#book of scintillation | writing

[himbocoups]

˗ˋˏ Epistolary Yearning ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

synopsis: a series of letters, speckled with notes of budding romance and longing, exchanged between a newly married couple separated by seas and the ongoing war the emperor sent his commander to end.

pairing: duke!lsm x reader (gn afab)

genre: epistolary form, historical fantasy, romance | smut

tags: arranged marriage, mentions of a war, dk and yn accidentally invent the concept of planes, two people very much falling in love | degrading, fingering, guided play, honey play, marking, mirror play, pet names, praise, pussy slapping, riding, spitting, squirting…

wc: 5.13k

message from nu: fueled by my love for historical, fantasy, and isekai manhuas. big thank you to my beta readers (@heartkyeom, @aceofvernons, and @multi-kpop-fanfics) for reading when I was playing with the format of this fic + @junkissed with helping out with the syntax for this one very confusing line I wrote. also summoning @onlyseokmins bc I told her I'd tag her once duke!dk was finished <3

himbocoups's masterlist

Letter One - YN

My Lord, 

How are you? I hope your trip is going as smoothly as planned. 

It has been a while since I last heard from you. As Summer comes to a fading end, Autumn threatens to wash the foliage to hues of brown and auburn. And I sit at the library nook beside the window, taking quill to parchment against the cover of a heavily bound book and scratching against blank pages before I can muster the courage to write to you. I do sincerely apologize if this attempt seems strange. 

Though I pity our brief time together, the only things I familiarized myself with are your scintillant eyes. Maybe instead of feeling as dull as the color of nature, I’ll think about how the color is reminiscent of your eyes. Eyes, these beautiful jewels seem to reflect the light through your smile. I can’t help but imagine myself as the last person to see them every night as I lay beside you as we drift off into slumber. Would it be too forward of me to say that the thought of growing fond of you, not just your eyes, is slowly appealing more and more to me? 

However, I do have hesitations as I am left alone to roam these lonely halls in a place so unfamiliar to me. It would be a pity shall I reach familiarity with my surroundings before I become familiar with you. Or even worse, to have you forget your familiarity with me. 

Please be safe for me. Hurry home soon.

Letter Two - DK

My Jewel,

For someone who longs for familiarity, you need not create even more distance between us through formalities. And my love, you need not refer to me as your Lord. Love is all I ask for, as love is what you will always be to me. Albeit, I do find it disheartening to read that you think of me so lowly. I could never forget someone as precious as you, even if you do not believe in your preciousness. 

Nevertheless, I, too, pity the brevity of our time together. Marriage agreed upon through an exchanging of letters by our guardians, now our marriage follows suit in the epistolary form. Yet no descriptive access through penmanship could ever grant the feeling that blossomed inside me and continues to bloom since I first laid my eyes upon you. And on the eve of the third week of our matrimony, I was whisked away to end the war. I do sincerely apologize for my absence. 

On this rocking ship, all I can do is stare into the swirling sea in search of a passing merchant ship with letters to deliver. The birds that soar above me seem to provoke me with their independence, cawing in hearty guffaw at the fact that this poor man can never take flight at any moment back into his lover’s arms - where he feels most at home.

Maybe we should take giant birds instead of ships, soaring in the skies and reaching our destination in an instant. How wondrous that would be. 

But I am an equally lonesome Commander among his squadron, a man who keeps the first letter from his lover in the pocket against his breast and his wedding band around his neck. Just thinking about how you were thinking about me while writing that letter, still thinking about me, conciliates any disarray in my mind. And I promise you that I will make you feel loved for the rest of your life, even if our love is only budding. 

I will lead my men well. Then I will lead myself home. To you. 

Letter Three - YN

My Dokyeom (If it is fine to refer to you in this way),

I do have to admit to my shyness, how my face flushed with heat when you referred to me as your beloved. Your “love”…my goodness, our servants nearly called the doctor over when they saw my state of awe. Although, I do apologize if the language in my initial letter seemed blunt or made you feel even a hint of sadness that I accidentally made you for a man with a cold demeanor. 

You wrote: “Maybe we should take giant birds instead of ships, soaring in the skies and reaching our destination in an instant” in our last exchange. What a preposterous idea! But what a new discovery to find that you are as funny as you are charming. Shall we commission a local alchemist to create potions that magnify tiny sparrows to large ships? Or shall I ditch my archery lessons in exchange for nights in your magnificent library, scouring the archives with the hope to find a recipe to an enlarging potion hidden in a romance novel? 

Oh, how I wish everything could be as easy as depicted in romance novels or that one Opera we went to watch. Days consume me on end. Not in the way in which I consume much of my leisure time by staying in the places we frequented in our time together, but in the way in which time passes by so slowly it feels like the concept of time is consuming me instead. I wish it were you who were consuming me even though I do feel it through your love. Because I, too, keep your letter near me. And I trace over the areas your quill indented the parchment, so much that I sometimes end up smudging the dried ink with my hand. 

I do miss you...even more when everything around me reminds me of you. Because you, who makes silly promises about a budding romance, will also be the receiver of my elementary promise about my slowly collecting love for you. 

P.S. They are close to finishing our portraits. I have yet to decide where they are to be hung. 

Letter Four - DK

My Love,

My Seokmin. Seok. Min. Mine. Beloved. Love. Dearest. Husband. Equal. Anything but Duke, Lord, Commander, or Dokyeom is welcome. How I wish for the day I get to hear my name leave your lips through a soft murmur, laughter, greeting, whisper, and mayhaps even a whine. 

Honeymoon was cut short by my trip across the sea. We are finally on land. In front of me is a crackling campfire whose glow conceals the redness of my cheeks, dappled with jubilance from reading your last letter. 

My dearest shy and humble lover whose metaphoric propositions of love are anything but reticent, I have annotated my favorite portions and circled words that I replay in my mind as a source of comfort. However, like what you did with your quotation of my imaginary bird ship, I must reference a few nuances in your letter that I find interesting. Particularly, I find that you must be careful in formatting your syntax, my beloved — for your way of language is enough to drive a sane man mad. Just think of me: a sane man before I had you and now a man slowly falling madly in love with you. 

Referring back to how time achingly consumes you, your “I wish it were you who were consuming me. Although I do feel it through your love” causes me to quiver in a way that is only shared between two lovers. I am a man whose honeymoon was interrupted by the king’s call, a man who is weeks without his lover, a man who has needs - desires. And your need for me to consume you? I can only pluck it out of context. 

If everything around you reminds you of me, then I must tell you that I hope your reminder does not make you suffer as how I suffer. My love, do you know how painful it was to lay in my bed while the ship continually rocked back and forth? It was reminiscent of our second week together when you decided to mount me in bed, your beautiful opalescent undergarment covering an action so lewd that it could never be named in public. Yet I was a man on a ship with his aching cock in his hand, imagining his newly beloved on top of him who squeezes him tightly as they ride his lap. 

No hand could ever replace the fervor of having you rock me, leaning forward to kiss me down my naked chest while sucking and licking the thin area of skin right above my collarbone. How warmly your walls enveloped my own, squeezing and contrasting with every glide you make. I couldn’t help but twitch in you, trying to hold in my selfishness by grabbing onto your thighs - kneading and feeling the skin fill the areas between my fingers. But you bounced on my lap like a bunny in heat, causing my hands to trail further upwards until they lay on your ass…I wanted to worship you by turning myself into a throne, a marble stand so others could be in awe of you for centuries to come. 

Mouth unable to talk, your kitten drooled onto my lap and coated the surface with liquid lust while you whimpered as I praised you for treating me so well. I scooped the syrup from the maple tap and brought it to my mouth to suck; even now I can still feel your sweet syrup rest on my tongue and swirl in my mouth. Yet there I was on that boat, losing my mind with my hand on my tap. Bed sheets soaked with my sweat, I could only imagine that it was your sweat-glistened skin that stuck against mine. It was but a shame, and still is but a shame, that the image of you collapsed against my chest with exhaustion when your thighs trembled with such a quake only exists as a memory. How long would it take for me to turn the memory of me looping my arms around your back and pushing your upper body against mine, feeling you build and crash through a scream, into our reality? 

The land is no better than the sea. Truly, it must be treason to think such impure thoughts while riding on my finest stallion to head to our base. I am a Commander, a Duke for God’s sake. But the bouncing, the clopping - oh, beloved, my skin pricked with heat so much that I thought bandits were ambushing us. The pain I felt while I waited for my swelling to go down - I am utterly embarrassed to admit I almost released while riding in front of my men. 

How I wish I could come running back home to you. Shall I single-handedly overturn the monarchy so we can be equal partners to the throne? So that we can be rulers who need not leave our estate? Just give me the word, and the empire will be yours. Then I would never need to leave your side. That I guarantee. 

P.S. Hang the portrait wherever you please. Perhaps the ballroom so I would always be with you during the night of the balls. 

Letter Five - YN

My King,

How mad of you to write such vulgarities, to suggest usurping the throne only if it means being able to stay with me. You are a Commander. You are a Duke. You are one of the King’s men. Do you not fear the inevitable consequences that you would face should your letter be opened by anybody other than myself? Do you not fear what would happen to you if your lust-driven joke was wrongly taken for treason? I must say that despite everything, I found myself dipping a finger into your words and listening to my juices sing your letter like lyrics. 

Your words comforted my ache at my core, skillfully fighting fire with fire to extinguish my burning forest. However, if you were to turn into a mere object – a chair, a throne, a stand – I would never be satisfied in your worship. ‘Tis true that I would like to be worshiped by you like the first time your palm cupped my face in private confinement under the shade of the gazebo in the garden. With nobody around us, your face softened to reveal the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. Earnest eyes flittered to and fro as you studied me in awe and whispered words of praise. Up until then, I never even knew you could worship a person such as me. Yet, you, a mere stranger I met a few hours ago, placed a kiss upon my lips as soft as the petals on the flowers that surrounded us. 

If worshipping me means an inanimate you, I don’t think there would be anybody who could worship me with such sincerity and reason as you do…and I quite like the animate you even if the animate you screamed at the bug upon your sleeve. I couldn’t stop laughing then. And when you looked back at me with those bashful eyes, I knew this would be a marriage filled with laughter.  

Laughter, as I have recently learned, doesn’t only exist jovially. No. Reading your comment about my syntax, I almost erupted in a peal of sinister laughter. My poor lover with his cock in his hand and his quill in his other and his attempt to warn someone with such an extensive educational background about their syntax…you are too pure for this world. Should it make you feel better in any way, I have also thought about you in ways such a person in my stature should never. 

The other day when I was particularly distracted by the particular “unease” that had been building inside me, I accidentally launched a practice arrow into the wind. Chasing it, I happened upon our agriculture stables where the young workers sit and milk our cows. I swear, I must have been in such a delusional state to feel such a rush just from watching the motion of our cows getting milked that I ran off to the kitchens without picking up my stray arrow. 

Can you believe it, my dear? Have you been thinking of me differently since I admitted to almost leaking when I saw the cows getting milked? Would you think of me even differently if I told you I thought of you while talking to our ice sculptors? If you can quench my thirst on my loneliest days, I can only imagine what taking you in paired with ice would feel like for both you and me. 

Mayhaps, we should convene in the kitchen at night after the bell strikes twelve when all of our kitchen staff have retired. I want to kiss you with cherry-stained lips, watching tint transfer onto yours as I play with the seed of the fruit in my mouth while I wait for our cups of tea to steep. Kissing, I hope, would act as an analgesic for your painfully sleepless nights. Still, I find it abstruse that a kind, gentle, and good man like you would live such a cathartic life as a commander. Enerverated in every way as I am, I can only offer a somnolent kiss in hopes of luring you to sleep before your tea can fully steep. 

“What is a man without his honey,” you would say. Then I would ask you to specify what type of honey you are referring to. 

You would reply with this cheekiness in your voice while your lips pull into a wide smile, “the syrup.” If I’m not wrong, you would peck the top of my head while you reach over me to grab the jar that the cook keeps at the counter for you to easily access. Because the man with a honeyed siren voice that often procures lullabies for me to fall asleep also has a taste for the pollinators’ syrup. 

