#this is round the time of the year i disappear to sell my soul to school so i hope u appreciate every crumb i give you

[baker-chan-senpai]

doodle dump thingy

[lonewolflupe]

trick-or-treat

i love them all

Warning: SFW, but slightly suggestive towards ending

The door opens with some effort before you see the face of a clone appearing. His hair is tied into a knot on top of his head and he has a tear tattooed under his right eye. He smiles sympathetically at you as he hands you some candy; he seems like a compassionate soul. “If you come across my brothers Jesse and Kix, will you ask them to get back?” he asks you kindly, and with a smile, you tell him you will. At the same time, a second clone appears at his side - looking more serious and less empathetic than his brother. “Ask them to hurry, Rex is getting restless,” he adds to the question, making it sound more like an order. His eyes lie dark yet determined below a big V-shaped tattoo. You swallow, and all you can do is nod in return. He rolls his eyes when a voice from inside the house cries out: “And I want to compare my candy haul with theirs!” The brother with the V-tattoo turns around and walks back inside whilst sighing a ‘sure you do, Hardcase’. The kind one shoots you an apologetic smile before he tells you to enjoy the remainder of your night, and to take care. Yeah, better stay out of trouble.

(Trick or) treat before the mayhem starts below the cut:

I had such a chaotic week so I just finished this minutes ago, and it turned out quite a bit longer than I had anticipated. I hope you don't mind tho! Happy Halloween <3

Nightmare On Clanker Street (One-Shot)

For @yoursrosie

Summary: Your evening of trick-or-treating does not go according to plan after you visit a fortune teller Rating: Teen and up (SFW but check tags) Tags: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, weird mix between Star Wars and Modern AU, slightly suggestive towards ending Words: 3.389 Characters: Reader (fem!reader but can be read as gen!reader), Jesse, Kix Read this one-shot here on AO3

The air was filled with a pleasant atmosphere. The temperature was mild for this time of the year, and a gentle breeze made the autumn leaves rustle in a calming rhythm. Gardens were decorated and porches were filled with pumpkins. Small groups roamed the streets, walking from door to door for trick-or-treating, their colourful costumes illuminated by the dimmed lighting of the lampposts at the sides of the road.

“Come on, it will be fun!” you laughed whilst waving to your friends to join you. You had noticed a little fortune teller booth at the far end of the street, and you were just a little too curious to learn about your future. Your friends were reluctant; they didn’t believe in that kind of nonsense, and would rather spend their credits on food. “You go ahead, we’ll go get some candy apples,” one of them smiled at you, before they skipped down towards the town’s square to find the hovertrucks selling food.

“Buzzkills,” you said under your breath as you watched them disappear within the crowd up ahead. With a sigh, you turned around to gaze upon the booth’s sign. It read ‘Fumetta Fortuna’ in elegant Aurebesh lettering. Well, this was it; the absence of your friends wasn't going to spoil your night. You pulled some credits from your purse and made for the entrance.

The booth hadn't looked very spacious, but when you made it inside, it felt even more cramped than you had initially thought it would be. You weren't even sure if it was made to fit humanoid species. It was rather dark, but you managed to sit down on an uncomfortable stool near the entrance. In front of you stood a small, round table, its weathered condition telling you it was old and had been through a lot.

A sudden movement of the curtain behind it startled you, grabbing your attention immediately. “Gooddé da lodia!” came a hoarse yet feminine greeting in Huttese. You returned a greeting in Basic, and when your eyes finally started to adapt to the darkness, you noticed Fumetta Fortuna was a female Toydarian. She was looking at you with one good and one glassy eye. A colourful headscarf adorned with flashy rings was hanging from her head, leaving enough space for the wings attached to her back.

“What can I do for you, love?” she asked you with her raw voice. You started fidgeting with the rim of your costume, your eyes darting about as you didn’t know where to focus them. You felt uncomfortable looking her in the eyes - or eye, really. “I, -er,” you started stammering, “would like to learn about my future. Or at least, what I can expect tonight.”

Fumetta slightly leaned forward to shoot you an unsettling glance in silence, and it sent a shiver down your spine. Maybe your friends had been right about this all along. “A glimpse in the near future, eh?” she finally remarked, before a deep chuckle came rolling from her throat. She turned to grab something from behind her and placed it on the table.

It was a polished sphere of lommite ore, and it looked magnificent. Your gaze was lost in it immediately, as you beheld it with a gasp. It was almost as if you could see the whole galaxy in it - even the Unknown Regions. You started to reach for the sphere, but Fumetta caught your hand before you could touch it. With a smooth movement, she placed it on the table with your palm up. “Now now, dear, don’t be hasty,” she cooed with her raspy voice, granting you a smile that raised her trunk-like snout. “Let me see..,” she continued, before losing herself in the lines of your hand, tracing them with a clawed finger.

She cryptically continued her examination with an occasional ‘oooh’, ‘yes yes’, and ‘I see’ before she finally released your hand. You withdrew it immediately, rubbing the places where you could still feel her clawed touch. Fumetta leaned forward again, this time focussing on the lommite sphere on the table. She made some smooth, waving movements with her three-fingered hands around it, before you noticed how her gaze became clouded.

And finally, with that foggy haze covering both her eyes, she looked straight at you, as if she was looking deep into your soul. With a deep, chilling voice, she addressed you: “The uprising of the mindless will pose a threat, but the cog keeps turning and you will be saved by lightning.”

You swallowed, leaning backwards as much as the stool below you allowed it, before Fumetta shook her head and the mist in her good eye disappeared. She smiled again, and held her hand up towards you expectantly. It took you a while longer to return to reality, but when you did, you handed her a generous amount of your credits. She was positively surprised, and when you thanked her and made your way outside, she granted you free advice for your charity: “Don’t forget to be as generous later tonight!”

---

Fumetta’s words echoed through your mind as you wandered the streets, but you had no idea what to make of them. Uprising of the mindless, turning cog, saved by lightning. What was that supposed to mean? Who were these ‘mindless’ supposed to be, how would you notice a turning cog, and since when did lightning save anything? It just didn’t make any sense. You probably should have spent those credits on candied apples, like your friends had done.

You grimaced out of confusion before you suddenly noticed how the streets were abandoned. There were no more groups trick-or-treating. The only movement you observed were rustling leaves, blown about by the gentle breeze. But there was something ominous about the scene; like it was the calmth before a storm.

A child’s scream made your eyes open wide and the hairs on your neck stand on end. You didn’t hesitate for a moment and started running towards the source of the scream. When you reached it, you found a boy frozen to the ground, his gaze focused on something you couldn’t see. “What is it, kid?” you asked him as soon as you skidded to a halt at his side.

The fear in his eyes wasn’t lost on you when he turned towards you and your gazes met. “D-d-droids,” he stammered, before he slowly started pointing a shaky finger towards the street up ahead. You stared down the road into the darkness, a flickering lamppost the only source of illumination. There was nothing to be seen there..

..or was there?

A rusty R2-unit came rolling into the flickering circle of light on the street, where it halted for a moment. He sure looked like he could use some maintenance, but there didn’t seem to be anything else out of the ordinary. The droid seemed at ease. What was it going to do anyway?

The lamppost’s lighting flickered off for a bit longer this time, and when it returned, you gasped when you noticed the R2-unit was suddenly wielding all its modifications at once. From this distance, you could recognise at least an arc welder, a circular saw, and a grasping claw. The thing stood whirring and shaking on its wheeled legs, before it came jolting towards you with a shocking speed.

The boy at your side started screaming again, and without another thought, you picked him up and started running into a different direction. Panting, you shot looks towards the houses around you, to see if you could find a safe spot to hide from the mechanical terror. You didn’t dare knock on doors, because you knew you wouldn’t be fast enough. The R2-unit was already gaining in on you.

You nearly stumbled whilst skidding to a halt when you noticed a COO-series cook droid turning the corner in front of you. He walked calmly, his arms at his sides; until he noticed you. He abruptly turned his head in your direction, the two sensor lights on his head instantly shining brighter, blinding you for a brief moment. When you regained yourself, you noticed how he had raised his six arms, at each end a kitchen knife, one even bigger and sharper than the previous one. He started spinning them around with nauseating speed, and your stomach turned.

The boy was still hanging from your shoulder, and when he turned his head to see what made you stop running from the R2-unit, he let out another scream, making your ear buzz. “It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna be fine,” you tried soothing him, but you realised you spoke those words to yourself more than to him. He flung his arms around your neck and started whimpering, whilst you tried to find a way out of this metal mess.

Suddenly you noticed you were close to the town’s doctor. He was such a figurehead of the community; you felt like the two of you would be safe there. You regained yourself and continued your escape, the boy clasped tightly in your arms. The R2-unit behind you hadn’t calculated your sudden change of course, and slammed right into the COO-cook. The delay was more than welcome, but you knew the threat was far from over.

The uprising of the mindless will pose a threat..

The fortune teller’s words echoed through your mind, and suddenly you realised what the first part meant. But what came next? The lightning? No, there was something else first.. You reached the door to the doctor’s home before you could remember. You raised your fist to start knocking with all your power, but before you could land the first hit, the door flung open.

You were welcomed by a 2-1B-series medical droid. You tightened your grasp around the boy as you took a step back, watching how the med droid snapped his hydraulic claw and pointed his hypodermic injector towards you. “Next patient,” he said in his mechanically modulated voice. “Kriff,” you whispered, before taking a step backwards.

Another step backwards before you turned around, only to bump right into the COO-cook. You fell to the ground with a yelp, before watching how the droids closed in on you. You turned your body protectively over the boy, but you knew you couldn’t save him from the mindless threat. You couldn’t save either of you.

This was it..

You heard an electrical zap followed by a metallic echo, and when you looked up to the COO-cook, you noticed a big hole between his two sensor lights, the laser bolt that just hit it melting away its circuits. The lights flickered for a moment, before they finally failed and the droid collapsed. You shot upright, not fully comprehending what was happening, when you realised the med droid must be right behind you.

Quickly, you looked around, and noticed an entrenching tool used as a decoration in the doctor’s garden. You rolled towards it, jumped to your feet whilst grabbing the tool, and in one smooth motion, rammed it against the med droid’s neck. You couldn’t muster enough strength to smash his head right off, but you did damage the tube that connected his chest with his vocabulator. It came loose with a hissing sound, and perplexed, the droid started talking binary in threatening beeps and hums.

It seemed like you had maddened it more than you had damaged it. With renewed determination and incomprehensible speech, the med droid came staggering towards you. You readied yourself to deal another blow, but in the corner of your eye you noticed a man starting to circle you. When he had a clear visual, he emptied his blaster on the droid, and it didn’t take long before it hit the ground with a thud.

Panting, you ran forward to huddle the boy back into your arms, before you looked up to the man that had just saved you. “Thanks,” you shot at him, almost out of breath. He granted you a sharp nod in return, and when he did, you noticed the Republic cog tattooed on his handsome face - which you instantly recognised as a clone’s. But wait, the cog.. It was at that moment you noticed how he kept turning and circling to make sure the premises were clear. To keep you and the boy safe.

..but the cog keeps turning..

Well, that was an odd way to describe it, but Fumetta hadn’t been wrong there. You were wondering how - and where - the lightning would come in to save you. You swallowed when you lingered on the thought; you really didn’t want to end up in more situations where you needed saving, after your recent dire position. In a sudden state of panic, still trying to comfort the boy in your arms, you turned towards the clone.

“What.. What is happening?” you managed, your voice on the verge of breaking. The clone tore his gaze from his surroundings to shoot you a soft, comforting look before he elaborated. “Seems like all the household droids are going rogue. Must be something in the air,” he said as he looked around suspiciously, looking for something invisible. He didn’t find what he was looking for, so he returned his gaze to you. “Name’s Jesse, by the way,” he smiled at you, before offering his hand to help you back to your feet.

You took it willingly, returning the smile as he helped you up. You ended up quite close to his chest, and your cheeks shaded a different colour. “Thanks again,” you said softly, before clearing your throat and taking a little step back - but only a little. You felt safe with him, and you were ever grateful for his timing and skills.

All of a sudden, you remembered the first droid that had started chasing you. “The R2-unit!” you cried out, as your eyes widened in fear before you checked the perimeter. You shot into a cramped focus again, but your demeanour eased instantly when you found what you were looking for; the droid laid smoking and smouldering on its side, further down the street it had come from. It wasn’t going anywhere anymore. “Relax, my brother took care of it,” Jesse smiled at you, whilst gently placing his hand on your shoulder to comfort you.

“Speaking of my brother,” Jesse continued, turning around when a clone with a standard military haircut came jogging towards you, “this is Kix.” The brother named Kix nodded at you in greeting. “Ma’am. Are any of you hurt?” he asked in concern, as his eyes wandered both the boy’s and your body to see if you were injured. The adrenaline had kept you going so far, but now that it was wearing off, you managed to inspect yourself. “N-no, I don’t think so,” you said at last, ignoring the few bruises and damaged skin; it was nothing serious.

The boy shook his head in silence before Kix kneeled at his side. He grabbed a nervestick from the bag he was carrying and handed it to the kid. “Here, chew on this; you’ll feel better,” the clone elaborated, and the kid took it gladly. You smiled at the sight of him caring for the boy you had taken care of that evening. You turned around to orientate yourself, but you started feeling light-headed, resulting in your legs giving way underneath you.

“Woah ma’am, take it easy,” Jesse shot worriedly at you, grabbing your shoulders to keep you from collapsing. You flustered your eyelashes a few times, before returning to reality. “I-I’m sorry, tonight was just a bit much. I think I could use some sugar,” you replied with a faint smile. Jesse returned it with a big grin. “I think we can arrange that,” was his response, thinking about all the abandoned candy they could still collect. “Let’s get the both of you home and see what we’ll find on the way.”

---

Whilst being escorted home by Jesse and Kix, you noticed a lot more clones running about, taking care of any rogue droids left haunting the streets. There was so much chaos and mayhem around, but you felt safer knowing the clones were around. Knowing Jesse and Kix took care of you now.

The three of you were able to bring the boy back home safely, and the clones insisted they wanted to do the same for you. You were just too glad to be accompanied to your home after all the recent events, hoping you wouldn’t encounter any more droids on the way. But you felt you were in capable hands.

“I can’t thank you enough for saving me and the kid,” you smiled at them as they walked you home, slightly hanging unto Jesse to keep yourself balanced, and he happily aided you. “It’s alright, ma’am. Nothing we’re not used to,” he smiled at you, swinging an arm around your waist to support you. Kix shot the both of you a quick glance before he chuckled softly.

“There’s just one thing I can’t get my head around..,” you started, your thoughts wandering back to your visit to the fortune teller’s booth earlier during the night, when life seemed simpler and less worrisome. Both clones shot you a confused look, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “You’ll probably laugh at me if I explain, but the short version is that someone told me I would be saved by lightning tonight.”

The clones shared looks before Jesse started snickering. With his free hand, he pointed at his brother. “That would be Kix,” he said cryptically, and when you looked over to him, he brushed his hairs aside with his fingers. There you noticed the indistinct lines of lightning tattooed on his scalp. You huffed in amazement; Fumetta had been right about her whole prediction.

..and you will be saved by lightning.

You would never laugh at fortune tellers ever again. “Did that someone tell you about me saving you as well?” Jesse shot at you, with the most seductive smile on his face. You grinned back at him. “She sure did, big guy,” you chuckled at him, right before you reached your house. For once, you were happy you didn’t own any household droids, ironically grateful for all the times you had to clean and cook for yourself.

“This is my stop, boys,” you said a bit reluctantly, because the thought of being alone right after these events frightened you more than you wanted to admit. Jesse supported you to your door, where you struggled to open it due to your shaking hands. “Uhm, maybe Kix should take a closer look at any possible injuries after all - inside, that is,” he suggested smoothly. Your eyes glistened for a moment, and you turned towards him with a grateful smile.

But these were clones, they probably had better things to do than babysit you. “I-I don’t want to hold you up for any longer,” you stammered, before biting your lower lip to show your conflicted mind. Jesse chuckled with a shrug before easing your mind: “It wouldn’t be a problem. It was our evening off anyway, we don’t have places to be.” It brought back the smile on your face in an instant, and you finally managed to open your door.

Kix cleared his throat and you missed the look he shared with his brother. “But of course we don’t want to intrude on you, ma’am,” he added to the conversation, and he couldn’t have sounded more genuine. You turned towards them as soon as you made it inside your home. “I would really appreciate the company, actually,” you said softly, just when Fumetta’s last words echoed through your mind.

Don’t forget to be as generous later tonight..

You bit your lower lip again, but this time not from any conflicted thoughts. You were quite certain of this one, you just hoped you weren't intruding on them. “We could, er- continue the trick-or-treating inside,” you suggested, a busted blush painting your cheeks. The boys shared another look, before they turned to you with grins adorning their handsome faces. “We really couldn’t say ‘no’ to that, ma’am,” Jesse smirked at you, before they both made it to your threshold in all modesty.

Maybe this Halloween would be saved by a cog and lightning in various ways.

Haunted droids/droid uprising for @pinahallowsevecloneparty

[obnoxiouslittlefrog93]

Ok ik y'all are probably sick of me double-posting but like. Idk there's just something I have to put into words.

I was a huge fan of The Beatles at 14. I'm talking super obnoxious, if you knew me in middle school or even high school I was absolutely insufferable kind of fan. I'd have bullied past me tbh. And ofc since I "loved" Paul McCartney so much (I now consider him a fucking clown, the first red flag should've been the lamest cover of Crossroads ever recorded) I thought I was cis and straight.

I guess the first nail in the coffin was seeing him live. Ikr, who tf sees their hero live and falls out of love with them? Well, I did. It wasn't that I was disappointed, or even felt any less for him at the time. I'd finally done it, I'd seen him in person, in the flesh. I was lucky enough to have a floor seat and for a few measly seconds he even acknowledged my existence. I had these great big glittery cardboard signs I held up, probably asking for a piece of his hair or something stupid like that. Idk, they've either been thrown out or disappeared into a pile of miscellaneous junk in the back of my closet or the basement. As much as I think just as badly of him today as I did good about him then, you have to understand that as a suicidal teenager the only thing worth living for was a hot piece of ass (even an old one that lived in the grainy film of decades passed) that could be mine forever if only I was able to express to him how much I needed him. I knew on some level that it was entirely stupid. I was dumb, but not that dumb. I entirely expected a mere millisecond of his attention that he had to divide among the huge audience, but that didn't mean it hurt any less when the illusion finally broke. I lied, manipulated, and stole for those tickets. For years I poured my entire being into a band that didn't even exist anymore and what did I get for it? Crumbs. I guess I was just used to that, I'd never gotten anything more from anyone without some form of trickery. That's probably why I didn't feel betrayed in the slightest, at least not until Egypt Station came out.

Egypt Station was an album entirely born of the modern era, an era I had and still have absolutely no place in. The 2000's is no place for a depressed creative with the type of brain chemistry that insists on constantly watching YouTube videos just to drown out the deafening silence of yet another soulless house with beige carpet and grey walls, too damaged to stand working a soul sucking job but too incompetent to get one that matters. I should have been an outlaw. I was born damaged and violated and ashamed for reasons I was too young to remember. I didn't know why I hated myself so much but I knew it had to come from somewhere. All the evidence pointed to the very people who were supposed to keep me safe and take care of me, and from some incomprehensible source I knew I couldn't trust them. I lived by my wits, and that's the only way I know how to live. Thing is, that way of living doesn't exist anymore. There's no western frontier to disappear into, in the material world, in the musical world, in the art world, anywhere. The art and writing and music industries are so deeply tied to society and capitalism that you aren't selling your soul at the crossroads anymore. No, you're selling it at an auction house, cooped up in a metal pen like livestock. Rotting in your own filth. And the bidders are becoming less and less every round, the auctioneer is tired and slow, and no one gives a shit unless you're lucky enough to be marketable. Much as I tried I could never get the devil to appear. He's too busy helping white moms profit off of MLM's and whispering the so-called "benefits" of AI to corporations. Egypt Station made me sick to my very soul. I threw away years of my life, emasculated myself, all but whored myself out to this bitch only for him to devote what talent I saw in him to the world that was killing me.

Make no mistake, I knew deep down that I was a man, even then. There is nothing cis or straight about fantasizing a world in which I got surgery to have a huge dick, and lived with rockstars, and trashed hotel rooms with Keith Moon and fucked more sexy long haired talented men than Miss Pamela Des Barres herself. From the age of 12 I could teach a cowboy how to manspread and a sailor swears that would have never crossed his mind. Living with my dad, huge bastard that he is, probably helped with that, but this isn't about him. The Beatles, for all their saccharine messages of peace and love, could never have convinced me any of it was real. I wanted to. For those years the most important lyrics in the world to me were "the love you take is equal to the love you make." Even my own goddamn shithead narcissist of a father couldn't come up with that, the biggest pile of bullshit I ever believed in. I knew from experience.

A year ago I watched Cowboy Bebop. In the time that passed I'd learned how to be a man from rockstars and other damaged artists. I was also living with a group of cis and straight roommates who would go on to personally victimize myself, and our trans roommate who I became close to, and "accidentally" poison his dog. That's a story I won't get into now because this is already long as fuck. Point is, as soon as they decided they didn't like us, they made our lives a living hell. They made me suicidally anxious in such a way that I doubted they were even the problem. It was my dumb autistic ass, unable to tell if they even hated me or not. I was so desperate to get out of my parents' house, where I still have to walk on eggshells, and not live in such a place ever again that I didn't even believe it was happening. Conditioned to avoid confrontation like the plague, I let them walk all over me. The only job I've ever had didn't help. It was just as soul sucking as that house, so desperate for workers they hired my incompetent, unskilled, completely unexperienced ass. But every night I came home from work, dead on my feet, he and the dog were there. I'd run upstairs to get out of my work clothes, then we'd sit on his bed and smoke, the dog sitting in my lap, and watch trash reality TV from the early 2000's, or whatever predator catchers-style show was in his YouTube recommendations. That's probably what kept me alive then. And in that period, over a couple weeks, my other friend, the only one I'd had for that long, since the aforementioned Beatles phase to this day, made me watch Cowboy Bebop.

