#this book just reads me for filth in the most direct way on every page and its kind of intoxicating

[johnwickb1tsch]

Sympathy for the Devil ~ Part 9

A Donaka Mark x housekeeper!Reader fic, based on @discoscoob 's concept & bot! Warnings: Donaka Mark is a bad man with a soft spot for you. dark romance, possessive behavior, nonconsensual voyeurism, red flag red flag girl!🔺, psychological games, power imbalance, eventual dubcon/nsfw. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER!!!

one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight.

Nine.  九

You wake up the next day certain you will be fired. But when the axe does not fall, you relax slightly, going about your tasks. It occurs to you that maybe you should leave–but you don’t really want to, and only part of that has to do with your fascination with Donaka himself. The coming weeks seem almost normal, and you begin to think that Mr. Mark decided to be a gentleman about it all, and pretend it never happened.

What a fool you are. 

Your first inkling of your idiocy comes when you are called into Mr. Mark’s office, after dinner, when usually you are hanging up your apron and calling it quits for the day. 

You approach his massive carved ebony desk with folded hands, feeling all for like a naughty school girl. Donaka Mark sits behind it, every bit the lord and master of the house. He has discarded his suit jacket, the top buttons of his black dress shirt undone, so handsome it hurts. His eyes are sharp as obsidian knives upon you, and a cold chill runs down your spine as you come to stand beside him, as he directs. 

That is when he produces the colorfully-covered journal you usually keep secreted in your underwear drawer, the little book dwarfed in his hands. Your heart does a swan dive–you hadn’t even realized it was missing. 

He does not seem amused. 

Maybe you can’t blame him. In that book, amidst your more pedestrian musings and accounts of your day, you have detailed every torrid little fantasy your rotten brain ever concocted about this man. Scorching alternate endings to all your encounters in which you were too smart, or too much of a coward to actually see through. Not to mention, the completely fictional bonus scenes too. It’s like an X rated love letter that rambles on for pages and pages and dear lord, it’s in his hands.

He throws the book down on his desk with a clap that makes you jump out of your skin. With narrowed eyes he looks up at you, his voice low and dangerous. "Care to explain this?"

Your mouth makes a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, your blood turning to ice in your veins. A flood of unbearable embarrassment washes through you, and you begin to shake like a leaf. Never in your life have you ever been so mortified, or, so angry, that he has that obviously private book in his hand. 

"How dare you read that?"

Rage flares in Donaka's dark eyes, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. 

"How dare I read this filth, written about me, in my house? I have every right."

You are quaking, tears in your eyes. The things you wrote about him in that diary...it’s not all filth. Some of it…is foolishly sweet. And he read it all.  Your chest feels like it's pressed in a vice. You feel like you want to throw up...or just die, there on the rug of his office, rather than speak to him further about this. A timely earthquake would be most appreciated; a fissure in the floor to jump into, quite ideal. 

Donaka takes in your reaction to his intrusion of your privacy with secret pleasure; he knows he's got you right where he wants you, completely at his mercy, humiliated and vulnerable.

He leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on your face, drinking in your misery. "I read every single word," he delights in telling you.

You look away, utterly unable to meet his eyes. "Congratulations, Sir," you rasp past the lump of sand in your throat.

Donaka can't help the cold smirk that appears on his face as he watches you look away, unable to meet his eyes. The way you address him as "sir" makes a shiver of satisfaction run down his spine.

“I've got to say, I'm impressed. I never would have guessed your imagination was so...vivid. You seem like such a nice girl.”

A shuddering breath escapes you. You’ve resisted him all this time, taking solace instead in writing in your journal. It was better that way. Safer. But this man is not the type to be satisfied with just words on a page. That's why...he runs a billion dollar corporation, and you...sweep floors.

Donaka watches your defeated gesture, savoring it like a fine dessert. 

“Just what did you intend to do with all this?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you defend immediately. Dear god, you think. Please don’t let this man think I was planning a ‘Tell All’. 

“This is a lot of energy gone into nothing?” 

He doesn’t have to tell you. “It’s just…my journal. To clear my head.”

“Your journal. Of things that never actually happened?” It sounds pretty stupid when he puts it that way–you feel every pound of pressure he puts in that statement, and you think you really just might faint right there beside his desk. “Do you actually get satisfaction out of that?” He sounds genuinely curious.

You close your eyes, so you don’t have to look at his blazing dark stare boring into you as you nod.

“Just give it back, and you never have to see me again.”

He laughs at you, a cruel little chuckle that pierces you to the core. “No, this little treasure is never leaving this house. And you’re not going anywhere.” 

You can do nothing but shake your head, trembling in your very bones. 

“You’re brave in many ways, y/n,” he tells you, fingering the cover of your damning treatise on The Art of Being Creepy About Your Boss. “But in others? Such a coward.” 

It’s the understatement of the century, and you can’t stand it anymore. You turn on your heel to leave–and a grip like iron encircles your wrist, so tight the bones creak. You get your first real taste of how strong this man is, when he jerks you down into his lap like you are a ragdoll made of straw. A yip of a scream escapes you, as he manhandles you like he owns you.

You feel so small, enveloped by his massive frame, his long arms wrapped around you.

"Let's have story time, shall we?" he says with a wicked chuckle, cracking the journal to a random page, and he begins to read the explicit scene you wrote starring the two of you, against the bookshelves, in the library. You can feel his deep, baritone voice vibrating against your skin as he recites, his arm around your waist holding you tight, preventing you from escaping.

“The strength in his hands makes me weak, those veritable paws gripping my thighs and lifting me, the desperate fury of his kiss pressing me back into the shelves so hard there will be linear bruises imprinted upon my skin. Perhaps I will look upon the souvenir tomorrow with equal parts pride and horror, still unsure if I am a victim, or if I welcomed the beast’s ravishment with open arms. Both feel true. The lush wetness between my legs suggests the latter, and as he explores my center with those long, blunt fingers I embrace the prospect of my ruin, bewitched by his skillful touch… Sweetheart, I’m flattered!”

You are dying in your mortification, your face on fire, your every nerve ending aware of this man. You physically cannot stand it, going feral in his arms, squirming in his lap like a fish on a hook, desperate to get away from this hell of your own making. It’s like pushing on a steel wall; he does not give a millimeter up to you. 

"Forget travel writing, I think your calling is the x-rated romance novel," he congratulates you cruelly when you finally go still with exhaustion. And maybe it’s true–you can feel the bulge of his erection pressing into your behind, and fuck if despite your desperation, you start to ache between your thighs, your unhelpful lady parts casting their usual vote for what is undoubtedly a form of suicide.  

He leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Look how you’re trembling. You’ve tried to deny it all along, but you want me."

"I want you to let me go." You push at his muscle-corded arm around you again, fruitlessly. You haven’t resorted to nails or teeth yet–somehow, you suspect you would not like the result of such an escalation. 

Donaka's grip on you just tightens even more, squeezing the breath from you. “You know…something about reading this makes me think that’s not what you really want.” 

Suddenly he stands, dropping you on his desk hard, tossing the little book away so that he can use two hands to pin you down. You might have screamed, had it not knocked the breath out of you. "I liked your ideas about this desk," he growls, taking your mouth in a punishing kiss, pressing you down into the wooden surface with his full bodyweight, his slender hips wedged between your legs. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole, starting with your mouth. 

This. This is what you expected all along. 

"Please, Donaka–" you plead when you are allowed to draw a breath. But his fingers in your hair control your head, pulling your lips to his again. His kiss is fueled by a fierce, primal hunger, his tongue delving deep into your mouth, seeking and claiming every inch of you as his own. His free hand moves over your body, exploring and caressing every curve and contour, squeezing the soft meat of your bare thigh, sliding under your panties to cup your ass.

"I'm not angry that you wrote the words," he snarls against your cheek. "I'm angry that you dared to deny me, lying to my face while you wanted me all along." His eyes lock onto yours, his gaze intense. "Your charade ends tonight."

“But I–”

You whimper as he tugs at your hair, forcing you to meet his eyes again. "No more excuses, you little coward," he snarls. "Did you think you were going to tame me with a potato chip?”

"I wasn't playing with you," you protest, on the edge of tears. "I never meant to hurt you!" 

“Hurt me?” His tone is incredulous, but in that moment it dawns on you that that is indeed the root of his fury. He’d offered you sweetness, at least his version of it, such a rare and unheard of thing for him, damn near showing vulnerability–and you’d denied him. So now…you were getting the stick, and despite the flood of arousal between your legs, you weren’t really sure you liked it all that much. There were no straight lines with this man. Everything was a jagged edge, or a shade of grey. 

"You didn’t hurt me, you infuriated me,” he insists, his lips on your neck. “You knew what I wanted, what I needed, and yet you still dared deny me." He returns to your mouth, his lips hovering just above yours. "You wanted the thrill of bedding the bad man, but none of the blame. That’s fine, bunny. I’ll be your villain.”

At hearing that you renew your struggle, trying to worm out of his grasp.

Donaka's grip on you tightens even more as you writhe, his weight crushing the breath from you, his hips pinning you like a butterfly on a board. There truly is no escaping him like this.  “Give it up," he admonishes, his voice a low, dark rumble. "You wanted me to make you. I read all about it, and I’ll give it to you, sweetheart. I'm not letting you go. Fight me, I like it. Or submit, I like that too. Either way, you're mine tonight."

You’ve known all along that he is a dangerous enigma, and that was why you tried to exorcise your desire for him in words on a page, and not play with fire, not taunt the beast and offer him your tender flesh because you knew you would get bitten. 

But deep down...God, you’d wanted it anyway. You’d wanted to know, just once, what it would be like to bare your throat to a man like Donaka Mark, wondering if he might find you enticing enough, worthy enough, to kiss rather than kill simply because he could. 

“I hate you,” you hiss through your tears, but all you win is his dark laughter. 

“You wish that you hated me, baby. I read all about that too.” He kisses you again, almost tenderly this time, though his hold on you is still bruising. He kisses your cheeks, savoring the wet tracks of your tears. “Don't cry. I’m going to make your wicked little fantasies come true.” 

He kisses you, a deep, punishing lock of lips, and his hand disappears beneath your skirt. When he touches your soaking wet center he smiles against your mouth. You know it is not a nice smile, but still you moan as his thumb circles your clit confidently, as though he knows exactly how to handle you–as though you already belong to him. When he withdraws you watch with horror as he licks his thumb clean, his eyes all for you. 

“Tastes like little liar,” he sighs with narrowed eyes. “But we’re going to fix that.” 

You scream, when he savagely tears open the front of your dress, the black buttons flying to every corner of the room. He ducks to kiss your freshly bared skin, impatiently pulling down the cup of your bra, presenting your mounded flesh for his delectation. When his lips close on your nipple, his tongue flicking, you feel it simultaneously in your throbbing clit. An involuntary moan escapes you, and you know this is the beginning of the end.

“That’s my good girl,” he encourages between ravishing your sensitive flesh, his hips locked against yours. “Tell me all about it.”

“I do hate you.” 

He laughs, a short bark of mirth before kissing you again. You feel him reach down to work his buckle and buttons and zipper, taking himself out with one hand, the other still holding you down. He’s so impatient he simply pushes your panties to the side, his thick tip sinking past your entrance with embarrassingly little resistance, you’re so wet. He growls as he bullies himself inside, lost in the sensation of you, drunk on the heady high of triumph at last.

When you open your mouth to protest he makes the final thrust that fills you completely, tearing a sound from your throat instead that sounds suspiciously like enjoyment. Your head rocks back against the desk as your body adjusts to this delicious invasion.

This is bad. Very bad. But it feels so very good. 

He pauses for a moment to savor it, looking down at you with a smirk, and maybe you invent it out of desperation–but a smoldering warmth in his eyes.

You are so fucked.

“I just knew you’d have the sweetest little pussy.”

He kisses you, moaning in your mouth as he thrusts, losing himself as he wrecks you with his unfairly endowed cock. When his tip hits your cervix you flinch, your body still trying to get away, even while the rest of you has accepted the inevitable. “Too much?”

“Yes,” you hiss, still writhing beneath him.

“Be good then,” he warns you, his voice rough in your ear. “Or I’ll have to punish you.” 

He ducks to your breast again, his tongue wreaking havoc as his thumb slips between you, moving in time with his manhood stretching you to perfection, hitting just the right spot like he was made for you…

“Fuck,” you pant, out of frustration and need and worst of all…the knowledge of absolute defeat. 

You feel him smile against your skin, surrendering to pleasure while he works inside you once more. “Someone’s finally catching on…” 

You let out a growl…but you’re not fighting him anymore, your back arched as you strain for the release that is building in your hips, that maddening promise of euphoria coiled in your loins, the gratification you’ve craved from this man since day one. The tightening of your walls around him wins you another ragged groan, his forehead pressed to your breastbone as he concentrates on making you cum first. A part of you wishes he’d just get off and leave you alone–but he’s not going to do that. There’s no way in hell, you’re in his claws and so you might as well wring every little bit of enjoyment out of it that you can, before you meet your inevitable demise…

“Come on baby,” he coaxes. “Give me what’s mine. From now on, this is where your pleasure comes from, and I intend to keep your schedule full.” 

“This is not–becoming a thing,” you insist, short of breath, because it feels like he’s in your lungs.

He laughs at you, a wicked chuckle that raises your every hair follicle. “No? Do I have to keep you on the edge until you beg me for it, pretty girl? We could do this for days.”

Is it possible, to cum out of spite? You think it might be, as you wrap your legs around his narrow hips in a bid to control the timing of his thrusts. He lets you, caught up in the moment you start participating rather than fighting. You clench upon his perfect cock buried inside you, desperate to indulge yourself before he can torture you by withholding it. 

Your orgasm takes mercy on you, rising to the occasion valiantly. The rapture of it destroys you like a chain explosion, filling your loins before ripping up your spine, hitting so hard you arch and lift him from desk for a few, beautiful moments of ruin. He moans with you, fucking you hard as your needy, turncoat of a cunt milks him, sending him over the edge to spill inside you. He fills you with hot spurts of his essence, his powerful body locked against yours as though to make sure you get every drop. 

For a few long moments he collapses on you, his breathing heavy in the bend of your neck, his lips gentle behind your ear.

“Was that so terrible?” he asks you smugly, sitting up on his elbows to sweep the wisps of your sweat-plastered hair from your forehead. You close your eyes, lulled by the unexpected tenderness in his touch.

“I still hate you,” you sigh unconvincingly.

“Mmm hmm. I can tell. Are you on birth control?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked that beforehand?”

“Don’t be smart, just answer the question.”

You growl, winning that smirk that quickens your heart. He just thinks you’re cute, goddamn him.

“No, I’m not going bear your demon spawn,” you grumble with an eye roll.

“Hmm.” He smirks down at you, his eyes sweeping your face, then lower, and for a terrifying moment you can’t tell if he’s pleased by your preparedness, or contemplating the thought of filling you with his child. The latter scares you more than anything else he’s done so far tonight.

Spitefully you muse, “I kinda wish I had a venereal disease to give you though.” 

Now he narrows his eyes. “Very funny.”

“You’ll find out, I guess...”

He puts his hand over your mouth; it's so big it envelopes the whole lower half of your face.

“Let’s have silence now.” You glare–and you lick his hand, though you don’t make a sound. He looks at it with a frown, then wipes it on your cheek.

“Come on.” He withdraws, righting himself, then you, papers fluttering to the ground as you make your dismount from the desk. Whatever he was working on is surely ruined by sweat…and other bodily fluids. He doesn’t seem to care, for the smug way he smiles at you. 

You might have fallen, if not for his strong arm steadying your shaking limbs. He gives you a moment to find your legs, and as you rest against the solid warmth of his chest, enveloped by the spice of his cologne, you are consumed by the warring urges to kiss him and to hit him. This man. This man could prove to be the death of you through confusion alone. 

He tilts your face up to his, surprisingly gentle now. It’s hard to believe this is the same man from five minutes ago, when he presses his lips to yours. 

You try to button your dress, but it's a lost cause. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because he is pulling you away, towards the door. In the hallway you try to break off in the direction of your room, but he snorts at you, guiding you in the opposite direction with a hand on the back of your neck. 

“I’m not done with you yet, bunny…”

“Donaka…” You only narrowly resist the urge to sob. “You won. Just let me go…” All you want to do is be alone to lick your wounds, and reflect on what the fuck just happened to you. Your thoughts are a complete jumble; you are a walking well-fucked vessel filled with shame and confusion and you hate to admit–total gratification.  It all went by so fast and maybe deep down you wanted it but he just took you and you– 

As though he knows you are trying to pick all this apart and doesn’t intend to give you the chance, Donaka jerks you to him, pulling you into a punishing kiss that melts your bones all over again. You make a small, kittenish sound that betrays your begrudging enjoyment. You swear you feel his smug satisfaction emanating from his pores.

“Don’t you get it yet?” he asks you darkly, a dangerous sparkle in his midnight black eyes. “You’re mine now.”

[marxism-transgenderism]

It's amazing how every chapter of detransition baby makes me cry from a new emotion

[ka-za-ri]

Personal Assistant pt. 1

Hi. I’m in complete and utter Obey Me! Hell Enjoy some Lucifer x MC smut shamelessly put into a modern day CEO!Lucifer AU. Many parts to come. I’m completely covered in filth and thirst. Unbeta’d because we die like heroes here. Let me go back to being a gremlin now.

Paring: Lucifer x MC Wordcount: 5,000 ish Genre: Shameless, filthy smut Tags: Multiple Orgasms, sex on a desk, Finger fucking, overstimulation

Part 2: here Part 3: here Part 4: here Part 5: Here Part 6: Here Part 7: Here Also found on Ao3: Here

Lucifer has been sent to the human realm to study them and acclimate to and learn about their behaviors. By some miracle, you landed a job interview with his illustrious company as his personal assistant. A lot of extra work not listed on the job posting is required of you, to say the least.

Part 1: Interview

Adapting to the human world wasn’t hard. Humans were after all, predictable little things, easily swayed by their desires, it didn't take much effort at all to make them bend to his will. Lucifer’s time thus far ‘learning’ about the human realm had netted him a sizable company under his control. It wasn’t long before he became bored of that. Being a CEO of Akuzon meant many things. One being that he was always busy and needed some help around his office. Previous attempts at having a personal assistant failed him as they never satisfied his needs and kept up with the workload.

Somehow, you found yourself looking at the ad in the paper and hastily applying to the job It seemed too good to be true. It paid well, was for a reputable company, was close to home, and you fit the criteria listed. It was a shot in the dark, you knew there must be hundreds of others clamoring for the position as well. However, much to your surprise only a couple of weeks passed when you received an email requesting your presence for an interview.

The office building was massive, fitting right in with the many sky scrapers of the city. After putting on the best interview clothes you had and making your makeup was on point, you had thought you were ready for anything. Seeing the building and stepping inside it’s grand spaces had you faltering for a moment, a shiver of nervousness running down your spine. Almost everyone in the vicinity stopped what they were doing to see who it was at their front door. The nervousness increased as their gazes bored down into you, making you think you had gotten the wrong building.

“Are you here for an interview?” A young lady at the front desk asked cheerfully, noticing how lost you seemed.

“Ah! Yes! I am! For the position of Lucifer’s secretary.” You explained, relieved that there were some helpful people there.

The lady raised an eyebrow, surprised that someone so green would be chosen for such a high ranking position, but didn’t press the issue any further. Dialing a few numbers into the phone at her desk, she made a quick call. “Yes, she’s here… I’ll bring her right up.” She looked up at you, a sweet smile on her face and got up to guide you to the elevators on the other side of the floor. “He’ll be ready to see you once you get to his floor.”

“His floor?”

“Yes. His office is one of the top floors of the building. As his secretary, you’ll be responsible for taking care of it as well as any other duties he asks of you.” She explained. “You’re so lucky… I applied for that position ages ago, but couldn’t pass the interview phase. I hope you fare better than me.”

“I hope so too…” You agreed, hoping to hide the shaking in your voice.

The trip to the top floor seemed to stretch forever. The light music in the background did little to soothe your anxiety as you watched the numbers climb higher and higher until they stopped at 60 and the doors slid smoothly open after a soft chime.

“Well, this is where I leave you. He’s right beyond those doors.” The lady gave you a small reassuring push forward and before you could have any second thoughts, the doors closed and you were left alone, facing tall frosted glass doors. Taking one last stuttering breath, you took the steps forward to push open the doors. They were much heavier than expected and after a bit of a struggle, you finally managed to open it.

Before you sat the most impeccable man you had ever seen. The very image of power in a young and handsome man. The name plate placed at the very edge confirmed to you that he was indeed to be the man who was going to be conducting the interview. It was difficult to get your mind past how handsome he was. His perfectly parted hair framed his face and its long, delicate features. He wore a black fitted suit, one that probably cost more than any number you could imagine. Each stitch in its place to accentuate the lines of his body and to cut an imposing figure, even when seated. Everything about him oozed control and power. You had every right to be nervous.

He sat behind a massive desk; the only documents in front of him were what you expected to be your files. Most everything else, save for his nameplate, had been cleared off. If he had done this to intimidate you, he was doing an exceptionally good job without even saying a damn thing. “Come in. Have a seat. I’ve been expecting you.” He beckoned and gestured at the seat in front of him, his eyes raking up and down your figure, assessing everything about you. All the while, you were powerless to deny his request. His voice was soothing, low and lulled you into a strange sense of security.

Sinking into the seat in front of the desk, you sat just at the edge, reminding yourself to keep your posture proper and to keep your appearance as professional as possible. You needed to employ every trick in the book in order to succeed in the interview; and Lucifer knew that. His expression was unreadable as he waited for you to settle in, his hands idly flipping through your resume. “So, tell me, what do you think you can bring to this company working for me?”

Ah, there it was, the interview questions. You had prepared for this and the answer you rehearsed fell easily from your lips. “I have a lot of experience in working as an office manager. I understand that my duties may extend past what was listed in the job posting. However, I am willing to take in the extra hours and to work whatever job is given to me to ensure that your position and your reputation remains as impeccable as it has always been since the start. I will bring a new level of efficiency in your workflow and I will be a great asset to your company as such.”

He hummed, seeming uninterested in what you had to say. You began to sweat a bit at the back of your neck. Perhaps he had expected something more unique? Once again, he flipped through the pages of your resume, not really reading anything, just looking at the information you had put down. “I see… And how do you deal with pressure or stressful situations?”

Again, another question you had prepared for. “The easiest way to diffuse stressful stressful situations or overwhelming workloads is to make extensive lists. I like to break things down into their basic components so that large tasks are much more manageable in a timely manner.

He hums again, a vague sound of approval this time, nodding only slightly before making a mark on the papers in front of him. “Very good. Final question. How do you like to be managed?” His eyes flick up to you and there’s something in the way he gazes in your direction that makes your heart beat faster. There was something in the way his eyes trailed up and down your body that had you sitting up straighter than before.

“As long as I have clear direction, I will be able to work independently or as a team as needed.”

Much to your surprise, Lucifer smiles at the answer, circling something on the paper before getting up and sauntering over to you. “That’s very good to hear.” he said quietly, turning to look out the floor to ceiling windows to the cityscape his office overlooked. “There will be a lot of times where I can be demanding and ask you to stay later than usual hours. Will your priority still be this job if I ask this of you?”

You swallowed, not sure how you felt about the question, his tone had an undercurrent of electric energy that had you heating up and shivering at the same time. “Y-yes.” You stated after a brief pause, entranced by the curve of his spine and how well his pants fit his ass. “I can do that. I plan on making this position more than a job. I am looking for a career here.”

Lucifer nodded again, still not making any eye contact with you, which gave you plenty more time to ogle at how his posture and his stance against the window struck such a formal and imposing figure. At this point, he could tell you to work three twenty hour shifts in a row and you wouldn’t complain. The prospect of a hot boss, great pay and a job that was close to home was too tempting to you.

“If you accept this position, you will be placed on a probation period, as is customary for this company.” He explained and your heart started to beat faster. Did this mean you landed the job? You couldn’t tell if he was psyching you up for potential disappointment or if he was genuinely starting to offer you the job. “Once I’ve gone over your performance during your probationary period, your salary will increase. Additional raises and bonuses will be offered as I see fit for… exceptional work.” You couldn’t see it, but rather, you felt him smirking at his reflection in his reflection. “Does that sound acceptable to you?”

“Yes…” You breathed, mouth watering at the aspect of being able to make so much money. It was more than any other job you worked for paid.

Humans were such easy little playthings to control.

Lucifer walked back to you, standing in front of his desk and leaning against the heavy wood. “Your job will be of course to do what I request, many times without question. There will be many sensitive documents that you will handle and that requires your utmost confidentiality.”

“I understand.” You said bluntly, trying to calm your heart and your breathing to no avail.

“You understand that this position also may also involve some after hours activities which I will ask for you to partake in. They are not written on the job description, but they are paramount to this position. Don’t worry… I’ll be sure you receive clear and concise directions on exactly what to do as my personal assistant.”

