancient poetry but to use it therapeutically by linking his patients’ pain to that of the Iliad’s great hero. His book offers a conduit between the reader and the experiences of the men that Shay counsels. In the introduction to this work he makes a nod to Homerists while also asserting the primacy of his own reading:

“I shall present the Iliad as the tragedy of Achilles. I will not glorify Vietnam combat veterans by linking them to a prestigious ‘classic’ nor attempt to justify study of the Iliad by making it sexy, exciting, modern or ‘relevant’. I respect the work of classical scholars and could not have done my work without them. Homer’s poem does not mean whatever I want it to mean. However, having honored the boundaries of meaning that scholars have pointed out, I can confidently tell you that my reading of the Iliad as an account of men in war is not a ‘meditation’ that is only tenuously rooted in the text. “

After outlining the major plot points around which he will organise his argument, he notes, “ ‘This is the story of Achilles in the Iliad, not some metaphorical translation of it”.

The trouble was and continues to be is that many in the historical and medical fields began to rush to unfounded conclusions that Shay, on the issue of PTSD in the ancient world, had demonstrated that the psychological realities of western warfare were universal and enduring. More books on similar comparative themes soon emerged and began to enshrine the truth that PTSD was indeed prevalent throughout the ancient world and one could draw comparative lessons from it.

Perhaps one of the most influential books after Shay was by Lawrence Tritle. Tritle, a veteran himself, wrote From Melos to My Lai. It’s a fascinating book to read and there are parts that certainly resonate with my own experiences and those of others I have known. In the book Tritle drew a direct parallel between the experiences of the ancient Greeks and those of modern veterans. For instance, Xenophon, in his military autobiography, presents a brief eulogy for one of his fallen commanders, Clearchus. Xenophon writes that Clearchus was ‘polemikos kai philopolemos eschatos’ (Xen. An. 2.6) – ‘warlike and a lover of war to the highest degree’.

Tritle comments:

“The question that arises is why men like Clearchus and his counterparts in Vietnam and the Western Front became so entranced with violence. The answer is to be found in the natural ‘high’ that violence induces in those exposed to it, and in the PTSD that follows this exposure. Such a modern interpretation in Clearchus’ case might seem forced, but there seems little reason to doubt that Xenophon in fact provides us with the first known historical case of PTSD in the western literary tradition.”

Arguably in the West and especially our current modern Western culture is predicated at baulking at the notion of being ‘war lovers” as immoral. But such an interpretation speaks more of our modern Christianised ambivalence towards war; to the Spartans and Athenians the term would not have had a negative connotation. ‘Philopolemos’ is, in fact, a compliment, and the list of Clearchus’ military exploits functions as a eulogy. There are points where his analysis does not adequately address the divergences between ancient and modern experiences.

For all the talk of our Western culture being rooted in Ancient Greece and Rome we are not shaped by the same ethics. Our modern ethics and our moral code is Christian. There is no such thing as a secular humanist or atheist both owe a debt to Christianity for the way they have come to be; in many respects it’s more accurate to describe such people as Christianised Humanists or Christian Atheists even if they reject the theological tenets of the religious faith because they use Christian morality as the foundation to construct their own. Many forget just how brutal these ancient societies were in every day life to the point there would be little one could find recognisable within our own modern lives.

Now we come to third point I wish to make in determining where the Greeks or Romans actually experienced PTSD. This is to do with the little understood nature of PTSD itself. As much as we know about PTSD there is still much more we don’t know. Indeed one of the most problematic and complicated issues is the continued disagreement around the diagnosis and specific triggers of the disorder which remain little understood. We have to admit there are competing theories about what causes PTSD but, in terms of experiences that make it manifest, there are essentially three possible triggers: witnessing horrific events and/or being in mortal danger and/or the act of killing – especially close kills where the reality of one’s responsibility cannot be doubted. The last of these was strongly argued in another scholarly book by D. Grossman, On Killing, the Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society (1995).

Roman soldiers had the potential to experience all of these things. The majority of Roman combat was close combat and permitted no doubt as to the killer. The comparatively short length of the gladius encouraged aggressive fighting. Caesar recounts how his men, facing a shield wall carried by the taller Gauls, leaped up on top of the shields, grabbed the upper edges with one hand, and stabbed downwards into the faces of their opponents (Caes. B. Gall. 1.52). As for mortal danger, Stefan Chrissanthos in his informative book, Warfare in the Ancient World: From the Rise of Uruk to the Fall of Rome, 3500BC-476AD, puts it this way: “For Roman soldiers, though the weapons were more primitive, the terrors and risks of combat were just as real. They had to face javelins, stones, spears, arrows, swords, cavalry charges, and maybe worst of all, the threat of being trampled by war elephants.”

Such terrors are regularly attested. During his campaign in North Africa, Caesar, noting his men’s fear, procured a number of elephants to familiarise his troops with how best to kill the beasts (Caes. B. Afr.72). It should also be noted that it was not unusual for the reserve line to be made up of veterans because they were better able to watch the combat without losing their nerve. Held in reserve, they had to watch stoically as their comrades were injured and killed, and contemplate the awful fact that they might suffer the same fate. This was not a role for the faint of heart.

However, while the Romans certainly had the raw ingredients for combat trauma, the danger for a Roman legionary was much more localised. Mortars could not be lobbed into the Green Zone, suicide bombers did not walk into the market, and garbage piled on the street did not hide powerful explosives. The danger for a Roman soldier was largely circumscribed by his moments on the field of battle, and even here, if he was with the victorious side, the casualties were likely to be light: at Gergovia, a disaster by Caesar’s standards, he lost nearly seven hundred men (Caes. B. Gall. 7.51). In his victory over Pompey the Great at Pharsalus, his casualties numbered only two hundred (Caes. B. Civ. 3.99).

So we are left with the disturbing question: were the stressors really the same?

This is the part where I also defer to my eldest sister as a doctor and surgeon specialising in neurology and just so much smarter than myself.

My eldest sister holds the view in talking to her own American medical peers that despite similar experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq, British soldiers on average report better mental health than US soldiers.

My sister pointed out to research study done by Kings College London way back around 2015 or so that analysed 34 studies produced over a 15-year period (up to 2015) and found that overall there has been no increase in mental health issues among British personnel - with the exception of high rates of alcohol abuse among soldiers. The study was in part inspired the “significant mental health morbidity” among U.S. soldiers and reports that factors such as age and the quality of mental health programs contribute to the difference between the two nation’s servicemen and women.

She pointed out that these same studies showed that post-traumatic stress disorder afflicts roughly 2 to 5% of non-combat U.K. soldiers returning from deployment, while 7% of combat troops report PTSD. According to a General Health Questionnaire, an estimated 16 to 20% of U.K. soldiers have reported symptoms of common mental disorders, similar to the rates of the general U.K. population. In comparison, studies around the same time in 2014 showed U.S. soldiers experience PTSD at rates of 21 to 29%. The U.S. Department of Veteran Affairs estimated PTSD afflicted 11% of veterans returning from Afghanistan and 20% returning from Iraq. Major depression was reported by 14% of major soldiers according to another study commissioned by RAND corporation; roughly 7% of the general U.S. population reports similar symptoms.

It’s always tough comparing rates between countries and is not a reflection of the quality of the fighting soldier. But one finding that consistently and stubbornly refuses to go away is that over the past 20 years reported mental health problems tend to be higher among service personnel and veterans of the USA compared with the UK, Canada, Germany and Denmark.

However my sister strongly cautioned against making hasty judgements. And there could be many variable factors at play. One explanation is that American soldiers are more likely than their British counterparts to be from the reserve forces. Empirical studies showed reservists from both America and British troops were more likely to experience mental illness post-deployment. It was also worth pointing out that American soldiers also tended to be younger - being younger and inexperienced as well as untested on the battlefield, service personnel would naturally run the risk of greater and be more vulnerable to mental illness.

In contrast, the elite forces of the British army, such as your brother’s Parachute Regiment or the Royal Marines, were found to be the least affected by mental illness. It was found that in spite of elite forces experiencing some of the toughest fighting conditions, they tended to enjoy better mental health than non-elite troops. The more elite a unit is or more professional then you find that troops tend to enjoy a very deep bonds of camaraderie. As such the social cohesion of these fighting forces provides a psychological protective buffer. Not for all, but for many.

More intriguing are new avenues of discovery that might go a long way to actually understanding one of the root causes of PTSD. According to my sister, recent research carried out in the US and Europe and published in such prestigious medical journals as the New England Journal of Medicine (US) and the Lancet (UK), seems to establish a causal link between concussive injury and PTSD.

One recent study looked at US soldiers that concerned itself with the effects of concussive injuries upon troops after their return from active duty during the war in Iraq.

Of the majority of soldiers who suffered no combat injuries of any sort, 9.1 per cent exhibited symptoms consistent with PTSD. This allows a baseline for susceptibility of roughly 10% of the population. A slightly higher number (16.2%) of those who were injured in some way, but suffered no concussion, also experienced symptoms. As soon as concussive injuries were involved, however, the rates of PTSD climbed dramatically.

Although only 4.9% of the troops suffered concussions that resulted in complete loss of consciousness, 43.9% of these soldiers noted on their questionnaires that they were experiencing a range of PTSD symptoms. Of the 10.3% of the unit who suffered concussion resulting in confusion but retained consciousness, more than a quarter (27.3%) suffered symptoms. This suggests a high correlation between head trauma and the occurrence of subsequent psychological problems. The authors of the study note that ‘concern has been emerging about the possible long term effect of mild traumatic brain injury or concussion...as a result of deployment related head injuries, particularly those resulting from proximity to blast explosions’

Although these results are preliminary, if confirmed they have profound implications for anyone trying to understand the nature of warfare in the ancient world, especially the Western world.

So why does it matter?

In Roman warfare, wounds were most often inflicted by edged weapons. Romans did of course experience head trauma, but the incidence of concussive injuries would have been limited both by the types of weapons they faced and by the use of helmets. Indeed the efficacy and importance of headgear for example can be deduced from the death of the Epirrote general Pyrrhus from a roof tile during the sack of Argos. It is likely that the Romans designed their helmets with an eye to blunting the force of the blows they most often encountered. Connolly has argued that helmet design in the Republican period suggests a crouching fighting stance (see P. Connolly, ‘The Roman Fighting Technique Deduced from Armour and Weaponry’, Roman Frontier Studies (1989). However my own view is that the change in helmet design may signal instead a shift in the role of troops from performing assaults on towns and fortifications when the empire was expanding (and the blows would more often rain from above) to the defence and guarding of the frontiers.

While the evidence is clear that concussion is not the only risk factor for PTSD, it is so strongly correlated that it suggests that the incidence of PTSD may have risen sharply with the arrival of modern warfare and the technology of gunpowder, shells, and plastic explosives. Indeed, accounts of shell shock from the First World War are common, and it was in the wake of that war that those observing veterans suspected that neurological damage was being caused by exploding shells.

For soldiers of the Second World War and down to our modern day, an artillery barrage is like an invention of hell.

As one American put it in his memoirs of fighting the Japanese at Peleiu and Okinawa, “I developed a passionate hatred for shells. To be killed by a bullet seemed so clean and surgical but shells would not only tear and rip the body, they tortured one’s mind almost beyond the brink of sanity. After each shell I was wrung out, limp and exhausted. During prolonged shelling, I often had to restrain myself and fight back a wild inexorable urge to scream, to sob, and to cry. As Peleliu dragged on, I feared that if I ever lost control of myself under shell fire my mind would be shattered. To be under heavy shell fire was to me by far the most terrifying of combat experiences. Each time it left me feeling more forlorn and helpless, more fatalistic, and with less confidence that I could escape the dreadful law of averages that inexorably reduced our numbers. Fear is many-faceted and has many subtle nuances, but the terror and desperation endured under heavy shelling are by far the most unbearable” (see E.B. Sledge, With the Old Breed at Peleiu and Okinanwa, 2007).

The psychological effect of shelling seems to result from the combined effect of awaiting injury while at the same time having no power to combat it.

There is another aspect that I alluded to above which is the psychological and societal conditioning of the Roman soldier. In other words a Roman male’s social and cultural expectations of his place in the world. Feelings of helplessness and fatalism were probably a less alien experience for most Romans – even those in the upper classes. In general, the Romans inhabited a world that was significantly more brutal and uncertain than our own.

This another way of saying that the Roman and 21st century combat are very different in a variety of ways that subject the modern soldier to a good deal more stress than the legionary was ever likely to suffer. And the Roman’s societal preparation – his life before the battle – was far more robust than that we enjoy today.

Take infant mortality. In the modern developed world, our infant mortality rates are about ten per thousand. In Rome, it is estimated that this number was three hundred per thousand. Three-tenths of infants would die within the first year, and an additional fifth would not make it to the age of ten - 50% of children would not survive childhood. Anecdotal evidence supports these statistics: Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, gave birth to twelve children between 163 bc and 152 bc; all twelve survived their father’s death in 152 bc, but only three survived to adulthood. Marcus Aurelius and his wife, Faustina, had at least twelve children but only the future emperor Commodus survived.  

Then look at how that child grows up. The typical Roman child would be raised in a society that readily accepted ultra-violent arena entertainment, mob justice, frequent and bloody warfare as a fact of life. This was reinforced by religious and societal encouragement to see war as natural and beneficial, open butchering of food animals, a total lack of support structures for the poor and less able.

Compared to the legionary our modern soldier has been protected from such realities to a greater degree than at any other point in history, and will thus be far less well prepared for the horror of a warfare that contains far more stress factors than for a man who might fight a handful of battles in his military career, with long periods of relative calm in between, state of war notwithstanding. Modern special and elite forces training often emphasises the brutalisation and ‘rebuilding’ of the recruit in readiness for this step into darkness, but it seems likely that no such conditioning would have been needed two thousand years ago.

I would argue that we experience war very differently from the way the Romans did. Our modern identity is defined far more by our Western Christian heritage than our Western Classical roots. They are in fact world apart when it comes to ethics and morality. Consider the fact that when we talk of war and killing today we often do so through conflict between our civilian moral codes – which offer the strict injunction not to do violence to other human beings – and wartime, when men are commanded to violate such prohibitions. It is a terrible thing to try to navigate ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and the necessity of taking a life in combat.

It is sometimes the case that the qualities that make the best soldier do not make the best civilian, a point amply attested in Greek poetry by heroes such as Heracles and Odysseus.

The Romans, for their part, celebrated heroes such as Cincinnatus, who could command effectively and then leave behind the power he wielded to return to his humble plough. It is important, however, when evaluating combat and its effects in the ancient world, that we do not read our ambivalence about violence onto the Romans. They inhabited an empire whose prosperity was quite openly tied to conquest.

