#sparks of imagination [ figment musings ]

[aethergate]

tag dump 3 : character musings tags

[prythianpages]

Too Good To Be True | Lucien x Reader

...you're just too good to be true...can't take my eyes off of you...

summary: in which your newest muse catches you red handed.

word count: 1,600

a/n: I do struggle writing Lucien but I had seen this tiktok and wanted to write a meet-cute over it and when I saw this fanart above made by IG user kri_stasss_, I took this as a sign lol. I also listened to the song can't take my eyes off of you like 100x while writing this.

With a sigh, you lean back into your seat, allowing your eyes a break. You had been sitting at the corner of the bustling cafe for over an hour, choosing to surround yourself with Velaris’s warmth and the smell of coffee in the hopes to finally draw something.  But your sketchbook is spread open on the table with a half-finished drawing.

You look at the view before you, the Sidra River shimmering like pure sapphire under the sun’s gaze. The leaves of surrounding trees rustling gently in the soft spring breeze and flowers vibrant hues adorn the riverwalk. It’s a beautiful sight–one that many stop and admire. Yet, it is not enough to fuel the inspiration you so desperately need.

The flowing water and distant laughter of children blend into a soothing symphony as you absentmindedly twirl your pencil between your fingers, thoughts drifting. Send me a muse, you plead to the Cauldron, yearning to feel that thrill again.That spark that ignites your passion of drawing. The very one that moves your hand effortlessly across the paper.

The sound of iron against pavement startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. You blink your eyes back into focus and instinctively, they land on the source of the noise. The table diagonal from you, that had been vacant for the past hour, now has an occupant. An occupant who is blocking your view of the Sidra River, the very one that is half drawn across your sketchbook.

But you can’t bring yourself to complain.

Not when there is a man of striking beauty seated there. 

His mere presence commands your attention, his red hair catching the sunlight and gleaming like fire. You feel your breath catch in your throat as your eyes trace the elegant lines of his face. Brutal scars mar the left side of his face–from his brow all the way down to his jaw. 

Despite this, the male is devastatingly handsome. Ethereal. 

Too good to be true, you think, finding yourself captivated by his eyes. His right eye, whole and russet-colored, holds a depth that draws you in. But his left eye…His left eye is a mechanical marvel, golden and intricate, and gleaming with an otherworldly light.  

And suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with an urge to touch him. To reassure yourself that he is real and not just a figment of your imagination. Gods, with a face and built body like his, he’d be heaven to touch…

A rush of excitement floods your veins and you feel a familiar thrill coursing through you. Your hands are turning the pages of your sketchbook until a blank page sits before you. And before you know it, you’re pouring your awe and fascination into each stroke of your pencil. Your eyes flicker up and down as you commit the details to mind, heart pounding every time with the fear of being caught. 

Though you're cautious about it, you’re too lost in his eyes to catch the way the male’s lips curve slightly upwards.

**

Lucien takes the last sip of his coffee, admiring the sight before him. The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in twilight hues and dancing across the Sidra River. Along the riverwalk, Fae stroll leisurely. Couples walk hand in hand, children skipping along the cobblestone path, pausing to catch the fireflies that are now visible in the dimming light.

Velaris was proving to be more beautiful with each passing day—a sight he’d never expected from a place like the Night Court. All his life, he had only come to know the Court of Nightmares. A place that truly lived up to his name. And though there were children laughing and running freely, he couldn’t help but still be wary of the City of Starlight. It was still part of the Night Court, after all.

His eyes scan along the riverwalk, golden eye making a soft sound as it moves, in search of something. Or rather, someone. Just as a frown is about to settle on his face, he finds what he was searching for. The reason why he was at this cafe…despite the fact that the best espresso in town was at a little coffee shop in the Rainbow of Velaris.

You.

You are sitting at a bench, knees drawn up and a sketchbook nestled onto your lap. As the sun continues to make its descent, the street lamp near you croaks to life. It bathes you in its soft glow and he is able to appreciate the slight furrow of your brow, the slight way your lips purse in concentration. He wants to know what you're drawing.

Ever since he caught you staring at him at this very cafe, he had an inkling as to what may be hidden within those pages of your sketchbook. He had meant to approach you about it but you had been so into your sketch, he found the sight endearing and feared disrupting you. 

So he had left you to it and showed up to the cafe the next day at the same time in the hopes of seeing you again and he did. That time, your gazes had met and though it had been brief, it felt everlasting. He remembers the way your cheeks tinted with blush before you turned your head away, flustered at being caught. If only you had seen the way he had smiled softly to himself afterwards.

It’s been days since that incident. Though he didn’t find you in that same spot the day after, he came to the conclusion that this was your favorite area to frequent in Velaris. It slowly became his too, his eyes always finding you amongst the busy riverwalk. 

Lucien had never been the shy type–at least, not when it came to pursuing people he was interested in. He had just been waiting for the right time–for the right moment to talk to you. And as you closed your sketchbook with a light exhale, his heart fluttered as he realized what better time than now.

**

Calling it a night, you close your sketchbook with a soft sigh. The sun had been replaced by the moon and the street lamp’s light was too dim for your liking to continue you drawing. You feared messing up what you had meticulously spent hours on. As you rise from the bench and turn to make your way back home, you bump into a smaller frame than yours, the sketchbook in your hold falling from your grasp.

“Sorry, miss!” A lively voice chirps and when you look toward the source, the small child is already far away from you. Kids, you muse to yourself as you turn back around.

Your breath catches in your throat. Standing right in front of you is the male who has become your muse.

But he’s not looking at you.

No, he’s looking at the sketchbook on the ground. Your heart skips a beat, heat rising to your face. The sketchbook had opened to the pages you've been working on—the ones with multiple sketches of his eyes.

You’re frozen in horror, watching as he studies your work. None of you say anything for a moment. It’s when his gaze lifts to yours that you spring into action. “Oh,” you gasp, beginning to bend your knees to gather your belongings. You're absolutely mortified, praying to the Cauldron he can’t hear how fast your heart is racing.

“I’m so sorry.”

Before your hand can reach for your sketchbook, another hand beats you to it.

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice deep and enchanting, causing your hand to freeze in midair. There seems to be a magnetic pull in his words, a sincerity that makes your heart flutter. Is there anything about this male that is not attractive?

“I’ve never seen the beauty of my eyes until now.”

The words are spilling from your mouth before you can stop them. “You’re joking, right?”

He’s knelt before you, his hand hovering over your book. But instead of picking it up for you, he grasps for your hand instead. It’s warm and calloused yet feels so good against yours. Like heaven. His eyes finally meet yours, holding you captive. He slowly brings your hand to his lips, and you don’t think you’re breathing as he presses his lips against your skin.

“No,” he grins as he rises to his full height, using his free hand to grab your sketchbook before bringing you with him. “I’m Lucien.”

It takes you a moment to realize he is waiting for you to speak, his presence overwhelming but exhilarating.

“I’m—” you clear your throat to steady your voice. “I’m y/n.”

“y/n,” Lucien repeats with a smile, finally handing you over your sketchbook.

You take it, immediately clutching the book tightly to your chest and avert your gaze, casting it downwards. “I promise I’m not a creep. I was drawing the Sidra–well, attempting to, anyway. But then you came along, blocking my view and something came over me. You see, I’ve been struggling with artist block and your eyes–your eyes are so pretty”--and under your breath, you mutter–” All of you is, if I’m going to be honest…”–Lucien’s smile widens at that–”and I finally felt inspired–oh gods, I’m rambling. I should just shut my mouth.”

Lucien’s russet eye twinkles with amusement. “I inspired you?”

“Yes,” you answer quietly and bashfully.

“Then perhaps,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “I should let you inspire me as well.”

Slowly, you lift your head back up, meeting his eyes once more. A wave of relief surges through you as you find nothing but sincerity and shared interest in his gentle gaze. You find yourself mirroring his smile, and something warm blossoms in Lucien’s chest—the start of something beautiful.

And he can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the Night Court isn’t so bad after all.

a/n: okay, that's enough Lucien for now. Can't keep letting him distract me because I need to focus back on the other Vanserra *cough* Eris *cough*

general tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen

[saphirered]

Hi Saph! I was wondering if I could request a fic about a newly mated Lucien? I looked through your masterlist and I don't think there's one for him yet :) Thank you!

Took a hot second but finally did it! It's a spicy one but what to expect from a silver-tongued fox. Happy reading 😘

He wakes up engulfed in a warmth not even the radiant heat of a bonfire on a cold night could mimic. Lucien returns to the world of the waking, pleasant dreams waning away as they do so fleetingly. He tries to catch onto them, to keep them with him only to find them as reality. These dreams are not figments of imagination. He does not grow cold the moment the realisation hits and instead he is engulfed fully just like when he used to close his eyes. Nothing can fight the smile on his face and he certainly does not want to because when he opens his eyes, his gaze falls on the most wonderful view. 

Curled up next to him lays the most wonderful creature he has ever encountered. Your eyes are still closed. Your features are peaceful. You have not a burden in the world right now. Lucien wants to see you like this in the waking world. If he has to move mountains to do so, his heart burns to do it. All to see you smile, to see you content. You stir lightly, shoulders tensing and relaxing as you let out a puff of air. Then your eyes open. Your beautiful eyes. He could never grow tired of them. If anything they might hold him captive like some trap and leave him falling through the world but all the same are you the grounding force that keeps him tethered.

“Hey.” Your voice still laced with sleep sparks in his chest. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t know what else to say. For a fae of many words he is at a loss; completely and utterly captivated. 

“It’s rude to stare.” You mutter raising yourself onto an elbow and looming at his side as you study his features. You even deign to grace him with your gentle touch, brushing your fingers along his collarbone back and forth. Sparks combust below the surface of his skin. Goosebumps form, awaiting the presence for more. 

“Yet it is perfectly acceptable to admire the captivating.” Lucien retorts. Amusement graces your features as your fingers dance up the column of his neck, tracing the fading marks you’d left there the eve before. Tenderness still present is but an obvious reminder and he does not doubt should he take a glance in the mirror his neck and shoulders would be covered in such bruised markings. Your lips had explored his skin plenty and when he had made such lovely sounds when you paid careful attention, who were you to deny him these pleasures? It’s not like you didn’t have a great time. If anything he’s repaid you manifold. You made it clear you would seek to balance the scales. 

“As quick-witted as always, my dearest Lucien.” You muse as your fingers brush aside some stray strands of copper. The praise and approval spreads warmth throughout his veins, not because of your words but the feelings that traverse that invisible string between you two. You press your lips to his. Your kiss is but a ghost and leaves him all too soon. You laugh at his disappointment even though he can very clearly feel your desire to deepen that kiss, to return to his lips, the rest of his body while at it and have yet another of those blissful moments you lose yourselves in. 