As you can tell…we are not simple people. We are not a regular couple. We have exchanged letters for longer than we have physically been together. So when I tell you to close your eyes to try to find your honey, would you? If I blindfolded you with a kitchen towel and told you to search for the dab of honey I swatched on my body, could you do it? Would you go to the lengths just to search for the honey to your tea?

Would you use your nose and sniff along my skin, searching for the floral and fruity aroma? Gently picking up my arm and bringing it to your nose, would you gently guide your nose along the surface of my skin in a position so intimate that you feel my arm hairs tickle the tip of your nose? Would you guide your nose upwards along my arm until you arrive at my collarbone, sniffing and docilely licking areas you think to be as sweet as honey? 

Imploring you in your reconnoiter, I must keep quiet as I watch you blindly explore every groove of the topography of my body. I imagine myself tilting my head towards the side to allow you access to the side of my neck, sharply breathing in as you nose the area in which I am the most sensitive. I see you hesitate for a second before planting your supple lips against the skin as if to sample before making a decision. To your surprise, what coats your lips in a sticky and sweet amber gloss is the honey I placed on my neck slowly trailing towards my collarbone. And I watch you intently as you lick it off your lips, leaving a translucent liquid sheen. 

Affected by a magnetic lure, you would somehow find yourself in front of me, your head positioned right above the slowly trailing bead of honey. It starts with a lick, hot tongue against cold skin. I can’t help but feel how the bumpy texture of your tongue cleans and pulls its way up my neck. After the hot saliva hits cold air, you take off the kitchen towel and look at me like a puppy waiting for its owner. 

“Such a good boy,” I murmur as I take the towel from your hand and wrap it around the nape of your neck to pull you in closer. “How does it taste?” 

What is more, is that I hope that in that moment my heart is not the only one that is beating as fast as how a hummingbird flaps its wings. My greedy husband, you back me against the kitchen island until you are pressed firmly against me as I watch and feel you bite and suck a garden of flowers across my neck and chest. Your large hands find themselves around my thighs, kneading and squeezing them so much that the fabric of my night clothes bunch in the palm of your hands. So I maneuver your hands around my waist, and you spin me around and bend me against that counter so I can feel you push yourself against me. 

“Be good for me,” you would command while undressing me. 

Then I would feel it, hands spreading my legs and fingers prying my ass apart, and then your warm and flat tongue against my kitten. One single lick would make my knees buckle. But you eating me out from behind, the way you knead my ass while you take your time swirling your tongue against my lips and lapping up my juices would make me come in an instant. Your tongue presses against my nub while your nose digs itself into my opening almost to the point where you’re fucking me with the tip of your nose, yet it is me who begs for air. And you keep my liquid on your tongue as you rise from your knees to pull my head back until I’m looking at you and your swollen and burgundy lips with my head tilted backward. 

And you pry my mouth open with your hand and watch me catch that sweet honey on the tip of my tongue. 

My dear, I am much too hot to even think about what comes after you let go of my jaw. My tenses in this letter are all mixed up because I’m so caught up in my delusions that I mistake dreams for reality. I feel ashamed to revert to such elementary composition when I am clouded by lust. But in this sensory game of wits, who do you think would win — the explorer or the explored? 

P.S. I’ve had our painting temporarily hung in our dining room as I cannot even bring myself to think about the possibility of hosting a ball without you. The great ballroom has been collecting dust since the first month you left for the war. Besides, invitations to the first ball of the season have long been sent out. I attended and made some acquaintances. Are you proud of me? Are you missing me as much as I am missing you?

Letter Six - DK

My Sweet,

Loneliness is when you are trapped by your stillness while everything around you splits into two and crumbles. And you are stuck in the open space of where everything once was, you in your bubble of muteness as the world crashes and breaks in a cacophonous roar. The feeling that engulfed me during these past few months was beyond my description of loneliness. So with a happy heart, I am telling you that the war is over. I’m coming home soon to hold you in my arms, to show you what this world that surrounds you is truly like — delicate and with the warmth of a glowing morning Sun that promises juvenescent Springs until the end of time. 

Regarding your question about the potential winner of the sensory game you described in your last letter, whether I am the person exploring or explored, I know I would always be the victor as only a true victor can call you “his.” My sweet love, I hope to stick by your side as long as I prefer honey in my tea and you by my side when I sleep. 

However, with a slightly interruptive transition, I have a few requests regarding the contents of your postscript. That is:

One, I am wholly and with every fiber of my mind, soul, and body proud of you. You, my shyest lover who sought friendship in your moments of loneliness, I love you so. Yet I find myself utterly in distress that I cannot co-host our tea parties until later should you hold one in a few days. Our estate is boring, and it must be tiring seeing the same things and people every day for the past few months. I urge you to go out more and explore so I can come home to plentiful stories told in your voice. I want to fall asleep to your descriptions so I can dream of how you see the world around you. 

Two, of course, I am missing you. Even if I were a few yards away from you, I would still miss you. I am currently bothering our treasurer in regards to spending the rest of our budget on a winter wonderland in which we would freeze the entire world so I could easily and quickly sled back home like a seal off an iceberg. However, our treasurer is insistent on saving the budget for lodging, travel, and sustenance. I, for one, think I am right.

Three, I think this might be my last letter in a while as when this stack of parchments finally reaches you, I would almost be home. So I am struggling between keeping this short and straight to the point or long and thoroughly eloquent with everything that I want to write and say to you. Instead of coming to a conclusion by myself, I bid you farewell until we meet again with this set of instructions within my set of requests for you. I’m sorry if the format of my letter makes it very hard for you to read. Like how you described your delusions, I often find myself alone at night imagining you by my side so much that I feel your physical presence next to me. 

Four, as for our portrait in our dining room, I must ask you to perform a favor for me as I have not seen the finished painting myself. It is a test regarding the “likeness” of our portraits that can only be performed by yourself. When you wish to perform the test before I arrive, please excuse all our staff who stay by your side during dinner and ask to eat alone. Should they give you looks, please say that it was requested by me. 

When you are alone, I need you to get into a position in which you can look at yourself through the large mirror that is mounted above the low mantle towards the end of the dining room table. I assume our portrait is hung on the wall at the other side of the dining room table, am I right? If you move the plates and sit on the table, you should be able to look at both your entire body and our portrait through the mirror. Do not worry about making a mess my dear. 

Perhaps this test may be a little lewd for a dinner setting. But after your proposed rendezvous in the kitchen in your last letter, I suppose this test would be nothing to you. 

Look at yourself in the mirror. Can you imagine me behind you, slowly kissing down your neck as I undress you while the candlelights flicker beside us? Our shadows cast against the walls that surround us tell the story of two lovers slowly conjoining into one. And I sit you against the front of my naked body, bending your legs and positioning them so you can see all of you through the mirror.

My love, can you see your lips unfold into a beautiful bloom, leaking with its sweet nectar for your man to taste? The sweet nectar, the glistening substitute to the honey our staff brought alongside our dinner rolls, rolls off the flower and soaks the tablecloth beneath you. Tonight I am not doing anything except revel in your beauty like a man awestruck by something so exquisite that he cannot do anything but stare. 

I want you to imagine that the same me in the portrait is the me you imagine to be behind you, the very me who writes this letter and instructs you on how to pleasure yourself for the night. Suck on your own fingers, my darling. Bring your fingers to your lips, and let me see the way you ready yourself before the pleasure comes. Because what I want is for you to fuck yourself well for me so that after you’ve squirted all over the dining table your pussy continues to throb so much that you confuse it for your beating heart. 

Don’t be shy. Bring your soaked fingers to your folds, and trace along the lines of the petals. Look at how they seemingly open and close as your stomach jerks in reaction. Slowly rub yourself up and down, coaxing that beautiful sigh that I know too well out of your mouth. Feel the pads of your finger mix with your juices, slipping easily and making your hand glide smoother. 

Are you looking at me through the mirror? Are you begging me to instruct you in other ways to satisfy your lust? Do you want to rub your pearl and flick it with your finger in a way that makes you clench and collapse? 

What is it, honey? Are you whining for me to make you feel good? But this is your guided session. Don’t you see yourself through the mirror, so pathetic looking that you would do anything that I tell you to do? Then take that same hand you used to tease yourself and slap your pussy for me. Bring the hand back and bring it down on your pussy quickly and with so much might that the sound of palm against tender skin echoes throughout the empty dining room. 

Don’t you feel pathetic? Getting off from you slapping your own pussy? Doesn’t it please you and make feel so dirty at the same time? When you’re striking your palm against your pussy over and over as your other hand unconsciously reaches upwards to knead your sore nipple, are you looking at yourself through the mirror? Are you still imagining me sitting behind you on our dining table, whispering and taunting you as you attempt to come undone? If your head is not completely clouded with lust, when that pussy is throbbing with such pain and pleasure, you will take your finger to your entrance and insert it slowly so you feel your warm and wet insides slowly swallow your finger the further in it goes. 

Let your mouth hang open as you plug yourself with another finger. Fill the lonely dining room with your sweet moans for me. Listen to your kitten squelch and leak the more you pump yourself so that a warm and hot feeling grows in your stomach, making you clench your body tighter and tighter. Scissor your fingers, and fill up that empty space where my cock usually rests. When you release, pull out your fingers as you come on the tablecloth and look at the cream I miss the most. 

You’re so perfect, you know that? You’d look even more perfect when you’re on your knees with your fingers underneath you and inside of you. Bounce for me my sweet, ride your own fingers as if you’re riding me. Massage yourself with your other hand, grabbing and kneading your breasts and your nipples as I do for you. Can you see yourself through the mirror more clearly when you’re in this position? Do you see how messy and needy you look while you’re pathetically riding your own fingers? Do you wish they were mine? Do you wish they were my thighs? 

Open your eyes for me as you reach another wave of ecstasy. Look at me in the eyes, the man painted next to your glowing figure as you reach your last high. I know you can do it. Scream my name if you love me, and squirt as if your pussy was crying for the man you love. 

Turn your head around when you’ve caught your breath. Look at our portrait. Do you see how I’m smiling at you? 

I’m proud of you, my love. Thank you for holding on for so long. I’ll be home soon. 

P.S. I love you.

Copyright © 2023 Himbocoups. All rights reserved.

#svthub #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #dk smut #seokmin smut #dk x reader #seokmin x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #dk imagines #seokmin imagines #✏️ ━ himbocoups

[moineauz]

જ⁀ "you are a 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌, dearest."

That was what your husband- Neuvillette- mutters breathlessly to you in an outpour of gentle rain. That was when he ultimately grasped the wispy and fleeting sensations of what a mortal calls a 'dream', like a feather grazing the skin before vanishing with an afternoon breeze.

While Neuvillette is poised, eloquent, observant and educated- the sheer complexity of mortal life puzzles him. He has grown to subconsciously question the facts, follies and simple acts of mortals for centuries in a subtle, smouldering aspiration to better comprehend why laughter erupts from your hearty lungs during downpours. Despite, rain being considered an omen of sorrow. Or how you childishly attempt to dance with the shadows of strangers before eventually embracing his.

Oh, oh how he could not help but gingerly place his pens and papers aside when you spend hours simply perched next to him. Eyes closed and silent yet breathing deeply into your stomach and exhaling through your mouth as you unwinded like string before him. Fully aware that you need not utter another word as you unfailingly glowed before him; taking up space in his very office as you did wherever your heart and legs took you.

You'd wrap a thousand-year-old tree in your arms and mutter thanks to the Earth before playing tag with the children on the street, sharing fruit with a local vendor whilst relishing in an evening stroll with Neuvillette. Just the two of you.

It was yet another practice of yours that first bewildered, intrigued and ultimately enamoured him. In the haze of afternoon light under the subtle whiff of smooth parchment- Neuvillette could not have sought a superior way to observe the mortal who unwinded him.

That was the day he began to scan and rummage through parchment and books- scouring for at least one word to encapture a sliver of you. Like an aerologist preserving a mere fragment of bone.

( Of course, the Melusines- who adored you terribly- sought to aid Neuvillette in whatever way possible. )

That was when he came upon a word as he overheard a curt conversation whilst ambling through the streets of Fontaine.