As M. Zimmerman writes in his academic article, “Violence in Late Antiquity Reconsidered’ (2007), “The pain of the other, seen on the distorted faces of public and private monuments, or heard in the screams of criminals in the amphitheatre, reassured Romans of their own place in the world. Violence was a pervasive presence in the public space; indeed, it was an important basis for its existence, pertaining as it did not only to victories over external enemies but also to the internal order of the state.”

Violence then was both the means and the expression of Roman power. The Roman soldier was its instrument. The Roman warrior then would have brought a different perspective to lethal violence, and would have had a far more restricted moral circle to his modern counterpart – his friends and family, clan, patron and clients, as opposed to millions of fellow citizens via the internet and social media.

Part II follows next post

#question #ask #PTSD #war #roman #greek #classical #legionary #spartan #mental health #depression #trauma #warfare #british army #mental illness #homecoming #soldiers #combat veterans #veterans

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every1studio · 4 years ago

Text

REQUESTED: “ateez x greek gods” [ateez]

genre: misc. + GREEK GOD ! AU (reincarnation version) + fem reader

ficstyle: bulletpoints + reactions

requested by @svteencarat : “ Hi! I was wondering if you still take request? If you are still doing requests, then could I ask for a greek god! ateez and a human! fem reader angst (Of course i'd like it if you can make me cry, UwU) nd that if the oneshot could have a fluff ending? Thanks! This isi my first request ever so i don't really know how to since I'm kinda new to tumblr?? (I'm literary requested this from alot of kpop au writers out there because I never see any Greek god aus, and I JUST. NEED. MORE. GREEK GOD AUS!!) “

note: I’m kinda depressed about my WayV fic so I’m shifting my attention back to ATEEZ before I get any motivation to continue that series ): + I didn’t have a lot of ideas for angst because I didn’t want them to be too long but I hope this is good?? + information from: Meet the Greek Gods & Greek Gods and Goddesses

HONGJOONG X APOLLO

reincarnation of: APOLLO (god of music, poetry, prophecy, and medicine; later known as the god of sun)

in every lifetime, there is a reincarnation of APOLLO in the Kim family

Hongjoong was the present-day god of sun; there was a lot of pressure that was placed on his shoulders because of it

but even through all the stress, he still couldn’t ignore the passion he had for music or for poetry

or the unquenchable desire for more knowledge

or the love he has for the sun rays peeping through the day clouds

he’s known to be the “doctor” of his friend group because no matter what problem they have medically, emotionally or physically, he’s able to help them and succeed

Hongjoong still has the lyre that was passed down to him from his ancestors

it’s an unusual instrument to play nowadays but that’s probably what made him stand out at the arts and music festival that held place at the college square

the guy’s performance was a self-composed piece and he somehow altered the lyre to make it an electric instrument; a stryre

you were working as the sounds person; so you had the honors of listening to his whole performance with no disturbance

and it didn’t help that he was so handsome

if you didn’t know any better, you thought he was a Greek god

little did you know

you didn’t think anything of it after his performance until you felt a tap on your shoulders

“hey can you tell me what kind of amps you use for the show today? they were really compatible with my stryre!”

your eyes were met with his

“oh yeah.. um.. I used my own amps for the show today, which is why everyone who had to perform had to sign a waiver.. but they’re Goldmund Telos 5000.. my uncle offered them to me for a lower price...”

the boy grabbed both your hands in excitement, “oh you know about music? are you a music major too? what’s your major?

the way he radiated, it was like you were in the presence of the sun

how could someone emit such energy?

“nothing fancy.. I’m in music technology-”

“you’re the T.A. for Dr. Trumbridge!”

“you know me?” you were surprised that he knew you, then again you are the only T.A. for the most strict professor in the university

“yeah.. you graded my paper for composition of electric instruments... you gave me a lot of feedback and I really appreciate it..”

Hongjoong had to take that class because it was a requirement for his major in music composition

but he began to like it

why?

because you were there

at first he thought you were quiet yet snobby T.A. for a strict teacher

then he received the first paper you graded for him

there was so much care and incredible feedback; it was like he could see the true you through your grading

after that paper, he couldn’t help but notice every little thing about you

he slowly began to fall for you; his own version of Aphrodite

his voice was so soothing, you forgot where you were and what you were doing for a moment

“of course.. hey, um.. I have to get back to work, the next performance is in 5 minutes...”

you let your hands slip away from his grasp when you realized how long you two were there, just holding hands

“oh yeah sorry...I’ll let you get to that then...”

you nodded before turning away

“Y/N!”

you turned to hear him call your name, “are you free after the performances? I know the food courts are gonna be open until 1AM...so you wanna.. grab a bite?”

how could you say no to that sunny smile, “yeah sure.. uh here’s my phone number.. send me a text or something.. I’ll see you later..umm..”

“I’m Hongjoong.. go on, I’ll see you later!” he repeats

when you had time, you checked your phone for any messages

there was only a voicemail; you held it up to your ear

“hey Y/N, it’s Hongjoong.. I don’t know what you like to eat.. but I hope you like Greek food?”

SEONGHWA X EROS

reincarnation of: EROS (god of love)

Seonghwa always help this friends with their love life

but it had it’s drawbacks

being as good looking as him; the girls would be more interested in him than his friends

which caused riffs in his friendships

in the end, he didn’t have any friends

as the reincarnation of the epitome of love himself, he couldn’t help but excrete pheromones and he used that to his advantage

he began to have an addiction with fake love; one night stands, hookups, leading girls on,

any sorts of a short-term romance

anything for to not feel lonely anymore

but that wasn’t enough

the void in his heart grew larger and larger, to the point where anything he tried to fill it with just fell through into an abyss

Seonghwa was just leaving the cafe; dripping wet because he didn’t want to meet up with one of his hookups anymore and she tossed water in his face

which made him even more hot BUT ANYWAYS

you were in an irritated mood

you just quit your job because your stupid boss won’t advocate for fair pay for the hardworking females in your workplace

so you stormed into the cafe and tried to calm yourself down

there was a commotion in the cafe but you were too busy getting your order of iced latte

something about no one will ever be good enough to satisfy someone, followed by the sound of splashing water; then something about being rich and handsome will only get him so far

on your way out, you bump your whole order onto a man that already seemed like he was soaked with water

at first glance, he seemed like a puppy someone left in the rain

but the more you looked at him, the more entranced you were by his visuals

you didn’t let your thoughts diverge you from dumping your whole cup of latte on him

“sir? are you okay? excuse me, can I get some napkins?” you took some napkins from the worker and dabbed where ever you could and where ever wouldn’t get you arrested

the guy looked at you with his empty eyes

why are you helping him?

a hopeless guy like him?

a sick-minded disappointment of the god of love?

“it’s okay.. I deserve it..” he gently pushed your helping hands away

you furrowed your brows at him and sternly told him, “look, mister.. I don’t know what you did for you to “deserve” this but I’m just apologizing for the coffee okay?”

he was kind of taken back by the sudden sassiness and let you continue to wipe it off

“what’d you do to get in this mess anyways, handsome?” you murmured as you offered him napkins to dry his hair

“a girl I was fwb with wanted to take it further but I told her that’s not for me... plus I have some other fwbs I don’t want to let go off...”

he seemed kind of embarrassed afterwards, it sounded better in his head

“oookay.. maybe you did deserve it..” you rolled your eyes in a joking manner and wiped your hands clean

you seemed different than all the other girls; sassy and quirky, independent and was probably not the type to fall in love at first sight

“now that my business is over, I’m gonna order another latte-”

“let me!” Seonghwa said kind of loud, which caused you and some of the other people in the cafe to whip their heads towards him, “let me.. get it for you.. I mean it’s my fault you have to get another cup anyways..”

“so I can be another fwb? no thanks.. that’s not my type of relationship..”

you took his silence for feeling shameful and felt bad, “that offer was really sweet but I’m sure I can get a free cup since everyone saw what happen..”

you grabbed the readied cup of latte and smiled at him, “I’m sure you’re not a bad person... but maybe you should think twice about being in a relationship.. any relationship. it takes two to tango.. remember that, ciao~”

and with that you left the cafe

leaving Seonghwa collecting puddles and thoughts about the new side of love he’s never seen or experienced before

the next day, you got a job interview with one of the most well-known companies in the whole world

you couldn’t afford to mess it up

you entered the elevator and hit the button of the highest level of the building

people came and left the elevator but someone REALLY caught your eyes

it was the sad “puppy left in the rain” fuckboy; in a suit

“what a coincidence, boy wonder. you work here?”

he was fixing his tie, he gave you a small smile, “you could say that..”

you nudged him in the side; which caught him off-guard because he was ticklish

“you’re working for one of the best companies with some of the best working condition, you should be more proud of your position!”

your floor dings and you adjust your lanyard, “how do I look?”

your question flustered Seonghwa, “g-great.. go-good.. beautiful..”

that last part was mumbled but you heard it

“oh.. thank you.. well gonna go to ace my interview, maybe we’ll be cube buddies or something.. wish me luck~”

you trotted down the hall towards the room the interview was held in; you sat for your turn, you couldn’t stop fidgeting from adrenaline

“Ms. Y/N? we’re ready for you~” an older lady shot you a reassuring smile

you took one last deep breath before walking in the room

you thought you were prepared for this interview..

UNTIL YOU SAW BOY WONDER, MR. HANDSOME FACE AKA THE SAD “PUPPY LEFT OUT IN THE RAIN” FUCKBOY

SITTING IN FRONT OF THE PLAQUE THAT SAYS CEO

oh what a time to be alive

“so, Ms. Y/N, shall we beginning?” Seonghwa smirked as he opened your portfolio

YUNHO X TYCHE

reincarnation of: TYCHE (goddess of chance, fate and fortune)

Yunho was bored with his life; he was bored with his riches

this was the consequence of his luck

sure; he always won all the games at the casino, got the winning ticket to the lottery, anything that had zero to no chance of winning? he won them

he won them all

it was always like this; ever since he was little

it made him kind of depressed

he would get himself in every life-threatening situations but by a stroke of miracle, he would be saved by the bell

people only wanted to be around him because he would bring luck to everyone around him

so he holed himself up in his house; his very big and very empty house

because he was sick of being used, sick of winning, sick of being lucky

the doorbell rung; he checked his door security camera

it was probably his food he ordered

surprised to see someone still waiting there with his food

he scurried downstairs and swung the door open

there you were, frowning at him, “Mr. Yunho? I don’t mean to be rude or out of line, but you’ve been ordering nothing but the unhealthiest options from our place.. I’m worried about your health, SO I included some healthy options.. it’s not included in your payment... HAVE A GOOD DAY!”

you hoped that he wouldn’t think too much about your kind offer

but Yunho places his big, firm hand on your shoulder, slightly tugging you back

“why are you worried about my health? what do you want from me??”

you turned to him meekly, “I’m NOT stalking you! it’s just that... you’re always ordering from us, at least 4 days out of 7.. and you always order the MOST unhealthiest options.. I’m assigned to this area of town and there’s not a day or time where I don’t deliver food to your house..so I suspected that you don’t leave your house often..”

you looked to him for any social cue that he was uncomfortable by you

but he just looked sad, “no one’s... ever cared for me like that before.. people are always asking things of me, they never do things for me..”

in that moment, he caught your eyes

they were glassy and filled with worry

“thank you..” he says softly with a smile

you smiled back, “I gotta get back to work.. have a nice day, Mr. Yunho..”

“Yunho!” he calls out

“call me Yunho..”

“you can call me Y/N!”

now that Yunho knew that you were assigned to this area, maybe it wouldn’t be weird to order more often than he already does

to you know.. make a friend? or did you do that because you like him? but you never even seen his face until now....

you know? maybe this was just an act of kindness, right? is what he thought

which was true, at first

but when you saw heard what he said about how no one has ever done anything for him, you wanted to change that

you went to his place the next day on your day off

you could hear the thumping sounds of his footsteps, “Y/N? I didn’t order anything.. yet... you’re not wearing your uniform..”

Yunho ears turned pink at the sight of you so dolled up; periwinkle form-fitting dress with a light denim cropped jacket and white platformed sneakers; your hair was thrown up in a messy ponytail

“wh-what’s the occasion?”

you smiled at him, “I’m kidnapping you for a day.. you’re cooped in your big house 24/7, you’re too pale! let’s go get some sunshine and some food!”

you dragged him out of the house, “my wallet-”

“I’m paying! I don’t care what you say about “guys always paying for girls,” I’m different!”

Yunho didn’t know that his heart could feel so full, “that you are..”

maybe his luck wasn’t just catered towards riches and fortune

maybe you were his lucky charm

YEOSANG X HERMES

reincarnation of: HERMES (god of travelers and trade, the trickster, the messenger of the gods)

everyone would think that Yeosang is such an angel; how could he ever do anything wrong?

that’s where everyone is wrong

he is the king of tricksters; the devil on your left shoulder

but he would never face the consequences for his actions because before anyone realizes what he’s done, he’s gone in a snap

that was the life he was used to

that was until he came across you

you had just moved into a new townhouse complex; a nice area

you thought it was nice until you met the troublemaker of a neighbor

you caught him spray painting the side of your house

there was a walkway in between your house and his house, so the side of your house was completely bare

sure it was beautiful BUT you weren’t going to live there long so you didn’t want to go through the trouble of cleaning it yourself when you knew who the culprit was

little did he know, you were outside watering your plants

you sprayed him with water

“young lady! what are you doing to that poor young man!” the elderly lady who lived a couple of houses down was scolding you

“ma’am he was vandalizing my house!”

“well all I see is that he’s helping you clean it, isn’t that right Yeosang?”

you turned to see his mischievous smirk turn into an angelic one

“of course ma’am, I saw some kids spraying up the place and I wanted to help out our new neighbor~”

“she probably thought you were those kids, though I know you would NEVER do something so terrible.. what a sweet, sweet boy.. you two have a good day now~”

and with that she left

you caught the guy before he had the chance to run away and grabbed him by the collar

“I don’t know who you think you are, sweetheart.. but I hope you keep your promise and clean YOUR mess..you’re not fooling me..”

Yeosang sulks as he’s scrubbing your walls

you sprayed him with water, “whoops, I was trying to spray the wall.. must’ve slipped..”

“I’m gonna get you back...”

you sneaked right behind him

“probably wasn’t a good idea to say what your planning.. I’ll be ready.. you better count on it. now get to cleaning, sweetheart~” you said in the same tone as the elderly lady

since then, you and Yeosang have been in childish fights to get back at one another

everything on the lines of ding-dong ditching to stealing things from your property small things

this went on for days, weeks, almost over 3 months!

you don’t HATE him but you definitely don’t like his alter personality or his real one whatever it is

it was golden hour when you saw him lurking in your front lawn, you swung the door open

“WHAT do are YOU stealing this time, Yeosang?”

he grabs your wrist

“I’m stealing your time”

you rolled your eyes at him, “and what’s that gonna do?”