“Your self-restraint is infuriating, my love.” Lucien breathes when your fingers brush through his hair and he sits up enough to finally be face to face with you. Inches apart seems too much still. 

“I fear if I do not show self-restraint we might never leave this room again.” You chuckle when you feel his touch wander along the curve of your waist sending goosebumps across your skin even beneath the thin sheet that barely covers you. 

“You say that as if it is a bad thing.” The fact he can feel your consideration, weighing his words leaves him wanton and such he acts. Lucien takes you by the hips and shifts you onto his lap, your legs on either side of his as your arms come to rest around his shoulders. He makes a point of tracing shapes on your now exposed flesh, dipping just a little closer to where you want him to touch you. Despite your presented attitude he can feel your arousal through body and bond. What a gift the mother bestowed him. 

“While I intend to spend the rest of my life with you, I intend to extend that to outside the confines of this bedroom too. I would love a stroll down the river. A swim even perhaps.” He pretends to entertain the thought in disagreement but understands. While the thought to stay here forever is certainly entertaining, venturing beyond that threshold would not be the end of the world and going places with you, spending more time in your company will please him either way. The wicked look you give him however is mildly concerning. 

“And perhaps…” You lean in, your lips trailing along his neck pressing light kisses to his skin like a fuse lit. “We can take however long we need to explore beyond the bedroom door.” Your teeth graze his neck somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“If it is up to me I will fuck you in every corner in this house before we make it outside.” Lucien moans and the sound only eggs you on to continue your ministrations until you are satisfied with his body’s response to you and let a hand wander down the planes of his chest, down his abdomen, grazing ever so lightly where you need him most. 

“Why stop there? Plenty of places outside too.” With that you finally stroke him releasing a mewling sound from him and that satisfied grin on your face, he wants to wipe it off so badly. Lucien decides he will. In but one swift motion he has flipped the two of you. He takes your hand away from him, clasping it and bringing it to rest besides your head. His lips dart for that spot that he knows has you melt instantly. Just as predicted you do. Your little gasps are all the encouragement he needs. Nevermind the way you rock your hips into his touch when he lets his fingers slide down between your legs. 

Lucien kisses down your chest, sucking and biting and licking, paying careful attention to all the things that make you tick. Your gasps and moans, the gentle cry of his name, the way when he finally lets go of your arm, your fingers lace into his hair and hold on, are encouragement enough for him to keep going. Then his lips trail down, replacing his fingers previously stroking and brushing. Your sounds of pleasure only increase until he has you panting, until you can’t take it anymore and pull his hair. He goes for another few seconds until he pulls away. You’re out of breath and given your gaze, pupils wide, he waits for your next move. You take a few deep breaths. Your gaze turns wicked and your hold on his hair loosens. 

“Keep going.” You needn’t say more for him to dive back between your legs and the amount of time it takes you to cry his name sparks not just some male pride but simple satisfaction and pleasure of his own. He could be lost within you for days, weeks, months, years. This is only the beginning. 

[edupunkn00b]

I Love You Heart and Mind, Ch. 4: In a Legal Setting

Prev - In a Legal Setting - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Logan comes to a fresh conclusion in a courtroom.

Everything changed that night.

Well, perhaps that was a bit exaggerative, Logan mused as he crouched, knees to chin, in the center of his room. There, too large to fit, and too small to change, his mind replayed his failure in Patton's room.

The hurt pouring off the tenderest of them all, the crack in his voice as he pleaded with him to cease his overly harsh assessment of his lingering feelings. The diamond glitter of tears in the corners of his eyes all demonstrated to Logan the primary failing of his technique to remain grounded.

Simply—over simplistically—put, Logan's anger not only had begun to serve as a poor deterrent to his inconvenient changes in size, but was now hurting the Side least equipped to weather his rage.

Thankfully, Logan had been able to escape before any of the others noticed the stretching seams on his polo or his sloped shoulders, hunched low to make himself appear smaller. He sank down, eyes closed, Patton's expression figuratively burned into his mind.

Safe and alone in his room, he managed to tear off his eyeglasses and his clothes before they'd be ruined. Walls and ceiling pressing in against him, he struggled to control his heart.

As a distraction, Logan pushed himself into Thomas' perspective, delaying his own perceptions of the chilly air against his bare skin, the sharp poke of his desk where it dug into his shin.

The tears soaking his floor.

Both hands covering his mouth, he failed to even name what caused his sobs he couldn't stop. Guilt for hurting Patton so? Frustration that, despite his efforts, they all still remained in Patton's room? An undignified whimper squeezed past Logan's lips as he shot up further, back of his head smacking against the ceiling.

He let out a slow breath and focused again on Thomas' senses.

His chest was tight but warm, a spark of melancholic joy as he recollected that damned fishing trip with Uncle Buck. Logan saw through his eyes and the others listened.

Everyone except Patton.

"Say," he said, shoulders dancing in his warning of impending pun. "What's 'Buck' short for?"

"Ah…" Logan shivered as he experienced the stereoscopic thrill of Thomas sifting through his memories from both of their perspectives.

"'Cause he's got little legs!"

Patton's giggle came out choked—thin and forced, his sweet goofy smile failing to brighten his eyes.

"You know you don't have to do that, Patton." There was no sign Thomas was at all aware of how completely Logan had taken control of his speech.

Patton certainly wasn't. He looked back at Thomas' eyes, open and thoroughly unshielded. Was that how he looked at everyone? Vulnerable? Listening with his full heart?

"Try to... hide what you're feeling with jokes. It's okay to be sad sometimes." Logan hugged his knees to his chest and let himself imagine he was holding Patton instead.

"I'm never sad! I'm your happy Pappy Patton! Just a fun-loving father figure figment."

"Falsehood." Spoken in Thomas' voice, Logan's correction came out far gentler than he could have ever managed on his own.

"You said yourself," Patton argued back. "I'm at the core of a lot of your happy feelings."

"You're at the core of a lot of hi—my feelings... Happy or otherwise." Logan watched Patton carefully, waiting to see if he'd caught the slip. He looked too busy trying not to cry to have noticed. Logan's heart clenched.

"When I was younger, my uncle used to take me fishing… and I HATED it. It was boring, throwing the living fish in the cooler upset me... There was no escape for them or for me. On the boat, I was stranded with miles of H2-Open water in every direction…"

Logan smiled to himself when Patton huffed out a tiny laugh at the pun. Eyes screwed shut, he rested his head against the door jam and slowly let slip his hold on Thomas' speech.

By the time the others made motions to return, Logan had shrunk enough to dress. He appeared in his spot just in time for their return.

Along with the fuzzy hoodie he'd intended to give Patton on his birthday.

Patton took to wearing his gift as a proper sweater whenever they were off camera. The first morning Logan came downstairs and saw him, sturdy blue apron tied tightly around his waist, plush sleeves rolled up, Logan could barely manage a few words before the warmth in his chest grew too large and his collar tightened until he couldn't speak. He excused himself with a gesture and a wave.

Eventually, Logan strengthened his ability to maintain his composure and the pair began to spend most quiet mornings together. Logan would loiter in the kitchen, sipping his coffee. Eventually, the his control grew and they'd stand side by side, mixing and chopping and blending together.

Everything had changed.

So much so that Logan had begun a new project, a personal project. Hunched over his desk, favorite pen in hand, he worked to plot out different tactics he might use to begin to reveal his core problem to Patton.

Gradually, Patton had begun to listen to him like none of the others did. He did not always completely understand, but was always willing to try. Perhaps sharing this difficulty with him could reveal some new insight into how Logan could better manage his condition.

At the very least, Logan hoped to finally explain the increasingly loud and caustic outbursts he used to prevent his literal growth spurts from interfering with their videos.

Thoughts churning, his pen wandered across the page and when Logan next looked down, he deciphered a familiar verse.

…love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

Smiling, Logan copied out the rest of the sonnet by memory. He'd nearly finished the final phrase when he felt the summons. With just enough time to think, he grabbed the first book he saw so he wouldn't appear before Thomas with his personal planner—and the sonnet—in view.

He rose up in the witness bench of a large, wood-paneled courtroom. Roman sat next to him in a gleaming white judge's robe, sash cut across it. Blood red. Virgil was a juror, a sharp tie over a long sleeved black shirt similar to his. Virgil's hoodie topped it off.

Patton's did not. His gift, his ever-present cat hoodie was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a three-piece suit.

Logan fought not to stare at him. "You guys are doing a courtroom scenario... without me?" No-one had insisted he be part of this exercise? None of them? Not even… He dragged his eyes away from the bright blue tie so perfectly knotted at Patton's collar and shoved his sour hurt into a tiny steel box in his chest. "Unacceptable."

He let their explanations wash over him as he played his role. Facts and information. Logic. That was all he needed in this moment.

It was all any of them needed from him.

J—Deceit carried on. "I feel like 'which event could cost us more to miss?' is a less interesting question than... 'which event has more to offer us?' Don't you?"

"I don't feel anything," Logan said. Irritation, perhaps. Frustration and annoyance. Those are mere sensation, not a feeling.

Deceit continued his argument and Logan only half-listened to his own responses. It was in his nature to rattle off the details he retained.

"There's always room for me," he said. There should be, at least. It was simple oversight that they hadn't included him sooner.

I don't feel anything.

Deceit smiled back at him. "I know, that's what I said, but Patton insisted we leave you alone. "

Patton said that? Logan wasn't certain if he'd actually spoken aloud. He watched his objection, waiting for an actual denial, waiting for any sort of evidence that J—Deceit had lied.

But Logan knew Deceit didn't always lie. He only got to decide when their truths could be revealed.

I don't feel anything.

Logan fumbled through the rest of the hearing, facts at the ready as a bright hot coal burned in the center of his chest. He was getting sloppy, soon these metaphors might take root. Or they would if anyone listened long enough to him. Eventually the hearing was done, Roman's judgement passed and, numb, Logan slipped back to his room.

His personal planner still sat open on his desk, foolhardy plans taunting him. A waste of paper and ink.

He picked up his pen and crossed out all but the final two lines of the sonnet.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Then he closed the book and crawled into bed.

I don't feel anything.

[snarky-magpie]

(So here's a new chapter of PS. I Hate You in which they actually talk. But don't worry, it will still remain primarily a text fic.) “Can’t believe you actually exist.” 

Okay, so this has become an official race toward making a complete arse out of himself. Thankfully, Reg doesn’t seem to mind. No, he rewards the dumb remark with another peal of that delicious sound.

“What did you suspect, James? That I was a figment of your imagination? One of your characters who’s come to life to snark at you when you procrastinate instead of writing?”

The familiar teasing relaxes James. He settles deeper in his chair, smiling widely. Hearing Reg for the first time shocked him, but trading snipes and digs back and forth? That he can do. It’s what they’ve been doing all along, and he wouldn’t hesitate to call it a foundation of their relationship. It’s what pours gasoline into his veins, waiting to be lit up by the spark of Reg’s sarcasm.