You blinked. The way he worded the phrase seemed off, but you couldn’t put your finger on what. It was odd, he had always referred to the job as ‘this position’ until just now. It was the first time the actual job title until he tugged at the cuffs of his suit, undoing the buttons. “Oh…” You breathed, eyes wide, cheeks blushing brightly when you realized what he meant, the bulge in his pants was all the proof you needed for there to be absolutely no miscommunication. From the looks of it, you could only surmise that he was barely half mast in that state. Fuck, what kind of monster is he hiding in there?

“Before we sign the papers and you accept the job, I would like to do a test run to make sure you’re a good fit for the company.”

“Yes… of course.” You were practically panting, eyes blown wide and cheeks flushed. You pressed your legs together trying to hide the arousal that started pooling there after the realization that you would be servicing your future boss in rather intimate ways. That fact alone had you ready to sign whatever contract he produced in a heartbeat.

“We’ll begin by seeing how good you are at following directions. Stand up, please.” He flicked his fingers upward, eyes traveling up and down your body, knowing exactly the kind of reaction he was pulling out of you.

You were upon your feet in an instant, hands at your side, back straight as a board and your legs together. You barely dared to breathe as he left his spot on his desk to circle you. You could feel his gaze taking in every detail. He was close enough for you to smell the cologne he wore waft past you as he passed your side and you suppressed a shiver.

“What kind of posture is this?” He chided, pressing the spot between your shoulder blades gently, pushing your shoulders back. “Just because you’re standing up straight does not mean you’re doing it properly.” Lucifer tsked, shaking his head slightly. “How do you expect to represent me and this company if you look like a cardboard cut out.” His hands left a trail of goosebumps across your skin as he adjusted your body as he saw fit. Your hands folded neatly in front of you, your legs now just shoulder width apart and your shoulders back, he took another circle around you to reassess your stance. “Much better.” He murmured. “It will do you well to remember how this feels. I won’t be so lenient if I see you looking so foolishly in front of a client.”

You nodded, memorizing just how he had posed your body, reminding yourself to practice in the mirror. You didn’t dare speak unless he gave you permission to, just something about how he stalked around you made it impossible to raise any objections.

“Stay still unless I say otherwise.” Lucifer commanded next. “It’s important that you are at attention no matter what the circumstances. When I ask for your… special services, you will refer to me as Sir.” His finger traced the hem of your pencil skirt, pulling it up just a bit and you fought back the urge to flinch. “But of course, I should say that right now, you have the power to stop this at any time. Understood?”

“Yes…”

“Yes who?” Lucifer’s tone was sharp and the hand playing at the hem of your skirt moved to place a firm spank on your ass. The pain coursing down your leg, you jumped a bit, but remembered his command to stay still.

“Yes… Sir…”

“Good.” He nearly purred, leaning in to kiss the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin and his hand once again traveled to the hem of your skirt, playing with the fabric and pulling it up until he got a good view of the lacy lucky panties you decided to wear that day. “Very good.” he praises, tracing his fingers across the flimsy fabric. Your breath hitches as he brushes light touches across your bare skin. You stay still, demanding that your body stop trembling, though Lucifer can clearly tell just how nervous you are, shaking like a little lamb at his behest. In a show of dominance, he lets your skirt fall back down, cupping your face to pull you into a heated kiss.

Your mind is practically blank at this point, hands still clasped in front of you, gripping each other like your life depended on it while he claimed your lips and took your breath away. At some point you had reciprocated, kissing him back and earning a low growl from the back of his throat as a reward. He pulled away, your lipstick smeared across his face and his eyes glittering in lust as he looked at your disheveled form in perfect posture. “Hmm… yes… I think you’ll fit right into my needs.” He appraised, rubbing his chin and smirking. The expression sends a shiver down your spine but you didn’t dare move.

His hand guides you two steps forward towards his desk. “Bend over.” He commands and you oblige, your chest laying on the surface of the mahogany desk. Your hips flush against the edge of it while your hands stretched out to grasp at what it could to stay still as he asked. He readjusts you again, spreading your legs further, straining the fabric of your skirt. With a tsk of frustration, he pulled the offending piece of clothing up to your waist, letting the cool AC hit the back of your thighs and allowing him to spread your legs even further. In your heels, you could feel your calves tremble as you struggled to keep the position he had set for you. Thankful for the desk to cling onto, you used it to ground yourself as your ass is exposed to him. Your legs spread to the point where you were bent sharply, completely level with the desk and your hot core could feel the air conditioning blow past your heated nether lips. “You look good spread across my desk like this. I’ll be sure to make use of this position often.” He commented, rubbing your ass gently, teasing you through the fabric of your panties. His fingers brush across the wet spot on your panties and you can feel the it mold against your wet heat. Embarrassed, you stifled the whine that formed at the back of your throat. Even if the two of you were on a separate floor from others, you didn’t know if there were others right outside those heavy glass doors.

His teasing seemed to last forever and you could just see how much he was enjoying it whenever you dared to glance up and see your lewd reflection in the mirror with that salacious grin on his face as he fingered you oh so gently and left you on the edge of wanting more. Every time you glanced up even briefly, he always made sure to make eye contact with you in the reflection, knowing just how much you were affected by his basic touches.

Of course, he wasn’t getting out of the exchange with nothing. The slight bulge in his pants earlier had strained into an impressive tent seeing his new assistant splayed out before him, eager to please. Humans were such predictable creatures. Predictable, yet so much fun to toy with. He couldn’t get enough of the soft sighs that came from your lips as you held back your noises. It only made him want to see break for him even more. His slender, manicured fingers finally gave you a little relief, pressing against the wet spot in your panties and following the curves of your pussy lips that had molded themselves there due to your slick. At that, your hips bucked back, urging him to give him more but a firm hand on your lower back stopped any further movements. “I did not say you could move.”

You whined, clutching onto the edge of the desk, your fingers sore and locking up from how hard you were holding on. You weren’t sure how you were going to handle this sort of treatment on the regular when the trial run was already driving you mad with need. As if he could sense your impatience, he finally pulled down your panties, allowing your legs a brief reprieve as he took them off and tossed them to the side before making you resume the position you had held for who knew how long.

“For a trial run, you’re doing very well.” He cooed, smirking as he saw your glistening folds. “I should remind you that there are people still working in the building. We may have a floor to ourselves, but please keep that in mind and don’t scream too loudly now.” He chuckled darkly, tracing the curve of your ass and finally sinking a finger into your heat. Just the feeling of being penetrated by something had you keening and you struggled to keep yourself from screaming. “Ooh, that’s a pretty noise you make… Please make more of those.” he encouraged, slowly sliding his finger in and out of you.

“Y-yes sir.” You panted, your legs ached, but the pain was absolutely nothing compared to the pleasure that was building up in your abdomen just from feeling a finger slowly fuck you. You had come in for an interview and your soon to be boss was unraveling you in ways you had only fantasized about. All the while, Lucifer remained the very image of composure, if it weren’t for his very obvious hard on being pressed against the back of your thigh, you would have thought he was impervious to the scene he had orchestrated. Every time his finger dragged itself out of you, you let out an appreciative mewl, mind reeling as he pressed every button he needed for you to submit completely to him.

You lost track of time and how many times he left you wanting more with how his finger moved in and out of you. At some point, he had added a second, then a third, deliciously stretching you out. You were so wet and ready for him, you could feel your essence drip down your thighs as your legs struggled to keep you upright. Lucifer was patient, he had lived several millennia already, edging you until you were a begging mess on top of his desk for a few hours was absolutely nothing to him.

In a show of surprising restaurant, he pressed hot kisses against the back of your neck, nipping at your skin whenever you let out a particularly breathy sigh. The scent of sex and his cologne enveloped you and you were practically dizzy with need. “Sir…” You whined after he had curled his fingers in you, making you see stars and your walls trembled, clenching around his fingers. “Please… I need more…”

“Oh?” He asked, raising an eyebrow and removing his fingers, much to your dismay. He watched in amusement as your pussy twitched, clenching around air now that his fingers were no longer filling you. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he was surprised how long you had held out before you were begging for him. His erection had pressed against his impeccably tailored pants for so long, it was almost painful, yet, he couldn’t let you have your way just yet. Even if it was a trial, he still wanted to see just how far he could push you. “You think you really deserve more? You haven’t even gotten this job yet.”

His fingers were back on your wet, sopping cunt, sliding up and down your labia, rubbing slow, firm circles around your clit. You wailed, bucking your hips and forgetting the command to stay still until his other hand reminded you by spanking your ass cheek. “No moving.” He growled and you struggled to obey, stilling your body even though every part of you screamed to squirm and beg for him. “You will get more when I decide you get more.”

You could only nod in reply, letting him use your body as he saw fit. “For your next test. You will cum when I tell you to.” he breathed, pressing his finger against your clit, making you choke back a sob of pleasure. “After that, I promise you, you’ll be at the last part of the interview.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll do what you want, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir.” You babbled mindlessly, your body aching for relief and release. The torture and pleasure he could pull out of you with just his fingers had your mind jumping to the future to what other things he could elicit out of you.

“Good girl.” He praised, patting your hair in a surprisingly soft gesture. He followed the gentleness with a chaste kiss on your lips before going right back to being the commanding figure you had met him as. He plunged his fingers into you again, knuckle deep and pumping in and out of you furiously, loving the way your walls fluttered and clenched as you held off on your orgasm until he permitted it. “You are so obedient… just what I like.” He praised breathlessly, working you closer and closer to the point of no return.

You couldn’t think straight, you didn’t care if others heard the lewd sounds coming from your lips as you whined, begging for release. You were so close, you wanted to cum so badly, but your determination to pass his test outweighed your desire and you held out until his silky voice whispered the blissful word into your ear. “Cum…” He purred and you gratefully crumbled, your body spasming around his fingers, milking it like it was his cock. Soft whines escaped your lips and tears of gratitude streaked down your face.

“Thank you, Sir.” You panted, blissed out and feeling weightless after such a powerful orgasm. Your vision blurred as you stared blankly at the wall, wondering if this was the end of the interview. Lucifer’s fingers leaving your sore pussy sure seemed to signal that things had reached a conclusion. Glancing up at the reflection in the windows, you flushed bright red when you saw Lucifer lewdly cleaning his fingers off with his tongue.

“Hmm… I think you would do well.” He said once his fingers no longer shone with your essence. He sauntered over to the other side of the desk where you clung onto for dear life. Sinking into his chair, he casually opened up one of the drawers, pulling out a contract and placing it in front of you. “If you believe you can keep up with my demands, then all you have to do is sign on the dotted line at the bottom. He slid you an ornate fountain pen into your hand.

Your trembling digits could barely hold onto the pen and you moved to start reading the contract, going over the terms and conditions of your new position. Most of it was the basic business jargon seen in every typical job. There were a few things that seemed out of place, but in your just fucked state of mind, it was very difficult to focus on what about them seemed wrong. Unable to really think straight about what you were getting yourself into, you placed the pen onto the paper, eager to start your new job.

Just as you the pen started to move, you heard the sound of a zipper being undone and the hard erection you had felt earlier on the back of your thigh now pressed up against your sore pussy. You gasped, eyes going wide at the feeling of being stretched out once again. “Well? Will you sign?” He asked casually, sinking into you inch by inch as you struggled to breath and think, let alone sign a contract.

“Yes… Yes, Sir…” you whined, starting to shakily write your name as he bottomed out inside of you. He hissed, taking a hold of your hips and roughly slamming them back into him to get as much contact as he could. You yelped, unable to write your name at all. Your hips banged against the edge of the desk with every one of his rough thrusts. No doubt, there would be dark bruises there the next day reminding you exactly what you did to get the job you were signing for now.

With each pass, Lucifer lets a little more of himself go, grunting in effort as he relished in the feeling of your hot walls surrounding him. He hadn’t found such an obedient human in a long time. It would be such a fun time for him to push your limits every day you were in his office. What he offered now was only a glimpse of what he had planned for you. Every time your hand stuttered in the middle of signing your name, his grin widened. The closer you were to sealing the contract with him, the closer he was to his own release that he had been holding back for hours now.

“Just a little more…” he urged, slowing down his thrusts so you had at least some time to get a few more letters of your name out. Just as you finished, he let out a primal growl, slamming his hips into yours, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room as he fucked you without abandon. The fountain pen fell from your fingers and you were back to clutching onto the edge of the desk as yet another explosive orgasm started to build in you.

Glancing up into the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of what Lucifer looked like while he was coming undone inside of you, you were surprised at the image you saw. It was only for a brief moment, but you swore you saw horns on him, and dark, feathery wings framing his body. The sound of the pen you dropped falling to the floor broke the illusion and the image of the prim and proper business man with an utterly feral look was all you saw.

He knew he wouldn’t last long once he entered you and so, he chased his release inside of you. As soon as the contract was signed, he was done for. His hand snaked around your abused waist to reach for your clit, bringing you to climax in time with his own. With a grateful groan, he released all the pent up tension in him, spilling his hot seed deep inside of you while your walls spasmed around him, milking every inch of him and accepting what he had given you. “Very good…” he cooed, his eyelids fluttering as he relished in the rush that came after such an explosive climax.

You whined, your body bruised and beaten, but also feeling absolutely boneless and euphoric. You hadn’t experienced anything like that before and it was all rather mindblowing to say the least. The contract in front of you with your shaky signature, ink blots from when you lost control of the pen and a fair amount of your tears stared back at you. This was your future. This would be a regular part of your life going forward; and you didn’t feel a shred of regret from it. You zoned out for a moment, hardly believing that it was all real.

Lucifer’s cock slipping out of you and the feeling of his cum dripping out of you snapped you back to reality. “Very good job. I’ll say you passed all the tests with flying colors.” He said, fixing his suit and continuing on as if he hadn’t just fucked the living daylights out of you. “I expect you to come in on Monday ready to work. I have a lot of filing for you to catch up with.”

He smirked, taking the signed contract and slipping it back into his desk. He cupped your chin in his hand and planted soft kisses on your lips, once again leaving you dizzy and breathless. “You are free to move now.” He said and you gratefully worked on closing your sore legs, wondering how you were going to make it out the office in the state that you were in. You weren’t sure you were able to walk, let alone get all the way home with how weak you were. Lucifer chuckled, dialing a few numbers into his cellphone. “I’ll arrange for a ride home for you.” He offered. “As a thank you for such a lovely interview.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, knowing you had a way to get back without catching too many unwanted stares at your disheveled state. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Lucifer.” He corrected briskly.

“Thank you, Lucifer. I’ll be sure to arrive on time Monday.” You sank into the chair to gather your wits about you, staring at your trembling hands.

“Good.” He said coolly and looking up at him, you gasped when you saw him casually twirling your panties on one finger as he looked down at you. “Your ride should be here shortly, please make sure you’re presentable, you do not want to dishonor me.”

“Yes. Of course, Lucifer.” you hastily combed your hand through your hair, hoping to take care of the worst of the flyaways. You glanced nervously at the panties in his hand, figuring they were a lost cause at this point and simply accepted the fact that you’d be taking this arranged ride with your boss’ cum dripping down your thigh. Carefully standing up, you remembered to assume the proper posture he had shown you earlier and he smiled in approval.

“Very good.” He gestured to the heavy glass doors, opening them as if with magic with a press of a button. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yes,Lucifer.” You replied obediently, taking the first shaky steps out.

“Oh, and one more thing.” he called out to your retreating form. You turned, blinking and wondering what else he could want from you. “Wear the same lipstick, will you? I’d love to see what that color looks like smeared all over my cock.”

“Yes, of course. As you wish.” You replied, blushing a deep red and rushing out of the office now, high off of getting the coveted position of Lucifer’s personal assistant and the prospect of what else he could ask you to do for him.

Watching you slip into the elevator, Lucifer smiled to himself. He reached into his desk and pulled out the contract, skimming the terms and conditions you had agreed to.

Humans were terribly predictable. Yet, they were also infinitely entertaining.

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

fic for @bakageta, who made a VERY generous charity donation request for more meditations on human/symbiote differences! i always want to write about language and relationships, so i made eddie and the symbiote read poetry together. it’s set some time before the hunger. i hope it Scratches the Itch.

Wind roars through the streets. With desperate anger, it tears at clothes, sends litter flying. Rain beats down relentlessly. It claws at exposed skin, sharp and cold. Desperate, but directionless.

This isn’t the kind of rain that was sent in a biblical flood, terrible, but purifying, divine in strength and purpose. This rain smells foul. It can do nothing but rise from filth and return to filth, over and over, and the storm screams it for everyone to hear, but no one to listen. No one but Eddie, anyway.

Eddie lets it lash out against him, back to the wall. He can taste it, vaguely metallic, when he licks his lips. If it was the kind of rain that carries out a calling, it’d drown him, him and the rest of the rats scurrying through the gutters, but all it can do is run down his face, dripping from his chin.

Protest, at the back of his mind, as he watches water stream down the street. Nothing could drown them. 

Of course not, Eddie thinks. He does have more effective protection from the elements than the traditional bundle of newspapers. 

The rain doesn’t bother said protection - or rather, protector. It doesn’t need to be kept cool and wet, but it likes to be. It produces an excess of heat, and it has no skin to stop it from directly absorbing the water it needs.

Thunder is another matter. Far off, at first, an approaching rumble, and the mild anxiety it caused hardly registered. Coming in close, now, echoing in ways no one else can sense, crashing against the symbiote's exposed body. A wince, each time. Then, with another clap of thunder, a seizing of muscles, a grimace. 

“You’re right,” Eddie says, strained, in response to an unvoiced plea. “We should… We should go.”

He sits there. The next nearby lightning strike feels like it’s hit its target, the symbiote rippling across his skin. Resistant to any impact, but easily disturbed at the cellular level by sound and heat.

Eddie groans. “Right,” he says, again. Slowly, he pushes himself onto his feet. He’d probably slip and eat pavement if it weren’t for the symbiote’s grip. Been feeling kind of tired, lately. Can’t have been more than three days since he slept, either.

Eddie drags himself down the alley, gritting his teeth whenever thunder digs into their flesh with hot fingers. The symbiote hurries him along, taking on half the effort of moving. It's not injured, of course. Just uncomfortable. 

Memories burn through their body, prolonged exposure, dissolving biomass. 

“Alright,” Eddie mumbles. No need to remind him. He can feel it, too.

Soon enough, the symbiote stops them. The mental nudge goes unnoticed, but the tendril that wraps around the door handle yanks him back with stumbling steps.

It’s a public library. Quiet, warm, dry. Many qualities the sewers do not possess. 

Libraries have been a place of refuge to him throughout his life. One of the few places he could go to get out of the house without neglecting his work, back then. Now, one of the few places he can inhabit as an imposing, penniless, unwashed man talking to himself. Or growling to himself, admittedly, when they’re there to do research on some wretched waste of life's wrongdoings.

Most places, that doesn’t go over too well. A public disturbance, that's what they call someone trying to do some good. Tells you a lot about what the public's like, left undisturbed. Exactly why Eddie doesn’t like to face it, doesn’t want it to face him.

Fine, Eddie thinks. Fine. Just for a little while.

He opens the door. The foyer’s got some carpets to drip on, some people to get the stink-eye from. They’re far from the only ones seeking shelter from the storm. 

Eddie pushes past them. They don't need a fancy seating area, they only need some privacy. Try as they might, though, it’s impossible to escape humanity in here. It’s not just the students, writers, readers. They can avoid those by heading into the poetry section, practically abandoned at this time of year. No, it's that they’re still surrounded by culture, art, science, wherever they go. Things that used to mean something to him.

Still do, maybe.

It’s hard to tell, sometimes. 

Hard to tell what they’re here for, if not this, and not these people.

Not that he’s doubting their mission. It’s more that he’s underestimated how it would escalate, how far the rot has spread, how precious little there is left to protect. It’s them against the world, at this point. Bound in purpose, he thinks, and the sentiment echoes, drained of its satisfaction. Bound in purpose, still. Bound in purpose, at least.

Eddie stops walking, slowly, and leans against a bookshelf. Closes his eyes. Sweeps away the hair clinging to his forehead, then places his hand on the shelf, fingers catching on the edge. Stands there and breathes, and thinks, and knows that something’s wrong.

“We haven’t changed,” he says, tongue heavy. “The world has.”

But it feels like it. It feels like something’s changed between them. If Venom used to be a song they belted out together, joyful and sure, then now, it’s only background noise, easily ignored.

“Maybe,” he says, and swallows. He opens his eyes, takes a quick breath. “Maybe we should…” 

Talk. Connect. Take a break. It’s been rough, he won’t deny that. They’ve been working as one, too preoccupied with trying to survive to even try to make a difference. Tirelessly treading onward, even in the face of loss and failure.

Wistfulness, in response. Memories of when they first met, when they were foreign to each other, explored each other, discovered each other - and themselves. When he would focus on it, feverishly, and every thought drew it deeper into him. Into itself, given form by his attention. Into them.

It had so much to learn. He had so much to teach.

“We haven’t run out yet,” Eddie says, softly.

He walks among the shelves. “I used to have a penchant for poetry,” he says, out loud, just to be certain that it knows these thoughts are directed at it. “It wasn’t relevant to anything I had to do, but that made it… special."

In his journalism major, a flair for poetic language was largely considered inappropriate. Complex, ambiguous, emotional, opposed to reporting the facts. A small-minded view, in Eddie’s opinion. Any story is only as big as the words used to tell it.

Regardless, that disconnect could be liberating. Poetry was a reprieve, the one thing he didn't force himself to excel in, the one intellectual pursuit he took for inspiration, for escapism, for enjoyment, for what it was. He'd known that poetry was antithetical to everything his father stood for, that neither he nor his peers ever would’ve approved of that particular interest, so he never had to hope. It'd been liberating, doing something for himself. It'd limited the time he spent on it, of course. But it'd been liberating.

There's an undercurrent of care to these memories, and he recognises it as the symbiote’s interest, approval, affection, carrying them along. Eddie smiles. 

He’d bring a book home, now and then. Wrap up in a blanket with it, feel a little less lonely, or a lot more lonely, depending. And eventually, he even found someone to share it with. Someone to whisper to, curled up in his arms...

The current cuts off. It doesn't seem intentional, not like the warmth leaving him, but like the warmth leaving it. There’s no explanation offered.

Eddie clears his throat. "Well," he says. “That was then. This is now.” He forms a thought, hesitantly. "Would you like to… read something? While we're already here, I mean."

It pushes his own feelings back at him. Seems like it'd make him happy.

"Right."

The symbiote doesn't actually care for poetry much. Conceptually, it feels like it's developed out of limitations it doesn't experience. Something it transcends. It needs no words to express itself.

"You could appreciate it," he says, as he examines the line-up, "from a place of pity, at least." He thinks of writers it might enjoy, in subject matter, maybe in structure. Maybe-

Eddie's hand comes to rest on a book's spine. "This one," he says, "this one reminds me of you."

That seems to pique its interest. It probes at the nature of the association. 

“In a good way, of course,” he says, flipping through the book. “E.E. Cummings. The way he handles language has a certain… boundary-breaking character, but only in the service of truth, and love, and hate. As if the enormity of it cannot be contained, and he’s setting it free.”

In his mind, Eddie draws parallels to their bond. The symbiote follows each of them like it's being led through the dark, one hand warm in another. 

“He’s known for doing strange and untoward things to syntax. Very accessible, at the same time. Nothing like what I would write, but I appreciate…”

Eddie trails off, eyes drawn to a gap between shelves, where a woman stands some distance away, expression blank, lips slightly parted, and seems to be listening in. For a moment, they feel horribly exposed, and whatever shows in their face sends her off with hurried steps.

“I appreciate it,” he says, book in hand.

The symbiote, discreetly, raises a tendril from Eddie's sleeve, pointing at a page in the book. Let's read this one, it suggests.

Eddie blinks down at it. He does know that one. If they’re going to try to reinspire some faith in humanity, then he supposes they could do worse. 

They look around for a spot they'll hopefully be left alone in, some nook or cranny between shelves. They settle down, and the symbiote spreads out, cushioning him. Surrounded on all sides but one, they manage to stop feeling out of place by turning inward.

i-

Wrong, the symbiote balks.

"Wrong?"

Wrong! The I-letter is capitalised, always. The first letter is capitalised, always. If it turns out that those rules cancel each other out, it's going to throw itself into the nearest furnace.

“No, no,” Eddie says, amused. “This is what I meant. Boundary-breaking. Rule-breaking. Poetry gets to do that.”

And everyone still understands?

“Of course.”

Then what was the point in the first place?

“Well,” Eddie says, knees drawn up to his chest. “Rules do make things more understandable… More standardised. That’s just not the purpose of poetry. Well-tread ground needs to be dug up to be made fertile.”

The symbiote hardly follows. It's too busy experiencing visions of the book torn to pieces between its teeth, paper shreds flitting through the air.

“Alright, just listen,” Eddie says, undeterred, “or whatever it is you do.”

i thank You God

The symbiote is directly linked into his conscious and subconscious thought processes, so he’s doing the work of translation for it. There's the effect. The speaker, "i", small, insignificant, deferring. The addressee, "You", “God", standing tall and singular.

How is this supposed to feel? Comforting? Intimidating? Denigrating? 

Something about awe, Eddie thinks. But it’s up to you.

i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes

Natural-Infinite-Yes. That’s the closest he could come to transcribing the way it communicates emotions. It speaks to a web of associations, all the potential of the underlying concepts, disregarding the prescribed use of these words. 