I cried when Spike died, but I didn't know why at the time. I wasn't in a place to process it. Spike wasn't even a real person, but I didn't know why or how he was so real to me. I didn't even notice when it was right in front of me, when I was living it, that we're far too much alike. Suicidal stoics, living in a dream, alive by mere chance, more comfortable alone and floating through the endless void of space than any sane man should be. I learned something from him though. Whatever happens, happens. What other choice did I have? Now that I was so broken as to be unable to delude myself any further because the anxiety would kill me, I had to give up. I had no more fucks to give. Fuck these awful people I live with, fuck my failing grades, fuck whatever bullshit comes to destroy me. Whatever happens happens, nothing I can do about it now. Best I can do is take it with a straight face when the alternative is death. Then, about 4 months ago, I felt the need to watch it again. Yet again, any sense of stability was starting to crumble, and I wanted nothing more than to sit and smoke and go back to living on that ugly yellow couch with Spike, Jet cooking in the other room, Faye sitting on the stairs filing her nails, and Ed typing away on her computer. I wanted to sit out on the wing of the Swordfish with the world behind and the open road ahead. I know where the series goes, whenever I rewatch it, but I'll never let Spike die his final death. I have to believe, that there's a happy existence out there for him somewhere, because we share the same soul. Even if I have to drag him up from hell, more broken than I ever thought possible, to get him there.

I still don't know, if I'm really alive. Maybe I'll never know. I don't remember if I was, when I first read those lyrics, but I guess I should've paid more attention to "You're gonna carry that weight."

listening to music i listened to when i was 14 makes me realise im still the same person but taller & with a rare esoteric wisdom that can only be gained through suffering

[howlingmidnightmoonlight]

Memories so long ago...

So far gone sir, don't remember the last time I saw the world so bright

Cold winter running in my veins tonight, I haven't slept in years, don't you understand

Standing on the corner don't do no good, its pouring down rain, hand me a light

Catch the train the pain is reeling off the years, stealing my soul tonight

Come round for a story I can tell the world is a poor imitation of heaven tonight

Don't you worry about tomorrow, no one knows what we have been dealt here

Avenue neon, flames licking the eyes, as the world sighs as the red light beams

Record machine round another groove, quarter for your thoughts as the memories boil

The spoon gleans in the glimmer of moonlight in the dark, I thought I saw an angel

Now I know I am dreaming again soon, the nightmares will come screaming through

Rolling time through the years I still see her face painting darkness across the skies

A score out and a score down too many years missing

On the beat the saxophone moans the city comes alive in the twilight hours

Ghost haunting main street, no one remembers who they were when youth played on

Counting out the dead, the devils on the lamppost selling toasted starlight

Years swirling down the drain, come to find the ghostly strain

You understand when the fire won't boil dreams

The missing screams between the windows tonight

When the years are mistaken for tears, when the memories are coasting off the rails

Hear the radio call, flip, reverse the track now your lacking the truth again

Running the reels back between in the trunk, the years since you first saw the night

Come alive in winters hands, swollen and standing godless on the screaming stars

Moonlight tortured your eyes the world couldn't believe you're still here

Silver screen burning in your eyes a play across the stage a traffic two hours old

Now you're a young man, sold man disappearing, man they made you a mark

In the park the dreams ran out on the merry go round the golden ring lost its sheen

The gilded age began as the tears ran out with the dawn she smiled as the door closed

The angels on the coast writing letters for the toast the diner is closed now sir

You are written in gray the faded black and white of another age

[zaffrenotes]

To Ruined Friendships

Fandom: Westworld Pairing: Logan Delos x Reader Rating/Warnings: PG-13; spicy language, alcohol consumption, heavy smoochin Author's Note: This entire thing was inspired by a dream I had about one black hat cowboy who cannot for the life of him consume a drink without looking like he's going to inhale it. I tried to work on my other WIPs for an entirely different fandom, but my brain refused to focus on anyone other than Logan Delos. I don't have the energy to create a sideblog for this, so any Logan fans who happen to find this from the tags, please don't judge me for the other fandom(s) I'm in. I already know, lol. Word Count/Reading Time: +/- 2600 words (10 minutes reading)

hell if I know who to tag for this...if I ever write more and you want to get an update, leave a comment, I guess?: @the-blind-assassin-12 @ao719 @the-soot-sprite possibly @ofpixelsandscribbles @burnsoslow

Another night rubbing shoulders with the elite in a penthouse, and all you want to do is retreat into one of the half dozen empty rooms to rest your feet. Beauty always has a price, and tonight your feet were being sacrificed to the stiletto gods in the name of fashion. As a waiter weaves between guests, you deftly trade the empty crystal flute in your hand for a fresh one off their tray, the slim glass chilling your fingertips.

A tiny, imperceptible sigh slips past your lips as you look out at the wall of windows, city skyline twinkling in the distance. Glancing through the crowd, you try to find a familiar face of one of your girlfriends, when you feel someone’s fingers on your back, ghosting over the ink at the base of your spine. Over your shoulder, a warm, though somewhat world-weary voice makes your body tingle. “Hey gorgeous, I was wondering if I’d see you here tonight.”

You know he’s grinning before you even turn your head; a sly smile spreads across your painted lips when you see you were right, and you lean in to press your cheek to Logan’s in greeting. His beard tickles your face, and the movement is small, but you feel him pull you closer to him, pressing his fingertips into your smooth skin. “You know me,” you reply, gently squeezing his bicep for balance, noses nearly touching as you both move to kiss the other cheek. “Any excuse to squander part of my father’s fortune on a party dress.”

His cheek twitches up as he grins wider, and once more, the grit in his voice makes you want to find a dark corner and do unspeakable things with him. “Only you could make a napkin’s worth of fabric look like couture,” he teases, stepping back to admire your outfit. “I own pocket squares larger than what you’ve got on!” His gaze lowers appreciatively, taking you in, before settling at your feet. You shift your weight from one hip to the other; tilting your head back to take a sip of champagne, you’re surprised to see his dark eyes on you as you swallow and lower the glass. There’s a hint of something there, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Been here long? Why don’t we find somewhere quiet to catch up? You can let your hair down, along with… anything else, to get comfortable.” Were it not for the playful expression in his eyes, his proposition would warrant throwing the remainder of your drink directly into his exquisite face.

But you know Logan. You’ve known him too long for the invitation to be anything but amicable, much to your dismay. You’re well aware of the caliber of women he’s taken to the bedroom, and while you consider yourself attractive enough for the circles you keep, there’s no way he would ever see you as more than just a family friend. Knowing that doesn’t keep you from stroking his ego and taunting him at every opportunity, though. “My hair’s already down,” you tease, grinning as you roll your eyes at him.

“You know what I mean,” he replies, brushing your tresses over one shoulder. His thumb lingers on the strip of silk there, slipping between the material to rest on your skin, before pulling away. “We’ve known each other for years now, you’d think there would’ve been one night of indecency.” Before you’re able to respond, he glances up, noticing one of the other guests. “To be continued,” he says, raising his brows to you. He’s already begun to walk away.

“As always,” you reply, raising your glass to him.

-

You catch his eye more than a few times as you both make the rounds, catching up with friends and being introduced to new acquaintances vying for a way into social circles and business ventures. He winks at you before throwing back a drink, appearing as if he’d take a bite out of the glass to get every last drop of liquid from it. You nod as you pass by him while he converses with another guest, your arm linked with a friend’s as you walk off to powder your noses. You even catch him looking at you from across the room like he wants to ask you something, but the moment disappears when he pulls his phone from his pocket to take a call.

The evening goes on much longer than you anticipated. Even with windows of interesting conversation to pass the time, you begin to grow weary of the company, drowning out a discussion around you while you stake a claim on one of the pristine white couches. Your legs are crossed in front of you, one foot dangling in the air, while the one closer to the floor looks like it’s about to snap away from the rest of your leg. You’re balancing the weight on a sliver of one side of the heels, and you gaze out at the outdoor pool, wishing you could sit by the edge and dip your feet in the cool, chlorinated water.

Scanning through the guests once more, you notice Logan at the bar. He’s in the middle of a conversation with two gentlemen, but he catches your eye, glancing over long enough to notice your legs again. He flicks his eyes upwards to the rooms, tilting his head at an angle in silent question. You scoff and shake your head, blinking slowly to dismiss his invitation, and give up your position on the couch to go to look for the bathroom. He simply smiles as you cross the room, before returning to the conversation at the bar.

-

You’re outside on one of the balconies, forearms resting on the brushed steel railing as you lean against metal and glass, absentmindedly staring out at the city. The cool night air feels refreshing against your skin, now warm and flushed from too much champagne and not enough food; there’s never enough food at these things, and you would sell your soul for a plate of loaded nachos or even a tiny slider. Behind you, there’s a click and a hiss from the plate glass door opening. Jovial music and conversation from inside filters through the temporary break, and you sigh to yourself in preparation of putting on your party face to make idle conversation.

“That is one hell of a view.” An all too familiar voice fills the air after the door hisses shut. Logan.

You respond without turning around to acknowledge him. “Your family sure knows how to pick a party venue, I’ll give you that.”

“We do, but that’s not the view I was talking about.”

Body warming at his suggestive tone, you turn around to see Logan’s eyes fixed on your backside, unashamed of his blatant ogling. There’s a glass tumbler in his hand, with barely a sip’s worth of what looks like whiskey in it. “There you go again, getting a girl’s hopes up,” you tease, fidgeting with your hair.

“You know you’re fucking gorgeous, especially in that dress tonight.” His voice travels as he walks over to a darker part of the balcony, swirling the remnants of his drink.

Emboldened by the alcohol still coursing through your system, you play along, walking slowly towards him. “Let me guess, next you’re going to tell me it would look even better in a pile next to your bed.” You roll your eyes at him, but your heart begins to race at the idea.

He grins warmly at you, a tendril of hair knocking loose when he tilts his head and shrugs. You want to reach forward and smooth it back in place, and run your fingers against the side of his scalp. His hair’s longer than it was before; he’s been away at the park for a longer visit this time around. His unnervingly dark eyes are practically black in the shadows, eyeing you like prey. Extending a hand towards you, he reaches for the strap on your shoulder again as if to adjust it, but instead he lifts it and lets it fall off the slope of your skin, staring at the unblemished swath of flesh before him. You feel the material fall until it rests in the crook of your elbow, thankful to be holding up a glass to keep the silk from falling away any further off your body. “A dress like this? I’d have the decency to hang it up first.” He tugs at the fabric again, pulling it up over your shoulder to return your modesty.

“Keep saying shit like that, and one of these days I might believe you.”

“Should I keep talking then?” He chuckles.

You exhale, shaking your head with disbelief. He takes another step away from where you can be seen, and you follow him. “I’m not drunk enough to take you seriously,” you scoff, looking just beyond his gaze.

Logan reaches forward again, fingers landing on the base of your glass, and he pushes it up towards your mouth. “Then by all means, take another sip,” he grins.

“Bullshit,” you utter through a nervous smile, though you don’t stop yourself from tipping the edge of the flute to your lips and tilting your head up, downing half the contents in one gulp.

“Fuck it,” he whispers.

You swallow, and effervescent bubbles tickle the length of your throat so much that it takes you a second to register feeling Logan’s lips at the juncture of your jawline and earlobe. The way his beard brushes against you as you pull the glass away from your lips makes you lose your grip, and the flute falls to the ground, shattering near your feet. You gasp with surprise, unsure if it’s from the shock of dropping the glass or from the fact that Logan fucking Delos just kissed you.

In one swift movement, Logan wraps his unencumbered hand around your waist to pivot you away from the broken glass. His drink-laden hand blindly stretches out to set the glass on the thin metal railing, and he kisses you properly this time, impossibly soft lips on your open mouth and both of his hands are on your waist. He tastes sweet, smokey and woody from the whiskey, setting your lips on fire as he kisses you. Your hands fly up to his shoulders, gripping at his suit jacket as he leads you both towards an exterior wall. The shock of the cool wall against your exposed back makes you gasp again, and you push Logan away. “What’re you doing?” Your head is swimming, blood pulsing from the alcohol and the rush of emotions as you search Logan’s eyes for an answer.

“Might be ending our friendship,” he laughs wryly. His eyes land on your lips, before looking up to meet your gaze. “Want me to stop?”

The look in his eyes is intense; two black pools stare into you, daring you to continue. You tug the lapels of his jacket, pulling him close as your pelvis tilts forward to meet his. “Finish what you start,” you whisper, Cheshire-grin giving away your desire. He kisses you again, grabbing hold of the back of your thighs as he lifts you. You spread your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he presses you up against the wall, the pair of you kissing each other like it’s your last night on earth. There’s an urgency in your actions; if there’s a moment of hesitation from either of you, the spell will break, so you ignore the burning in your lungs to kiss him again. When you feel how hard he is pressed up against you, you tilt your head back and let your eyes flutter closed. He takes it as an opportunity to swirl his tongue against your neck, and you think about feeling his tongue elsewhere on your body.

Your back presses against the wall even more, causing you to wrap your legs around his waist tighter, pinning you in place. As you utter curses of pleasure into the night air, your feet feel relief for the first time all night, weightless as you destroy any propriety that existed with Logan Delos.

-

You can feel the sun against your eyelids, and the soft sounds of someone typing away at a keyboard. Between the dull ache at the base of your skull and your throbbing temples, you smack your lips together a few times, grimacing at the dryness in your mouth. You turn your face into what you think is a pillow, but determine to be a fleece blanket due to its soft yet formless design. There’s a faint aroma of coffee in the air, and you hope your roommate left some in the carafe. “Dear god, don’t let me drink that much ever again,” you groan, voice strained and scratchy from dehydration. “I made a complete ass of myself in front of Logan.” A minute passes without your roommate’s usual prodding; all you hear is typing now and then. “How’d we get home?”

You’re met with more silence, but your level of irritation is nothing compared to the hangover headache growing with each passing minute of consciousness. You’re about to ask for Tylenol, when you hear the click and hiss of a glass door opening, followed by the sound of someone splashing in a pool. The apartment you share with your roommate has no access to a pool, let alone a back door made of glass. Opening your eyes feels like peeling apart pieces of tape, but with effort you blink slowly and allow your eyes to focus, trying to ignore the glare from the midday sun. You realize the fleece blanket you were resting on was your arm, nestled in the sleeve of a plush bathrobe. It was the kind of robe often seen hanging in the bathroom of high-end hotels.

“That was a side of you I haven’t seen before. Good morning, sunshine.” The voice is distinctively, impossibly Logan’s, with a new note of lightness to it that wasn’t present during last night’s party. “Care to see something interesting?”

You push yourself off the sofa slowly, adjusting the robe on you - apparently you fell asleep wearing it, and you have no idea where your dress or shoes are - and sit up. Logan’s dressed casually in black, seated at a desk a few feet away, with multiple monitors in front of him. One looks to be running code or tracking stock market activity, but he disconnects the laptop in the middle of the desk and carries it over to the couch, taking a seat next to you. There’s a video clip paused on the screen, and he waits to make sure you’re alert enough to watch, before letting it play.

The video shows a clip from the hotel’s CCTV cameras, pointed at the infinity pool. The only lights are coming from the pool walls, and the timestamp reflects it was the middle of the night, long after the party would’ve ended. There’s a naked male figure treading water matching Logan’s build, and then an undressed woman appears from the bottom edge of the frame, preparing to jump into the pool with him. You gasp, covering your mouth with one hand, making out a tattoo on her lower back - your tattoo - before cannonballing into the pool and making out with Logan just before dipping under the water’s surface.

Logan pauses the video, beaming an annoyingly adorable smug expression across his face as he resists the urge to tease you right away. Instead, he leans over, pecks your cheek, and eyes the glimpse of cleavage availed to him between the folds of your robe. “Lady’s choice - I could fuck your hangover away, or there’s coffee in the kitchen. What’ll it be?”

[sleepylixie]

6k words, Romance (Fluff/Angst), Royal AU, Enemies to Lovers, Beware of swearing

Crown Prince! Lee Minho X Crown Princess- Fem! Reader

 Dear SKZ, with love with @districtninewriters​

Music: Dynasty by MIIA, Ashes by Celine Dion, Speechless by Naomi Scott, Reflection by Christina Aguilera, My Tragedy by Taeyeon

A/N: HELLO I have been so excited to post this EHEHEHEHEHEH- Do let me know what you think of this fic, I’d love to hear feedback !! ONTO THE FIC!

Three soft knocks sounded outside your bedroom doors, prompting you to sit up and slip out of bed in a heartbeat. Sleep hadn’t been your best friend for a while, but there was a sense of peace in the mornings that couldn’t be found otherwise that had you waking up early anyway. The birds had just begun chirping with the sunrise, the first stirrings of the maids and servants causing quiet rustles outside your door.

Pulling a satin robe over your nightdress, you opened the door and ushered Han Jisung into your bedroom, taking a seat at your vanity. “What brings you here so early, Ji?” “This came in for you a few hours ago,” your closest confidante and cousin murmured, pulling out something from inside his jacket pocket and handing it over to you.

 You studied the envelope you were holding, flipping it over a few times in your hands. The quality of the paper was nicer than normal, almost like whatever was inside was more important than just a regular letter. You weren’t expecting anything, let alone important or special. But it was definitely your name on the front. In a forcefully familiar, neat cursive you had been trying all too hard to forget. “It’s from Eriant’s crown prince.” Jisung sidled closer to you, his eyes glazed in simultaneous sleep and concern. Your eyebrows arched in mild annoyance as you frowned. “I thought I told the Court of Letters to burn anything from this sender.” “It…came with another letter. From Eriant’s King. ” Your ears perked at the weary concern coating Jisung’s rounded syllables. Nodding at him to speak, you let your fingers trace over the handwriting, momentarily thrown off by the memories that came flooding back to you with the sender- “Your father the King had you betrothed to the Crown Prince to repay the war debts.”

An outraged screech escaped your lips before you could reel it in, your lips stretching back in a furious snarl. Jisung strolled to the tea table for some hot chocolate, absolutely unfazed; he was expecting things to be thrown so this was a rather tame reaction in retrospect. Your hands crumpled the letter despite the weight and thickness, the scrawl disappearing in your clenched hands. 

“The day men stop controlling my life is the day I will wipe my hands clean of them all.” You hissed between deep breaths. “Who does he think he is? Does he think he can coerce me into taking him back with a sham of a marriage?”

Ripping open the crumpled envelope, you pulled out the single leaf of heavy paper parked with the Eriant crest and the Crown Prince’s coat of arms- so he’d truly deigned to write to you himself. Jisung leaned closer to read the words in the letter, eyes narrowed and then wide as they scanned the contents.

“Apologies for the inconvenience… Betrothed to be married…moving to the castle… IN 2 DAYS?!” Your voice creaked and broke at the pitch of your furious scream, Jisung flinching from his proximity to your anger.

So much for peaceful mornings. 

//

“The Eriant party is here, Your Majesty.” The Prime Minister whispered to your father, your ears perking at the heads-up. So, it was time. Court was well underway, the sun reaching the highest point in the sky outside the arched windows, the air dotted with murmurs and conversation.

“Allow them in,” The King responded before his sharp gaze landed on you. “Behave in a manner befitting of the future queen, daughter.” A blank stare was what he got in return, an eyebrow arched in polite derision. Despite making it abundantly clear that you were not interested in marrying the Eriant prince and would do everything in your power to put the wedding to a standstill, your father had refused to oblige. 

“You were courting the prince but a year ago, daughter,” your father shouted, the maids in the corner cowering from his dangerous timbre. But you stood tall, teeth bared in a snarl of your own. “Things change in a year, father!” You exclaimed, the first embers of desperate anger sparking alive. “He’s aimless, a man of pointless rebellion. I don’t wish to be shackled to a man like that, especially one who will be my king, Velairen’s King!” “The Crown Prince has reformed his past rebellious ways. I’m sure you of all people understand reform and poor judgement, daughter.” A wildfire quickly spread across your head, your heart, burning your cheeks and fingertips and spine- “You will NOT dangle my past over my head and I will NOT marry Lee Minho. He is below me.” There was not a chance in hell that you would allow himself to be wed to him, not after everything that happened-No. No- But your father had pulled himself to his full height, the king’s authority ringing darkly in the wood panels of his study like an unbreakable decree. “You do not have a choice.”

“What do you mean, father?” you sneered, taking no small amount of delight in the quicksilver fury that passed by his eyes. “I am but a gift mare in your lost game, am I not?” 

“You-” “Presenting the Princes of Eriant and their travelling party.” The herald’s loud voice cut across your father’s likely vicious response and you turned away to face the Courtroom.

Your back straightened against the back of your throne, skirts rustling quietly as you crossed your legs, wayward thoughts eddying and swirling in your mind. There was no way you were letting this accursed wedding happen, damn your father and his decisions-

The large double doors loomed open at the other end of the courtroom, revealing a group of people dressed in the navy blue, brown and silver- Eriant’s colours. The party moved into the hall, walking down the centre aisle to you, stopping a few feet shy of the steps to the thrones. There was an oddly heavy silence that rung through the walls of the Courtroom, almost like the attendees were holding their breath.

At the head of the party stood two young men, both wearing identical smiles of sheer irreverence. One was taller than the other, his hair a mess of inky black against his forehead. Quicksilver eyes met yours for a split second before your gaze met the other- your heart skipped a beat.

He was exactly as you remembered, but somehow older. The same sharp nose and jaw, but his stance was no longer hunched and defensive- he stood tall, shoulders straight, chin up… like a king. He had dark chocolate coloured hair now, parted messily to reveal one part of his forehead. Charcoal eyes that twinkled exactly the way you remembered- no. You wouldn’t remember. Never again.

Princes Minho and Seungmin stepped in front of the party, bowing neatly to you and your father. “Welcome to Velairen, Princes.” “The pleasure is ours, Your Majesty.” Seungmin’s smile widened as he bowed his head to you. “And you, Your Highness.  Your agreement to this union is a matter of great honour for Eriant.”

Your eyebrows knitted scornfully, a soft scoff escaping your lips before you could control it. However, the words that left you were light in their countenance, easy and amused and just the right amount of coy. “One would think I was marrying you, Prince Seungmin, and not the Heir apparent who is yet to speak for himself.” The court and the Eriant party dissolved into amicable laughter, and the silence was broken. A small smile curled your lips as Lee Minho’s eyes landed on you. You held his gaze, deliciously cold and unfamiliar. You would not appear weak, not in front of him. Never again. “Heir apparent and your future queen’s betrothed.” The King stood from his throne amidst surprised gasps, the court’s attention now speared on him. “Because 3 months from now, your crown princess will be wed to Eriant’s first prince, a historical union between two ally countries-”

Before he could speak further, the court erupted into joyous celebration, the sounds of happiness ringing in your ears. You smiled widely, the picture-perfect bride-to-be and queen-to-be as you stood up and bowed to the revelling crowd.