“That never occurred to me. My characters are so much nicer than you. And better behaved.” 

“Are they, now?” Reg’s voice drops an octave. It turns seductive. Dangerous. A cold shiver trickles down James’ spine. “Thought I was your muse.” 

“Mmm. You inspire me to write the direct opposite of how you behave.”

[scmrats]

HAN SOLO. / ( @lessthantwelve ) starter.

she  thought,  of  course,  he  was  a  figment  of  her  imagination.  or  -  if  not  that,  a  guest  possessed  an  uncanny  resemblance  to  the  man  she  told  herself  to  forget  when  she  left  for  good.  it  was  for  the  best  if  she  ever  wanted  to  kill  the  part  of  her  that  clung  to  hope,  qi'ra  abandoning  the  girl  lady  proxima  (  and  later,  dryden  )  molded  her  to  be.  she  didn't  want  dryden  to  see  such  parts  of  herself  -  she  wanted  to  keep  his  possessing  eyes  from  knowing  her  more  intimately  than  he  demanded  he  did.

yet,  the  closer  qi'ra  lingered  (  slowly,  at  first,  she  sparked  conversation  with  guests  to  step  inch closer.  and  then  with  a  new  founded  sense  of  urgency  when  she  realized  that  it  was  not  mere  uncanny  resemblance.  )  until  her  hand  tapped  onto  the  shoulder  of  han  solo's  caramel  jacket.  he'd  grown  since  she  left  him  on  the  beach  of  savareen.  qi'ra  wondered  if  he  would  regard  her  with  bitterness.

"we  have  to  stop  meeting  like  this," she mused, lighthearted.

[amitapaul]

40/26

26/4/24

MetaPoem on NaPoGloPo

Just an excuse, only the slightest tap of the shoulder perhaps,

A thought hook, a mere memory, a story, a sound, a book,

A question, a query, a quest, a word, written or unwritten,

A phrase, a form, a formula, a fantasy, a figment,

Anything will do, to bring out what’s bursting in you.

Reams and reams roll out describing dreams

Inscribing in ink what I imagine, what you yearn for,

Our hopes, our aspirations, our inspirations, our desires

So similar yet varied, underlining our shared humanity

As dozens respond to the same prompt from the same source.

Is this the Spiritus Mundi , ''a universal memory and a 'muse' of sorts

that provides inspiration to the poet or writer” according to William Butler Yeats ?

Is this Hive Mind ? One Humankind ? Humming Live ?

The World-wide Web alive with sparking nodes ?

Geological and Electric Lodes ?

Writing together with Poets across the Globe in GloPoWriMo

Gives us this feeling of Community, with all Humanity,

People tip- tap- typing away, scribblers scribbling,

Questioners quibbling, poem- hunters hunting, poem-punters dribbling …

The Ball mustn’t fall or stop still but keep rolling

Runners running and slower strollers leisurely strolling

Keep the readers reading, their screens constantly scrolling

Cajoling, consoling, gambolling, eye- rolling, extolling

With Rhyme and Reason, Consonances, Assonances , Dissonances,

Alliteration, Anadiplosis, Anacolutha, Anaphora

and Anagrams.

O the Euphoria of Deep Metaphoria !

( over the Drone of Rhymezone ! )

( ASA )

#24gloponapowrimo #amitasinfinity

Prompt : Write a poem that involves alliteration, consonance, and assonance

[maievolution]

my art was a terrible delusion.

“Never have I known the genius of cutting brilliantly to the heart. I knew only the grimace and breadth of my age. My art was not art. Anyone vaguely familiar with what I felt and its renditions into my writing, would recognize it as a terrible delusion” (pg. 1, Prologue, “When This City Was Ours).

never before have i experienced the profound brilliance of incisively reaching the core of a matter. throughout my life, my understanding was limited to the grimace and vast expanse of the era in which i lived. my artistic endeavours, though they bore the semblance of creativity, were devoid of true artistic essence. any possessing even a faint familiarity with my innermost sentiments and the resulting literary expressions would readily discern that it was nothing more than a grievous illusion. in the depths of my soul, i yearned for that elusive spark of genius that would enable me to unravel the layers of human experience. i longed to captivate the essence of existence, to convey its essence in a way that resonated with the deepest recesses of the human psyche. yet, despite my fervent aspirations, my artistry fell short. they became mere reflections of my own limitations and the prevailing ethos of my time.

it was a bitter realization, one that slowly crept into my consciousness like a silent spectre. the gap between the art i envisioned and the art i produced grew wider with each passing day. i found solace in the fleeting moments of inspiration, where the muse would briefly grace me with her presence, to catch a glimpse of the brilliance that lay just beyond my reach. but these moments were fleeting, like stars that shone so brightly only to go supernova. i grappled with the dissonance between my aspirations and my achievements. the chasm between the ideal and the not, and this reality weighed heavily upon me.

was i to be forever confined to mediocrity? was there truly a genius lurking within me, waiting to be set free, or was it merely a figment? of my imagination?

in the eyes of those who knew me and my work, my delusion was so disgustingly evident. i repulsively saw through the façade of my would-be art, recognizing it for what it truly was — a feeble attempt to capture the ineffable, to make sense of a world that defied comprehension. i was painfully aware of the boundaries of my creative prowess, the poverty of language. the gap between what i longed to express and what i conveyed grew wider, wider, and wider, and it left subtle undertones of delusion and disillusionment.

still, my delusion was not of failure, but rather a testament to my relentless pursuit of artistic truth. never again would i allow my art to be a mere reflection of my age. i would transcend the limitations of my time, to create something timeless and universal; a legacy. isn’t that what we all strive for?

[otp-holic]

The one place (where something happened) (A03)

“In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.” Alice Munro. (or the one where they receive a letter from a familiar name and we go into 4Ks of fluff around a lost afternoon in France)

4K. Lamely explicit at one point. Fanfic + Pictures Inside. Trigger for FLUFF as the main plot. Part of the Never let us lose what we have gained series (AO3)

This was supposed to be a manip with 200 words of bantering and it's now 4Ks of fluff with a few pictures. I've decided to leave them inside the cut because I feel they work better with its context there. I'm sorry for the hassle, but I really hope you give this a chance... unless you have cavities, only like fics with amazing plots or are allergic to shameless fluff.

Please do not repost the pictures, I know this is futile, but… I try :)

DAGUERROTYPE, France 1944 Private Collection.

Steve is cooling down from his very early run, enjoying the feeling of the pink sunrise looming over the awakening Brooklyn streets as he walks the last couple of blocks on the way home, when his phone beeps.

“Check your actual mailbox, we dropped something for you there. I think you should appreciate us making it old-fashioned just for you, grandpas!”

Steve smiles at Sam’s text and as soon as he arrives at their building he snaps a picture of the very common and flat envelope with “Barnes&Rogers” scribbled on top of a Stark Logo, to send along his response.

“Nice try, but this is inaccurate. A letter would have never made its way to us without an address or stamp. We’ll send you a proper thank you card to show you how it’s done.”

He can’t help but chuckle at his own joke rereading the text while he opens the door, and when he looks up from his phone and into the kitchen, he is received by a sleepy Bucky looking at the coffee machine like he looks at Steve during their most soft and embarrassingly cheesy moments.

“You love that thing more than you love me, confess it.”

“In the mornings? Yes. I don’t even like you in the mornings most of the time,” he answers matter of factly. “Want some?”

Steve playfully wiggles an eyebrow.

“No way. Your sweaty self is tempting, but coffee smells better. I might join you in the shower later.” Bucky offers him one of the two cups he has poured and he notices the envelope Steve is holding. “What is that?”

“We’ve got mail!” He hands it to Bucky. “I have no idea what's on it, but Sam texted me to say they had something delivered to our mailbox and there it was. Open it.”

Bucky leaves the cup on the counter, face sparked with a curiosity that makes him look twenty-one (and Steve weak on the knees), and goes for it.

The content is a bit underwhelming at first glance: Another envelope, white, no Stark logo, but topped with a bright green post-it with a note on Pepper’s script.

“This got to me via PR. We analyzed it and checked with the source (no peeking, I swear) and it seems legit. With that return address, it’s likely to arouse your interest. Love, P.”

Bucky tears off the post-it and the letter is revealed to be addressed to Steve Rogers at the Stark Tower, but it is when they turn it around when everything goes still for a second.

The return address is some street in Marseille, but what has Steve’s mouth dry and Bucky’s hand trembling just a bit is the combination of the place and the name written on top: Emmanuelle Jaques Dernier.

“Boom?”, Bucky says, trying to cut through their heavy hearts and taking Steve’s hand. It’s a terrible terrible joke, but Dernier would have loved it and he grins.

“That’s a terrible terrible joke,” Steve verbalizes, “but I think at least we’ve reached the same conclusion.”

“Elementary, my dear Steve,” Bucky answers as he opens the second envelope, only to reveal a folded letter and yet another envelope. “It’s a fucking vault of paper!”

Steve takes the letter from him, unfolds it, and quickly scans it (normal office paper, printed, hand-signed) before he starts reading it out loud to Bucky’s undivided attention.

“Dear Mr. Rogers,

My name is Emmanuelle Dernier and I am the great-grandson of Jaques Dernier of the Howling Commandos.

First, let me tell you that we all in our family grew up with amazing stories and praise for you, Sergeant Barnes, and the rest of the team. I never got to meet my great-grandfather or any of them (you), but I’ve always felt like I did.

In fact, that’s the ultimate reason behind this letter: I ached to honor him and I’ve been putting in order all his remaining letters, pictures, and memories so they don’t get lost forever, and there are many things I’m discovering through this journey. So many pictures and tiny details… and amongst them, you and the rest of the Commandos appear at the most random and memorable moments. Nothing that’s going to make it into history books, more like the stories my grandpa used to share with us over and over again, those important tidbits that make him more human.

Anyway, I was going through the pictures he kept when I came across some war photos that didn’t seem to match the 40s timeframe. Typical daguerreotypes from the 20s in a very bad state, probably taken with a camera from the era in 1944 and developed on a later date by somebody who clearly didn’t master the technique.

They were in a very bad state and hidden inside an envelope that said “Terribly drunk soldiers in France making idiots of ourselves in unique and creative ways. Fun evening, horrible hangover. About 20 miles west of the Maginot Line. Autumn ‘44”. I’m attaching a photocopy of that, I hope you can understand my decision to keep the original.

After restoring the daguerreotypes with some experts, all I got were five very bad pictures with silhouettes of people apparently having fun…. but there was one that got a lot better in the cleaning process that feels important somehow. I’m sending the original, as well as the restored version I got.

I, of course, don’t have the whole context, but I hope it brings back a good memory. My great-grandpa might be in the picture, but I don’t think this one belongs to my family or to a museum.