The symbiote wonders: What about the spirits? Are they creatures he’s imagining, carrying his own joy?

“That’s… not bad,” Eddie says, head tilted. “Spirits are complicated. But you’re right to assume that it says more about his own than theirs.” He blows a strand of hair out of his face. “He just really likes trees.”

(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)

The symbiote understands the what of it, if not the how. It’s swept up in the feeling of union, reunion. It can hardly imagine anything else it might mean.

That’s the thing about poetry, Eddie muses. It speaks to your personal experiences. Someone from a different background might take something completely different away from it. The writer certainly intended something else.

The symbiote grows pensive, faced with the uncertainty of human communication. One of them has to make signs from meaning, the other has to make meaning from signs. No direct exchange at all, no guarantee that their sign-meanings match up. They may not even want them to.  

Eddie hums. “Countless theories of communication start from that line of thought. Remind me to introduce you to Stuart Hall someday.”

That only spurs it on, digging deeper into his understanding of language. What Eddie thinks of as a ‘medium’, sound, writing, image, is actually something that encases and constricts, everything that stands between them in their permanent state of separation. How can they just accept it? How does any human cope with it, being unreachable?

It takes Eddie a second to respond, surprised by how easily he finds himself lost in the way the symbiote weaves an argument, as fluidly and formlessly as it moves. In response, it traces the shape of his own thoughts, edged and curved around the boundaries that words lay around concepts in his mind. They missed this, they realise.

Eddie runs his thumb along the page. “I suppose you understand why some of us resort to poetry, now.” If not for their bond, he might’ve been among them. But then- No. He would be dead.

how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any--lifted from the no of allnothing--human merely being doubt unimaginable You?

Though no human being, the symbiote can see itself in the speaker’s position, easily. Lifted from the no of allnothing, made real in an act of creation: Perceiving and being perceived. Given form, name, purpose. Someone to be. Brought into a richness of experience, a depth of feeling that can only carry the truth.

(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

The kind of worship described here, though, seems intent on reducing the worshipper. Their worship never elevated one of them above the other. It elevated them above the world.

Eddie swallows.

At that moment, it’s not a connection to someone else he’s struggling for, but a connection to himself. There’s a feeling that should be available to him, but isn’t. Not quite. Like watching a lit fireplace, but finding it cold to the touch.

Well. What is poetry for, if not that?

Eddie flips through the book. Looking for something, this time. He finds it, and with it, a flash of warmth, recalling the words and the place they hold in his life. The symbiote seems almost taken aback.

He doesn’t even need to read this one to share it. It made him ache, but it was an ache for possibility, not absence. One soul, irreversibly marked by another, inescapably tied to it, and yet, unashamedly so, without regret or reservation. 

With something like a laugh, Eddie rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Tries not to let the tightness between them distract him, or the odd dryness of his skin, or the strange taste in his mouth. 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

Eddie’s throat seizes, hot and heavy, and for all its lack of regard for words, the symbiote curls around my dear, my darling like a wounded animal hiding its underbelly, even the sound of it suddenly seeming sweet instead of clunky. It’s okay, Eddie thinks, it’s okay. Me, too.

They use those metaphors a lot, has it noticed? Someone running through their veins, carrying them under their skin, letting them inside their heart? Humanity may fear it, use it, scorn it, but unknowingly, without prejudice, they dedicate love songs to it.

i fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

The structure, the seamless transition from thought to thought, with concepts simply being available instead of being repeatedly reproduced to be put into sentences... Needless to say, that’s a lot like the symbiote, too. Beautiful, in an alien way.

Eddie blinks away tears. He realises, suddenly, that they aren’t his, and they aren’t the product of overwhelming emotionality. They’re tears of grief. Grief that reaches down deep enough to make him retch. What’s wrong, he thinks, what’s wrong, it’s you, it’s for you, listen.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

Something in the symbiote snaps.

It rises with a rumble threatening to turn into a roar, sharp-edged as if sketched in a hurry, with a set of talons that swallows his chest with ease. Eddie can hardly begin to worry about drawing attention before he’s paralysed by pained confusion. 

Why would he do this? It knows it doesn’t bring him any satisfaction to taunt it. Nothing seems to. They’re no longer what they were, when they were everything it ever wanted, and now he involves it in his imagination, his reminiscence, his lyricising? 

Eddie can hardly untangle the mess of emotions, and the symbiote hardly seems to slow down for him. He suppresses, just barely, the urge to tell it to shut up, get away, just until he knows what’s going on, and… 

You broke up with me and now you’re making me read romantic poetry.

Is that it?

That’s not…

That’s not true.

They stare at each other, dumbly. The symbiote deflates into something more like its usual form, letting Eddie push himself back up from where his neck was uncomfortably craned against an Emily Dickinson collection.

Approaching footsteps interrupt them, and the symbiote melts back into his clothes as if it was never there at all. A man comes around the corner, looking down the shelves to see… nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the man sitting on the floor.

“And what’re you looking at?” Eddie snaps.

The man looks him up and down, suspicious. Inspects the books for damage.

“This is a library,” he says.

“This is a patron,” Eddie replies, gesturing down at himself.

“Well, as such…”

“We’ll be quiet.”

The man stands there for a moment more, confused, then nods to himself, clearly wanting nothing more than to leave. Eddie mutters an insult under his breath.

Their mind feels like prickly static. Eddie looks over at where the book's fallen from his hand, still open on the same page, and sighs, deeply. He picks it up, rests it against one raised knee. He offers his hand, as if asking someone to dance - or to join him, rejoin him - and waits.

The symbiote begins bubbling forth from beneath the skin, then slides between his fingers, settling into a delicate, clawed hand. The imagery isn’t lost on it, nor the associated memories, and Eddie raises it to his mouth, slowly.

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

It churns with it, conflicted. Still?

“Of course,” Eddie says, brows furrowed. “If not anymore, I’d at least... tell you.”

The symbiote’s mass extends into an arm, a shoulder, enough of a torso to crowd him against the wall, and it thinks, very decisively: No. Those are words.

Words aren’t what makes a relationship. They can designate it, but they can’t create it. A relationship is real. It has a smell, a taste.

It’s a state of being. It’s who you are, together. 

If that changes, he can’t just tell it that it hasn’t.

Eddie’s expression grows dark. "So it's my fault," he says, and his hand clenches, dissolving the symbiote's mass between his fingers. "I'm not good enough for you, is that it? Not anymore?" His lip curls, eyes cast downwards. "You, of all people."

They sit in silence. 

No, it thinks. It’s not him. It’s the world. The rottenness of the world.

They were angry before, but it was anger that stoked, anger that drove. Now, after being beaten down time and time again, it’s anger that drains. Anger that drains him of love, leaking from him like a physical thing until there’s nothing left for it.

“Love’s more than that,” Eddie says, voice rough. “I know I love you. I swear, I- I love you in ways that make it seem senseless to even say it, to try to...” He tenses up, looking for the words, then releases. “It’d have to be poetry.”

Guilt washes the symbiote’s other emotions away, wave after wave. It soothes, settling back into him, around him. Pulls back his hair and drapes around his neck. Eddie nuzzles into his shoulder as it takes on the soft, fluffy texture of a scarf, hidden in plain sight.

“You know what a relationship is?” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s a promise. It doesn’t end until that promise is broken.”

What promise?

Eddie exhales, half a laugh, half a grin. “You know,” he says, half desperate. “‘Til death do us part.”

[the-magnus-backlogs]

Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they’ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don’t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare?  I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

[bbrandy2002]

My Love

Chapter Seven

Book: The Royal Heir

Pairing: Liam x Riley

Series Summary: After losing the love of his life, Liam is left with a newborn daughter and a council that demands he endure another social season quickly. Not wanting to move on, he gets help from an unlikely ally – his late wife.

C/N: This story is going somewhere different from how it originally started. I had said from the beginning I wasn’t sure how this fic would be taken because it would be so out of the ordinary. And while the first four chapters could be stand-alones, I always intended for it to continue on in this unconventional way. If you no longer wish to be tagged in it, just let me know and no hard feelings.

T.W.: Mention of a previous rape and examination. Mental health.

Thank you to @burnsoslow​ for beta reading,  all of my snippet readers, and those who have messaged me several times about this story.

If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have not heard, I would still know you. –Lang Leav

It is said that the purest kind of love has the power to overcome any obstacle, break through any barrier, to make miracles happen where none existed before. For Liam and Riley, it was fate that brought them together in a New York City bar, and it was love that carried them through many, dark trials.

A passioned romance that started between a prince and a waitress became the epic love story legends were made of. After defeating every enemy that stood in their way, they married in front of the world, ruled side-by-side, and created the most significant symbol of their absolute devotion to one another – a daughter. Neither one ever imagined living in this life without the other … it wasn’t possible. They existed solely for the purpose and betterment of the other.

In what took an act of God to bring them together, took only the evil of man to separate them.

Liam had spent the weeks following her untimely death in a grief-stricken state of misery and torment. He never knew a heart could feel so much pain, nor a body experience so much affliction, missing the one who was the greatest part of himself. Riley was his joy, where none existed and comfort in every sense of the word. Ellie’s presence could only numb a portion of the sting, but not enough to fill the void his soulmate left behind. When Liam spoke to his wife each night, he never questioned whether his messages of eternal love and ’missing his girl,’ fell on spiritually deaf ears. Even with a vast abyss that divided their worlds … somehow … someway … Riley heard every tear he had shed and every expression of sorrow he spoke.

He needed her.

Where time no longer existed, Riley’s soul saw a tiny window of opportunity and literally moved heaven and earth to get back to her one true love. She knew she was the only one who could save him now.

____________

A broken, battered body laid motionless on a cold emergency room stretcher,  surrounded by the hustle and hurried activity of doctors and nurses. In and out of consciousness, the woman’s eyes flickered open when a gloved hand prodded the open wound on the side of her head. The sensation of flesh being ripped away with each poke elicited a scream so chilling, a startled, first-year nurse dropped a tray of metal instruments that crashed and clanked to the floor.  

The patient felt a chilly draft of air as the tattered remains of her shirt and bra were cut down the middle, exposing her marked and bruised breast. EKG electrodes were attached to her chest, and the tangled web of wires that were connected to the monitor came alive with erratic lines and buzzes. Her long brown hair that clumped together in sanguineous knots was swept to the side to remove her gold hoop earrings. Tweezers pinched and bore into the delicate skin of her murky palms, extracting deep thistles and thorns.  What seemed to take hours while portable x-rays were shot, lesions stitched and bandaged, and several infusions of liquids and blood being attached to the tube that ran into her forearm – she was given clear and concise information about the intrusive examination that would soon follow.

A kindly hand held onto hers as another one gently rolled up the sheet that draped over her legs and nudged them apart. Questions were lobbed at her from all directions, but she had no answers. This woman didn’t know what happened, why she was in the hospital, nor the description of who did this to her.  The only thing she remembered at that moment, before waking up on the bristly ground of the park, was Liam crying out for her in their bedroom.

Her gravelly voice went unnoticed when she begged for the examination to stop. It was clear from her feelings of utter filth, the kind that made her skin crawl, this body had been through quite an ordeal. She was told to remain still and relaxed; after what had happened to her, this would provide the evidence needed to ensure justice was served. The truth was, it wasn’t her that experienced what the former personal assistant-turned-nanny to the Cordonian Princess had gone through. What happened to this body took place before Amanda Talbert died, and the spirit of Riley Brooks took over it.

Riley flinched, and her fist gripped a little tighter to the sheet that covered the upper portion of her body. The first of several swabs and probes to her most sensitive areas made her stomach squeamish with nausea. An astute nurse noticed the greenish color that pooled into Riley’s face and thrust an emesis basin next to her cheek to collect the contents of the excretion she expelled. With tears pricking her eyes, Riley eased her throbbing head back onto the pillow when she was finished; the earlier words of a physician telling her ‘how lucky she was to be alive,’ playing over and over in her mind. If Riley didn’t feel like she had just returned to hell-on-earth, she might have found this ironic statement amusing.  

A female officer scraped a wooden applicator under her fingernails, collecting debris, and dropped it into an evidence bag. “Miss, can you tell me your name again?” she asked while labeling the contents with a black marker.

Riley moistened her dry lips with her tongue as she blankly stared straight up at the ceiling. “Riley Brooks,” she whispered hesitantly, keenly aware of the low snickers her answer had drawn from everyone in the room each time the question was asked.

“Very well, Miss … Brooks.” Riley heard the officer reply with a loud exhale and a clipped voice before labeling the bag – Jane Doe.

This wasn’t the reunion Riley had anticipated. She knew her work would be cut out for her considering she didn’t know who she had become or how she would even get to Liam. Just that the perfect person and the perfect opportunity came along, that made it possible for her to be in his orbit. She would worry about the complexities of the situation later, but right now, Riley wanted to find Liam before he destroyed himself.

__________________

Drake poured another glass of water and handed it to Liam, who was sitting up in his hospital bed. He thanked his friend and took a long drink before handing the empty cup back. Liam rolled his head in an attempt to get the tension and knots that a month’s worth of stress had set in. His eyes glanced up to the doctor who paced silently at the foot of his bed, flipping through a chart full of test results and nodding his head in assent while he scrutinized each page.

Feeling frustrated by several minutes worth of silence that was then followed by faint mumblings from this doctor, Liam tapped his finger over his pursed lips with a peculiar expression he hoped the older man would recognize as impatience from his King. He finally scratched the back of his head when his antics hadn’t garnered the attention he had hoped for and decided to express his displeasure over his wait through other means. He let out a heavy sigh and flopped back boisterously into the stacks of pillows that were positioned behind his back.

Drake nudged Bastien in the arm and leaned into his ear. “What the hell did they give him?

The doctor gave a sideways glance before removing his wire-rimmed glasses and placing them back into the pocket of his lab coat. He stood a little taller and turned to face Liam with the opened binder that he had just analyzed cover-to-cover. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I wanted to be thorough in your care and ensure I had a complete understanding of your … situation.”

Liam bolted up at the chosen words to describe him and cocked his head. “What is my … situation … Doctor Ganos?” He asked with an embittered tone. Liam already knew the answer to his question. He had lost his wife, there were still no leads in her murder, he had been betrayed during that morning’s council meeting by Neville, he was now expected to take part in another social season he wanted nothing to do with and twice heard the voice of his late wife.

“Your situation - ” Doctor Ganos, replied nervously as he walked around the bed to Liam’s side. “you’re severely dehydrated for one. I would venture to guess you are also physically and mentally exhausted.”

“That is what caused him to lock the door, toss his clothes around the damn bedroom, and then collapse onto the floor?” Drake asked skeptically.

The doctor turned to Drake, not sure if he should answer his questions, but figured the King would speak up if he didn’t want anything pertaining to his medical records mentioned in front of him. “It’s certainly a huge part of it … yes.” His gaze turned back to Liam with a thoughtful expression. “Based on the very public knowledge of what you have been through since Queen Riley died and the symptoms you described experiencing just before collapsing in your room, I would surmise you had a panic attack. A complete mental breakdown.”

The conversation was interrupted by Bastien’s phone, who then apologized, excused himself, and walked just outside the private hospital room. Another guard took Bastien’s place in the room, and the doctor cleared his throat to continue the basis of his diagnosis. Liam may have felt some trepidation over the words, complete mental breakdown, yet wasn’t surprised by them in the least. He knew he wasn’t the same man he was before and had felt the excruciating toll his body and mind had undergone. He wanted to get back to Ellie, but Doctor Ganos insisted on keeping him through the night to rehydrate him through I.V. fluids and to observe him more closely.

Drake called the palace and checked in on Ellie for Liam, passing along to him that no one knew where Amanda was, but Hana was staying with the baby for the night, and she was fine. Drake crooked a finger through the closed blinds of Liam’s hospital room and peeked out, noting the orange and pinkish hues that colored the horizon as the sun started to make its descent over Cordonia. It had been one hell of a day for everyone. He knew when he woke up this morning that Neville’s call for a council meeting would turn into a shit-show, but never guessed his sworn enemy’s actions would cause his best friend to end his day in a hospital. He knew Neville wasn’t the only reason Liam was so broken, but he sure as fuck had an unnecessary hand in making things worse for him.

Drake slumped into a plush chair in the corner of the best room in the hospital – the one reserved for nobility. The last time anyone occupied this room, he reflected, was the night Riley died. It seemed almost cruel that Liam had to be subjected to such a memory, but the medication that was shot into his veins had somehow caused his friend to not even notice.

“I heard her voice, Drake.”

Drake lifted his tired head from the back of the chair and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“Riley … I heard her last night. Then again in the bedroom before … you know.” Liam glared at Drake for a moment, attempting to read his body language for a skeptical reaction, but felt relief when there was none. Curious to know what Drake thought and what others may be thinking as well, he let out a low sigh.  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

Drake chuckled lightly. “Considering you let Maxwell have access to the palace armory, I think that makes you certifiable at this point.”

“Drake.”

“No, I don’t think you’re crazy. If you say, you heard her … I believe it.”

Truthfully, Drake didn’t know what to believe. If Liam was comforted in some way by what he thought he may have heard, then who was he to tell him otherwise. Inwardly, however, he was worried about his friend.

Bastien slipped back in and placed his phone in his pants pocket. A look of sheer shock entangled across his face. He nodded anxiously to Liam, who shifted in his bed towards his guard. In all of his loyal years of service to the Crown, he had never felt more like he was about to face a firing squad than he did at that moment. “Your Majesty, I just received a call on a breakthrough in the investigation of the Queen’s death.”

Drake rose to his feet, and Liam pushed himself up higher in his bed, his heart raced impatiently. He had been waiting for any development and was becoming increasingly frustrated by the lack of any leads. He insisted he continues.

“The guards working the investigation received an anonymous tip earlier. It seems -”  Bastien paused knowing the implications of his reveal would be huge and unsettling for his charge, but also he felt a great deal of remorse for not finding this information out earlier. “it seems your nanny, Amanda Talbert, was in possession of the exact same cyanide capsules found in your wife’s body. Our guards were summoned to a local park where they found the pills in her purse. And … a more thorough look into her background revealed her name isn’t even Amanda Talbert, but that of Victoria Cirillo, a Monterissan citizen of birth and first cousin to …”

Drake dropped his head and groaned. “Amalas.”

The air became thick with an eerie silence. The sharpest sword and blade in the world, couldn’t have cut the tension that absorbed that room at that moment. After mulling over the intelligence he had just received, Liam sat up calmly … almost too calmly,  and tossed the sheet off his body. He rose to his bare feet at the side of the bed.

Liam eyed Bastien with a merciless gaze. “What the fuck am I paying you for? How was all of this missed by the guards? I mean, this woman has been caring for my daughter, in my home, for weeks.”  Feeling the dizzying effects of the medication he had been given, Liam sat back down on the edge of his bed, kneading the sides of his temples. “Is it too much to assume they have her in custody, at least?”

Bastien let out a shaky breath. “About that, sir …  there is something else you need to know.”

______________________________

Riley woke to a cold, dark room, having slept off a good portion of the pain medication she had been given before being wheeled to a room.  A sharp, stabbing pain ran across her head from the now bandaged wound at its side, into her throbbing, swollen eyes. Her shaky hand bounced on her bed, searching earnestly for the call button while she squeezed her eyes shut and willed the agony to go away on its own. A few minutes later, after pressing the button repeatedly, a nurse filed in with the relief she sought. It took longer than she anticipated to feel its effects, but once it finally kicked in, she was able to relax.

A warm flush came over her body, and she lowered the sheet down to her waist to cool off. She was tired still, but couldn’t sleep, and there was nothing to do, but lay there and wait. Wait for what exactly, though? She didn’t know.

Her mind began to wander to Liam and Eliie. She had no idea how she would be able to get to them, to see them, to be able to hold them both in her arms again.  It would undoubtedly be a shock to him, yet in her mind, maybe, just maybe, he knew her well enough to be able to see through outward appearances.

A memory suddenly came to her about visiting a friend in the hospital several years ago. Riley lifted her hand and placed it on top of the tray table that sat next to her bed and rolled its top over her torso. She lifted the lid of the table and was relieved to find precisely what she was looking for.  A small, rectangular mirror was pulled out, and Riley held it in front of her face. Even in the darkness, she was able to turn her head just enough to catch the moonlight shining through the window.

She looked closer, not sure she saw who she actually saw and then gasped. “Oh my god! Amanda?”

Riley was taken aback and couldn’t stop staring at herself in the mirror. Even with the cuts and bruises that littered this face, she couldn’t believe it was her personal assistant who had died so that she could return.

She had considered her a good friend, and they had grown quite close in the weeks before Ellie’s birth and following her delivery. Riley felt a sudden ache in her heart, knowing the hell her friend must have gone through before her soul left her body. It was clear from the wounds that covered her skin and the excruciating rape exam Riley had undergone earlier, Amanda’s ending was brutal and traumatic.

The lights from the hallway suddenly cast brightly into her room and caused Riley to squint her eyes and look away. She placed the mirror on top of the tray, knowing another nurse was most likely coming in to check her vitals. Glancing back at the doorway, that's when she saw his face. Her gleaming, brown eyes widened when it met his wrathful, blue ones.

“Liam!”

“Amanda.”

[zer0pm]

No Name (8/?)

A/N: This is a V x Fem!Reader based on an Imagine that I have written. It covers the entirety of a romance with the charming tattooed gentleman from his conception to the end, wherever that is. If you would like to follow this story from the beginning you can click to my Ao3 page linked as “V” on this blog’s header description and it’ll take you straight to my work :) Please enjoy.

Synopsis: Dante and you have a brief heart-to-heart as you journey within the Qliphoth. Your past comes back to haunt you and after swearing off devil hunting for good, you pick up your weapon once again against the demon king.

Dante: “Morrison said you and V met before. Where did you find that guy? On the street?”

You: “Yep. Clothed him, fed him, put a roof over his head for the night. He was an excellent house guest.”

Dante: “Now’s not the time for jokes, Neff.”

You: “I wasn’t joking, Dante. What does it matter to you, anyway?”

Somehow Lady and Trish managed to get ahead, leaving you to make the journey to the target with Dante alone. And truthfully, you were not enjoying it one bit. It seemed the man was bent on getting under your skin at every waking moment whether you two were just walking around the hellish maze that is the demon tree or fighting ravenous hordes of relentless monsters simply by talking.

Dante: “It doesn’t. I’m just saying that you need to be careful around him.”

You: “I don’t like what you’re implying. It’s almost like you suspect there’s something between me and V.”

Dante: “Ha. It doesn’t take a genius to know he steals glances at you. It’s a guy thing and you’re...”

You glance over at him, waiting for his answer in challenge with a hand on your hip. The man was facing you, the way you were looking at him was making him try to come up with words that wouldn’t provoke you.

You: “I’m?”

He throws both of his hands up in defeat before cocking them on his hips, he turns his head away from you now in some random direction.

Dante: “You. You’re you. That’s it.”

Shaking your head, you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. He was tiptoeing, a terrible habit of his when he loathes to admit something. The way he was speaking, it was almost like he was jealous. Truthfully, you felt that he had no right to be.

You: “Look, Dante. V and I just met the other day. Even if there was something...”

With a finger, you poke at his chest once for emphasis before walking past him in a huff.

You: “Well, that’s just none of your damn business. Isn’t it?”

Intent on leaving it at that, you continue walking forward towards the area where the other girls were fighting. Dante stood in place for a moment before calling back to you.

Dante: “You know, we never spoke about it. That day you left.”

Flashes of the moment you walked through the doors of Devil May Cry for what you thought was the last time all those years ago began to sting the ends of your eyes. The look on Dante’s face, the angry exchange between you both, how betrayed you felt - all came flooding back. You had to bite your own tongue to will away the tears.

You: “What’s there to talk about? What’s done is done. My sister is dead. End of story.”

Only you truly wished it was. However, the story keeps replaying in your head, like it was nagging for you to finish it. But honestly, you didn’t want to. Afraid of closing that book forever, yet just as afraid of picking it back up again. So you did what you did, you let it be. You had hoped Dante would do the same, the story didn’t really include him anyways, yet the man somehow finds a way to make himself integral in every tale. This you’ve learned.

.

.

.

“You son of a bitch, I told you to wait!”

“We were out of time. Your sister told me-”

“I don’t care what she told you. That wasn’t part of our plan, Dante! You didn’t listen to me!”

“Both of you couldn’t get out of it alive so I had a choice to-”

SLAP!

“That wasn’t your choice to make!”

“Well, I made it anyway! I chose you. No matter how you look at it, it will always be you.”

That moment of anger and bitter pain was the only memory that was vividly fresh in your mind. You dared not think further back than that, to the past that led to you leaving Dante and Devil May Cry and devil hunting behind. That day was the last day that you used your weapon which now hung as a silver piece on your belt. You didn’t think you would be using it again so soon and alongside the man you didn’t want to see again period.

Eventually the two of you reached what appeared to be a double set of doors. In between the cracks, you can barely see a grotesque-looking monster...sitting on a throne? This must be the demon V spoke about and the one that had Dante on edge the moment he heard his name. Vergil.