“hopefully succeed in stealing your heart”

SAN X HADES

reincarnation of: HADES (god of the underworld)

San lives and has lived a sad life; with each reincarnation, his life goes through the cycle of the whole story of Hades and Persephone

only to be in a “forced” relationship that runs in clockwork

he’s done everything to try to get away from this cursed life

he’s chained, shackled to lifestyle of his predecessor

but he wants to switch Hade’s selfishness into his own selflessness

he lives in black

he lives in chaos

he lives like how Hades would

like his life, you are also stuck in a loop; the only thing is, you are unaware of it

you are the reincarnation of Persephone; youthful even if you age, beautiful without any effort and brighter than any star in the sky

if he was the darkest twilight, you were the sun at it’s highest peak

San could always find you, even if he didn’t tried

it was destiny, no matter how he to evade it

he locked himself inside his dark home; having 3 black shibas as his companions

played chess by himself

cook meals to eat at his large and empty table

roasted his own coffee beans and drank black coffee to past time

didn’t even watch TV

only leaving at night when the stars are brighter than the streetlights and shadows are enveloping everything in sight

he wanted you to live every life with purpose and however you wanted

you deserve that at the very least

he didn’t want you to be apart of his terrible life

but there’s no way to dodge destiny, you were like a magnet

San was walking his dogs, his usual routine; same thing and everything

until you ran into him at the corner

there was no time for an exchange of words before his dogs all trampled on you with kisses

“Cy! Bear! Russ! get off of her!!” he tugs them off and he knew he was in trouble

even through reincarnations, you still looked the same; the same beautiful you

“I’m so sorry.. here..” he offers a hand to help you up but were you still playing with the dogs

“it’s all good, it’s my fault for going not paying attention on a jog! look at your little fluffy, woofy faces~” that’s when you finally look up at him and the reflection of the streetlights flickered in your eyes

“do I.. do I know you? you look familiar?”

you took his hand, bewitched by his striking features, as he helped you up, “you’re probably mistaking me for someone else...”

he looks around, it’s a sketchy area for you to be jogging so late in the night

“why are you jogging so late in such a dangerous area.. there no cameras, streetlights are dim and there’s little to no one awake right now?”

you truly didn’t know who he was, but you felt same with him

you felt like you probably knew him in another life; it made you feel sentimental

“I just got a new job and my new work schedule doesn’t allow me to have the time for my daily jog-”

“so you jog at night where it’s most dangerous?!” San slightly raised his voice at you

which startled you, “I-I’m sorry...”

San took out his phone, “what area to do you live in? I’m gonna call a cab to take you home..”

“you don’t have to! I live close by...”

you waited for him to offer walking you home but the silence just prolonged longer than you expected

“you could walk me home?” you asked

how could San ever say no to you; it was like he was programmed not to

“sure...” you led the way and he followed you as closely as he could without letting your hands brush against each other

“I’m Y/N”

“San..”

“do you live around here too?”

“yeah”

you tried to make small talk with him but he kept his answers short

“this is me..” you showed him the gate to your place

“stay safe, Y/N..don’t run out so late..” he said before leaving

but you held him back, “you know.. maybe I could walk your dogs or something... so that I can feel safer.. or maybe we can go on nightly walks?”

San turns to walk back to where you were; Cy, Bear and Russ followed him after

“if fate allows us, we’ll meet again... please take care and be safe, Y/N.. goodnight..”

maybe destiny is inevitable

maybe he’s miserable because he doesn’t want to force this destiny onto you and make you miserable

but maybe you aren’t actually miserable when you’re with him

but he can’t take those chances

and he won’t

MINGI X POSEIDON

reincarnation of: POSEIDON (god of the sea)

Mingi was your childhood friend; a complete moody, edgy son of a gun

his personality wavered like water itself

he can be calm as a pond on a silent night or he can be as violent as a roaring hurricane

you learned how to deal with all of his mood swings

you thought you knew all about him

you basically knew all about him

except for the fact that he’s actually the reincarnation of the god of moody waves himself, Poseidon

because of his mood swings, he always had a hard time with dating

if the girls thought their mood swings were bad, they had no idea what they signed up for when they were dating him

they all ended badly

you felt bad for Mingi

you knew him the most

you knew how he was

you knew the kinks in his gears

today was another day, another break up for Mingi

so the real question is, why didn’t you and Mingi ever dated each other?

you pushed feelings and thoughts to the side because, you knew that dating would be different

he’s seen you through all your hard times and much as you have been there for him

what if you lose him and any relationship you have with him?

so you locked those feelings away and pretended like everything was fine

except everything wasn’t fine

you began to cough petals of blue hydrangeas; the more you suppressed your feelings the worst it got

and every time Mingi was involved in another relationship, you could feel the branches curling around your lungs

you didn’t want to go through with the surgery to get the flowers out because if you did, you would forget about the feelings you ever had for Mingi

your whole relationship with Mingi relied on those feelings; you couldn’t toss those away

so you hid all of this from him

well, you thought you did

“what happened this time?” you asked as you tossed him a hoodie you borrowed from him

“she didn’t like you.. so I broke up with her..”

that reeled in some of those locked away feelings but you kept them in the back of your head and out of your heart

“it seemed like she was good for you.. I could just back away-”

“NO!”

Mingi tossed the hoodie and slammed you up into the wall

you were so startled; he never resulted into hurting you before so it made you scared

he was never the physically violent type; especially towards people

but this was different, he was acting different

scared to the point where tears welted up in your eyes

it made everything blurry but the sight of Mingi in front of you was still clear

in that moment, Mingi realized what he did and remorse washed over

“I-I’m sorry don’t cry..” he wiped your tears away; you were so overwhelmed you didn’t realized that he turned your tears into aerosolized mist

he held your head as he caged into a hug

your favorite hugs

“I can’t live without you.. I don’t know what I’d do without you... even when I’m with other girls, I can stop thinking about you..”

those locked feelings that you had for him were trickling into your heart

it got a little bit easier to breathe

you cupped his face, “Mingi..what are you trying to say?”

you needed to hear him say it with his own mouth

“I love you, Y/N... I can’t be with you..”

your eyes wavered and your hands trembled

“why? is it something that I did or something that I said? am I... am I not good enough for you?”

Mingi shook his head furiously, “no. no.. Y/N, you are perfect. you are everything I want.. everything that I need... but I can’t let you be apart of the life that I live.. deal with the family that I have...”

you didn’t know about Mingi’s family but Mingi never seemed to want to talk about

“this is why I have to do this.. I hope.. I hope you understand..”

he kissed your forehead and then everything became black

when you woke up, you were in the hospital and you had no recollection of where you were and how you lived you life up until now

Mingi was moving out of his house next to your; he had been crying because he knew about your condition

he distracted himself with other girls because he couldn’t get you involved with his family

those girls were short-term relationships to distract him from his long-term crush on you

which worked then but it probably won’t work now

because you will never remember him

you will never love him again

and now he’s coughing up blue hydrangeas; but in your memory, he’ll keep it until the day he dies

WOOYOUNG X DIONYSUS

reincarnation of: DIONYSUS (god of wine)

the sun was peeking through the window; stirring you awake

when you opened your eyes, it hit you

you weren’t in your bed

or your room

or even your clothes

you looked to your right and put 2 and 2 together

you were in the same bed as the “sweetheart” of a frat boy, Wooyoung

you couldn’t help but scream

which caused Wooyoung to scream and fall out of bed

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!”

“WHAT? NOTHING! NOTHING!”

Wooyoung was sleeping with a black tank top and grey sweatpants

you were in his shirt and boxers for shorts

Wooyoung stares at you as you stare back at him

“can I sit on the bed and tell you what happened?”

“only if you don’t touch me-”

“I’m not going to touch you, not without consent anyw-”

“OKAY WHAT HAPPENED?”

Wooyoung pointed to the living room which was visible from where you and Wooyoung were

“we were studying because we’re in the same literature class..” he dragged out his sentence

“uh-huh~” you motioned your hands to move along

“you wanted a break and I brought out some wine...”

“uh-huh”

“and then you talked about your love life and you started getting out of hand..”

“WHAT?! I DON’T REMEMBER THAT PART!”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, “you CHUG 2 glasses without even talking to me and then you started to talk about Lucas-”

“OK OK OK!” you could feel your face getting red and your head started to feel tight

he noticed your discomfort and got up from the bed

“where’re you going” you slurred

“getting your dumdum head some water and advil”

when he came back, you were still laying in bed but you had tossed your hair up in a messy bun

“you started to get hysterical; saying that you’re a great gal and why don’t you have a boyfriend and spilled wine on yourself. I told you to go take a shower and gave you some of my clothes to borrow..” he handed you the water and bottle of advil

you nodded and took them from him; still embarrassed

“you called for me in the bathroom. you showered and changed but you didn’t want to walk. complained that you were sleepy.. so I carried you to the bed..”

“you carried my fat-ass?!” you were conscious about your weight

“like a princess..” he smiled at you

“I was going to sleep on the couch but you BEGGED me not to leave you, so I slept NEXT to you and there was a nice amount of space between us..okay? NOTHING happened..”

“okay..” you murmured

you weren’t confident in your looks and always worried about your appearance but Wooyoung didn’t care about any of that

“Y/N.. are you okay? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable..”

“you don’t make me uncomfortable..” you pulled the blanket up to cover your body, “I don’t want to you to be uncomfortable..by me..”

Wooyoung held your hand, “you don’t.. I hope you know that..”

you were about to slide your hand away but Wooyoung held on

“I know what the others say about me, but that’s not me... I’m not some frat guy who goes around sleeping with other girls..or a guy who’s known for going to the bars and clubs every other night... I’m just a guy who’s too wimp to actually tell the girl he actually likes that he wants to be with her and make her feel loved and make her love herself..so...”

you felt him lift your chin up to meet him eye to eye

“will you let me get the chance to do that?”

JONGHO X HERACLES

reincarnation of: HERACLES (son of Zeus)

Jongho was just minding his business

he JUST had to go to the store to get some more protein shake powder before going to the gym

he was JUST taking off his helmet that went with his motorcycle when he heard you yelling someone to back off

he turns to you across the street in an alley cornered by a moderately fit guys

sure he was always saving the damsel in distress but this time was different

“ma’am are you in any trouble?” he shouts out to you and it catches the attention of the other guy

“a girl can take care of her own and take care of this fool myself..” you tried to wave him off but the guy grabbed your arm quite forcefully

“take care of this fool? Y/N.. aren’t you such a doll?”

no words were able to leave your lips when Jongho rips the guy’s hand from you and slams his fist into his face

it takes more than a couple seconds for the guy to get up from the ground

he glares at Jongho with terrified eyes

“this isn’t the last you’ll see from me!” the moment the guy is up on his feet he’s running

“wow.. if he was a dog, he’d be running with his tail between his legs..”

you looked at the guy who just saved you, he had on a leather jacket and his black hair was slicked back like he was in Grease

“what are you some type of modern-day Hercules, biker boy?” you joked

Jongho gave an awkward cough, “you could say.. but.. are you okay?”

you nodded as you rubbed your arm

“a little shaken up but I’ll live..” you started to look around; you were slightly paranoid at this point

“you wanna go for a ride? we can go anywhere you wanna go” he asked as he pointed to his bike

“in that?!” you’ve never rode anything of that sort

he took your hand and handed you his extra helmet, “it’s a little scary at first but she drives like a dream”

weary but you trusted him, “what’s your name?”

“I’m Jongho”

“well, Jongho..” you started to adjust the helmet on your head, “I’m gonna take your word for it..” you held your hand out for him to take

he takes it, you didn’t expect him to kiss it but he does

“what a gentleman..” you tried to hide the trembling of your voice

you hated rollercoaster or any rides of that kind

anything that involved a rush of adrenaline scared you

but when Jongho wrapped your arms around his waist, you felt safe and you weren’t as scared

“where to, princess?” he asks as he turns to shoot you the most adorable smile

“know any good food carts?”

“buckle up, because I know just the place”

[ masterlist + guidelines ]

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cultofbeatles · 5 years ago

Text

beginners guide to the members of led zeppelin (kind of)

a disclaimer before anyone starts reading: we all know led zeppelin is shady as hell and we hardly ever get anything confirmed or denied around here. so some stuff is up for speculation. everything in this post are things i've read in books, heard in interviews, or got from some other source. when it comes to “facts about led zeppelin” sometimes you gotta take it with a grain of salt. but honestly it’s led zeppelin we’re talking about, anything is possible. also this is all in good fun and giggles. with that being said, let’s get started with introductions to the members themselves.

jimmy page

james patrick page

born on January 9, 1944

he’s a capricorn sun, cancer moon, and scorpio rising so you just know he’s a crazy motherfucker

was an amazing session guitarist and basically everyone wanted him

went to art school bc he’s just talented at everything i guess

if you didn't know already he played the guitar for Joe cocker’s ‘with a little help from my friends’

declined his first offer to join the yardbirds but later decided to join

was the last member to leave the group

basically was the leader of led zeppelin

was gifted a telecaster guitar by his friend jeff beck and he adored it

and he painted a cool dragon design on it

played on it for the first led zeppelin album

when he was on tour one of his friends painted over his dragon design and ruined the guitar

he produced all of led zeppelin’s albums and is responsible for the remastering of those same albums

paid for led zeppelin’s first album to be produced with his own money

deadass would have whips and handcuffs around with him on tour for the groupies

but was apparently an amazing lover and cared for the people he slept with

one time he got naked on a food cart thingy, put whip cream over his body, and had john bonham push him into a room with groupies in it

has such a small and soft voice

was fascinated in aleister crowley and his work

would collect crowely memorabilia

even bought crowley’s boleskine house

had a bookstore at one point so he could get books easier

struggled with addiction to drugs for most of the seventies

went on a liquid diet late seventies and refused to eat solid food

he got really skinny bc of it :(

miss pamela (one of his girlfriends/lovers) once said that jimmy cried on the phone to her over her playboy photoshoot lmaoo

once flied pamela’s pet raccoon in first class

allegedly had a relationship with lori maddox who was about 15 years old

laughed as two of his girlfriends were fighting each other

was kind of constantly nervous about his and the band’s image

has amazing guitar solos and improvisation but damn sometimes they drag on foreverrrr

deadass scared the shit out of david bowie so much that he had his house exorcised and would avoid jimmy at parties

we love demons

zoso

he’ll never tell us what zoso means and I'm mad

had two people die in his home. one was a friend who died from a drug overdose, and the other was john bonham when he died from choking on his vomit.

