thebigsl33p

[thebigsl33p]

Chocolate Truffle Tart

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BEN BARNES as TIM JAMIESON The Institute • 1.02 “Shots For Dots"

[thebigsl33p]

Arguments with your mom can never just be about one thing it always has to be about your entire life and her parents and your siblings n shit under the guise of like, somebody needing to do the dishes

[thebigsl33p]

[thebigsl33p]

The Four Discoursemen

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This map is the most up to date version as of 3-4-2023 and takes into account all recent movement on anti-trans legislation

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if you're in my notifications on a regular basis but we have never spoken...I want you to know that I know your username and think fondly of you

[thebigsl33p]

Going Going Gone

Dead!Aleksander blurb, got a bit bored, and couldn't focus. Might expand on it later.

word count: 572.

Lady Morozova had been allowed to live as a courtesy. The Sun Summoner had kept her alive, and saints, was she grateful. In everyone else’s eyes, she was sure she deserved to be dead. Sometimes she even thought it about herself.

Alina had been careful and kind. She had painted the General’s wife as an unwilling accomplice, bound by duty, forced to stand by his side. The truth of it was much more complicated than that.

In the weeks leading up to her husband’s death she could hardly recognise him. When and if she saw him, that was. He was entirely enraptured and consumed by a darkness she had never seen in him before, one that horrified her. His eyes were hard, his lips set in that firm line, his features marred by those deep and dark claw marks which she had initially never minded, until she began to see how it had changed him.

How everything had changed him.

He was no longer her Aleksander. There were no more stolen moments, where his eyes would light up like a young man’s, where he would kiss her just for the sake of kissing her. There was no more concealed tenderness in his touches, no more gentleness - just for her. No, now he was harsh, on edge, a paranoid old man. In the final days she had seen it more and more.

Hadn’t she attempted to reach him? Begged him to talk to her? Had she not cried and sobbed and raged over what he was doing to himself? He had always said she cared too much.

And look where it got them: Her, alone, and him, dead.

But in those final moments - those moments that haunt her, that jump over and over in her mind’s eye - he had been himself again. She had seen a lost little boy, desperately wanting to do good.

How she had stumbled towards him, how she had caught him and cradled him and cried into his chest. He had begged for her forgiveness, dying in her arms, and she had granted it. If she closes her eyes and focuses she can almost feel her fingertips against his skin - a memory so deep it felt biological.

Y/N catches herself drifting off during the days. Sat in the library, she can’t help but conjure up memories of her husband, Kefta off, sleeves rolled up, reading, that gentle twinkle in his eye when he would glance up at her. Or the war room, ghosts of late nights spent smoothing his hair and convincing him to come to bed.

Alina’s willingness to let her keep her chambers is both a mercy and a prison sentence. He’s everywhere. In the dark cloak draped over the back of a chair she hasn’t moved since he died. In the soap she keeps in bulk because it smells of him. In his bedside cabinet, littered with maps and the book he was reading, the drawers full of little trinkets and his journals.

Day by day his absence destroys her.

There’s not even a body she can cling to, no ashes to put in a fancy pot, no gravestone she can lay flowers at. Her bedroom becomes Aleksander’s tomb.

[thebigsl33p]

It's Never Only A Dream

Requested by @rachelcarroll1819

I used They/Them pronouns and titles for Lucifer despite them being femme presenting in the TV Show.

Edit: this fic has been edited to They/Them for Lucifer as anon politely informed me that they're Non-Binary so :) Also edited for grammar on the 12/07/25

In the beginning, it was hard to conceal Dream and Y/N's relationship.

When your parent is ruler of the realm that you are trying to sneak in and out of, it can make it quite hard. Y/N had to bribe more than few of the demon's in hell with a good word to her parent Lucifer or some petty trinket. But demons are, for the most part, light work, and easy to win over.

And so the first few centuries of their relationship passed with very few mess ups. Y/N became used to the excuses, that she was out exploring the mortal realm. And for the most part, it wasn't a lie.

The mortal realm was where Y/N and Morpheus would meet... before traipsing off to The Dreaming, a place Y/N much more enjoyed than her own realm.

The lovers would spend hours there, bathing in the warm sunlight of the dreams Morpheus had created just for them, music playing softly in the background as Y/N danced in the fields and bathed in the rivers. He loved seeing her happy, and she loved being with Dream.

Everything had gone without flaw, until the evening Dream disappeared.

The couple had spent the day in The Dreaming's library, scanning through shelves upon shelves for books to recommend each other, their respective stacks piled high with tomes that frayed at the edges, but the ink never faded.

Eventually, Y/N had to leave before Lucifer grew suspicious. But she left with a book Dream had given her tucked under her arm and a soft smile on her face, her thoughts still with him.

Lucifer questioned their daughter when she got home, an angular brow raised, "How was the mortal realm?" They were sitting in the lounge, still dressed to the nines in a white robe, as per usual.

"It was good." She nodded, "I walked around London today." It was an easy lie.

"And what's under your arm?" They pointed at their daughter and the book slid out from under her arm and floated across the room and into Lucifer's clutch. They took a second to read the title, "Romeo and Juliet, hm?" Every word was exaggerated, slow, meticulous, examining.

"Yes, I found it at a small bookshop in the centre of London. Isn't the cover nice?" She smiled at them, taking measured breaths to stay relaxed, calm...undetected. Her heart rate steady, her smile warm.