From an outside point of view, the betrothal definitely did look like the dream alliance come true. Velairen and Eriant had been allies ever since the inception of the two countries, controlling the continent’s coastline together. During Velairen’s war with the inland desert tribes, Eriant sent troops and funds from their depthless coffers to aid Velairen’s victory. While your country won the war, the lands suffered from famine, bad trade and mourning- no way to repay Eriant for their loan….so here you were, pretending to be the blushing paragon of a happy bride. Pretending that you wanted to marry a snake in a fancy crown.

Sighing internally, you smoothed your skirts out as you sat down again, barely listening to your father’s emotional and thankful speech in honour of the many times Eriant has come to your country’s help and now, you get to repay them in kind with the hand of Velairen’s future queen. A hand that would never touch the prince’s, if you had anything to do with it-

“Thank you for the welcome, Your Majesty.” Lee Minho’s voice was like a jolt of recognition you would sell your soul to forget. “In honour of our betrothal, I have a small gift from Eriant’s treasury, for the newest jewel of our family. May I?”

You could have sworn you heard the ladies-in-waiting sigh dreamily amongst the courtiers, but all you could feel was belated disgust. Despite your inner turmoil, you smiled sweetly at him as your father nodded and let Minho walk up the steps to stop in front of your throne- where your skirts stopped. Too close for comfort.

You gulped as Minho’s clove and mint scent surrounded your senses, painfully familiar. Going down on one knee in front of you, he opened a black velvet box to reveal...fire. Your breath caught in your throat as you unconsciously put a hand out to run your finger over the row of twinkling red gemstones were inlaid into the white-gold ring…This ring had bottled a wildfire in it. “This is beautiful…” You breathed despite yourself, almost forgetting who was to slip that ring on your finger until-

“Of course, I chose it.” Minho grinned up at you, razor-sharp and devious- and you were brought back to reality. This wasn’t a true engagement. It never would be. You were nothing but one acquisition of many for Eriant, a conquest for its unruly crown prince.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” you murmured soullessly amidst the merrymaking that had ensued throughout the court at the sight of the two young royals together. You didn’t pretend to sound like anything you didn’t feel like- there was nobody listening anyway. Minho’s eyes darkened as he saw your enamoured expression shutter into a blandly happy mask as he slipped the ring onto your left hand.

“Glad you like it.” He said as he got to his feet, bowing his head to you and you raised your eyebrows, a small smile still playing at your lips. To anybody else, it would have looked bashful and happy, but Minho knew better- that smile was a promise of dark things waiting to happen. “What’s another ring in a queen’s trousseau?”

 //

 “Why aren’t you ready yet?” Jisung’s exasperated voice sounded from outside your bedroom, prompting you to giggle aloud as you reclined on an armchair fully dressed, an open book placed on your lap. You had been reading and oh, how unfortunate that-

“It’s only a meeting with my betrothed, cousin dearest,” you responded, closing the book and getting to your feet. “I’m sure he can wait for me.”

“You’re almost an hour late!!” your cousin exclaimed, pounding on the door once more. “I’m not going to be fired by Uncle for your impertinent behaviour, so you better haul your royal ass out before I pick the lock and drag you downstairs by your ears!”

“Tsk, such a killjoy.” you purred, walking to your bedroom door and pulling it open, smile only widening at the sight of a red-cheeked, annoyed Han Jisung. “After his betrayal with this betrothal, I could ask for moon cheese and my father would have to oblige. You’re stuck with me, cousin dearest.”

“You and I both know you’re stalling because you’re scared of looking Minho in the eye, so drop the act, will you?” Jisung responded brusquely, rolling his eyes. A shiver tracked down your spine, unbeknownst to your cousin. He wasn’t wrong.

The Eriant party had taken up comfortable residence in… you guessed it, the princess’ wing. Your wing. And yet, you had managed to avoid Minho over the past week as he got accustomed to his new temporary residence and explored the capital city. Seungmin had caught your eye a few times, bowing his head and smirking as you passed him by. Minho, however… if anything, you were fairly sure he was avoiding you himself, judging from how atrociously easy it was to avoid him despite living in the same wing.

“A queen doesn’t act; others are just judgemental.” You scoffed dramatically, looping an arm around Jisung’s, giggling at the exaggerated huff that left your cousin’s lips. “The things I do for family.” He grumbled, letting you drag him out of your drawing room and into the corridors, a grateful smile quirking your lips.

Jisung had been your closest friend since you could remember- he had seen you grow up from an unruly, spiteful little princess into a dignified royal. At least for appearance’s sake. He knew how pained you were after the events that began your enmity with Eriant’s crown prince, the nights you’d spent staring into the night with nobody but the moon for company. You knew he had your best interests at heart- Jisung would not watch you hurt because of Lee Minho again.

“The Princess is here,” Jisung announced as you stepped into the room, your gait slow and casual. Instantly, you could sense the frustration the Crown Prince was exuding- you coughed a giggle into your hand at the sight of Minho’s furrowed brows and gritted teeth.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” you apologised airily as you slid into a chair, nodding to Seungmin and the blonde boy you recognized as the Eriant ambassador to Velairen, Lee Felix. “I got caught up in a prior commitment.” Jisung took a seat next to you, leaving you seated between him and Seo Changbin- the Minister of the Treasury and another of your close friends. The Eriant princes and Felix were seated opposite to the three of you on the long conference table, Minho directly opposite to you. Changbin dropped a quick kiss onto your cheek after you settled yourself onto the chair.

“Was the commitment of a literary nature?” he murmured, prompting you to laugh heartily. “Oh, you know me too well, dearest.” The incredulous glare Minho was giving you wasn’t lost on you- he was making no attempt to hide his emotions, it seemed. “Can we get the proceedings started now?” You asked pleasantly. “Unlike some crown princes who can loaf their lives away, I have places to be.”

The stab of amusement that tingled your spine at Minho’s affronted expression was too satisfying to let go of. He made it too easy, offending him. Seungmin coughed into his hand, a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, his silver eyes twinkling in amusement. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said, his voice deep and as pleasant as yours.

“Before anything, can we drop the honorifics? If we are to be family, honorifics mean nothing.”

A scoff escaped Minho’s lips at your request and you levelled a stare at him, bordering on ice cold. “Of course you’d want to drop the honorifics, Princess.” Minho’s voice matched you for bland pleasantry- “You’re getting married above your station after all, to a country bigger and better than yours will ever be.” And finally, the snake spits its venom.

Before you could snarl a furious response, Jisung and Changbin’s hands caught each of yours, squeezing in a warning. Not now, they seemed to say. Not now, you can rip into him later.

Teeth gritted, you turned your attention to Felix, who seemed to be cursing his luck for getting him caught in this royal crossfire. “You were saying, Ambassador?” You prompted him, pointedly ignoring Minho’s jab. Felix started and sat up straight, clearing his throat. “Yes, so, this meeting was to figure out your public appearances for the next 4 months.” Oh, stars. “Jisung and I will be managing your appearances and schedules for the next few months. On an average, you two will have to be seen together at least thrice a week- balls, charities, union meetings…wedding shopping.” He choked out and almost instantly, Minho rolled his eyes.

“Judging by the…animosity, can being cordial to each other in public be an acceptable request of the two of you?” Felix’s eyes flitted between the two of you nervously. Poor boy, he must be getting paid handsomely to put up with these rich brats. A pleasant smile lit up your face, reaching out to pat Felix’s hand where it was resting on the table. “Don’t worry, Felix. I’m not much trouble. I can manage myself in public.” Almost instantly, Felix relaxed, an uncertain smile passing across his features- “Of course she can, pretending is the only thing she does decently.”

Changbin’s hand tightened around yours, while Jisung’s grip loosened. Minho was treading the line between impoliteness and disrespect and it was clear that Jisung already had had enough of him. Still, you continued to ignore him, opting to turn to your cousin.

“What’s the first schedule we have together?” Saying the words left such a bitter taste in the back of your tongue. “Your mother The Queen’s picnic with high society at high noon tomorrow. That’s your formal introduction into the society, princes,” Jisung nodded to Minho and Seungmin, before turning to Felix. “We’d appreciate it if we get this meeting over with as soon as possible, we have a meeting with the ministry right after this.” You pursed your lips in amusement; Jisung really didn’t like Minho. You didn’t have anything scheduled after this but a peaceful afternoon in the gardens.

Minho coughed into his tea, a jeer barely hidden behind the teacup and this time, you let your chilling stare bore into him, an eyebrow raised. “Do you have anything to say that contributes to this conversation?”

He smirked, setting his teacup down. “You’ve not changed a bit, have you.” Changbin’s eyes narrowed at the disdainful undertones on his voice, but you surreptitiously patted the top of his hand before steepling your fingers on top of the table. “What makes you think so, Minho?” “You’re still the people pleasing little girl who waltzed every night away with different men. You’re still no better than a lowly courtesan, vying for a richer man’s attention-“

A gasp cut off his venomous words, his eyes betraying the pure rage coursing through his system at the sight and sensation of cold tea soaking the front of his clothes but before he could say another word- A resounding smack sent his head reeling to the side, the sheer force leaving his ears ringing. You knelt on top of the table in front of him, your teeth gritted in a barely restrained anger- the sheer fucking audacity -

Jisung, Changbin, Seungmin and Felix had shot to their feet in shock, only watching as you caught the front of blazer and brought him closer to your face, eyes not leaving his. “You never knew anything about me, Lee Minho,” You murmured softly. “You never did, you never will.” Jisung and Changbin had reached over to catch each of your shoulders, gently hauling you back from Minho but your fingers tightened on the lapels of his blazer, pulling him to his feet and halfway over the table with you. “So don’t sit there with your holier-than-thou attitude and think that I will take it lying down. I am not your doormat, but I have no qualms making you mine.”

Minho collapsed onto his seat as Jisung and Changbin dragged you over the table and set you on the floor, your chest still heaving slightly. Almost immediately, Jisung pulled you towards the double doors you had entered through, Changbin bowing before heading behind the both of them. Seungmin coughed when the doors closed behind the three of them. “That’s her, huh.”

Minho let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, a hiss escaping his teeth when his brother’s cool fingers prodded his cheek where she’d slapped him. She was just as he remembered- a spitfire with unexplained elegance, a hurricane barely contained in human skin. She was exactly as his dreams painted her to be for the past year, so fiery and real…a human embodiment of the ring he had gotten made for her. The regret that had racked his system for a year pricked the back of his eyes and he blinked aggressively, willing the emotions away from his face.

She hated him for his reckless behaviour. She would never trust him again after the way he had behaved with her back then- betrothal, marriage or a shared crown be damned. “Yes, that’s her.” //

 “Felix, you are excused. Ji, I’ll drop by your chambers later. Leave us alone for a bit.”

You growled the second your drawing room door closed behind the both of you as well as Jisung and Felix. The four of you and Seungmin had been at the Minister of Foreign affairs’ charity ball that evening, so you were all dressed in Lord Hyunjin’s chosen dress code- black and gold.

Minho had been watching you rather oddly at the beginning of the night but you’d chosen to pointedly ignore them, as you always did. Hyunjin had swept you into his arms for your first dance, the most gracious host honouring the lovely crown princess. He had held you close as you chuckled and laughed against his shoulder, thoroughly enjoying your childhood friend’s talent in dance and his innate ability to set the most stressful situations at ease.

When you turned back to your…your fiancé, however, he had taken up residence in the midst of a gaggle of ladies, all giggling and preening around him. You had pushed down the raging fire taking root at the pit of your stomach and stalked to him, asking for a dance- only to be ignored, dismissed with nary but a second glance from Minho. You had been saved from humiliation by a dark-eyed Jisung, who had swooped in and taken your outstretched hand, leading you into an easy waltz. What happened next, however…

“I’ve about had it with you for the past month, you prick,” Turning and advancing on Minho, you pushed him back with two hands on his chest. He stumbled and quickly straightened himself, a haze of anger numbing his own senses.

“Well, you really want to duke it out now, fine. Let’s talk.” Minho crossed his arms. Your face burned with a barely restrained annoyance and for a second, Minho’s heart sank. Had he crossed a line today?

The past month had been torturous for the ‘happy couple’. Velairen was overjoyed to see the queen-to-be and her beloved fiancé stepping into the limelight almost every other day, their love a picture-perfect union. You had laughed and smiled at Minho, let your fingers brush his knuckles and grip his arm, let him lead you in dances and feed you cupcakes at every ball and celebration you could humanly attend together.

Minho, to his credit, had played along. He never failed to offer you his arm on walks, always helped you fix your outfits, dropped ‘secret’ kisses against your cheek and temple, soft and loving and the paragon of a fiancé in love.

But little did Velairen know, the war that the ‘happy couple’ waged behind the scenes. How your hands would always clutch Minho’s bicep a touch too roughly, almost enough for him to wince. How you would deliberately step on his toes mid-dance and giggle airily, apologizing and shying away like a bashful bride. How Minho would trip you on walks and then proceed to catch you, cursing the cobblestones in the most gallant manner. How he would butt into your conversations with dukes and have ‘politely flirty’ conversation with the fawning ladies-in-waiting. Tonight, however…

“Do I really have to go over how much of an absolute ass you looked like in the ball tonight? How you undermined me?”

Minho scoffed, rolling his eyes.  “You were the one simpering and falling all over that Lord Hyunjin.”

“He’s like my brother, you possessive idiot!” You threw your arms up in exasperation. “And I can’t bring myself to care about you going around behaving like a man whore. Just try to be a little discreet about it, will you?”

Deep down, your words hit Minho with shards of hurt. Was that how low you thought of him? Despite the bile and nausea that rose to his throat at the thought, he swallowed, before speaking again.

“If that’s not your concern, then what is? The tripping? Surely you’re not that juvenile. You had your revenge on my toes for that-“ “You undermined me in front of the FUCKING MINISTRY!” Your voice rose to a yell and Minho pursed his lips. He truly had crossed a line tonight. You continued, your voice still loud and furious.

“You told the fucking Minister of Education that the only reason I have a crown on my head is because of my blood and not my capability.” You fumed. “I should have you thrown into the dungeons for your thoughtless impertinence.” And the anger came rushing back to his body, replacing any semblance of regret he harboured for his (albeit) false words.

“You don’t have the authority to do that, princess,” he spat out the last word like a mockery of it’s meaning and you stiffened, your vision going red.

“The only thing royal about you is your royal ego, Minho.” You snarled at him. “You’re in my palace. My turf. I can do whatever I wish to you, short of pulling your tongue out.” “Like you can afford to hurt me in any way,” Minho scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Eriant would have your head if I went back disfigured.”

“That’s what you do best, don’t you?” You grinned mockingly, crossing your arms. “Hide behind your country’s prestige like a little boy.” Minho’s eyes darkened, his jaw tight in anger but you found yourself still talking, letting the words slip out of you unrestrained.

“You don’t know a thing about the power you hold other than lording it over people’s heads, PLEASE,” you spit, prodding his chest with a finger. “don’t think, even for a second, that I will ever take you or this sham of an engagement I’m trapped in seriously.”

Turning your back on him, you stalked to the low tea table and poured yourself some water in a bid to calm yourself, when Minho let out a derisive laugh behind you. “There it is. You’re trapped in this engagement? Do you ever think about the unfortunate souls that have to deal with your narcissistic self?” Your fingers tightened around the glass; you would not respond with the anger he was asking- no, begging for any further. “Everything is about you, isn’t it? Your betrothal, your crown, your country, your ice-cold heart and your inability to love-“

Judging from the way your body stilled, he knew he’d touched a nerve. But when you turned to face him, Minho was not prepared to see tears lining your red-rimmed eyes. He didn’t expect the sight to affect him the way it did, feel like his heart had just dropped a thousand feet, heavy and regretful.

“Is that what you think?” “I-I just-“Minho sucked in a deep breath, an attempt to calm the ice-cold panic that was seeping into his veins. “That crossed a boundary. My apologies. I did not mean to say that.”

You only scoffed tearfully in response, a…no, that wasn’t a smile, that was an unfeeling curl of your lips that couldn’t be deigned a smile. “You wouldn’t have said that had you not thought it true, Minho.”

Suddenly you weren’t the headstrong, stubborn, reckless girl Minho was used to seeing, the one with a viper tongue and wolves’ claws. Suddenly, you were the teenager who was used to getting what she wanted, even in the realm of love- the young girl who laid her eyes on men and ladies who fascinated you and did all you could to claim them. Suddenly, you were the young princess who had laid eyes on a young Lee Minho and had instantly wanted him- the blooming young lady new to high society, having eyes only for the rebellious, sharp-tongued, young prince with a smile that could fell kingdoms.

The queen-to-be who never really stopped having eyes only for the king-to-be.

“You found it so easy to dismiss me as a player, a royal rake with no human feeling whatsoever, didn’t you?” You laughed humourlessly, brushing past Minho to flop on the drawing room couch. His eyes followed you, his place at the edge of the rug still unchanged.

“You made it easy to do that, princess,” Minho murmured, his voice soft, placating, hesitant- almost like he was treading a thin line between setting off your anger or god forbid, hurt you again. “Your reputation preceded you.”

“My reputation painted me without virtue, without honour but it didn’t paint me without a heart, prince.” To that, Minho had no answer. The fight left his body, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His body steered him to the armchair next to you, sinking onto the plush cushions. “You’re right.”

“You heard a part of one conversation I had with a lady-in-waiting who wanted to bed you and instantly assumed you were yet another conquest for me.” You pulled your body upright, your tear-streaked face at odds with your pin-straight back and upright chin. This was a future queen in front of him, Minho realized. A queen who had stood trial for her poor decisions in the past and had never shirked into the darkness in fear of being wrong.

“I told her you were my conquest and that you were already crawling into bed with me so that she wouldn’t hound you. Because-“ you gulped, before spitting out the words that choked you on the way out. “Because I was jealous.” Oh.

“I was jealous because I saw you dally with that lady-in-waiting before…before we began courting. I didn’t want you to see how- I didn’t want you to see all the beauties Velairen had to offer and decide I wasn’t it for you. And that thought terrified me.” Oh. Oh.

“I’ll admit, I- I courted you only out of curiosity for your pretty face- But I swear, when I spoke to that noble, I already knew I was in love with you. Had been for a while. Those 3 months of courting you was probably the most- the only time courting felt right.” Well, damn.

Every cruel word he’d thrown at you after eavesdropping on that fateful conversation and the past month…it was all for naught. You had never been the rake, the rebellious player that rumor and reputation painted you out to be. His insult to your character a year ago was what pushed you away from him, unhesitatingly having chosen yourself over a prince who clearly didn’t know enough about you. “I love you.”

A sharp intake of breath was the only response Minho received in response to his blurted confession, your eyes wide with disbelief. “You what?” “I love you. I always have.” Minho’s mouth worked on instinct now, pouring out the words that had been brewing in the back of his mind for a year, weighed down by guilt, regret, embarrassment-

“I panicked when I heard you tell that noble that I was nothing but a conquest. I thought I was more to you. I wanted to be more to you, but there you were, making it abundantly clear that you weren’t. I panicked. The things I said, I didn’t mean a single word of them. Not a single one of them.”

Minho risked a glance at you, Your jaw was slack in surprise, your eyes still wide, fingers still clutching your dark skirts tightly, like you were struggling to stay in reality. The expression enough was almost enough for him to mentally slap himself to shut up, but he was beyond silence now-

“This betrothal was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. It brought me back to you. But when I saw the hatred you still had for me…I didn’t know how else to respond to your jibes. I’m truly sorry about all of it.

“I know my apology doesn’t take back all the absolutely shitty things I’ve said. I won’t expect you to take me back after everything. But could I…could I ask you for another chance?” and out of instinct, his body moved to kneel on one knee in front of you, a choked sob escaping your lips. “Minho-“

“Let me prove to you that I- I mean what I said. Because I do, I really do.” Minho’s hand curled around yours, the hand you wore the ring Minho had given you. “Will you…will you let me prove it to you?” A beat of silence turned to two, three, ten… “Yes.”

//

 “JISUNG! Seungmin’s shadowing us!” You called out, chuckling when you heard the amused groan from behind the curtains. The second Eriant prince slinked out and threw you a two fingered salute, his eyes twinkling. You responded in kind, winking at him as he slipped out of your drawing room, just as Jisung walked in from your bedroom, arms laden with boxes. “Stay out of the bride’s room, best man!” Jisung yelled to the open drawing room door, only getting a distant chuckle and a resounding NO in response.

“He idolizes your rake phase.” Jisung grumbled, carefully placing the boxes on the tea table as you laughed aloud, crossing your legs. “And here I was, thinking he was just spying on me for his brother.”

“Well, that too.” Changbin grinned as he walked into your drawing room with Hyunjin, each with a gift box in hand. “My my, for all the love I’m receiving, I should have gotten married earlier!” You grinned, rising to pull both the Ministers into a hug. “Don’t flatter yourself, this is only going to last for the next hour.” Hyunjin stuck his tongue out, ruffling your hair affectionately. “When you get back from Eriant after the tour, you’re going to be treated as woefully normal. As Queen and not Minho’s Wife.” Minho’s wife. The words still sent a giddy jolt down your spine.

True to his words that night, Minho had proved his love to you, a little by little, day by day. This time, there was no misunderstanding and oh, the way his love bloomed. He greeted you with love letters with your morning tea and later, forehead kisses and lazy cuddles in bed.

He had taken his word very seriously and stoutly refused to speak against you for another month until you goaded him into banter again, stating that his sharp tongue was just another thing you adored about him.

Which was why you didn’t have to hesitate when he proposed marriage to you yet again, in the royal garden amongst red roses and white lilies, moonlight striking your happy tears as you said the magic word- “Yes.”

Life was a little brighter now. Not from hate, no. This time, from love. From Minho.