'A dream.'

Hence, as raindrops gingerly slid down your cheeks, Neuvillette observed your soaked figure. However, despite the grey clouds hung above, your eyes- rich and deep in colour- seemed to twinkle like stars.

You pause for a tender moment, your mouth slightly agape as the mellow tunes of rain dance in your ears. Yet, words do not rise from your throat. Instead, the warmth of evening tea sessions, paper filing done together and swaying to no rhythm or sequence of moves.

"Oh Neuvillette," your voice condensing into a mere whisper as you utter his name; having nothing left to say. The muscles in your legs move absent of thought. Thus, you stand now mere inches apart from one another. Rain soaking you both. As you observe his tender face you notice a streak of rain pouring down from the corners of his eyes. Or perhaps it was salty tears?

Worry flickers in your eyes like a match being lit as more tears roll down his cheek in a manner of ethereal grace. You gingerly reach your hand toward his cheek; cupping it tenderly. Neuvillette stirs slightly.

Before you can voice your disquiet, Neuvillette sobs. His eyes glanced down shortly before meeting your fretful eyes. His eyebrows furrowed in the manner you have seen a dozen times before.

Yet, his eyes glimmer like the rays of the sun kissing a broad vibrant lake. A scintillating dazzle of unobscured light.

"Do not fret dearest. These tears are not ones of sadness..."

Neuvillette raises his gloved hand and similarly caresses your cheek; eyes pooling into your starstruck ones.

"... but of my most ardent affections to my partner- a dream I wish to live in for as long as you allow me to."

waaaa what a fic. i accidentally deleted the draft halfway though writing it but thankfully i was able to get it back. hope you all are ready for my comeback!!! ( meaning more angst lol dw there will be fluff too... or not?!?!? )

reblogs with comments are highly appreciated!! pls interact... don't be a ghost reader!

#writing ᝰ.ᐟ #genshin impact #genshin x reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette #neuvillette x you #neuvillette x y/n #neuvilette genshin #neuvillette fluff #neuvillette angst #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact angst #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines

[yokohamapound]

BSD Characters Catch You Reading Smut

No one asked for this, but I just had the idea floating around in my head and it was too good to pass up. &lt;3

Characters: Edogawa Ranpo, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Dazai Osamu, Kunikida Doppo, Yosano Akiko, Nakahara Chuuya, Fyodor Dostoevsky

Contents: smut references

Edogawa Ranpo

It doesn't matter how good you think your poker face is. Ranpo knows. You've spent years training yourself by reading fanfiction in public and using an e-reader to mask what you're doing, but there will always be a tell.

He pops his lollipop out of his mouth and smirks over at you from his desk while you're trying to read a few pages on your lunch break. 

"Whatcha readin'?" he asks, coy.

You take a moment to compose yourself, pulling your gaze away from the scintillating, graphic descriptions written in the text, and glance across at him. There’s something about his smile that makes you unaccountably nervous. Ranpo might act like a kid most of the time, but there’s a hint of knowing in his eyes that forcibly reminds you this man is a full grown adult, and far too perceptive for his—and your—own good.

“A…uh…romance novel.”

Perhaps if you confess to something mild like reading romance novels at work, then he won’t go after the big fish. But you know as soon as the words leave your mouth that it’s a mistake. Ranpo always goes after the big fish, not the small fry.

“Uh-huuuh.” He draws out the word, grinning at you, one green eye opens a sliver. “Good sex scene?”

Across the office, Kunikida spits out his coffee over his paperwork.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

As much as Akutagawa talks like a Victorian orphan and likes to collect antiques, we don’t know much about his reading tastes, if he has any at all. Don’t forget he grew up in the slums, so he’s had little education, if any, before coming to the Port Mafia. After which, it was probably left up to Dazai, god forbid.

Suffice it to say that if he does enjoy reading anything, it’s probably morbid Gothic horror, riddled with existential dread and people dying young, haunted by the ghosts of their misdeeds. So, Poe’s stuff, basically. 

All this is to preface the fact that I don’t think Akutagawa even realises there is such a thing as smut novels. He’s probably aware of porn, but dirty writing? Not something he’s ever bothered to consider in his relatively narrow purview. 

He doesn’t really think twice when he sees you reading, since it’s a familiar-enough sight. It might be a book in your hands or just some text you’re scrolling through on your phone. It’s only when he notices your rapt attention to the text that he starts to get curious.

You’re so engrossed you don’t notice him loom over your shoulder until you hear his breath catch, a cough spluttering in his throat.

“What…what are you reading!?” he demands to know, rearing back from the book like it’s going to bite him. 

Dazai Osamu

Oh god.

It’s very hard to hide anything from Dazai, but you’ve been trying to keep your spicy book collection a secret because once he finds out about something he becomes an incorrigible tease about it, and this would be no different. 

You’ve almost mastered the art of hiding your fanfiction tab when he walks past by using the old (ALT + TAB) manoeuvre, Or by flipping to an innocuous part of your book when he walks into the room, but this strategy has backfired. Because Dazai sees all and knows all, and the sneaky little bastard has noticed your shifty behaviour. He’s been watching for a while, waiting for his moment to pounce. 

So there you are, innocently reading your not-so-innocent novel on the couch, perhaps even on a break at the office, and suddenly there’s a presence behind you, warm breath against your ear.

“‘Her legs quivered like a newborn foal’s,’” Dazai narrates, his voice breathy. “‘Lord Fondezglimmer’s hands brushed up the insides of her thighs, her skin as soft as flower petals, reaching for—’”

You snap the book shut. “Shut up, shut up!”

Dazai is unrepentant. Even as you get up, he follows you around the room, hand over his heart, eyes glittering, repeating the scene word for word. 

“‘Primrose’s secret flower was his to taste! As he lay her down upon the bed of handwoven silk, her kirtle rose to her hips to reveal—!’” 

“Shut up, Dazai!”

Kunikida Doppo

The main book Kunikida is interested in is his notebook. He does, however, have a list of well-lauded self-help books, memoirs, and other edifying literary works that he intends to check out just as soon as he has the time. He admires you, actually, and how much time you devote to improving your mind through reading. He occasionally goes so far as to ask you for recommendations, and you have to scramble to recommend something that won’t make his glasses shatter in shock.

Little does he know what you’re really up to.

It’s only when he finds himself at a rare loose end that he finally makes his way over to your bookcase and leafs through some of the volumes. He goes for the last one he saw you reading. It seems innocuous. The cover is a pastel purple with swirly writing. A romantic saga of some sort? Well, he can indulge a chapter or two, just to see what you’re interested in. 

Ten minutes later, Kunikida is sitting on the edge of his seat, gripping the book so hard it looks like he’s about to tear it in half. His face is scarlet behind his glasses, his eyes hidden by the glare on the lenses. His hair is practically standing on end. By the time you find him, he’s as wooden as a statue.

“Ah, got curious, did you?” you ask, amused.

“...this is…” Kunikida starts. “It’s…”

“Erotica,” you inform him, tugging the book from his nerveless hands. “Poor thing. If you were curious I could have given you something a little softer to ease yourself in.”

“No! I’m good. Thank you very much. I’ve seen…quite enough.”

He’s lying. 

Yosano Akiko

Fairly sure that most of Yosano’s books are either medical textbooks or lurid true crime memoirs, complete with grisly photos of murder scenes and autopsies. She reads and rereads those until the covers are falling apart. She probably also reads thrillers and a little bit of horror. Like the Dexter novels, though she scoffs at the implausibility of some of the murders and gore.

Naturally, when she sees you curled up on the couch, your nose buried in a book, she wants to know what it’s about. It doesn’t matter how discreet the cover is, or if you’re reading on your phone/tablet, because she’ll just plop down and start asking you questions, or pause to read over your shoulder.

“What are you reading, you little pervert?” she asks, leaning on your shoulder. 

Her commentary is lowkey hilarious.

“Oh, my~” she teases, before leaning and reading further. “...that’s not biologically possible, but still the concept is kinda hot.”

“Anything more than like eight inches isn’t going to fit inside, you know that right?”

“Ooh, he’s choking her? Turn to the next page. What? No, I won’t go find my own filth to read.”

She does borrow a few of your titles, though her tastes always trend towards darker romance.

Nakahara Chuuya

As much as I love Chuuya, he doesn’t strike me as the type to spend all his time sitting around reading lofty tomes of high-brow literature. He’s a live-in-the-moment kind of guy. While he might pick up the odd book on the recommendation of people whose taste he likes, he enjoys poetry more, or short, punchy novels. If a book you enjoyed gets turned into a movie, he’ll go see it with ya.

Thus, he’s never been introduced to the secret world of spicy novels, from the softcore porn of the 1980s to the roaring trade of indie authors putting out entire sagas of smut today. Totally clueless. Didn’t even realise it was a thing, honestly. His idea of a romance novel is one with a woman in a fancy dress and a shirtless man on the cover, where the scene fades to black before they do it.

Poor, innocent Chuuya.

He just thinks you look cute and cosy when you’re all snuggled up with your books. It doesn’t cross his mind to wonder what you’re reading unless you laugh aloud or gasp or something. Imagine his surprise when he glances your way one day and words jump out at him from the page. Dirty words. And when they’re strung together, the context is even smuttier. He grabs the book from your unsuspecting hands and holds it over your head (or floats it if you’re taller than him, lmao.)

“Whatcha readin’, you little pervert?” he asks, a grin growing on his face. 

“Give it back!”

“Nah, don’t think I will. Is this what you’re readin’ all the time?” He flips through the book, whistling. “Damn, you’re a dirty little thing, aren’t ya?”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

If you think Fyodor somehow doesn’t already know everything you purchase and everything you browse online, then you are a sweet, innocent creature and should be protected from all that is evil and unjust in the world.

But let’s say you’re a little sneak and somehow manage to get your hands on some spicy books without your dearest darling Fedya knowing. You can certainly read them in the long hours that he is away working and perhaps even find a way to store them discreetly on the bookshelf. 

(I doubt you’d be forbidden to read those kinds of books, but it’s still a little embarrassing for you and you might prefer your smirking husband didn’t know about it.)

Ah, but you can only keep secrets from him for so long. One day he abruptly appears behind you. You didn’t expect him home so early, didn’t even know he was coming in, but then there’s just a pale hand reaching over your shoulder to stop you turning the page, and a low, accented voice in your ear.

“Not yet, my darling. I’m not done with this page.”

You yelp, flinging the book across the room, and Fyodor stands up, smiling down at you. He tuts at your treatment of the book, picking it up and dusting it off before he turns it over to look at the cover. His smirk is practically feline, satisfied and amused in equal measure.

“My, my, myshka~ I had no idea that this is what excites you so much.”

#yokohamapound #bungou stray dogs #bsd #edogawa ranpo #akutagawa ryuunosuke #dazai osamu #kunikida doppo #yosano akiko #nakahara chuuya #fyodor dostoevsky bsd #bsd smut

[captaincryolicious]

trapped in misery...

...until he comes to save the day

➳ scaramouche x gn!reader

➳ oneshot ; 1.3k

➳ cw. fluff, hurt/comfort, y/n has no motivation to do anything, scara is ooc but idc i just wanted to write scara comfort

zep's note ; this is so self-indulgent that i'll probably take it down sooner or later heh

content under the cut | masterlist

The clock on your nightstand read two-point-eighteen pm. 

Scintillating rays of the autumn sun filtered through the closed blinds, but through the change of seasons the strength and gentleness of the sun was fading, and they reached you no longer. All that seemed to reach you was an impending feeling of gloom, and you couldn’t shake it off. 

Completely still, you lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. At some point your thoughts had been running wild, one miserable thought following another, but by now your mind was empty and blank. It had been hours since you woke up, but your mind ran out of fuel and there was nothing left to think of. Yet, you didn’t move. You didn’t kick off your covers to get up and do something, even though that was probably the best thing to do right now. You couldn’t get yourself to do so, and you remained in bed idly, with no motivation or whatsoever to make a change to your current setting.