"It's very nice. I shall have to borrow it once you are done." Lucifer smiled, holding out the book to their daughter. Y/N smiled back and walked across the lounge to take the book from her parent.

"Goodnight, My lord." She nodded at them before turning to the stairs, planning to go to her room.

But as she stood on the stairs Lucifer stopped her, calling her name, "Y/N, are you going out again tomorrow?"

"I think so, yes."

"I shan't be here in the morn, so have fun my daughter, you will have to tell me all about your day in the evening."

"Thank you."

-

The next day Y/N went to Trafalgar Square. It was a cold Sunday morning, early enough that the sun had not yet risen but the streetlights had gone off and you could see, the sky a warm dusky blue, the wind just cold enough for a coat.

It was the only time of day that London was quiet... not a single person in sight, truly a rare sight. The kind of quiet that felt like the buildings were whispering to you, like London, and its history and its richness and its culture, was all yours.

This was where they would meet every morning.

Dream would wait for her, perched on the steps that lead up to the Natural History museum, half a baguette in hand as he fed the pigeons, creatures he always had a soft spot for.

But today... he wasn't there. She waited for nearly two hours, until six... but he never came.

So she decided that for once, she would actually go and see London. She thought no more of her lover's absence, and chalked it up to him being busy, as he often was.

But still, she missed him. Desperately.

-

"How was your day, daughter?" This time, Lucifer was sitting on their throne, but they stood up as they greeted their daughter.

But neither of them could ever have imagined what Y/N was about to do, because for the first time since she was little Y/N walked up to Lucifer and...hugged them? She just needed comfort in any form she could get it, like a heartbroken teenager. Her head buried in her parent's robes, her cheek pressed against their chest to hear their unholy heartbeat.

"It was..." Formality had been lost, "It was awful."

Lucifer froze where they stood before wrapping their arms around the girl, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"...Not really." She sighed before pulling away from Lucifer, "I'm gonna go to bed."

"Alright." They nodded, "Sleep well."

"You too."

-

The next time Y/N and Lucifer had a serious interaction, besides small talk, was two weeks later.

"I have some news of the other realms, particularly, Dream of The Endless'." Her parent clasped their hands.

"What happened?" Y/N sat in the chair across from them, trying not to show too much concern.

"He has gone missing." Lucifer announced.

"What does that mean for his realm?" She asked, brow furrowing slightly.

"It means that The Dreaming will soon start to decay." Lucifer smiled, sick and twisted, "And then, we will get a taste of freedom."

Within a week of the news Y/N had changed drastically. She was tired all the time, sad all the time, pale and easily shaken. Lucifer barely recognised their once vibrant daughter, and when they realised why, they were somewhere between enraged and...pitiful.

They was sitting on a chair in Y/N's room, she was sitting on her bed reading Romeo and Juliet, when they asked the question, "He gave you that didn't he?"

Y/N looked up, "Sorry?"

"I said, He gave you that, didn't he? Morpheus?" Their tone was even.

Their daughter swallowed, "Yes, My Lord."

"London, huh? How long?" They practically hissed his words.

"Centuries." It was too late to lie to Lucifer.

"Very well." Lucifer stood and turned to leave. But just as they reached the door, their hand on the doorknob, they turned to their daughter, "I'm not mad. I represent sin, things you cannot, are not, allowed to have. I represent giving in to those temptations...So to keep you away from each other would be hypocritical and...selfish." They whispered the last word, "I'm not going to pretend to like Morpheus, but should you wish to allow him to visit, if he returns, then I will not object, nor will I get in your way should you wish to visit him."

Y/N was stunned by her parent's kindness as it is not normally the Devil's way. But perhaps they was just a parent who wanted their daughter to be happy, regardless of their own opinion.

-

A hundred and fifty years after that, on what the Mortal's would call a Wednesday morning, Y/N was sitting in her room reading a book. And for once it wasn't her copy of Romeo and Juliet.

"Come in!" She called, hardly looking up from the pages.

It was her Lucifer, as expected. She took a break from her reading for him as they sat down at her dressing table, "How are you bearing, daughter?"

"I'm alright, thank you, My Lord. I miss him, but that's nothing new." Y/N sighed.

"It will get better over time, until then, I have a gift for you." Lucifer stood, slipped a hand inside their coat and began to have a look around. They hummed when they found what they were looking for, "Close your eyes."

Y/N shut them with no argument. There was the sound of rustling, the bed creaking, and then her parent gave her the go ahead. Upon opening her eyes she breathed in sharply. It took her a moment to recognise the object the Devil had placed at the bottom of her bed but when she did, her eyes began to water.

It was a Helm. Morpheus' Helm. It was shaped like a bird with a long, spine like beak and round black circles for eyes that seemed endless.

Her eyes went from the Helm to her parent rapidly, "Where did you find this?" She traced a finger around the eyes and down the beak, before picking it up and hugging it.

"One of the Demon's had it. I made a bargain with him. I thought you deserved it, a little something to remember him by. I don't like him but I also don't like seeing you like this." Lucifer sighed before standing up, "Take good care of it. He might need it one day."

And then they was gone.

-

Morpheus, King of Nightmares, was back and he was searching for his Lover and his Helm.

Y/N didn't know this yet, the rumours were going slowly through Hell.