//

Taglist: @aliceu @decembermoonskz @seraplantery @rebecca-noona @decembermoonskz @straykidsownmysoul @stellarmonsterr @soya-zz @fylithia @bythesunnotbythemoon @luminois @moonlight-hyunjae @illicit-roses @cotccotc @unsaidhj @popisdead @sungieshines​

Network Tag: @inkidz @districtninewriters @starryktown @bystay

Thank you for reading! Do let me know what you think! -Elliana

[ac3id]

The Artist and His Majesty| 18+

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓎 0 / 5 | fantasy au. 

chapter i , chapter ii

pairings: yandere! emperor! shigaraki x female! reader.

warnings: [series] dubcon, exhibitionism, size difference, degradation, masturbation, bondage, reader is also kind of delusional, death, violence (not on reader). (there are more but i can’t think right now.]

↪ for chapter 0: none !!

summary: you come to the big city in hopes of starting your career as an artist but things take a shocking turn when you’re recruited as the court painter for the royal palace.

↪ for chapter 0: a strange man approaches you, offering to buy your painting to which you oblige. little do you know that it kicks of a series of unfortunate events ending with you being trapped in shigaraki tomura’s clutches forever.

wordcount. 

a/n: finally !! i started this series. high-key inspired by these two dresses in my wardrobe and @ana-list‘s this  drawing ! seriously it’s literally everything. also thank you once again for proof reading this @the-grimm-writer ! 

taglist: @shigaraki-is-my-master, @deathmemeiverse, @n4dhii, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @mstssister, @nereida19, @prince-zukohere [dm to be added/ removed.]

“That’s a beautiful painting,” a rough, scruffy voice calls out, jerking you away from your daydreams. Your grip around the color canvas resting in your arms tightens as you glance behind your shoulder to see a well-built man standing right behind you. He’s tall and a lot older than you, he has short grey hair which falls right before his eyebrows along beautiful, matching grey eyes. A cigar hangs lazily from his lips as he occasionally huffs on it, blowing clouds of smoke out his mouth. He’s dressed in expensive robes, a choice of style only people better off could afford. You can’t help exachaning a covetous glance between his expensive suit and your sloppy, knee-length, light green dress. “Thank you.” you murmur shoving him an appreciative look, hoping he’d leave you alone. When you come to the city to complete your studies in art, you mother, father, family and friends had warned you about men like these. Rich, snobby men who liked to lure in young, naive girls. Whispering praises of how they are the most unique on the planet so they pull their guard down form them to take advantage of the helpless beings. 

“Can I take a better look? It’s the Emperor, is it not? Your painting. ” You hesitate before turning back to him. Not a lot of people had seen the King to be. He lived humbly in his castle, trying his best to not indulge in the affairs of the common people. “ Yes,” you hold up the slightly small canvas (courtesy of you being broke the entire week and not being able to save up to buy a bigger canvas). To even get an idea of Shigaraki Tomura, you had to go through many people. Not a lot of people had seen his face, he had always kept it hidden under a mask. No one knew why he did so but the many conspiracy throes suggested it was something to do with his personal grief.

 You had heard many stories about him. Some made him look like a spoiled brat with a demeaning, ignorant personality who didn’t care for others and as the rumors said: self destructive habits which lead him to tear the skin of his own neck down whenever he got anxious or frustrated. 

Others portrayed him as a strong, confident man and a reliable leader who cared for his comrades. You did not know which one of the two personas brought him your attention but you couldn’t complain. Tomura had caught you under a spell, and despite never meeting him (and knowing full well you never would), you were still ready to sacrifice your life for him. He was your King even before he had taken his crown, to you he looked like a shining bright light ready to enlighten you. To you, he was a god. And as years passed by, he grew from a caterpillar into a cocoon which was ready to burst open as a butterfly into the beautiful, mysterious world. And it was happening today, Prince Tomura Shigaraki’s Coronation ceremony. After the passing of All For One, it was his turn to take the crown and fulfill his duty as the ruler of the nation

 The entire city was busy, bustling with people. Families, friends and everyone in between gathered around the huge castle walls as they waited for the ceremony to begin. They waited patiently, filled with excitement and joy as they waited to catch a glimpse of the new great King. You were among them. You had come down to the centre of the city with your friends, waiting alongside many to catch a glimpse of the new ruler. The painting which nestled in your hand was something you were hoping to sell today, to a shop or anyone who wants to have it. It was a beautiful painting which had taken you several days to complete, and dare you say it, you were quite proud of it. From all the things you had heard about Tomura, you had managed to sketch him decently. Long white, wavy hair reaching till his shoulder, skin white as snow. He sat proudly on his throne wearing a cape with his vermillion eyes peering through your soul. His face was scarcely detailed as you did not have much idea about it but he still looked ethereal. With little scars running both his eyes and a comparatively larger one on his right. Chapped lips with even more scars running over them wildly, he was not conventionally attractive. No one would call him a pretty boy yet there was something more, something alluring which attracted  you to him. His beauty was rare, not in the grasp of many but if it was grasped and held close to the heart, it was hard to let go off. And you found him attractive, very attractive. 

The man took a good look at your painting, examining it carefully and for a second you really thought he had seen the mysterious Prince. “It’s quite similar to him,” he sends you a friendly grin and you notice a tooth from his front missing, leaving an uncomfortable gap. “Have you seen him before?” he asked and you shake your head, no. He gives you an amused expression, “I must say, you are very talented, miss…?” you complete your name with a nervous smile. “And you are?” you ask. 

You realised that you were getting a little too comfortable with the stranger and it could be a really bad decision but you can’t help but give him the benefit of the doubt as he behaves like a gentleman you can find yourself to trust. “Kagero Okuta but I like to go by Giran,” he says with a lop-sided grin. Giran, you’ve heard the name before but cannot recall where and how. It sounds so familiar but you just can’t grasp it, he looked wealthy so you assumed he was a Noble and that made you even more curious as to why he was speaking to you.

 “What are you planning to do with that painting?” he asks, diving a closer look and admiring its features. “I must say, you’ve got it quite accurate but,” you stiffen, your hands growing cold as your heartbeat picks up. You realized your painting must have some complications, drawing a man you had never seen before purely out of your interpretation was a hard and a bold task to do. But to have someone who had actually seen the King for himself pinpoint your mistakes sent a rush of anxiety through your veins.

 “He’s not that bony.” He completes and you gulp nervously, looking down at your painting in disappointment. Your eyes are filled with disappointment,  all of the time and effort you spent making the piece all for it go in vain just because you missed a small detail. Giran notices your remorse and speaks up, “But that’s quite alright. He looked just like that until a while ago,” he hadn’t meant to offend or hurt you. He still believed your painting was the most beautiful thing he had seen all day.

 “What do you mean?” you ponder, giving him a perplexed look. He leans  in closer to you as if to tell a secret, “let’s say the King has been working out behind closed doors.” you blink in confusion. It was a strange thing to say, exactly how well did this man know the Emperor? Who was it that you were talking? 

“Who are you?” you can’t help but question, bewildered by such a character. Giran says nothing. He just stares at you with his lips curled into a snappy smirk, holding his cigar between his lips. He was not going to tell you anything. Without wasting time, he quickly changes the topic. “What are you going to do with that painting?” he repeats, his voice growing impatient.

 “I am planning to sell it,” you feel a bit taken back. The friendly aura which had Giran had now disappeared for a reason you could not conclude. “Sell it? To whom?” the intruding nature of his tone starts to make you uncomfortable, there’s nothing more you want to do other than get far away from him. Yet you still find yourself answering him, “To anyone who wants it.” he hums at your response, his eyes holding a mocking glint. “Wouldn’t you like to give it to the Emperor himself?” you frown, was he mocking you? 

“That’s well...impossible.” you reply, stretching your neck awkwardly. “To you, maybe.” 

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, this man was really testing your patience. A part of you tells you to ignore him and walk away but as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a bag of coins worth much more than you could ever earn in a month, he has you hooked yet again. 

“Hey, let me buy that painting, would yer’?” 

.

..

..

“What is the problem now?” Giran takes a seat around the round table. It was late after the Coronation ceremony and the Royal palace was already facing problems. Giran was disappointed but definitely not surprised. After all, he was their personal problem solver and broker. “It’s not that big of a deal.” A curt and hard reply cut him off.

 “It actually is, Shigaraki Tomura.” a voice speaks, coming from a man dressed in a black suit with a long, flowy robe covering his entire body. He stands taller than the other two men in the as his head is replaced with a wisp of smoke. He was none other than the trusted and talented magician of the Royal family. With eccentric features and an ability to wield strange magic, nobody knew where he came from. There were many rumors about him; that he was once a normal, handsome man cursed by a witch that turned him into a hideous monster or he simply was a ghost. “What is it, Kurogiri?” Giran rephrases his question, directing it to the other man. “We need a new painter,-” 

“Servant.” Shigaraki corrected. He stood in front of the giant windows glancing over his city as his men talked about hiring a new painter for the castle. He couldn’t care less about such tedious tasks, he had his focus set on greater things like expanding his territory, taking back stolen land. 

“What happened to Mr. Kyo?” Giran asked, Shigaraki rolled his eyes at the mention of the name and clicked his tongue, “His Majesty eliminated him.” Giran stops himself from laughing out loud. He was certain once Shigaraki would take over the throne incidents like so would double the instant. But he was expecting it to happen so soon. “And why was that?” 

“He was breathing too loud, like you are right now.” 

A cold silence broke over the room as Giran counted his breath. Kurogiri looked nervously at Shigaraki who still had his back turned to them. The longer the pause grew, the dreadful the atmosphere became. Shigaraki’s threat strung the air loud and clear and Giran was afraid to speak again. “What we are asking for is that-,” Kurogiri started in a calm, slow tone easing the tension in the room. “-we need a new court painter. Do you have any names?” 

The murderous sent in the air magically disappeared as a grin stretched across Giran’s face. 

“Aren’t you in luck?” He says, running a hand through his hair before taking a puff out of his cigar. “Does that mean you know someone?” Kurogiri questioned. Giran hummed, “You see, I met this beautiful painter today. She’s extremely talented and I know for a fact she will love working for the castle.” 

“What’s the name?” growing impatient, Shigaraki asks. “Oh, it was,” Giran pauses for a moment to recall. 

“Ah yes, Y/N L/N.” 

[cloudywriter]

the lost princess of terrasen

rowaelin month - september 7th 

prompt: fairytale au - (an anastasia au in this case)

important: okay y’all so i went way overboard with this entire au and it got out of hand so now this might just be a full-blown thing. however, with that whole releation and me going crazy with outlining and writing i could really only have this much of the story out and ready for today but i plan on continuing it!! hopefully after rowaelin month. enjoy this little introduction :)

(cw: brief descriptions of violence) 

masterlist, AO3

~~~

At freshly 18, Celaena Sardothien was free. She’d aged out of the orphanage and was finally released to go live her own life, no longer held down in the outskirts of Rifthold. Celaena didn’t want to wait a second longer, the need to leave the horrid place she’d lived the last ten years was ingrained in her bones. 

The woman who ran the orphanage, Clarisse, was cruel. From a young age, she poked at Celaena, commenting constantly on her weight or how she didn’t act like a proper young lady. Her entire life up until this point was spent at the mercy of Clarisse and her stern ways. All the girls in the orphanage were treated as maids and dolls for Clarisse to manipulate. But, Celaena made it, counting down the days until her birthday. 

Now, here she was, stuck out in the cold. She’d imagined her freedom to be more alluring than this instead she was shaking as she wandered through side streets that led to the heart of Rifthold. She carried with her a backpack barely full of her meager belongings and the too-thin coat on her back. Clarisse didn’t even spare her a hat to keep out the cold so she moved her hair to shield her freezing ears the best she could and waddled along the snowy pavement. 

She still had her kingsflame necklace around her neck, though, and that’s all that mattered. Where she had gotten it from she hadn’t a clue. The first memory she possessed was waking up in the very orphanage that would become her prison. Clarisse explained to her that she’d hit her head and a nice man named Arobynn had brought Celaena to Clarisse to be cared for. Clarisse questioned her about her family and upbringing relentlessly but Celaena could not recall a thing. Her mind was blank. For many nights as a young girl, she’d sit upright in the creaky, lumpy bed she occupied and willed herself to remember. She’d cry and scream, banging her fists into her head in frustration when nothing ever surfaced. 

The only connection she had to whatever life she lived before was her kingsflame necklace. And she’d follow that kingsflame to the ends of the continent if it meant she’d one day solve the mystery of her existence. 

Which led her to the first stop on her journey of discovery, Terrasen. Once Celaena had accepted that her memories weren’t coming back and this was the life she’d have to lead she adjusted. She served Clarisse and went to the small, dilapidated school down the street with the other orphans. There she discovered her love of books and the meager library the school offered became her sanctuary. It was there while she read a book on the kingdoms on Erilea, hoping something would strike her familiar she learned that kingsflame flowers only bloomed in one place, the capital of Terrasen, Orynth. 

As a child that discovery was a revelation. Terrasen. Maybe she was from Terrasen. 

As Celaena walked she felt her toes growing increasingly numb, Adarlan’s winters were bitter and she was not equipped with the proper wear. Her teeth chattered but she pushed forward, she needed to get passage to Terrasen. 

She drew the map out of the pocket of her coat once again and checked the status of her journey. Only a little longer until she was at Rifthold’s main dock station. 

The city of Rifthold was big and Celaena felt out of her depth as groups of people swarmed the streets walking to and from their different destinations. It was overwhelming, the smells, the tall buildings, the weather, the noise, the sheer number of people, everything. 

Eventually, she saw the lights of the station and she blew a sigh of relief, she hadn’t been very confident in her ability to read a map. She approached a man sitting in a booth behind a sheet of glass, smoking a cigarette. 

Celaena stepped up to the counter. 

“Hello, sir, I’d like to buy a ticket to Orynth,” she gave him a smirk, leaning casually on the box. She’d learned from many years of coexisting with Clarisse and a revolving door of people that to make it through life you needed a mask. Celaena had crafted her mask carefully and had perfected her act after so many years. She exuded arrogance and confidence so that another soul would never see the scared, lost little girl she truly was. 

The man grunted, blowing a puff of smoke from between his cracked lips. “Do you have your papers, girl?”

Her brain stalled. Papers? She cleared her throat, “papers?”

“Yes,” his scratchy voice replied, “you need papers to cross the border.” 

Celaena’s heart sank but she kept her expression neutral. “Well, I-”

“Listen, girl, I’m not going to sit here and waste your time so don’t sit here and waste mine. If you don’t have the right documents then I can’t sell you a ticket, simple as that,” he held the cigarette between his teeth. 

She searched for some way to turn this situation around, chewing on her bottom lip. 

From the shadows a little ways into the dark alley adjacent to the docks, she heard a hissed whisper. “You, blondie,” an old woman emerged slightly from the shadows, beckoning Celaena forward with her index finger.  

Celaena looked around, the man in the booth was already back to ignoring her, his nose stuck in a newspaper so she decided to approach the woman. She didn’t have much to lose and Celaena thought if it went south she could take her. 

Celaena crept closer, tightening her grip on the strap of her backpack. 

“You need papers?” Her voice was hoarse as if her throat was made of sandpaper. Celaena nodded her head keeping her guard up, watching her surroundings out of her peripheral. 

“I know who can get you some,” her face morphed into a slight smile that unsettled Celaena more than anything. Celaena furrowed her brows, “who?” The woman tsked at her, her hot breath forming a cloud in front of her face. 

“That kind of information isn’t free, my dear.” Celaena had to resist the urge to roll her eyes, everything came with a price in this world. 

Celaena reached around to the side pocket of her backpack, fishing out a few coins she had to spare. She’d saved just enough from doing odd jobs to pay her fare to Terrasen. She deposited the coins into the palm of the old woman’s hand, her knobby fingers running along their smooth edges. 

“Go a few streets north and into the red brick warehouse with the large windows, you can’t miss it. Ask for a Mr. Rowan Whitethorn, he’ll get you the papers,” she instructed, hoarding the scant sum of money she was given as though they were priceless heirlooms. Celaena turned her head in the direction the woman directed as if she could spot the warehouse from here and by the time she rounded back the woman had disappeared once again. 

Celaena huffed and shot another glance at the ticket man, he was still paying no attention, tapping his cigarette out with his finger. She didn’t necessarily want to go on a wild goose chase to obtain these papers but she had no other way of getting them so she breathed deeply and shoved her hands into her pockets and twisted north. 

The woman was right about not being able to miss the warehouse. It was a large, old, imposing structure, clearly, it had not been in use for some time now. Celaena crept closer peering into the foggy windows as she passed the front of the building. She couldn’t see anything and was unconvinced she’d find the elusive ‘Rowan Whitethorn’ inside. 

Nonetheless, she approached a rusting metal door on the side and pushed it open with her gloved hand. The door protested but it miraculously opened revealing a wide area stacked high with boxes along the walls and corners.

She ventured further into the space, dust and broken glass crunching beneath her boots. She didn’t see any signs of life besides maybe some rats. As she neared the opposite corner what could’ve been a makeshift sitting area came into view, blocked from view initially by a stack of boxes. She approached noting the circle of crates, a dusty blanket, and a few books piled on the side. 

She peered at the title of the book on the top of the stack. 

The Royal Family of Terrasen. Mixed emotions surged through her body. 

“Who’s in here?” A male voice boomed nearly rattling the windows. Celaena shuttered, letting her bravo fill her bones as she heard a set of footsteps enter the space. 

+++ 

Rowan Whitethorn’s life since the fall of Terrasen and the reign of the Valg had been a hell-hole, to put it bluntly. His family fell out of status, his parents were slain in the ambush on Orynth’s castle, and Rowan was left in an unfamiliar land at twelve years old. 

A sect of the Whitethorn house had been visiting Terrasen’s court for the holidays when Maeve made her move against the continent. Doranelle crumpled first to her rule and Terrasen followed, the army of Valg she’d amassed was too large to stand against. Adarlan only survived because King Dorian bowed down to Maeve. 

Even now at twenty-two, he has nightmares about that evening. The terror he felt as Valg poured into the ballroom and slaughtered the royals. The terror he saw in the princess of Terrasen’s eyes as she was shoved into the kitchens by her nursemaid where Rowan had happened to take shelter as well. He was scared too, running as soon as his father screamed at him to as the Valg slit his throat. He regretted it deeply, leaving like a coward when the palace was invaded. He regretted the cowering he did in the kitchens as well but when the young princess had burst in the doors, tears flowing freely down her cheeks something had come over him. He had pushed her out into the snow yelling at her to run and she did, scrambling to find her footing.

The rest was a blur, the Vlag hurried into the kitchens soon after but somehow Rowan made it out with his life. The same could not be said for many people in the castle that night. 

Now, Rowan lived in Rifthold as a thief and doer of other’s dirty work. He longed for the day he could get out of this city of nightmares crawling with Valg. One day, he promised himself, one day he’d have to funds to make it back to Wendlyn and witness what had become of his home. 

There was an opportunity, though, that’d heard about from whispers on the streets. Aedion Ashryver. One of the few survivors from Terrasen’s downfall. He chosen to stay in Terrasen’s territory afterward, the country had no real structured ruling now. The old King-Consort Darrow was the closest thing there was to a king but from what he’d gathered the man is old and weak, not the same after the death of his husband, King Orlon. Terrasen had virtually crumbled. 

Somehow, Aedion had built up the Bane and gained standing for himself. A standing he was using to campaign to find his long-lost cousin. How Maeve hadn’t gotten wind of Aedion and his plotting and squashed him, Rowan wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, Aedion was offering a hefty reward for the return of his dear Aelin, the nation’s true queen, convinced she was still alive.

Rowan thought the operation was useless. Her body was never found, that was true, but he imagined she’d likely fled into the Oakwald forest and perished from hypothermia not long after. If he could make a pretty penny from returning the ‘princess’ to Aedion, though, he wasn’t above doing so. 

All Rowan needed was a young, blonde, and blue-eyed woman he could convince to join his cause and he could coach her to be the perfect replacement for Aelin. Truthfully, he wasn’t convinced this could ever be achieved but it was something he’d contemplated. 

Rowan was making his way back to the warehouse he liked to operate his more shady business out of, the biting cold seeping into his clothes. The looming, muddy red-brick building came into view and he pushed the frosted metal door open. Immediately, he was aware that someone had invaded his space. 

Small footsteps had disrupted the layer of dusk along the floor. His hand flew to the dagger strapped to his chest as he prowled further inside. 

“Who’s in here?” he called out, gripping the dagger tightly by its handle. Once he got far enough into the space he could see a young woman was standing near his makeshift seats.

The first thing he noticed was she was beautiful. Long, golden blonde hair flowed down her shoulders, her skin was pale and her lips had a blue tint to them. Rowan pushed aside all those unsavory thoughts, she was an intruder after all. However, he couldn’t help but study her, she was dressed far too light for the dead of winter, not even a hat on her head. 

She looked right back at him, accessing him as he was her. She didn’t look scared to have been caught trespassing, no, honestly, she looked annoyed as if he was interrupting her. 

“Who the hell are you?”

~~~

let me know if y’all like it so far and would like to see more, xoxo

[cina-full-moon-xanadium]

Yesterday, I watched the final episode of Saber; and when I was talking about how I felt about the show, I mentioned that I wished it could have pulled off a Blade. Where it had an ending that was so forcefully, energizingly emotional; so beautiful and poignant in so many ways that it recontextualised the entire show for me into something I loved and put all the pieces together. For me, that unfortunately didn’t happen with Saber.

What I haven’t mentioned is that it’s very much what happened with OOO.

Kamen Rider OOO is a messy show. I want to get that out of the way and I want to make that clear. It’s not exactly the messiest one out there given Kamen Rider’s history but it’s certainly far from perfect; you’ve got what I consider a very good, very well-rounded first third; but the middle is a bit... middling? There’s some great ideas and episodes in there but a lot of it gets jumbled up and lost in a sea of conflicting concepts. In particular I found it hard to get attached to much of what was going on; it was decent episodic Tokusatsu but it was missing that spark, that little bit of extra oomph to really sell me on the characters. I’m maybe not putting this as best I can, but I just don’t find a lot of that middle section totally engaging and it did make me reconsider a lot of my feelings towards this show, especially as Ghost right alongside it was nailing the format.