You: “We’re here. Are you ready?”

You glance over at the legendary devil hunter who usually when it comes to jobs we just waltz right in not giving a crap. Yet right now, right here beside you, he’s still. Like a statue, staring at the doors.

You: “Hey, what’s going on with you?”

Dante: “...I wanna ask you a favor. Sort of.”

You: “Huh?”

Dante: “If we beat Ver... this demon king, you have my permission to kill him.”

You: “Okay... and why does that require your permission?”

Dante: “This way... you and me, we’re even.”

This shocks you into silence. Already your mind was speculating, reeling over about Dante, a man who prides himself on calling all the shots, prides on being a solo player, conceding this one action to you. You wanted to ask him, to elaborate further on what the hell he meant, but the legendary devil hunter was already through the twin doors, squaring his shoulders for the big fight. When you followed behind, you first spotted Lady and Trish rolling along the ground. It looks like they were beaten pretty bad and that alone began to bubble a growing anger inside you. This place was already setting you on edge and the greatest source of that anxiety was sitting before you all.

So this was the “demon king” that had even Dante garner the serious look? By appearance, he, assuming it’s a he, fit the word terrifying by every definition. Dante traipsed across the floor before the demon as if he was performing in a play.

Dante: “Well, well... O king of stench and filth. I’m impressed! Those are two of the most badass women in the world. Well, behind my sweetheart over here.”

He looks at you over his shoulder to wink at you. You had to roll your eyes and will yourself not to like over his words. His infamous monologue was already underway and he didn’t strike nor was he struck first this time. Must be a new record.

Dante: “And I know only one other guy that can defeat ‘em...”

The shift in his voice was evident along with the sudden change of mood in the air. Dante was staring down at the grotesque monster sitting on the throne, the latter of which appeared entirely unamused the entire time. You were almost certain that you were looking at a statue until Dante spoke a single word that made him tilt his head from the palm of his hand.

Dante: “Jackpot.”

Demon King: “Dante...”

It speaks. Prior to reaching at this point, you had your special arm tucked away on your belt, fighting the demons alongside Dante with nothing but a revolver. It wasn’t meant to show off, but to save as much of your energy as possible, not wishing to underestimate this powerful evil. Now that you were there, it was time. You remove the silver cylinder from your belt and lay it horizontally on the palm of your hand. By your will, it begins to glow and in and instant, it expands to a long staff. Across the surface were runic patterns of white and gold atop the silver that emitted a faint glow of energy. To grab a good feel for it once again, you twirled the staff in your hands, each spin releasing a burst of light.

The demon king moved again, this time facing you. It was hard to get a read of his expression, but you assumed that he did not like your presence one bit. Afterall, you were the last and he speaks that with venom in every syllable.

Demon King: “Nephilim.”

The last of a kind that the demons have feared and hated the most.

[thar-be-scribbles-here]

Doctor! Doctor! [Julian/Nazali *Lemon*]

Guess now’s a good time to come off anon and say I finally finished this whopping 5.6K WORDS OF UTTER SELF INDULGENT FILTH. Special thanks to @devofuck for encouraging me to finish this, I probably would have abandoned it otherwise. A few other people asked to be tagged/expressed interest in seeing this when I finished it this so here ya go lovelies :D My only hope is that I even came close to meeting your expectations haha.  @bazzpop00 @sinningforasrian @izzycle 

I’m gonna go to bed and hope to god I don’t regret this haha.

You can also read this on Ao3 

*****************************

Most of the time, Julian was fixated one thing. He wanted to be a doctor. He wanted to help and heal people.

To be needed.

He had been ecstatic when Nazali had taken him under their wing. Nazali was the perfect balance of fun-loving and practical. They always seemed to have a smile on their face and witty quip on their tongue. Yet they always knew exactly how much tact was needed to handle any situation. They were the kind of calming force that someone as ludicrously dramatic as Julian needed in their life.

Julian was grateful for the wealth of knowledge that Nazali had provided for him in his many months as their protege. Especially regarding more difficult or developing medical practices. But there were plenty of other things that he had learned about himself in his time with his trusted mentor. Or perhaps they were things he always knew. Nazali had simply been... very encouraging, so to speak.

Sitting at a polished sturdy desk, Nazali appeared to be deep into their studies. Their cheek rested lazily in their hand and their eyes skimmed the pages of a book. Julian sat across the room at his own slightly less ornate desk. He should have been studying as well, but his mind was far elsewhere. Every time he tried to focus, his gaze would flicker back to Nazali sitting across the room. Usually Julian's unending stubbornness was enough to keep him from being distracted. But other times, it was difficult to think about books or medicine or anything else with such a fetching image before him. The ever present slight curl of their lip, their fire red hair, the moles speckled on their face like scattered stars in a city night sky...

Nazali had noticed Julian's eyes on them several minutes ago. But they had done nothing to give it away despite how much they wanted to burst out laughing with each yearning glance that Julian stole. Julian was already so easy to catch off guard, but letting the tension build for a bit was still more fun.

Finally, Nazali's eyes shifted in Julian's direction. The movement was so slight that it took a moment for Julian to notice. He jumped in his seat as their eyes finally met, his long legs bumping his desk with a loud thud! in the process.

"Distracted again today, Ilya?" Nazali remarked playfully.

Julian frantically reached over to stop a pile of books from toppling off the desk. He attempted to compose himself and play it off. "Ahem, um... what ever do you mean?"

With a brief huff of laughter, Nazali closed their book and leaned forward with their head tilted thoughtfully and their chin resting on their folded hands. "Maybe studying can wait another time. What do you have in mind? Something a bit more... hands-on?" The suggestive lilt in their tone was emphasized by the devious perk of their crimson brow.

A hot blush spread across Julian's face. Despite steam practically coming out of his ears, he flashed Nazali a dazzling grin. "Oh ho~ you know me too well, Doctor Satrinava," he replied with a flirtatious chuckle.

Nazali's own smile widened and they shook their head. No matter how much time they spent together - or how they used that time - Julian's need to address Nazali so formally was still funny to them. Nazali's shoulders bobbed with laughter as they refrained from assuring Julian that there was no need for such formalities for the fiftieth time. "No, not really. You are just very easy to read."

Julian shifted his gaze to the side, cleared his throat and tugged awkwardly at his shirt collar. "Well...um yes, that too." Nazali responded with only an amused hum as they stood up from their desk and approached Julian before placing a hand on his shoulder. They leaned down close until their lips brushed his ear. "Wait here. I'll be right back." Nazali teasingly clacked their teeth close to Julian's vulnerable neck and stepped away, tracing their fingers across his broad shoulders all the while. Julian shivered as Nazali's touch still lingered on him as they walked away.

Nazali stopped in the doorframe that lead to their private quarters and tossed a sly glance over their shoulder. "Oh, and clear the books from my desk would you? We'll need it." With a final wink, they disappeared into the next room.

***

Julian paced the room and muttered to himself as the minutes passed slowly. The books and papers that had been scattered across Nazali's desk had been neatly put away for what felt like an hour. He knew that Nazali was only stalling to rile him up.

They always had plenty of patience for this sort of thing. While Julian had absolutely none. The time Julian spent waiting only made him more antsy and more eager, just the way Nazali liked him. Julian could picture them right now, leaning casually just on the other side of their bedroom door and smiling to themselves in devilish satisfaction as they listened to Julian's relentless back and forth footsteps.

"Ilya."

Julian stopped mid stride. He had been so busy mumbling to himself that he had not noticed Nazali re-enter the room. He turned around and his brow piqued with immense intrigue.

Nazali leaned casually against the door frame, their usual crimson scarf draped lazily off their shoulders and a loose, silky matching wrap was tied at their waist. A split opening in the wrap revealed their strong thighs as well as peculiar black leather straps hugging tightly at their hips. A telltale bulge poked out through the wrap right between their legs. They also held a familiar bottle of some slick, slightly viscous clear liquid.

Julian swallowed hard as Nazali walked casually towards him. When they got close enough they whipped the scarf off of their shoulders, grabbed the other end and pulled it taunt between their hands. "Hope you didn't mind the short wait," they said with a knowing smirk.

Short?! Julian blinked owlishly before faltering to a smile laced with eager anticipation. "Not at all, doctor."

Nazali raised their brow and looped their scarf around the back of Julian's neck and tugged him closer. Their faces were barely an inch apart now and Nazali could feel the heat radiating from Julian's. "Good." Their warm breath brushed against Julian's lips. They let the scarf slip off Julian's neck and stepped away just he was compelled to lean forward, leaving the poor man stumbling and barely managing to catch himself. It was going to be a fun night. Nazali chuckled and Julian over to their desk.

As Julian followed, he left a trail of his clothes in his wake until he was stripped naked. He tried to exude an air of confidence in his long stride, but that facade faded fast when they met Nazali's piercing gaze. By the time he stood before them, his inhibitions had fled him almost entirely. His eyes were alight with desire and he was already putty in his mentor's hands without them having to lift a finger. "I... I'll do whatever you ask."

Nazali stood with a relaxed but still somehow imposing stance, hand leaned into one hip and their eyes roaming Julian's lithe body as they sized him up. They smiled, set the bottle aside for now and patted the surface of the desk expectantly. "Ohhh you know what to do, Ilya."

Julian nodded eagerly. He fixed Nazali with a longing gazs as he bent himself over the desk, spread his legs apart and folded his arms behind his back. He looked back at Nazali over his shoulder while sporting both a bright blush and a playful grin. "Do whatever you must, doctor," he said with an inviting wiggle of his hips. Despite his attempt to be at least somewhat composed, his voice was tight and pleading and he was half hard already.

Nazali snickered at Julian's shameless display and wove their scarf around his crossed wrists, binding his arms behind his back. They grabbed a fistful of Julian's hair yanked his head back, eliciting a sharp gasp from their eager protege. "And what is it I must do, exactly?"

Julian swallowed hard. "W-whatever it is that you please, o-of course."

Nazali shook their head. "You're going to have to be a little more specific than that, Ilya."

Julian bit his lip and shuddered at the subtle yet enticing sense of authority in Nazali's voice. His eyes went half mast as they gave his hair another insistent tug. He took a deep, wavering breath to prepare himself. Nazali liked it when he begged, and lord was he good at it. "Please... hurt me." His voice came in a rough and feverish whisper. "Just hurt me, doctor. I beg of you."

Nazali pursed their lip and tilted their head. "Still a bit vague," they remarked with a small shrug. But a moment later their smile returned. Their composure had not faltered at all in the face of Julian's pitiful front. "But I guess it's enough." They released their grip on his hair and laid their hands on his bare back. "Now... where to start?" they mused quietly to themselves as they grazed the tips of their fingers down over his pale skin with just whisper of a touch.

Julian shivered as the teasing, ticklish sensation of Nazali's finger tips sent slight tremors through his anxiously waiting, ravenous body.

"Ahh, I know," Nazali continued with a soft singsong lilt in their smooth voice. "What about this?" They punctuated their question with a hard open faced smack on Julian's ass, easily leaving a pink hand print on his pale skin.

Julian let out a sharp cry and arched his back as if presenting himself for more. "Y-yes! Yes more! Oh doctor please hurt me more!"

Nazali grinned and reeled back, smacking Julian again but harder this time. His responding groan was a perfect mingling of pain and delight. Nazali struck him again and again and again and again, drawing out the pauses between each strike just a little more. Each time their hand came down harder than before.

Julian followed each resounding slap with a sharp euphoric cry as the wondrous, tingly pain intensified each time. He rested the side of his head against the desk as he was spanked continuously for several minutes. A small puddle of drool began to form on the desk under the corner of his panting mouth. It wasn't too long before Julian's pale ass was bright red all over. His needy moans began to dissolve into strained whimpers, but he did not struggle or beg for mercy. He only craved more.

Nazali paused and leaned in a bit closer as Julian's soft whimpers faded into shaky breaths. They got a look at what an absolute mess Julian had made of himself already and smiled. "Yes... very good, Ilya," Nazali purred, their voice almost tender.

The air in the room felt cool against the hot stinging sensation on Julian's reddened skin and he shivered in response. The sting seemed to spread tremors up and down his whole body, amplifying even the lightest touch. Julian cast Nazali another glance over his shoulder and knitted his brow into a deeply longing expression. "Please... oh please doctor... d-don't stop."

Nazali raised their brow incredulously for a moment before breaking into a sly grin. "Oh? But you're so tender now, Ilya," Nazali replied, brushing their hand teasingly over the stinging skin of his bare bottom.

Julian's breath caught in his throat and he trembled harder as the warmth in Nazali's hands briefly intensified the sting wherever they touched. "I-I'm fine r-reall-," he bit back a strangled whine as Nazali's fingers suddenly curled inward, gripping his ass tight until they left moon shaped dents in his flesh with their fingernails.

Nazali let out another brief huff of laughter as Julian's face flushed pink with slight embarrassment. They grabbed Julian's upper arm and lifted him off of the desk into a standing position before instructing him to face them and get on his knees. Julian quickly obeyed and knelt on the floor, taking care not to lose his balance as his hands were still tied securely behind his back. Nazali ran their fingers through Julian's hair as he tilted his head up towards them with an eager shine in his eyes, practically begging his mentor to give him another command.

And Nazali was more than happy to oblige.

With a choice tug of the loose fabric tied at their hip, the silk wrap fell away to reveal a rather lengthy and thick strap-on. Julian gaped at its magnificent girth and swallowed hard, practically salivating already. He looked up a Nazali again, his thin lips trembling with a desire that he could not contain if he tried.

Nazali smiled down at him with amusement written all over their handsome face. Finally they tangled their fingers tightly into Julian's auburn curls once more and tugged him forward just a fraction of an inch before grabbing the length of their strap-on and pressing the tip to Julian's lips. "Suck it."

Julian nodded once and almost immediately obeyed. With Nazali's hold supporting him, he leaned forward to take the length in his mouth. The somewhat flexible material did not have the pliancy of a real cock, but that hardly mattered to Julian. The feeling of it sliding across his tongue while Nazali's watchful eyes bored into him from above was enough to elicit a satisfied moan from the back of his stuffed throat. Julian bobbed his head up and down, making wet slurping and suckling noises all the while. With his mouth full, he glanced up at Nazali from behind the stray red curls hanging in his face, his eager eyes begging for validation.

Nazali's ever present casual grin widened at the pretty sight. They looked a bit farther down to see Julian's own throbbing erection, precum leaking profusely from the tip. "Are you that worked up already, Ilya?" Nazali jabbed with another laugh. Julian's was only able to offer a muffled groan as a response as his blush spread all the way to his shoulders.

With a glimmer of mischief and curiosity in their eyes, Nazali placed their hand on the back of Julian's neck as their other hand tugged at his hair insistently. "I wonder if you would cum just from something like this," they mused. "Should we find out, Ilya?" Julian's tired eyes went half lidded and a shudder passed through his body. The teasing edge in Nazali's voice was enough to make his cock twitch in excitement. He leaned forward eagerly a bit more and gave a small nod.

Nazali chuckled softly and pushed on the back of Julian's neck just enough to move him forward a fraction of an inch and held him there firmly. "Are you sure?" Their brow raised in mock contemplation as Julian began to tremble harder.

A muffled whine rose from the back of Julian's throat once again and he squirmed in Nazali's grip, his eyes glistening with unfallen tears.

Again, Nazali's cool exterior did not falter in the slightest. The look in their eyes promised their poor protege nothing and everything all at once. They reached down and grasped the underside of Julian's chin to quiet him somewhat even as a single tear slipped down his pretty face. "Alright, alright. So impatient, Ilya," Nazali teased as Julian's whining gradually subsided for now. Finally, they braced both of their hands on either side of Julian's head, grasping at his hair as they began to thrust in and out of his mouth.

Julian's eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head at the exhilarating feeling of the Nazali's cock sliding across his tongue and down his throat with such force. It was so thick that he could hardly breathe, but that only made it more exciting. His arms tensed as he instinctively tried to reach out and grasp Nazali's hips to push as much of the strap down his throat as possible. But his hands were still bound and Nazali's strong grip held his head fast in place as they roughly fucked his face over and over. Beautiful little choking noises and whorish moans reverberated in his chest alongside his rapidly beating heart. With every thrust he could feel more and more warmth pooling in his slender hips. Finally, a sharp jolt passed through his body as he was finally pushed over the edge of climax. He came hard and slumped in Nazali's hands, his cheek leaning hard against their touch.

Julian's knees ached from kneeling on the floor, his bottom still stung from the earlier spanking, his throat felt sore from the assault it had just taken and now his thighs were sticky with his own cum. But despite all of that, when Nazali pulled out of his mouth he had the most blissful, dazed smile on his face.

Nazali caressed underneath Julian's chin, tilting his head further up to pin him with their stare. Julian shuddered when Nazali's fingers grazed his sensitive neck, every nerve in his body still felt electrified from his intense orgasm. But Nazali wasn't finished with him quite yet. They reached over to the bottle that they had put aside on the desk and swirled the somewhat thick but slippery substance inside.

Julian's eyes lit up at the sight of it.

Nazali fixed him with a sultry, promising smile. "Are you ready, Ilya?" they purred.

Julian let out a rough, lustful chuckle and nodded into Nazali's hand. "Oh... always."

Nazali responded with a satisfied hum and let Julian's chin drop from their grasp. "Good. Now come on, stand up."

With a bit of a struggle, Julian managed to get one foot under him and Nazali pulled him up the rest of the way. By the time they had him pinned face down on the desk again, he was already aroused once more.

Nazali pulled the cork from the bottle with their teeth and poured some of the slick lubricant into their hand. They coated their fingers generously before reaching down to rub them against Julian's twitching hole. As always, they took a little time to tease him first by swirling their slickened fingers in circles against his entrance, not pushing inside just yet.

Julian's whole body tensed and he whimpered helplessly. He looked back at Nazali, his messy red hair falling in his glimmering grey eyes. "Doct-..." But before he could even finish his plea, Nazali suddenly thrust their finger forward down to their knuckle. Julian gasped, his toes curled hard against the floor in pleasure and he slumped more heavily onto the desk's surface.

Nazali began to move their finger in and out at a tortuously slow pace. Even they could not help but bite their lip as Julian begged, mewled and squirmed and his soft warm insides clenched tightly around their finger. Julian always made the most lovely sounds when Nazali teased him this way.

Julian felt a second finger sliding inside of him and another shudder raced up his spine. His whole body was hot, flushed and beaded with sweat. His breath hitched sharply with each deep push of Nazali's practiced fingers. He tried to roll his hips backward in a silent plea for Nazali to go faster, but their other hand clasped his hip to hold him in place. Every time he tried to form words, Nazali just barely hooked their fingers to teasingly brush against his prostate. The briefest whisper of overwhelming pleasure could course through Julian's body for just a moment before Nazali went back to slowly thrusting in and out. Julian stubbornly still tried to push himself back and whimpered loudly as his efforts proved fruitless.

"What is it, Ilya?" Nazali asked with a taunting chuckle. "I won't know unless you tell me~"

Julian swallowed hard and tried to clear some of the haze from his mind, tears blurring his vision from the sheer effort of concentration. He managed to say a single word but its coherence was lost in another helpless gasp.

"Hmm?" Nazali leaned over him closer until the heat of their bodies joined. They shoved their fingers in deep and wriggled them in a scissoring motion to stretch Julian's hole in preparation of what was to come. Their breath tickled Julian's ear as they persisted. "What was that?"

A broken shuddering breath shook Julian's chest and he pressed his forehead against the desk as hot tears rolled down his face. With another light flick against this prostate, he completely lost it. He moaned and threw his head back dramatically. Suddenly frantic pleas flowed from his lips like a dam bursting, interrupted with harsh gasps of roaring lust and frustration. "PLEASE!! H-harder! Faster! Oh please faster! I-I-I need it! Oh god I need it! O-oh god N-Nazali please!"

The sound of Nazali's first name on Julian's lips was a rare thing. He only seemed to save it for moments like this. But what a beautiful sound it was. Nazali grinned and placed a gently chastising kiss on Julian's back. "Alright," they whispered, their own voice had grown deep and husky with intrigue. "How's this?" They shoved their fingers deep, bringing the pace up faster and faster, rubbing Julian hard and stretching him open and jabbing his sweet spot again and again.

"Yes! O-oh yes please, more! More! More! Please!" Julian arched his back as much as his compromising position would allow. His mouth was stretched into a wide and shameless smile as he begged and begged for Nazali's skilled fingers to fuck him harder. Finally a third finger slipped inside of him and his chest fluttered with excitement. It was a only a matter of time now before Nazali filled him up and fucked him senseless with that thick cock that he craved so much. He begged Nazali to peg him now, to fuck him against the desk until he couldn't think anymore and not to stop even after that.

Suddenly Nazali paused. Julian choked on his words and looked back at them wide-eyed, his expression nearly on the verge of panic. But Nazali simply shook their head and pulled their fingers out. A strangled whine rose from the back of Julian's throat. He suddenly felt so empty.

Nazali laughed softly. As much as they admired Julian's enthusiasm, they couldn't have him cumming again just yet. Not before they ravaged him properly. Nazali placed both of their hands on Julian's sides and slowly grazed their fingernails across his over-sensitive skin as the thick shaft their strap rested teasingly against his well prepared hole.They shook their head and tsked like a disappointed teacher. "Now now, no need to get so greedy."

Julian thought that he might unravel right then and there. "I-I'm sorry," Julian whimpered, his breath faltering as the felt the thick strap rubbing against him. He needed it inside him now , but he intended to beg for as long as it took. "I-"

Nazali shushed him gently and reached for the bottle of lubricant on the desk again. "Just relax, Ilya." They poured it into their palm and started slicking up the length of their strap, their knuckles brushing up against Julian beneath them all the while.

Julian's breath grew more ragged as he tried hard not to squirm or whimper since he knew any such fuss would likely prolong his agonizing wait. Finally he felt something thick, slippery and hard nudge his twitching entrance as Nazali grasped his hips tightly once again. He tried not to speak - oh gods he tried - but at this point he could not help himself anymore. "Please... o-oh please..." he begged between soft puffs of hungered breath.

Predictably, Nazali paused and clicked their tongue once in contemplation which drew out another regretful whimper from Julian. They could push in inch by inch, forcing Julian to resist the insurmountable urge to beg until they were completely sheathed inside before fucking him hard against the desk. They could, but Nazali decided for a more direct approach. Within the span of a couple seconds, Nazali released their grip on Julian's hips, reached up to grasp a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back to force his back into a sharp arch. With their grip on his tangled mess of auburn hair being now their only leverage, Nazali snapped their hips forward to fully sheath themselves inside Julian.

Julian's whole body jolted. He was quiet for a heartbeat as if the breath had been knocked out of him before cried out loud and long. His lewd voice completely filled the room and most likely spilled beyond the walls. The sweet stretching sensation with just a hint of pain was nothing short of bliss to him. Intense pleasure washed over him in crashing waves as Nazali began to thrust in and out at a steady pace. They continued to only hold him by his hair, further adding to the perfect blend of pain and pleasure. Tears welled in his eyes from the sheer ecstasy of the thick cock moving inside him. "Ohhhh yes! Yes! Th-thank you! Oh thank you doctor!" Julian gasped in between shameless moans.

"You're certainly making a lot of noise aren't you Ilya?" Nazali teased. Their voice was as steady and serene as ever, a sharp contrast to Julian's frenzied cries. They pushed deep inside and fell into a rhythm of shorter, faster thrusts which jabbed at Julian's prostate each time. "Does it feel that good?"

"Yes!" Julian practically shouted, a wide wobbly smile spreading across his flushed face. He glanced back at Nazali as they pounded into him, far too lost in the pleasure to be even the slightest bit embarrassed of anything anymore. "Y-yes! Oh it's s-s-so good. S-so wonderful..." his words lost coherence halfway through as his body shuddered with the effort not to cum yet. His body begged for release, but he wanted to draw this out at least a bit more.

"Hmmm," Nazali hummed with a sly smirk curling their lip. If Julian wanted to bide his time, then they were more than happy to help. They chuckled softly, with just the slightest touch of malice. "If you want to make this last, Ilya... then we will." Their thrusts became slower, longer. Nazali pulled out almost all the way before pushing back until they were sheathed all the way inside once more. Over and over.

Julian's knees trembled beneath him and precum leaked onto the floor between his feet. Short breathy gasps mingled with frequent blurred pleadings and encouragements. When Nazali started to thrust harder and faster once again, Julian's legs nearly gave out beneath him, but a strong hand clasped at his hips to keep him upright.

For quite some time, Nazali kept up that pattern. They would slow their pace just as intense tremors wracked Julian's body and then they would slow down again, denying him release. It continued until Julian was openly weeping and whimpering, his cock throbbed almost painfully and the puddle of precum on the floor steadily spread.

This time when Nazali slowed again, Julian whined loudly and attempted to push himself back hard onto the thick strap like before. But Nazali reprimanded him with a quick smack on the ass and held him in place. "Use your words, Ilya," Nazali chided.

Julian groaned and dropped his forehead against the desk's surface again. It took him a moment to collect himself enough to speak, but the words were practically knocked out of him as Nazali started to thrust quickly once again. "I-I want to cum! Oh p-please doctor... please let me cum."