Thank you for your service, I really hope this letter finds its way to you.

E.Dernier.”

“I can’t believe… Steve, most days I’m convinced that day and that place are a figment of my imagination,” Bucky smiles, remembering. “When I think of a moment of pure joy during the war, I think about that afternoon in France, and it always feels unreal. A bubble of air and laughter while we were so surrounded by death.”

Steve nods, reminiscing about that warm and humid September morning when they arrived at yet another abandoned and destroyed little village, this one about twenty miles west of the Maginot Line. They had orders to lie low and wait for twenty-four hours before they started the maneuver to wipe another Hydra base off the map, and that little town was perfect for that.

Among bomb debris and fallen walls, they found one small building miraculously standing next to the remains of the church, so they decided to set camp under a roof for a change since the weather was being a little flickery with the rain, and they had the rare luxury of time.

The inside of the tiny house was as unusual as the outside: nothing was destroyed beyond being dusty and worn by time, and everything they found (furniture, kitchenware, and even fabrics) belonged more to Steve and Bucky’s early childhoods than to 1944, a living museum frozen in time.

Only it was not a museum, but the parish house left untouched and non-raided: old-fashioned clothes, outdated church books, yellowing clergy collars, and, of course, the wine cellar. Oh, that wine cellar… the havoc it unleashed.

“I remember the absolute excitement when Falsworth found all those bottles of old unscathed mass wine from the parish,” Steve brings his memory to words, looking at Bucky, “I’m still a little convinced that we are going to hell for drinking them.”

“Not for that, probably, but it was a wonder nobody died on the spot of wine poisoning, it tasted like sweet vinegar, ugh.”

“But it did his part, right? Took our minds off things; got us drunk, bold and silly.” Steve answers.

“Apparently not all of us,” Bucky says very seriously, looking at Steve.

“Technicalities… I got drunk by proxy. Seeing you all so happy made me giddy and tipsy, too.”

“I came and went… I remember being a little surprised at the clarity of my thoughts at some moments there when some of the guys were basically drooling on the floor. Now I understand, of course.”

Steve squeezes his hand, not much to be said there.

They were already way too drunk by the early afternoon, drinking to the sound of a sudden rainstorm pouring outside. All of them scattered across the small dusty living room and its adjoining kitchen while they went through all the bottles of wine they had been able to find. Cheering for the foregone priest every time somebody raised a glass, and laughing as if there were no ruins or war on the other side; just silly men (boys, really) laughing their hearts out.

“Earth to Steve… I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to see what the hell that envelope is hiding. Especially now that we know about its time stamp.”

“I’m sorry, me too! Gabe drunkenly handling that old camera and those glass plaques the way he did? I’m honestly impressed that he was able to take any pictures at all,” he muses. “Shit, is it weird that I’m nervous?”

“I’m gonna save us the bantering because I’m nervous, too,” Bucky answers in all sincerity. “Truth is, Steve, I remember everything about that day.”

It’s a new admission, a newly opened door for them because for some reason, they have never talked about that peaceful surreal afternoon, and Steve nods in recognition as he silently goes for the envelope one-handed, not wanting to let go of Bucky’s hand because his surface is way cooler than his wrenching insides. Maybe the picture is an overexposed french wall but maybe…

The photo he extracts from the envelope is clearly the original and damaged one Emmanuelle specified in his letter. Anybody else looking at it would see nothing beyond Dernier’s blurry profile, but since Steve and Bucky were there when this was taken, they know exactly what moment Steve is holding in his hand.

“Buck,…” is all Steve can say, struck by the blurry keepsake.

Later in the afternoon when they had already consumed most of the wine and there was not a single coherent thought left in the room, one of the guys took the parish books and besottedly announced that there was a wedding set for today… thirty years ago. Alcohol fueled a goofy idea that escalated at the speed of light, with Morita saying they were going to a wedding because they deserved a celebration, Dernier confessing that he had once considered becoming a priest, and Dum-dum bringing out all the old fashioned clothes from the wardrobe and deciding they were getting nice and clean for the festivities.

“That’s clearly Dernier in the picture killing it in his priest role, right?” Bucky says, half smiling and interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “You know, I went all-in with that fake wedding party. I was laughing to tears when I saw you put on that ridiculously long and ill-fitting jacket from the 10s, feeling weightless and silly for the first time since sailing off, and God knows we all deserved that. And it was all safe and light-hearted until fucking Morita decided you had to be the groom, and...”

“Were you jealous because I won the dashing groom competition?”

Steve’s attempt at a joke is weak, but there’s truth behind it: Morita chose Steve as the groom (“Cap, you are the most dashing and the least drunk”) to a chorus of excited voices cheering for him. Somebody else, most likely Dum-Dum, chose the rest of the roles (Sarge, best man duty; Jones, camera; Morita, keep the wine flowing; the rest of you, misbehave!) and in the blink of an eye, they were all going outside laughing under a light rain, and about to celebrate Steve’s fictional wedding to nobody.

“How could I be jealous?” Bucky cuts in. “Do you remember all you said to me that afternoon? During World War II and in front of a battalion of men?”

“I was drunk.”

“Fuck you!” Bucky disentangles his hand from Steve’s to use both of them to hold Steve’s face and kiss him with violence. “Tell me. Do you remember what you said?”

As if he could ever forget. He can recall every step he took from the house to the makeshift wedding spot amidst the trees where his best man (looking dapper even in that ludicrous jacket) was laughing along Dernier. He can still smell the petrichor, can still sense the blush coloring his cheeks while hoping nobody noticed and can still hear the beating of his heart when Bucky handed him a battered umbrella (“You don’t deserve to get rained on your wedding day, punk”) and a fucking ring made out his shoelaces (“You’ll have to buy something a little more permanent.”). And then…

“Dernier started the ceremony and he wanted to know if I had somebody in mind and I said ‘of course’.” He replays, his voice barely a whisper. “I said I’d had my eyes on a brown-haired Brooklynite since before I could remember. I said that I was pretty sure those blue eyes were set on mine too and that hopefully those eyes would be set enough to want to marry me even if I had never dared to ask.”

He’s been holding Bucky’s gaze the whole time, and he’s far from over yet, but he needs to fucking breathe before he goes on. Neither of them has moved a muscle for the past minute.

“Then he asked me to repeat the wedding vows after him and…”

“And you said Buck, right?”, Bucky interrupts, voice winded. “You fucking whispered I take you, Buck, as my lawful wedded husband till the end of the line. I heard, Steve. Even if the rest of the world didn’t, I did. But you never said anything, so I always deemed it impossible, a product of the corniest nook of my mind trying to outweigh all those bad things, because not even you could be as bold, reckless, and mushy as to do that,…it’s my fucking fault, I should have known better!”

“Not completely reckless, pal. I was scared shitless as I said those words, but what else could I do? You were right by my side about to put a ring on my finger as my “best man”, everyone, including you, supposedly drunk past recollection, and everybody else too far away to hear my whispers. It was such an easy choice in the end because truth should always win over fear. And those vows were. The truth.”

“You have always been too honest for your own good, Rogers,” Bucky is breathless and exasperated and goes for his mouth again, bringing in all he (they) couldn’t in 1944. “You destroyed me, Steve. My knees were as weak as a teenager’s in front of his first crush. I wanted to kiss you so badly when I heard you say all that there in the open… and I couldn’t even acknowledge it.”

“I know. And for what it's worth, I really thought you didn’t remember.”

It is too much. Is it normal to feel this much? Steve would blame it on the serum enhancements, but he was already overwhelmed at 16, so that’s clearly not the answer.

He craves, no, he needs touching, grounding, closer. Bucky. There’s too much space between them even if they are back to kissing like they would have that day in 44, and at any other time if their own lives wouldn’t have stolen those moments from them.

“It happened.” Bucky whimpers, biting on Steve’s lip who abandons his own stool to straddle him, both of them gasping in sync at the feeling of their cocks, hard against each other’s through their soft pants.

Bucky soon ups the stakes by carding his metal hand through Steve’s hair pulling his head backwards to help himself into that spot on his neck.

“Same two moles as when you were tiny, as when we were at that war... Your cute vampire bite. Favorite spot.” He licks on them with the tip of his tongue. Steve growls on cue and Bucky giggles. “Favorite chain reaction.”

“Buck, you cheater, you know what that does to me!” Steve cries out followed by Bucky’s evil chuckle.”Bed, couch, countertop,…I don’t care, but naked. Now. Stained pants due to heavy petting are too much of a trip down memory lane for me. Let me keep a bit of my dignity.”

Steve stands up liberating Bucky from his grip but aching at the loss of contact.

They are naked and making out in the middle of the kitchen in no time; Bucky steadily pushing him against the refrigerator while fiercely grinding against his crotch.

“Hey, ‘teve,” Bucky pants. “The way this is going, it’s my dignity now that's at risk. I don’t think I can make it further than the floor before I come.”

Steve groans into his mouth just at the thought and they start sliding to the floor the best they can until he’s a human blanket moving over Bucky. With no lube at hand, and no time, that’s their best option.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, his hands not leaving Bucky’s sweaty hair. Bucky’s hands on his ass, forcing their groins closer with one while he (almost absently) plays around his hole with the other, driving Steve crazy in the process. Dicks left to do their own thing through pressure and friction. Everything is working. And fast.

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky exclaims “Can you promise me all this stuff with the letter was real and not a long-con plan to assure your fragile masculinity that I love you more than I love that espresso machine?”

That. That silly unfunny excuse of a joke that screams Bucky all over is what pushes Steve all the way over the edge. He fucking laughs as he comes making absolutely embarrassing sounds, pressing their foreheads and noses together until it hurts, and shaking from head to toe without stoping his pressure on the stupid and smug man under him. His lover. His partner. His unofficial husband. His best friend.

His Buck.

“There’s still too much blood in your brain if you can play that dirty,” Steve states, placing one hand between them grabbing Bucky’s hard cock. “Let’s see if I can do anything about it.”

“Your hand, usually so helpful, but I was already following you after that sound you make when you come and laugh at the same time, shit, it always goes straight to my dick, I’m,…” he keeps talking with difficulty between breaths and moans until he leaves his speech unfinished coming all over Steve’s fist.

They kiss on the lips breathing into each other before Steve rolls over. They are sticky and panting in silence, spread on their kitchen’s floor, Steve’s shoulders crushed between Bucky’s and the dishwasher. Domestic bliss at its most literal.

One lavish fuck and two showers later they reemerge into the kitchen in search of something to eat: Bucky is in charge of the food today, while Steve cleans the mess they left a couple of hours ago.

He’s decluttering the counter when their damaged picture laying there puts a smile on his face but also reminds him of the restored version presumably still waiting inside the disregarded letter, so he grabs the envelope to retrieve its contents: one photocopy (from Dernier’s original writing), and the promised photo.