But her world came crashing down around her when she overheard some of the palace maids whispering, and then the words, "Dream of The Endless...returned" her heart stopped. She didn't stick around to hear the next sentence, instead rushing to her parent, but if she had she would've heard "He's in the palace".

It took Y/N seconds to reach Lucifer's throne room at the speed she was travelling. It was like her feet just couldn't stop moving, she had to know if it was true. But when she got there, she could hear talking, muffled, but talking nonetheless. So she reminded herself of her status in Hell, smoothed down her hair and dress and knocked on the doors of Lucifer's Throne Room.

"Come in!" She heard, loud and booming, no doubt from her parent.

She gently pushed open the door, slipping through it once it was wide enough.

Y/N was about to speak but the scene in front of her made her mouth dry up. Because standing in the middle of her parent's throne room as if he hadn't just disappeared for a couple centuries was Dream of The Endless, her lover. Lucifer was standing on the steps, wings unfurled and hands clasped together, watching the scene unravel. They was waiting for someone to make the first move but when it became clear that they were both too frozen, too nervous, they sighed, "I shall leave you two alone." They pulled a face before leaving through the door.

And now...the two of them were alone. A couple of steps and Morpheus had closed the space between them, his hands reaching for Y/N's face, to hold her, "I have thought about you, every second of every day for the past 200 years."

"Me too." She could feel tears pricking at her eyes, "Where were you? Where did you go?"

He shook his head, "I was captured by a magus who thought I was my sister, Death." He explained.

"Oh Dream." She shook her head, before going to touch his hair, something she always used to do. There was a beat, "My parent knows about us. They figured it out from my state after your disappearance."

"Well, I'm not dead or banished so I presume Morningstar took it well?"

"They're... indifferent, actually. He loves me, and I love you so he's willing to grin and bear it." Y/N explained.

Morpheus simply made a "Huh" noise before repeating his earlier statement, "200 years without you." He shook his head, "The idea of you was the only thing keeping me sane." And then he was kissing her, hands on her face and hips while she had hers on his shoulder and in his hair.

When they broke apart she was grinning and crying, "I have your Helm." She said, laughing at her own tears at the end.

"Thank you."

"You should thank Lucifer, they were the one who gave it to me." She told him and it made his eyebrows raise, "They thought it would comfort me to know I still had a bit of you while you were gone."

"Did it?" His voice was low now, lower than usual, closer to a whisper.

"A little...but nothing compares to you Dream."

I'm going to do a part two. Why? Because.

[thebigsl33p]

locations from 'rap quotes coast to coast,' jason shelowitz, 2019.

[thebigsl33p]

Jack O’Connell photographed for the New York Times 📸 Bruce Weber

[thebigsl33p]

"i asked chatgpt" "i asked grok" well i asked a great bear to maul the astronomer and to turn the cruel sister into a crow and put the crow and the corpse in a cave until the crow started to starve and she'd have no choice but to peck out the eyes of her lover and eat them :/

[thebigsl33p]

And On the Road to Hell There Was A Railroad Line (1/2)

A/N: rubs my hands together evilly. Gosh, I speed wrote this so no promises that it's any good. Based off Hadestown.

Aleksander Morozova X Reader, Hadestown Au. warnings: uhhh alcoholism, drug use (briefly mentioned), toxic relationship. Word Count: 2,755.

The rhythm of the train soothes her, quells the anxious thump of her heart against her chest as she departs from the underworld. The rhythm of every journey - the sway of a boat, or the bump of a horse’s trodding - echoed in her own. The train chugs and hums like it has understanding of its cargo and the weight that sits upon her shoulders, the load she is travelling to lighten from the shoulders of mortal men and women, and the one she carries herself.

As the train goes, Y/N turns her head to gaze out the window. As it stands, the world is grey. Grey skies, grey skeletal trees, mud turned grey with ice and flowers turned to mulch. It’s a wasteland to say the least, with not a single animal in sight and certainly not any humans. The people are underground, hiding in buildings or makeshift structures - they know there is nothing but death waiting for them should they step outside. Her hands clutch her dress tighter - the fabric a dusky bright green which so contrasts her surroundings, her furs such a bright cream that it’s almost mocking of the life which the Earth had lost. But she can’t help it. Amongst misery and greyscale, Y/N glows.

The train stops with a halt and a huff of steam, and she stands before gathering her luggage, a large wicker bag lovingly embroidered with bright and boisterous flowers, from under her chair and walking down the aisle to the doors. She pushes them open, and steps out, her heels clicking as they meet stone.

The moment she steps foot into the train station, a breeze blows through the entire world. It blows through her, ruffles up her skirts, takes down her hair and loosens up her shoulders. The Goddess of Spring has returned, and with her so have the trees, and the wine, and the animals, and the food, and the prosperity. The soil under her very foot has already begun to thaw, shoots of green peeking through the mud.

The train station is decrepit, falling apart at the seams. It’s a relic of the old world, covered in moss and ivy and vines. Most of the flora is brown or black with the cold and the winter, but in her presence alone they seem to perk up, seem to regain their colour and their beauty. Y/N sighs, traces her hand along the wall, and the ivy turns deep shades of green, the world around her expanding.

A man stands at the station gate. He’s tall and wiry, old featured but with eyes that gleam with a youthful mischievousness, and he wears a silvery suit, finery which is rarely ever seen in the world, with a neat waistcoat and a pocket watch hanging from the inside of his blazer which he holds in his palm. The man is Hermes, a God, a messenger and trickster. His brow raises, a smile, before his eyes flit down to the watch, “You’re late.” It’s almost accusing.