Nazali laughed and slowed their pace again instead. "Just a little more, I promise."

Julian swallowed hard. His body was hot, his breathing was hoarse, he was dizzy and his head was clouded in a thick fog of mingled pleasure and an aching need for release. Finally - just when he thought he could take no more - Nazali suddenly began to thrust into him harder and faster than ever, giving him a new moment of stark clarity.

The sounds of his moans were discordantly beautiful music to Nazali's ears. They pounded into him, not bothering to slow anymore when his slender muscles tensed. With one final, hard push they reached beneath him and grabbed his rock hard cock. Almost the second their fingers touched him, Julian let out one final cry before he instantly came. Cum dripped off the side of the desk, down Julian's stomach and between Nazali's fingers.

Exhausted, Julian couldn't help but slump to his knees when Nazali pulled out, their strong hands slowing his descent for the most part. His was breathing raggedly and he knew he would be sore in the morning, but there was a listless and contented smile on his face.

Nazali knelt down behind him, released the bonds on his wrists and wrapped one arm around his waist for support. They pressed their naked chest to his back lifted their hand to show him their cum-covered fingers, making him flush deeper red. Julian felt Nazali's smile against his neck as they brought their fingers to his mouth. He parted his lips and let out a soft, pleased groan as he cleaned his own cum from Nazali's dripping fingers. He swallowed hard and leaned back against Nazali, completely spent.

Nazali sighed deeply in contentment and then stood up, pulling Julian up with them. Before his legs could give out under him, Nazali scooped him up easily into their arms. Though Julian was tall, his skinny frame made him very easy to carry.

Julian wrapped his arms around Nazali's shoulders for support. His face was flushed an even darker red than when he had been getting pegged. His eyes shifted from one place to another as Nazali carried him into their bedroom, not wanting to meet their eyes. "Um Doctor Satrinava, I-I'm fine I don't need to be carri-"

Nazali shook their head and cut him off. "Oh stop, Ilya. Did you intend to crawl instead?"

Though still embarrassed, Julian chuckled and gave Nazali a curious look while sporting his signature grin. "Perhaps. Would you have liked me to, doctor?"

Nazali rolled their eyes but also couldn't help but snicker. It never ceased to amuse them how quickly Julian could sway between tones like this. They laid Julian on their bed and took off their strap-on before leaving the room again shortly. A few minutes later, they came back with a bowl of warm bath salt infused water, a washcloth, and a bottle of sweet smelling oil. They dipped the washcloth into the bowl and rung it out before gently beginning to scrub down Julian's sweat and cum covered body, starting with his neck and working their way down.

The whole time, Julian was uncharacteristically quiet. He bit his lip hard as the warm cloth brushed against his still tingling skin, refusing to look Nazali in the eye. He started to protest again but Nazali shot him an incredulous look and he immediately shut up, his cheeks flushed deep red. Somehow this was far more embarrassing than anything else they had done to him that day. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the soothing smell of the bath salt.

Nazali patted his side insistently and told him to roll over on his stomach. To which Julian reluctantly complied. He folded his arms beneath him and buried his face deep in the soft sheets as Nazali began to wash his back.

"Yes yes Ilya, I know. Having someone else take care of you is the worst thing in the world," Nazali scoffed in exasperation. Julian lifted his head just a bit, his voice still somewhat muffled. "No I-I just... I'll be fine, you r-really don't need to-" Nazali cut him off with a laugh "You're living proof that doctors make the absolute worst patients."

Julian's blush deepened. No matter the circumstances, something about his trusted mentor referring to him as a fellow doctor made him very happy. He hid his face again, but this time he also a hid a huge smile. "Thank you..."

Nazali understood the meaning behind his words, but still couldn't help but poke fun at him. "Only you would thank someone for calling you the worst at something, Ilya."

The quip got Julian to laugh, which brought attention to all of the muscles in his body that would be sore come the next morning. He winced and decided that perhaps - just this once - it would be alright if he let Nazali take care of him for just a bit longer. After they finished scrubbing him down, they poured a bit of the massage oil on his back. Julian groaned softly at its pleasant warmth and relaxing fragrance. Nazali worked their strong fingers into the numerous tension points on Julian's back and shoulders until he was practically melted into the bed. Julian sighed contently and let himself get swept up in a rare moment of peacefulness.

Soon enough Nazali heard the soft sound of Julian's snoring beneath them. They blinked in slight disbelief before a small swell of pride spread in their chest. They must have done exceptionally well tonight if even a notoriously awful sleeper like Julian had managed to nod off. They stifled another laugh and stood up from the bed. They quietly redressed into their usual comfortable attire, deciding that they would return to their study for a few more hours to let Julian get the rest he needed.

Nazali pulled the sheets over his shoulders and hoped that his moment of serenity would follow him into his dreams tonight. 

"Goodnight, Ilya."

[imaginesbymk]

Petrichor.

03 — BLONDIE.

Jerome Valeska x OC Fanfiction

Gotham x Black Mirror

Cameron Monaghan as Jerome/Jeremiah Valeska

Kaya Scodelario as Kate Linton

[Chapter Index] [Wattpad Link]

DALLAS RECORDS HAD the most worn down store out of the rest connected beside it. Jim was surprised it was still up and running despite how the place looked like it was about to tumble to ashes and dust if someone poked it. The records were old, popular decades hits and even though everyone is a sucker for Elvis or The Beatles, some come and go and never come back to purchase more. They had other ways to listen to music. So why keep Dallas Records?

The sales associate at the cashier didn't enjoy Jim's approach as he was only looking forward to desperately make another sale. "Nah, the last I've seen him was the few days ago before he died, if that's actually what happened to him."

"Did anyone with the name of Teresa Merritt come here? Possibly days before he died? You remember?"

The guy puckered his lips looking away to think. "No. Quite practically, this record store is dead. No one comes in here to buy anything. And speaking of which—"

"I don't wanna buy music, I just need some information, I'm at work."

"Well I'm not gonna be the best at giving you some."

"Why not?"

"Why would I? I never know the names of the customers, that's just fuckin' weird."

Jim had hit another dead end. "Please be one-hundred percent sure you didn't see any woman named Teresa Merritt?"

"I'm positive, Sir. I can give you the surveillance tapes of the previous days if that will do much. But if anything, that name to me sounds fake. I know some people at bars fake names like how they fake IDs. Now are you gonna buy anything? My break's in five."

Hesitantly but rather going for it anyway, Jim pulls out a record of The Supremes and puts it on the counter.

The swing of the door made the bell on top jingle. As if the world had turned upside down, a young woman stepped in, shivering a bit from the outdoors. Her pointy nose was red due to the frigid weather and it contrasted the pale skin that gave out her face and blue eyes. She lets out a huff. "I hate winter."

Jim and the associate turned their direction to the woman. Jim looked at her carefully and puts two and two together—

"WAIT A MINUTE!" Jerome sat up from the bean bag. "So it was you! Or at least a suspect! You just had blonde hair at that time and came up with a name!"

"Do I look blonde to you all of a sudden?"

"A wig. You were wearing a wig."

"Like I said, if it was me then my DNA would have been on Dallas Edman. But he died lying on his couch, no trace. Now can I continue?"

"I DON'T GO TO SIRENS," the woman said. "It's bad enough one of the owners went to Arkham."

"That's not a reasonable excuse. Anyone would go in." The interrogation room was far from comfortable. Anyone could feel the invasion and the one lit bulb on top of the desk used by so many people.

"But not me. I'm not even of age to drink yet, anyway. The bouncer wouldn't let me in. You have the wrong girl. My name's not Teresa Merritt, it's Kali Belle."

"I'm not an idiot. Let's see some ID." The woman pulled out her wallet from her trench coat and hands it to Jim. This was such a waste of time if this woman was telling the truth.

Jim read it carefully but was completely baffled. Kali Belle. "This is a fake," he said. "You are Teresa Merritt.

"No, Sir. I'm 19, I wouldn't be allowed in the club. Besides I'm sure everyone in this world has a twin living on the other side of where they're at, so clearly mine would be roaming somewhere here in Gotham."

"It's not her," the bartender stood on the one way interrogation mirror. His arms were crossed, his head was shaking ever so lightly, disappointed but surprised that the girl shared the exact same face. "I don't know how it can't be her, though."

"That's what I was saying," Harvey said next to him. "It doesn't add up. The facial description, the—"

"Age and hair colour," the bartender finishes. Jim walked out of the questioning as soon as he was done and he heads to the other side.

"Anything?" Harvey asks.

Jim shook his head. "The ID isn't a fake. At least it doesn't look like a fake."

Defeated, Harvey heads toward the door.

"And where are you going?" Jim said.

"Lunch is calling," and the door shuts.

Jim felt stuck as well. He was about to follow Harvey to grab a sandwich when the bartender spoke up. "I forgot to mention, Teresa Merritt is British. That girl we're looking at right there did not sound at all British."

"I'm convinced, but I wish it was her because this case is reaching dead ends."

"Keep her noted," the bartender replied quickly.

"I'm sorry?"

The bartender stared ahead through the one way mirror, staring so cautiously at Kali Belle. "I mean, she's still a suspect, might as well."

Jim blinked. "Noted."

Once Kali Belle was released from the precinct, she was still yet to deliver her information to the captain. As before, Jim looked at her like she had six heads.

"What?" she said, bold enough to be annoyed in her tone of voice towards someone superior.

"I don't get it. How are you not Teresa Merritt?"

"If I ever see a woman with the same face as me, I'll let you know ASAP. It's not like I wouldn't say anything, 'cause obviously you and the GCPD would still be on my ass for it just because I look like her. You guys don't even have a photo of her but will use mine?"

Jim doesn't say anything but averted his eyes towards the exit of the building where she was finally let go. Kali Belle disappeared from eyesight.

"I KNOW IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE NOW, but it will later on," Kate carelessly tosses the paintbrush into the jar, sending some excess black paint from the bristles flying away.

"What?" Jerome lifts himself halfway from the bean bag. "You just wasted my time, then."

Kate hops off the stool and checks the clock. "Recess is over." And without even waiting or glancing back for him to catch up, Kate walks out of the playroom, Jerome having no idea where she was going or what she was planning on doing at this time.

But as the kind of annoying person he was to her, he followed her down the old hallways of the asylum.

"But what happens to Kali Belle? Does Kali have a twin? Does she end up killing someone? Is that bartender the killer?"

"I'll tell you to rest of the story another time," Kate waves her hand trying to shoo him away.

"Aw, come on!" Jerome walks a bit faster as soon as Kate did.

"So you are interested in the story, huh?" Kate smirks a bit to herself, taking a right turn.

"Got me hooked up like a fish out of water," Jerome was now behind her by a footstep. "You said this story would help me open up my mind. That means answers. I always get answers, why do you think math exists? It's everywhere you go."

Kate chuckles under her breath. "Soon you'll be able to do the math. I have my ways. But you'll probably be uninterested."

"What makes you say that?" Jerome rests his hands behind his back while walking. What did she even mean by that?

Kate scrunches up her nose. "Who likes math?"

Jerome made a face. "I know a person." He averted his gaze to Kate who just kept walking. "Oh come on! You're being annoying."

"No, you're being annoying." Kate rolls her eyes. "You weren't so interested before and even said I wasted your time so I'm not gonna tell much of it now."

"But there's cliffhangers," Jerome scowls. The couple stops at the gateway leading to the cafeteria as soon as the once echoed laughter and childish, maniacal noises from almost every inmate locked inside grew louder. Jerome leaned against the fence while Kate stood before him, not giving in. "Fine, be like that. But I can be very persuasive. It works on everyone," he says menacingly.

That sent no shivers up Kate's spine as nothing of Jerome's scare tactics seemed to get a response from her anyway, if even at all. Instead, she stood on her toes and kisses him. He does it back, pulling her close to the filth of their uniforms.

"Not everyone," Kate sneered in her whisper. He lets go of her when she heads back to her table, pulling out the book 1984 she kept with her and read the bookmarked pages of Winston and Big Brother.

[calleo-bricriu]

Sometimes I start to think I might read a little too much.

So, I found this particular Muggle author in one of those, "It looked weird on the shelf and why not?" sort of ways that I often find books in Muggle shops.

Did a little bit of digging in to the author, William Lee Howard; apparently he was a fairly widely disrespected doctor that most other doctors viewed as a joke but that people who were not doctors thought was somehow brilliant.

Off to a good start.

The majority of the guy's books have to do with--not so much medical things but more, "Why everything is your wife's fault, trust me, I'm a doctor,” and by occasionally shouting in text about how he’s not a quack.

There were also two aimed at teenagers and I found a few chapter names completely self aware in one of them:

"Self-Abuse--How to Stop it--The Quacks" - Written as though he wasn't one.

"Environments and Diseases Which Rust Brain-Tools" - I'm going to start using Brain-Tools, I don't care that it's ridiculous. I like it because it's ridiculous.

Anyway, onto the book I'm mostly through.

It's the only one he published that wasn't--well, probably wasn't--intended to be some kind of medical book and it's the first one he had published.

No, it’s a story. A rambling, poorly written story.

The Perverts, 1901.

It's a bit difficult to read, not because it's as shocking as claimed but, because this guy just...rambles in a horribly disjointed manner that makes it difficult to follow what the hell is going on in his little story.

But, fine, I've read worse, just needs more focus; about halfway through, I stopped because it struck me that I've read this before.

Not this book specifically, the story, the entire plot, only the version I've read, while still written by a prose-y, rambling whackjob, was coherent and had much better flow to it.

Also, you could pretty easily follow the plot, as flimsy as it was.

In fairness, that one also probably could have been accurately titled The Perverts but there's always been a lot of unnecessary filler and prose in de Sade's writing (and he was at least self aware to the point that the last page of one of them essentially invites you to throw the book into the fire if you found reading it unenjoyable; tempting, but it's a heavy book and makes a good paperweight).

This man clearly read Justine (or The Misfortunes of Virtue) at some point; some similarities between bizarre things like that are bound to happen, pun intended given the topic, but this? This was very close to being the exact same book, just with renamed characters and a different time period setting.

de Sade wrote his in two weeks while in prison (and it shows) and this idiot somehow made it worse in terms of readability.

Oh, and the dedication? "To the memory of Edgar Allan Poe as a tribute to his genius, and in recognition of his struggles with a psychic incubus."

Okay.

I'm most amused by the fact that his last book was a book on "how to live long" and he died before he was 60. Must not be very good advice in that book.

And then I started skimming his other books and this has got to be one of the most unintentionally funny things I've read in awhile, "It has been my fortune――for so I consider it――to have been brought into intimate relations with men who are failures."

Good way to start.

"Many of these despondent and useless men have been guided into places where they fit." He's stopped using his brain-tools and it's not even chapter 8, which is where he talks about not letting your brain-tools get rusty.

(( Just a warning, there’s a short excerpt from the book that has some very literally, direct, and violent homophobia in there. ))

"teachers forced much useful and also useless stuff into unwilling brain cells" - I'm not entirely sure a man who blatantly ripped off one of de Sade's shortest works should be speaking poorly of teachers.

"How frequently have I heard the remark, after explaining to a young man who came to me a complete failure: “Why didn’t my father see all this?”" - You know, at this point, I'm almost certain that the only patients he'd ever seen were ones he made up or, more likely, ripped off from other case files and just changed the names.

"THE OUTSIDE LUNGS――THE SKIN" ...no.

He seems to think the skin does the same thing as the liver? What in the hell kind of medical school did this man attend?

"If a healthy boy should have his body――up to his neck――wrapped in tin foil, or any similar substance which would completely close the pores of the skin, he would soon have headache. This would become very severe, followed by loss of consciousness and finally convulsions――fits followed by death. Now this would occur even if he were in the open air. You can see by this fact that the lungs cannot alone cast off the poisons in the body" - First, weirdly specific scenario. Second, what he's describing is heat stroke not poisoning.

If people were listening to ridiculousness like this and taking it as valid health advice, no wonder so many died before they hit 30. I just went through an entire chapter of this idiot explaining how the skin is the body's main detox organ with only passing mention to things like, you know, your liver and kidneys, and that everything is caused by your dumb ass poisoning yourself by not bathing three times a day, constantly drinking water, then "exercising violently".

"Now it may sound funny to you, but the truth is, that if the boys in the past had really known as much as the chipmunks, we should have very few asylums for the insane or hospitals for the horrible diseases." - At this point I'm starting to wonder if I'm actually reading this or if I'm hallucinating it.

"About fourteen years of age you may feel a gradual soreness in the nipples. This will increase and sometimes be a little annoying. Now don’t become frightened and try to recall some blow you have received there." - This feels like a very, very specific panic that I'm pretty sure only happened to the author.

"Of course the HABIT of self-abuse means ruin to both brain and body. It is degrading to your true self, causes a loss of self-respect and makes a coward of every boy and man." - I get the feeling, by this point, that everything this person writes is just projecting.

"[...] bubbling spring of manly life." No.

"So never sleep with a man, except your father." - How is that less weird?

And we go from, go ahead and sleep with your dad to, "If you should be so situated that you find yourself in bed with a man, keep awake with your eyes on something you can hit him with. At the slightest word or act out of the way, HIT him; hit him so hard that he will carry the scar for life."

Just sleep on the floor if you're that damn paranoid.

"Keep your goat by and in you always." ...what? There are no circumstances whatsoever that would result in me wanting any part of a goat in me.

"CHAPTER VIII ENVIRONMENTS AND DISEASES WHICH RUST BRAIN-TOOLS" - I'm definitely stealing brain-tools. Based on everything else, I'm pretty sure mine are considered rusty somehow.

I don't think I'd take advice about brain-tools from someone who spent entire paragraphs talking about how he thinks people who live in far Northern climates hibernate.

What else have we got here? Dance hall women will ruin your life, you might be a man but you'll be a MAN in big letters if you go into the navy somehow, the navy should be bigger so it can consume more lower case men--I guess that makes sense as this was written in 1911.

"Don’t think that you know more than your mother about what is best for you. You don’t." - Wow, okay.

"I saw the girl, or rather woman, when she was twenty-four years of age, and recognized her by the peculiar conformation of her face. It was the face of a girl giggler. Her facial muscles had become so developed by her uncontrolled girlish habit that nothing could be done for her. " - What on earth is the "face of a giggler"?

"Don’t kiss anyone but your mother and father." - ???

"Don’t use arsenic in any form for your complexion or to give your face a plump appearance. Some of you will tell me of a girl you know who has a nice plump face from the use of arsenic wafers." - Maybe don't eat rat poison. Eating rat poison seems like a bad idea just in general.

Apart from don't giggle, don't kiss anyone, and don't take arsenic what is wrong with you? The entire book aimed at women seems to be a lot of, "For the love of everything don't touch ANYTHING without wearing gloves and also maybe burn your gloves every night and just use new ones the next day, the world is made of filth and full of diseased people. Try to stay outside in the sun without touching anything instead."

Interesting to read in the context of not having vaccinations available for all of the diseases mentioned; I don't know why it bothers me to see tuberculosis written as consumption though but I DO know why it bothers me that this idiot keeps saying sunlight will cure all of those diseases.

It really won't, you'll just die in a brightly lit room instead of a dark one.

"Don’t try to keep awake either by mental effort or that injurious resort of drinking coffee." - Well, I've been failing at that since I was about 15.

"Sleep always alone. Sleeping with another person is unsanitary." - ...uh huh.

"The hair should be washed frequently in water with a little powdered borax, but remember you wash the hair only to clean the scalp, nothing should be applied to the hair directly."  - Borax is corrosive, and how in the hell do you clean your scalp without also getting something on your hair, you can't just remove your hair and put it back later.

"Cold baths will keep your flesh firm and hard; will take off fat if you are too fat, and put on flesh if you are too lean." - Cold baths just sound unpleasant. There was also this whole section where he talked about how women specifically sweat fat out through their hands. I don’t have much for formal medical training but I’m confident that that’s not a thing that happens.

Speaking of, I particularly like that, in the book aimed at women, he's very adamant about daily bathing and in the book aimed at men it's more, "Eh, once per week is probably fine."

"EAT PICKLES AND CANDY IF YOU CRAVE THEM." - Unnecessarily aggressive sounding there, "Doctor". All I can picture is this quack screaming that in someone's face.

I guess it's kind of good to know that I have more extensive and accurate medical knowledge than someone who somehow got through school and earned the title of Doctor.

Oh, and I'm most amused by the fact that his last book was a book on "how to live long" and he died before he was 60. Must not be very good advice in that book.

Kind of want to read that one next.

[alexdecampi]

The Scottish Boy is 90% funded! Plus a new excerpt: death & the seaside

I can’t believe that my novel is 90% funded. We’re so close to being fully there. If you fancy sharing it or pledging for an eBook ($15), the illustrated 530-page hardback ($35) or more, I’d really appreciate it. Go here on Unbound to read more excerpts, see me be a dork on a video, and see some of the book’s amazing cover art and illustrations. Meanwhile! A new excerpt, from Chapter 2, in which Iain is very much Iain. 

The next morning, Montagu, Ufford and the rest of the Galloway Dozen break south, direct to Carlyle, leaving Harry at a small crossroads with Montagu's man-at-arms, a hired local guide, and a boy in a cage. They're to take the long way around, bypassing the English nobles and their households streaming south along the main London road from their Scottish victory, avoiding their questions about the prisoner.

Harry's little band head west, towards the Irish Sea. The guide, in his heavy accent, says it will be two days along the Cumbrian coast until the old Roman road bends eastwards again through the forest and meets the London road at Kendal. Harry has always loved the ocean, and he feels as if a great weight is lifted from him now that he is out of the company of Rabbie and the other knights. He's almost calm. It's the most peaceful he's felt in months, and if he could get off his horse and kiss the English soil without his companions laughing at him, he would.

But as they sway in single file down the dirt track leading westwards, past dramatic hills dotted with curious sheep and wary peasants, Harry can't get his mind off the boy. He's still bound and gagged, his cage still covered by a sailcloth sheet. But he's awake.

An hour into the vast Cumbrian landscape with no witnesses but sheep, Harry makes a decision. He rides back and yanks the cover off the cage. This gets him a glare from Johann, Lord Montagu's bald, red-faced man-at-arms, but the boy is quiescent, huddled in a corner, glaring at them.

At midday, the hilltop road  splits, a spur of it dipping down to a wide, sandy beach, fed by a clear stream. They pull up by the stream to break their fast and water the horses. Their guide lopes off with some of Harry's coin to a nearby collection of hovels, looking for a peasant who can sell them anything other than salt beef and hard biscuit. He soon comes back with a brace of hare, and he and Johann set to skinning and cooking them.

Harry checks on their prisoner. He is all too aware the Scottish boy hasn't eaten in three days. The boy stares back at him, long hair now matted with dried blood, shirt stained with piss and filth. He looks exhausted but his eyes still burn with a pale, fevered fury, a determination Harry has never encountered before.

Harry can't find it in his heart to hate him, whatever Rabbie says about the Scots. The boy obviously had some upbringing, given his ease in French and his mother's dress, finer than any his own mother had ever had, fine as any of the great ladies at the King's table, even denuded of its embroidery.

Harry unlocks the cage and reaches in to pull the boy out. The Scottish boy flinches hard when Harry touches him, and Harry wants to strangle Rabbie in that moment. The boy shivers uncontrollably as Harry helps him out of the cart, shaking with hunger and exhaustion and some combination of fury and terror.

The boy's bare feet sink into the dark beach sand and there's a moment where he pokes it with his toes, digging in, feeling the wet grains. It's a strangely endearing, intimate gesture, so normal after days of blood and horror, and Harry has to glance away.

When he looks back, the boy is watching him again, waiting for whatever comes next.

“We're in England now,” Harry says. “I'm cutting your gag. You can yell all you want. Please don't bite me again.”

The smell of roasting hare wafts over and the scent causes Harry's stomach to clench in hunger. He can't even imagine what the boy is feeling.

Harry cuts the gag before he can second-guess himself. He steps back, holding the boy up but also at arms length. The boy's wrists and ankles are still bound, but he does his best to stand tall, defiant, even if the shaking undermines it. Uncurled, he's not nearly as small as Harry thought, only a few inches shorter than him. But the boy is so thin. It's a thinness born of constant hunger, of not enough, for a prolonged period of time. Harry thinks back to Montagu's words, they would have starved in that keep, and realises their terrible truth.

The boy yells.

And yells and yells, in Gaelic.

At the sky. At Harry. At the hills. Johann and their Cumbrian guide, Tom, jolt to their feet and reach for weapons but Harry stops them with a raised hand. After what seems like an eternity the boy falls down in the sand, shaking. No tears fall, but it looks like he's crying. His voice cracks and breaks, and the yells crumble away first into hoarse whispers, then nothing. He's just hitting his forehead against the sand, over and over, his lips moving soundlessly as if he's reciting a prayer, or a curse. The silence is startling after so much noise.

Harry squats down next to him. “I'd like to wash you. Can you swim?”

The boy sits back onto his knees and turns his head to Harry. There's sand stuck to his forehead. Harry's hand twitches, the urge to brush it off stilled instantly by the look the boy is giving him. It's a narrow-eyed expression of complete and utter disdain.