And it is restored. Everything is clear where it was blurry before: Dernier (so deep into his priest impersonation that he’s not even looking at them), the trees, the battered umbrella, the ridiculous jackets… and them.

“You had the nerve to call me reckless and mushy, Buck?” Steve laughs as he stares at the picture where a very young Bucky is about to put a ring on his finger with the least subtle lovestruck expression he’s ever seen (“and it’s for you”, his brain proudly reminds him) “Wow, you might as well be kissing me there, anything would be more subtle than this!”

“Don’t shame me, you punk, especially not when you were the one responsible for breaking my brain back then!” Bucky answers coming from behind and stealing the picture from his hands to scrutinize it. Goofy grin and raging blush quickly taking over his face. “But you’re one to talk, Cap. You are gazing at that shoelace’s ring as if I were handing you a diamond tiara!”

Steve laughs softly at that and moves his right hand to his pocket, feeling the weight of the little compass he had retrieved earlier from one of his drawers. He used to carry it with him everywhere for comfort, but he has a better option now.

“Didn't you know that shoelaces are forever?” He asks, taking the compass out of his pocket and holding it in both hands as he opens it, nudging Bucky with his elbow to get his attention.

Bucky is confused for an instant while he looks at his young face staring at them from inside the little box. Of course he knew that (he made fun of Steve for days and days) but Steve detects the change in his expression when he notices the other thing.

“Wow, you gigantic sap,” Bucky says, taking the compass out of his hands to double-check he is seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. “You saved my shoelace.”

He had. While they were all celebrating his wedding under the rain dancing to no music, he quietly slipped the little string off his finger and tied it to the most secure place he had back then.

“It’s not a shoelace, you jerk, it’s a symbol. A declaration.” He laughs, stealing the compass back to safely pocket it again.

“You are delusional,” Bucky snorts, kissing the top of his head. But he’s widely smiling and lost in thought as he goes back to their sandwiches.

Steve stays on the spot enjoying the peace in their silent companionship, his focus on the latest news showing up on his phone, the text he’s writing to Sam and the comforting sounds of Bucky moving around the kitchen.

“You might have married me, but I never actually married you.” Bucky blurts out of the blue a bit later, sitting by his side as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and some grilled greens on it. “Do you want mayo with that?”

“Uh?” Steve forgets all about the news and the text and looks at Bucky in confusion.

“Mayo, do you want some?” Bucky repeats nonchalantly.

“No mayo, thank you; but I was actually more interested in the other part, you know, that thing about marriage?”

Bucky looks him in the eye: earnest, blushing and with the same look of smug adoration he had on the picture.

“Oh, that part.” He jokes. “You apparently married me in 1944, but I never married you back. And I would like to.”

“Marry me?” Steve asks and Bucky visibly nods.

“I’m sorry for throwing the idea at you like this, books tell me I'm supposed to have candles, music, and a ring, but you showed me that restored picture and I couldn't stop thinking about it, about proof,” Bucky speaks uncharacteristically slow and very softly, voice trembling here and there while he claps his hand with Steve’s finger by finger for reassurance and as a distraction. “A single photo had the power to transform a moment that existed just as a made-up happy place inside my mind into something tangible and real. Something that would be tangible and real for anybody getting a hold on it and looking at our stupid faces.”

“So stealthy,” Steve says, and they both laugh together.

“Proof, Steve. I was slicing tomatoes and thinking how there’s so much evidence, thousands of files! out there proving that all the stuff that fuels my nightmares were real, but nothing solid about this. Us.” Bucky stops for a moment collecting his thoughts, still smiling even with the heavy subject he just dropped into the mix. “Sorry, I believe I put more time into these sandwiches than into thinking this all the way through so I’m…”

“Take your time, we’ve gone from mayo to marriage to nightmares in five minutes so don’t worry, you have me hooked here.”

Steve makes Bucky laugh again as he intended, and he feels their calloused laced fingers immediately squeezing closer.

“It’s stupid because it doesn’t change anything for us but,.. I don’t fucking know, Steve, I think that picture has messed up with my mind! I instantly found comfort in the idea of people finding facts beyond the nightmares now or in the future. An easy to understand, universal and oversimplified proof of how much I loved you and how much I was loved in return.” Bucky takes a breath and stares at him sporting a million-watt smile. “Marrying you,… I would really love that. And for real this time.”

“Ok, Buck.” Steve instantly replies, eagerness winning over thoughtful and heartfelt declarations. He tightens the grip on their joined hands to drive them to his lips and seals the easiest answer he’s ever had to give.

And it's done!Sorry for the cavities, for going on with the fic when it should have ended and for ending it where it might have had to keep going. It was painful and fun. I'm free!

[vipcridae]

🤯 or ✋, or both, whichever you fancy! ~~ @shatteredxlookingxglass

Send an emoji for a starter based on the trope // @shatteredxlookingxglass

🤯  -  a  starter  where  my  muse  recognises  yours  from  a  past  life,  but  your  muse  does  not  remember  them. ✋   -  a  starter  where  my  muse  traces  your  muse’s  scars. 

He was supposed to come back. The dim lights of the bar hang moodily above their head, candles replaced by modern fixtures of glass and electricty. So very different from their simpler youth. Menus are more complicated, drinks more dressed up, patrons fashioned in casual clothing lacking armor, signs flashing neon, streets paved and modernized instead of gravelled and rustic. Everything has changed in the last century. Everything except the Sannin sitting in the small bar, nursing a drink too fruity and not strong enough. They miss the liquor from the war days. It had the right kick. Despite having been born in the First Great War, and having fought and lived through the Fourth Great War, the viper looks not a day older than their mid twenties. Immortality looks good on them they decide. Eternally youthful despite being just shy of a hundred years old. But while they look exactly the same as they did in their youth, everything around them has dwindled out, the old replaced by the new. By all accounts, they shouldn't even be here. They are a criminal across five nations, and would be put straight back on trial for breaking their parole. Yet a custom is a custom. And they will not break it for the sake of the law. This is the bar they sat at every thursday afternoon with a dear friend. A friend now deceased. Who had been deceased since the Second Great War. An era of such immense tragedy, it had spiralled the serpent into a maddening depression. One that sought out violence and corruption. His death had sparked a grief that had transformed them from war hero to war criminal. His death had been what shaped them into a monster. His death had been the day they executed their old self to be reborn as someone entirely new. Someone stronger. At any wretched cost. The hopeful youth that would visit his home, drink his liquor, read his notes, listen to his stories and songs. That youth had their throat slit the moment their dear friend lost his life. He was supposed to come back. It's been more than half a century since Dan died. And yet, they have never moved on. They are still sitting at the same bar they used to frequent with him. They still hear the whistles of his song birds. They still picture him walking through the door. They still feel his presence. They don't know if Dan is haunting them, or if they chase his shadow out of pure psychosis. Perhaps they are the ghost. Haunting the same little corner in the same little bar. Never moving on from the last place they saw him alive. Smiling, talking, breathing.

They had thought they could bring him back, they had dabbled in necromancy to conjure his spirit. But never could they reach him. They swear dust will collect on their raven hair, their lavender kimono, their porcelain skin. They are little more than a statue frozen in time in this very town as they exist past their life expectancy. He was supposed to come back. That thought now resides in their mind every waking moment, and haunts even the sleeping ones. So when they suddenly catch his reflection in the window, they merely stare for a while. Calmly, as if they are first addressing their own mind and asking why such cruel tricks must be played so often. As if the ghost of him is not foreign. As if they are accustomed to the merciless trick of seeing the man they wished would come back to life. But his movement is not like the figments of their imagination. Nor is his voice as he makes a passing comment to the bartender. For a moment they try and think of what rational reason there could be. This isn't Dan, just a relative who looks identical. Maybe some punk shinobi stole the image of a deceased shinobi and is using henge for some unknown plight. Maybe their eyes are playing tricks on them. They watch him, but their own visage is hidden well. A cloak over their svelte figure. A shadowy corner. Avoiding attention because they are not meant to be here. When the bell chimes signalling Dan has opened the door and is leaving, the serpent slips from their chair too. The bartender eyes the viper cautiously, as if he wants to warn the silver haired stranger that a venomous missing-nin is pursuing him with interest, but thinking better of it to avoid the Sannin's wrath. Orochimaru follows Dan quietly, like a cat after a bird, knowing one wrong move and it will fly away forever. It feels almost too high stakes. As if the universe plays a trick on them. As if approaching him wrong, too quick or too slow, could mean he vanishes from their world all over again. Finally, they pounce. Maybe he lets them catch him, maybe they are above and beyond even an elite shinobi's reflexes due to their newest discovery of immortality. It doesn't matter. They have him pinned to a wall, their smaller figure deceptively strong when they back their movement with chakra. They have a dagger brandished to his throat, forcing him to stay still as it kisses his neck. Then they bring the blade down, and let the sharp edge slice down his shirts collar. It looks like they are toying with him, but instead they expose a scar they knew lays hidden there. Proof this is no imposter. For no one would know Dan as intimately as the seprent. No one could recreate a hidden scar. The serpent goes so silent that one could hear a hairpin drop. But instead, it is the clattering of their dagger that is heard as they release the blade to hold onto something more precious than a weapon in combat. First slim fingers glide down the scar to check it is real, to check it is authentic. Then slender arms suddenly throw themselves around his neck, pulling him in for a hug that has the vice grip of a boa constricting prey. Lunging at him for an embrace. How many times had they destroyed a bedroom? A rented inn room? A training grounds or research chamber? How many times had they had his memory flicker in their mind, rendering them either ensnared by rage, grief or both? How many times had they screamed his name in the night, in throes of anguish, as if hoping he might hear them and turn around from the afterlife to come right back to their side? How many times had they told themself they didn’t love him after all? Trying to convince themself in a futile attempt to not be quite so broken? How many times instead had they only managed to remind themself just how much they actually loved him instead? They had mourned him for more years than he had lived. Perhaps there are kinder words to offer him in this moment. Perhaps warmer sentiments. But they can not think of anything else to say but the honesty that rips itself from their shaken throat now choked by the tears they refuse to shed. “You took everything when you left.”

[fallinnflower]

forsaken

minghao x reader (demon!hao, drama, historical!au)

wc: 1.6k

a/n: so i used a prompt generator and then went overboard but if you’re curious the prompt was: 400 words + demon + electricity + “I will remember this” + shipwreck

Day One

You wake up on an unfamiliar shore, still tucked beneath the bench of the small wooden lifeboat where you had fallen asleep God knows how long ago. The sound of the wood scraping against the sand is what wakes you, and for a moment you lie in dazed confusion staring at the sun-bleached wood before you realize just what it is you’re hearing. Land.