Yet Y/N smiles, “I had business.” She lightly scoffs back, reaching into her own bag for her flask, tucking it into her bodice.

“Mhm, I’m sure you did, girl.” And he raises his arm, offering, “Shall we?”

“We shall.” Y/N smiles, linking her arm with his, and she lets him lead her away from the train station.

Hermes guides her out of the station and into the desolate world. Around her, the landscape becomes alive again, flowers flourishing, trees budding, the sun shines a little warmer.

They make light conversation, Y/N drinks, Hermes declines, the world flourishes once more.

Eventually they reach what used to be a bar. It’s old and banged up, the sign half-missing, but there’s noise from inside and light spilling out the windows. Hermes pushes open the door with little apprehension and Y/N follows behind.

The celebration is a wild and wondrous thing and it lasts for weeks. She spends days at a time drunk out of her mind, as she prefers it. She kisses strangers cheeks, and she dances with old friends, and she sings and toasts and all is well.

Hermes introduces her to a young couple - Orpheus and Eurydice. Orpheus was a poor boy, but she had heard him sing and how it had pulled at her heart. He was tall, thin, served at the bar occasionally and played other times, Irish too.

Eurydice on the other hand was jaded. A little less eager to make her acquaintance but polite nonetheless, seemingly more worried about when the good weather would end, than spending her time enjoying it. She seemed jittery, almost as if she was getting ready to up and run at any given moment. Despite her disposition she sees how the young woman softens for her lover - and in turn, softens for everyone else. She sees how Orpheus touches her softly, cups her cheek and reassures her, kisses her tenderly, flusters himself just to see her smile.

Y/N paid it no mind, judgement obscured in a warm haze of wine and various liquors. And how the wine had been good this year, made from the sweetest of fruits it had warmed her chest, so different to the harsh spirits of the Underworld. She’d already started stashing bottles for when she had to go back, which she knew was coming sooner rather than later.

But for now she would sing and dance and kiss all she wanted. It wouldn’t be long before that would change, and she knew it.

It’s a particularly lively evening, full of dancing and drink and couples whispering in one another’s ears, when the door bangs open. It seems all energy drains from the room, the dancing falters as does the jazz, drinks are lowered from lips and all eyes move to haphazardly watch the figure looming in the doorway.

He’s tall. Dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, in a pinstripe suit and a long leather jacket. He has these sunglasses, as if the light and health of the upside world pains him, they’re small and black and round, and he wears these black shiny boots. His very presence seems to suck in the light around him, and any and all energy from the bar. His name is Aleksander, ruler of the underworld and Hadestown alike, Y/N’s husband.

Y/N’s head whips around, jaw setting, and she feels every footstep he takes into the bar like a prison sentence.

“You’re early,” she states, swallowing heavily.

His voice is smooth, accented, and he extends a gloved hand, “I missed you.”

Knowing she has no other choice, Y/N slips her hand into his. The movement is stiff. She feels someone place her coat on her shoulders and hand her her bag, but her eyes don’t move off her husband as if trying to pierce through him.

She doesn’t get the chance to say goodbye to anyone in the bar - not even Hermes - before he’s guiding her out. She walks, but it feels more like an automated response than her actual decision. She just about catches the way her husband’s eyes linger on Eurydice.

Hadestown is hot. Hot and bright. A city that never sleeps - or always sleeps, considering that most of its population are dead. A city that thrums and pulses with the rhythm of work, with the song of so called 'freedom', her husband's echoing mottos bouncing off the walls, "The enemy is poverty, and the wall keeps out the enemy..." in that deep baritone of his, coming from every speaker and every corner.

It disgusts her, this fake summer he's created in her absence, where the sun is a neon light, too hot and too bright, and the city reeks of misery and death.

There is no liberation in Hadestown.

She watches this all from the window, her arms folded across herself, with a glass of wine in one hand. She drowns out the sounds of the work with jazz, loud and up-tempo, and her foot taps along.

Somewhere, a door opens and shuts. There are two sets of feet on the stairs, and she hears his voice from behind the door, deep and mellow, "Step into my office." - the voice which once loved her - and a door shuts behind.

He's brought another home, and her heart twists and turns in her chest. Sorrow quickly burrows into her, before turning into anger, and she raises her glass to her lips again. The sooner she can blur out the world, the better. She's drowning in a river of oblivion, and she doesn't care.

The pickaxes ring in her ears.

"Step into my office." she mutters, and it's a quickly made, rash, decision when she grabs the crate of wine off the table beside her, hurries out the room - ignoring the moans coming from her husband's office - and makes her way into the city.

Her husband's distracted. And she can't help thinking, what the boss don't know, the boss won't mind. It doesn’t take her long to find the workers, to slip her flask out of her pocket, the bottle of wine out of her bag. The workers don’t speak. They don’t look at her. But they do drink.

The jazz down here isn’t the same as the one up top. It isn’t lighthearted and romantic. It’s harsh and dark and gritty, and yet it rolls through her the same way, makes her legs move, her body jump and dance as she loses herself in her wine and morphine. Her body is her instrument and she conveys everything she can. Her heels thud against the floor, her skirts fly up, by the end of the evening her hair is a mess and there are flowers scattered on the floor.