Oh, you could come up with plenty of things to do, that wasn’t the problem here. You could grab a book and read a little, get up and grab yourself something to eat, go outside to take a walk to feel better, tidy up your room to be productive, and so on. So many ideas, but they all lost their spark as soon as they popped up. It wasn’t laziness that kept you from acting, you were well aware. No, you wanted to do something, you wanted to get out of your current state, but nothing seemed promising enough to reel you out of that downward spiral. Nothing sparked your interest anymore, not even the things you usually loved to do. 

It was one of those days.

With a sigh, you pulled the covers a little higher up to your chin. You were buried in your soft duvets comfortably, but discomfort still coursed through your being. You wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep, just so that this day was over. You were tired, so so so tired. You didn’t want to feel anymore. And it was still so early in the afternoon. You allowed yourself to curl up into a little ball of misery, your gaze finally straying away from the ceiling as your eyes fluttered close. 

Darkness wrapped around you, literally and figuratively so. 

     “Y/N?” a voice filtered through the door, followed by a curt knock. 

You recognized that voice, and your heart jumped a little. But you didn’t reply, your voice gave in. You couldn’t get yourself to speak so loudly to allow him inside, and you stared at the door with the everlasting sadness lingering in the pit of your stomach. You felt so useless, even something as simple as calling out was too much for you today.

     “Whatever, I’m coming in,” you heard the person mutter, and the door opened. Scaramouche stepped into your room, merely a silhouette as the fickle rays of sunshine barely brought any light to your room. The blinds worked well to shroud your room in darkness. 

Scaramouche was quiet for a while, you felt his eyes observing you as he connected the dots. You, surrounded by darkness, still in bed even though the day had progressed for a big portion already, not saying a word upon his arrival. That could only mean one thing, and he knew all too well. 

     “Y/N…” he spoke, his voice unusually gentle. “You’re doing it again.” 

     “I know,” you whispered. 

     “Can I open the blinds?” Scaramouche asked, though you knew he would do it anyway regardless of your answer. 

     “Go ahead,” you mumbled, not looking forward to the sea of light that would flood your room in a moment. As much as you despised the darkness, it was also strangely… comforting, but in a way that smothered you slowly. 

You had to squint when the blinds no longer filtered out the sunlight from outside, and you pulled up the blankets to cover your face. Scaramouche was doing the right thing, you knew that much. Dwelling in the darkness wouldn’t get you anywhere, but you didn’t feel like being in the light either. 

But your boyfriend knew what to do, so he acted confidently. After all, he had seen you in such a state too many times for his liking, and over time he figured out how to deal with it when you were about to drown in another episode of misery. Though you didn’t act like it, you were always relieved when Scaramouche interfered with those moments. There was nowhere to run when you ran from yourself, and he was your only escape. 

     “You really have to treat yourself better, Y/N,” he lightly scolded you, softly pulling the duvet down to reveal your doleful face. “You look miserable, but I know you’re stronger than this.” 

     “I’m tired of always being strong,” you quietly admitted. “I can’t do it anymore.” 

     “Shut up for a moment,” Scaramouche said, though his tone held no malice. “You say that as if you have to suffer alone. Don’t forget you have me by your side. I may be an ass who doesn’t know much about comforting you, but I’m trying my damn best and I will never let you down. Now scoot over.” 

You did as he asked – or commanded – and made room for him to join you under the covers, like he always did when you were having a miserable day. He was cold, and his presence sent a chill down your spine. But it was a different kind of cold than the one that consumed you today, one that you grew to love. His inhuman form melted against you as he held you close, allowing you to snuggle up against him. Bad thoughts evaporated now that you had him near, his fingertips drawing circles on your back to distract you a little bit. You didn’t know what it was, but simply the idea of having him with you made you feel a lot better. Scaramouche wasn’t the nicest and warmest person, he could be quite harsh and blunt sometimes, but when he knew you needed him the most, he tried his very best to be your comfort. 

And it worked.

     “We’re going to make a plan for today, Y/N,” he started. “Staying in bed all day won’t help you.” 

     “Okay,” you muttered, playing absentmindedly with a strand of his violet hair. 

     “First, you’re going to try to eat a little,” Scaramouche began, still drawing little shapes on your back. “It doesn’t have to be much, just try it or I’ll have to force-feed you.” – you smiled a little, making a face at him – “Then we’re going out to do some grocery shopping and we’re going to treat you to something nice. As much as I hate to admit it, you know I can’t cook for shit so you’ll have to help me with that. Is that okay with you?” 

You nodded. As much as you didn’t feel like doing anything, the idea of doing things together with Scaramouche made it a little easier to find motivation. He was right; staying in bed all day wouldn’t make you feel any better. Going out with him would. So many times had that been proven. You knew it would do you good. The male knew very well what you needed in moments like these. Him. It was as if he possessed magic, motivating you when nothing else could. This guy singlehandedly pierced through your misery as if it were nothing. 

     “It’s time to get up, Y/N,” he announced. “Can you do that for me?” 

His cold fingers folded between yours as he got up and slowly helped you as well. You swung your feet over the edge of the mattress and rose, gaining a rare little smile from Scaramouche – one that made your heart swell with the smallest speck of joy. With your hand still in his, he guided you out of your room, away from your little pit of misery. 

He did it again.

#genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact imagine #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #genshin impact scaramouche #the wanderer #genshin impact the wanderer #kunikuzushi x reader #kunikuzushi #scaramouche imagines #scaramouche imagine

[ghostwise]

may writing challenge day 2, 382 words AU: a young Zevran explores his first Arlathvhen

Zevran is suffused with the sights and sounds of Arlathvhen. He moves through the crowds with a grin that doesn’t budge, and with one simple goal—to see everything as quickly as possible.

There are merchants selling toys and jewelry and fabric. Food stands fill the air with the scent of a dozen spices. People in costume sing songs and perform traditional Dalish dances. He walks the length of the beach and back, and it is only scratching the surface of all there is to experience.

It feels wonderful.

Often when he is reading a very good book, he skims. Sentences, passages, entire pages in a flash—and then he finds himself at some scintillating turning point, some shocking scene of romance or adventure or terror, with no clue how he got there.

It happens to him now.

Past the sea of sellers are the campsites of the various clans, assorted with a collection of aravels, tents, and boats.

It is quieter here. There are families and conversation and the peaceful domesticity of a Dalish campground multiplied tenfold. Zevran is about to leave when a voice reaches his ears.

“Lost, friend?”

Zevran turns and immediately recognizes the singer from earlier.

A Dalish elf with vallaslin in twining lines of grey—no, blue—ink peeks at him with his instrument still in hand. He’s a bit taller than him. His hair and flesh are the color of sunbleached bone, and his pale blue eyes dart about with exceeding interest. He gives the faintest smile—and Zevran realizes he’s being rather quiet.

“A little,” he says quickly, and he clears his throat. “I’m looking—for a book,” he lies.

“A book?”

“Yes, yes,” Zevran continues, and he steps towards the man. The lie comes to him quickly, like an obedient falcon winging its way to its master, and like the best lies, it has a core of truth. “A lyrics book—a cancionero. I am from Antiva City, you see, and it is hard to find Dalish literature in the human lands.”

“You are interested in lyrics, specifically?” the man asks. He weighs his jarana from one hand to the other.

“Oh yes. I am enjoying the music here,” Zevran says with a grin. “It is beautiful.”

The man tilts his head slightly, regarding him.

Zevran laughs at himself. Perhaps it was too much to hope that the stranger would recognize him from the crowd.

#dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #i haven't touched this au in years but i still love it :) #rinnywrites

[pb-dot]

Poem Challenge Tag

In which Peebs tries something new and is scared shitless

@ashwithapen tagged me in this here challenge. The rules are:

Write a poem on how you feel about speaking

Write at least as many lines as there are characters in your URL/username (so for me, pb-dot, that's 6)

Don't worry about not being some god-tier poet, just write some silly words and have some fun with it :))

I'm tag-challenging the following warrior poets: @deanwax @stesierra @yesireadbooks @scifimagpie @aziz-reads

(Kinda weird?) poem below the cut

I am a brain in a jar of bone in the darkness of these lipid coils lives electricity shaped like a miracle glimmering with colors impercievable I want to share the color but I do not know where to start or if words could even describe to you my miraculous scintilation's dance So I tell you of my book and ask you about your dreams perchance a drop of color might bleed through the inbetween

#writing #tag game #writeblr #in which peebs remembers why he never got into poetry #it's way too hard #how the fuck do I make the words go? #Like normally I'd just use more words #but I kinda can't here #so it has to be the correct words #don't know if I did a particularly good job #but I tried

[hiatuswhore]

♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ɹǝʍoԀ

♕ A/N: I have been having so much fun writing this little mini-series. I have so many ideas and I wish the show wasn’t so new that way I would have more source material to work off. Thank you for all the feedback it’s a great motivator and I love interacting with you all. The Prince and The Street Rat—A Game of Power.

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 5.4K

♕ WARNING: Suicide is touched on in this chapter.

previous — Masterlist — next

You keep the necklace hidden with the kitchen knife. Each morning Aemond joins you for breakfast. The first few hold odd pauses and sheepish glances. You often do not see him until later in the evening, if at all.

You note how he casually asks about your day by the second week. You answer plainly, offering no outlet to further the conversation. Weeks turn to moons without the faintest clue of what occurs outside the castle walls.

Aemond makes it his business to provide you with a bookshelf. You find a large portion of the books you once debated about in the past. Others are recommendations or ones he believes you will like. These books consume your days, and the room appears smaller and smaller with each passing second. A hollowness sits in the core of your chest, waiting and watching as pieces of yourself become distant memories.

Your silent compliance earns you strolls through the garden under the watch of guards. You use this time just as the sun rises, the judgmental eyes of nobleman still resting. You curse the servants for waking you at your requested hour the first few times. Still, you rise and bathe before first light breaks. You sit in the middle of the garden as the sky scintillates with rays of gold. By the time the golden rays evaporate into the unrelenting beaming of the sun, you are back in your chambers, breaking your fast with Aemond.

"How was the gardens?" The sounds of silverware hitting plates supplants the silence. You focus on the strawberries on your plate as he stares at you.

"Very nice," You say, scooping a spoon full you grimace, the sweetness souring on your tongue. Reaching forward for you grab your wine glass, taking slow sips, staring off aimlessly. The painstakingly slow morning moves at a snail's pace, and you silently praise the gods when the war council meeting time arrives. Aemond's departures are as torturous as his arrivals. It's clear you provide warmth and humor in your friendship. You watch as he fails to piece together words that will garner a reaction, only earning blank stares and curt nods in acknowledgment. The absence of your efforts speaks volumes, and you are sure the gods laugh at your distant dreams.

"It is not your time," Alicent speaks barely above a whisper. Holding you close, she rocks back and forth, humming quietly. Her shushing mixes with your hiccups filling the room as Ser Criston lingers by the door. You meet his sympathetic gaze as the Dowager Queen cradles you like a mother does their child. You cry until your throat burns raw and tears crust to your cheek.

"It is not your time," Alicent speaks barely above a whisper. Holding you close, she rocks back and forth, humming quietly. Her shushing mixes with your hiccups filling the room as Ser Criston lingers by the door. You meet his sympathetic gaze as the Dowager Queen cradles you like a mother does their child. You cry until your throat burns raw and tears crust to your cheek.

They will think me mad; they will lock me away. Swallowing thickly, you lean out of her touch, grabbing her hands fervently. A craze dancing in your eyes, the remorse in your raspy pleas consuming the space between you, "My apologies, your grace. It was only a momentary lapse in judgment—I can be better, I will be better!"

"Calm yourself, child. I know. I know," She coos, wiping your tears from your cheeks, staring down at your skepticism with an unknown warmth. You recoil from her touch, scampering to the foot of your bedpost. Shaking your head, you wrap your arms around the leg of the frame. She wants something. Alicent rises to her feet, stepping forward; she halts as you flinch back. "We will talk soon, okay? A servant will stay in your chambers to ensure another lapse of judgment does not occur."

You stay clutching the bottom of the bedpost well past Alicent's departure. The chamber doors do not open again until she returns. A deep sigh leaves her lips at the sight of you. The sharp-tongued girl she met all those years ago now sits before her, unrecognizable, your fire simmering. Alicent orders the servants to run a bath, and she crouches down, gently taking you in her arms. She helps you rise to your feet as you struggle across the room.