The world pitches and darkens as you sit up too quickly, but you manage to scramble out of the boat onto shore, slowly dragging it along with you until you’re far enough from the tide’s reach. After days without food or adequate water, the effort exhausts you, and so you flip the lifeboat over and prop it up on a rock just enough for you to shimmy beneath it for shelter before falling asleep once again.

Day Three

There is no sunlight on the island, at least none that reaches you. The overcast days bleed into starless nights, however the clouds don’t seem to speak of an impending storm, merely a shroud enveloping the island.

You start a fire, just barely, and wander through the flora to find anything even remotely edible, praying each night that it won’t be your last.

Day Seven

With renewed strength comes renewed consciousness, and in the darkness and stillness of the island your mind replays the horrific events which led to your arrival. You hear the screams of your friends; the sound of your sails whipping untethered in the wind; wood splintering violently. Desperate feet on the rain-slick wood, too slow to outrun the falling debris. You can still smell the blood in the water, even when you tuck your nose into the crook of your elbow, like you’re right there again.

God has forsaken you, and you know it now. After taking away your crewmates in one fell swoop he’s forgotten you, discarded you. Left you to sink like your ship in the dark.

The thunder rumbles in the night as though laughing at your plight, as though in agreeance with you, and you don’t sleep.

Day Ten

Desperation sets in. You can see yourself wearing away, the bones on the back of your hand protruding, joints knobby and red. Hunger makes it hard to hunt makes it impossible to eat makes you hungrier. You’re desperate.

The sky darkens in the evening but you see no stars, and you stare out at the ink-black water and imagine it swallowing you whole as it eagerly laps at the shore, creeping ever closer. The wind tugs at your hair, your tattered clothes, and with your jaw clenched tight you crouch in the sand and begin to dig.

First, a circle, a deep trench that the wind won’t merely blow away. The grit sticks beneath your fingernails and scratches, tears at the delicate skin there until it bleeds, and yet you continue, the pain fueling you. With the circle’s completion you hesitate a moment, and a rumble of thunder seems to accompany the shiver that runs down your spine as you contemplate what you’re about to do. Or, what you intend to do.

You close your eyes, take a deep breath. What is faith to you now? This is a last ditch effort, you remind yourself, this is about survival. In your mind you can picture the summoning circle, an image you’d found both frightening and fascinating. You hear the crack of thunder once again, louder, and jump slightly, losing your balance. With your hands placed in the center of the circle to steady you, you see a long shadow cast over you when the lightning finally strikes, the smell of sulfur in the air making your stomach churn.

“Well, aren’t you going to finish the job?”

Day Eleven

You wake up on the beach, the circle you had drawn in the sand half-destroyed due to your sleeping over top of it. Your heart jumps wildly as you remember the shadow, the voice, and you will yourself to calm down — it was only a dream, a figment of your dehydrated and starved consciousness —

“Aren’t you at least going to tell me what you want?”

You shoot up into a seated position, flinging sand every which way. The voice appears to have come from a man who’s sitting on top of your lifeboat, one long leg crossed over the other, dark hair ruffled in the breeze. He tilts his head at you, a smile gracing his lips but pure, crackling fire in his gaze. His eyes are sharp, poised above high cheekbones, and the arch of his eyebrows scream condescension as he sizes you up. The hair that flops in loose waves and curls across his forehead is the blackest you’ve ever seen, like a void. When you don’t reply, simply staring agape at him, the corners of his mouth twitch up further, though there’s no kindness in his voice when he speaks again,

“It’s very impolite to fall asleep in front of your guest, you know.” 

You struggle for words, consonants and vowels falling aimlessly from your lips as the lithe man stands and stretches in the same lazy manner as a cat, his dark gaze pinned on you all the while. As he begins to walk you feel as though you’re being circled by a predator, watching as he slinks around you in his black attire like a—

“Panther.”

The man stops in his tracks, cocks his head to one side, and then laughs. The sound sends chills down your spine, makes you go rigid. You watch as he composes himself once again, nonchalantly flicking some hair out of his eyes, before pinning you with his gaze once again.

“A panther,” he muses, practically purring. Despite the velvet smoothness of his tone you continue to feel unnerved. “That’s new. I’ll remember that.” 

There’s a sudden flash of lightning, and then he’s right in front of you, merely a hair's breadth away. You swear you see the electric current in his eyes, crackling like heat lighting, and you hold your breath.

“But, sadly, you’re wrong,” he says, though he sounds anything but sorry. “And I think you know exactly what I really am. So, why don’t you tell me what you want, hm?” A chill seems to descend upon you, and you shrink back into yourself slightly, trying desperately not to tremble. 

“I-I—”

“Don’t be shy,” he coos, but you can see the impatience growing within him. “Just tell me what you want. Go on.”

Although neither of you move you swear you can feel a pressure bearing down on you, making it hard to breathe, and it’s only through such desperation that you finally find your voice,

“I want to go home!” You close your eyes in fear, but the oppressive weight retreats as the tall man, the demon you summoned, chuckles darkly.

“See, was that so hard?” When you open your eyes you find him standing casually in front of you, and he leans down with a smile, offering you his hand. Although you know you shouldn’t, you feel drawn to accept his gesture, like Aurora to the spindle, and so you slip your rough, calloused hand into his. His palm and fingers are smooth and cold, and to your surprise he helps you up casually, his smile almost friendly.

But then the pain begins. You scream, trying to pull your hand from his to no avail; he merely watches with a placid grin on his face as the flesh in the center of your palm burns in a perfect circle along with his. Between the two new wounds electricity flows, illuminating the demon’s face wickedly, and you can’t do anything but weep as the searing pain continues. When the light dies away the demon pulls back his hand, smiling despite the way both your palms continue to smoke. You clutch yours to your chest, dropping to your knees in the sand. 

“A pleasure doing business with you,” he says after a moment, and when you look up you realize he’s dragged your lifeboat back out from the trees. 

“I— aren’t you supposed to take me home?” you ask, still clutching your hand, and he laughs.

“I’m not, but this will. It might take another day or so, but you’ll be home, just like we agreed. Go on, get in.”

After a moment, you simply do as he says, exhaustion washing over you. Once you take your seat you notice its improved condition and a small pile of fruit tucked away in a bag beneath the bench. 

“What’s this for?” you ask.

“Well, I can’t have you arriving dead. You haven’t upheld your part of the deal yet.” You turn your head to look at the demon, but he merely holds your gaze calmly.

“You mean—?”

“You’ll be seeing me again, very soon,” he says, his grin widening. “Your soul is no good now, but I’ll come to collect, don’t worry.” His fingers curl around the edge of the boat and he leans towards you, his beautiful face marred by his cruel grin,

“And if you should be in need of me, you may call me Minghao.” 

With that, he gives the boat a shove, sending you with frightful speed into the waves. You clutch the underside of the bench so hard you’re sure you’ll find splinters in your fingers, but when you turn back towards the shore you find only the dark expanse of the sea behind you and a streak of heat lightning disappearing in the clouds above, a spark seeming to shoot straight through your palm. 

And one word seems to ring through your head, echoing like a death knell: forsaken.

[stina-is-a-punk-rocker]

disney’s ‘the hunchback of notre dame’, early 2000s kid nostalgia, and other midnight musings

“What the fuck, Stina? I thought this was a blog for book reviews!” you say.

“Books, amongst other things. Hence the -ish suffix,” I say. “And all my mediocre ‘reviews’ are hit-or-miss in terms of engagement, so I’m pretty much free to post whatever the fuck I want.”

I toss my head. My hair whacks me in the face.

The first time I watched Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame was been circa 2006, in the ‘movie room’ of my preschool, huddled around a CRT TV with the rest of my five-year-old classmates. Not much about the film particularly stood out to me at the age.

Fast-forward fifteen years later; I’m cooped up in quarantine, hundreds of thousands of miles away from that first viewing. I’m living my best life, rejoicing in my introverted tendencies and having a laugh at the expense of all the suffering extroverts. I haven’t moved from my bed all day, except for the bare necessities, and I’m bingeing YouTube videos. All is well.

I discovered Lindsay Ellis’s channel quite recently- embarrassingly enough, through her videos on Omegaverse and the whole Addison Cain fiasco. I stumbled down the rabbit-hole of her channel, and here I am, a few dozen videos later, and I find her one on this film.

Which, of course, led me to want to re-watch the film, with the eyes and mind (supposedly) of an adult. And it went far beyond and above my expectations.

The film is dark, much darker than the average Disney film of today- not just thematically, but the graphics too. Except for the first parts with the Festival of Fools and the last scene, the rest seems to have a dark filter put over it all. Obviously, given its themes (I’m pulling these out of my arse; I’m a STEM major and I have zero to no knowledge about film) of freedom and equality, acceptance of those different from us, corruption and lust- all that good shit, in other words- you can’t exactly have sunshine and rainbows. But it’s such a stark contrast from what I’ve been accustomed to from Disney; Frozen has Hans about to decapitate Elsa, but the background remains bright and light; Simba sobbing next to Mufasa’s body in The Lion King is heart-wrenching, but a few scenes later, we have an anthropomorphic meerkat-boar duo singing about eating bugs and farting and all that classy stuff, so it’s not as traumatizing.

The themes are a lot more on-the-nose than a lot of other kids’ movies (forgive me if I err, I am aged and forgetful)- cue la Esmeralda saying, “What do they have against people who are different, anyway?”- you get what’s essentially the same ‘accept others regardless of their differences’, ‘prejudice is bad’ morals from, say, Zootopia, but having given the main characters fursuits makes it less obvious than in this movie.

(Or maybe I’m just a dumbass. I have no elaborate notes for this; I’m high on sugar and deprived of sleep so I might be spewing bullshit.)

Admittedly, the resolution is a bit… unrealistic. The citizens of Paris = sheep, essentially; they go from throwing fruit in Quasimodo’s face because the guards started it, to helping defeat them. Maybe there’s something about mob mentality in there, but I find it hard to believe that people who showed up to watch Esmeralda burn to death were suddenly totally cool with not getting what they didn’t pay for. But then again, this is a Disney movie, and you can’t make kids too cynical too early on. Let them have their innocence and ‘people will be with the heroes in times of peril because humanity is inherently good!’ before they realize that humanity kinda fuckin’ sucks.

The characters are some of the most human from those I’ve seen in Disney (other honorable mentions: the main characters of The Emperor’s New Groove, Moana, Tangled, Anna from Frozen). Quasimodo’s the main character (lol DUH, will I ever say anything not obvious?), and he’s so lovable, but not without flaws- he’s biased against gypsies in the beginning because Frollo’s the literal scum of the earth. To borrow from the K-pop fans’ dictionary: UwU he’s so pure!

Esmeralda sparks a bit of controversy because she’s another POC leading lady from a Disney film of the 90’s (a list including Jasmine, and, sigh- Pocahontas) who’s markedly more sexualized than the white Disney princesses. It’s not something I particularly noticed nor cared about until I saw it being brought up- I mean, the woman shows a bit of cleavage and then dances for a couple of seconds- but. I’m just putting that out there.