But then Eiji gets the Putotyra medals. And while it gets off to a slightly rough start, you’re suddenly thrown right back into a whirlwind of excitement and emotion with all of OOO’s themes coming to the fore; all of these ideas of desire for one thing, but most importantly the connections forged between all of these characters and especially Ankh and Eiji. Ankh’s turn against Eiji is one of the highlights of the show in a way that we all knew it was always coming, just not how it would happen or what would happen next: how would it resolve? Where would his relationship with Eiji be by the end of the show?

Given this culminates in one of the most beloved, most well-remembered endings in Kamen Rider history; I probably don’t need to tell you that where it ended up tugs super tight at the heartstrings, do I?

It’s the episode and relationship that broke many a person’s heart; that still has people wishing sorely for a follow up 10 years later; that sold about a billion Tajador figures and Taka medals. A relationship so beloved that this very ending was changed in advance as the writer got piles of letters from kids writing in to say how much they wish Ankh got a happy ending. And y’know, when I hear that little story... it’s so on point for what OOO is about? A man who meets a monster and strikes a deal for power; but in doing so, grants the monster a life and soul he could never have dreamed of. Where the monster becomes more like the man and the man becomes more like the monster. Where the monster saves the man with every bit of life he has left, and that’s fine, that satisfies him -- because finally, instead of just existing, he was able to live. 

A story where the monster teaches the man that he can live for himself; that others are there for him; that he can accept help. It’s not a lesson he meant to teach at first, but how could it not happen? This is the big part that resonated for me when I initially watched Kamen Rider OOO a few years ago. It’s a great thing that Tokusatsu is able to do -- it takes morals and ideas that are simple and basic, but understands why those simple basics are important; and crafts wonderful stories around them. Sometimes I did get so lost in the complex world I found myself in in the days following 2016, and watching Tokusatsu helped bring me some sense of normalcy and grounding. Kamen Rider OOO is a show that just... that just made me realise it’s okay to ask for help, and that while putting yourself through so much to help others may come from noble intentions; you need to step back and look after yourself. And those are obvious lessons, but again; the draw of Tokusatsu here to me is how well it teaches these lessons and how well it re-teaches them! Eiji Hino is a character I saw a lot of myself in back then and had such an impact on me emotionally; and watching this ending again really had me crying. I don’t often literally shed tears at media but this moment where Ankh’s disappeared, but everyone else Ankh has touched throughout the show and forged bonds with, become a family with? It got me. It got me all over again.

Through this rewatch, I do feel like my eyes have been opened to the flaws of this show. That it’s not the perfect series I built it up to be in my memories, where every little thing came together and every character was a masterpiece. There’s a lot of things that just don’t work about the show and don’t go as smoothly as they could. But ultimately, OOO is a show that I adored at the time three years ago; that all this time has been such an important story to me and has gotten me through a lot, and it’s difficult to think of many better ways to celebrate its 10th anniversary and Kamen Rider’s 50th anniversary by watching this show, which used to be my favourite - and still ranks very high! - and seeing what I think of it years later. Because I’ve changed a lot, and part of that is down to this show... and again, while it has its problems; it’s Kamen Rider OOO. It’s a beautiful, wonderful show about two men slowly finding themselves in each other with one of the most emotionally striking endings in Kamen Rider history. 

Life goes on!

Anything goes!

The journey goes on!

[castielchitaqua]

kaddish, allen ginsberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[hurting-fictional-people]

A Theft Gone Wrong

I started writing this last night, expecting it to be really short, but it endend up longer then I expected... oops

I don’t know, I have never posted something like this before so if you like it please let me know, I kind of have more ideas for this but don’t know if anyone would like to read it... Spoiler alert: It’s about a thief getting caught and not realizing how dangerous her captor really is. Also, as I haven’t posted something this long before I have never had to tag it, so let me know if I do it wrong or forget something!

Warnings: manhandeling, kind of a creepy and intimate whumper, noncon touching, murder (of very minor characters and only vaguely mentioned), mention of the death of beloved people, choking 

She leaned against the wall, her body relaxed and her eyelids almost closed, the living image of someone who had had way too many drinks.

The prince, on the other side of the ballroom, eyed her carefully, his gaze never leaving her even as he danced with other women. She let her body move along with the song, praying silently that he would believe her facade. Any other day and she might have enjoyed the attention of a royal, especially such a handsome and powerful one – it never got tiring to use a noble as she wanted and then watch their shocked faces when she just walked away satisfied and with a few more jewels that she would sell as soon as she could. That night, though, the only thing the prince made her feel was exasperation. She knew she looked pretty, especially with so much makeup and such a beautiful dress, but she was definitely not flirting with him, so why couldn’t he just stop staring?

She waited until he was talking to a guard, and as soon as he took his eyes away from her, she moved as silently as a shadow, disappearing in the dark corners of the ballroom, all of her drunk act left behind as she moved swiftly through the crowd.

If her comrades had done their job, the palace aisles should be empty, and all the guards worried about an invasion on the other side of the castle.

She made it to the second floor of the palace without seeing another soul and grinned wickedly as she hurried. 

Stupid royals and their arrogance, so sure that no one would dare touch their belongings they didn’t even leave a guard near their wealth.

The thief had already laid her eyes on the royal vault when she was suddenly pulled to the side, but when her training kicked in and she started to fight the hand that held her waist tightly and pressed her against a hard body, she felt the cold and sharp point of a knife touching her throat, so close to her skin that if she tried to do so much as taking a deep breath, she would cut herself.

She froze, her body going rigid in an instant.

“What is such a lovely thing doing wandering around my palace?” Murmured a husky voice so close to her ear that she felt the air that left his mouth against her skin.

She couldn’t answer, not with the knife so close.

“I’ve been watching you all night”, he said, the hand at her waist pulling her even closer to him. She could feel the prince’s entire body as she tried to lift her chin away from the knife “ah, ah, ah, stay still or I might cut this pretty throat of yours accidentally, and neither of us wants that now, do we, dear?”.

She held herself as still as she could. Not that there was any other option.

“You see, I thought you were just a simple, albeit incredibly beautiful, peasant. You would have been fun to play with like that, of course, but you have proven to be so much more interesting now” his breath was making her cheek tickle, and every part of his body that touched hers only gave her rage more fuel. As soon as she had even the slightest opening, she would not hesitate to open his throat with his own knife. Prince or not, no one touched or talked to her like that and lived. Nobody was crazy enough to do it anyway.

The prince seemed to feel her hatred, because he held her tighter still, until it started hurting and she knew she would have bruises in the morning.

Everyone knew the rumors about the prince’s cruelty, but she had never thought he also had a death wish. An enraged growl escaped her lips, and he laughed.

“Oh sweet thing, I love you already”, she locked her jaw and pictured him dead as he would be in a few minutes to try and calm down. He didn’t seem to sense that thought. “So, back to what I was saying… There would be absolutely no reason for a girl like you to be here in front of my vault in the middle of my ball. That is, unless you are one of the criminals that were wreaking havoc on the other side of the palace until my guards slaughtered them all”.

Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Her head started spinning and her heart started racing as it hadn’t up until now.

No, that couldn’t be true. He could not have killed all her friends. There were at least twenty of the most talented thieves and assassins of the Guild there. There was absolutely no way they were all dead. Many of them had trained her, laughed with her, been her only family. But, then, how could the prince know about their attack if it weren’t true?

“Oh, they were your friends?” He asked, his voice filled with mock concern “I would say I am sorry for your loss, but that would be too big of a lie even for me”.

She couldn’t breathe. There was not enough air in the world.

They were dead. All the people who had loved her, who she loved, they were gone, and their assassin had a knife against her throat. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t, not until she saw their bodies. They were too good to have been killed like that. They could not be dead, she told herself, hoping she would believe it if she thought it fiercely enough.

She would destroy the prince for that, and she would do it slowly, painfully.

“If you keep trembling like that, love, you’re going to cut yourself” the prince warned, rubbing his smooth jaw against her hair. The thief didn’t even realize she was shivering until he said it. She wanted to vomit almost as bad as she wanted to see him bleed “Now, I’m getting tired of holding you here. Don’t get me wrong, my beautiful little thief, I love having you this close, but I have a ball to host”. She could almost hear his screams while she destroyed him bit by bit. He leaned closer to her, his mouth touching her temple as he spoke “Before I go, I feel we should clarify some things. All your friends are dead. I killed them. You, though, are so very lucky, because I like you. I could have you killed right here, or send you to jail for a lifetime sentence, but I am feeling merciful tonight. I’m going to save your life and claim you as mine. You belong to me now, darling, and no one is going to come looking for you, not that that would make any difference. We are going to have so much fun together. Or at least, I am”.

He laughed again, and that sound made her growl once more. The man was crazy, and she was tired of that too. But precisely when she began changing her stance to turn around and break free of his hold, the prince whistled, and ten guards showed up from around the corner. And then, ten more appeared from the other side.

“Hurt me and they will kill you before you can blink” the prince promised against her ear.

He pushed her at the same time he removed the knife from her throat, leaving a thin slice where the weapon stood a moment before. The thief tripped forward, and the only thing avoiding her falling on her face was the years of hard training.

She barely had time to prepare before the first guard attacked. She pulled free the dagger she had sheathed to her tight, cursing herself for bringing only one. She had not expected to fight that night, and even though her gown was flowy around her legs, it was definitely not appropriate for a fight.

She was a good fighter. She had killed people before and didn’t really have a problem with it. But even as she attacked guards and ducked their blows, she knew she could never win against twenty trained warriors. That didn’t stop her from fighting with all of her rage, slicing whatever body parts came near her.

She took the lives of two of the guards before three of them caught her from behind, and wounded at least five more before they disarmed her. She only stopped thrashing and kicking when there were four men holding her and six more around them ready to stop her if she somehow got away. Tired and shocked, she grinned wildly and with not an ounce of joy when she looked at them, showing bloodied teeth. She had been punched and bit her tongue at some point while they fought. They all held the same haunted expression as if they didn’t expect her to fight like that. Well, that was what grieve and rage did when mixed, she thought darkly. If only they knew that by now she was so exhausted she could barely stand they wouldn’t be so alert, but she was most definitely not telling them that.

She only remembered that the prince was still there when she heard someone clapping, and he showed up in front of her, smiling and looking very pleased.

“It’s going to be so much fun breaking such a wild thing”, he said. She took a deep breath, smirked, and spit right at his face. The prince’s eyes darkened as he cleaned his forehead with his long fingers.

“It’s going to be such a pleasure to open your throat from ear to ear and watch you choke on your own blood”, she said sweetly, the smirk still on her lips.

“You know what, love?” He said, taking a step towards her and stopping so close she could see his pupils expanding “I don’t think I’m going to be the one choking”.

As he spoke, he rounded her throat with his hands. She tried to pull away, but before she could move, he squeezed, and then she couldn’t breathe. As she struggled and convulsed, trying to escape, he started grinning, the smile growing along with her despair.

She couldn’t breathe she couldn’t breathe she couldn’t breathe

“You see now, love, who is choking? Don’t worry, you will learn to respect me and to be good. I’ll teach you. Oh, your eyes look so pretty when you are scared. It’s a pity we can’t play more right now. But worry not, I will come to you as soon as I can”.

She felt tears falling from her eyes, but there was no more strength in her to fight them. The world started to darken, and her body stopped responding to her.

The last thing she heard before she passed out was that awful, disgusting husky voice of the prince. “Take her to my room and tie her up. We are going to spend some quality time together later” he laughed, and then the world went black.

[joonsdiary]

the proposal

↳ part one of the: (not) the love of my life series

pairing. ceo!seokjin x hotelier!reader (female) genre. arranged marriage au // humour with a dash of fluff and sprinkle of angst (mayhaps future smut?) word count. 4,8k summary. after losing ownership of your hotel to the satan-spawned ceo-to-be, kim seokjin, you are forced by the powers that be (your parents) into marrying him. you agree under the assurance that you won’t be out of job, but with the title of manager instead of owner. as it turns out, he has other plans and approaches you with a proposal that’s hard to refuse.

note. a cliché, overused trope? check. a series with (maybe) no plot and is just about jin as a billionaire ceo? check. this was initially supposed to be a sequel, but i couldn’t follow it up with the same ambience and mood, so i decided to leave the drabble [as a standalone] and write a spin-off instead. this has been in my drafts for the longest time, so i’m excited to share to you a series that literally nobody asked for.

warning-but-not-really. not all corporate ceos are as chilled out as jin will be portrayed here. may give you high expectations of literally some of the worst people on this planet lmao also purely self-indulgent! read at your own risk tbh

the proposal | the first date | the ceo’s keeper | the engagement

The premise was simple.

Get married so you can keep running your hotel business or refuse and lose everything to the man your parents have personally hand-picked to become the owner.

Scratch that.

The man your parents sold your hotel to, thus making him the newly appointed owner.

Choosing the latter and having your freedom would mean giving up your hard-earned company to the lousy billionaire’s first-born son, who happened to own half the hotels in metropolitan Seoul.

The Kims.

Notorious for their enormous amount of wealth, their class, and having three strapping young men for sons who knew nothing else, but privilege handed to them in a silver platter.

Despite growing up in a well-off family, you’ve always taught yourself that independence and hard work was the key to success. You distanced yourself as much as you could from your parents’ money, stuck it out for four years in college, and graduated with a degree. Running the hotel full time while attempting to finish your master’s in business administration part-time had been the theme for the past year. Until your parents dropped the bomb on you.

Words like, do you really think you had full ownership of that run-down hotel of yours and we had to sell, or we’ll go under had been thrown around. As if keeping the secret of having a huge amount of debt would make you feel better about seeing your hotel assimilated into Kim Hotels. Not only would you lose ownership, but you knew that you were bound to get fired, if not demoted. It usually came with the change of proprietor.

Conveniently enough, the Kims had other plans. Their current CEO, Seokjin’s father, agreed to let you keep working as the hotel manager instead of the owner, which is honestly miles better to you than being jobless. But it came with a hefty price: you were to marry their oldest son, Kim Seokjin. They drove a hard bargain, and you found yourself agreeing. You loved the hotel more than anything you’ve ever owned; having to pour your heart and soul into making it worth being proud of. And you were. That’s why hearing your parents say that it was in debt felt gut wrenching.

Initially, you tried to get a hold of him, hoping you could convince him to re-think the situation. You thought perhaps the media had been wrong about him, and all the talks of him being a calculating corporate shark was a lie. Maybe he would let you work as the manager without having to marry him. But the COO of Kim Hotels refused to meet with you, despite hearing from your parents that he’d been “more than willing” to be married to you.

You scoffed at their baseless statement. Seokjin had a reputation for taking women to bed one night before leaving them to dust by the next morning. As if selling his soul to the devil in order to be worth billions of dollars wasn’t enough; of course, he was sleeping around as well. You weren’t one to judge anybody’s lifestyle choices, but you were sure that someone in that calibre wouldn’t agree to be wed to a person they hardly knew just because. There was something in your gut that told you there was more to the agreement than a simple arranged marriage.

Or maybe the feeling in your gut was due to the bad pasta you had.

“Good evening, Ms. Hwang.”

You’re greeted by Mr. Park, the doorman as soon as you enter the lobby, cradling a piping hot tea you hoped would alleviate the stomach cramps you were having. His smile gave away his old age, wrinkles dotting the corner of his eyes and the lines in his cheeks. You returned the gesture.

“How was your dinner?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” you laughed softly, shrugging away your coat without spilling your drink. “I’m never eating out ever again. Please tell me Yoongi is in.”

He nodded, gesturing to the entrance not too far from the lobby. You bid him good night and head to the restaurant in the hotel, which was sparse with customers. Friday nights were usually teeming with life and excitement, but unfortunately business had been relatively slow all week. The worry pooled deep in your stomach – as if you needed any more ratification that your hotel needed to be bought, or you’ll close down.

“Yoongi! I need your cure-all soup,” you called out as soon as you sat on the barstool, propping your tote on the table. Jungkook waved at you from the far end of the bar, concocting a drink for the eager gentleman waiting in front of him. Yoongi popped his head out from the kitchen’s double doors to scowl at you but was met with your beaming smile.

He returned several minutes later with your request and you quietly thank him.

“Bad date?” he asked, wiping his palms over his well-worn apron. Jungkook had inched closer by this time, mindlessly wiping the area beside you.

You nodded. “And terrible food. I should’ve just asked him to take me here to Grigio instead.”

Yoongi raised his brows, but a grin was threatening to burst from his lips. “Why didn’t you?”

“He insisted on going to that posh new restaurant that just opened last week. Said it took months to book and he couldn’t just cancel on a whim,” you rolled your eyes, carefully blowing cold air into your steaming soup.

“This is why I told you to stop looking around,” Yoongi leaned into the counter, studying your expression.

“It’s cuffing season,” you joked. “Blame social norms for my behaviour.”

He gave you an impassive stare, before sighing. “You’re literally cuffed already.” He said, followed by a quiet, “I still can’t believe you’re getting married soon.”

You waved your right hand nonchalantly before lifting the spoon to your lips. You moaned as soon as the flavour filled your senses.

“Did you know you’re the best chef ever?”

“It’s just chicken noodle soup,” he said drily.

“Exactly! The simplest meal yet you manage to bring out so many spices at once.” He rolled his eyes at your attempt to boost his ego. Either way it was true; for you, nothing beat Yoongi’s cooking, no matter how simple he thought the meal was.

You forgo the tea and asked Jungkook for a bottle of white wine. “Nothing fancy — Les Capriades is fine. I heard they came in last month, and I have yet to try them.”

He nodded at your instructions before disappearing off to the back to find your drink.

“Stop avoiding the topic, Y/N,” Yoongi rested his chin in the palm of his hand.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” you stated confidently, yet you couldn’t meet his gaze. “The devil incarnate himself refuses to see me. I guess I’ll have to meet him at the altar.”

“Three weeks from now,” Yoongi said, almost exasperated.

“Until then, I’ll enjoy my freedom.”

“What freedom?” Yoongi scoffed, rounding the table to slide into the seat next to you. Jungkook returned with your promised bottle and your eyes beamed with excitement before quietly thanking him. “You didn’t even date around before any of this marriage circus happened.”

You agreed with the “circus” part and ignored the indirect jab. Besides not having a say in any of the planning for your wedding, your supposed fiancé refused to introduce himself when you tried to reach out multiple times.

Okay, perhaps it wasn’t multiple times. You called his office when your parents broke the news to you a week ago, but his assistant said he was busy with a meeting and that you should call back. You didn’t, and that was the end of it. You’ve been putting off trying again, but it’s been a week and he hasn’t contacted you back either.

Maybe it was mutual disdain; if one of you was testing the other to break, you didn’t want the first to be you. It already felt undignified to be marrying someone for the sake of keeping a semblance of ownership to your hotel, so you weren’t about to grovel and demand to be spoken to when it seemed like he wasn’t willing to spare you a second of his time.

Yoongi chatted for a bit before he had to go back to work, so you were left to pull out your laptop from your tote. For the next few hours you immersed yourself into finances, staring at the excel spreadsheet displayed on the screen far longer than was medically allowed. Surely, you’ll go blind before you see your hotel overcome the negative deficit you were in.

“See you tomorrow, Ms. Hwang,” Jungkook thrummed his fingers on the table as he passed by. You looked up in time to see him mime something unintelligible. Your brows raised in confusion.

“Your glasses,” he laughed quietly, fingers hovering close to your cheek. You mumbled a quiet oh, before pushing the rim higher until it settled snugly against your nose bridge.

“Thanks.” You sighed, tipping your head to one side. After feeling the satisfying pop! you turned back to Jungkook with a grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You slumped back to your work as soon as Jungkook was out of sight. Glancing at the clock on the corner of your laptop, it blinked 00:37, which automatically caused you to yawn. Yoongi should be out soon, so you willed yourself to stand up and prop the close sign by the entrance.

From where you stood, you could see the lobby clearly, as well as the spinning doors of the hotel entrance. A few patrons trickled in, no doubt coming in from their busy day, and filed sluggishly to the elevators where it would take them up their floors.

That was the most fulfilling part of being a hotelier to you. The satisfaction of giving people a comfortable stay, whether they were mere tourists or locals wanting a getaway from their normal life. It certainly isn’t as posh and sleek as the Kim Hotel with their towering glass buildings and boring black, white, and grey colour palettes. But what you had was something you were proud to consider your home, with the vibrant earth tones of the walls and furniture, as well as the rich velvet tapestry draped along the ornate windows. High ceiling chandeliers peppered the lobby, casting an ambience of warmth and security without lacking luxury.

“‘Night, Y/N.” Yoongi clasped your shoulder, startling you out of your mini daydream. “Stop using my restaurant as your office, will you?”

You mustered a small grin. “Bye, Yoongles. Drive safe.”

Yoongi turned to you as his face contorted violently. “I hate that nickname.”

“Love you too!” You called out as he exited through the revolving door before placing your hand down with a sigh. Back to work. You were about to turn and go back to your forgotten laptop when the door welcomed in another guest.

With bated breath you watched the man stalk towards you, eyeing you dangerously as if you were his prey. His midnight black suit made him look slim but highlighted his broad shoulders all the same. You were arrested at the spot, unable to look away and felt as if you’ve been robbed of oxygen. The more he stepped closer, the more unclear your thoughts became.

It’s not as if you hadn’t seen the man. He often appeared on several business magazines — gossip tabloids more so. Yet there was something different about seeing him in person, in front of you, in your hotel.

No. His hotel.

“Ms. Hwang. I was hoping to find you here.”

You blinked up at him, not trusting your voice to form words under such immense pressure. His usually slicked back ebony hair is more mussed; a day’s worth of stress was evident in his restless feature.

When you didn’t reply, he took it upon himself to study you from head to toe, and your body went rigid. Your long, honey-coloured hair had been tied up in a lazy bun and glasses framed your face. You didn’t bother changing out of your mini black dress from your date earlier, whose thin straps clung onto your shoulders for dear life.

You squirmed uncomfortably, finding a small ounce of strength to wrap your hands protectively around yourself. “What are you doing here, Mr. Kim?”

“Please,” he rolled his eyes, supple lips bending upwards for a grin. “Call me Seokjin. Mr. Kim is my father.”

And with that, he welcomed himself in the threshold of your restaurant.

Technically, it’s his restaurant now, too.

You let your anger simmer for a bit before turning to follow him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you declared. It was hard to keep your annoyance down when he had showed up unannounced after ignoring your existence for a whole week.