has been accused for the deaths of john bonham and robert plant’s son karac bc of that stupid “curse” rumor

deserves critiques for several things but doesn't deserve hate for that

has been through a lot and come out pretty okay

produced his current girlfriend’s, scarlett sabet, spoken poetry vinyl

check out scarlett’s work bc it’s amazing

would probably always be down for another led zeppelin reunion

robert plant

robert anthony plant

born on august 20, 1948

this is the most attractive man ever. do not argue with me.

nicknamed percy

wasnt jimmy’s first pick for a singer

jerry reid suggested robert to jimmy. and when jimmy asked what he looked like jerry said, “like a greek god.”

jimmy thought something was wrong with robert when he first found him bc he was such a good singer and hadn't been signed yet

after a practice together jimmy knew he had his singer

he would call robert “the young guy with the powerful voice.”

he thought about leaving the band early on bc he was so nervous about being in it

convinced john bonham to join the group bc they were the bestest of buddies

he’s not credited on the first album bc he was still under another contract

started song writing for the second album by jimmy’s memory

it didn't take long for him to gain confidence and start owning the stage

once when he was performing a dove flew in his hands

there’s an audio of him singing john bonham happy birthday and it makes me so happy

he would call himself a greek god

would party with john bonham a lot

kind of the hippy of the group

moans moans moans and even louder moans into the microphone

would wear women’s shirts and looked amazing in them

nurses do it better

not to mention his super tight jeans

we all know his dick is huge and he’s just showing it off

has the prettiest, fluffiest blonde hair

and the sweetest smile

can you tell that i find him attractive yet?

has a fear of earthquakes

also supposedly had some sort of a relationship to an underage groupie named sable starr (14)

also has a fear of led zeppelin nowadays

either fear or amnesia

it’s likely that he’s the reason we’ll never get another led zeppelin reunion

though a close friend thinks that if the show went to charity robert would probably do it

robert loved john bonham too much to play in led zeppelin without him

and i respect that a lot

no matter how much he’s offered for a show he turns it down every time

in 1975 he got in a severe car crash and ended up being in a wheelchair

still went on to record zeppelin’s album

once while recording on crutches and started to fall and jimmy apparently zoomed in to save him. robert never saw him move that fast before

his five year old son (karac) died from a sudden stomach illness while he was in america on tour

absolutely crushed him

was deeply upset that neither jimmy page or john paul jones reached out to him during that time of his life

john bonham was there for him though

robert apparently never forgave them for that

a car he was working on fell on top of him and crushed some of his ribs as well

late seventies was not a good time for robert plant

but he got through it all like a champ

hates stairway to heaven with a passion lmao

one time he paid a radio station a shit ton of money just to make sure they'd never play stairway to heaven again

almost didn't sing stairway for the 2007 reunion but ended up agreeing to it after all

he said he breaks out in hives when he has to play that song

he and jimmy made their own symbols. robert’s is the feather inside the circle

in 2007 he won beard of the year

john bonham

born on may 31, 1948

nickname is bonzo

oh boy, there’s a lot of stories about bonzo

he was known as the nicest and sweetest guy ever

unless he was drunk

he drank a lot :/

denied jimmy’s offer to join the group and continued to deny it until robert convinced him

once flew the starship (led zeppelin’s plane) even though he didn't have a license to

hated touring so much

he always missed his family

so he drank

he was so damn crazy when drunk that the other members would book rooms floors above where his was so he wouldn't disturb them

tore about his hotel rooms like no other

he has a son named jason bonham who he loved a lot

bought him a nice drum kit when he was younger

jason is just about led zeppelin’s biggest fan next to jimmy page

one time bonzo broke a girl’s vibrator when drunk

also punched a girl in the face when drunk once bc she waved at him

partly responsible for the famous mud shark story where a girl was apparently fucked with a dead shark by him and zeppelin’s tour manager

liked cars a lot

really really loved his family. cannot stress it enough

was irked that john paul jones got out of playing shows during the christmas holiday and he didn't

punched robert in the face once too

him and john paul jones equals the best rhythm section ever

jimmy would call it magic how well him and bonzo got along

bonzo could handle anything jimmy threw at him

he wasn't really a part of it, but he had to go to jail bc peter grant and two other dudes almost killing a man (long story omfg, but apparently the doctors had to put the dude’s eyeball back into his socket)

was there for robert when karac died

they were really good friends

there’s an interview with them together where bonzo is laughing at robert about his little farm

gave good hugs apparently

played drums like no other could and knew he was good

but still sometimes got insecure and got upset when someone he looked up to said his drumming wasn't all that special

his symbol is the three rings and he picked it out of a book like john paul jones did his

he died in jimmy page’s house (not the crowley house btw)

he had to drink the equivalent of 40 shots of vodka and choked on his vomit in his sleep

led zeppelin died on the same day

nobody can replace john bonham

his son filled in his role for the 2007 reunion show and did an amazing job of it. the whole show is on youtube, go check it out

john paul jones

john richard baldwin

born on january 3, 1946

nickname is jonesy

was also a session guitarist like jimmy

they had worked together before

when he found out jimmy was forming a group he called jimmy and was basically given the spot immediately

not only was the bassist but also the keyboardist

and could play the recorder

insanely talented. put some respect on his name

he talks in italics i swear to god

i don't have mainly crazy stories about jonesy bc he wasn't about that life

deadass he would go on stage, perform, walk off stage and go to a whole separate hotel from the other

he would only tell one person where he was at and told them not to call unless for super urgent emergencies

pissed peter grant off so much lmao

wasn't really super close to anyone in the band tbh

but bonzo was probably his greatest friend in the band

jimmy and robert kind of leave him out in my opinion

or they use to

when he found out that jimmy and robert were making their own symbols instead of picking out of a book like he was he said “of course!” and laughed

was pretty much left out of the live aid show

he had to squeeze himself on the stage and wasn't even able to play bass. he had to play the keyboard

“and thank you to my friends for finally remembering my phone number” -savage as hell john paul jones

he was one of the two people who found john bonham dead

it’s sad to think about

is actually quite funny

he has this kind of dry humor?? idk but it’s amazing 10/10 content

when john paul jones walks into the room interviewers break into a sweat

managed to look like a completely different person every year throughout the seventies or is it just my eyes?

has an Instagram account now go follow it for cute throwback photos lol

that’s all i really have for generic useless information about led zeppelin members for beginners. i hope it was somewhat entertaining. i'll make some more beginners stuff for led zeppelin. i will make y'all stan them lmao. i'm tagging @babygotblueeyes bc i know for a fact you want to get into them <3

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brighternite-a · 4 years ago

Photo

mamma mia, here i go again ! admin c here, with my second character, miss lal who looks like a burning flame but feels ice cold. lal is a new one and she is already growing on me, i'm just ?? excited ?? let me turn up my narrator vc, once upon a time ...

★ APP !

✨ elçin sangu, cis woman, she/her — agnes street wouldn’t be the same today if it wasn’t the curtain call. do you know that lal ışık works there as the owner ? they are thirty-eight and they look like the kind of person who has stories to tell ; the kind of stories you have never heard of, whenever i see them, greek tragedy by the wombats starts to play inside my head. maybe it is the vibe they give off, an invisible wall built around you that keeps you in your own world no matter how hard the outsiders try to collapse it down, pointy toe pumps with stiletto heels worn in an elegant fashion that somehow makes them look easy to wear, an accent that melts within words through an unfamiliar warmth when caught in feelings only explainable in your native tongue ; you know ? ( c, 23, gmt + 3, they / them )

★ STORY !

TRIGGERS AHEAD : identity crisis.

it begins serenely. you are one of those kids, born with luck. luck though, it is not everlasting. it sometimes is even deceptive. a truth lal had to face. lal means garnet in turkish, but in ottoman poetry it has been used to carry the meaning of lips of a lover or red wine. surely lal is a love child. ' we want the best for you, my child. ' wonder how many times lal had heard these words falling from the lips of her beloved parents as they smiled at her with warmth and compassion. that must be the truest form of love, she would think to herself.

an eccentric kid. one who asks too many questions. one who dares to be different. the striking flame red of strands don’t make it any easier for her to go unnoticed. confidence is built within her, strong at the core of her heart. no, that has nothing to do with the wealth her parents have, it is all about the love they’ve given. lal always knew they’d be by her side even if the world was ending.

but who would’ve thought ? it’s been a delusion, all along. the love she had belief in. -- they reveal the truth when lal comes of age as now they are obligated to give lal her share. the people she knew as her parents all along are not her biological parents. who are these people ? her real parents, are they even alive ? all the questions of sorts, asked while tears stream down her face. it’s part of the deal, they vowed to her parents before taking lal that they were never ever going to let her know about who her real parents are. her parents left her. left her to strangers. and what her real parents left for her ? money, lots of money. no answers, no photographs. no anything. suddenly, she has no roots. how could they accept to be the ones they were not meant to be ? but those people did and took lal as their child. perhaps humans were capable of everything when it was for the money. did they reall love her ? did they ? not like any answer could satisfy lal now. in lal’s eyes, they had been just playing the roles her real parents written for them. a written script, artificial feelings.

what is my name ? who i am ? is this who i was supposed to be ? questions surface, questions suffocate you. you disintegrate. the person you see when you look in the mirror, it makes you only wonder. do i have my mother’s eyes or is it the flame red of hair what i inherited from her ? what would my name be if they could’ve chosen it ? ---- lal feels the need to rebuild herself as everything that made her who she is turns out to be foul. it almost drives her mad. identity crisis comes to her in its rawest and garbed form.

she feels foreign to herself. she becomes a foreigner to everything surrounding her. her decision to leave the country comes to her at a night. she is only nineteen when she leaves istanbul. maybe far from her so-called home, it would make sense to feel this alone. she needed to get to know herself, she needed to rewrite her story and make it a real one. her devotion to telling stories of life begins this way, with her devotion to try and tell her own as she realizes she is devoid of a true one.

education in the top-ranked schools of the united states is nothing her mysterious parents’ inherited money couldn’t buy. so she fills herself in with everything she could about the movie industry. her dream is to tell every story that yearns to be told like hers. and what can be a better tool than the art of cinema ? her career as a director begins, her career that guarantees her a permanent stay in the country. symbolism runs deep in every movie directed by her. she gets compared to david lynch a lot with her work. movies after movies, she has her very own audience. today she is the owner of her own theatre, the curtain call. it is a dream project of hers that came true. there is something she can’t quite pinpoint but love about agnes street, that’s why of all places she chose agnes for her cinema project. she is still actively working as a director and also as the owner of the curtain call. if you are into movies one way or another, there is a chance you’ve heard her name during one of those award seasons. -- her genuine psyche doesn’t get to shine through the self-built walls around her. you may think she is peculiar and cold and perhaps to a certain extent she might be, but if you treat her patiently, what lies beneath is a gem that waits to be discovered.

★ CONNECTION IDEAS !

her FIRST FRIEND after moving to us. PLEASE I BEG OF YOU. someone who guided her. someone who was probably very friendly that voluntarily helped her. someone that makes her laugh the most, someone that knows the way her laugh sounds. someone who knows she is actually capable of laughing. PLS.

someone who is a critic of her work. someone who adores her work. someone who thinks her movies are bullshit. just all types of criticism.

i’m dying to have an opposites attract thing going on for lal maybe, someone whose disposition radiates quite different vibes from her as a lover would be such an interesting for her to handle. i’d love to see it tbqh.

#YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET v2 #IM RUNNING ON LOW SLEEP SO LET THERE BE TYPOS JFDSKKJSDFKJSFD #agnesfm.intro

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sylvanfreckles · 3 years ago

Text

Between the Dragon and His Wrath

(yes it's finally here)

Rating: T Major warnings: graphic violence, mention of miscarriages and stillbirths in chapter three (the tags are for the entire fic) Fandom: Supernatural

Summary:

Great is the Daughter of Heaven, whose hand is a net and whose embrace is death.

When Castiel investigates a series of omens, he finds himself at the center of a deadly plot to free an ancient entity from the darkest plane of Hell. As his time runs short and the enemy’s power grows, Sam and Dean must race to save him before he becomes the final sacrifice to unleash chaos on an unwary world.

. . .

Chapter One: The Angel of Thursday

. . .

“I'm serious, Cas, you just gotta ask. I'll ditch this gig and come help you.”

“You're already three hundred miles away,” Castiel replied. His phone sat on the dashboard in front of him, his call with Dean on speakerphone so his hands were free to page through what little evidence he'd managed to collect. He was tracking down some fairly unusual omens—missing persons, strange carvings or graffiti in other languages—and Dean, typically, was trying to interfere.

“I'll speed.”

“The sheriff said he'd be here in ten minutes.”

“Just tell him to wait for me.”

“Dean...”

“Look, Cas, it's just.... All these weird scribbles? Sammy can't crack them either, and if the two of you can't figure it out there must be something bad going down, right?”

“They're dirty limericks that have been badly translated into several ancient languages,” Castiel replied. He picked up two of the photographs from the case file and held them up to study. “I deciphered them late last night.”

“Ooh, how dirty?”

“Dean.” Castiel set the photos on the seat beside him and glared at the phone. He refused to admit it had been his phone call with Claire, of all things, that had gotten him on the right track. He'd expressed frustration that a piece of jumbled 3rd century Greek verse seemed to reference the island of Nantucket, which had been known by a much different name until the 17th century. Claire had given a dirty laugh and, to his growing concern, recited an obscene limerick about a man from Nantucket.

It had fit, with some inconsistencies due to translation errors. He would never admit to Dean that he'd spent most of the night with photos of the other graffiti sites in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through a database of dirty limericks to finish the translations.

C'mon, man,”Dean said, his voice dropping to a more serious pitch. “This case, it just...Sam thinks we need to go into deep cover and we might be out of touch for a couple days. Maybe you should head home? Wait for us?”

“I'll be fine.” Despite his irritation, Castiel couldn't help but smile. Dean hated any of them taking a case alone, no matter how small it seemed. “Sheriff Kent just wanted to show me the latest site himself, it's probably more of the same.” More filthy poetry. Castiel had often admired humanity's achievements in the arts...but he was beginning to wish mankind had never invented the limerick. The Neanderthals would never have done something so crass.

“Be careful. You find something big you just get out of there, all right? We'll handle it together.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and looked out the window as the crunch of tires on gravel heralded the sheriff's arrival. “I have to go.”

“Promise me, Cas!”

With a huff of exasperation, he picked up his phone and stared down at Dean's name. “Good-bye, Dean.”