She’s an empowering heroine without having to belt in in your face (not me making a dig at Naomi Scott’s Jasmine from the Aladdin live action film), and I also love how her role in taking down the Big Bad doesn’t have to do with her ‘power of seduction’ (the scene in the animated Aladdin film where Jasmine kissed Jafar truly traumatized me as a kid).

Phoebus is… well, he exists. Kind of a Regulus Black archetype, but not exactly. The guy on the bad side who turns good and all is forgiven. Well, at least it’s not the ‘her love made him a better man’ trope. And he is a good guy. Even if he did spend a considerable amount of his adult years on the side of the bad guys.

Systemic oppression? Nah, it’s one or two corrupt baddies. But again, it’s a Disney film, we need everything to work out for the good guys in the end.

Let’s get the gargoyles out of the way. To reference Lindsay Ellis’s video (she’s a lot smarter than I am and breaks this down better than I ever could): yes, the comedy’s oft ill-timed and inappropriate… for an adult audience. And the primary demographic of Disney films, especially princess ones (obviously Esmeralda isn’t a princess, nor does she marry into royalty, nor is she included in the group of princesses in the dumpster fire that is Ralph Breaks the Internet, but I had a book imaginatively titled ‘Disney Princess Stories’ as a kid that included Esmeralda’s story alongside Belle’s and Ariel’s, so I’m calling her a princess), are kids. And kids love fart jokes.

Additionally, I have a theory-that-is-not-really-a-theory-but-a-pretty-obvious-thing-that-happens that the gargoyles are figments of Quasimodo’s imagination, and the, at times crass and ridiculous things they say are just the voices in Quasimodo’s head (THIS IS OBVIOUS, STINA, YOU HAVEN’T STUMBLED ACROSS A STARTLING NEW REVELATION); maybe what he imagines normal townspeople to act like.

And then we have Judge Judy Chrissy Teigen Frollo. This dude is the embodiment of pure evil. He’s bigoted and rapey and abusive and one of Disney’s most successful villains- even better than Mother Gothel, who previously held the crown. It’s rare that a villain genuinely terrifies me, especially a cartoon one. Frollo, unlike your typical fairytale antagonist who wants power/fame/fortune/to overthrow Olympus, is far more sinister; driven from deep-rooted hatred instead of plain greed. He’s so much closer to people in positions of power and authority even in the modern world, and that element of reality makes him so much better as an antagonist instead of a literal sheep who hates carnivores (seriously, Disney, enough with the twist villains- they’re not working out).

Also, Hellfire slaps. In fact, the entire soundtrack does.

Speaking about Hellfire, I love the contrast between that and Heaven’s Light; how Esmeralda is viewed by Frollo (an object to possess, “Destroy Esmeralda, and let her taste the fires of hell; or else, let her be mine and mine alone”) as opposed to Quasimodo (someone with free will, “I dare to dream that she might even care for me”).

Another argument brought up, and admittedly one I had as a child was, ‘but if the whole point of the movie is acceptance and love as opposed to lust, why didn’t Quasimodo get the girl?’ Which, years later, I realize is an extremely misogynistic way to look at it. As Princess Jasmine said four years before The Hunchback was released, she is not a prize to be won. Quasimodo is Frollo’s antithesis; he lets Esmeralda choose, and she chose Phoebus. And Quasimodo accepted that, because he is good and kind and sweet and loving. Severus Snape, take note.

On a sidenote, I’m always kind of caught out of left field when the plot in films moves really fast- I’m really not a movie-watching type; I prefer to read, and books usually indicate how much time passes from one main plot point to another, and there are little slice-of-life, filler parts that tie in to character development and moving the plot forward, but at a snail’s pace. So, whenever I’m watching a movie and it’s one important event after another, I usually haven’t had enough of a refractory period to process it.

Let’s pretend that I segued smoothly into the next part of this (already tedious and long drawn out) review.

The Hunchback is the darkest film I’ve ever seen come out from Disney. Re-watching it as an adult made me pause every so often and wonder why the hell I wasn’t traumatized by it as a kid. I mean, the whole movie kicks off with Frollo about to throw an infant down a well. And then there’s that horrifying shot of the stone renditions of the Israelite kings on the church walls. Frollo falls to his death into fire. I mean, good riddance, but still. I guess it’s because the kids’ shows of today are awfully censored and polished so kids don’t have nightmares forevermore.

Update: tried to watch The Hunchback of Notre Dame 2. Exited just as fast as I clicked on it. Disney sequels really ain’t shit (yes, I’m looking at you, Frozen 2).

[poptod]

I Don’t Know Me Like You Do

Ahkmenrah x Reader (gender neutral)

Description: You pull him out of his thoughts and lead a dance of souls.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23042698

Inspo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0lB-kIooOg

In the endless impossibilities of life, and in all the unknown of his world, you’re a certain thing. Always there, and for years you’d never leave his side. A sort of invisible force, unseen to all but him, and possibly a figment of his imagination. The Greeks call you Muse, and the Europeans call you poetry, while the Arabs refer to you as مُلْهِم. Of course, he isn’t aware of any of these cultures - and you don’t care much for them. The entirety of your life, all that you know and can create rests in him, whether he knows it or not.

He has an image of you, in his mind, and when you first saw it you knew it to be wrong. You didn’t look like that - you were unearthly. But you changed yourself to what he saw, to be more comprehensible for the moment you’d take his hand and lead him to the abyss of creation.

It wasn’t until he ran away that you could show yourself. The loneliness of the desert opens the mind to new ideas, and imagination can reign in full power when there’s no one to talk to besides yourself. So, with soldiers on his tail as he felt the freedom of what was truly life, you appeared to him - a fully fleshed being, with a voice different from his own, and you introduced yourself.

I held your thoughts, once, you told him, the image of yourself a wispy and uncertain form.

Once? He asks, kneeling in the black sand of the nile. He looks at you with a reverence unknown, eyes glittering in the reflection of your light.

In danger I come to fruition. I am at your whim, you say, and though he doesn’t fully understand, he nods.

You hold your hand out to him, clothed in glittering white silk, and he takes it. He sprints along the water, leaving the golden cage of royalty, laughing by your side as you glide across the water. What you are, exactly, is unknown, thus leaving the laws of physics up to your own use.

Time slows when the ocean reaches you, gentle waves of warm water coming to hold the shore. He hasn’t ever seen the ocean before - it’s massive, he says, in awe of the great expanse of stars reflecting into the still water.

Bigger than all the world, you say, whispering the words like a blessing into his ear. Trailing your fingers down his skin you reach his hand, enveloping his fingers in your hold, and once more you whisper, come with me.

You tug him out of his body, until all that remains is the separated spirit of him - he emanates a golden glow, warm and welcoming, and the opposite of your own. You shine silver, and when your souls touch, a spark is sent through to the heavens, strong enough to draw tears from the sun. Still you hold his hand, spreading your touch further up his arm till you come to his cheek. There you wipe away the age and scars, whether they be from memory or from skin, and you pull him into the depths of the ocean before you.

No light exists there, and the moonlight pales its’ light as it cannot pierce the water’s surface. But the light you create is enough, and wrapped in his touch you see the wonders of the unknown. Fish dance around you, their scales shimmering in your light like diamonds in the sun, their touch unfamiliar and daring. You take him deeper still, to the deepest depths. The fish lose their colour, and begin to glow by themselves - the movements of a massive whale humming low and sweet tear you away from your thoughts, and even now he holds you close to him.

When he pulls you closer yet to him he holds you in every way he can; caressing your empty skin, and pressing his forehead against yours.

He asks, how do I know you? The words come soft, and you feel them across your lips though he cannot touch you there.

It’s better not to ask, you murmur, your heart tugging at the words you spoke, berating you for lying. For a moment he stares into your eyes, wondering how you came to be, how you knew him better than he knew himself, and in a second the moment ends. He closes his eyes, and presses himself closer to your touch.

You fall, drifting down to the ocean floor. Tendrils of green and black reach to the sky, cutting you away from the world you knew. He doesn’t move - doesn’t open his eyes, and he doesn’t think to ever leave your touch. In the abyss you’re the only light, melding silver and gold when he touches your neck, moving down your shoulder till he holds your hand in his own. He comes dangerously close to kissing you, but you pull away, instead whispering in his ear, there is more love in this world than you can ever know.

Time will love you longer than the stars may live, longer than the mountains, longer than the oceans, you murmur, and he only sinks deeper into your light. Kneeling before you, nearly in your lap he rests his head on your shoulder, still tracing his worth into your waist with his fingers.

From the tendrils you pluck a flower, golden and simple, placing it behind his ear. Pulling away he touches the flower, the gold glow of his fingers casting shadows on the forest floor. Smiling, he holds you close, your souls intertwining with each other in a holy light too bright to look at. Enclosed into one being, you breathe like an endless eclipse, dark and beautiful in a way no one but you and him can understand. In a moment time forgets he kisses you, sweeter than any honey and more loving than flower's adoration of the sun - soft, and pleading, needing your love in his heart.

As he pulls away the dance separates, and you’re once more two souls, the space between you growing ever larger as he drifts to the surface. You don’t follow, can’t, and the dot of silver light soon disappears, falling further than he can imagine. When he wakes, he can't feel himself, can't tell what's real - a dull thudding invades his heart, aching and longing for what he can never have. Waves stroke the shore in the morning glow, and, staring at the distant foam of the ocean, he holds the gold flower close to his heart.

[nvcl347]

G-man x Neutral Reader : Float

There is nothing more stimulating to one’s inner awareness than the sense of being watched. The cunning, grievous impression that there is someone evermore at the fine ridge of your shoulder. From the critters of dusk to the bliss of dawn, it can arise to your chest anytime. Anywhere. An omnipresent hunch with no repercussions to solitude. A light in the dark can soothe any youth. A weapon at a man’s mattress gives solace in safeguard and shelter for his wife. All these fears ranging from modest chills to relentless terrors come with their individual set of gauzes, but being observed is one that cannot be cured unless the watcher willfully recedes.

You had found no cure. Not for an entire week.

The feeling of paresthesia stunned you into place. The delicate, benign stroke of your duvet served you nothing to placate your place of thought. It was strikingly apathetic, yet your guts shifted in bleak consciousness to what was emerging before you. The atmosphere descended to the rug of your floor like a miasma of mist. A clear, untempered fog without warmth or cold in its jot mass. It was corresponding sensitivity which resonated itself from the visibly imperceptible occupancy in the room.