Rebellion starts with a spark. And good God, if that spark isn’t alive in her. The workers don’t utter a word. But she catches how their feet tap, how their eyes clarify in brief moments of memory, how they share looks and their brows furrow in quiet sorrow.

It kills her.

Y/N stumbles her way home, giggling to no one, and falls asleep on her large empty bed, feet hanging off the end, head a haze.

She dreams of a better world.

“Hasn’t he fought enough, Hades?!” She bellows, following her husband through the home, “He loves the girl!”

“Well that’s too bad!” Her husband sneers, not looking at her, marching ahead.

Eurydice had been taken. A harsh storm had harrowed the world above, the cold had set into her bones and her stomach, and Orpheus had forsaken her, turning his eyes off the one he loved and onto his work. She saw herself in the young girl. She saw hope. She saw bitterness and she saw how Hadestown had robbed her of her youth and had soured her soul. She was one of the last few with something to cling too.

And then, against all odds, Orpheus had come for her. Something Y/N had long stopped believing in, love had persevered. The young lad had sung his way through the underworld, had risked his very existence for one more chance… he had brought spring to hell. He had made flowers bloom where things went to die.

Now, he was begging for a chance. One chance to convince the king of the underworld that he deserved to take his lover home. But Aleksander wouldn’t even give the boy audience.

“Aleksander!” she follows after him, her hand reaching out to grab his shoulder, “He… he has the kind of love for her you and I once had.”

She saw her husband’s eyes flash momentarily with sorrow, before his nostrils flared, “…The girl is nothing.”

“But she’s everything to him.” She argued, “One chance. Please, I beg of you. If you ever loved me-”

Her husband scoffed. And she knew she had won with that one line. He scowls and grabs her wrist, escorting her outside, down the steps of their home and into the courtyard, where Orpheus waits, guitar in his grip, bloodied and battered from his arduous journey, Eurydice at his side in her worker’s overalls, leather and straps and grime. And the workers behind them, so close to being freed, so close to tasting liberation. Their fate, the ending of a story, heavy on the shoulders of a poet.

“Boy.” Her husband grumbles, “…You want a chance?”

“Yes.” he nods eagerly, taking a breath, “Please- I’ll show you-”

Hades holds up a hand, silencing him. And then he splays his palm, giving him the go-ahead.

Orpheus takes a deep breath… and begins to strum. His voice rings clear, the melody twists and turns and stabs at her heart. Her head tips back, chest tightening with unshed tears, her teeth bare as she gasps in a breath at the memories that the song evokes.

Memories of sunshine. Of him, youthful and hopeful. The days spent in fields, humming together, dancing together, her head in his lap as they bathed in the warmth of the sun and the soft breeze against their skin. His hands in her hair, her face pressed into his chest.

The song ends.

The song ends and Y/N snaps out of it to catch a glimpse of her husband.

He looks devastated. Aleksander’s turned away, eyes shut and jaw tired, hands fisted at his side.

But the boy is still strumming, still playing, eyes begging and eager in search of some validation.

And then she hears it. Her husband’s voice, low and careful, echoing the melody.

Her heart seizes. Her lips part in shock and agony and then… she finishes it. How couldn’t she? Deep down she loved this man. He would spend a lifetime repenting for the way he had treated her, but they were Gods. Love was different for them. Love wasn’t confined to the mortal idea of good times and happiness and tenderness. Love for Gods was harsh and violent. It was the murder of mortals and the decimation of lands.

It was love to creation. It was love in the building of cities and the creation of a workforce. It was heat and it was mistakes and a lifetime of sin. He had hurt her and damaged her and chained her down for his love, not for hers. He hadn’t considered how all she had wanted was to be held. To be comforted with tenderness, the same tenderness she had seen in Orpheus and Eurydice, to be told that everything would be alright.

Aleksander had attempted to prevent losing her - and in doing so, had let her slip through his fingers.

And yet, she hurries to him. She presses her hands to his cheeks, her nose to his, and she sees the man who used to be her husband in his eyes. Y/N will spend a lifetime shaming him, throwing his actions back in his face… but she will also love him.

The moment is broken by Orpheus’ voice, “…can we go?”

There’s a beat. Everyone watching is pleading, desperate, hoping for the correct answer. Instead, he answers gently, “…I don’t know.” His mind racing with thoughts, plans, possibilities - if he lets them go, he’s a spineless king. But if he makes them stay, he’s heartless and Orpheus is martyred.

Clementine lurches back, fear at losing the thing she’d gained once more, and she sees a leader rather than her Aleksander. There are words on the tip of her tongue, scolding and scathing, harsh and angry, but he speaks first.

But he speaks before she can, “…You can go.” He speaks haphazardly, “…but… you walk in front. And she walks behind. And if you turn around, she goes back to Hadestown, and you go back the way you came.”

It was a test. A test of faith and love and doubt. If Orpheus doubted their love, doubted the love he held for Eurydice, and the love she held for him, he’d turn around, and the world would go back to how it was. But if he didn’t… some small part of Aleksander wanted them to make it.

[thebigsl33p]

I'm prepping my auditions for drama school next year and so far I can't find a single classic monologue for a teenage girl that isn't about falling in love god help me any recommendations are greatly appreciated

[thebigsl33p]

[thebigsl33p]

Is he playing Blackbird by The Beatles? 🥹 I need more of Jack playing the guitar and singing softly

[thebigsl33p]

Last Words of A Shooting Star (3)

A/N: this one is considerably shorter than the others. fat sigh. But at least I wrote it. I figured out I ended up putting most of the story in the first two chapters, so this is now mostly development from here on out. I'm not too happy with this, but will most likely edit in the future (I'm lying to myself).