Easing you into the wash basin, she hums an unfamiliar tune. You hug your knees in the water as she carefully works a brush through your hair coils that shrink from water absorption. Her fingertips bring a long-forgotten calm.

"Ow!" You whined, grimacing as your father failed and struggled with the brush against your hair. "Pa, you have to go softer! Start at the ends and work your way up."

"Sorry," He murmured. You were not sure whose home you were in and made it your business to not ask questions. "I just have a few more jobs, and we'll have our place. Maybe even your own room."

"Really?" Your eyes glistened with excitement as your father nodded his head. His big dreams and empty promises invigorated your tiny stature with unfounded realities.

"Come on, my girl. We have to finish up," He said. Then, guiding you back, he held you so your hair was consumed in the water. You closed your eyes as he rubbed at your scalp. The water circled your chin and forehead, but your ease faltered not once.

Your body stiffens as Alicent tilts you back. She cups water in her hand, rinsing the soap off the sides of your ears. Your eyes stay wide open as you note her every movement. The water cools as she finishes rinsing and detangling your hair. She helps you into your nightgown and sits on the edge of the bed as you settle beneath the furs.

"You want something from me," A yawn leaves your lips as the words muffle into a sleepy murmur. Exhaustion blankets your eyelids making them heavy. You struggle to stay vigilant as Alicent reaches forward, pulling the fire higher up. Her presence blurs into a foggy haze without a beginning or end.

Aemond arrives the following day, making no comment about what his mother undoubtedly told him. Instead, he knowingly eyes you without letting his thoughts leave his lips. You stare past him at the bottom of your wardrobe. Aemond follows your gaze, his eyebrows furrowing as he drops his fork against his plate, this does not break your stupor, and the room remains silent.

"I was thinking perhaps we could take a stroll through the city," Your head whips to Aemond as your eyebrows pull knit. He bites the inside of his cheek, watching as you eye him closely. After several seconds a sigh leaves your lips.

"Too dangerous. One wrong turn, and we're both dead," You mutter, shaking your head. Reaching for your glass, Aemond's hand takes your own. You stiffen, eyeing his hand on your own as he tilts his head to meet your gaze.

"Is that your desire to be dead?" The question stills the room as you look him in the eye. Pulling your hand from his, you wipe the back of it against your escaping tears.

"I cannot continue like this, Aemond. Four walls and a book to keep me company. This isn't living. It isn't fair. What could I have possibly done to deserve this?" Rising from your seat, you clutch your stomach, a cry leaving your lips as he stands from his own. Aemond stands before you, cautiously reaching out as you pull away from him. "Why are you hurting me, Aemond?"

"I love you more than I—"Aemond takes your hands, flinching as you shove him back with all your might. The despondence in your tone shatters the faux reality of your gilded cage, "You hurt me."

The two of you stare at the other without another word. Your head pounds as the center of your forehead tears in two.

"You hurt me ceaselessly and then have the gall to feign confusion of my distance, my growing ire, my slipping sanity. Tell me, Aemond, why do you hurt me so?" Taking his hand, you watch as he looks at everything but you. Grabbing his chin, you turn his face forward, looking him intently in the eye.

"I—let me fix this. I can fix this," Aemond's resolve crumbles in your touch. He takes your face in his hands, leaning his forehead to your own. "None of it has ever mattered. Victory, glory, title—from the moment you struck me in the street, I have not been able to imagine a life without you in it. You're my pride and joy. I never meant to hurt you."

"So, where do we go from here?" You croak, leaning into his touch, gripping the edge of his tunic. Aemond pulls back, looking down at you with an adoration unlike before.

"Can you give me a few days?" He asks, sighing; you recoil from his touch, but he quickly recaptures you. "I just need time to arrange something safe and discreet. Somewhere I can join you at war's end if you'll have me?"

Your eyes narrow as you pry yourself from Aemond's touch. Shaking your head, you shoot a scathing glare.

"You want something from me. Your mothers' kindness, the garden strolls, and the prospect of freedom. You think me a fool?" You scoff, the incredulous expression consuming you.

"I do not. You are right. There is something to be asked of you. We are in communication with Rhaenyra and her forces. The prospect of a negotiation has been levied. My sister will send my nephew in her stead but will only accept you as our representative," Aemond explains. Your eyes dart to your wardrobe as you process the information. "I am expected to return to the council with an answer this afternoon. They will not take no for an answer, and I know you will not willingly be a piece on their chess board. My offer is not to force your hand but to make this worth your troubles. To begin mending what I have broken."

"I will not aid my captors in their war," You cross your arms, watching Aemond nod his head.

"I cannot stop whatever the council decides to do to force your hand. But they will (Y/n)," Aemond says. Stepping forward, he kisses your temple. Instinctively, you raise your hand, flinching as he catches your wrist in midair. "I will fix us. I swear this to you."

No word of anything out of the ordinary arrives for two days. A servant stays stationed in the corner of your room at all hours. Each eye you warily when you linger by your window. Aemond's offer remains at the front of your mind, his mention of the war council leaving you dumbfounded.

"Lady (Y/n)," The chamber door opening reveals a Gold Cloak standing fully armored. Your stomach flips as he gestures for you to follow him. In the corridor, you note every turn from your chambers as you descend further into the unknown. You do not bother to ask where he's leading you. He will not answer. Stopping at a chamber door, he steps to the side, "You will only have a moment before we attend to your summons from the King."

Your eyes bounce between the guard and the chamber door. Pushing it open slowly, you peer in with prudence. A gasp leaves your lips as Taliya meets your gaze first. Dirt litters her skin as she looks at you with wide eyes.

“(Y/n)! Oh, thank the gods, you are okay. We were beside ourselves with worry when we received word of your capture," Taliya grips you tight before cupping your face. A feeble smile paints her features as she looks you over. You stare wordlessly between her and Daltis as a dizzying wave of nausea shoots through you.

"You don't hate me?" Your words leave you as a whisper. Daltis chuckles as though you tell an old joke, kissing the top of your head.

"Now, why would that be?" Daltis asks. You gasp at the scars that peek out from his sleeves. Ones you know without a doubt were not there before.

"It's all my fault. I am so sorry. He's dead because of me," You shudder as everything spills from you in another mind-numbing wave of emotions. "Cayde, he helped me, and I left him to die. He—"

"Loved you," Taliya finishes, bringing her hand to your cheek. She wipes your tear away with her thumb. "He loved you so much. You made an honorable man out of him. While, oh, I feel faint."

You grip her elbows as she stumbles back, steadying her in your arms. Daltis reveals their two-day stay in the dungeons with little food.

"I will fix this. I swear it!" You say, rushing to the chamber door. You ignore their calls for you, swinging the door open with a newfound purpose. The guard stands, ignoring your grimace as you exit the room. You march with purpose through the halls before stopping in another unknown sector of the castle. The orator announces your name, stepping aside to reveal a grand room. A long table sits in the middle holding familiar and unfamiliar faces. Locking eyes with Otto Hightower, you do hide your scowl. "I'll do it. I'll meet with the Blacks. Release them now!"

Much of the council turns to Aegon, who sits at the head of the table. Your eyes stay on Otto's smug demeanor, telling you all you need to know. The King does not rule; Otto Hightower does.

"You dare approach the council with such disrespect. Who has emboldened you so? Your grace, I will gladly give you her tongue," The nameless lord glares daggers, and your words sharpen like a blade's end, leaving you instinctively, "Perhaps I'll give him yours."

The chain reaction set off by your vindictive words sends the room into utter disarray. Yells for Lord Lannister fill the space as a blur of silver strands stand between you and the easily angered lord holding a dagger. Ser Criston calls for peace with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"So the rumors are true. You would dare destroy the alliance with Lord Baratheon for a bastard. You forget we are at war," Lord Lannister seethes, glaring at you over Aemond's shoulder. Aemond twirls the dagger between his fingers, tilting his head to capture Lannister's gaze.

"You forget you speak to the Prince of the realm. Lord Lannister," Aemond's emphasis on the title stills grimacing man, his resolve dissolving before your eyes. Otto speaks chillingly as he orders the council back to their respective seats. You remain standing in the center of the room, glancing at Aegon, who appears more decorative to the panel than an actual productive member.

"Word will be sent to Princess Rhaenyra and her forces. Lady (Y/n) will leave to meet with Prince Jacaerys in Riverrun on the morrow. Her message will be clear and unrelenting, bend the knee to King Aegon the second and swear obeisance. At the behest of the dowager Queen, all whom act in rebellion will be pardoned," Otto holds your gaze, and the round table remains in silent agreeance no matter their personal opinions. All eyes fall on you. Keeping your chin up, you square your shoulders, raising an eyebrow in mocking defiance.

"And when they refuse? What is my message then?" You scoff as your eyes narrow, earning a hum of disapproval from Lord Lannister. Otto merely chuckles, a faint smile taking his lips. Aemond purses his lips to cover the smile that threatens them.

"Swear obeisance or die," Your back stiffens as though he shares a secret only for you. The rise of his eyebrows makes your eye twitch as he awaits your next move. His message clear, and this time not for Rhaenyra or her forces but for you.

"It will be done," You say, clasping your hands in front of you; Aegon's the one to dismiss you. A pitiful display of power as he sits at the head of the table battling an evident hangover, his mind elsewhere. You turn to the guard in the hall, "I wish to return to Daltis and Taliya."

"You are to return to your chambers by order of the Lord Hand," He turns down the hall, walking without delay. Balling your fists, you stomp behind the guard glaring daggers into the back of his head as you imagine it to be Lord Hightower, that bastard. A strangled huff of frustration leaves your lips as you scowl through the halls. In your chambers, you fail to stop pacing, even at the instruction of the servant who knits quietly in the corner.

"You dizzy yourself. Pacing only furthers your distress," Roslyn says. Unlike the other servants, the raven-haired girl speaks plainly. If word of your previous escape sits within her knowledge, she gives no inkling of it.

"This wretched family has wrought nothing but trouble, and now my dealings affect the very few loved ones I have. Pacing keeps me from going mad, and madness makes me impulsive," You say, hands on your hips as you watch Roslyn pause. Her eyebrows furrow as she looks up at you.

"If I am understanding correctly, you threatened Lord Lannister, who is on the war council, and in not so many words challenged the Hand of the King? It appears impulsivity is naturally in your nature," Her almond-shaped eyes pierce into you with a mocking glint. You cross your arms, smirking at her bold defiance.

"Well, aren't you a brazen one. Do tell, why do you address me with such familiarity?" Roslyn returns to her knitting as though she resides without care. A familiar pattern of blue in her lap as she works with careful precision.

"A Kings Landing bastard obtaining the affections of a Prince. As a girl, I heard the whispers and thought them mere tales. Until I saw you once, flaunting your dalliance through the streets without care. Then you create the most intriguing gossip, a maddening escape that somehow worked. I heard the whispers of your escape and recapture. You have quite many silent supporters. You are a little inspiration for us nameless people in the kingdom. The crown is doing everything imaginable to keep your declining health under wraps," Your pacing halts as your eyebrows pinch. Roslyn continues her knitting, only peaking up at you with a knowing smile. She appears unaffected by the intensity of your stare. Your search for deception proves fruitless. You narrow your eyes taking a step back, glancing at your wardrobe just feet away. "You can certainly reach for whatever will bring you ease. Even kill me in the name of safety. I am a servant who will care? But you cannot stop what is coming."

"And who masters you?" Your question earns a hearty laugh as Roslyn wets her lips. Her eyes on the thin fabric between her fingers.

"The people of the realm. You have given us an opportunity low-borns nearly never have a chance at—power. You were born a bastard. You will die a Princess," Roslyn says, dropping her hands to her lap; she smiles at you like a giddy child. The frivolity in her eyes contrasts the weight she burdens you with. Your lips part but nothing leaves you. "I imagine this is a lot to process. While I admire you, I certainly do not envy you."