His friend's shout of protest was cut off when Castiel ended the call. Of course he would back off if this looked like more than he could handle. Despite what the Winchesters seemed to think, Castiel was well aware of his own limitations. Particularly with Heaven so low on power.

Shuffling the papers back into their folder, he climbed out of his truck to greet the man walking toward him from the sheriff's car. “Agent Anthony?” the man held out his hand in greeting and squinted at the badge Castiel was holding up for him. “I'm Sheriff Kent, I spoke to you on the phone? Thanks for coming all the way out here.”

Castiel grasped the sheriff's outstretched hand and tucked the wallet back into his jacket pocket. “Well, I was in the neighborhood.”

Kent snorted. “I doubt that. Not unless you're here for fishing and hunting permits.” The sheriff was a tall, rugged, sandy-haired man with the deep tan of someone who spent most of his time outdoors. “I told you, there's nothing much out here. You should've let me send you the reports instead of wasting your time,” he continued, turning to lead the way down the trail that lead to a little-used boat ramp.

“You know how it is,” Castiel replied, thinking of Sam's advice on pretending to be a law enforcement agent. “The boss wants me to be thorough.”

The sheriff glanced back at him, eyebrows raised, gaze traveling from Castiel's face down to his shoes. “Uh-huh. It's right over here.”

The area was little more than a single dock, a boat ramp, and a covered picnic pavilion with three picnic tables. The driveway that lead from the main road to the ramp itself had been barricaded due to the investigation, though the sheriff explained that most people parked along the road and took the trail down unless they were hauling a boat.

Yellow caution tape was wrapped around two of the picnic tables in the pavilion, marking out a rough square about six feet across. Castiel shuffled under the tape while Kent held it up, then knelt down next to the markings etched into the concrete slab that made up the floor of the pavilion.

“Just gibberish,” Kent said dismissively, leaning back on one of the tables. “Coupla kids getting into occult stuff, trying to summon Cthulhu or something. Happens all the time.”

“That wouldn't explain the missing persons' reports.”

Kent let out a harsh sigh. “It's a small town, Agent. Kid runs away, mom freaks out and files a report, we catch 'em two weeks later down in Reno turning tricks for bus fare back home. It happens.”

Castiel looked up at the sheriff, eyes narrowed at the man's callousness. “None of these have returned.”

The sandy-haired man spread his arms out with an unconcerned shrug. “Maybe they got lucky.”

He ignored the sheriff's biting tone and turned back to the symbols etched into the concrete. They hadn't been scratched in very deeply, and despite the shelter of the picnic structure some of the text had already crumbled away in the recent rains, but there was enough for him to realize this was something completely different from what had been found at the other sites.

“It's Sumerian,” he announced after a few moments. That was the oldest language he'd found so far, which could mean this site was more important than the others.

“You mean it's actual letters?” Kent's voice went up in astonishment.

“More like pictographs,” Castiel replied. “Symbols representing words and ideas.” He leaned in closer and rested his hand on the concrete, wishing he could have gotten here even a few days earlier. The entire engraving was unfamiliar to him, which meant this was either copied from a lost text he'd never seen before...or something new.

Whatever it was, it wasn't another limerick.

“Great...woman...of heaven,” he muttered, tracing over the symbols. “This might be the symbol for the underworld, but it's not quite correct, see?” he turned to gesture to the sheriff, forgetting for a moment that it wasn't one of his friends behind him, and Kent just shrugged.

“You can read that chicken scratching?”

Castiel ignored the comment and stared down at the symbols again. “It could mean...queen of heaven?”

“The hell you talking about?”

He stood up, brushing his hands off and scanning the empty marina around them. “Possibly a reference to Inanna, but that doesn't make sense.” At Kent's confused stare he continued. “Inanna was a goddess of fertility and war. You couldn't summon her with a ritual like this.”

Kent was staring at him, expression unreadable. “What kind of agent are you, anyway?”

“I have to make a call,” Castiel said and brushed past Kent to climb back up the trail to the road. This was more than simple demonic activity—this was someone trying to summon a goddess.

It was time to call for backup.

“You're wrong you know,” Kent called after him. “It's not 'queen of heaven'...it's 'daughter'.”

Castiel spun around, only to see that the sheriff had vanished. He held himself still, listening for any sign of movement, then turned to hurry up the trail back to the truck.

The hint of sulfur in the air was his only warning, and Castiel threw himself to the ground as something big launched itself at him out of the trees that lined the trail. His angel blade was already in his hand as he rolled to his feet, brought up to guard against the massive arm that was swinging down on him. Even guarding, the creature's attack sent him staggering and he took a couple of quick steps back to dodge out of the way of another blow.

The creature on the path gave a bellowing cry and charged at him. He had little more than an impression of a bull-like head, mouth open to reveal rows of jagged teeth, crowned with curling ram's horns. The thing was taller even than Sam, and at least three times as broad, but for all its size it was monstrously fast and was inside the angel's guard before he had time to react. Castiel made a desperate swipe at the creature's arm but his blade merely skidded across the thing's toughened hide before it was knocked out of his grip.

Castiel reacted instinctively and managed to turn away from a blow that would have caved his ribcage in, though it glanced off his side with enough force to drop him to his knees, breathless. He rolled as a huge, cloven-hoofed foot came down toward him and tried to use the momentum to kick both feet up into the creature's groin. The creature bellowed again, more in fury than pain, and Castiel was unable to dodge the clawed hand that seized him by the leg and flung him into a young maple tree at the edge of the path. The tree's core gave with an audible crack and he slumped to the ground, his breath a shuddering rasp in his chest and his vision graying at the edges from the pain.

The monster was charging again. Castiel tried to roll to his feet, but cried out as pain exploded across his back as the creature caught him and raked its claws from his shoulders to his hips. The wounds burned as though infected with hellfire, and he was unable to defend himself as another clawed hand caught at his shoulder and flipped him onto his back.

He could feel dirt and debris being ground into his open wounds as the creature leaned down over him, one massive hand planted against Castiel's chest. The stench from the beast's mouth was nearly unbearable—sulfur and rotten meat and decay—as it leaned closer, throat rumbling as though in laughter.

Castiel could see his angel blade, just barely out of reach. With his left hand he pulled and twisted at the creature's wrist and with his right he grasped for the sword, fingertips just brushing against the rounded pommel. The monster noticed his movements after a moment and grabbed his free arm, wrenching it around until his shoulder was nearly pulled out of the socket. The creature's nails dug into the flesh of his forearm as his arm was bent back at an awkward angle until his elbow was practically screaming in protest.

In a last, desperate move he summoned his Grace in his left hand, pulling it away from healing his wounds to deliver a smiting blow that would burn this abomination out of its own body. He felt his eyes flare with light as Heavenly power surged through his body...then the creature was letting out a cry of fury and ragged claws were carving lines of agony across Castiel's eyes.

He screamed, the tentative hold on his Grace breaking apart as the Heavenly power evaporated, his focus broken in the sudden, blinding pain. The monster was immediately back on him, alternating savage claws with hammer-like blows. His stomach, legs, battered chest...even his ruined eyes, nothing was safe from the fiend's wrath. The creature bellowed, as though in triumph, and hoisted Castiel off the ground and over its head. He was vaguely aware that he was spinning, flying, falling...then he was flung down and struck something solid and knew no more.

…

Awareness crept back in slowly. Castiel didn't know how much time had passed but his injuries had begun to heal, if only slightly. The wounds from the creature's claws were like burning lines that were drawing the heat away from the rest of his body, leaving him weakened and chilled. His back was a flare of agony, but his eyes had fared even worse. His left eye was swollen shut, and his right eye wasn't much better. He managed to pry it open just enough to catch a glimpse of the space around him, but his vision swum and he was forced to blink several times to clear the tears that welled up in his damaged eye.

He seemed to be in a small partition inside a larger space. An old horse stall, perhaps, in one of the old barns he'd seen on journey up from the bunker. The walls were wooden, but on three sides the slats were spaced far apart enough that he could see the larger room beyond. The air was thick with the smell of blood and straw and the sickly-sweet odor of mice, and light streamed in through gaps in the ceiling and between the boards that covered the windows.

Castiel could hear someone moving outside the stall—feet shuffling through the straw, hints of a tune being hummed, the unmistakable sound of a blade dragging through flesh. He tried to roll to his stomach to get his hands under him, intent on standing up to get a look at his captor, but flinched back with a hiss of pain when his hand came into contact with the dirty straw beneath him. It was mixed with broken glass so that any attempt at movement would cut his body even further.

It was then that he noticed his shoes were missing, and that his captor had stripped him down to just his shirt and slacks. The thin fabric did little good to protect him from the glass, and even trying to settle back down the same way he'd been lying when he woke up was causing the shards beneath him to bite at his clothing and exposed skin.

The air around him was suddenly far too still and quiet.

The humming had stopped.

“I'm a little surprised to see you alive,” Kent announced. He was at the door to the stall, arms looped through the vertical bars of the door and fingers laced together. His sleeves were rolled up, though that did nothing to disguise the splashes of dark blood on his shirt. “Ozzy's little friends don't usually last more than one playdate.”

Castiel gingerly swept the glass and straw away from in front of him, clearing enough of a patch so he could push himself up to his knees. He was in no shape for a fight, but he could at least maneuver to a more defensible position. “What do you want with me?” His voice was gravely with pain, but he'd managed to keep any tremor out of it.

“Just to answer a few questions,” the sheriff—fake sheriff—sounded a little too cheerful at the prospect. “Who are you, what are you, why are you here...that sort of thing.”

He stared up at the man wordlessly. “I told you over the phone,” he began, but Kent interrupted.

“Cheap suit,” the fake sheriff announced. “Fake FBI badge. Now that could make you a journalist or a blogger, you'd be surprised what crawls up out of the woodwork for a case like this. But you could read an actual Sumerian invocation, so I'm thinking hunter.”

Kent leaned in closer, dark eyes focusing on Castiel's face. “Then you survive Ozzy. You should have bled out there on the trail, but here you are. So I'll ask again.”

There was a pulse of power in the air and Kent's eyes flared purple. “What are you?”

Castiel met the witch's gaze, mouth set in a stern line. He let the silence stretch on, eyes never wavering. His head was clearing as his Grace worked to mend the damage to his body. It would likely still be hours, if not a full day, before he recovered enough to attempt an escape but at least the pain was more bearable.

Kent broke the silence first. He grimaced and pushed himself back from the bars to call over his shoulder. “Ozzy! Bring our guest out here for me, would you?”

There was a heavy thud of footsteps in the barn beyond Kent's shadowed form, and Castiel forced himself to scramble to his feet with his back to the wall. The glass cut into his bare skin but he ignored it, focusing on finding some way to defend himself as the stall's slatted door was thrust to one side and the hulking beast that had attacked him on the trail loomed before him.

“Have you ever seen a Gallu?” Kent asked, almost conversationally, as the creature pushed its way in through the door. “They used to drag souls down to the lower planes of Hell for their masters. Luckily Oswald here is loyal to me.”

The Gallu was at least seven feet tall and four feet across. As Castiel had seen before, its head was almost bull-like, with the exception of numerous sharp teeth bristling out of its mouth. Huge, curling, ram-like horns crowned its head on either side, connected by a heavy brow that overshadowed small, dark eyes. The arms were long and muscular, ending in hands tipped with cruel, jagged claws. It walked on cloven hooves the size of a buffalo's, its legs bent back against themselves like a satyr's and covered with coarse hair that feathered out in ragged strands over its hooves. It could almost have been mistaken for a Minotaur, except for the lack of any semblance of humanity in its form and presence.

Gallu were part of a lower order of demons, lacking true sentience but brutally efficient at chasing down any soul that dared escape the confines of Hell. Crowley had supposedly trapped them all in one of the lower planes, preferring to govern Hell through bureaucracy rather than cruelty, but somehow this one had escaped. Or been summoned.

Castiel braced his hands against the wall, eyes flickering from the Gallu to the open doorway behind it. In his current state he was no match for the creature's speed and power in a direct confrontation, but if he could get around it he had a chance to escape. Its movement would be limited in the building and the Gallu had been made to track humans, not angels.

It struck, its speed just as lethal as it had been on the trail. Castiel tried to dodge to one side but the Gallu wrapped one massive hand around his left arm and pulled him forward. His feet slipped out from under him and he collapsed to his knees, his other hand flying out to break his fall. Broken glass tore at his slacks to dig into the flesh beneath, scraped across his palm until his hand was slick with blood.

He was pulled forward before he had time to regain his feet, the Gallu dragging him across the broken glass to the door of the stall. Castiel gave up trying to stand and aimed blows with his free hand at the creature's wrist. The Gallu growled in annoyance and hauled at Castiel's arm, pulling the angel off his feet and swinging him into the open barn beyond the stall. Before he could get his bearings the creature backhanded him hard enough to make white sparks explode in his vision, the force of the blow wrenching at his shoulder and elbow as he was knocked to the floor.

“Just hold him here,” Kent was saying. The Gallu yanked Castiel up by the arm and dragged him inexorably toward a long table in the center of the barn's open space. A partially-dissected corpse took up one end of the table, with lumps of organic matter filling a half dozen wooden bowls and a basin below the table rippling with partially-congealed blood.

Castiel was spun around and slammed shoulder-first onto the surface of the table. The Gallu placed one massive hand on his chest to hold him in place, the other wrapped around his wrist to stretch his arm out for examination. He couldn't see much of the corpse past the creature's bulk, but he'd seen the colorful ribbons braided into the blond hair.

In the files he'd gathered, one of the missing persons had last been seen with her hair decorated with ribbons in her school's colors. They hadn't just been runaways...Kent had been taking them.

“Shall we?” Kent said brightly. He had a short knife in his hand, the blade flecked with rust. Without another word he dragged it across Castiel's arm, tearing sleeve and flesh as he went. The witch studied the wound for a moment with a frown before reaching for a different knife and cutting Castiel's arm with that one as well. This one was silver, and Kent carefully watched for a reaction before setting the knife down with a puzzled frown.

“Next should be holy water, but I never touch the stuff,” he commented. “I supposed we could start with a few discovery runes, but if you're not reacting to iron and silver...”

His voice trailed off as he looked over the long table, then he smirked at Castiel and reached for another item. His angel blade.

“Tell me you're not the kind of guy who goes around carrying the one weapon that can hurt you,” Kent said teasingly. When Castiel refused to answer he pressed the tip of the angel blade to the inside of Castiel's elbow and dragged it down toward his wrist.

Castiel screamed. The bulb in the battery-operated lantern that hung over the table exploded, and Kent took a step back in shock.

He twisted, trying to free himself, but the Gallu's hold was relentless. Kent staggered forward, dropping the angel blade to rest the tips of his fingers on Castiel's wound, which was glowing with the faint sheen of Grace.