This ringing peal in your ears chimed and chanted the closing bearing of hazardous peril nearing you. The first wave crushed you above and beyond head to toe. Comatose struck you stiff to your feet. An excrescent stimulant so strong, yet so brusque in moments. A shrill swallow purged your windpipe to no inclusive care as it took mere instants for the swelling lump of vulnerability to smother it once more. A throbbing response dwindled to the itch of your temple with the twitch of an eye. This was a frigid prison cell languidly sealing its aged, corroded bars around you. You only had so much time before the lock lost its key for good. You took no further chance of stalling in your rotted ditch as it was now. You made a break for it, a break made too late.

The second wave flustered you with sheer cortisone you had only seen portrayed in movies before. Pure stress, no rationality. Everything is done as nothing more than towards the aim to get away from something, whether that ambition proves itself to be even possible or not. Sure, there was an absolute source of skepticism wavering in your mind that you surely couldn’t ring on a run for your life forever-- not even that long at all really-- but it was enough to confer to him that you weren’t permitting this contract to compensate you without some form of a fight.

Your window was your only gate of haven wide enough to devise your way out of the enclosing cell that was suffocating you inside. A glint of day, no bigger than even a speck of dust, twinkling the sun’s rays in the oppression of dark’s shadow. It was your first jolt of instinct to approach, with no rebellious alternatives available to your disposal. Your apartment had gone still, which wasn’t deemed strange for how often CP suppressed noise, but the silence here was different. It brought about the uneasy feeling that you had just suffered a grave loss, one without the awareness that they were really absent due to the fact that you tended to be so accustomed to their company in prior times ago. Tragedy, without its grief.

The sky was the first to greet you in a welcome of cherries and lavished grape wine streaking the cloudless atmosphere above you. The Combine had stolen so much away from humanity, but the few of which they still held for themselves was the beauty of their stars. It reminded you of the phrase, “your days are numbered.” It seemed to be all but a distant fever dream you wished you could grasp again. Days… suddenly became minutes in less than the blink of an eye. The pace in your grappled rivalry signaled you were down to the second, each footstep counting a ticking timebomb with no number to reference. All you knew was that your minute slot was at zero.

To the edge of every complex was a leap of faith. A discouragement for your well-being suddenly an encouragement for your life. A freeze in time, a spark of recollection for all your anterior opportunities seem to carelessly fall from the pockets of your shirt with each jump across a thin, sullen alley descending below you. You were loosing more than simply your hope and energy in your race for time with the earth’s sun. You were loosing what made you, you.

Then, something shattered.

Shattered. Shredded. Snapped-- split into two. It all came down to one fatal leap. A leap, without its faith, and rather the denial that this effort of running for the preservation of your ages to come was even worth its striking endeavor. It gave you an image of strength… nothing more. This was no passion that led to a glorified satisfactory succession, it was a failure that provided the solace of a short-term benefit: the fraudulent display of rebellion, unveiled to be an insignia of desperation. You were better off resting your hour to the prison cell of your room. You’ve been caught in the midst of an escape, and now your sentence aches deeper to your price. 

The concrete edge of the rooftop struck you in your abdomen with enough force to knock more than just the wind out of you. There was no reaction time for the pain to follow the fractures in which had resulted from the critical impact, hurling you rearward into a longspun lapse of descent down into the melancholy alley below. An angel who befell not from the skies of heaven, but from the soil of earth. Your eyes gaped open as if you saw a crackle of lightning that never evanesced back into its home within the clouds. The unfolding action was so swift your diaphragm seemed to be lost in time in order to let out nothing more than the shrivel of breath, a gasp of surprise, and the last fresh intake of earth’s green air.

This fall continued so until you realized what should’ve been a fatal strike into pavement became an everlasting freefall, with your back confronting first what would’ve been your impending face of impact. A swell of abnormal nostalgia puffed into your chest as the pressure of gravity released itself of your every limb. The air that entered your lungs was not of the familiarity of your home. This was something distinct, different. It reminded you of a delicate celestial nature, with its particles of dust like the singularities of nebula clouds. You were filled with the sensation of satisfaction for something that didn’t exist. The nonchalance of times not of your memory, but of someone else. This stillness of time held you down in metal chains. You weren’t in freefall, you were floating in a cage.

As if dosed with anesthesia, the sensory vision of what took place around you was vague and numb to you. You were conscience, but the trail of thought in your head met a roadblock of elaborating what was taking place around you. You could see, hear, feel, taste, and smell, but nothing could process in you. It just all took place as a memory. A chamber of darkness sealed around you so obscure that its true size couldn’t be defined as anything more than an abyss in your sight. A white glow, alike to the pure radiance of a moon at midnight, shun over your form from above without a conceivable source. It was a contrast in light so strong that the bottom half of yourself blended into the silhouette of the environment around you. Anything could hide in these shadows without a sense of ease. And, to be sure, one did.

Defiant of the darkness, a flash of blue gleamed from afar, yet felt so close. With all but visibility to the iris, it was clear that hidden under the black garment was a malevolent, disturbing smile. A man who knew what he did best had been done again, and it never failed to gain his muse. The fix of a slick cuff appeared foremost as the man entered into full view for the first time, a posture so formal it felt uncanny in parallel to his stalking pace. 

From every minute detail, not a string of fabric or inch of hair was missed in his sight of consideration. Introductions were done so in silence, as both of you were collectively aware of who each other were. Old acquaintances fallen and succumbed to a pair of cat and mouse.

Your right hand slowly raised into the air with leisurely grace, reaching out into the hollow of moonlight. A Michaelangelo painting come to life, with no god providing a yield to the touch of creation. An expression, gray and inert, but clear that there was a starving hunger for freedom inside. Deep down, there lied a wind of thirst, unable to reach out in any way, left to be discovered-- and so it had.

The man walked forward into your straight frame of vision, leaning over your deadened form alike to a corpse on an autopsy table. His head tilted to the side with latent pastime. His hand tenderly caressed yours in the midst of the air, cementing it into place with the nuzzle clench of his fingers. A flash of light traced his stare, fragmentarily liberating you of your cerebral roadblock only allotting yourself to obtain the awareness of what was taking place. Feelings of pother, dismay, and others yet to be given names before took no paramount interval in coursing within your every smallest thread of nerve in your body. Paralysis, if only of a being simply from your figment of the imagination.

His head tipped forward, mere inches away from yours. The daunting pallid smirk of his face, although resembling that of a humanoid complexity, was eerie enough to radiate the sense of disturbing heartlessness. A sharp, ghastly inhale seeped through his lips as he proceeded to speak to you in a macabre tone that of a vile serpent.

“I would have preferred for our encounter to conjecture in more blithesome circumstances if not for your cause of strain to avoid your... troubles, Mx. (L/N),” your spinal cord strived to rattle down a line of a shiver, unable to do so in an instantaneous matter.

“Granted it seems that there was no other way we could have met under terms without some form of discomfort in your underlying perspective, but…” he paused himself, gazing off into the vacant interval of distance in realization. He revered that this stall of fundamental discussion was unnecessary and of no importance. His mouth flinched in agitation of himself with his eyebrows collectively furrowing against the aged skin of his forehead.

“You are aware of why I am here, and therefore you understand what I must do,” he leaned away from your face back into his straightforward posture, flapping the lapels of his navy suit into his desired position. You mentally heaved a sigh of relief in your mind, yearning that he would release you for dear life.

“These conditions are the first who ought delivered action in your-- timeline before. I cannot say that is a title you should hold any sense of peremptory regard in,” he began to trace your form about in circles, studying your loose outline as his hands placed towards one another against the tie of his thorax.

“For now, I can only provide my condolences to your prospect… that perhaps my employers solicit a sign of potential in you as I have, but they are not so magnanimous towards subjects. I have argued to preserve you for a time, tantamount to another reputable individual I have attended in previous years. There is a recognition that you two are not so different,” he halted himself right at the edge of your head, with only the fit of his shoulder and the point of his elbow visible in your line of sight. A long breath chiseled through him once more, peering down at his Oxfords.

“It appears however that, despite when under stipulations of no jurisdiction, you nevertheless are rather alienated in compliance. For chance, Mx. (L/N), there must be change,” his form turned his back towards yours, stepping away with the track of his footwear to tap away until his withdrawal of physical ubiquity.

“It is something that of human nature for free will to allow to chose your path. It is quite often that my hires often are given this illusion, but I believe you are mature enough to be fitted with this judgment…”

The rate at which his occupancy faded equivocated to the likes of which you were alleviated of your comprehensive thought of surroundings once more. All was dark, silent, and still. Your wide-open eyes shielded the windows to a soul that had been torn away. Liberty was a concept long forgotten, the amalgamation of deviation and resultant consequence. 

Your hand proceeded to reach for the void that was the sky in a relationship with the sublime, kindled by the light of ivory. Over and over, you could hear his words relapse in your mind similar to a broken record. Crackles, cuts, stutters, and shifts decimated itself with every replay. A vaguer message, a melting hope.

Subject: (Y/N) (L/N)

Status: Pacified

Further Evaluation Pending

[ladysunamireads]

Once, like a Spark

Once, Like a Spark by SlowQuotesQuill

"What would you feel like if you fell in love at first sight, Kageyama? Would your heart pound like silly? Would you dive into the crowd and ask them out on the spot? Or… would you be content to let the moment pass, unrequited, for all eternity?"

"I'll give you a simple answer, dumbass. What if you just don't write me into a romance story, instead?"

19-year-old Kageyama Tobio, the official setter for the Japanese volleyball team in the Olympics, has been the idol of literature major Hinata Shouyou for the longest time—and now, he was also the unwitting muse for the three-act short story that Hinata was supposed to turn in for finals.

Now, if only he was personally acquainted with the setter, he'd probably have a much more solid grasp of his characterization—because the other Kageyama Tobio who was living in his room (and furiously playing Star Ocean 2 on Hinata's PlayStation right now) seemed wildly out of whack… even for someone who was just a figment of his imagination (?).

AU in three acts.

Words: 4796, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English

Fandoms: Haikyuu!!

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Hinata Shouyou, Kageyama Tobio, Yamaguchi Tadashi, Tsukishima Kei

Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Additional Tags: Supernatural Elements, Drama & Romance, Attempt at Humor, Fluff and Angst, Alternate Universe - College/University, Pro Volleyball Player Kageyama Tobio

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24303835

[lovehurried]

@thehellyouputmein​ said:          ❔

•  MEME  •  Send ❔ & I’ll list some muses I’d like to throw at yours!  •  accepting!

Cassandra Howard-Edwards  +  any of your girls with 1920s verses!  She’s an heiress who is caught between duty and a rebellious streak, something she shares with her brother Alec Edwards, who could also be a fun option for interactions.

Juliet Capulet and / or Olive ‘Oolie’ Johnson  +  Ruby Sparks.  They’re both also fictional characters who’re figments of a man’s imagination, although their respective situations are pretty different. I have verses for both where they learn about their true status, and I think it’d be interesting for them to interact with another character like that!