The chamber door opens, revealing the next servant to take watch. Roslyn rises, claiming your hands as long-time friends do. She smiles sweetly, almost unnervingly, "Your company is a pleasure here in court. Be at ease, my lady. Many watch over you, men and women, even children. From here all the way to Pentos."

The revelation of her watch on you makes the room turn as your mind Tregaro sits in the front of your mind. His influx of coins and consistent presence in your vicinity hits you like glass against the floor. You grab her wrist tightly as she moves by you. Pulling her in close, you ignore how the servant keeps her gaze on the floor. Roslyn smiles as you speak for her ears only, "Desist whatever machinations you conjure."

"Dread it, run from it, destiny arrives all the same, and now it's here. You will go down in the histories. Make it your choice and not their force," She curtsies as your grip loosens. You stand in the same spot, her words ceaselessly looping in your mind.

You retire to your bed, spent by the days' obstacles. Ignoring the servants' presence in the corner, you burrow yourself beneath the furs. Sleep nearly claims you. Tapping at the chamber door holds you hostage in the conscious world. The chamber door unlocks, and the servant rises, announcing Prince Aemond.

"What do I owe the pleasure at this inappropriate hour?" You do not move from beneath the furs and are sure he rolls his eyes.

"Get dressed. We're going for a walk," He says. Sitting up, you narrow your eyes as he tosses a dark cloak onto your bed. His own cloak covers his telling Targaryen hair.

"It is quite late," You say, glancing at your window. He holds his hands behind his back, raising an eyebrow at your skeptical gaze.

"For a lady of the court, of course. If memory serves me right, you are not. Am I correct in my observations?" A grin sits on his lips as you roll your eyes. You grumble beneath your breath as you rise, ignoring the servant's pleas for you to change out of view of the Prince. The absence of a corset beneath the gown adds bagginess to the bodice. You tie the cloak tightly to remedy the empty feeling. Aemond keeps his hood pulled as he leads you through the desolate halls. You frown as he guides you through a chamber door, the rooms rather bland but larger than yours. Bookshelves decorate almost every open wall beside the space filled by a bed and a desk. You scoff, punching his arm with all your might.

"What in the seven hells was that for?" He questions, meeting your furious gaze.

"You think I am some easy whore you can bring to your bed chamber as you please?" Your ridicule earns an exasperated huff. Turning away from you, he walks to the large painting beside his bed. Aemond opens it revealing a passageway; he steps to the side, gesturing for you to go first. Your gaze bounces between him and the grim corridor in contemplation.

"Do you truly think me a monster?" Narrowing his eyes, disbelief paints his face. Your demeanor softens, opting to walk into the unknown rather than answer his question. Aemond takes your hand, murmuring to watch your steps, the low visibility constricting your movements. You linger back, allowing Aemond to lead the way. The beginning of the city and end of the secret passageway blurs, the torch lights greeting you.

Aemond slows, joining your side as the two of you ease through the crowd. You ignore how he watches you take in the sight, the merchants yelling amid a consistent flow of movement. Your chest knots at the views and sounds before you that appear almost foreign. A play garners a large crowd. They mock the black Queen and drunk King. You both linger toward the back, inhaling sharply as Aemond's name's thrown. Their jeering starts with derogatory comments about his eye. Though his hood hides him, you can see his jaw clench as his gaze fixates on the actors. The reenactment of Lucerys Velaryon's death makes your head whip to the stage. People around you cheer happily as your mind wanders to the sweet Prince. You never did make good on your promise of a second dance. A rather useless thought, but still, it crosses your mind.

"Let's go," Aemond says, re-securing his hood; you note how he walks deeper into the city. You struggle to keep up as he weaves through the side streets effortlessly—a creeping sense of familiarity makes your heart hammer. Stopping in the middle of the street, hell fire sits in your throat as Aemond stops several paces up the road. He looks back at you, the hood falling from your head, revealing the hesitance that plants your feet on the ground. Your center of gravity shifts as you take a shaky step forward. He meets you halfway, taking your arm to keep you steady. You pull your arm away from his hold at the dead end, glaring at nothing in particular. You take a deep breath failing to keep your composure. None of it's right. No Harwin. No Cayde. No dodging Gold Cloaks. No more jobs from Mysaria or coming and going as you please. It's all different.

"We do not have to go up if you do not wish to," Aemond murmurs, leaning forward to capture your gaze. You blink back several times, bringing the back of your hand to wipe away all evidence of your thoughts.

"I likely cannot make this jump anymore anyway," You murmur. Peering at the ground, you fiddle with the strings of your cloak, taking long deep breaths to combat the light tremble of your chest.

"What harm comes from trying?" Your eyes cut up to the worn clay wall. Aemond takes a few steps back, a curt smile on his lips. More chips in the wall sit ever-present; eyeing them carefully, you chew the inside of your cheek. Then, letting the tension in your shoulders fall, you rush forward, your left foot falling short on the wall as the train of your dress blocks your right leg from reaching far enough. Heavy panting covers the obscenities you mutter beneath your breath on your fourth try.

"Okay, I am done! It is late, and this is utterly ridiculous!" You pull your hood on your head, stomping down the road. Grumbling to yourself, the lack of Aemond's brooding presence brings you pause. You turn back to find he has not moved from his spot, his hands clasp behind his back, "Are you awaiting an invitation, your grace?"

"No. Just for you, to scale that wall. You can and you will," His matter-of-fact tone makes your blood boil, marching forward you square your shoulders as you step toward him.

"I can't, and I won't. I'm returning to the Keep with or without you," The sardonic smile on his lips only fuels the flames of your fury.

"You are climbing that wall by order of the Prince of the realm. I command it," You let out a loud huff ripping the cloak from your shoulders. Aemond does nothing as you take his dagger, tearing up the side of your dress. Returning his blade, you turn to the wall, rushing forward. Your left foot finds the divot, but your right knee hits the wall with an aching smack, wincing you step back. With a shaky breath, you swallow thickly as frustration weighs heavy on your chest. "Take a breath and try again."

Ignoring him, you rush forward, your left foot missing entirely, leaving you rushing the wall with a languid jump. You kick the wall leaning your head against it, the coals in your throat growing hotter by the second. Backing up, you use your shoulder to discard the stray tears. Running forward, your left foot sticks perfectly, and you swing your right leg up, missing by hairs, as your arms keep you upright.

"No. No. No!" You cry out, running your feet against to wall as your arms ache beneath your weight. A sob leaves your lips in a mix of frustration and grief as you linger halfway up the wall. You flinch as hands take your waist, lightening the load. Your head whips down to find Aemond looking up at you. His face lacks a distinct emotion, only studying your own to guide his next course of action. Neither of you says a word, the silence louder than anything around you. He keeps you upright as your leg swings over, and you move slowly across before stopping short. Aemond climbs up without issue, lingering behind you as you take in the roof. A new hammock sits with a blanket and a large chalice of wine. The view of the city no longer brings the previous comfort. Despite the loose bodice, your chest tightens into itself with a suffocating squeeze.

"Why are you doing this?" The pressure in your chest explodes, leaving an ache in its place. You fiddle with your fingers as his cloak casts a shadow on his face. The indiscernible chatter comes with a veil of deja-vu. Above, the moon shines full, leaving a glow in the shadows of Kings Landing. "You don't look at me the same anymore. I miss us, the version of us up here. You hate me, and I deserve your ire—your resentment, but I love you. Selfishly I want your love though I do not deserve it."

"So what, Aemond? You think a sentimental night in the city and some sweet nothings wash away all that your family has brought to my life? That you have brought to my life," Your voice cracks, the accusatory tone matching your questioning stare. Aemond scans around you in a desperate search of the words he's looking for—the ones to make you love him again.

Bringing your hands to your temples, a long sigh leaves your lips. Every hug, laugh, and moment of warmth collides violently with the new versions of yourselves. Neither of you moves for minutes, avoiding the other's gaze. Your sniffle breaks the silence as you wipe away all proof of this rooftop's significance. Aemond watches as you snatch the wine and plop into the hammock. Your feet dangle as you unscrew the top.

"You remember those first few times you would visit me? I would insult you, and your entitlement would just spew out of you into the most sharp-tongued insults you could manage," Staring up at the sky, your lips curl into a smile as your eyes crinkle as though you eye something distant. Aemond's chuckle reaches your ears, but still, he remains the silent observer, "Even then, I could not bring myself to hate you. To give you my rage, and believe me, there was a lot, still is."

Your eyebrows furrow as you are met with further silence. Shifting up, you find Aemond shifting on the balls of his feet, holding out the wine; you speak in a breathless huff, "Are you to be a man of the night's watch, or shall you join a poor bastard down on her luck for a drink?"

"Truly did not think this would work," Aemond admits, taking the wine from your hand. You lean back as the hammock creaks from your and Aemond's weight.

"Me either. Perhaps it's rather difficult to not emphasize when brought to the place where you were a teary-eyed lout," You say. A lopsided grin takes your lips as you bite the inside of your cheek. Aemond manages to not spit up the wine that catches in his throat, earning a heady laugh from you. "I guess I am the teary-eyed lout these days."

"I could have your head for that," Amusement laces his words as he keeps his foot planted on the ground, gently rocking the hammock.

"Well, I am your prisoner," You meet his eye, a longing tenderness in his features. You say nothing as he studies you closely. He trails his hand from your wrist down to your palm, his eyes holding a curious focus.

"As I am yours. You know, not of all you mean to me," Aemond says, handing the wine back to you. You take a large gulp, eyes training on the stars. Both of you fall into a quiet daze, pondering the other's words.

"I still despise your family," You break the silence, relishing in the lull of the swaying hammock. Still, neither of you moves to look at the other. A chuckle filling the silence from the brooding Prince.

For a moment, the first time in a long time. Lady (Y/n) and Prince Aemond were nowhere to be found. Just the Prince and the Street Rat, "We could figure it out."

#house of the dragon imagine #house of dragons fanfic #house of dragons imagine #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #HOTD imagine #aemond targaryen au #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen #aegon targaryen au #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen #viserys targaryen #Viserys Targaryen imagine #rhaenyra targaryen imagine #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #Alicent Hightower imagine #helaena targaryen #helaena targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen imagine #ser harwin breakbones #ser harwin strong #harwin strong imagine #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon imagine #lucerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon imagine

[aimlesspixel]

Chapter 3 of Isat Scintillation

I'm not super confident in my writing for Mirabelle in this chapter so please let me know if there are any aspects of her character I may have missed or should keep in mind. Thank You!

Isabeau - "I've got some shopping to do so I'll meet you all back here at sundown!" Odile - "I'm off to go get us some lodging."

Bonnie is already gone by the time you look back presumably off to explore the town maybe something else.

Mirabelle - "Well that just leaves us! Wanna explore the town together?"

Sure you had to go pretty quickly when you were saving Vauguard together so just exploring sounds quite nice. "It sounds like a fun time Mira." You say with a small smile.

The town is quite lively for just coming back from the end of the country, then again Vauguard is the country of change. Lots of people are moving about cleaning up any damage left behind by the sadness' and freezing. It makes it all the more surprising that the shops and such are open already Mirabelle's eyes lock on one in particular.

Mirabelle - "Oooh! Let's go in this one! I used to shop here all the time before the king came!"

You give a slight nod of agreement and Mira leads you inside. It's a bookstore and the door makes little ding ding on entry.

Mirabelle - "Ding ding hehehe." "Oh is that housemaiden Mirabelle back in my shop? It's been quite a while hasn't it?" Mirabelle - "It has ma'am." she says with a smile "Me and Siffrin will be looking around though I do have a quick question before we do." Shopkeep - "Would you happen to be looking for that final issue of the Cursing of Chateau Castle?" Mirabelle - "If you have a copy on hand I'd love to pick it up! Oh, but I actually wanted to ask if you have any empty familytales on hand." Shopkeep - "Of course but why are you looking for one if you don't mind an old lady prying. Don't you have one already or are you getting bonded?" Mirabelle - "Oh! I -I don't mind Ma'am. I-It's not for me. It's for one of my traveling partners Odile."

You all discussed a bunch of different things while traveling and decided to get Odile a familytale to keep since she doesn't have one yet and you're all family. You remember remarking at the the time that the idea was quite Novel, much to the bemusement and chagrin of your family present there.