Then, in the most beautiful French Harry has ever heard, the boy whispers, “Of course I can fucking swim, you great Sassenach idiot. I grew up in a tower in the middle of a loch.”

Harry laughs, despite himself. “Well, I'll have to leave your arms tied then.” He reaches forwards and cuts the rope binding the boy's ankles.

Harry helps the boy up. They walk towards the ocean, the boy shaky as a newborn foal, his thin legs barely holding him. The boy stumbles, and Harry should expect what happens next but he's still caught by surprise when the stumble becomes a sweep of leg that knocks Harry square on his ass.

The boy runs.

Harry shouts to Johann and Tom, and they give chase. The boy falls, skinning his knees, but pushes himself up rapidly and keeps running, blood coursing down his shins. He's not fast. He's too exhausted to be fast, and Harry catches up to him just as he gets to the stream at the top of the beach.

The boy glances back at the thunder of Harry's footsteps. Harry watches in horror as the boy's ankle turns on a stone and he starts to go down. With bound arms, there's no way he can break his fall.

Harry lunges and grabs the boy before he can hit the ground. They both end up in a heap on the marshy edge of the stream, the boy thrashing and keening his anger. But Harry has both height and strength on him, and just wraps his thickly-muscled arms around the boy from behind. Harry still has to dodge the boy's attempts to break his nose with the back of his skull, and his shins get a bruising from the boy’s heels, but they’re both reasonably unscathed.

“C'mon,” Harry says, hauling the boy to his feet. “Let's get you into the ocean.” Harry holds the boy by his upper arms, in front of him, and frog-marches him towards the slow roll of waves. The boy doesn't fight, and Harry can't tell if he's given up for the time being, or if he's just waiting for his opportunity.

The boy hisses as the cold salt water washes over his many cuts, over the irritated, broken skin at his wrists and ankles. But he obediently ducks under the water when Harry exerts a gentle pressure on his shoulder, letting the sea clean the filth and blood out of his hair. He dunks himself a few times and then stands up and shakes like a dog, managing to get a substantial amount of water on Harry.

Then the boy tips his head back and closes his eyes for a moment, the midday sun hitting his pale, elegant face and turning the drops of water in his raven-dark hair into something like jewels. His long linen shirt is translucent from the water, clinging to his slim body. His lips are rose-red from the abrasions of the gag and the irritation of the salt water.

Harry's throat goes dry. Who is he?

“Better?” Harry chokes out.

One pale eye opens, and a bowed red lip curls in a snarl. “You honestly expect me to congratulate you on that being the least shit thing that's happened to me this week?” The boy spits, hitting Harry in the cheek. “You killed my family. I will kill every one of you.”

Harry uses his free hand – the one that isn't gripping the boy's bicep against his next escape attempt – to wipe the saliva from his face. He sighs, and changes tack. “I'm Harry. What's your name?”

The boy laughs, sharp and hollow. “You killed them all and you don't even know my name. Fuck you. Death. That's my name.”

He turns his back to Harry. “If you're done being the Good Samaritan, I'd like to go back in my cage.”

(psst, if you enjoyed this, please consider buying the book! It’s all written, and will be published as soon as we’re funded, edited, and typeset!)

[bangtaninink]

Can you please write a Vampire!Seokjin AU oh my god I'm literally in need of some new Jin smut that's filled with filth (because I doubt he's as innocent as he puts out 👀)

another anon request: Hello! Can I just say that your writing is absutely superb?! I’m so happy that you’ve made past Jin scenarios/fics (we Jin stans seriously lack wonderful scenarios/stories *cries*). That being said – may I please request a smut fic for the continuation of that BTS vampire!Jin fic AU? I’m dying to know what happens next! Thank you very much!

To Oblivion And Back

Summary: going back to how things used to be isn’t easy, but it’s damn well worth the effort (vampire!au)

Notes: bet y’all thought I forgot about this! (I did. Lowkey. And then I found it in my drafts and wrote like a madman because who doesn’t love vampire!Seokjin? Apologies to the peeps that requested this for taking so long!) I got carried away with this. Like very carried away. When you open that ‘read more’ cut, you’ll see what I mean. Also this is for the anon who was requesting vampire!Jin angst an eternity ago (although I’m not sure how angsty this is).

This is a continuation from this piece right here.

“You guys… got a dog?”

“Yeah. Actually, we’ve had a few dogs over the last couple of centuries. Taehyung hyung seems to like them a lot,” Jeongguk says, crouching down to scratch the top of the dog’s head, smiling fondly at it. “His name is Cat.”

“You named your dog Cat?” you ask, arching your brow.

“It was Taehyung hyung’s idea. We take turns every couple years to choose a dog and a name for it.”

“That is so… Taehyung.”

“Be glad you weren’t there the last time it was his turn.”

“Why?” Jeongguk turns to look at you over his shoulder, and the look on his face is enough for you. “Never mind. I probably don’t wanna know.”

Somewhere in the distance, someone calls Jeongguk’s name, and the both of you turn towards the doors, watching as they eventually open and let Namjoon in.

“Jeongguk.”

“Yeah, hyung?”

“Jin hyung’s looking for you. He said something about you and Jimin getting supplies.” Jungkook groans loudly, standing up and dusting off his knees.

“Again? I’m always on supply duty. No fair. Why can’t Yoongi hyung do it?” he whines.

“If you can find a way to get that particular brother out of his room for something that isn’t feeding or playing the piano, then I will personally offer you my share of food for a week.”

“Ooh. Challenge accepted,” Jeongguk replies, grinning as he runs out of the room. You and Namjoon watch as he disappears out of sight, shaking your heads and chuckling at the youngest’s antics.

“He hasn’t changed a bit,” you say, crouching down to scratch the back of Cat’s ears, just as Jeongguk had been doing.

“Not at all,” Namjoon agrees, sliding his hands into his pocket. “I used to hate the fact that he was turned at such a young age. Now I feel as if it’s not such a bad thing. He’s a breath of fresh air that one, despite all that he’s seen and been through with us.” You hum in agreement, standing back up.

“How’re you doing?” you ask.

“Good. Better. It’s almost as if I’d never been gone. Almost.” You laugh and nod. “And you? How are you doing?”

“I’m…” You pause to find the right words. “I’m fine, actually. I’d prepared myself for the worst before returning here. Seokjin is not the most predictable man out there, after all.” Namjoon hums quietly, walking over to the shelves, fingers running over the spines of dust-covered books. “It’s a slow process, but we’ve progressed more than I’d been expecting. Consider me pleasantly surprised.”

For a moment, a blanket of silence falls over you both, and while Namjoon is busy looking at the new books the family has collected in his absence, you watch Cat sniff curiously at your feet.

“It may not be my place to ask,” Namjoon says, voice cutting through the quiet. “But what did you do for my brothers to distrust you so much all those centuries ago, enough for them to make you leave the house of all things?” You pull your eyes away from the dog jumping up to nip at the hem of your skirt to look at Namjoon, who is already looking right at you, waiting patiently for your reply. “Or… would you rather not say?”

You make your way over to the arm chair by the window, Cat following right behind you and jumping onto your lap as soon as you’re seated.

“I… said things. Did things,” you reply, avoiding Namjoon’s eyes.

“Such as?”

“Namjoon… I’m sorry. I’d rather leave the past in the past. Recalling four centuries of betrayal and disloyalty is not very pleasant.”

“Of course. I understand. I still have visions about the things that happened back there.” You’re busy trying to distract yourself by staring down at Cat’s fur when Namjoon walks over to you, resting a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Regardless of what you did, noona, I want to thank you anyway, because it was completely selfless and brave of you to do all that to bring me back to my family.” You look up, and come face to face with Namjoon’s kind and warm smile. “I owe you my life.”

Quiet chatter fills the library, and soft music in the air as Yoongi sits at the piano at the other end of the room, fingers flitting over the keys with practiced ease. Cat seems to have taken a liking to you, chasing after your feet as soon as you’re in sight, and today is no exception. He’s curled up at your feet, body wrapped around your ankle where you’re seated, flipping the pages of a new addition to the family’s collection.

“We haven’t really added much,” Jimin admits as he sits down on the sofa next to you, careful not to knock over the lit candles on the table beside him. “Namjoon hyung’s always been the one to bring in more books.”

“Yeah,” you agree, smiling softly. “Actually, I’m surprised you added any in the first place.”

“It was mostly me and Seokjin hyung. Yoongi hyung added a few music books here and there. But Jeongguk and Taehyung recently got into these things called… manhwa? They’re this century’s picture books essentially.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of those.”

“They call it the ‘best of both worlds’ because, technically, they’re reading, but it doesn’t feel like it.” You chuckle quietly as Jimin rolls his eyes. “Children.”

Shutting the book in your hands, you stand to turn to the shelf behind you and return it to its place, rousing Cat from his nap. Your eyes scan the spines of the books, Cat trailing after you as you wander up and down along the walls of the library, in search of your next read. So absorbed in the myriad of titles, your shoulder collides with Seokjin’s suddenly as he wanders along the wall too in the opposite direction.

“Oh. Pardon me, _____,” he says, offering you a small, tight-lipped smile; you shake your head dismissively in return. Continuing on your way, you don’t notice the way Seokjin’s gaze follows after you, watching as you walk to the other wall, lingering at one shelf before moving on to the next.

“Hyung?” Seokjin’s attention shifts to Jeongguk, who stands beside him, one hand on the elder’s arm, the other clutching an open book. “Hyung, what does this word mean?”

Seokjin reads the word off of the page where Jeongguk points: rambunctious.

“That’s like… noisy and undisciplined. Kind of wild and uncontrollable,” Seokjin explains. “Kind of like you and Taehyung, and how you’re both all over the place.” Jeongguk scoffs and scrunches up his nose, while the elder grins proudly.

“I should’ve asked noona,” Jeongguk mumbles, walking away to drop himself back onto the couch next to Taehyung.

The words leave an acrid taste in your mouth the moment you’ve said them. A sharp pain twinges in your chest that you so desperately try to ignore when you watch everyone’s faces shift from expressions of surprise to betrayal in very little time, and hurts even more to know that you are the reason for it.

“What did you just say?” Seokjin asks.

“You heard me,” you reply, maintaining your composure and resisting the urge to cower, take everything you’ve said back and apologise.

“After everything we’ve done for you…”

“Everything you’ve done for me? Please! You and your family have done nothing but made me miserable. All this whining and moping about Namjoon. Just face it. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. You’ve lost a brother. We’ve all lost someone, Seokjin. That’s just the way things are. So suck it up and move on for God’s sake.”

Eyebrows furrowed, Yoongi shakes his head, looking at you, confused.

“What… what’s gotten into you, noona?” he asks. “This isn’t like you.”

“No, Yoongi. This is me. What you’ve been seeing for the last five centuries has been me pretending to be grateful for your family’s hospitality. But I’m not. I’ve realised now that I would’ve been more than fine on my own. You didn’t have to go and rescue me all those centuries ago. I wouldn’t have wasted five centuries here with the lot of you if you hadn’t.”

You can see the way Seokjin’s jaw tenses as he clenches and unclenches his teeth at all the spite that oozes out of you.

“But… we’ve done so much for you,” Hoseok argues.

“No. I’ve done so much for you,” you correct. “I’ve done more than my fair share of shit around this place without a word of thanks. Well, I’m sick of it. I’m tired of you six wandering around this castle hopelessly just because one of your brothers has gone. I’m tired of having to think of ways to cheer you six up like some kind of jester to take your mind off of things. Just face it. He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”

When Seokjin speaks, a chill runs down your spine at the tone of his voice, and you try not to visibly shiver.

“You know, I tried so hard to ignore it. I tried so hard to think nothing of the way you’d always wander out of the castle whenever you wanted, going God knows where and not returning until minutes before dawn. I thought I’d gone mental when I saw you in town with Hyunwoo.” Ears perk up and eyebrows raise at the name.

“Hyunwoo?” Taehyung repeats. “As in…”

“As in Hyunwoo from the western village, yes,” Seokjin finishes.

“Hyung, you said never to–”

“I know what I said. But, clearly, _____ has forgotten.”

“Those guys are vile, self-absorbed animals with absolutely no remorse or pity for anyone that isn’t in their clan,” Yoongi says. “What are you doing with Hyunwoo, noona?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Clearly, I’ve found a more accomodating clan, one that’ll actually make me feel like one of their own, and not some fucking maid.”

“B-but… noona, you said…” Jimin says, stammering. “You said you’d help us find Namjoon hyung no matter what.”

You shrug.

“Namjoon’s not worth finding, Jimin.”

As if you’d just swung at them all, the six of them take a step back at your comment, speechless. The looks of disbelief you’re met with are hard to look at, but you steel yourself, and force yourself to maintain eye contact with Seokjin.

It feels as if a whole century passes before anyone says anything.

“Get out,” Seokjin spits. “And never come back.”

“Everyone! Your attention, please!”

Hyunwoo’s words ring out over the loud raucous, and the chatter dies down to almost complete silence at the clan leader’s voice.

“Tonight is a night of celebration,” he says, grinning proudly. “Because tonight, we welcome a new addition to our little family. An alluring, beautiful addition, I must say.” He wraps his arm around your waist, and you pretend you don’t want to run away from his touch immediately, like you don’t have the urge to cringe. “How fortunate that little ol’ me was able to convince her to leave that stupid little family she’d been holed up with for five centuries.” The crowd boos at the mention of another clan; Hyunwoo nods in agreement, but waves his other hand to quiet them down before reaching for his glass. “A toast: to our clan, the strongest, most indestructible group of brothers and sisters this century will ever have the pleasure of being destroyed by.”

Whoops of agreement and joy fill the air as glasses are raised in celebration before flutes of blood are downed to the last drop. You do the same, with a tight-lipped smile as you turn to look at Hyunwoo. He winks and brings his flute to his lips with a proud grin.

Dinner is quieter than it ever has been in centuries.

Jeongguk stares down at his goblet, unable to find the energy to reach out and take a sip, eyes boring holes in the gold trimming and the reflection of the fireplace against the glass.

Yoongi sits slumped in his chair, not bothering to look up at anyone, much less his own goblet, cradling his head in his hand, elbow resting on the arm rest of his chair. He clenches his teeth at the incessant scratching of Taehyung’s nails against the edge of the wood of the table, the sound grating in his ears, quickly turning into an annoyance that leaves him with the urge to reach over the table and grab his brother by the lapels of his coat and shake the life out of him.

Jimin and Hoseok take turns heaving out quiet sighs, chewing at their lips and looking everywhere but at the people seated at the table, unsure of what to do or say.

Only Seokjin, seated at the head of the table, sips at his goblet of blood periodically, staring at the fire with no emotion present on his face.

“And finally, our dungeon,” Hyunwoo announces proudly, waving his arm in front of him, as if displaying a collection of fine jewellery. “I quite like coming down here on days I’m not feeling so confident about things.”

“So… never,” you offer with a quiet chuckle; he replies with hearty laughter, pulling you closer to his side.

“Well. I will admit those days are far and few, _____. But even someone such as myself has their off days.”

“That’s quite hard to believe.”

Hyunwoo grins and leads you down the stairs. The air in the dungeon is cold, stale and wet, and you hear the heels of your boots squelch with every step. You try not to grimace at the stench, and certainly try not to think about what could have caused the stench in the first place.

“It’s not the most pleasant room in the castle,” Hyunwoo says. “But it’s a morale booster for people like me, especially when you take in the sheer number of prisoners we have locked up down here.”

“How many are there?” you ask.

“About eight dozen. We’re aiming for double that by the end of the century.”

“Impressive.”

“Here. Let me take you to one of the prisoners.” Strange sounds fill the air as you pass cell after cell, the sound of rattling chains almost drowned out by the cacophony of strangled moans and wails coming from trapped prisoners. “Here we are.”

Hyunwoo nods at one of the guards standing by, and you watch as he take the keychain attached to his belt, metal colliding against metal as he searches through the keys to find the one that unlocks the cell in front of you. The iron scratches and squeals against the railing on the ground as the guard opens up the cell, stepping aside to allow you and Hyunwoo to step inside.

Your body tenses a little at the sight in front of you.

“A familiar face, no?” Hyunwoo asks, chuckling, kicking at a puddle of water in front of him. Drops of water splash against Namjoon’s face, rousing him to consciousness. You remain stoic as he lifts his head from where he kneels, chains keeping his arms hanging above him, eyes squinting as he tries to register what he sees in front of him.

“N-noona?” he whispers, eyes growing wide when he recognises you.

“Scum,” Hyunwoo spits, stepping forward to bring his hand down across Namjoon’s cheek, the sound of the slap making you flinch a little where you stand. The chains rattle at the impact as Namjoon jostles around. You say nothing, taking in how thin and frail he looks, hair frazzled and messy as he winces at the sting. “You ought to think twice about opening your mouth in front of me.” As if nothing had happened, Hyunwoo is back at your side with a smile, his arm wrapping around your waist once again. “How in God’s name did you stand to live with this one and his family for so long, _____?”

Namjoon lifts his head once more to look at you, and the look in his eyes makes you want to fall to your knees and weep.

Instead, you shrug, and wrap your own arm around Hyunwoo’s waist, turning the both of you to walk out of the cell.

“No idea.”

You stare up at the ceiling, silent as Hyunwoo snores away beside you, his arm heavy on your stomach. The curtains haven’t been closed completely shut, and a tiny sliver of sunlight makes its way into the room just a few feet away from the foot of the bed. Your mind reels, the image of Namjoon chained to the stone walls ingrained in your brain, and it takes so much self control not to run out of the room and down to the dungeon once again to see him.

In the almost-silence, you’re left wondering if this was the best way to go about things, if betraying an entire family to find and rescue their lost brother was the best decision. You could have easily stayed with them, told them about your first encounter with Hyunwoo, and how each successive encounter with him eventually led to you find out about Namjoon’s whereabouts. You could have easily stayed to plan something out with them, because seven would be stronger than just one. 

But in the back of your mind, you know that it would have never worked, because between Hoseok’s impulsiveness and Yoongi’s overthinking, the family would either not have gotten anywhere, or would have gone too far and lost even more brothers.

Even if you despise Hyunwoo, this is the way it has to be in order to bring the family back together.

A knock at the door pulls Seokjin’s focus away from the newspaper clippings and print-outs on his desk.

“Come in,” he calls out.

Jimin steps into Seokjin’s study, pulling at the ends of his sleeves to almost completely cover his hands after shutting the door behind him. With hesitation in every step, he walks over to sit down in the armchair directly in front of Seokjin, biting down on his bottom lip.

“Hi, hyung,” he says, voice soft.

“Hello,” Seokjin replies, smiling a little before looking back down at the scraps of paper in front of him. “What brings you in here?”

Jimin is quiet, and for a moment, Seokjin doesn’t seem to notice that he hasn’t been given a reply. Distracted, he sorts through the paper covering his desk, looking for any kind of hint or sign of where his brother might be.

“Hyung.”

“Mmm?” Seokjin hums, not even looking up to meet Jimin’s eyes.

“Hyung, what if… do you ever wonder if… i-if noona was right?” Seokjin freezes, a clipping from last week’s newspaper held between his fingers as the room is shrouded in a cloak of silence. “It’s… i-it’s been a century and a half. What if we’ve been wasting our t–”

“Don’t, Jimin,” Seokjin interrupts, hands slowly starting to ball up into fists. “Don’t you dare. This is our brother we’re talking about, understand?”

“I know. I know, hyung. But, noona… she…”

“She was wrong. I don’t know what’d gotten into her that day, but she was wrong – she is wrong. We’re gonna find Namjoon, with or without her help.”

Hesitant, Jimin tugs at the sleeves of his sweater again, too nervous to look Seokjin in the eye when the tension is thick in the air. He can feel the elder’s frustration radiating off of him, slapping him in the face without warning, and Jimin takes this as his cue to go.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, hyung. We’ll find him.”

“We’ll find him,” Seokjin replies, no longer able to read the words on the clipping in his grasp through the tears welling up in his eyes.

Namjoon hears the clicking of heels against the cement ground growing louder and louder, until eventually, they come to a complete stop. He hears quiet murmurs of incoherent words, recognises the two voices, but says nothing. The metal door of his cell makes a grating screech against the railing as it’s pulled open, and he still keeps his head down.

“Namjoon.”

That voice has his mind reeling and a strange combination of emotions stirring in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know what to do or how to react.

“Namjoon, it’s me.”

Slowly, you crouch down in front of him, reaching out to cup his cheek. Unexpectedly, he turns his head away, and avoids looking at you as best as he can while he’s still chained to the wall.

“Namjoon. It’s me,” you repeat, trying not to sound as desperate as you feel.

“Is it?” he asks, voice raspy and hoarse. “Because you’re not exactly the _____ noona I remember.”

“I know.”

It’s quiet for a moment, with just the distant sounds of more chains rattling and more screaming to keep you both company. Namjoon is the first to speak after the silence.

“What do you want?”

Warily, you look over your shoulder, making sure the guard has left like you’d asked him to, making sure that you and Namjoon are completely alone.

“I’m getting you out of here,” you say.

At this, Namjoon does lift his head to look at you, albeit slowly. He sees the determination in your eyes, the promise engrained in between your words, and for a moment, his doubt wavers, all of a sudden convinced that his old _____ noona had never left.

“What?”

“I’m getting you out of here,” you repeat, reaching into the neckline of your dress to pull out a flask you’d tucked away, shuffling closer to Namjoon as you unscrew the cap. “I apologise for taking so long, but you have to understand that I couldn’t rush this. I had to take my time, make sure that Hyunwoo had no reason to doubt or suspect me of anything.”

Namjoon is quick to wrap his lips around the lip of the flask, tilting his head back to gulp down mouthfuls of blood like the literal starved man he was. It’s not enough, you know it’s not enough, but it’ll do for now. You card your fingers through his sweat-soaked fringe as he sighs and pants, letting him rest his head in your palm as you support him.

“I’m so hungry, noona,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as you rub circles on his temple.

“I know, Namjoon. I’ll come down to visit you more regularly from here, now that Hyunwoo’s out of town.”

His eyes open again slowly, and he looks at you with furrowed eyebrows.

“What do y– we’re not leaving now? Tonight?”

“We can’t, Namjoon. Not yet,” you reply with a small shake of your head. “Hyunwoo left just after twilight. He’s not far enough yet. We need to wait a little longer. You can do that for me, can’t you? We’ve already gotten this far.” Namjoon sighs.

“How long?”

“Two more days. Just two more days and I’ll get you out of here. I’ll bring you back to your brothers.”

Namjoon swallows thickly, feeling his throat start to tighten a little at the mention of his family. He blinks away the dampness that’s starting to form in his eyes, and nods.

“Yeah, noona. I can wait,” he says. “It’s been four centuries. What’s another two days?”

For the most part, Minjae leaves you be, lets you wander the castle without supervision because, frankly, he has more important things to do than to keep an eye on you when all you do is sit in the library and read. As Hyunwoo’s second-in-command, he’d raised no complaints to your addition to the clan for fear of losing his rank, though he had been anything but approving of the leader’s decision. Now, after four centuries, he maintains his doubts, but ignores them in favour of saving his time to do more important things than worry about Hyunwoo’s new companion.

He’d heard about you (almost everyone had), and about your family’s nobility pre-vampirism, the closest the country had to royalty all those centuries ago. He’d heard of your family’s downfall, of the massacre that had consumed everyone but yourself in some stroke of fate, and later, of your salvation. It was no surprise for Minjae to learn of Hyunwoo’s desire to find you, his leader always so greedy and hungry for nothing but the best – and you, (un)fortunately, were the best.

Minjae passes the open doors of the library during his routine inspection of the castle, and isn’t surprised to find you already sitting in the velvet-lined armchair. What he is surprised about is the way you call for his attention.

“Minjae?” you say, peering over the book in your hand. “A word, if you have a moment.”

The wood creaks as he pushes the door open a little further to step inside, the heels of his boots clicking against the wooden floorboards.

“Yes?”

“May I ask, how old is this castle?”

Minjae arches an eyebrow, but answers nevertheless.

“Master Hyunwoo dates it around the thirteenth century. It’s been in his family since the sixteenth century. Why do you ask?”

You shrug, and lower your eyes back down to the book in your hands.

“No reason in particular.” You can tell Minjae is unconvinced, and you chuckle softly, turning the page. “There are a lot of books in here about architecture. I suppose it just never occurred to me to ask Hyunwoo about it until now.”

“I’m sure Master Hyunwoo would be more than happy to discuss the castle’s origins with you in more detail when he returns on the twelfth.” You glance up at him, and watch as he adjusts his sleeves and lapels of his suit jacket. “Will that be all, _____?”

“Yes. Thank you, Minjae. Don’t let me take up anymore of your time.”

“It would be wise for you to consider heading back to your room soon. Sunrise is just four hours away.”

“Namjoon? Namjoon.”

Chains rattle as Namjoon stirs at the sound of your quiet whispers, and he watches as you take extra care in opening his cell door, careful not to make too much noise. You leave just enough space for yourself to step through, clutching the knapsack in your arms close to your chest.

“Noona?” he whispers back. You shush him quietly, and drop to your knees in front of him, putting the knapsack down by your side. “Is it time? Are we leaving now?”