He slid next to the seat you had claimed yours, and you almost tripped in your heels as you followed, immediately snapping your laptop shut. There was no new information he could have garnered from looking at the finances of the hotel, as he’s probably aware of them. But the thought of him snooping around made you feel queasy.

“I wanted to see what had my father so enamoured that he’d actually buy this…” he trailed off, waving his hand dismissively, “…hotel?”

You hated the underlying judgement in his tone of voice. You had also heard rumours that he’s unabashedly forward and hard to deal with, on top of all the other rumours that plagued him. So far, all the boxes in the checklist were proving to be true.

“It’s quaint. Not at all what I expected.” His gaze studied you momentarily, and you can tell he wanted to say more but he smartly held himself back. Good. You don’t know what you would do if he strung one criticism after another.

“Well, you’ve seen it. You can kindly screw off now.”

Seokjin seemed taken aback for a second, but his surprise didn’t linger. He leaned back on the stool and swiveled forward before pointing at the shelves lined with alcohol.

“I’ll have a whiskey, neat.”

In an attempt to ignore his ridiculous demand, you powered up your laptop once more. No way in hell would you let him step all over you, not even when he owned the hotel where you now stood. “You have very capable legs and arms. I’m sure you can whip one up yourself.”

Was this man joking? Granted, you know your way behind the bar since you had the privilege to work as a bartender for a few years during your college tenure. But that doesn’t mean he’s welcomed here to treat you as if you were a subservient of his. Which, semantics aside, you were, though that’s beside the point. But if he made an effort to come down here and order you around like a scullery maid in an attempt to intimidate you or put you in your place, then he was barking up the wrong tree.

“I was told you have terrific hospitality. I guess they were mistaken.”

Not for the likes of you, I don’t. You rolled your eyes, not bothering with an actual reply.

Seokjin maneuvered off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his cufflinks before he rolled his sleeves up meticulously. He then rounded the bar and began grabbing materials with familiarity, not stopping to ask where anything was located. You watched in awe from the corner of your eyes, attempting to be discreet.

“Want one?” he gave you a slanted gaze.

You wrinkled your nose in disagreement and raised your wine glass.

“A refill, then?”

Pressing your lips firmly together, you gave him a defiant headshake.

The mild shock of seeing him traipsing behind the bar had rendered you absolutely mute. The fact that he knew where everything was piqued your interest. Was it an outcome of years of experience as a habitual drinker? Or did he often just randomly raid bars, hence his extensive knowledge of their layout? You didn’t want to know, but at the same time you did.

It took him a while to find a coaster before settling back to the spot beside you. Typing away at your laptop, you refused to give him even an ounce of attention despite his attention solely being yours. The silence that ensued was more uncomfortable than anything you’ve experienced.

Suddenly, you were all too aware of your crooked posture and your body snapped, straightening your shoulders rigidly. It felt stupid, but necessary for the sake of your sanity to keep your façade. Although it crumbled ever so slightly when Seokjin laughed beside you.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel tense,” his voice was languid and inviting.

You steeled yourself, refusing to be lulled into a trance by his intoxicating presence. “What did you really come here for, Kim Seokjin?”

“She speaks!” he exclaimed, clearly amused. You turned to give him an impassive stare. “Do I need a reason to visit my fiancée?”

His statement caught you by surprise, your poor heart bearing the brunt of suddenly having to pump more oxygen than usual. It brought warmth to your cheeks and you allowed yourself to fall into the fantasy of marrying the most eligible bachelor in all of Seoul. The fantasy, however, was short-lived as his wink broke the spell you were under.

“Don’t worry, this will be strictly business,” his back straightened up on cue. You tried and subsequently failed not to watch the way his deft fingers moved to loosen up his necktie. He then slightly deflated with a sigh, before grabbing his drink and taking a sip.

For courage, perhaps? It brought a small amount of accomplishment to know that you might have The Kim Seokjin nervous before you.

“It’s about the wedding, which you know is coming up soon.”

This was it. The topic you’ve been narrowly avoiding for the past week suddenly poured on you all at once like a bucket of ice-cold water. It wasn’t the most refreshing way of waking you up to reality, but it got the job done.

“I hope you aren’t getting cold feet now, Kim,” he grins at your attempt at humour.

“I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, by the way. My secretary said you tried to get a hold of me.” You remembered the woman’s monotone voice on the other end of the phone call. Part of the reason why you were reluctant to call back was due to nervousness from hearing her apathetic voice.

You shrugged in response, finding him less of an asshole than you had previously. Was your expectation of decency so low that you found anything remotely human he did to be an act of chivalry on his part?

Yes. Yes, it was.

“I tried calling because I wanted to know if I would be able to talk you out of this deal.”

Seokjin was visibly surprised by your candor.

“Oh yeah, and how would that have played out?”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. Surely, it was too late to take anything back, so you tossed all caution out of the window. He might as well hear your piece.

“The ceremony preferably cancelled. The Hwang Hotel back to its rightful owner, as if the whole thing hadn’t occurred in the first place.”

Seokjin regarded you with amusement in his eyes. The warm lights of the Grigio soften his rugged features, making it seem like he was glowing. You came to understand how he had the whole country enamoured by him. He was distressingly handsome.

You gagged at where your thoughts ended up and leaned back a little, terrified of feeling too intimate with the man who had claimed your hard-earned success for himself. The hotel means more to you in ways you know Seokjin will never be able to relate. A man who, with a little twirl of his fingers, would be making more money than you could ever hope to imagine. They say no hard work goes unpaid, but for him it was probably akin to: No hard work, but I get paid either way. How comfortable must it be to sit atop that domineering tower of his, overlooking the city he practically owns?

“And what do I get out of that possible scenario?” he began after a brief pause.

You refused to wilt under his imposing gaze. With a confident voice, you said, “The satisfaction of doing a noble deed.”

He barked out a laugh, tilting his head back in obvious enjoyment. You didn’t share the sentiment as you sighed before removing your prescription glasses. Perhaps hoping for the impossible was futile, after all.

“Look, I don’t care about this little passion project of yours,” Seokjin waved his hands around condescendingly, and you felt a familiar pang of anger surging from your chest. “And you’re lucky my father swooped in to purchase this hotel before you went bankrupt.”

“Thank you for the constant reminder,” you deadpanned, but he ignored you and continued. The gall of the man to show up and ridicule you made you irate. I take that back, he’s still an asshole in every aspect imaginable.

“To be frank, I think we’re both in a pinch here. You want your hotel back, and I’m willing to grant you that tiny little wish.”

You perked up; interest piqued. But you felt an ultimatum coming, so you squashed all hope arising from his statement. There was always a catch.

“My parents have been grooming me to become CEO ever since I learned how to walk. For me, acquiring the position is a no-brainer.”

“But?” you offered, and his grin widened.

“But lately my father refuses to hand me the reins. He’s been wanting to retire, but every year he keeps sticking it out. Then I unceremoniously learned my engagement with you. All of a sudden, his mood shifted, and his plans for retirement began piling up.”

Your brows creased in confusion, unable to see how you fit into all of this.

“My reputation precedes me, so I’m sure you’re aware of what I’m insinuating here.”

Something clicks in your mind, and you willed yourself to hold back a scoff.

“Enlighten me, Kim,” you propped your chin against your palm. If you were going to agree to this, you might as well have a little fun for yourself.

“My parents aren’t amused by my…” Seokjin trailed off.

“Decision to debauch half the women’s population of Seoul?” you offered, unable to hold yourself back. You grinned triumphantly; he had set himself up for that moral beating.

“I was going to say my inability to settle down, but sure, we’ll go with that,” Seokjin was unfazed, much to your disappointment. “He hadn’t explicitly said it but seeing the way everything is being handled so quickly, I can tell it’s what he wants. For me to get married; then maybe he’ll consider giving me the position.”

“And you didn’t oppose?” you asked incredulously. It seemed at the moment you were the one who is prepped to lose the most. What if it wasn’t you who the Kims chose for their son? Were you supposed to just accept defeat and give up your hotel?

“Oh, trust me, I vehemently opposed,” you nodded at his statement. At least you agreed on something. That was a start. “But that’s partly the reason why I’m here.”

“What more can we possibly do? We’re basically left with no option,” you grumbled, turning back to your laptop. For you, there was no way around this. Both your families have decided for you, so you have to either fall in line or risk losing your business.

“What if I tell you we can go back to our normal lives a few months from now? We won’t be married to each other. You’ll have your hotel back, and I’ll still be the CEO.”

You inadvertently leaned towards him, eager to know where the conversation was going.

“We just have to convince my parents and yours, as well as the board of directors of Kim Hotels and the public alike how we’re hopelessly in love with each other.”

Your mouth formed into a visible scowl, forehead creasing in confusion. You searched for hints of frivolity, waiting for him to say just kidding! at any moment. But his stoic face told you that he was being serious.

“And we’re doing this because…?” your patience had worn thin, expression marred by weariness and fatigue. You had a lot to get back to; you didn’t have time for silly games.

“It will make the divorce more believable.”

You paused, the gears in your brain turning. The agreement your parents told you about hadn’t involved a divorce; so, you were curious as to where Seokjin was going with his idea.

He was offering you an out; a way to get out of his family’s mess unscathed. You’ll have your only prized possession, and he can go back to sleeping with as many people as he wanted while retaining his coveted position. The proposition was too good to be true.

“What’s the catch?” your lips pursed, and you found yourself considering his ludicrous proposal.

“No catch,” he holds his two hands up in surrender, the corner of his mouth forming a smirk. You eyed him with suspicion.

“Just that you give effort into this whole thing. Make my father and the board believe enough to think I’ve ‘cleaned up my act’,” he paused to roll his eyes, “so that they’ll hand me the position without question. I promise you full ownership of the Hwang Hotel, without debt, as soon as we separate.”

While your parents’ original plan had been to marry you off entirely (which you did not want at all) Seokjin was sensible enough to figure out that you had no desires of tying the knot to someone you barely knew. He probably shared the sentiment, hence his proposal.

“This doesn’t make sense though,” you said pointedly. “Wouldn’t they find out about your motives when we divorce? And our parents technically arranged this, so they’ll be mad — I’m sure yours will be more than mine.”

You’re all in for finding a loophole in this whole arrangement, but you’re not sure you’ll agree if it will give you more problems in the long run.

He shrugged, unconcerned. “They can question it all they want. But like I said, if we make it believable enough, we can always reason that we ‘fell out of love’.”

In an attempt to alleviate a developing headache, your hands slowly massaged your temples. The information was a lot to hand, but no matter how many scenarios you played in your head, they all seemed to have the finale you wanted. Regardless of what happened within the upcoming months, you were going to get your hotel back.

“If you’re really that worried, let’s just say I cheated,” Seokjin’s words snapped you out of your muddled thoughts.

Your eyebrows creased in confusion. “Wouldn’t that be worse for you?”

“The public already thinks I’m a man-whore,” he said wryly. “The board is not going to kick me out of office for something tedious like a divorce once I’m CEO. And I’m sure I can reason it out with my parents when the time comes.”

You laced your fingers together, hoping to wring the concerns away. There was no use in overthinking the situation; it certainly beats staying miserably married to someone you barely know.

You let out a shaky breath, before mustering the confidence to say, “Fine.”

“Great, I knew you’d be reasonable.” He flicked his wrist to look at his watch, gaze composed despite the tiredness in his eyes. “I’ll have my secretary e-mail you a written agreement.”

“Great,” you mimicked his deadpan tone. Gone was the casual Seokjin who paced around behind the bar with much familiarity. This was the COO of Kim Hotels Seokjin; precise and straight to the point.

Better get used to that.

“Thanks for the drink, future wife,” he slid off the barstool with poise, the distance between you and him closing ever so slightly. He smelled like pine and cedar, with a hint of citrus; it was enough for you to suddenly sober up, unaware you were inebriated, to begin with.

“No need. You forced your way in, anyway.” You said dismissively, pretending to switch tabs on your screen. Where was that random website you were looking at earlier?

With a quiet laugh, he turned to leave. You listened to his rhythmic steps and perked up when he paused.

“See you tomorrow, fiancée,” he said without turning.

“Tomorrow?” you tried not to give away the surprise in your voice.

“We have to start going on dates to convince them that we’re serious about this, right? Pick you up at eight, sharp.”

With a wave of his right hand, he stalked off towards the exit, leaving you alone in the restaurant.

Suddenly, the premise didn’t appear so simple. You reached for your glass of wine and finished the rest of your courage drink in one gulp.

NEXT ; 

thanks for reading! feedback is always appreciated ;u;

[emospritelet]

Heatstroke - chapter 3

These prompts arrived within minutes of each other XD

I’m open to more embarrassing and awkward prompts for these babies!

[AO3]

x

Realising that the woman who had thrown a drink over him and then disparaged the size of his manhood in the middle of Granny’s Diner was now his next door neighbour was not how Mr Gold had wanted to start his day. 

The previous evening had started badly and finished even worse. After completing his rounds he had gone home in a foul mood, trying not to remember the derisive way she had spoken of him to Miss Lucas, or the look in her eyes as she had glanced up and down his body. A toxic relationship and an acrimonious divorce years earlier had left his self-confidence battered, almost non-existent. He had worked hard to build it back up, or at least to wall himself off from others to keep them from knowing the truth. Most days he could pretend that he didn’t hate himself. Today was not one of those days.

He had gleaned from listening to her conversation with Miss Lucas that she was staying in Storybrooke. At first he had thought that perhaps she meant that she had a room at the inn. There was very little property in Storybrooke that he didn’t own, and he certainly couldn’t recall agreeing to any new tenancies. Perhaps her stay would be short-lived; what was there in Storybrooke for a young woman to do, after all? She would have more luck in Boston if she was seeking work. Whatever it was she did when she wasn’t talking about his unimpressive cock.

The following morning, he glanced out of his bedroom window and was surprised to see her in the backyard of the small house next to his, a yoga mat spread out on the grass. She was working through some poses, stretching and twisting, hands raised to the sky before folding forwards and wrapping her arms around her legs. The pose made the lilac pants she was wearing hug her buttocks, and Gold found that he was staring. He shook his head, twitching the curtain back across and going to get dressed. So. He had a new neighbour. A neighbour that had not only seen him naked but had laughed and gossiped about it in the diner. Wonderful.

The house next door to his was one of the few he didn’t own; he had been trying to convince Regina Mills to sell it to him for years, but she had refused, no doubt because she knew it would annoy him. He wondered how much she knew of the tenant, and whether this was all part of an elaborate plot to piss him off. If so, he wasn’t about to admit that it was working.

Tugging the knot in his tie straight, he looked himself over in the mirror and nodded curtly before heading downstairs. It was a coffee-for-breakfast type of morning. Two cups, and he could head to the shop and make a start on inventory. He needed to restock in a few areas, and switch some of the pieces between his home and the shop. That would take up most of the day.

He was just pouring his first cup of coffee when the phone rang, the noise shrill in the still morning. Gold frowned to himself, but as he saw who was calling he broke into a smile.

“Neal,” he said. “How are you?”

“Morning Pops.” His son sounded a little harassed. “Sorry to catch you so early.”

“No problem. I’ve been up since six, you know me.”

“Yeah. Listen, Emma asked me to call and I figured I’d do it before work sucked my soul out of my body and left me for dead. We’re thinking of paying you a visit. Maybe next weekend?”

“Sounds good.” Gold tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and headed for the lounge. “You’re always welcome, you know that.”

“Great! We’re just waiting for Henry to get rid of the latest cold he’s managed to pick up. Friday okay?”

“I look forward to it,” said Gold, with a broad smile, entering the lounge. “Maybe we can—”

He broke off as he saw something in the middle of the patterned rug. Something that had certainly not been there when he was drinking his whisky the previous evening. A scrap of fuchsia lace, one end just touching the leg of one of the chairs.

“Dad?” said Neal. “You there?”

“Yes yes,” said Gold vaguely. “I’m here.”

“You were saying something?” prompted Neal.

Gold put down the cup of coffee, bending to pick up the scrap of lace, his eyes widening. It was a pair of panties, if one could call them that. Little more than a triangle of pink lace with strings at the side. He held it up in bewilderment, his mind whirling.

“Dad?”

Gold shook his head, tossing the underwear onto the couch.

“Yes - uh - Friday,” he said quickly. “We can go to Granny’s if you like. I know how much you and Emma like the ribs.”

“Sounds awesome.”

“Right.” Gold found that his eyes were straying to the panties. “Uh - see you then. Love you, son. Give my love to Emma and Henry.”

“Sure thing. Love you too.”

Gold hung up, putting the phone on the coffee table and turning his attention back to the underwear. He had a sneaking suspicion that they belonged to his new neighbour. An image of her bending over in her yoga pose wearing nothing but the pink thong leapt cheerfully into his mind, and he shoved it away before it could cause too much mischief. 

He went to check the doors at the front and back of the house, frowning to himself when he found them both locked. This was getting more curious by the minute. Perhaps she thought it an amusing prank to break in and leave her underwear around the place, but he couldn’t see how she had done it without using a key, and he knew where every copy of the keys to his house were kept. He was tempted to march around to her house and demand an explanation, but he suspected that getting a rise out of him was what she wanted. She’d probably film the thing and post it on one of those stupid apps to giggle over with Miss Lucas.

Mouth flattening, he scooped up the underwear and put it in one of the drawers of his bureau. If she wanted to leave her panties around the place, he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of letting her know it was pissing him off. She’d get bored eventually.

x

He made sure to check all the locks before he left for work, and spent a fairly enjoyable day buried in the back room of the shop, going through his stock, deciding what to display and updating his records. It was a quiet day; only two customers attended the shop and given that rent day was done, he had no tenants coming in to pay rent. He found that he enjoyed the solitude. Not that that was anything new.

By lunchtime he was hungry, and went to the diner to buy a sandwich. Miss Lucas greeted him pleasantly, as though she hadn’t been giggling with her new friend about him only the previous evening. For a moment he was tempted to ask about the woman, to at least find out her name and reason for being in Storybrooke, but pride was making him stubborn, and he bit back the question before he could ask it.

By the time he got home the sun was setting in a blaze of gold, pleasantly warm on his shoulders as he walked up the steps of his house. Locking the door behind him, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up, and glanced around as he heard a tinkling noise from the kitchen. Gold frowned, listening intently. There was nothing further, and he moved as quietly as he could, edging towards the kitchen, cane grasped tightly in his hand and ready to be used as a weapon if needed.

The kitchen was empty, and a quick glance around showed that nothing had been moved. Shaking his head, Gold went to fill the kettle with water for tea. He carried a cup through to the lounge when it was made, and stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing at what was looking up at him from the rug.

Today’s offering was white, the underwear dropped casually in the middle of the rug, as though their owner had undressed quickly. As though she had been ravished in the middle of his lounge. Gold put down his tea, using the cane to hook through the waistband of the panties. They were small, with a mesh triangle at the back and a lace waistband and front with a tiny satin bow in the middle. Whoever owned the panties was petite, which ruled out a number of possible candidates in the town. Gold’s suspicions still tended towards his new neighbour, but he currently had no proof. Nor a motive. Nor an explanation for how she was getting into his house. 

Growling under his breath, he shoved them in the bureau drawer with the other pair and stomped back through to the kitchen, where he stopped dead. A black cat was sitting in the middle of the floor, staring at him with jade-green eyes. It was a handsome creature, its fur shining, long tail wound around its feet and a blue collar with a bell around its neck. On the floor beside it was another lace thong, this one a pretty powder blue, and Gold looked from the cat to the panties to the cat flap in the kitchen door, realisation dawning. He grounded the cane between his feet, fixing the cat with as stern a look as he could manage.

“So,” he said. “This is your doing, is it?”

The cat let out a faint miaow, pink mouth showing sharp white teeth.

“You do realise that these are neither my colour nor my style, hmm?” added Gold. “Perhaps you should take them home.”

The cat mewed again, getting to its feet and stepping forward to wind around his shins. Gold bit back a grin.

“No point trying to get into my good books,” he said. “I have to think of a way to get this underwear back without crossing paths with its owner. Unless you’ve got any bright ideas, go on home.”

The cat was purring, butting its head against his legs, and Gold bent to scratch its ears, receiving a nuzzle in response. He picked up the panties while he was at it, stuffing them into his pocket, and the cat trotted off to the cat flap, tail flicking as he disappeared through it. Gold shook his head. At least he knew who the intruder was now. He just needed to return the underwear.

[mischiefandspirits]

Colony of Gotham (7/7)

The Colony of Gotham is an urban legend that is whispered about in the dangerous city. It’s said the Colony is a family of demons and spirits that stalk the night, hunting for the souls of the guilty.

When Bruce became Batman, he’d never intended to be mistaken for a demon. He was happy to lean into it, though, and as he gained his partners – as his family grew – they all followed suit.

First Part ~ Previous Part

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once Tigress had escorted Flash and Young Justice to the Watchtower and had calmed everyone down, she explained that the Colony was not, in fact, malevolent.

She told them that the family was simply territorial of the area they protected. Their actions had just been them making their point in their typical chaotic and playful way. She and Flash had encountered some of the Colony the night before and after assuring them they would continue to keep their business out of the city, the bats and birds had agreed to a truce. The Flash's kidnapping was just Flash wanting to get in on the joke. He was meant to show up that night with a figurative olive branch from the Colony, but then Young Justice had rushed in and the Colony reacted in kind by capturing them. They then informed Flash so he and Tigress could return them. The team was reprimanded for rushing in without backup and Flash was given extra monitor duty as punishment for his trick. He accepted it graciously, having expected it.

When they made it back to Gotham, Dick explained Damian’s past to Artemis and Wally. The latter was not pleased to discover the young boy he’d been teasing and calling cute for years was an assassin.

“He might be a former assassin, but he’s still adorable.”

“No, Dick, you don’t call people who can and will slit your throat if you upset them adorable. You could have warned me! I nearly died!”

“A lot,” Jason added from off to the side where the rest of Dick’s siblings were watching the show with popcorn.

“Damian wouldn't have actually killed you,” Dick argued.

“Maybe just maimed you a little. But hey, you heal fast.”

“Not helping Tiny Jay,” Dick hissed as Wally pointed at Tim and nodded.

“Maimed! I could have been maimed! Just because I heal fast doesn’t mean getting maimed doesn’t hurt!”

“Dami never meant to kill. Dami only meant to maim or seriously injure,” Carrie croaked from right behind the speedster, causing him to jump with a shriek.