Shopkeep - "Ooh alright dearie it's a shame it's not your time yet but it's best to take your time while you can. Change knows I did."

While the shopkeep gets the items Mira asked for you look around. Mira recommends some of her favorite horror stories when one book in particular catches your eye. A particularly dusty novel written in a language that can actually cause headaches.

[You have equipped Memory of Memories] It's been a minuet since you've remembered this but you could never let it go not after all it took to get it. You open the book, It's a collection of recipes from various parts of the world including your home.

Mirabelle - "Ooh what do you have there Siffrin?" She peers at the book curiously. Siffrin - "It's a recipe book! It has some that I'd like to ask Bonnie to make." You can feel some excitement in your chest, you may not be able to remember it but you can experience some of what you used to have right? It may be a little iffy if the universe will let you without any headaches or side effects but…

wait a minute.

You look back at Mira eyeing your novel curiously. "Is something wrong Siffrin?" Siffrin - "Are you not getting a headache right now Mira?" Mirabelle - "No, I don't know that language so I wouldn't try to read it in the first place though it looks like you're having no trouble so-"

WHAT HOLD ON WAIT HOLD ON A SECOND

Siffrin - "Wait wait wait wait wait. You're not getting a headache right now Mira? Positive? Absolutely???" Mirabelle - "Yes??? Why would I????"

No way No way No way what. How is this possible shouldn't-

Mirabelle grabs your shoulder lightly - "Sorry but, are you ok? You're shaking do you want to breathe with me?"

You didn't even notice in your hope and disbelief but you're shaking from excitement. You don't know how or why this is possible or what's even going on but you should calm down first. This is huge if it's what you think it is. You nod your head.

Mirabelle - "Okay with me In…"

She waits a few moments

Mirabelle - "And out…"

You repeat this until you are sufficiently calmed down.

Mirabelle - "Okay are you felling better now?" Siffrin - "Yes, thank you Mira." She smiles - "It's what we're here for. Wanna talk about it?"

Definitely you absolutely want to discuss this with everyone. "Absolutely though I'll save it for when we get back to the Inn alright?"

Mirabelle looks at you with some concern in her eyes but agrees.

You add the book to the purchases you're making and as the shopkeeper couldn't recall the price she was selling it at she let you take it as a gift to the Saviors of Vauguard.

#fanfic #in stars and time #isat #isat spoilers #in stars and time spoilers #isat scintillation

[allthingslinguistic]

All Things Linguistic - 2022 Highlights

2022 was a year of opening up again and laying foundations for future projects. I spent the final 3 months of it on an extended trip to Singapore, Australia, and New Zealand, which is a delightful reason to have a delay in writing this year in review post. 

Interesting new projects this year included my first piece in The Atlantic, why we have so much confusion on writing the short form of "usual" and 103 languages reading project: inspired by a paper by Evan Kidd and Rowena Garcia. 

Continuations of existing projects: 

Return of LingComm Grants

A survey for those using Because Internet for teaching

10 year Blogiversary of All Things Linguistic: highlights from the past year and highlights from the past decade

6 years of Lingthusiasm

Conferences/Talks

LSA 2022 and judging Five Minute Linguist

I was on panels about swearing in SFF and the Steerswoman books at a local literary speculative fiction con, Scintillation

I was on panels at WorldCon (ChiCon 8) in Chicago: Ask A Scientist, That's Not How That Works!, and Using SFF for Science Communication

I was a contestant for the second time in Webster's War of the Words, a virtual game show fundraiser for the Noah Webster House.

I attended the Australian Linguistics Society annual meeting in Melbourne and the New Zealand Linguistics Society annual meeting in Dunedin, where I gave a talk co-authored with Lauren Gawne called Using lingcomm to design meaningful stories about linguistics

Lingthusiasm

In our sixth year of Lingthusiasm, a podcast that’s enthusiastic about linguistics which I make with Lauren Gawne and our production team, we did a redesign of how the International Phonetic Alphabet symbols are layed out in a chart, in order to correspond more closely with the principle that the location of a symbol is a key to how it's articulated. This involved much digging into the history of IPA layouts and back-and-forths with our artist, Lucy Maddox, and we were very pleased to make our aesthetic IPA design available on a special one-time edition of lens cloths for patrons as well as our general range of posters, tote bags, notebooks, and other all-time merch. 

We also did our first Lingthusiasm audience survey and Spotify for some reason gave us end-of-year stats only in French, which I guess is on brand, but we were pleased to see notebooks, and Lingthusiasm is one of Spotify's top 50 Science podcastsF/href.li/?https:/www.redbubble.com%2Fi%2Fmouse-pad%2FAesthetic-IPA-Chart-Square-by-Lingthusiasm%2F129215087.G1FH6&t=OTkxYjYxYjNmMzA1M2VhNGViOGIxZWIxOGI0NDRjYjE2YTIzYTE2NCw2YTgzNDQyZTM3MzY0YjRkNjc3NGJkNzhhYzJhMzk3ZjA2Y2NkYzIz&ts=1684794278">other all-time merch!

Main episodes from this year

Making speech visible with spectrograms

Knowledge is power, copulas are fun.

Word order, we love 

What it means for a language to be official

Tea and skyscrapers - When words get borrowed across languages

What we can, must, and should say about modals

Language in the brain - Interview with Ev Fedorenko

Various vocal fold vibes

What If Linguistics

The linguistic map is not the linguistic territory

Who questions the questions?

Love and fury at the linguistics of emotions

Bonus Episodes

We interview each other! Seasons, word games, Unicode, and more

Emoji, Mongolian, and Multiocular O ꙮ - Dispatches from the Unicode Conference

Behind the scenes on how linguists come up with research topics

Approaching word games like a linguist - Interview with Nicole Holliday and Ben Zimmer of Spectacular Vernacular

What makes a swear word feel sweary? A &⩐#⦫&

There’s like, so much to like about “like”

Language inside an MRI machine - Interview with Saima Malik-Moraleda

Using a rabbit to get kids chatting for science

Behind the scenes on making an aesthetic IPA chart - Interview with Lucy Maddox

Linguistics and science communication - Interview with Liz McCullough

103 ways for kids to learn languages

Speakest Thou Ye Olde English?

Selected Tweets

Linguistics Fun

aunt and niece languages

Swedish chef captions

IPA wordle

wordle vs kiki

creative use of emoji and space

resume glottal stop

dialects in a trenchcoat

which of these starter Pokemon is bouba and which is kiki

(for no author would use, because of the known rendolence of onions, onions)

acoustic bike

An extremely charming study by Bill Labov featuring a rabbit named Vincent

Rabbit Meme

Cheering on linguistics effects (Stroup and Kiki/Bouba) in a vote on the cutest scientific effect name

Old English Hrickroll

The word you get assigned with your linguistics degree

Sanskrit two-dimensional alphabet

Cognate Objects

Linguist Meetup in Linguaglossa?

baɪ ði eɪdʒ ʌv θɚti

j- prefixing

"But clerk, I am Bill Labov" (pagliacci meme)

Usual winner

Because Internet Tumblr vernacular

Linguist "Human" Costume

Cursed kiki/bouba

dot ellipsis vs comma ellipsis

intersection of signed languages and synesthesia?

Antipodean linguistic milestone

Selected Blog Posts:

Linguistic Jobs

Online Linguistics Teacher

Impact Lead

Customer Success Manager

Hawaiian and Tahitian language Instructor, Translator & Radio Host

Language Engineer

Data Manager & Digital Archivist

Linguistics fun

xkcd: neoteny recapitulated phylogeny

Eeyore Linguistic Facts

Lingthusiasm HQ: Frown Thing!

xkcd is making a vowel hypertrapezoid

Title: Ships and Ice Picks: An Ethnographic Excavation of alt.goncharov

Missed out on previous years? Here are the summary posts from 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021. If you’d like to get a much shorter monthly highlights newsletter via email, with all sorts of interesting internet linguistics news, you can sign up for that at gretchenmcc.substack.com.

#linguistics #roundup #year in review #linkfest #highlights #lingthusiasm

[frazzledsoul]

It's amusing to me that Gilmore Girls has become fodder for the clickbait sites over the past year or two (Collider and Screenrant literally write some sort of article about it every other day) but simultaneously everyone seems to have accepted that there won't ever be a follow up and that AYITL should not be taken seriously when discussing the series. I think the last time ASP spoke on this was in 2021 (there may have been a later incident, but clickbait sites regularly bring up the 2021 interview as if it's new, so I'm not sure) when she said she might film a follow-up someday because "there are lots of new stories to tell about Rory's pregnancy" (at the time she said this, Rory's child would have been four: at the present time, he or she would be finishing the first grade) but that what she was most excited about the lack of character development she could write about these characters and that Emily and Lorelai would always "be having the same fights, because families never solve their problems." Sounds scintillating and exactly what the fans want.

There's a lot of people involved in this who are seeking to cash in on nostalgia. There's a gazillion podcasts with increasingly terrible takes, Scott has his podcast and his Luke-themed coffee line, Lauren has her books, even Kelley has a Gilmore-themed memoir coming out. The "younger" generation of actors (now all in their forties) seem to want to avoid it, but I wonder if the nostalgia will exist long enough for them to want to change their minds. Rory's hypothetical child will probably be a teenager by that point.

#long rambling thoughts #i think we've all accepted that we've gotten as much of an ending as we're ever going to get #and that's fine with me because asp would hate the happy ending i wrote in my head anyway #gilmore girls

[krsnaradhika]

Hello hi- this is a snippet or a chapter from a book I took back and will never write again.

I suck at angst so buckle up. Do not throw tomatoes just in case. I do not remember if I've posted this one before here. The writing is old and rusty and I did not care to edit so pardon me. Maybe I'll take it back or edit, maybe not.

All rights reserved.

Strength Embodied

His father securely swathed him in his turmeric yellow raiment, looking so very proud and practically glimmering with all his manly charm. Little Pradyumna giggled, reaching out for the slight stubble on Kanha's cheeks as the duo revelled in the company of each other.

A little time before, the new father had scooped his son from the cot, squarely darting in his shared chamber with Rukmini where their son laid, besieged in silk cushions and duvets that came from different parts of the subcontinent. To them, he appeared like the silvery beam of the lunar god who had just added beauty to the welkin doused in minuscule, scintillating stars. Their life had been just like the pulchritudinous eventide, and Pradyumna had added to the beauty of it.

And then, as surely not expected with a juvenile parent, the first scion of the newest generation let out a joyous chortle at the sight of his father; his eyes fluttering open at the momentum.

"My little Dyumna, aren't you my spitting image? I knew my son would inherit my handsomeness!" Kanha chuckled, gently patting his son who looked far from sleep by now, his almond eyes staring right back at his father with an unspoken mischief. Of course I am, and I did. Watch as I steal your woman too, Pitashree.

"My boy, you have stolen my woman." Kanha accentuated, rolling his eyes playfully as the duo turned to the new mother who seemed to have been in a mien, an empyrean smile flickering across her fair countenance. With her slender arms crossed over her bosom, Rukmini leaned against the threshold as the handmaidens were dismissed.

"See, Pradyumna, now your mother is going to run after both of us with a stick. I told you right, you ought to sleep!" He further whisper-yelled, a dramatic edge to his tone as his wife shook her head in a half-vexed half-mirthful usance, sauntering towards them.

Just as Rukmini reached out for her consort's ears, he ducked his head and performed a little sprint, though with their son now closely paying an audience to their capers as the queen gasped.

"Pranesha, careful! He's too fragile!"

Ramaa rose from her seat, and almost followed the fading apparitions of her husband and son, which now seemed to have been mocking her. Startled, her doe eyes traced the thin air, gaping, as epiphany dawned a little harsher than called for.

At the portal decked in cramoisy curtains, lingered Keshava, that bull among men with a blank look to his morose irises. His shoulders dropped a notch further if it was even possible, and she winced at the tension tardily making its way between them. Rukmini's breath hitched as she parted her lips, wishing a coherent word to be made out by her own self but was left appalled.

Several minutes passed, and neither of them made a movement. Long gone was even the eye-contact, and the hush roared like a forest fire, smoldering everything to stygian smokes, the dying embers of which charred their souls.