Main masterlist

People to be tagged (sorry if not):

@myanmy @noortsshift @archangelslollipop @vaguekayla @budugu @inlovewithfictionalmen444 @weallhaveadestiny @dreamlandcreations (oh my god I'm such a fan you have no ideaaa oh my god oh my god how did I not realise) @bookloverfilmoholic @lost-tothe-centuries @oliviaewl @wonderland2425 @kaysav608

Part One. Part Two.

Word Count: 3,412

Aleksander’s headache comes on in the early hours of the morning. Still hunched over his desk and working by the flickering light of a steadily declining candle, his eyes strain to focus on the paperwork in front of him and to ignore the throbbing pain slowly travelling from the base of his head to the gap between his eyes.

After ten minutes of trying to battle through Aleksander gives up, his head falling to his hands with a huff of exasperation. It’s moments like these that no one else will ever see - moments when the exhaustion catches up with him, his body overwhelmed with the nausea of overexertion and aching for sleep. It’s moments like these when he finally sets his work aside and rises from his desk, his black Kefta rumpled and his hair a mess from the amount of times he’s run his hand through it.

Aleksander sets his pen down, kicks his chair back under the desk and picks the candle up off the desk. He doesn’t bother to pretend to tidy his desk, abandoning it to move over to his bed. He sets the candle on his bedside cabinet - an elaborate piece of woodwork, a deep coloured beautifully varnished piece, covered in various books and papers and maps, and huffs.

He sits himself down on the edge of his bed to unlace and kick off his boots before unbuttoning his Kefta and hanging it over the end. He barely unlaces his shirt or his trousers and climbs into the sheets, his eyes shutting almost instantly.

The Shadow Summoner’s sleep is restless, filled with thousands of things he’d rather forget, people he’s killed, mistakes he’s made, world destroying choices for some, lifesaving for others. And yet, this particular night he’s back in a field, and it’s so dark he can’t see anything in the sky - not the moon, not the stars - and nothing in his surroundings but the tree line in front of him and the field he stands in. He’s barefoot, in simple clothes from hundreds of years ago, and he’s sure if he had a mirror he’d hardly recognise his face. He knows he’s looking for something, in that way that dreams work, but he doesn’t know what. His eyes scan the woods in front of him, deep and dark and unyielding, searching and searching some more.

And then a soft pale white light begins to glow from the heart of the woods, casting a soft dance of shadows across the field, twisting tendrils reaching for him in the shape of branches and darkness. He takes one step forward and the field falls out from under him, and his back hits hard dirt floor and the sun’s too bright in his eyes and he’s back in one of his mother’s training sessions. He sits up and sees Baghra’s figure but he can’t focus on her face. Aleksander’s aware that while this is a training session, it’s also a funeral of some sort. There’s a makeshift grave in the corner of the scene, a hand carved cross and a bunch of wildflowers. But his mother’s shadows are lurching at him once more, her voice scolding him for his slow reaction. But it’s not her voice.

It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in a very, very long time. Not even in his dreams.

Aleksander wakes in a cold sweat, clutching at the bed sheets twisted around him, panting heavily with tears in his eyes. He blinks them away, taking a deep breath as he hunches over slightly. He’s not just crying, he’s quietly sobbing into his hands - albeit against his will. But he can’t help the harsh tide of emotions in his chest, his heart beat loud in his ears, the memory of love he had attempted to bury under piles of paperwork, saving his people, fighting a war.

This lasts for ten minutes before he gathers himself, sinking back into his bedsheets. He turns his head a fraction to the drawn curtains, made of the finest fabrics, to witness the sunrise through a slither of a gap in the curtains, the gradual shift of the sky from a dark blue to a sunny morning.

The day must go on.

-

Zoya Nazyalensky is a perfectly nice Squaller.

More than perfectly nice, she theoretically matches him to a T: sharp wit and a biting mouth, confident and ambitious. It’s easy to see how Aleksander fell into an affair with her, using her to fill his lonely nights, the nights where he didn’t want to sleep, when the work wasn’t quite hitting the right spot. But right now, standing across the mess hall from her, running on less than half a night’s sleep and with regrets swirling in his chest he can’t help but regard her with disdain. It’s not something he means to do - she’s been nothing but good to him.

But she’s giving him eyes, dark, half-lidded, knowing and enticing… and he turns away. Someone might’ve seen the way her face slightly falls. It’s not often he turns her down but he feels like he’s betrayed something. Someone. It’s too much.

He’ll call upon her later when he needs a distraction, he thinks, when it all comes crashing down. But right now, he’d rather stew in his thoughts. Alone.

The Darkling leaves before she can question him, before she can cross the hall and convince him to bed her. In his state, he’d probably cave and regret it afterwards, kick her out of his chambers with subtle scathing words. He can’t bring himself to deal with her right now.

He goes through the corridors, down a set of regal stairs, and out into the courtyard. People stare as he goes - something he’s gotten used to. He’s a dark stain in the middle of bright shimmering colours, some regard him with fear, others with reverence. Either way, he ignores it, pretends not to see, and goes to collect his horse.

He knows where he’s going.