“I don't believe it,” Kent whispered, bringing his fingers up to press Castiel's blood to his lips. “You're an angel.” For a few long minutes Kent stared at the glowing wound in Castiel's arm, almost in reverence, while the Gallu leaned more of his weight against the angel's chest.

Kent suddenly took a step back and brushed his hands off on his thighs. “I'd better get moving. We'll need more supplies to keep an angel here, and I should call the girls. Better keep our guest entertained, Ozzy.” The Gallu gave a satisfied rumble as Kent strode away, but paused when the witch called over his shoulder. “And keep him quiet!”

Castiel tried one last lunge for his angel blade but the Gallu was faster. It twisted its fist in the front of Castiel's shirt and whirled around to fling him out into the open floor of the barn. The angel rolled and tried to push himself up to his feet, only to be knocked back down under the creature's onslaught. Ruthless claws tore at the flesh of his back, tearing open the half-healed wounds from the earlier attack. He tried to fight but he was easily flipped over and then the Gallu's hand was on his neck, squeezing until the bones creaked and his throat closed.

The Gallu lifted him by the throat and slammed him back down so his head bounced off the floor of the barn. And again, the grip on his neck tightening with every gasp of pain Castiel managed to choke out. He flailed useless at the hand on his throat as his wounded body grew weaker, the new slashes across his back burning fever-bright as they leeched the heat from the rest of his body.

Clawed fingers caressed his face, almost gently, tracing the jagged cuts the Gallu had left earlier that day. His left eye was still swollen shut, and the vision in his right was beginning to swirl and fade as his injuries multiplied.

Castiel tried to scream as pain erupted across his face, but could barely get a breath past the monster's grip on his throat. The Gallu was dragging its claws along the wounds it had left early, reopening the ones that had begun heal and tearing them even deeper.

He coughed, tasted blood in his mouth, and let the pain send him spiraling back into darkness as the Gallu dug into his wounds a second time.

. . .

There we go! Chapter one of seven!

You know how it goes! Likes and comments feed the muse and the muse makes the whump.

Okay, love you, bye!

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fresafresitawrites · 4 years ago

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hemera: goddess of the day

my second vignette in my creative writing class! posting this here so everyone can have fun reading and also cuz i havent posted anything in a while. it’s not that long, so if u can read thatd be so appreciated !!! inspirations: a party i went to with my art history friends and anne carson’s eros the bittersweet

rest of the vignette is under the read more

I waited outside Hemera’s apartment building, wiping my shoes on the doormat and holding the champagne bottle she asked me to get. She was still 20 until next March and I turned 21 back in June, so for the next few months this would be my job.

The October air was crisp and sharp. The occasional gust of wind felt like needles on my skin. I’m glad that before heading to Hemera’s, my mom convinced me to wear the Sherpa-lined Levi’s jacket she bought me at a Black Friday sale last year—- 70% off.

The door swung open.

“Andrew!” Hemera’s sudden embrace knocked me back a little. The rollers in her hair scratched the surface of my cheeks when she hugged me, and I was hit with the scent of coconut milk shampoo. A tropical wave juxtaposed with the autumn breeze.

“Hey, is no one else here yet?”

She didn’t let go of me. She hadn’t seen me in a while ever since she started a new job at an Italian restaurant near Union Square, and I’ve been working late-shifts at the bookstore since the holidays were around the corner. “Oh, here.” I gave the liquor store bag.

“You got it!” I closed the door behind me as I entered the lobby. “They use this brand at work, so I wanted to try it.” Her black nails tapped against the green bottle before handing it back to me. “And no, I actually told them to come at seven because I know if I asked you to come early you wouldn’t have done it.”

“Oh really?” I wasn’t actually surprised but I wasn’t going to argue with her either. She’s probably right anyway. I followed her up the three flights of stairs and into her studio, hanging my coat behind the door. She went back to unraveling her curls in front of the bathroom mirror. I leaned against the doorway. Her sink was covered in hair and make-up products.

“You would’ve said, vos! Jou’re gonna make me clean your room while jou do jour make-up again.” She exaggerated my accent. I’ve been a New Yorker for eleven years, but Argentina will always ring in my voice. “Anyway, can you clean you room? I have to brush out my hair.”

“No.” I started peeling off the foil of the bottle.

She turned around, snatching the bottle away from me.

“Not until everyone’s here!”

“All right, whatever.”

I was going to help her straighten the place out anyway. Hemera lived in a studio apartment that she moved into just last year, despite her mom’s disapproval. On the night of her move-in day, we lay down on the hardwood-- since she hadn’t gotten her couch yet-- and shared a bag of Doritos.

“Do you think she’ll be okay? All she has is the cat now.” She meant her mom. “Maybe things should be like they were back in like, the old times. She always talks about how full the house back in Mexico used to be, even my great-grandmother lived there. Three generations! With the kids and everything. There was so much noise… and now it’s just Pepino.” She rolled over to face me. “I miss my kitty already!”

Hemera sometimes had this way of speaking where nostalgia tinted her voice with memories that weren’t hers. I could name more people in her family than my own.

The entire apartment was the size of my mom’s bedroom. The hardwood creaked with every other step, the pipes under the kitchen sink moaned like ghosts, and the walls were covered with floral wallpaper tearing at the edges, but Hemera treated her apartment as if everything was made of gold. I would too, honestly.

I cleared up the wooden coffee table by removing piles of open mail—mostly bills and Target coupons—printed recipes, and scripts from her theater classes. I didn’t know what else to do with them, so I just hid everything under her pull-out couch. On the kitchen counter, she had those trays of assorted cheeses and meats—to be fancy for her college friends. I rummaged through the cabinets and found her supply of Hot Cheetos to snack on while I reheated the pasta on the stove she made for the guests.

“Okay, how do I look?”

I followed her voice. Her hair was curled up in short rings, like black garden roses, and her eyes were dusted with purple and black eyeshadow. Or eyeliner, I didn’t know, but the glitter illuminated her tan skin. She was dressed in her signature all-black style. In a lace, spidery dress that hugged her curves and ended at her thighs. She sparkled under the dim lighting of her apartment, like a crystal in a cave. In Greek mythology, Hemera was the goddess of the day, but Hemera always reminded me more of Nyx, crowned in dark mist and black-winged.

In high school, Hemera spent most of her time woven in the arms of the upright bass player from our orchestra class. He was long haired and mysterious, as she liked them. She would ask me to French braid her hair before their dates, having me incorporate the artificial flowers he’d give her into her strands. This was something my mom taught me how to do so it’d take less time to get my sisters ready in the morning when they were younger. Maybe it was Hemera’s smooth hair, or the scent of her Jasmine perfume, or watching her finally leave, but my thoughts turned to poetry. The night he broke up with her she cried on the edge of my bed.

This was when she crawled towards me, placed her hand on the calculus textbook on my lap, and kissed me.

And in that moment, any romantic feelings I had towards her dissolved into a fog.

I read in an essay once how unrequited love is a form of escapism. Briefly, perfection exists in the form of a person who you believe is immaculate. Once the feeling is returned, you realize their judgment is flawed because they’ve decided to like you of all people. They lose their divinity. The Greeks spoke of a similar sentiment, Eros: the desire for what is missing. You desire only what you lack. Once something, or someone, is finally in your possession, you can no longer want it.

And where’s the fun in that?

“Hello? Andrew? Andrés Ibarra? Do I have to say it in Spanish? Does my ass look fat or not?”

She walked over to the full-length mirror, answering her own question and taking pictures on her phone. “Also, can you not be weird around my friends? You always talk about that time you swore you saw a UFO and I don’t think you realize how much of a weirdo you sound like telling that story.”

I sprinkled some of the Hot Cheetos dust from the bag onto her pasta and stirred.

“No problem.”

#creative writing #writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #short stories #flash fiction #writers community #spilled ink #writers #my writing #fiction writing #fiction #original writing #original characters #short story #quotes #my vignettes

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iwachans-beefyarms · 5 years ago

Note

i know this is kinda really detailed and specific idea for a scenario so i hope that this is okay! it turns out tsuki is only really good at english because he kept his english penpal from primary school and they talk everyday and ft and she surprises him by turning up before the shiratorizawa match!! just some fluffy platonic feels please maybe she goes out with the team for dinner afterwards too? 💕💕💖

Omg, I really love this scenario! I’ve had my fair share of penpals so I was really excited to write this (: I remember having an Italian penpal 2 years ago and interacting with her inspired me to learn Italian on my own because she would often give me amazing Italian book recommendations hehe (I might have gone a bit overboard when writing about Tsukki training for the match lmao)

BTW for those interested, the quote from the beginning is from Donna Tartt’s ‘The Secret History’! It’s one of my favourite books of all time and it’s what made me start learning Latin, highly recommend it to all of you! Also, I love writing about platonic friendships soooo much so if any of you would like to request similar things in the future, please do!

Note*** Reader will be speaking to the team in Japanese, which will be indicated by bolded words

Okay, I’ll stop talking now, enjoy!

“I had said goodbye to her once before, but it took everything I had to say goodbye to her then, again, for the last time, like poor Orpheus turning for a last backwards glance at the ghost of his only love and in the same heartbeat losing her forever: hinc iliac lacrimae, hence those tears.”

Tsukishima sighed and put the book down. Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, he leaned back and closed his eyes. It was a bittersweet feeling he often experienced when nearing the end of a compelling novel. This particular one, especially, had had him completely enamored. He almost felt wistful when he realised he was almost done with it.

He opened the book back up and carefully highlighted the phrase “Orpheus turning for a last backward glance”, making a mental note to look up the reference. It sounded like a literary allusion to a Greek myth of some sort, but he had to check to be sure. He glanced at his phone and opened his e-mail to type a quick message to you.

“I am almost done with this book… Honestly, what a ride! I can’t even bring myself to finish it because of how attached I am. I learnt so many new phrases and literary allusions too! I’m seriously considering reading all the pieces of work the author had referenced throughout the novel haha. But, it’s gonna have to wait until after my volleyball season ends because we have finals coming up soon… Anyway, talk to you later! BTW, how did you enjoy the poetry collection I sent you?”

He signed off as he usually did, packed his things up and left for after-school volleyball practice. He couldn’t help but feel that today was a particularly lovely day. When Yamaguchi approached him and draped his arm around his shoulder, he welcomed his friend’s affectionate gesture with a genuine smile of his own.

“Wow, that’s a big smile! Did something good happen?” Yamaguchi questioned curiously. He glanced down at Tsukkishima’s hands and noticed the book he was holding.

“Ah! Y/n’s book huh? Is it any good?” He asked, excitedly grabbing it from his friend and flipping through the pages. His eager expression morphed into one of complete confusion as he squinted his eyes at the flurry of words before him. “How do you even read this? It’s so hard…” He blurted out.

“Tsk, you just don’t have enough practice, dumbass,” Tsukkishima retorted jokingly. It was true, though, what he said. His regular emails to and from you since his primary school days had greatly improved his English linguistic skills. Even more so, it had made him more knowledgeable in the art of writing and analysis. Everytime he got a comment on his essays about his exceptional way with words, he would silently thank your influence in his head. It was quite ironic that Tsukishima, someone who found it immensely difficult to forge meaningful relationships with those around him, would have shared such a close friendship with a girl living on the other side of the world, but such was life.

As the highly anticipated match against Shiratorizawa loomed closer, Tsukishima’s mind drifted from you and the book he had yet to finish. His heart, soul and entire being was devoted to his team. While he greatly appreciated the daily messages of encouragement you graced him with every morning, he simply did not have the time to respond properly. For now, all that mattered was volleyball.

He trained everyday, much like his teammates. Where once he would have scoffed at the level of fervor he demonstrated in his journey towards becoming the best player he could be, he now relished in the passion that flooded him everytime he held the ball between his hands, or when he jumped in tandem with his teammates to form a block. He would be prepared for Shiratorizawa, for Ushijima Wakatoshi, and for whatever force that dared to reckon with him.

That was what he told himself before the match, repeating it in his heart like a mantra, with the hopes that the belief would materialise in the court. And, that was exactly what his teammates and he did. They won. They actually won. Tsukishima never viewed himself as a sadistic person, but dear God, the look of defeat in the faces of his opponents sent him to a high he had never experienced before. It wasn’t that he was glad they lost; they were decently nice people. It was that they had won; a game that, by all expectations, should have been lost. He was euphoric. In that moment, amidst the chaos surrounding him and the cheers resounding through the stadium, he felt an immense wave of love rush over him. Love for his sport, his opponents, and most importantly, his team; his family outside of his family.

After the match, as the team made their way out of the locker rooms, he let himself bask in the triumph of their victory as his friends cheered boisterously. Suddenly, he caught the eyes of a very familiar face approaching him with a slight jog. His eyes widened. Impossible.

“Tsukki!” You wrapped your arms around his neck. He didn’t hesitate to engulf you in a hug of equal intensity. It was either the excitement of winning, or the shock from seeing you in front of him that made him so easily reciprocate your affection, but at that moment he didn’t care.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, incredulously, ignoring the gawking stares of his team. “My parents wanted to go to Japan for the holidays, and of course I had to come see you at your big match! You were amazing! I mean, Amazing, with a capital A!” you rambled off excitedly. Tsukishima almost let you continue your enthusiastic rant but he was interrupted by Daichi’s hesitant tap to his back. He cleared his throat and announced, “Everyone, this is Y/n, my good friend from Y/c.”

“Hello everyone! It is so wonderful to meet all of you! Tsukki has said so much about you that I feel like I know all of you already,” you addressed them, bowing slightly. Your nervous blush made Tsukki smile softly to himself. Immediately, you were attacked with questions.

“How does Tsukishima know such a pretty girl?”

“Where are you from? Are you here on holiday? How do you know Japanese?”

“Do you play volleyball?”

You did your absolute best to answer all their questions, and in the process, gave the team a brief summary of your friendship with Tsukishima. Yamaguchi, in particular, was wonderfully excited to make your acquaintance. Eventually, the boys and their managers invited you to have dinner with them. You graciously took their offer and left the stadium with them.

The evening was filled with laughter and jubilation. Everybody was still riding the high from their win, and spent dinner reminiscing moments during the match, and of course, talking about Tsukishima and his pretty friend. Stories about his childhood self, his emo-phase and, for a brief tw months, k-pop phase, were shared by Yamaguchi and yourself. Usually, Tsukishima would have been incredibly annoyed at being the object of a joke, but tonight, he settled for a half-hearted shove to Yamaguchi’s shoulder and a teasing comment. “At least I pulled it off… Not like your cosplay phase, remember?” Cue another round of hearty laughter.