“Yes.”

It’s as if four centuries of fatigue dissipate from his body at the single word, and his chains rattle again as he suddenly becomes alert. He watches as you reach into your dress and pull out a key, standing to unlock his wrists, holding your arms out to catch him as he stumbles.

“Christ almighty,” he sighs, leaning against you as the ache in his arms and shoulders becomes all too apparent all of a sudden.

“I’m afraid we cannot waste any time, Namjoon,” you say, reaching into the knapsack to pull out a bottle much larger than the vials and flasks you’d been secretly feeding him before. “Drink this – all of it. You’re going to need your strength.”

Namjoon has no complaints, and wastes no time in taking the bottle from you, uncorking the top and downing almost half without a breath. You wait for him to finish every drop of blood in the bottle before you’re reaching into the knapsack again, pulling out a pile of freshly pressed clothing and thrusting it into his arms.

“Get dressed. Quick as you can. Hurry. We don’t have much time. Sunrise is approaching.”

You can feel Namjoon’s breaths grazing against your ear as you both stand still, backs pressed to the cold stone walls of the castle. This is now or never, and you both know it.

“There’s a cave,” you whisper. “Just a mile down that path between the oaks. If we’re quick, we’ll make it before the sun rises. From there, we can wait ‘til tomorrow’s twilight to move again. The city centre is just less than fifty miles from there. We can get there on foot in two days, less if we’re quick. Once we get to the city centre, we’ll be able to find safe passage.”

“How do you know all this, noona?” Namjoon asks, eyes shifting left and right warily.

“I spent the last four centuries turning Hyunwoo’s library inside and out ever since I found out he came from a family of cartographers. Fortunately for us, he seems to have inherited his family’s love of maps and collects them, and continues to update his collection with more accurate ones that detail new routes and paths he and his clan can take. It seems he uses his highly accurate maps to find discreet ways to approach those small towns and villages and ambush them.”

“Do you remember everything? Where we have to go?”

“I have them with me,” you reply, pointing towards the knapsack to emphasise your point. “All of Hyunwoo’s maps from the last quarter-century are on my back right now. He keeps them hidden away in a chamber in his study, and he never takes them with him when he travels, just in case he, by some off chance, encounters some kind of problem. He won’t risk having his maps stolen from him and give his enemy the upper hand.”

“So how does he know where to go?”

“He studies his maps about a week and a half in advance before he plans to travel, locks himself away in his study for hours on end to memorise different routes he can lead his men through.”

“And… how did you get the maps, noona?”

With pursed lips, you turn to look at Namjoon over your shoulder, biting the inside of your cheek.

“That’s not important right now, Namjoon. What matters is that I get you back home.”

“Did you hear?” Hoseok says, looking around the table. “One of the villages in Ulsan was attacked last night. Gosan, I think it was.”

“Attacked?” Taehyung repeats. “By who?”

“Tch. Who else?” Yoongi mutters, picking at the chipped varnish on the edge of the table.

“That’s the furthest Hyunwoo’s ever gone,” Jeongguk says, eyebrows furrowed. “What is he trying to do, destroy the entire country?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jimin replies, sighing and leaning back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and sinking deeper into the cushions. “He’s a greedy motherf–”

“Language, Jimin.”

All eyes turn to Seokjin, who doesn’t take his gaze away from the fire, licks of orange and yellow reflected in his pupils. His goblet of blood remains completely untouched, rested on the arm of his chair as he damn near stares at the fire without blinking once.

“Um… hyung?” Jeongguk asks, voice soft and full of hesitation. Seokjin doesn’t answer, but Jungkook continues anyway. “What’re we gonna do?”

“What do you mean by that, Jeongguk?”

“Hyung, it’s… it’s been four centuries. Four hundred years. All we’ve done is sit here and mope.”

“Jeongguk…” Hoseok warns, watching Seokjin’s jaw tense up.

“We’ve done nothing,” Jeongguk continues, clearly growing frustrated as he stands, hands slamming down onto the table. “We did no searching, no running around town asking if anyone’s seen Namjoon hyung or heard of anything. We’ve barely left the house since he’s disappeared, and look what we’re doing now: just sitting around the table twiddling our thumbs.”

“Jeongguk, stop,” Jimin says, but his voice is too quiet to be heard over Jeongguk.

“Hyung’s gone. Noona’s gone. If we’re not gonna do anything, we might as well go stand out in the sun and crisp up like some fucking fried chicken.”

“Jeon Jeongguk,” Seokjin says, rising to his feet. “Sit your fucking ass d–”

“He’s right,” Yoongi interjects. The whole room turns towards Yoongi, who’s straightened up in his seat, hands resting in his lap.

“What did you say?”

“I said, Jeongguk’s right, hyung. And you know it.” Eyes shift from the elder to the second-in-command back and forth, tension growing in the air with each passing silent second.

“Hyung,” Taehyung says, voice sounding strangled and strained.

“I know it’s the last thing you want to be hearing out loud,” Yoongi continues, rising to his feet calmly. “But this might be it from now on: the six of us, for the rest of our existence. They might come back; they might not. We have no way of knowing. Wouldn’t it just be easier to accept that they’re not here anymore? Save yourself the turmoil, hyung. You can’t spend the rest of eternity looking for something that can’t or doesn’t want to be found.” With slow but resolute steps, Yoongi makes his way over to where Seokjin stands with his head hanging low, resting a hand on the elder’s shoulder. “Hyung.”

Without warning, Seokjin falls back into his seat, hiding his face in his hands as sobs start to spill from his lips, shoulders trembling under Yoongi’s touch. The sound of Seokjin’s crying echoes throughout the room, his brothers quick to push away their chairs and join him at the head of the table, arms overlapping Yoongi’s as he leans down to hug Seokjin. At the elder’s feet, Jeongguk furiously wipes at his cheeks, face crumpled in anguish as reality finally starts to dawn on them all: this could be it.

The cave is cold, the stone walls damp with condensation. You and Namjoon have tucked yourselves away in the deepest part, careful to avoid the sunlight as the sun begins to rise, filling half of the cave before it’s even fully risen. Namjoon is panting quietly beside you, head resting on your shoulder as fatigue starts to set in, not used to expelling so much energy anymore. You drop your knapsack down at your side to wrap your arms around him, helping him settle into your side comfortably and catch his breath.

“Alright?” you ask. He nods his head once in confirmation with a soft sigh. “Get some sleep, Namjoon. I’ll wake you when it’s time to leave.”

“What about you?” he asks, concerned.

“I’m fine.”

“You are now, noona. What about later?” You chuckle quietly.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply, carding your fingers through his hair. “Just get some rest.”

Seokjin watches as the tiny sliver of sunlight that peeks through a distant gap in the curtains starts to fade away, turning his head to stare up at the ceiling as his room gradually begins to grow dark. He hasn’t been counting, but it’s been four centuries, three years, six months and seventeen days since Namjoon’s been missing, and four centuries, one month and twenty six days since you left. It’s been agony, slow and painful torture to watch his family crumble before his very eyes, and he’s spent so long trying to pick up the pieces, remould them, and bring it back together again.

He tries not to think about you. He tries not to let his mind wander when everyone is seated at the table, and there are two very obvious vacant seats. He tries not to dwell on the thought that his bed seems too big for him, and that he’s no longer fighting anyone for the sheets. Seokjin doesn’t allow his mind to wander to the ‘what ifs’, but when he’s left alone to simmer in his thoughts, he can’t help but wonder if he’s being delusional thinking he can still smell you on his pillows.

With a sigh, Seokjin rolls over and sits up, rubbing the fatigue from his face with his hands. It’s hell on Earth, knowing that every day he wakes up without a new lead on his brother’s whereabouts is a waste. It’s admirable, though, his perseverance, he thinks, that after four centuries he has still not given up hope. Still, Yoongi’s words continue to ring in his ears, and since that night, Seokjin has wondered if it’s time to give the hunt up, to let things be. 

The near silent house starts to become filled with noise as he gets dressed, and he can hear the tell-tale shuffling of Yoongi’s feet against the hardwood floors outside, on his way to the library to start playing his piano as he always does upon waking. He’s just managed to slide his slippers onto his feet when he hears the distinct sound of glass shattering somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, followed by the poorly hushed voices of Jimin, Taehyung and Jeongguk. Despite himself, Seokjin chuckles quietly, and leaves his room.

“Namjoon? Are you okay?”

“Huh?” You watch as Namjoon blinks, as if pulled out of a trance, turning to look at you. “Oh. Yes, I’m fine, noona. It’s just… it’s nice.”

You hum, understanding.

“It’s been four centuries. A lot has changed, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. And yet, at the same time, the city’s exactly the same. It’s astounding.”

The both of you chuckle, watching as clusters of people rush right past you both. It’s as if the both of you are invisible, the way people pay no mind to you standing by.

“We should get you something to drink,” you say, holding onto Namjoon’s sleeve. “Come. There’s a nice cafe just a few blocks from here.”

“Hello?” Jimin frantically waves a hand in front of Taehyung’s face, who is currently zoned out at the dining table. “Tae? Hello?”

“What, Chim?” Taehyung says, deadpan.

“Wow. What happened to you?”

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s a first,” Yoongi scoffs, turning the page of his newspaper.

“Shut up, hyung. This is big.”

“How big?” Jimin asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Like, ‘I nearly dropped that figurine that Hoseok hyung pretends he doesn’t like that much but secretly loves it’ big, or ‘I nearly scratched Yoongi hyung’s piano playing with Jeongguk’s new remote-controlled car’ big?”

Taehyung shakes his head. “Bigger,” he replies.

“What could be bigger than you almost damaging my baby?” Yoongi asks, frowning.

Jimin’s confusion grows when Taehyung sighs, scratching his head and slouching in his seat.

“I think… call me crazy, but… I think I saw Namjoon hyung yesterday.”

Yoongi freezes, mid-page turn.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a hundred percent certain I did. I don’t know if I was hallucinating because it was almost sunrise, or if it was because I drank some bad blood, but… it really looked like him. A-and _____ noona. I think.”

The three of them exchange looks silently.

“Where?” Jimin asks.

“The city centre. I was waiting for Jeongguk outside that cool animal cafe that just opened up.”

“Have you told Seokjin hyung about this?” Yoongi asks, sitting up and putting his newspaper down. Taehyung shakes his head.

“I don’t even know if I really did see him. I don’t want to get his hopes up. You know how hyung’s been over the last four centuries.”

It’s quiet in the library, and somewhere in the distance, they can hear the tapping of Cat’s claws out in the hallway as he trails after Jeongguk.

“Jesus,” Jimin mutters. “Jesus, hyung. Could you imagine? If Taehyung really did see Joonie hyung? Four centuries later?”

“Don’t say a word of this to Seokjin hyung,” Yoongi cuts in, jaw tense.

“What? Why n–”

“Jimin, don’t. At least not until we get some more information, or some kind of confirmation that Taehyung really saw what he saw.”

“He’s right,” Taehyung agrees. “We can’t give this house false hope – we can’t give Seokjin hyung any false hope.”

“Right.”

“Four centuries,” Jimin repeats, sighing and sitting back. “Four centuries of nothing, and then all of a sudden, there’s a possibility he just… appears like that…”

“Taehyung, try not to buy anything that isn’t a necessity this time, please,” Seokjin says, handing Taehyung money with a warning look.

“I mean, I can’t guarantee anything, hyung. The latest edition of me and Jeongguk’s favourite manhwa just came out a couple days ago,” Taehyung replies, smiling innocently.

“Hyung, if you come back without it, you’re dead to me,” Jeongguk says, poking his head out from behind Seokjin.

“Technically, we’re all dead, so…” Jeongguk rolls his eyes. “But, you got it, bro.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Everyone’s heads turn towards the door where Yoongi steps out of the library, buttoning up his coat, eyebrows rising with surprise.

“This is a first,” Seokjin says, chuckling softly. Yoongi shrugs.

“I’m uninspired. Figured a nice walk would clear my head a little,” he says, casting a brief look towards Taehyung.

“Well. I’m not going to argue with that. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get you out of the house for the last century already. Taehyung could use an extra pair of hands. I heard from Mr. Yang that he almost dropped an entire week’s supply last month.”

“In my defence,” Taehyung cuts in. “There was a really cute dog that walked past the store.”

“That’s some weak defence, hyung,” Jeongguk snickers.

“Keep an eye on him,” Seokjin says quietly to Yoongi.

“Of course, hyung.”

It’s a quiet walk to the city centre, a heavy blanket of tension and anticipation hanging over Yoongi and Taehyung. Questions rest on the tip of Taehyung’s tongue, desperate to cut through the silence between them, but he holds back, knowing that one look at the elder’s face is enough to tell him that he’s deep in thought. It’s no secret why Yoongi had decided to accompany him, and there’s a part of Taehyung that’s relieved to have him of all people at his side – as the most rational thinker in the house, if anyone can confirm or deny Taehyung’s claims, it’s Yoongi.

It’s as busy as ever in the city centre, waves of people coming and going quicker than Yoongi can keep up with. He pays no mind to anyone else, however, eyes sharp and on the look out. He knows what he’d told Taehyung and Jimin, that to instil false hope on the house could potentially be more damaging to the family than ever before, but intuition tells him that there might be some truth to Taehyung’s story.

The supply pick-up is quick, as standard as ever, with nothing out of the ordinary occurring. Yoongi barely bats a lash at the way the case of the coven’s monthly blood supply is thrust into his arms before Taehyung is running into the bookstore, returning with significantly less change and a brand new book in his hands. Taehyung, too, makes no complaints when Yoongi stops them at a nearby cafe for a little while, under the guise that he was not used to so much walking anymore.

Taehyung jokes about Yoongi’s age, and the elder doesn’t even have the heart to reprimand him – in fact, he chuckles a little at the jab.

Nothing happens. Dawn begins to approach, and, defeated, Yoongi and Taehyung realise that to stay out any longer is futile. The walk back home is just as quiet as ever, Yoongi having to pull Taehyung out of the way of approaching bicycles and cars here and there as the younger gets a head start on the manhwa over Jeongguk.

“Taehyung, put that down, please,” Yoongi says, sighing as he bows apologetically once more to the driver of a passing car. “Can’t you wait until we’re home? We’re only a block away. Watch where you’re w–”

Confused by Yoongi abrupt halt, Taehyung looks up from the page, confused by the look on the elder’s face.

Until he follows his line of sight.

The book falls to the dirt-covered ground, the case of blood following suit.

Namjoon chuckles softly at the expressions on his brothers’ faces. It’s a tired sound, but filled with relief. In any other situation, you’d find the whole thing emotional, but with dawn approaching, with Namjoon and yourself in need of a feed, you can’t find yourself feeling anything but anxious.

“Please tell me that’s blood in there,” you say, eyeing the case at Yoongi’s feet. Taehyung scrambles at lightning speed to step into action, albeit with shaking hands, to unlock the case and grab two bags of blood, running over to where Namjoon and yourself stand, Namjoon’s arm draped over your shoulders as you help support his weight. “Yoongi. A hand, please.”

Yoongi is at Namjoon’s other side before you can even finish, draping his other arm across his shoulders.

“I new it,” Taehyung mutters, voice wavering as he helps Namjoon drink, eyes already damp. “I k-knew I saw you two.”

“You should’ve said hi then,” you joke quietly. Only Namjoon laughs.

You watch as he turns to Yoongi, nuzzling his nose against the side of the elder’s head.

“Long time no see, hyung.”

Jeongguk is hungry for blood pudding.

Determined steps take him to the second floor, headed towards you and Seokjin’s room, desperate for his older brother’s recipe book.

A firm hand stops him at the top of the stairs.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Hoseok says, a grim look on his face.

“Wh– why not, hyung?” Jeongguk asks, frowning. “I just wanted to ask Jin hyung for his recipe book.”

“Trust me, Jeongguk. Not right now.” Hoseok continues before Jeongguk can protest any more. “Noona’s in there too.” Hoseok watches the younger’s face morph into one of pure realisation.

“Oh, gross!”

“Yep.”

“Damn it. I’m hungry though. I really want some blood pudding, but it’s too late to go to the city and buy some from Mrs. Lee.”

“Damn. Blood pudding sounds pretty good right now. But you won’t be able to ask for that recipe book until tomorrow by the sounds of things,” Hoseok says, draping an arm across Jeongguk’s shoulders, leading the younger back downstairs.

“Do you know how to make blood pudding?”

“Google exists for a reason, doesn’t it?”

“Sweetheart?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” you reply, grinning.

“You’re treading a very fine line right now,” Seokjin says, jaw tense. You chuckle.

“Oh? What’s on either side of the line, honey?”

He glances down, and swallows hard at the sight of you, with your hair tussled, lipstick slightly smudged, dressed in nothing but one of his silk shirts.

“My self control, and my lack of,” he replies, swallowing thickly. You hum softly, sitting up to situate yourself on his hips, hands smoothing down his bare chest, fingers curling just slightly to drag your nails along his skin. Seokjin inhales sharply at the slight tingle your nails leave in their wake.

“I think I know which side of the line I want you to be on,” you say, smiling sweetly.

“No you don’t,” he counters, taking hold of your wrists, holding them down on your thighs.

“Of course I do. Don’t you remember Venice?”

“God,” he groans, recalling the past. “Venice.”

“Didn’t you have a great time in Venice with me, darling? Because I had a fantastic time with you.”

You lean back down, lips brushing over the vein that protrudes from his neck, warm breath fanning over his skin. You watch Seokjin’s throat shift with another thick swallow, grinning as you press a kiss to his pulse.

“Well…”

Bingo. You know you’ve won.

“Since you mentioned Venice…”

You gasp when you feel your bodies being flipped over, laughing breathlessly when your head hits the pillow, Seokjin hovering over you with a giddy smile.

“I miss Venice,” he says, peppering kisses all over your face, making you giggle at how ticklish it all feels. “We should go again.”

“With or without your brothers?” you ask, gasping again when his tongue laves at your jaw.

“Without,” he replies immediately. You hum, holding back a smile.

“Wow. When did the great Kim Seokjin get so selfish?”

“Obviously being separated from you for four centuries did things to me, _____.”

“You big softie,” you coo.

“I am anything but right now, honey.”

“I can feel that. But you must’ve gotten slower in your old age, Jinnie. You’re taking an awfully long time to do anything.”

“You can’t just let me enjoy this?” he groans, frowning against your shoulder.

“But, Jinnie,” you whine. You hold back another grin when he sighs against your skin.

“I hate when you do that.”

“Why?”

“Makes me feel like I’ll say yes to anything you want.”

“You’d say yes even if I didn’t whine.”

“You know what? I hate that you know me so well, _____,” Seokjin says.

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah. No I d–” You cut him off before he can finish, tilting your head to press your lips to his, forcing him to lose his train of thought. It doesn’t take long for his grip on your wrists to loosen enough for you to be able to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly close, the weight of his torso heavy on yours. 

The tip of your tongue brushes along his fangs, moaning at the way they graze against you before Seokjin is biting down gently on your bottom lip. He cradles your head in one hand, the other sliding down your chest and stomach. His lips move surprisingly slow for someone who’d been impatient not even a minute ago, tongue gently sliding against yours with a slight curl to coax it out, and you know that it won’t be long now before the tables will be turning and you will become the impatient one losing all your self control.

“Jinnie,” you moan, pushing your head back into the pillows, lips shiny and slick with spit, a beautiful shade of red that Seokjin spends a moment admiring. He looks down and holds back a groan, because the silk of his shirt on your frame does nothing to hide the curves and contours of your body, and he watches as your chest rises and falls underneath him.

Seokjin reaches up to unbutton the shirt agonisingly slow, and he grins silently at the way you squirm, fingertips touching every inch of your soft, supple skin as it’s exposed, because just as you’d suspected, you’ve now lost your ability to control your desire, restless beneath his gaze and touch as Seokjin takes his time in undressing you. A soft whimper bubbles in your throat, but he quiets you down with a kiss to your neck, teeth grazing along the goosebumps that rise in their wake, letting the whimper morph into a surprised gasp.

He takes a deep breath in, letting the scent of you intoxicate him and cloud his senses until all he can think about is you, and the way your body feels in his hold. Seokjin feels your legs wrap around his waist, the heels of your feet digging into the small of his back when you push your hips up to knock against his, hoping to signal your need for more.

“Patience is a virtue, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear, laughing lowly.

“I waited four centuries, darling,” you reply. “Haven’t I been patient enough?”

He hums quietly, pushing the silk off your body to fall at your side and expose you to the air of his room, watching you shiver a little. You watch Seokjin shuffle down, pressing kisses down your shoulder and collarbone, travelling lower until his mouth hovers over your breast. Your breaths are shaky when his fangs brush against your nipple, one hand squeezing your other breast, fingertips pushing dimples into your skin, and it’s all so much, but not enough.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Seokjin asks, words muttered against your nipple. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

“You,” you whine, back arching off the bed when his hips roll against yours. “Always you. Only you. Fuck, I want you, Jinnie. Please.”

You hear Seokjin groan, forehead resting in your cleavage, and then before you can even blink, he’s pushed himself down lower, lying in between your legs, already so close to your heat that you don’t have time to process anything quick enough.

“Only me?” he repeats, warm breath brushing against your skin.

“Only you,” you whisper, nodding shakily.

“I love you, _____.”

“I-I lo--”

He doesn’t let you finish, and everything seems to happen so much quicker after that. You barely have the time to recover from the way he pushes a finger into you, and then another, and then another, all while he sucks fervently on your clit and licks hungrily at your folds. You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently and urging him on.

Seokjin seems to be just as -- if not, more -- impatient than you, not continuing on for more than a minute before he’s pushing himself up onto his knees, not taking his fingers out of you when he leans down to press his lips to yours, kissing you hungrily, urgently. You kick the sheets off the bed, moaning when Seokjin takes hold of you to sit you up, frantically tugging his silk shirt off your frame to leave you both completely naked.

“Turn around for me,” he whispers; you bite down on your lip, trying to not seem too excited by what’s to come as you scramble to get on your hands and knees in front of him.

A little shiver runs down your spine at the way his hand smooths down your back and down the curve of your ass, your eyes shutting involuntarily at his touch.

“God, you’re so beautiful, _____.”

Seokjin leans down, the warmth of his chest like fire on your skin, pressing kisses to your shoulders as he pushes into you. The both of you groan, and you throw your head back against his shoulder, lips parting as he mouths at your neck. 

Seokjin lets out a shaky breath when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, trying to maintain his composure but failing steadily, the way your walls clench around his cock doing nothing to help. You keen beneath him, letting out a whine as you wiggle your hips against his, stopping when you feel a firm hand grip your waist.

“Don’t,” he says, trying to sound firm, but his voice errs on the edge of a whine. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last much longer, _____.”

“I don’t care, baby,” you say, reaching up to curl an arm around his neck and press kisses to any inch of his jawline that you can reach. “Give it to me.”

You push your hips back again, despite his hold on you, and Seokjin groans once again, moving his hand from your waist to reach around and hold you close, giving an experimental thrust of his hips. 

You gasp, before letting it turn into a moan, and Seokjin lets his hesitation dissolve, slowly building a steady rhythm with his thrusts. You feel your body start to rock beneath him, and you let go of his neck to plant your hand back down on the bed to steady yourself and keep you up, legs starting to tremble with the hint of your release slowly creeping up on you. 

Seokjin’s fingers dig into your stomach, his breaths ragged against your back as he feels your walls continually clench around him. He digs his fangs into his tongue, trying to tamper down loud growls that threaten to spill from his lips, fully aware that the both of you are not alone in the house right now.

“Let me hear you, sweetheart,” you say, as if you’d read his mind.

“But -- fuck -- t-the others...” he replies weakly.

“Forget about them,” you say, turning to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Forget about them, Jinnie. I want to hear you. I want them to hear you.”

“God.” Seokjin throws his head back and groans quietly, hips still moving, before leaning back down to rest his head between your shoulders.

“Tell me how good I feel, Jinnie.”

“You feel -- ah -- fucking divine, _____,” he growls, hips picking up their pace as he starts to rock into you faster. “So good, sweetheart. Y-you’re mine. All mine.”

“I’m -- ah! -- yours, baby. Only yours,” you moan, loud enough to fill the room. “Always fuck me so well, Jinnie. Want you to fill me up.”

“God, yes. G-gonna fill you up ‘til your dripping.”

“Please.”

Seokjin’s hips move fast, cock thrusting in and out of you hard enough to have your moans stuttering as you keen, trying to match his pace and thrust back to meet him halfway. You fall to your elbows, back arching in a way that drives Seokjin’s cock in deeper into you, forcing a low, guttural growl to fill the room, no doubt being heard by the other occupants of the house outside too. 

You bite down on your bottom lip, fangs digging into your flesh as you roll your hips and muffle a moan against the pillow beneath you, feeling the heat in your lower stomach build, the tension growing with each thrust into you. 

Seokjin straightens up, hands gripping your hips and finding leverage to drive himself into you harder and deeper, throwing his head back with another growl, losing his rhythm for a split second when you clench your walls for a moment longer.