The stables are a well-maintained structure, wooden, housing a handful of horses - some for riding, some for work. A number of stablehands maintained the animals and the building - and the first time one of them had tried to ready his horse for him (a couple hundred years ago) he had found himself deeply offended at the notion he was incapable of maintaining his own animal, like the other nobility. But now, he had settled into it.

As he had settled into other things - people cooking for him, making his bed, preparing his clothes, writing his orders, so on and so forth. It had taken some time and he had certainly fought against the luxury for the first few years, but now he saw very little point in disallowing menial tasks to be done for him, especially when he rarely had the time.

And so his own horse was a dark haired beautiful thing, tall and strong and very well taken care of. The moment one of the stablehands saw him coming the young boy had slung a saddle over the horse’s back, and given the animal a quick brush down before bringing the horse out of the stable, and round to him.

He nodded, a quiet “Thank you.” As he accepts the horse by the reigns, running a gloved hand down its nose, before guiding it out to the main area of the courtyard. He swings up onto it, hooking his foot into the stirrup before finding a comfortable position. And from there, he commands the Little Palace gates open, and rides.

The unmarked grave is a medium sized rock, just tucked into the tree line of the clearing. He knows there’s no body there, no disturbance in the soil save for the rock lodged into the ground. But it matters to him. It matters that she’s remembered, at least somewhere. Whether that’s a story, whether it’s ‘Y/N and Sasha were here’ written on the wall of some random historic monument, whether it’s an actual grave stone, dedicated to her, or a rock shoved in the soil a long long time ago.

It still matters. She still matters.

And yet, he sits there, the sun high in the sky and his back against the rock, and he thinks about her. He knows, a long time ago, she had a face. She had a laugh. He knows she held his hand, and kissed his lips, and cared for him and loved him as much as he had loved her, and yet, he can’t remember any of it. Her face is a blur of faded and fading memories, over one hundred years, four mortal lifetimes. His brain is pushing out those distant things, the things he holds most valuable, to make room for war planning and maps.

Aleksander hates himself for it. Hates what he’s become. He hates how tired he is all the time. And he knows if she were here… he sighs. His fingers trace the blades of grass around him before he leans his head back, eyes shutting, and he tries to remember her. Not just what he knows is true, not just the colour of her hair and the shape of her nose. No, he tries to really remember her, tries to carve the shape of her face and the crinkle of her laugh out of the darkness behind his eyelids.

His heart breaks when he can’t.

His chest seizes in defeat yet he keeps his eyes shut as he feels a wave of something between frustration and devastation. Hadn’t he fought hard enough? Wasn’t his entire life’s work in dedication to her? And now he couldn’t even remember her face? What sort of man, what sort of lover, was he?

His hand sharply grasps the blades of grass and tugs them out of the earth without thinking, before tossing them to the side, a soft huff leaving his lips. He opens his eyes and rises awkwardly, dusting off his Kefta and trousers, before settling a hand on the rock, a gentle goodbye, an unspoken ‘see you soon’, before he moves to collect his horse.

There is work to be done. The sun is moving through the sky. Time waits for no one, not even an immortal.

-

That night, Zoya is in his bed. And the night after that, and the night after that.

The dreams subside for a day or two. But when he bolts up out of his bedsheets, heart racing, eyes wide and teeth bared like an animal as he sucks in harsh breaths, he knows something is wrong. He can barely fill his lungs, his skin is too hot, and just the sight of the woman sleeping beside him is irritating to the point of making his skin crawl. Saints.

As quietly as he can he climbs out of the bed and pulls on his breeches, running his hand through his hair. He’s unable to settle the discontent inside him, that unending restlessness that plagues him in moments like these. Soundlessly he pads over to the window, parts the curtains and cracks open the latch, filling the room with cool air which seems to soothe him, just a bit.

It’s then that Zoya stirs, the sheets rustling as she mumbles, “General? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He grumbles, not even turning around to look at her, guilt eating at him. It’s been hundreds of years. Hundreds. Part of him longs to cling onto the feeling, while the other feels pathetic for it.

He hears the sheets rustle some more, before a hand places itself on his bare back, “…Aleksander. Come back to bed.” She says gently.

He hates it. Without thinking, he bristles away from her touch, his eyes still glued to the night sky, “Leave me, Nazyalensky.” he orders, more war commander than lover, “This ends tonight.”

The woman’s brow furrows, a frown settling at her lips, “But-”

“No ‘But’s.” He snaps, “Leave. We are through.”

Zoya huffs, and retracts her hand sharply, shaking her head as she moves to dress herself, “I’ll see you when you come crawling back.” She mutters, gathering her things and hurriedly leaving.

The comment stings and if she were anyone else he wouldn’t have let her get away with it. But he supposes he has to leave her some leeway. He doesn’t think too much about it, eyes pinned to the night sky, examining the stars like they might mean something, like they might transform before his eyes into something more than burning balls of gas, a million years dead. He knows they’re more.

-

It’s weeks later when a soldier comes bursting into his study.

It’s early morning, so early the sun hasn’t even risen, the sky a gentle shade of melancholic blue. He’s drowning himself in work, as per usual, when the young boy bursts in, breath heavy and face flushed, barking, “Sir!”

“What is it?” he glances up, rubbing at his brow.

“Sir…” The soldier swallows, his lanky frame leaning up against the doorframe, “Apologies, sir, but there’s been reports…” he’s trying to get out as much as he can through catching his breath and it’s irritating Aleksander.