As he watched you and his team bond, he sat back and gently rubbed his chest. His heart felt so full at the moment, and although he knew it wouldn’t last, he cherished the feeling and took a mental picture of the scene in front of him. He leaned towards your ear and whispered, “Thank you so much for coming, it meant a lot.” You squeeze his arm gently and replied, “That’s what friends are for, Tsukki!”

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #platonic #tsukki #tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #scenarios #fluff

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windmilltothestars · 4 years ago

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Another (less) short piece for @mynameisremyiamadumbass - who suggested the other day be “Grantaire Appreciation Day” - right before I had to my tutoring job. I thought of this idea WHILE I was tutoring, when I supposed to be thinking of eighth grade math!! Anyway, it ended up being more of ensemble piece, and (of course) longer than planned, but Grantaire does get appreciated! Enjoy a very ridiculous story, my friend!

Combeferre, Feuilly and Enjolras were all hunched over the table in the back room of the Café Musain, in serious consultation of the wording of their latest manifesto to be taken to the printers’. Enjolras was grinning faintly – out all of his friends, these two were the least likely to let women or booze or even artistic excitement or personal problems interfere with their focus on the cause, and today’s progress had been swift and efficient.

Suddenly, the thudding of urgent, ungainly footsteps approached, and they all tensed and raised their eyes to the door in anticipation. The sound had been so loud and forceful that they were all surprised when it was Jehan who appeared in the doorway, pale-faced, clinging to the doorframe, and gasping for breath.

“Jehan? What is it?” wondered Feuilly, approaching him in concern.

“I was – just – talking to –” Jehan panted, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees.

“Catch your breath first,” Combeferre advised, laying a calming hand on his shoulder. Jehan nodded vaguely and held them all in suspense as he inhaled.

“To an inspector!” he said at last, straightening up. “He seemed – suspicious – heard some rumor! He was asking – questions – about our organization – ‘What is the aim and purpose of the Friends of the ABC?’ I told him – we teach poor children – teach them to read! ABCs, you know! Then he asked – where? Where we met – and did our teaching! And – I – I panicked, I thought – I’d better not say here – so I said – the Café Corinthe! And he’s going there – now! And I’m – I’m sorry,” his contrite eyes were more on Enjolras than the others, “I didn’t know what to say – I panicked.”

They all glanced at each other anxiously.

“Is anyone there now?” Combeferre wondered.

“It’s too late for breakfast –”

“They might all be in class –”

“Though it’s possible – Bahorel or Grantaire –”

“But if he questions the staff, poor old Mère Hucheloup – might not know what to say,” Feuilly concluded uneasily.

“I’m sorry,” Jehan repeated, ducking his eyes.

“It’s alright,” Enjolras told him firmly, “you did nothing wrong. We’ve just got to go there now – and pray God we can get him off the scent.”

This was all the incentive they needed to be on their way. They even sprung for a carriage ride just to get them there faster and stand a better chance of catching the inspector and minimizing the possible damage to their cause – not to mention their lives.

With terror hammering in each of their hearts to varying degrees, the four of them poured through the door and came upon a surprising sight.

Grantaire, fists raised in front of his face, was mock-sparring – the blows connecting but ever-so-lightly – with a scrawny, ragged young boy who sometimes delivered messages for them, whilst the inspector, tall, imposing, and in full uniform, stood to the side and watched the proceedings with a puzzled expression. There was a faint blush to Grantaire’s cheeks that someone who didn’t know him might have taken for exertion or embarrassment, but he seemed, on the whole, but minimally impaired; he had the presence of mind to subtly roll his hastily-hidden wine bottle further behind the counter with his foot as he passed. He allowed the boy to get a good mock-hit on face, before tumbling dramatically to the floor in response as the boy cheered his victory, and then straightening up and smiling pleasantly to the inspector.

“So you see,” he panted, “how he’s improving in his self-defense lessons! Now, I may be biased, Monsieur Inspector, but to my mind, self-defense is one of the most important skills for our students to learn! Though the others –” his eyes turned upon his four friends at last, and his grin widened – “are sure to correct me! Monsieur, might I introduce our afternoon teachers?”

The inspector turned to look at the four of them. Combeferre faintly raised a hand in greeting, and Grantaire therefore honed in on him as the calmest and most ready to convincingly play his part.

“This is Monsieur Combeferre,” he said, indicating him. “He teaches anatomy and other sciences. Fantastically gruesome stuff! Talking for hours about blood and bones!”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Combeferre greeted the inspector, shaking his hand. He turned pleasantly to the raggedy boy. “Can you tell the inspector what you call the bones in your fingers?”

“Knuckles!” the boy shot back.

“He prefers boxing to science,” Combeferre informed the inspector ruefully. “We’re working on it. Though it’s a testament to my honored colleague Monsieur Grantaire’s skill, I’m sure. He also teaches art.”

“Art and science?” the inspector wondered, tilting his head. “And self-defense? I was given to believe you were teaching them to read!”

“We here of the Friends of ABC believe in a balanced education,” Feuilly put in. He, too, held out his hand to shake the inspector’s. “In started with just literacy, but we’ve since expanded our aims. I’m Monsieur Feuilly; I teach woodworking and handicrafts. And here, you’ve met Monsieur Prouvaire. He helps our advanced readers to reach a higher understanding of literature and poetry; sometimes they write their own!”

“And he teaches the Bible in Hebrew and Greek! Quite a polymath, our Monsieur Prouvaire,” Grantaire added fondly, causing Jehan to hastily withdraw the hand he was extending to the inspector and use it to quickly hide his furiously-blushing face.

“And this,” Grantaire went on as his eyes fell with their regular glowing admiration on Enjolras, who had been standing like a statue watching the proceedings, “is the chief and foundation of our whole enterprise, Monsieur Enjolras!”

Enjolras gave him a slight nod and shook his hand mechanically, but said nothing.

“And – what do you teach, Monsieur Enjolras?” the inspector asked, his expression unreadable.

“History,” he replied swiftly. “French history – especially of the last century – is my specialty, and quite enough to fill a whole course, I daresay, but Monsieur Feuilly has persuaded me to expand the area of study across centuries and continents – to have a more whole and complete picture of the world.”

“The way he tells those stories,” Jehan put in shyly, “why, he puts you there, in the shoes one living in that moment! To listen to them is to be enthralled by some fey creature! His is the magic to transport one across time and space!”

“I can see why he teaches poetry,” the inspector muttered.

“Monsieur Prouvaire is right,” the boy added suddenly, dashing over to Enjolras and clinging to his leg. “Monsieur Enjolras’s stories are amazing! His class is my favorite – after boxing, of course!” Enjolras awkwardly patted the boy’s shoulder.

“It’s true,” added Mère Hucheloup, ducking her head out of the kitchen, “Even I get distracted in my serving by dear Monsieur Enjolras’s history lessons!”

The boy faced down the inspector and continued. “I was one of the first students to learn with the Friends the ABC! Back when it was just Monsiers Enjolras and Combeferre teaching reading! Monsieur Enjolras taught me my ABCs – right at that table over there!”

There was a silence as they all gazed intently at the inspector’s impassive face – even Mère Hucheloup had paused in laying out oysters – and collectively willed him to believe their elaborate castle of lies and half-truths. He gazed from face to face and seemed to be reading for nerves or lies in each of them. They each internally trembled for Jehan’s exceptionally timid manners and propensity for blushing. But his inner valor upheld him, and his face stayed pale, and he did not duck his eyes.

At last, the inspector completed his sweep, he gave a soft breath of satisfaction, and slightly smiled. Five pairs of tensed shoulders relaxed.

“Is there anything else, Inspector?” Combeferre said. “Only our afternoon students will be arriving in twenty minutes, and we really must prepare!”

“And the sort of children we teach,” Feuilly made bold to add, “are sometimes afraid of the police! They might not show up today if they see you here!”

“Er – yes, alright,” the inspector agreed awkwardly. “I’ll be going, and I’ll tell them at the precinct that we’ve nothing to fear from the Friends of the ABC, that they’re but a lot of harmless dreamers – who in my opinion,” he added, casting a dubious glance at the ragged boy now holding Enjolras’s hand, “are wasting considerable talent on this sort of riffraff!”

Enjolras’s outrage at this comment managed to confine itself to tightening his grip on the boy’s hand and clenching his fist; but Feuilly’s expression darkened dangerously.

“Now, see here, Inspector,” he said, stepping up two paces closer to the man. “To educate is to deliver a soul out of darkness, and to offer a chance at a life of use and light and joy and purpose! Do you say we should condemn every poor man’s child to darkness? Dismiss this whole class of people, as not worth consideration?”

“It is our philosophy,” Combeferre added, “that education – the illumination of all minds into greater truth and understanding – will bring light and progress to all the peoples of the world; thus, starting in childhood, and not excluding any class of child, is vital for the progress of the human race.”

The inspector gave a sort of snort, his mouth upturned in a somewhat derisive smile. “What did I say?” he shrugged, “Dreamers! Harmless dreamers!” And without another word, he turned on his heel and left the café.

Jehan immediately sunk down into a chair. The urchin ran to window and stuck his tongue out at the inspector’s departing back. Combeferre and Enjolras confined themselves to sighs of relief. Grantaire, also sitting, said, “I need a drink.”

“You and me both, brother,” Feuilly said fervently, clapping him on the back and going to pick up his hidden wine bottle. “I think perhaps we all do. Mère Hucheloup, some more cups, if you please!”

“Do you know,” Combeferre said softly to Enjolras as they watched Feuilly accepting the cups and pouring out the wine, “I rather liked the idea – all of us as teachers! Molding young minds! I had myself half-convinced!”

“In the new world – in the Republic,” Enjolras promised him, “that will be the way. When that day comes, I freely pass my torch to you – in your hands, the light of illumination!”

Jehan, during this exchange, had risen to his feet and gone to the window to join the boy. “You saved us,” he told him earnestly. “The Friends of the ABC will forever be in your debt! Here,” he added, reaching into his pocket and handing the boy an entire five-franc coin, “get yourself something nice!” The boy excitedly rushed to the counter to buy himself a pastry.

“And he’s not the only who saved us!” Feuilly added as he passed the cups into each of their hands. “Without Grantaire’s being here, his quick thinking and adaptability, we’d be lost!”

“Certainly, we would!” agreed Jehan, smiling warmly at him.

“Oh – oh, really,” Grantaire dismissed, ducking his own head and trying not to look too pleased by this praise, “it was nothing, my friends – nothing, really!”

“It was far from nothing,” Feuilly assured him heartily. “Gentlemen, let’s raise our glasses – to Grantaire!”

“To Grantaire!” they all echoed, smiling at him.

Grantaire’s face was rather blank as he observed his friends – it was, like the inspector’s scanning over each one as if to ascertain this was real. As they knew it would, it settled last of all on the fair countenance of Enjolras, a desperate question in his eyes. To reassure him, Enjolras raised his glass a fraction of an inch again, widened his smile gave him a little nod. At last, Grantaire’s face relaxed and reflected his smile, and they all drank deep.

Next second, Bahorel burst into the shop, greeting them with a shout of, “Afternoon, my friends! ARE WE ALL READY TO SMASH THE GOVERNMENT?!?”

Jehan choked on his wine, and fell out of his chair.

#mini fic #my fic #fan fic #les miserables #i am sorry #i am a people pleaser at the depths of my (canine-like) soul #so i hope you are pleased with this :')#i forgot how to spell feuilly's name every single time i typed it #and don't ever ask me to say it out loud #ignore me #it's 4am again here

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thenightling · 5 years ago

Text

The first Raven (a very short Sandman fan fiction)

The First Raven

Disclaimer: This is a very short Sandman fan fiction. The Sandman belongs to Neil Gaiman and DC comics.

This short one shot story is very loosely based on this piece by @artwinsdraws but I was a little kinder to Lucien. I think he’s going through enough right now with the current The Dreaming comics.

The First Raven:

“Milord, I have served you loyally and faithfully this past millennium…” The speech was well practiced but the tone still revealed a certain nervousness and lack of ease. His voice trembled with uncertainty.

“What is your point, Lucien?” The Dreamlord sounded weary.

Morpheus was seated on his Nightmare Throne. The whole of it looked to be carved from dark wood and had a Gothic aesthetic to its design. There were three steps leading up to the ornate throne itself and upon those steps, on either side, were small pumpkins. Pumpkins had not yet been introduced to Europe at this point but Morpheus and his raven were not in Europe. They were in The Dreaming. And he rather liked the look of them.

The throne was well designed and candles were fixed on the high back of the seat. Spider-webs made of silk dandled at certain parts as part of the decorative intention.

Morpheus, himself, matched the throne in his own, long, black robes. His eyes were almost entirely black save for the tiny star-like pupils. And he had wild, dark hair. He was painfully thin and his skin was as white as bone. The sleeves of his robes were belled and as such easily fell down his skinny arm when he rested his elbow on the armrest of the throne so that his hand was under his own chin.

He looked at the black bird that stood on the ground in front of him. He watched the bird with intent and perhaps some discrete affection.

“Sire,” The raven said, “I have become weary of my post. I wish to continue to serve you in some capacity but…”

“But no longer as my raven?” The Dreamlord sounded disappointed.

“Well… Uh… Yes.” He said meekly, fearing his lord’s well-known wrath.

“I see.”

The raven cringed with dread, knowing his lord’s temper. The cringe came when he saw that Morpheus was rising from his seat on the throne.

Morpheus descended down the stairs of the throne and stopped at the raven. He knelt down and offered his arm for the raven to perch on the dark sleeve of the robe.

“Lucien, you have served me well this past millennia, it is true. And if you wish to retire from your post, I owe you a boon as payment for your service to me. Perhaps I can see to that boon benefit us both.”

“But I-“

Morpheus made a “Shhhh.” sound as he placed a finger to the black beak, without fear of being bitten by his raven.

“If you wish to continue to serve me that can be arranged. But I have had time, Lucien, ample time to prepare for your inevitable retirement and what is owed to you and what shall be done with you, provided your consent, of course.”

The raven was considerably worried now. Was he angry and just toying with him? Was he secretly furious that his raven would want to no longer be his raven? Nervously he took perch on Morpheus arm, careful not to let his talons pierce the soft, black velvet of the sleeve, and Morpheus rose to stand.

He walked with Lucien toward a staircase that had not been there a moment before.

Morpheus walked with his raven, up a long, curving, staircase, to a set of grand doubled doors that almost appeared to be made of gold, and maybe something far stronger than gold hidden under the gilded platting. These were doors Lucien had never seen before but some part of him felt a rush of excitement at what might be behind them.

Morpheus placed his hand against the heavy, gilded, doors and the doors easily gave way to his touch.