“No voice filters in the manor,” Dick huffed at her before turning to his siblings as a whole. “Guys, please stop traumatizing my partners!”

Artemis, who until this point had been pinching the bridge of her nose, looked up with a murderous expression. “YOU STARTED IT!”

When Bruce and Selina returned from their honeymoon, the kids explained what had happened.

Bruce would never admit it, but he was proud of how the kids handled the situation. They ensured the other teams wouldn’t interfere in Gotham and limited the amount of information that got out about them to people who were already trusted. That said, he would have preferred they had taken the situation more seriously, which he made sure they knew.

No matter how amusing the recordings Barbara had shown him of the heroes’ reactions were.

He also would have preferred no information got out about them, but he knew it was only a matter of time for those who did find out. Young Justice was just a little too invested in Tim’s wellbeing, not that he was complaining, so they were sure to notice something eventually. As for Wally and Artemis, he’d been waiting for this since they’d found out the family’s other secret.

Selina had bet the engagement announcement would happen first, but he knew Dick wouldn’t have agreed without all secrets coming to light first.

He was a little less forgiving of the rest of the kids taking this as permission to tell their friends.

He wasn’t too annoyed with Damian as Jon had already suspected there was something different about the family (he was too much like his mother) and he mostly excused Stephanie and Bette seeing as Cassie already knew, which meant they were more likely to mess up in the group chat. He didn’t say anything to Barbara, partly because she wasn’t really his (no matter how much he cared for her) and partly because she’d somehow managed to convince Hank and Dawn she was still a demon.

He did have talks with Dick, Jason, and Carrie though. Kory might have been a friend of the family for longer than Jason had been a member (as Dick had been quick to point out in his defense), but they hadn’t been as close since the breakup. Artemis Grace tended to be a wild card in regards to her loyalties and her team had a looser grasp on the law then most others in their business (Jason took offense to this, of course, even if he didn’t object). As for Traci, they simply didn’t know her (No, Carrie, a two day round trip does not give you plenty of time to know a person. No, I don’t care if you managed to convince her you were a demon. Barbara’s situation is different!).

There was a bright side to this, though. The mix of information that the heroes had ended up causing a few amusing situations.

One such situation came up a few months later when Tim, Stephanie, and Bette were hanging out with their friends at Mount Justice. Bette offhandedly mentioned to Cissie that Damian’s mother was part of “the League” right before the three Gothamites got called away. This resulted in Cissie, who thought the Robins were human, gossiping with Roy, who thought Robin was a demon, about how “Batman totally knocked up someone in the JL and Robin’s the result.” This resulted in Oliver, who’d been eavesdropping, ending a League meeting by asking if anyone knew who’d spawned the Bloody Robin. The information reached anyone even remotely connected to the League within twenty-four hours.

The Colony just sat back and watched the accidental chaos, obviously.

The most common theory was Wonder Woman, though no one was willing to suggest it anywhere she might hear. One of Hawkgirl’s past lives was also a popular theory, and she was horrified when she realized she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t true.

It came to a head when the Titans decided to have a get together of current and former Titans and Teen Titans. Guests were allowed, so Kory and Roy invited Artemis Grace and Bizarro. Assuming the event would be boring and wanting to either have someone who would lighten it up or be bored with her, Artemis only agreed to come if Red Hood came too. To the horror of everyone not in the know, Kory not only agreed, but decided to extend the invite to all the younger members of the Colony.

Nightwing and Robin arrived first with Tigress and Flash, the older bird arm in arm with Tigress while the younger was sitting on Flash’s shoulders. Both gave too wide grins as they waved at the Titans and Teen Titans who were already gathered. Robin dropped limply off Flash’s shoulders and hit the ground in a roll before running off to drape herself over Thirteen.

Batgirl, Hawkfire, and Lark arrived next with Cassie and Donna, to the latter’s obvious discomfort. They were quickly joined by Cissie and Kara as Donna went off to greet her friends. Batgirl took great joy in disappearing and reappearing around the room, while Lark took great joy in selling her out every chance he got since he could always see where she was. Hawkfire was equally thrilled to use the voices of anyone who got near, having made sure to study up on as many people who’d be at the party as possible so she could mimic their voices.

The rest of Young Justice arrived shortly later with Superboy, Corvid, and Robin. The last surprised most of the people who’d already been there, until they realized Robin was no longer at Thirteen’s side despite many being sure she’d been there only a second before. Throughout the party Robin seemed to disappear from Thirteen’s side, only to reappear across the room at Superboy’s within a second. Some even swore they’d seen Robin in two places at once, but no one was ever sure. Meanwhile Corvid’s speech pattern had him sticking close to a member of the Colony or Kory so they could translate for him.

No one was exactly sure when Black Bat and Bluebird arrived. They were simply there, hovering around some of the others or hidden off in a corner. No one ever seemed to notice Black Bat come or go between groups either. She always seemed to just be there.

Pythia had been there from the beginning, but she mostly just kept to herself, watching and listening through the cameras, until Hawk and Dove arrived. Then she whispered at them through the nearest speaker. This meant the two mostly stayed off to the side on their own, but neither felt any need to complain.

Roy, Artemis, Bizarro, and Red Hood arrived after the party was already in full swing with no reason for being late other than a joke from Roy about being fashionable. Red Hood had a similar experience to Corvid, though Kory could not translate for him while Artemis and Bizarro could. Artemis had placed a comm into her ear for the occasion, but not even the Colony could explain how Bizarro managed to always know what Red Hood was saying.

Despite the Colony’s eccentricities, the party went smoothly.

Until someone brought up Robin’s heritage, at least.

The Robin with Thirteen snickered when she heard and disappeared into the shadows. Corvid, who had also been near, shook his head and let her slip under his cape as he headed towards where Kon and Lark were talking.

The debate began to spread until Beast Boy huffed and turned to Bluebird. “So who popped out the demon spawn?”

The room fell silent and a few people gave him terrified expressions before glancing at the Colony. The shapeshifter squirmed, not having meant for his voice to be as loud as it was.

The thing was, every Robin had been referred to as a demon spawn at multiple points in their lives, and Black Bat had had the title thrown at her a few times too. As such the group couldn’t help themselves.

With eerie synchrony, Dick, Stephanie, Bette, Duke, Damian, and Carrie all answered, “My mom.”

Most noticed that Jason, Tim, and Cass had all answered as well in growls, trills, and sign language respectively, which only added to the confusion or horror everyone in the room was feeling.

Those who knew the group to be the Wayne family and associates were confused about why they had all answered, and why answer like that as they had thought their friends had separate mothers. Didn’t they? Those who knew they were not actually demons were also thrown by how the group had managed to speak as one.

Meanwhile those who knew nothing were terrified as they came to the incorrect conclusion that a member of the Justice League had somehow managed to spawn most of the Colony without anyone finding out.

The Colony refused to say any names, but otherwise most of them were happy to answer questions about their mother. This really only managed to confuse people more, however. Especially when people would get conflicting answers. That was near always, really, as Nightwing was describing his mother; Red Hood was describing Catherine Todd; Corvid was switching between his mother and Selina; Batgirl was switching between her mother, Kate, Selina, and Talia (the middle two purely for the amusement and the last for the looks she’d get from Robin whenever he caught her at it); Hawkfire was describing her mother; Black Bat was just gesturing for Bluebird to describe her own mother; Lark was describing his mother; and both Robins were describing Selina (though Damian would later state it was purely for the consistency with his fellow Robin).

It was only after the party when the Colony, Young Justice, Tigress, Flash, Starfire, Artemis, Arrowette, Supergirl, Superboy, and Thirteen retreated to the cave that anyone got a real answer.

“Oh, Dami’s mother is from the League of Assassins, not the Justice League. There must have been a mix up somewhere.”

Surprisingly, this did not bring relief to anyone. Especially when they found out his mother was none other than Talia al Ghul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One calm day, Artemis dragged her partners down to the cave’s sparring mats so she could see what Dick could do firsthand. He did not disappoint as he quickly pinned Wally.

“Well, this explains why Jade seems to like him so much,” the speedster muttered from his place facedown on the mat.

Artemis frowned as Dick sat next to their boyfriend, patting his back. “Wait… Oh my God, Dick! You sa-Is tea code for getting your butt kicked by my sister?”

Dick looked up with a sheepish grin. “No, tea is code for kicking your sister's butt.”

“You…”

He shrugged. “In her defense, she wasn’t expecting someone with my level of training. The fight would have been much closer if she had been.”

Wally looked up with wide eyes. “Hold on, she actually tried to kill you then?”

Dick gave Artemis a look. “You probably should have told her we were together. She thought Wally had cheated on or dumped you. I thought it was actually kind of sweet, really, but Bruce was ticked when he found out and I think Jason was considering hunting her down.”

Artemis threw her hands in the air and marched off. She dug her phone out of her pocket.

“‘Ello?” Jade’s sleepy voice answered.

“You tried to kill my boyfriend!”

“Oh, you found out about that?”

“Why didn't you tell me he could fight? And well enough to defeat you.”

“You didn’t know? Why did you think I approved? I don’t approve of the speedster and he has powers. He really needs to learn how to fight without relying on them.”

Artemis could admit she had a point on both fronts, but wouldn’t admit it. “Dick’s sweet and charming. I swear if he had a superpower it would be making friends. I just thought he’d made you like him.”

“Yes. By being a competent fighter. Although if he’s going around bragging about defeating me I might need to teach him a lesson, being brothers with an al Ghul or not.”

“Wait, you knew about his brother being Ra’s al Ghul’s grandson too?” Artemis choked.

“You really need to pay more attention to who you’re dating.”

“Who’s dating the brother of an al Ghul?”

Artemis blushed. “Is that Roy? Are you two still together?”

“It’s complicated. And before you freak out, we were just sleeping when you called. Actually sleeping.” Quieter, likely from holding the phone away, she heard Jade say, “Artemis is. Her little Gotham squeeze has league connections.”

“Jade,” Artemis hissed.

“League. You mean Damian? Of course he’s… Hold on!” There was some static and then Roy was talking directly into the phone. “I’m coming to Gotham.”

“No.”

He came to Gotham. He showed up right on the porch of Wayne Manor hours later looking more excited than she’d seen him in years.

“Please tell me Damian Wayne is who I think he is,” he said as soon as she marched up to where he was waiting outside. “Please tell me he is because I need to know if everyone has been freaking out thinking Robin’s the kid of Wonder Woman when he’s actually Talia al Ghul’s spawn.”

“Please tell me you didn’t ditch my sister to come here,” she shot back, glancing around to be sure her sister wasn’t hiding in any shadows.

“She took off after we had morn-”

“Nope. Shut up.”

“So is he?”

Artemis glanced over her shoulder to see Wally and Dick watching. Dick shrugged and she sighed. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m not ruining it. So Jason is Hood.”

“Yes.”

“And Dick is -”

“Yes.”

“This is amazing.”

“If you get yourself shot don’t come crying to me.”

“I’d die happy. You haven’t heard the things Ollie and Dinah have been saying. This is the best inside joke I’ve ever heard and I hate you for keeping it from me.”

“I only found out after the Titan party last week.”

“That’s an entire week where you kept me out of the loop.”

“You want to come in for food or are you going to go track down my brother?” Dick called.

Roy shrugged and they started for the door before his eyes widened and he glanced between the three. “So that stuff about Flamebird?”

“He was just messing around to tease Wally and freak out the League. Just like everything he and his family have done since Zatanna dragged them into the spotlight. That’s how I realized he was Nightwing. They are exactly the same level of troll.”

“I love everything about this.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Are you sure?” Dick asked.

“Absolutely not,” Wally said, but grabbed the blood bar Dick was holding out anyway.

“If you don-

“We’re fine,” Artemis said, grabbing her own bar. “Wally’s just whining like usual.”

“I’m just saying, we have no idea how this will affect me.”

“Duke’s a meta and he was fine.”

“He’s not connected to the Speed Force.”

Dick reached forward to grab Wally’s bar. “You don’t have to -

“I want to,” Wally said, jerking the bar away, grabbing Dick’s hand with his free one. “I do. I’m just nervous.”

“As per usual,” Artemis teased and kissed the speedster's cheek. Dick stepped closer and she kissed him as well before pulling the wrapper off her bar. She met their eyes, then took a bite.

She began to sway as she finished it so Dick helped her over to the bed. All the while Wally tossed his bar between his hands. He pulled it open and frowned down at it.

Dick pulled him to the bed once Artemis was settled. “It’s alright if you want to back out. Neither of us would blame you.”

Wally shook his head and sat down. “I want this, I do. I just can’t stop thinking about what could go wrong. Like, what if my body already burned through whatever it is that’s supposed to turn me.”

Dick cocked his head and slipped into his lap. He leaned down to nuzzle Wally’s neck, earning a sharp intake. “I can bite you while you eat it. Then your body won’t have time.”

The speedster shivered and swallowed. His free hand came up to card through Dick’s hair as he gave a quick nod.

Smiling, Dick peppered a few teasing kisses across his jugular before biting down.

Wally shivered again and melted into Dick for a moment before bringing the bar up and taking a bite. He finished it off quickly as Dick pulled away.

“It doesn’t taste like blood,” he said with a frown, tossing aside the wrapper as he licked his lips. “I don’t know what it tastes like, but it isn’t blood.”

“That means it’s working,” Dick said.

“Really?”

“You think Stephanie would have downed an entire bottle of blood by accident if she could taste it the same way a human does?” Dick pressed a kiss to the corner of Wally’s mouth. “Blood has a special flavor to us unlike anything else.”

Wally hummed and kissed Dick until his mind started to fog up. Dick helped him lay back then covered him up when the fever took him.

The bird took a moment to just stare down at the two, his thumb brushing the band on his left ring finger.

It was made from strips of black and gold titanium twisted together with rubies peaking through the cracks. It matched the one on Artemis’s hand, gifts from their wonderful fiancé.

Dick gave both a quick peck then left them to rest.

Things were sure to get crazy soon enough, especially once the announcements went out, but for now, Dick would revel in the calm and the feeling of family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vampires’ animal forms:

Artemis: North American cougar

Wally: Vizsla dog

[mister-fleck]

relax: arthur fleck x sophie

prompt: “Could you write arthur/sophie nsfw? I imagine him as less experienced than her, but so excited and happy to what’s going on.”

Arthur struck his lighter once, twice, three times before taking a deep pull off of his cigarette.

A week had gone by since Hoyt had fired him. That particular phone call still made Arthur’s cheeks burn with shame whenever he thought back on it — which was often. The whole ordeal skyrocketed Arthur’s already prominent amount of stress. Cash had grown tight, not that he had all that much saved up to begin with, and Arthur had been forced to take a step back and reevaluate how to spend what little change he had left. 

And it was imperative that he did so. Arthur didn’t have the greatest resume, certainly no college degree, and the faded homeschooled certificate he kept stapled to it didn’t mean anything when it came to employers. Who in their right mind would hire somebody whose main credentials were clown and nice guy?

Due to the current hardship that life always seemed to throw at him, Arthur had disciplined himself into smoking less. He couldn’t afford the luxury of smoking two packs a day anymore, not with the responsibility of feeding his mother and paying the landlord. 

He had waited all day to smoke this cigarette. Arthur had told himself that he would be rewarded with it at the end of the day, but only if he pushed himself out of his comfort zone to apply for work elsewhere. Interviews were always at the top of Arthur’s list when it came to what made him nervous. And nervousness led to anxiety, which led to paranoia, which led to laughter…

Today hadn’t gone any differently. Nobody even remotely considered him — Arthur had consistently struggled to find the right words to sell himself as a diligent employee. Which was frustrating, because Arthur knew he was a  hard worker. He put his heart and soul into everything he did, especially when there was the possibility of failure. Yet none of this mattered, not when Arthur could only shrug and grasp at his throat when asked: where do you see yourself in five years?

But he had tried. Arthur had gotten dressed, combed back his hair, and put in the effort to further his life in this dreadful city called Gotham, so he deserved this damn cigarette. 

Shoving his cold hands into his pockets, Arthur let the smoke travel into the furthest parts of his body before exhaling it during his walk home. 

“C’mon, we’ve got to hurry it up. It’ll get cold out soon, baby girl.” 

Arthur lifted his gaze from the filthy sidewalk and was met with the vision of a slender woman rounding the street corner, hand in hand with a little girl.

His cigarette nearly fell from between his lips. Sophie.

After their short encounter in the elevator, Arthur had developed a serious crush. He could count on his fingers how many women had offered him the time of day, let alone smile in his general direction — so their brief moment, no matter how insignificant it may have been for her, had been imprinted on his heart. 

Arthur wasn’t proud of how he had followed her to work the day after. He hadn’t planned on it — Arthur had been on his way to the drug store when he spotted her leaving the apartment building, and well… he couldn’t stop himself. She pulled him forward unknowingly, like some sort of unrequited magnet. 

He had even imagined her showing up at his apartment, flirting with him in his door way. Calling him funny. 

And now they were walking in the same direction, the pair a few buildings away, their strides brisk. Sophie’s daughter was holding a red balloon and seemed to be disappearing in the fluffy winter jacket that she was bundled up in. Arthur’s eyes fell to their joined hands and envied the sight for more reasons than one. 

“Gigi, come back here!”

Sophie’s sudden demand pulled Arthur out of his thoughts and he focused on what was playing out before him: the red balloon was now a few feet away from the two of them, most likely having been blown away from the late October breeze, and Gigi’s little feet were pitter-pattering in the same direction, determined to catch it.

Right into oncoming traffic. 

Breath hitching, Arthur tossed aside his cigarette and broke into a clumsy sprint toward the child without hesitation, nearly falling flat on his face in the process, but managed to grab Gigi by the back of her coat and yank her onto the sidewalk before a taxi cab could smack right into the side of her. 

The rest was a blur. Arthur’s throat clenched and unclenched as he knelt on the sidewalk, his lungs burning, his nose pink and itchy from the chill. He heard Sophie scold her daughter somewhere behind him, her voice tight with concern and anger and thick with tears. A soft hand fell against his shoulder soon thereafter. 

“Jesus Christ, thank you so much, are you okay?”

Arthur began to laugh. 

It came out in sharp bursts, loud and jagged, each peal like a bruising kick to his chest. Mortified and nearly hyperventilating, Arthur buried his face in the crook of his elbow and fought off the urge to curl up into the fetal position. He clenched his fist and slammed it once against the pavement as he drowned in his own self-hatred. 

The hand on his shoulder retreated and Arthur’s heart broke. He had to fix this. He couldn’t let this be how Sophie perceived him, not as some delusional sicko devoid of empathy. Anguished, he dug around in his pants pocket until he felt thin plastic and held the card up over his head as he succumbed to more agonizing laughter. 

To his embarrassment, it took Arthur nearly a full minute to calm down, and by then he had accepted the fact that Sophie had probably left him there out of pity. But as he lifted his head, now throbbing and heavy, Arthur saw that she was kneeling beside him, dark eyes wide with worry.

Sophie smiled sadly at him, but didn’t move away. Instead, she parted her lips. “Hey.” 

Arthur, out of his mind and abruptly infatuated, returned the favor. “Hey.”

An hour later, Arthur found himself seated in Sophie’s apartment, perched nervously on the edge of her couch with his hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee. He turned the mug over and smiled at the messy, painted lettering splayed across it: Best Mommy Ever. 

Arthur’s heart had been hammering away ever since Sophie had invited him back to her place. He had politely insisted that repaying him wasn’t necessary, but thankfully she was insistent on patching up his banged up hand. 

“Thank you for waiting,” Sophie murmured, reemerging from Gigi’s bedroom. “Had to check under the little one’s bed for monsters. You know how children can be.”

With the way Sophie looked in her sweater and leggings, Arthur felt like a little kid himself, dazed and bashful in her presence. He smiled up at her. 

“I used to work with them,” he heard himself admit, knees pressed together and ears heating up. “I’d entertain the kids down at Gotham Children’s Hospital.” Arthur ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. “I’m a party clown.”

Sophie broke out into a bright grin and Arthur could have passed out. “Really? That’s so sweet, Arthur.” She rounded the couch to sit next to him, not too close, but not far away either. “That’s your name, right? Arthur Fleck?”

Please never stop saying my name. “Yes. Arthur.” 

Picking up her own mug from the coffee table in front of them, Sophie leaned back into the couch and crossed one long leg over the other. “I’ve always liked that name.” 

She took a sip. Arthur mimicked her, letting the hot liquid soothe his throat. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. It’s sweet. And distinguished.”

Looking down at his wrinkled jacket and beat up corduroy slacks, Arthur lifted one of his shoulders quietly. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever been distinguished, but I try my best to be sweet.” His voice was small, meek. 

“You’re kind of precious, you know that?” Sophie commented bluntly, her eyes flitting about him. “My neighbor said that you were kind of a creep, but I don’t think that’s the case at all.”

Arthur sagged a little. “They said that?” Hoping to rectify his reputation, he leant forward slightly, earnestly. “I swear, I’m a good guy, I’m just a little…”

“Shy.” Sophie finished for him, still smiling. 

She was the sun. She was the moon, the stars, the unimaginable in-between. Arthur’s pulse skipped. “Yeah.”

Arthur wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but midway through the evening news Sophie had allowed herself to scoot closer, resting her head against his shoulder and lifting her legs up onto the couch as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. He didn’t breathe for a solid two minutes, unaware of what god to thank for blessing him. 

Sophie’s voice came softly, “Is it okay if I…?” 

Arthur looked down to see one of her delicate, feminine hands tugging at his sleeve and he nodded fervently, lifting his arm so she could curl up underneath it. Content, Sophie hummed and went back to watching the weather man on the small television set across from them. 

He could have cried. Arthur didn’t know whether to feel confident or insecure — she had to have felt comfortable around him to be so intimate, which majorly stroked his ego, but did she simply feel obligated to be kind to him, after how he saved her daughter? Did Sophie mind that he smelled like cigarettes and cheap laundry detergent? Was he too thin, too bony to rest against? Was he —

“Your heart is beating so fast.”

Arthur’s thoughts halted. He felt his mouth go dry. “I’m sorry.”

Sophie reached out and squeezed his knee. “Relax. You deserve to, you know.”

“Are you real?” He had blurted it out without thinking, a tremble in his voice. It was a strange combination, Arthur realized, to be smitten and terrified all at once. 