“Catch your breath, boy.” He commands, setting his pen down and folding his arms. The boy nods, mumbling out ‘yes, sir’, as he takes a moment, before finally he speaks, “Sir, there’s been reports of… light, in The Fold.”

That has Aleksander’s eyebrows raising to his hairline, brow furrowing as his lips press into a line, “Light? What kind of light? Impossible.”

“The soldiers say white light, sir, like um-” The soldier’s brow furrows, trying to find some metaphor or simile.

“Forget it.” The General sighs, before he stands from his chair, “How did you get here? Horse?” he makes quick work of bundling up his projects, scooping them up in his arms and dumping them to the side.

“Yes, sir.” The soldier nods, eager and now standing straight instead of slumped against the doorframe.

“Good. Best go get it. We’re going to the front lines.”

-

The journey there is composed of long tracks and winding roads, but it doesn’t take long. They reach the front lines by the next morning, General Kirigan, his Oprichniki and the soldier. The only conversation is between the soldier and the Oprichniki, mostly the young boy's murmured and insistent conversation.

The General himself rides ahead, stoic and silent, his leather gloves gripping the reigns of his horse, his mind running.

When they reach the camp the air is alive with a buzz. It’s clear the news of this 'light' has spread far and wide, gossip already spreading - some saying it’s the Fold clearing, the other side, others saying it’s a trick of the light, others claiming the sun is shining through.

The wall of black stands vast and impenetrable. It shifts at the edges, shadows curling and tendrils licking at the sandy ground, stretching up into the sky as far as the eye can see. Aleksander feels the same pull he does whenever he’s faced with it, his own creation, the simple recklessness of love and heartbreaking dedication. He keeps that secret locked tightest.

And yet, sure enough, it seems to glow. There’s the faintest of lights, illuminating the wall of shadow like a light held to skin, betraying the way the shadow pulses and shifts, and the flitters of the evasive creatures within.

He spends no more time dwelling on it, climbing off his horse and handing the animal away, marching through the camp to find the first commander he can. The man he locates is tall, but thin, a young man, clean shaven with a scar across his cheek. He salutes upon Aleksander’s approach, barking, “General!”

Aleksander wastes no time, “Get me reports. I want our best working on this, Otkazat’sya, Grisha, I don’t care. Just get someone to figure this out.” He snaps, eyes flitting across the landscape.

The commander nods and scurries off, already barking out orders to any soldier in his sight. The vision of The Darkling, a pinpoint of black amongst khaki and green has people jumping into action, a flurry of activity around the camp.

Within about an hour it has been decided that the best way to figure out what’s going on is to send a Sandskiff. The crew is decided through lots, squallers placed at the ready to fill the sails. And The Darkling stands, waiting, watching the ship pierce into The Fold, hands clenched at the railing of the platform he’s on, jaw gritted.

He’s waiting for any result, anything, though he knows it will be some time before the skiff comes back. He doesn’t move from his post, eyes boring into The Fold, teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek.

The camp carries on around him, pretending it’s business as usual, more mapmakers and soldiers fussing around him, offering anything they can get him. He waves it all away. Whatever’s in there, he’s going to find out.

-

The sandskiff is a mess.

There’s the smell of charred wood, dismembered body parts, not to mention the remaining crew wide eyed and most likely traumatised. The top deck has been completely ruined, and at the moment a number of Grisha are trying to put out the flames eating away at the wooden structure, the air clouded with smoke so thick it’s hard to see the damage.

But Aleksander steps onto the deck anyway, waving away the smoke with a gloved hand, eyes hard. He watches the Tidemakers work from buckets of water to quell the fires. And finally it’s revealed.

There, in the middle of the deck, was a very large hole burned into the wood exposing the second floor of the ship. His brow raised just a fraction, and he took a step closer, trying to peer into the gape, attempting to see through the gradually clearing smoke. Gradually it began to clear, squallers pushing air to waft it away, to expose… a person?

A woman it seemed, H/C hair, as naked as the day she was born and completely passed out on the wood, face marred with ash, and what seemed to be… scars? No. Not quite. Something else.

His eyes widen and he moves fast, “All of you, back!” He commanded, before climbing down to the next floor, jumping through the hole. He didn’t take the time to look at her before removing his cloak and wrapping the woman with it, picking her up as he went, supporting her head with his arm, and her knees over his other, “Get me a stretcher!” he called up, moving through the lower deck for the stairs, and emerging through the hatch back to the top.

The Grisha and Otkazat’sya around him seemed stunned, a silence settling over the skiff and those around it, watching their General emerge with a knocked out woman in his arms, who seemingly had crashed out of The Fold and into the world. And he was calm. Suspiciously so. Though wether that was his demeanour or something else, no one could quite tell.

Meanwhile, Aleksander’s heart was racing. The woman in his arms looked different. She was older, more beaten, marks decorating her skin which weren’t there before. But so was he. He had scars, he had tired eyes that had seen too much and a face he hardly recognised.

But he hoped his love for her was the same. His Zvezda. His Y/N.

It took all he had, all his self control and composure, not to caress her face. Not to kiss her eyelids, not to burst into tears like a child. But he couldn’t. Not here, not with so many people watching him, watching them.

So he gently laid her on the stretcher, when it came, and ordered her to be brought to The Little Palace.