Beyond the doors was a room that seemed as wide and expansive as the castle as itself, if not more so. There were stone tablets with carvings engraved into them, resting against the walls. There were slotted shelves, with perfect square openings. And in each square was a perfect Greek or Roman scroll. There were texts from Mesopotamia written on untreated lamb’s skin. There were hand-bound volumes of the new and gorgeous invention, the book. There were many books already. More than what Lucien imagined existed in the Waking world.

These were things that Lucien loved dearly. Poetry, art, plays, history… All compiled here in this grand repository. He had never seen such a thing.

The raven flew from his perch and began to fly through the stacks and shelves, exploring the texts that were easy to see, the ones pinned to walls or in display cases of transparent glass.

He flew back to Morpheus and flapped his wings to stay at face level with him. This grand collection of stories and knowledge was all he could ever dream of, all his little heart had desired.

“My Lord… Is this- is this Heaven?”

“No. But it could be your Heaven. Do you want it?”

“Me?” Lucien’s little raven eyes seemed to swell to double their size. Had he been human they might have been welling with tears. Even now they seemed glassy with emotion.

“This new library will house all the stories that are dreamed of. Every tale that was never told and yet dreamed of by the potential author will be here. Along with their Waking works, of course.”

“My lord, I- I don’t know what to say…”

“Say you will be my librarian. Consent to this change of position and this library will be yours forever.”

“Oooh, yes.”

“Very good.” There was a twinge of something like a smile on the edges of Morpheus’ mouth. “What form would you like to have?”

“What form?”

“Yes. You are no longer my raven. You could physically remain a raven but I am under the impression you don’t want that. And it would make your new duty somewhat difficult, though not necessarily impossible…”

“Do you want to be human?”

“Well, not exactly…” Lucien said with careful thought. “Humanish, I suppose. It’s been so long I don’t think I know how to be a human. But I wouldn’t mind thumbs, and hair. And… Ooooh, may I be tall?”

“You may.” Morpheus actually looked amused. He imagined it could sometimes get frustrating to have the size of a bird and not be able to reach things without the aid of flight.

“Taller than you?” he asked cautiously. “Say… about a head taller thank you?”

Morpheus walked from him and ran a pale, bony finger over one of the book spines to his left. “You would have to be tall to reach some of the higher shelves with ease.” He said thoughtfully.

“I don’t want to look the way I did… before I was your raven. I want to be someone new. Can you make me a body specific to being your librarian?” Lucien had not always been a raven but he was not fond of remembering who or what he had been before then and Morpheus was obliged to not remind him. Though Lucien had been the first raven, Morpheus had consciously decided that if he sought new ravens to serve him, he would pick souls that had not quite like being human anyway.

“I can.”

Morpheus moved to the raven. He reached for the leather pouch that hung at his own hip and drew out a fistful of the glittering, magical sand. He scattered this over the raven. Lucien shut his eyes with uneasy anticipation.

Morpheus’ cunning fingers went to work as if he was sculpting soft clay.

Lucien barely felt the transformation but as he changed, each aspect of the metamorphoses seemed perfectly natural. White fingers lightly stroked the feathers on top of Lucien’s head. Before he realized it he had hair the color of dry, autumn leaves. It was very much brown.

His nose, though human, was still somewhat beak-like. He felt the nimble fingers lightly tugging at what was fast becoming human-like (or elf-like) ears. The ears were pointed as many of Morpheus’ creations had pointed ears. Morpheus rather liked pointed ears. The skin tone was Caucasian and light. The eyes were brown, like the hair.

Lucien knew his eyes were changing when he felt the fingertips lightly rest against his eyelids. The magick tingled through him. When the tingling faded Lucien finally opened his eyes. He moved toward a mirror that hung on the wall and he was certain had not been there a moment before. He examined himself, the new face- quite different from his original human one. He approved of the beak-like nose. And the soft, expressive, brown eyes. He even liked the hair, it almost felt like feathers.

He was wearing a suit of new clothing. And he looked down at his hands, flexing the fingers. They felt good. They felt natural. He turned to his side, where his lord now stood. And he looked down at Morpheus. How small and child-like his lord looked to him from this height! He looked around himself in wonder and then grimaced.

“What’s wrong?” Morpheus asked, like a painter who might have just learned his latest masterpiece had a flaw.

“It’s- It’s nothing… It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Lucien lightly touched the eyelids. “It’s all satisfactory, milord. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful… I very much appreciate the height. But...”

“But?”

“It’s the eyes… I saw so much clearer as a raven, so far, and with impeccable detail. These eyes are weak and the words in the spines blur from a distance.” He frowned. “It’s rather blurred and faded compared to how I saw as a raven.”

“You would prefer to have kept your raven eyes?” Morpheus raised his hand as if to ready himself to undo some of his work. Raven eyes sized to fit a human head-like wouldn’t be too difficult.

Lucien shook his head. “No. I like the look of them. I just...”

“You just want to see as you saw as a raven but retain those eyes?”

Lucien nodded, reluctant to ask for such a thing.

Morpheus reached into the pouch at his hip and took out a fistful of glittering dreamsand. He scattered this into the air and caught the thing that was taking form. He placed the round spectacles on the bridge of Lucien’s nose. “There.”

Lucien pushed the spectacles the rest of the way up his face. From behind the glass he saw precisely as he had with his raven eyes. “Oh! Oh, that is much better! Thank you, Milord!”

There was that trace of a smile again on Morpheus’ face. “Does this make you happy, my librarian?”

“It is all I have ever wanted.”

“Then it is yours. This is your reward for serving me as my raven. You will serve me now as my librarian.”

And so Lucien the Librarian was born.

The End

#Neil Gaiman's The Sandman: Fan fiction #Lucien The Librarian #Morpheus #Dream of The Endless #The Sandman

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godofsunandselfies · 4 years ago

Text

When Apollo woke, his first thought was that everything was a dream. It couldn't be real. After all, he remembered fading. He remembered the weakness of his limbs, how his strength just faded away with every breath, with every word that he said to... to...

He furrowed his brows. Was someone with him when he faded? (Tears running down a face - a face he loved and made his days brighter. Arms held tightly - silently begging him to stay. He hated seeing him cry.)

He couldn't recall.

Slowly he sat up; his skin registering the familiar chill of Olympus's stone floor. This was not a dream, he was beginning to realize. The realization only strengthened as he took in the room - the throne room- where his fellow Olympians were too, gawking, amazed at this miracle. Some, namely Hermes, had even taken to running across the room, embracing others as he cried in jubilation. Ares and Aphrodite sat clung together (and for some reason the sight tugged at his heart). Demeter and Hestia were smiling and rejoicing. Even his father and step-mother seemed go be sharing a rare moment of honest affection with one another.

They... They all lived. They had returned from...well... nothing. It was nothing short of a miracle.

Just as he found his feet, a weight slammed hard against him, near sending him careening back to the ground. He smelled the scent of nature - of dew-speckled grass fields and a forest of cypresses - and he held tight, a bright smile spread wide across his face. "Artemis! "

She pulled away from him, but only enough for them to truly see one another, not at all leaving the embrace. Not yet. There were tears in her eyes - tears of joy and relief. "Apollo, you're okay."

He nodded, and even he could not help but tear up. "Yes. Yes. I'm okay. I'm alive. And so are you. "

His words only seemed to make his beloved sister sob, and he felt sorry for it. Then she slapped his chest, hard.

"Agh! What was that for? " He recoiled from her, shocked.

Artemis glared at him. "For not coming home when everything... when everyone started to... " Fade was the word, but she could not bring herself to say it, to recall those times. Apollo didn't blame her. "You risked your life, choosing to stay out of Olympus. It would have made you fade faster! You... I didn't even know if you were already gone or not and I... "

He stopped her from speaking any more when obviously the memories only brought her more and more pain. Embracing his sister again, he shushed her as she cried. They clung tight to one another. Glad and relieved to be together once more.

"I'm sorry," he said in a hush, though he knew an apology likely would not be enough for leaving her be in what they had all feared to be their final moments in existence. "I'm sorry I made you worry. I'm so sorry I left you alone but... I had to be with... "

His words faltered as did his thoughts. Who did he had to be with? Who did he choose over his own sister - his twin? His mind hazed. He couldn't recall. (And his heart ached so much. Why?)

Artemis regarded him with a look of concern. "Apollo? Are you alright? "

"Oh, uh" - he shook his mind free of the odd thoughts - "I'm fine. Just... Just still in shock, I guess. "

She nodded. Believing his words, she then went on to grab his hand and lead him out if the throne room, babbling excitedly on wanting to see how much the world had changed in their absence. He allowed her to drag him, but only because he still... he still couldn't understand.

Why did it feel like something was missing?

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

A millennium. They had been gone for a millennium. A thousand years had passed while they slept in the void.

Apollo's heart ached as he stood in the heart of the city - the capital of the new point of power of civilization, and where Olympus now resided over - surrounded by strangers who spoke in a strange language in this new strange world.

I wonder if he's okay, he thought, only to frown, confused. Just who was he thinking of?

The ache in his chest grew stronger every day.

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

Apollo fell back into his old ways. He roamed the changed world and marveled at its innovations - at the art, the music, the poetry! And he quickly learned that it was because of art that he and his family, as well as the other gods, had been restored. (Something both he and Dionysus were quite smug over.)

He also fell back to his norm of socializing with mortals - making friends; inspiring some and healing many (though prayers were close to nonexistent now, he still felt the need to do his work). Chatting and flirting as he did in the past.

But it...wasn't the same. Not really. When he found a mortal he fancied and pursued then as he does, it felt... wrong. Like he was making a grave mistake. That he was betraying something (someone).

None of his relationships lasted long. Not unusual for him, but this time, it's him who walks away. The relationships rarely last long enough to sire demigods.

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

He fell in love again.

A sweet young woman - Mary. While to most she was nothing more than a peasant girl in the middle of nowhere, to Apollo he saw a spark. She was curious... so curious of the world beyond her little home; her little village with such a long name. (An eagerness to learn; bright eyes they should be blue... It just drew him in. Familiar.)

It was his music that caught her eye to him. He had played a rather somber piece - the tragedy of two lovers whose love was ended by Time.

He adored her and spent spring and summer at her side. He spun her stories of, well, himself... The "myths" of the Greeks - both the known and the not.

But... It still felt wrong. He loved her. He did. (Did he? Or did he love how much she reminded him of him?) He cared about her. Wanted to see her happy.

She wanted to see the world. Perhaps he could give it to her - whisk her away...

Why did the thought make him so cold with guilt? Why did he feel this way?

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

He left her. He just....

It didn't feel right to be with her when it was clear he did not feel quite the same as she. It was likely she knew. Her eyes... She always looked at him with such sadness. Like she knew something that he didn't and...pitied him for it.

A day before he left, Mary had asked him, "Who was the song for? "

"I don't know what you mean," he had laughed.

Then her eyes had that look again, and his heart ached, like a knife had embedded itself deep. "The song you sang when we met? The one about the lovers separated by Time... It's obvious it's a story about you and someone else. And that the song is, well... It sounded like you were singing to them. "

He had no answer for her.

He couldn't stay after that.

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

"Where are your bracelets?"

"Hmm? " Blinking out from his daydream, Apollo regarded his sister with a lazy turn of his head. One that earned him a particularly annoyed look form her. "I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that. "

Her eyes rolled. "Your bracelets. The ones we made for one another." She held up her hands, showing off the two bracelets that were adorned on each of her wrists. Each a simple band - one gold and bearing a slightly lopsided sun; and one silver, this one with a crooked crescent. "I've been meaning to ask about them. Noticed you haven't worn them since, well... " She shrugged. And he knew what she was getting at. The day they "woke up".

"That's silly. I always... I always wear them." Yet when he pulled back the sleeves to his shirt, he found his right wrist, where his gold bracelet should be, bare. His brow burrowed. "I... What? Where are they? "

How could he have not noticed that they were gone? It's been years since they all had woken from that place of nothing!

Artemis sighed. She looked disappointed, and hurt. It only made him feel worse.

"You lost them, didn't you?"

"No, no, I... " What was there for him to say? He... He couldn't remember what happened to them. "I... I suppose I did. "

"It's okay," said Artemis; though Apollo certainly felt otherwise. "Bound to happen at some point. You always had a bad habit of losing things. Oh! Like that time when--"

And she prattled on with her story about the "good old days". Seemed that was all everyone ever did since the woke.

As he listened, Apollo heard a voice in his ear. At first, he figured it was a rare follower - someone who still believed, if only a bit, in them. Likely it was some hopeful artist or desperate doctor seeking out his aid. But then... Then the voice, a man, started to just... go on and converse with him. No prayer. No pleas. Just... a conversation.

It was so strange. The voice... He sounded so familiar. (And his heart ached and ached with every word he spoke. Practically crying out to this strange man.)

He couldn't help but laugh, amazed, as the man began to list his titles. He was impressed. Whoever this was, he knew his stuff.

Then...

“I miss your birds. My birds,” the voice chuckled. “Got chased out of town for trying to raise a few. They call ravens a bad omen now, but I see they’re still looking out for me."

It all came crashing down on him, slamming into his head like a lightning strike. Years - centuries worth - of memories flooded his mind. And he remembered.

A smile that made his heart flutter; a voice that filled his days with laughter and love. A face that could brighten even his worst days... and a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

He remembered the silly circumstances of their first fighting. (Picking up a snake with his bare hands? What a silly mortal.) He remembered the painful struggle with how he felt about this wonderful man - how he had ignored how much he loved him; so scared to be hurt - and the absolute joy that flooded him when he told him "I love you". He remembered how he feared losing him to a prophecy that kept them apart... And he remembered the pain, the despair, when he left him, faded - the feeling of his arms around his neck, his body beside his, the last he felt before disappearing into the void.

He remembered. He remembered Kleitos.

"How could I have forgotten?" he gasped, breathless and with tears pooling his eyes.

Artemis sat up from her throne. "Apollo? "

But he ignored her. He sought out the raven his Kleitos spoke to and, with a quick gesture, gave a command for it to go to him. Then, ignoring yet another call from his sister, he went to him in a flash of bright light.

Opening his eyes, Apollo found himself on a path leading on to... well... he wasn't quite sure. But where he was didn't matter. What did was the man standing just a foot away.

The clouds parted for this moment, and the sun shone brighter. As it should, Apollo thought, a watery smile on his face. He was with his love again.

When he had woke on Olympus to find the world unfamiliar, so completely changed, he felt incomplete - that something was missing. Now, Apollo knew. He found that missing piece.

Apollo felt whole again.

Blinking back his tears, Apollo called out to the love of his life:

"Hopefully, I'm not a bad omen myself... "

#i adore you (kyle)#long post

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