He felt her body shake with soft laughter. “You’re so funny, Arthur.” 

You’re so funny, Arthur. 

Arthur’s heart began to break. He cursed his overactive imagination and squeezed his eyes tight, words tumbling out haphazardly, “It’s just, you’re so kind to me, and you’re beautiful, and I would hate it if you were… if you weren’t…” He struggled to find the right words, as usual. “If I was dreaming.”

There was movement against him, careful and gentle, and when Arthur opened his eyes he found Sophie much, much closer. Straddling his lap. Smirking at him. 

“Does this feel like a dream?”

Both so slowly and all at once, Sophie cradled his face in her hands and captured his mouth in a warm kiss. 

The world faded away. For the first time all night, Arthur allowed himself to turn off his brain and just enjoy her, her company, the way her body fit perfectly in his arms — which were now wrapped carefully, tenderly around her — the way her fingernails felt as they scratched affectionately against the back of his neck before sinking into his hair. 

They kissed for a long time, languidly, unhurried. Not even the opening theme to The Murray Franklin Show could pull him out of this moment, not with how Sophie was beginning to roll her hips and nibble at his bottom lip. 

Arthur was hard instantly, despite how innocently he was maintaining his posture, how modestly he was holding the woman. Sophie must have noticed though, because she pulled back with a vixen-like grin, the both of them out of breath. 

“Sorry,” Arthur rasped, a bit of a grimace on his face as he tried to fight back the urge to buck his hips up into her.

Sophie’s face was flushed as she stole another kiss, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, “You really are precious.” 

Sensing his distress, she reached back to take one of Arthur’s hands and guided it wordlessly down the front of her pants and over drenched panties. 

Arthur’s cock twitched in his underwear. “Oh, god…” 

The both of them sat panting, foreheads pressed together, adjusting to the fact that they were now openly expressing how much they wanted one another in this moment.

“Touch me,” Sophie prompted, a shaky whisper.

Arthur shuddered, swallowed hard. “Can I?”

“Please.”

Horribly inexperienced, Arthur nodded and cautiously dipped his fingertips beneath her panties and let them slide against slick, swollen flesh. He groaned softly and let his gaze fall, hypnotized by the sight of his hand lost behind the fabric. 

Sophie whimpered immediately, hands back in Arthur’s hair. He began to rub little circles right where she needed it most. “U-Uh huh, just like that. Fuck.”

Arthur was flying high. He hadn’t managed to mess up all night, which in turn led him to think that this may still all be some very vivid dream, but the way Sophie’s lithe little body trembled against him, how soaked his hand became as the minutes went by of him teasing her — that was enough to make him feel tall, broad. Like a man.

Soon, Sophie was shaking like a leaf and squeezing at Arthur’s shoulders insistently. “Take…Take my pants off.”

Arthur blinked in surprise, but he didn’t need to be asked twice. He retreated his wet hand — earning him a sharp gasp from Sophie — and helped her wriggle out of her leggings and panties. They were both a little clumsy and began to chuckle, but Arthur’s laughter turned into a moan when her hand palmed at his crotch.

“S-Sophie, you don’t have to—“ 

“Shh,” she cooed. “I want to make you feel good.” 

His chest began to heave in anticipation and Arthur knew he had to be honest with her before they went any further. “I’ve never done this before.” 

Sophie hummed, kissed him hotly. He heard the metallic scratching of his zipper being pulled down. “Then let me teach you.”

All he could do was nod and look up at her, pupils dilated, pulse skyrocketing. He wiped his sweaty palms on the fabric of his pants before scooting back to allow Sophie to pull his throbbing erection out of his briefs. 

“Wow,” Sophie breathed, skimming the pad of her thumb over the tip of his cock and eying the size of him. “Good for you, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s chest swelled with pride, feeling validated and maybe even attractive for the first time in his entire life, but he didn’t let it get to his head. He couldn’t, not with the way Sophie had wrapped her fist around him and was beginning to stroke him lazily. 

A whine tore out of his chest. “I don’t have a condom,” he managed to say, seeing stars and shuddering.

Sophie licked her lips and shook her head briefly, her voice low with lust, “That’s— That’s fine. I’m on birth control.” 

“Oh,” Arthur replied lamely, a bit strangled. “Okay.”

“Arthur?”

Green eyes lifted to brown. “Yeah?”

“Kiss me.” 

Arthur surged forward and did as he was told, and she swallowed his moan when he realized that she was about to straddle him in an entirely different way. He wasn’t sure of where to put his hands, whether it would be impolite to take her by the hips, or too awkward to keep them at his sides, so he gingerly held her face instead and braced himself.

Sophie felt absolutely divine as she sunk down onto him. She was warm — no, hot — and so wet, smooth and delicious and his hips jerked up as a reaction, making her squeak in pleasured surprise. 

They fell into a slow, heady, delicious rhythm, guided mostly by Sophie who seemed to be loving taking control. Arthur’s hands fell to her waist, nothing demanding but enough to express that he never wanted her to stop fucking him. 

“You feel so good,” Arthur stammered, his hot face pressed against her shoulder as she continued to ride him with leisurely rolls of her hips. He lost control a second time, his hips snapping up once more.

Sophie muffled a breathy cry into his hair and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Do… do that again, baby.”

Baby. 

Tightening his grip on her waist, Arthur began to pump his hips up into her steadily now, his brow furrowed as he focused on keeping it together. “Like this?”

“God, yeah,” Sophie breathed, her head falling back in pleasure. “You’re a fast learner.” 

Arthur felt her clench around him and he hissed, knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to hold off much longer. He sped up unconsciously, the sound of her ass slapping against the tops of his thighs making him dizzy.

“Sophie, I think I’m going to…” He didn’t know how to explain himself, not wanting to be crude.

“Me too,” she reassured him quickly, matching his feverish pace. The tightness in Arthur’s belly was about to snap.  Her voice grew light and needy, “With me, Arthur! Now, right now! Fuck!”  

Sophie’s pussy spasmed hard around his cock and Arthur’s vision went white as he came inside of her. The ecstasy that crashed over him seemed to last forever, intense and heavenly, and he had to bite down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out. 

Almost five minutes passed before the trembling aftershocks between the two of them subsided and Sophie leaned back to press her lips to Arthur’s forehead.

“Wanna cigarette?” She murmured, threading her fingers through his hair, still very much on top of him. 

A smile slowly flirted with Arthur’s lips. “Yes, please.” 

[bangtan-gal]

How to Break a Heart Step 1

Jung Jaehyun Sicheng | Kun | Jungwoo | YangYang | Doyoung | Ten

Summary: The biggest lie the universe has ever told is that everyone finds love at some point in their lives. Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff, implied smut, underage drinking and drug use Word Count: 3.1k  A/n: i will be doing a tag list for this series, so if you would like to be tagged, please dm, comment, or send in an ask!

Jung Jaehyun

Junior Year—2012

He was definitely an idiot, but for what it was worth, he was pretty dang cute.

“Have you ever noticed the way his eyes sparkle when he smiles?” You sighed, cupping your cheek in your hand. Your friend huffed beside you, not even looking up as she continued to work on the lab report. 

“Have You Ever noticed how you act as if you’d sell your soul to him?” She retorted, waving her hand in front of your face. You snorted, pushing her hand away and continuing to ogle at him. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he laughed at something his friend said. His hand was moving animatedly, coming dangerously close to spilling the beaker of chemicals everywhere. 

It would stain and ruin his clothes if it spilled.

“Believe me, if he was a succubus of some sort, I wouldn’t even hesitate to give him my soul,” you muttered. 

A string of cuss words fell from his friend’s lips as the beaker fell from the table and shattered on the floor. 

Green goop spread out along the floor and you were knocked from your trance.

“You shouldn’t date a guy for his looks, Y/N,” Lia reprimanded, still scribbling madly away at her lab report. “Especially not a guy like Jaehyun, whose thoughts are always on basketball and what kind of trouble he can get into next weekend.”

You sighed, glancing down at the worksheet in front of you and assessing the questions. You wished she wasn’t, but LIa was right. Jaehyun was only the glorious prince in the scenarios you created, not in the world that spun around you. In this world, Jaehyun only knew you as the student who sat behind him in chemistry and occasionally offered him help on his homework. Jaehyun was just a basketball player with a pretty smile.

Class ended as the teacher dismissed everyone so the mess could be cleaned up. You and Lia hurried down the hallway and exited the building silently. It was cold and the ground was covered in clumps of white. The wind was harsh against your face and you pulled your jacket up, looking over at Lia. She brushed her hair out of her face and then pursed her lips.

“What about Mark? Hasn’t he asked you out?” She asked. 

You stuffed your hands in your pockets and shrugged, following her through the parking lot.

“He’s my brother’s best friend, that doesn’t even feel right,” you huffed, blowing a piece of hair out of your face. “Plus… it’s Mark.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You slid into her car, brushing the snow off your shoulders and hair. Lia started the car and then turned to you, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. 

“It’s Mark. The boy I used to play hide n’ seek with, the boy who put snakes and spiders in my backpack in middle school; Mark, who sometimes would hug me through my tears and paid more attention to me than my own brother ever did,” you explained. Mark was a good guy, but not in the way you wanted. He was a good guy in the way where he was like an older brother who threatened to beat up anyone who broke your heart. 

“Well, at least he has a heart, unlike Jung Jaehyun.”

You were trying not to fall asleep as you waited for class to start. You had been unable to sleep the night before, your mind repeatedly mulling over what Lia had said to you. Should you have given Mark a chance? But it just felt wrong. He was your brother’s best friend, that was almost worse than dating your brother. 

“Aye, Jaehyun!” You forced yourself not to perk up at the sound of his name or his cheerful reply. He was cute, but he was stupid and the epitome of trouble. Lia sat down beside you, smacking the back of your head teasingly.

“Damn, wake up,” she chortled. 

The bell rang and your Chemistry teacher stood up.

“Today, we’re going to be switching up some seat partners… due to an event yesterday,” he announced. Jaehyun and Johnny both chuckled. You sighed, sitting up in your seat and watching as the teacher’s gaze ran over the class. His eyes landed on you.

“Y/N.”

Shit.

“Could you switch seats with Johnny, please? Maybe you’ll keep Jaehyun in shape,” he huffed, sending an annoyed glance the boy’s way. Your throat closed up as you stood up, grabbing your backpack and bumping shoulders with Johnny as you passed him. You fumbled to sit down and then cast a stare over your shoulder at Lia. Her eyes darted between you and Johnny and then she shrugged. 

The whole time you found yourself aware of how close the boy was to you. His knees brushed against yours and if you shifted slightly, your shoulders would be touching. You couldn’t focus on the teacher’s lecture as he spun his pencil and would occasionally lose his hold on it and it would skitter across the table. You pinched your eyes shut, trying to remove his smile from your memory.

“Hey.” Goosebumps erupted along your skin as he leaned closer. “Were you paying attention at all?”

You opened your eyes and side-eyed him.

“No…”

He leaned back in his seat, a curious stare running over you. Then he turned around, brightly smiling at the boy behind him.

“What are we supposed to be doing?” He asked.

The boy didn’t look impressed.

“Weren’t you listening?”

“Damn, tough crowd,” Jaehyun muttered to you and despite the situation, you found yourself smiling. 

“You have a pretty smile.”

The compliment took by such a surprise that your smile disappeared. You looked up, meeting his bright stare. His dimples were on full display. Your heart thumped in your ears and you were certain your face was red.

Jaehyun tilted his head.

“Can I see it again?”

You should’ve been working, but when the boy overdramatically pouted, you smiled again as a small laugh escaped you. Jaehyun smiled back, his eyes flicking over your face. As the two of you continued to stare at each other, you couldn’t help but feel conscious. This was weird.

“It’s Y/N, right?” He asked.

You cleared your throat.

“Yeah, that’s me,”

He grinned. “I remember you—Freshman year in PE class, you told the teacher that he should be the one running instead of us.”

If your face wasn’t red before, it definitely was now.

A dry laugh escaped you and you nodded warily.

“Yup… once again, that’s me,” you squeaked. He threw back his head and laughed. 

“Damn, I remember really wanting to talk to you—that was so cool. I didn’t have the guts to though, you seemed kind of scary,” he murmured, shaking his head. His gaze dropped to the desk and he started to trace the worksheet. You ran a hand through your hair, teeth working on your bottom. He was scared to talk to you? Another smile bloomed on your face, but this time it was different, it was wide and goofy and all you could think about was how the two of you were basically in the same boat. 

“Well, I’m not all that scary,” you teased softly, unable to look at him as you started to work on the sheet. “I might bite a little bit though.”

It was a weird and tentative start, but it was a start nonetheless. The two of you started to talk more often and continued to work together in chemistry. It grew from there, becoming more than just homework. You talked before and after class, would go the extra length to see each other during lunch or study hall. Eventually, you got his number and the two of you started to hang out outside of school. 

You learned quickly that Jaehyun wasn’t the perfect prince you saw in your mind, but he wasn’t some heartless monster like how Lia tried to depict him. He was… well, he was human. He sometimes forgot about your plans, but always made up for it with paragraphs of apologies and horribly made cookies. 

wA day into your friendship with Jaehyun, you learned not to eat anything he made himself.

“I don’t think you understand how this works,” you grumbled, frowning at him. He frowned back.

“It’s four significant figures—”

“No, it’s three,” you argued.

“How?” 

“When you multiply, it’s the smallest amount,” you explained, pointing to the numbers on the problem, “so therefore, it’s rounded to three.”

Jaehyun groaned, collapsing against the table. “I fucking hate Chemistry.”

You shook your head with a laugh and laid your head beside his. “The year is almost done and then you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“Watch me fail the final,” he whined, turning to look at you. His face was extremely close and this close you could see just how long his lashes were. They curled up against his brow bone. You smiled, not realizing how obvious your visual trace of his face was. He had defined cheekbones, with a soft spray of freckles dotting along them and over the bridge of his nose. His lips were light pink, but were darker near the middle. 

Jaehyun smiled back at you.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hey.”

His lips were warm. They were soft. Your eyes fluttered shut as his fingers ran up your arm, your neck, and over your jaw. His thumb massaged the area underneath your ear as his fingers played with your hair. You felt dazed as you pulled back, eyes still closed and soft breaths escaping you. Finally, you opened your eyes, a tilted smile on your face. Jaehyun chuckled, pulling back a bit more, pink spreading along his face.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he muttered. You looked down, still smiling, Jaehyun’s hand dropped from your head to your hand, his fingers curling over yours. 

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Jaehyun twirled you around. It was a warm day, the sun bearing down on both of you. You were certain you’d never seen him smile any wider.

Summer had started a month ago, but your summer truly started today. Jaehyun had been gone on vacation in Northern Europe. Seeing him again was like a breath of fresh air. You’d missed his smile, his hugs, his laugh… you just missed him.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t even know.”

You laughed. “I don’t even know? I missed you more than you could ever imagine!” 

He smirked and kissed you again.

“Maybe,” he chirped. His eyes ran along your face. Silence grew between you. You smiled nervously, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“What are you doing?” “Commiting you to memory,” he sighed. You snorted, elbowing him in the ribs.

“That’s creepy.”

He laughed.

“Fine, I was just thinking about how you’ve become prettier in the past month,” he explained, “or I have a sucky memory.”

You didn’t let your smile falter, even though your heart seemed to fall. Something wasn’t right. It was like there was something pulling in your gut. Jaehyun was acting the same, but there was a dark flicker in his eyes. A flicker that you didn’t like.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked.

You nodded, forcing your smile to widen.

“Yeah.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders. His smile was wide and dimples on full display. The kiss he pressed to your temple was soft and sweet. You leaned into him and brushed away the earlier look. Jaehyun was just tired. He’d been on a plane for 12 hours and came to see you right away.

“Oh yeah, I got you something,” Jaehyun said, “close your eyes.”

You obliged, letting your eyes flutter shut. There was a soft rustling and then Jaehyun stepped behind you. Something cold and delicate was placed around your neck. You opened your eyes slowly, glancing down at the necklace. It was rose-gold and glimmered in the sunlight. A rose-quartz hung at the end, a daisy dry-pressed in the center. It was stunning.

“I remember you talking about a rose-quartz ring you used to have and how much you loved it. And you love daisies because of Narcissus, that Greek myth dude,” he whispered. Your heart raced, tracing the gem carefully. Then you turned around, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and pulled back with a grin. 

“Thank you, I absolutely love it!” You mumbled against his lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you stood there in your front yard, the two of you swaying back and forth. The light breeze tugged at your hair, twirling it around your head. Jaehyun’s eyes sparkled under the sunlight. 

He looked ethereal. 

Hell, he was ethereal. 

Your mind wandered back to before you started dating, when Lia used to tell you that he was toxic: that he was just a boy who ruined others lives. Yet, the only thing you’d seen from him was the exact opposite. He was sweet and caring and could be a total goofball at times. He’d always put you above him and would go to great lengths to make sure you were happy. You had never been happier before your time with Jaehyun; you always felt like you were on cloud nine with him. 

“How was Europe?” You queried. The two of you were still awkwardly slow dancing in your front yard.

He smiled and let his forehead rest against yours.

“It was really fun. You don’t realize just how pretty it actually is until you’re there,” he commented. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

“What was your favorite part?” Jaehyun thought for a second before opening his mouth.

“Is that Jung Jaehyun?”

Jaehyun turned around and then pulled away from you, smile widening as he waved at a group of his friends. You deflated slightly, watching as Yuta’s car pulled up against the curb. The three boys stepped out, all of them clapping him on the back and loudly greeting him. Johnny winked at you and ruffled your hair, treating you as if you were Jaehyun’s younger sister instead of his girlfriend.

“Hey Y/N,” Taeil chirped. 

“Hi,” you grumbled, your gaze flicking back to Jaehyun, wondering if he would shoo them away so you could spend more alone time together.

“I’m throwing a party tonight, the two of you should come,” Yuta jumped in, wide smile on full display. His hair had been dyed red at the end of the school year, but now it was mostly faded to a weird mix of deep brown and faded red. “Nine at my place.”

You opened your mouth, ready to decline, but Jaehyun beat you to it.

“We’ll see you there,” he hummed, fist bumping Yuta. The boy smirked and then glanced over at you before sending a sly look Jaehyun’s way.

“Unless you’re gonna be too busy,” he giggled. 

And sometimes you forgot why Yuta was the most annoying one of Jaehyun’s friends.

The trio drove off, leaving the two of you to awkwardly stand and watch them leave. As the car disappeared around the corner, you turned to your boyfriend, arms crossed over your chest. You raised an eyebrow. 

“Aren’t even gonna ask if I actually want to go?”

“Babe I just th—”

“You just thought that I’d want to spend my first day with my boyfriend at a loud ass party?” You snapped, taking a step back. Jaehyun grabbed your hand, dragging you towards him.

“Look, Y/N, I know you don’t like parties, but I haven’t seen my pals just as long as I haven’t seen you,” he huffed, “and I want to see them, but I also want to spend time with you. Just this once? I promise if you hate it, we can come back here and watch Finding Nemo.”

You sighed, staring at him through your lashes.

“Fine, but if we go home, you can’t complain about the movie,” you muttered. He grinned at you.

“Not even a little?”

You gave him a deadpanning stare.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

The second you stepped into the party, you hated it, but for Jaehyun’s sake, you didn’t give up on it right away. The reek of alcohol and the underlying smell of smoke underneath was sickening. Teenagers roamed around the house, each smelling like walking gyms. Johnny saw the two of you immediately and hurried over, wrapping his arms around both your shoulders. He smiled at the two of you. 

“Let’s get the both of you drink, shall we?” 

The last thing you wanted was a drink, but you followed them to the kitchen either way. Jaehyun immediately moved throughout the cabinets, making himself his own drink as Johnny turned to you. 

“Beer or vodka?” You crossed yours arms, eyes wandering boredly around the place.

“Just water.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? How boring can you get?” “How much of a douche can you be?” You retorted. He snorted, reeling away from you as if you had physically hit him. No more comments were made as Jaehyun finally had a drink in his hand and made his way over to you. You told yourself you’d make it an hour before you went home.

Just an hour.

“Jae!” Lucas shouted, appearing between you two, “You gotta come reclaim your spot as King bro.”

Jaehyun laughed, teasingly pulling away from the boy. 

“No no, I’m content to just watch you idiots do it,” he chuckled. Yuta suddenly popped into the room, wrapping an arm around Jaehyun’s neck. He ruffled his hair and then grinned at you.

“You’re the idiot, considering how many times you won.”

That was the only coaxing Jaehyun needed to let himself be dragged through the dining room and the living room where the beer pong table was set up. You followed wearily, sending glares at anyone who brushed against you. Jaehyun handed you his phone and took off his jacket, moving to one end of the table. You sat down on the couch, clutching his coat tightly in your hands as you watched. 

You hated this so much.

You could already see how this would end. 

Jaehyun would be drunk off his ass by the end of the night and you wouldn’t see him for the next couple of days as he nursed away his hangover.

You watched the first several tosses, before your annoyance over took any pride you had in your boyfriend. You opened his phone to check the time and were greeted by a couple text messages. Some were from friends, one from his mom, and two from someone named ‘Sylvia.’ You weren’t one to snoop, but as his phone suddenly lit up from another next message from Sylvia, your curiosity got the best of you. You unlocked his phone.

Hey, I’ve missed you

Had lots of fun with you, never been with someone that fiery

Your stomach lurched and you didn’t even care to read the last message.

You stood up, tossing his coat and phone on the ground. Tears were brimming at the corners of your eyes and the sudden urge to puke was almost unbearable. Your hand covered your mouth as you glanced up, meeting Jaehyun’s stare. You saw it his eyes—that same dark flicker before they widened in horror, realizing exactly what had just happened. Tears were already sliding down your face as you desperately shook your head in disbelief. Then you left, sprinting from the house as if demons were hot on your tail.

Running away from the nightmare that had just occurred.

You stumbled out in the dark street, eyes darting around. None of the drunk or high teens spared you a glance as you started to hurry down the sidewalk. Your skin was flushed and your heart was racing as you tried to pretend that you were fine.  That what just happened was all a dream.

That Jaehyun was just a dream.

Everything you gave him was only a daydream and now you were awake.

And Jaehyun doesn’t exist.

♡🎔🎔🎔🎔🎔🎔