“Jinnie,” you whimper, hands gripping the pillows tightly. “I-I...”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you up onto your knees and flush against his body, arms wrapped around your waist to hold you close. You can’t speak coherently anymore, head resting back against Seokjin’s shoulder, moans loud and unrestrained.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Seokjin whispers, lips pressed to your cheek as he continues to thrust up into you with a new found enthusiasm, headboard banging rhythmically against the bedroom wall. “Come for me.”

Your knees start to grow weak as the heat in your stomach builds, thighs trembling, chest rising and falling rapidly until you freeze in Seokjin’s arms, the tension exploding as you reach your peak and climax.

Seokjin can’t hold back any further, egged on by the way you call out his name, moaning loud enough to be heard outside of the bedroom. You whimper at the warmth that fills you when his hips completely still, and he lets out a shaky breath against your neck as he hugs you close.

“I love you,” you whisper, panting and pressing a kiss to Seokjin’s cheek.

Yoongi groans once again when his fingers slip and press down on the wrong keys.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, scowling as he looks up at the ceiling, hoping that his negativity permeates through the walls and into you and Seokjin’s shared room. “I need to move out.”

[theopenmindpalace]

Felixuish - Page 5

I awoke with a start. Before I knew I was conscious, I'd pulled the dagger out from its sheath, spilling the last swig of wine from the bottle on my nightstand. I held it above me, raised at an angle that may have looked like an unfortunate tilt of a tired mind to an outsider. I quickly lowered it and turned onto my back, tightening my grip on the blade. I allowed myself a slow, deep breath.

I had no idea how long I'd been at The Runaway Inn. It felt like months, but I couldn't count more than a week's worth of nightmares. The days were like years. My Mother's Grace felt distant here, and I kept telling myself that I would leave... but each night, I found it again. I found it in the fabric of my dreams.

They say the more filth you've been caked in, the more painful it is to wash it away.

It was with this reminder that I took another breath, deep and rewarding, and sat up, shedding the memory of the dream off my weary shoulders. For good measure, I raised my arms in a comfortable stretch. Sleeping in a bed was still foreign to me. Perhaps when I got used to it, I would know to leave.

My room, apart from the bed, had been apparently built for my comfort. The walls were made of pine, and the floor was made of oak. It smelled of the forest, and the window, with no curtains, opened over that place. Next to the window stood a simple oaken chair with a crossed back. I went to sit in it, to contemplate the night and to prepare my mind for the day.

The window opened at a touch. I wasn't sure what force caused this, but some of the other guests had insisted that it was neither spiritual nor of the Earth. I found their certainty confusing, for when I asked what it was of, they expressed no clear understanding themselves.

I examined the knife. My near-understanding of its symbols had grown dim since I'd first acquired it. Now, sitting there, all I saw were lines etched into steel. Maybe one would curve here, another stopped there, and one or two would leave single drops in their wake. But they were meaningless to me.

In a fit of frustration, I threw the knife across the room. It embedded itself in the wall next to the foot of the bed and hummed resentfully.

They were lost and frustrated too. I dreamed of them every night now—sometimes as they walked, sometimes as they slept. In the day, they searched blindly for signs to my whereabouts; in the night, they dreamed. It was an uncomfortable experience, sharing dreams. I wasn't sure which were mine anymore.

I forced myself to breathe. The air inside was stale, and my lungs were starved of the wind. I closed my eyes to meditate.

The inn's library was a forest of its own.

One could enter from almost anywhere in the building, which had proved to be much larger on the inside than the exterior had led me to believe. The entrance I'd become most comfortable with was one just down the hall from my own room, a lavish archway with purple cushioning that lined the underside. A glassy wooden floor melted into fresh, wavy oak that felt good beneath my shoes.

I stepped out onto a rustic balcony, the adjective of which is only necessary due to the nature of this building's architecture. At the opposite end of the library, too far for me to see, one could step inside via a moving metal staircase. Some ways to my left, another balcony—if one could call it that—consisted of a small, grassy hill, under which another entrance had been carved out of the earth. To my right, a similar structure stood in marble. Each of the dozens of balconies (or similar structures) extended out into the room, creating a woven path suspended in the air that glided between levels. Stairs and ramps, moving and natural—although having the top layer of earth form a solid bridge with grassy railings and small bushes growing from it must have required a higher assistance.

I chose to take the stairs to ground level. The vibrations of my hand moving along its smooth wood railing was one of the more comforting aspects of this foreign place, and likely a contributor to why I hadn't left yet. My feet thudded dully on the steps, but the sound carried in the quiet of the library.

Every single guest who entered the library was quiet and respectful of the books. The books, I'd found, were the only part of the inn that had no alternate version for other worlds. There were scrolls, leather backs, paperbacks, and covers made of various materials I'd never been familiar with. There was papyrus, animal hide, paper from the barks of trees, and even fabric or marble—but no metal, no glass, and no strange non-magic.

The library, in a way, was sacred. I appreciated that.

As I walked through the enormous room, I ran my hands over the bronze coral designs that served as pillars for the walkways. Misshapen bookshelves tucked away under arches gave this area the illusion of a cave. It smelled of wood and ink. As I walked, I relaxed.

A small clearing in the forest of the library housed a cluster of fur chairs and cushions on a stone dirt floor. My shoes kicked up pebbles on my way in. The wolf-grey cushion around which I'd arranged books and papers was... occupied.

I stopped a few feet away from the woman. She was reading the stone tablet I'd been hoping to study, leaning against a stack of bound books that she must have rearranged from their places on the floor. All that was left of my previous day's library activities, at least that I could still access, was a stack of bound papers on knives, which I had already deemed useless.

The woman looked up at me. "You're blockin' my light."

I gestured at the stack of books she was leaning on. "You're blocking my reading."

She raised her thick, black eyebrows in surprise. "We got a bloody tough one 'ere, do we? Was all this your doin'? It wasn't 'ere last time I'd come ta this part o' the library." I stared her down. She lowered one eyebrow. After a moment, she sighed. "A'right, 'ave your books. I weren't interested anyway."

I stepped back as she gently set the tablet on the stack of books and pulled herself to her feet. "Thank you," I said.

She paused and stared at me. "You're patronizing me, aren't you?" I opened my mouth, confused, but she held up a finger. Her nails were long, rounded, potentially sharp, but not meant as weapons. For that, she glared daggers and spoke in a low, mocking voice. "'Oh, you're not s'posed to be where you are, get up, thank you, there's a nice girl, and watch as I get all polite and watch you leave—oh, by the way, nice ass.' How like a man."

I blinked. "I'm not—"

"Oh, shush, you." The woman picked up the tablet again and went to sit in the next seat over, a rich purple chair with short fuzz. "You want this," she said, waving the tablet in the air. "I can sense it. You got a yearnin' for it. Tell me why."

I wasn't used to being so brashly addressed in this place. Sure, mannerisms were understandably varied, but others seemed to understand my desire for concise interactions.

I took too long to respond. The woman said, "Well?"

"It would take too long to explain," I told her. "You can have it, though. I can find it again when you're done."

"No," she said sharply, holding a hand up to stop me sitting down. "You're gonna tell me your story, or you're not gettin' it."

I was beginning to feel tense. "You can read, can't you? It doesn't take a prophet to work out why anyone would want to read it."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I can read, but this thing's untranslatable."

"What?"

She squinted at me. "You new? You don't think we're all speakin' the same language 'ere, do you? It's bein' translated. Sometimes it don't go through in writing."

That gave me pause. Different languages? I decided to pretend I understood. "Why doesn't it always go through?"

Her face grew red. "Hell if I know. Just doesn't. You gonna tell me why it's so special or what?"

I took a moment to clench and unclench my fist. Is this meant to be happening? I asked in my mind. Another moment passed, and a cool breeze came in from across the clearing. Perhaps someone had opened a door too fast, or there was a fan somewhere in that direction. But it smelled of the forest.

I sat down. "Fine."

[chocobutt-trash]

Hiya! You write beautifully and you're probably sick of me saying that by now because I say it all the time and every comment I make on all your fics.. But there's many times when I'm engaging with your writing that I need to pause and just say "wow." So it got me thinking that you've probably read a lot of interesting books and I was wondering if you would share some of your favorite fiction titles. It's almost blasphemy to talk about non fanfiction on tumblr but I am quite curious. Thank u

*waves*Hey there - thanks so much for this ask, it’s something I relish being asked because there’s nothing I like more than talking about my favourite books ;)

First off I’m still super flattered you enjoy my writing so much! I have a long way to go before reaching the calibre of those I look up to, but with more practice, and wider reading, there’s always the chance, haha.

Blasphemy? Never!

So: books and authors I adore.

Right up at the top we have to have Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. Mantel’s prose is absolutely exquisite, and she’s one of the most enjoyable authors around. Wolf Hall is the first in a fantastic trilogy covering the rise of Thomas Cromwell to power in Tudor England, but honestly, Mantel could write about de-greasing a kitchen sink and the prose would be so damn delightful I’d read it and weep. Here, we have a hefty tome that is, essentially, a history book, and the most stunning thing is that she’s reconstructed as much as possible of the events and scenery as was at the time of the Tudors. She really got inside Cromwell’s head to write this book, and he’s such an interesting character. We often hear of the Henry VIII story from either Henry’s point of view, or those of his wives (particularly Anne Boleyn). But this, now, this comes from the unexpected track. Born to commonfolk in a small London suburb, Cromwell was never meant to gain entry into the inner circles of the English Court, and yet he ended up influencing the political and religious direction of an entire nation. This is a fantastic character study of a shrewd, down-to-earth, ambitious man, who is at once a man of the people and yet so hard to fathom. Damn, just talking about it makes me want to read it again.

Filth, by Irvine Welsh, is a mainstay of mine. It’s written entirely in Scots dialect, so if you’ve not the background, you may need a translator. But Filth, like all Welsh’s novels, is amazing in its characterisation. It deals with an ordinary policeman in Edinburgh, Bruce Robertson, who, we slowly come to realise over the course of the novel, is completely morally corrupt. And it starts out with little things. Little, ‘oh, he’s probably being a bit of a jerk’ things. Little redeemable things. And since it’s all from his point of view, you’re along with him for the ride. Having a villain as the main character, first-person, and having the rabbit hole be such a subtle slip, does interesting things to your brain, to the point where, as a reader, you almost start waving away some of his actions, and part of it’s due to the sort of language Welsh employs. I love this fact, because you see how easy it is for people who do terrible things to get away with it. To make you want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Just in case they can be redeemed. There is also a hefty dose of psychological horror and existentialism, with a side order of magical realism as the tapeworm that lives in Bruce Robertson’s gut starts talking to him. The further he gets down the rabbit hole, the worse his mental health becomes. And, of course, this is Irvine Welsh we’re talking about, and I don’t think there’s even enough tags on AO3 to warn you of all the horrors this book contains within.

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, has been one of the biggest influences on my writing style. McCarthy has an incredibly unique style. It’s bare-bones writing - he need not spell out anything for the reader, and this goes to the point where he doesn’t even use speech marks to delineate conversation. The structure of the writing alone is so flawless that you don’t even need it. It’s an exercise in creating a stark, vivid post-apocalyptic world with the bare minimum of ingredients. Word choice, sentence structure, emotion. His style really isn’t for everyone, but it is so clever and utterly delicious. I read the entire thing on the verge of tears, I was so worried for the kid in the story.

Amrita, by Banana Yoshimoto, is actually not Yoshimoto’s best work in terms of style (her short story collections Sleep and Kitchen are better), but it’s such a work of art that it stands as my favourite of hers. It’s about a young woman who wakes up after being in a coma, having lost certain parts of her memory. There’s a sister who died, a younger brother with problems of the parapsychological variety, and a healthy dose of magical realism. It’s all washed over with this serene sense of nostalgia and anticipation, and on every page I felt like I was on the brink of an entirely other world, that I could just look at the world slightly differently, and it would shift.

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami, is an experimental masterpiece. I love the fact that I basically read the entire thing and it was so well-written I didn’t even question the fact that nobody in the novel has names. That’s right, nobody’s name is mentioned even once. And there’s at least a dozen characters. This is an outstanding book that influenced anime creator Yoshitoshi ABe (creator of Serial Experiments Lain, and Haibane Renmei), and it’s utterly fantastical and out there and thought-provoking, which is not what one might necessarily think for a novel that opens with a man musing at great length about what sort of sofa is best to sit upon.

Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell (no, not the comedian, the other one), is also experimental in nature, and is sublime in the way it packages up its stories. Mitchell has an immense amount of talent; there are multiple plotlines that spans centuries and he is somehow able to write convincingly well in each genre style, from nineteenth-century colonial memoirs to ‘70′s crime drama to futuristic post-apocalyptic fiction. I read a lot of ship logs from century-old expeditions, and the segment The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing is absolutely spot-on. There’s real beauty in this book, and please, for the love of god, read the book rather than watch the film, because beautiful as the film is, it does not come close to capturing that sense of wonder that the book does.

Dune, by Frank Herbert, has to be up here because not only is Dune a fantastic example of eco-fiction, but Herbert breaks the cardinal rule of not having more than one point of view in a paragraph and somehow I still love him. Conventionally, I prefer sticking to a single point of view in an entire scene, because otherwise the narrative is messy, and not in a fun way, more in a kind of sticks-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth-like-mashed-potato kind of way. Bleh. However, Herbert routinely switches perspective in the same scene, sometimes during the same paragraph, and occasionally during the same sentence. He’s pretty much the only writer I can stand who does this (barring Stephen King on the odd occasion) and it’s mainly because one of the principal themes in Dune is the use of Bene Gesserit magic, which is a glorified way of saying ‘using psychological warfare on others’. Words are a weapon, and it’s imperative to the plot of the story that the reader sees the effect of these words on the characters’ mental states. So yeah, it’s meant to be a sci-fi eco-warrior novel, but it ends up immensely psychological. And that is a very worthwhile read.

I think I’ve covered the main ones that tend to hover up near the top of my mind. Again, thank you so much for this ask, it was great fun to answer.

[longsightmyth]

Chapter-by-Chapter, The Naming, Chapter 5

PELLINOR

Finally our heroes have escaped the shadow of the Landrost. They celebrate by collapsing where they stand, though Cadvan eventually hauls out food. They wash their hands in a stream, and Maerad “pulled some dried grasses and, moving with sudden violent disgust, scrubbed herself as hard as she could, dabbing uselessly at her clothes, which were stiff with filth.”

You know, I thought all my long sentences came from reading The Keltiad too often as a child. Clearly this also had some influence.

Cadvan says that they are four days from help if nothing terrible happens, and the the Landrost isn’t the only thing looking for them.

“I don’t know how much farther I can go,” said Maerad. Her hands were trembling.

“Nor do I, Maerad. Will has carried us thus far.”

Also,

“I fought the wers, and I wasn’t afraid, Maerad thought with a kind of grim gladness. Perhaps now he’ll stop treating me like a child.”

Following on that thought though, she thinks of it as murder, even if it was kill or be killed. “The knowledge didn’t stop a disquiet in her heart, a feeling that, no matter the justification, killing was wrong, that the the act had somehow wounded her.”

This is a theme that will continue throughout the series, but for now our heroes trudge their way to an unoccupied (for now) cave and take turns sleeping and taking watch. When Maerad wakes up, Cadvan is talking to a mountain lion because of course he is. The mountain lion tells Cadvan that dark things are around and looking for them, and that he, the mountain lion, can take them through a shortcut. Cadvan thanks the mountain lion, reminds Maerad that she could probably hear the mountain lion if she tried hard, and they eat some more.

The next morning Maerad is incredibly stiff from walking nonstop and sleeping on ground and rock and general misery. The mountain lion takes them through a massive underground pitch black cavern-city, which is a nightmare straight from my personal hell, especially when they have to feel their way along a narrow ledge alongside a giant pit based entirely on directions given to Cadvan by a mountain lion and relayed to Maerad. Seriously. I’d have just sat down on the ledge and died if by some miracle a mountain lion could have convinced me to set foot in a pitch black ancient abandoned cavern city without flashlights and spelunking gear. Mad props to everyone involved for not having heart attacks.

Eventually they emerge, the mountain lion skedaddles, and they walk along a blessedly sunlit mountain. I am more relieved than they are. Maerad slips and skids down a god bit of mountain and Cadvan follows her much more purposefully, commenting that it is faster but not as comfortable. Eventually they reach a walled community, where Cadvan starts speaking an unknown language to the people at the gate, who gets someone to come let them in.

This someone is Cadvan’s friend Malgorn (not Maglor, as I originally tried to type). He, after much exclaiming over their travel-worn-ness, leads them to his house, calling for Silvia. Maerad, finally overcome, faints.

THRONE OF GLASS

Celaena has dressed up in a white and purple dress, and has “managed to convince [Chaol] to give her a tour under the pretense of extreme boredom - when, in fact, she’d used every moment to plot a dozen escape routes from her room.” If the captain of the Royal Guard doesn’t know what you’re doing, he’s bad at his job. I’m just saying.

We’re told that when you’re inside the glass part of the castle (oh yeah, there’s a part of the castle made entirely of glass) there’s absolutely no difference, but Celaena won’t set foot in it, which is fair. Queen Georgina is dismissed as unimportant, we learn that Dorian’s younger brother once beat a servant “so badly there was no possibility of it being concealed” and that he was therefore sent away to a school in the mountains. Which mountains? No idea. What kind of school? No clue. Moving on.

Celaena, despite living in Rifthold for most of her life, doesn’t know what the clock tower’s bells sound like. The clock tower itself is described in warlike terms. Celaena notices weird markings around the base of the tower, but Chaol dismisses her questions. They find the library, which apparently contains over a million books. We learn that the library of Orynth (the capital of Celaena’s home country of Terrasen) supposedly used to contain twice as many. Much rhapsodizing is done over books, providing no specifics but including a line about libraries containing ideas, “the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.”

Chaol won’t let her take books. She writes a letter with the aim of charming Dorian into giving her library access, which in fairness would in fact be my first priority except I’m not an assassin trying to survive a cutthroat world of competition to earn my freedom.

Dorian writes her back. He gives her permission, but commands her to read the seven books he sends her first. Celaena is amused.

Later she stands on her balcony where no guards are posted, listening to some female courtiers gossip about Dorian. One of them implies that ‘Lillian’ (Celaena’s assumed name) is Dorian’s mistress and that she won’t last long. Celaena tries to drop a flower pot on her head from the balcony and misses, but scurries off as one is wont to do when one’s head is nearly smashed in by a flower pot.

Celaena strides back into her chambers laughing, and calls “for her servants to dress her in the finest gown they [can] find.”

COMPARISON

The stories are diverging at this point, with Maerad just now arriving at presumed safety and Celaena already (very) comfortably installed at the castle.

But seriously though, pitch black ancient abandoned cave-city. Terrifying. The author talks about drafts and gaps in the walls letting Maerad know there are more tunnels, and she feels interesting carvings under her fingers, and she has to make her way through a pitch black abandoned ancient cave-city by feel and mountain lion directions. Maerad isn’t going to fucking stop for anything. I legitimately pity things that get in her way.

I also pity people who get in Celaena’s way, but I have much less faith that the people getting in Celaena’s way deserve what they get. Where Maerad thinks of the weight and implications of killing even if someone is trying to kill you (she calls it murder, y’all, even now), Celaena tries to drop a flower pot on a girl’s head from a balcony over some catty remarks. Carl, that kills people!

She also misses. For what it’s worth.

The smug tone of Throne of Glass is grating, especially when compared to The Naming, especially in the face of never seeing Celaena actually do anything clever or badass. So she asks for a tour to look around the palace? Whoop-dee-doo. That’s intro level subterfuge. That’s basic. Maerad’s book doesn’t smugly assure us that she’s the best: she’s powerful, that’s clear, but she’s also walking through a pitch black abandoned ancient cave-city, so like. If you wanted to tout her bravery there, I’d probably give it to you.

Further, Celaena’s instant embracing of servants does not mesh with trodden-down hero of the people schtick the book is trying to sell me. She doesn’t know their names. She doesn’t even make a point of mentioning whether or not they’re slaves, and since Adarlan is a slave-owning nation and she’s in the seat of its government you’d think that would be a worry.

Pellinor: 20 pages, 9 fragments, 4 em-dashes, 3 ellipses

Throne of Glass: 10 pages, 8 fragments. 18 em-dashes, 2 ellipses.

[trashpandaorigins]

Unsolicited Trash Opinions #2

Upon first reflection on the opinions I will delve into shortly, I came up with every excuse NOT to share them. This is NOT a political blog, I told myself. I DO NOT want this to turn into one and a whole host of reasons why I should keep these thoughts to myself. But  did I decided to write this and post it because guess what? It’s 2017 almost 2018 we live in culturally and politically tumultuous times. EVERYTHING is political. With Marvel being the entertainment giant that it is, their ability and influence in pop-culture, they are political. Their actions are political, their creative and administrative decisions are political, their comics and movies are political.  Thus their characters and creations are political as well. Talking raccoons with machine guns and their platonic life partner partner in crime are political. So without further adieu, here we go. 

Unsolicited Trash Opinion #2 The Rocket Raccoon comics issues #1-11, written and drawn by Skottie Young, Jake Parker and Filpe Andrade are sexist garbage shoots of misogyny that are not worth reading. 

Now I don’t mean this as a personal attack on Young or Parker or Andrade, clearly they are very talented individuals and I really love Skottie Young’s work in particular. It fits Rocket very well, it’s edgy and colorful and rough around the edges. That is part of the reason why I was so confused at the sexist storyline of the comic. The issue starts out fun, with Groot in a wrestling ring pitted against an alien monster before an enthusiastic crowd of spectating aliens. Rocket shouts from the sidelines, watching. Yet shortly after this the issue goes into this “John Tucker Must Die,” story line where all of Rocket’s ex-girlfriends band together and set out to seek their revenge. Violence ensues obviously Rocket manages to escape, but not before making some very backhanded comments about his exes and being an all around jerk. There are a number of reasons why I find this so problematic. A) It simply doesn’t fit with Rocket’s character. (In my headcannon the scientists who created Rocket made it a priority to remove any raccoonoid instincts around attraction and reproduction as they thought it would distract him from the true purpose of his creation.) Rocket does not display any sort of sexist opinions in any other comics. (I am leaving out the other Rocket Raccoon comics because those are absolute filth all around). Rocket doesn’t care if you are a woman, a man, or anything else, as long as you can shoot, fight and preferably follow his lead. Gamora is his longest consistent woman team member and he respects her greatly, in one comic he even admits to how she scares him and how even he doesn’t mess with her. 

Besides the fact that this Mad Men-esque  misogyny is totally out of character and needless, it is also problematic because it teaches the stereotyped primary demographic of readers, i.e. pre-to pubescent men that it is okay to treat women like throw away objects. It teaches them that they are justified in their violent actions towards women if a woman instigates the fight. No kidding there is actually a scene where Rocket and one of his exes, a princess girl get into a fist fight and he actually hits her with some sort of metal object over the head because “[She] hurt me, like…a lot..” so it’s okay. That is what angers me the most about the sexism of those issues of the Rocket comics. 

Every time I purchase a comic, I admire the cover and then I look through the names of the creators. Specifically I look to see what the ratio is of women to men. Short answer: it’s appalling. Granted I think Marvel is slowly trying to get better but it still has a far cry to go. For example in Rocket Raccoon Issues #1-11 there 0 women involved, (no shit). In the entire Rocket Raccoon and Groot multi-issue book that these Rocket comics come out of there are 32 men and 2 women. One of the women is an associate editor and the other is a collection editor. To its credit Marvel has been gearing their narratives and characters in a slowly more diverse direction. There is a young Muslim American girl as Ms. Marvel, a black girl is now Iron Man, and a woman as Thor. But these efforts mean very little if the company does not hire women writers and editors, women illustrators and shading artists particularly in the upper echelons. The sexism found in these Rocket Raccoon comics are tiny examples of the larger issue in comics as a whole, (don’t even get me started on the way women are drawn.) It is evident that comics are still a male dominated market even though women have always read, enjoyed and participated in comic culture. 

As a young bisexual woman I find it appalling that a comic as fun and with such a compelling character as Rocket would diminish itself to some elementary school “boy continuously uses and ditches girls so he’s going to learn his lesson-except for that he doesn’t-aren’t women just all manipulative sneaky bitches who only want to bring you down and will do anything within their power to destroy you” storyline. It is an insult not only to women readers but to these characters themselves, to Marvel and to comic creators. I felt this disgust to the extent that I took scissors to the book and removed the pages with these parts. Because I could not enjoy the experience of reading the comics without removing this trash storyline. I know that is a small act, that it doesn’t change anything about comic culture as a whole but I am writing this because writers and illustrators need to listen to what their fans want and as a woman fan of comics I do not want this sort of offensive dumb garbage. These Rocket Raccoon comics are not worth your time or your money. They only serve as a stark example of why these stories need to change, on the page and the policies need to change in the office. Instead I recommend the Groot Comics by Brian Kessinger and Jeff Loveness (there is plenty of Rocket) or the All New Guardians Grounded comics. They still have problems with how they draw women but at least Rocket is an actual multifaceted character with complexity. 

Thanks for reading, Trash Panda

—–

Haters ye be warned I will just ignore you/your posts and comments