"Welcome back," she finally said, a vulnerability to her voice if not the tears that had long relinquished her. Through the curtain of his lashes, Kamalanayana saw a ghost of a smile casting itself on Padmavadanaa's unearthly visage, a strain to her features which spoke of her postnatal stage, a slight chuberic touch to her frame perceptible. Rukmini hadn't lost her Kanya status, she was still the woman blessed with amaranthine youth, but the signs of a grown queen and mother had graced her.

Then, casting the little memory of their son aside, the weaving which was a mindless gift to him because the winters were looming overhead. He'd catch a cold otherwise, innit? Who would wrap it around him and sing him to sleep?

Or had Nidra Devi been as ruthless to him too, as she had been to his ill-starred parents?

He's not gone, Rukku, he will come back.

Just not now.

Rukmini clasped Kanha's hand in hers as his head shot up to her again, from her lotus feet that were imprinted in his heart - the very place where his Shri resided. "Come," she ushered again, warmth sparking in their touch as she settled on the swing and he followed the suit, with more heaviness, as if his limbs had refused to heed his commands.

"Tell me, don't bottle anything up," she tenderly coaxed, running a hand through his forehead, the sheen of sweat settling on it as if pearls dancing to the tunes of oceanic waves. "Have you been nice to yourself, love?"

A gulp cascaded down from his throat, an ache birthing in it as if someone had wrapped their vicious claws around it. Through the blur of his eyes, Madhava tensed his wobbling lips between his teeth and shook his head in denial. Her heart broke a little more.

The despondency in his eyes had never lingered before for so long. Not when he had left his loved ones beside to put an end to his own uncle, and neither when his own people had thrown baseless accusations at him.

"I couldn't...I couldn't be a good father again." He wasn't even pretending to be fine before her, and as much as heartbreaking it was, she appreciated it. The armour of a de-facto king faded in thin air and it was just a father and a husband sitting beside, the man with just the picture-perfect family, the reality of which was shattered by the whims of destiny.

History repeats itself. Krishna had, of course, been mindful of the fact but never had he ever expected that to come at him this way. Yes, being the lord of the world came with clairvoyant abilities but no, emotional hurt could not be gauged before it occurred. Physical pain always was extravagant when premeditated, but its emotional counterpart came as an understatement when spoken of.

Rukmini envisaged that experiencing too many emotions at once and nothing at all the very next moment would render her numb to them but that just didn't seem to be the case. His words reverberated in her ears like a heart wrenching bellow in the carcass of bygone monuments that only deepened their fissures.

Could not be a good father. Could not be a good father. Could not be a good father.

Not as Ramachandra.

His Sitae retreated with their children in her womb to a jungle, rājadharma demanded such sacrifices. Raghava's eyes had never known euphoria after that, but surely his subjects did.

Not as Krishnachandra either.

Rukmini would still set up the cot of their firstborn who was taken away from them. She was the strength embodied behind the silver-tongued kingmaker whose duty was righteousness's establishment. Their son was to put an end to a despot, just like his father.

Krishna's hands casted away the crown proudly donned by his glorious head and raked through his scalps; his curls bouncing with the howling winds. It was all eerily lifeless and yet suffocatingly tumultuous, much like his eyes that poured elixir but now were red rimmed. Every passing moment came as a threatening knell to her, and she awaited the words that were sitting on his tongue.

He smeared his mildly calloused hands over his features and sighed, a shudder in every breath that was dragged in his lungs, "I am sorry Svamini, I- I don't even know what I can do-"

"Hey, it's going to be fine."

She smiled, at least she tried to. Her husband sunk his teeth to his lower lip again and sighed, blinking away the pooling hot tears in his lotus eyes that stung them maliciously. He abhorred the feeling, it gradually immiserated him like nothing else. "He will come back to us. Just a little time, Natha." Rukmini couldn't tell if she was comforting herself or him, murmuring the same words he was from the last few months.

His throat hurt from holding in the urge to thunder like the clouds that were hovering over Mokshapuri, the storms did not seem eldritch anymore. "The pain goes away?" His voice held a hoarse edge as he glanced at her from the corner of her eyes.

Vaidarbhi pursed her lips, her nimble fingers tracing the brocade on the silk as a fresh set of tears raced down her cheeks, unpleasantly scorching to the skin, "No, you just make room for it."

#rukminikrishna #rukmini #krishna #krishnablr #kanha #dhruvi writes #gopiblr #gopi

[finitefall]

https://variety.com/2022/tv/news/house-of-the-dragon-female-gaze-sex-scenes-queer-rhaenyra-1235462483/

They are writing their own book at this point, I’ve read better fanfics on twitter. The whole interview is completely brainsick. Thinking of Fire and Blood with a 15 years old Alicent and a 6 years old Rhaenyra and seeing this is just laughable. Who the hell are these characters ???

Dear God, there’s so much bullshit here... I’m only gonna mention Rhaenicent with the quotes from Emma, Olivia and Sara.

“I can definitely understand that it's hot watching complex female characters who have agency and who are trying to navigate the world and understand themselves. Like, that is hot. And is very different from, I suppose, more two-dimensional portrayals of female sexuality.”

Emma, you seem to be a good person, but you’ve already talked about the “erotic energy” between Alicent and Rhaenyra and now you’re like “it’s hot, it’s hot, it’s so hot”. Where? And where have you seen Alicent and Rhaenyra being complex female characters with agency? Alicent is Queen but reduced to a victim of men, Rhaenyra is crying over the page her former BFF kept for 20 years like that’s more interesting than her reaction to her daughter’s death and to the Greens’ treason.

“I guess what’s alluring, and quite scintillating, is that they all live in quite close proximity to each other. Stealing these loaded looks with someone that you fancy and that’s forbidden, that’s hot. It’s all hot.”

Again with “it’s hot, it’s all hot”, where? There’s nothing, Olivia.

“There’s an element of queerness to it. Whether you see it that way or as just the unbelievably passionate friendships that women have with each other at that age. I think understanding that element of it sort of informs the entire rest of their relationship… Even though they’re driven apart by all these societal, systemic elements and pressures and happenings, at the core of it, they knew each other as children, and they loved each other and that doesn’t go away.”

Sara Hess with her wisdom, again. Love can definitely go away, especially when one of the two commited treason against the other.

“Olivia has told me she believes — and this is her headcanon — that they at some point kissed or made out or had some kind of physical interaction that Alicent’s mother found out about and forbade. And that was Olivia’s head story, ‘Oh, I can’t do that. That’s not right.’ And that’s the background for her in their relationship going forward. I would be 100% down with that.”

This is absolutely ridiculous. I kissed friends too, get over it. But wait: they’re both 14 in the first episode. Alicent’ mother was dead. They had both forgotten about any physical interaction apparently, so what, they made out when they were 10?! No wonder Alicent’s mother wouldn’t like it, Faith of the Seven or not.

“I happen to be a queer woman, but I know straight women who had ‘Heavenly Creatures’-esque, romantic friendship with their best friend at that age. That’s something that I think, probably — I don’t want to stereotype anybody – but it seems to be more a phenomenon with young women than it is with men, probably because whether you’re queer or not, society cares less if you’re physically intimate with each other or hugging or touching each other. You can have sleepovers and sleep in the same bed and nobody cares.”

Heavenly Creatures is an amazing movie, based on a true story, and one of my favorite movies with Kate Winslet. I highly recommend it if you haven’t watched it. You’ll also be able to see that there’s absolutely no reason to mention it in an interview about this show. Now, it’s true that society cares less with young girls that young boys, but nobody cares? Not true at all.

I totally understand that as a queer woman Sara Hess would want to have wlw representation. But there was already one heavily implied in the book, between Rhaenyra and Laena. Also, instead of making up queer ships, write a new one in another show. We want to see this (well, perhaps not written by Hess). I want another f/f ship, a new one, no queerbait, no fanon: a new, original canon f/f ship between two women who are actually complex characters. Give us that, not Rhaenicent. We don’t want it because you’re just rewriting what happened and totally missing the point of the Dance here, not because we don’t want a f/f ship.

#HOTD #anti hotd #anti rhaenicent #answered

[justforbooks]

The writer Martin Amis, who has died aged 73, delighted, provoked, inspired and outraged readers of his fiction, reportage and memoirs across a literary career that set off like a rocket and went on to dazzle, streak and burn for almost 50 years. His scintillating verbal artistry, satirical audacity and sheer imaginative verve at every level from word-choice to plot-shape announced a blazing, once-in-a-generation talent.

He seldom disagreed with Christopher Hitchens, the journalist and essayist who was his soulmate and intellectual lodestar. But when Hitchens published a tepid review of a book by the American novelist Saul Bellow – Amis’s literary idol and mentor, who ranked equally high in his affections – Amis rebuked his friend for ignoring “all the pleasure he gave you”. Amis stirred envy and emulation, ignited controversy, courted scandal. Above all, though, he gave pleasure.

He paid tribute to his father, the novelist Kingsley Amis, by praising his “super-humour: the great engine of his comedy”. However grave its themes – later years saw him preoccupied with losses, partings, and deaths – “super-humour” likewise fuelled the zest of Amis junior’s prose. For him, “seriousness – and morality, and indeed sanity – cannot exist without humour”. His gift of laughter followed him even into Auschwitz (in his 2014 novel The Zone of Interest). Critics could find its presence an embarrassment. Admirers never did.

He published 15 novels, from The Rachel Papers in 1973 to the hybrid Inside Story – which enfolds fiction into memoirs and essays – in 2020. His essays and journalism stretch from an account of arcade video games, through literary studies and critiques of pop culture, to a meditation on Stalin’s crimes: Koba the Dread (2002).

Until a quieter last decade, spent largely in New York, he combined fertility and versatility with a reluctant role as a writer-celebrity who epitomised literary fame in an age of glitz, hype and frenzied prurience. Keystone novels of the 1980s and 90s such as Money, London Fields and The Information channel the raucous urges of their time, and kick against them in dismay.

To a degree, he played the celebrity game: he dissected showbiz phenomena in witty articles, often for the Observer. But he found, in his case, that others played with laxer rules or none at all. For decades, the life, loves and family of a gossip-fed tabloid entity known as “Martin Amis” ran in parallel with the career of the hard-working author of that name. His fiction abounds in games of doubles, pairs and twins. In his own life, too, Amis struggled to negotiate the gap between the mask forged by fame and the true face of a serious writer.

Being the son of Kingsley might have sent him early warnings of the bill that a stellar career in literature can present. Martin was born in Oxford a year after his brother, Philip. His mother was Hilly (Hilary, nee Bardwell), whom Kingsley had met while she was studying at the Ruskin School of Art. Their third child, Sally, followed in 1954.

Hilly recalled the young Martin, bright and amiable, as “a child born under a lucky star”. The spectacular success of Kingsley’s debut, Lucky Jim (1954), brought prosperity but torpedoed family life. Kingsley’s many affairs, and his mother’s distress, became the background hum of Martin’s youth.

As his renown grew, Kingsley moved with his family to Princeton, New Jersey, for a year. Martin loved America: its speech rhythms rooted in his prose. In England, his father’s best friend – the melancholic poet Philip Larkin – supplied not only paltry gifts of a few pence to Martin, but a dire example of literary greatness allied to emotional squalor. The siblings spent happier times with their cousins, David and Lucy Partington. Lucy’s vanishing in 1973, and the final confirmation more than 20 years later of her murder by the serial killer Fred West, spread an ineradicable shadow over Amis’s later writing.

In 1961, Kingsley took up a teaching fellowship at Peterhouse, Cambridge. A rambling house on the city’s edge served as the rules-free, bohemian backdrop to the shipwreck of the Amis marriage. It ended in 1963 when Hilly moved to Mallorca while Kingsley began living with his lover, the novelist Elizabeth Jane Howard. Disharmony at home disrupted Martin’s education: he bounced idly from school to school. Relief came in the Caribbean when (for £50 per week) he acted in the film of Richard Hughes’s novel A High Wind in Jamaica.

As teenagers, Martin and Phil lived mostly in Maida Vale, west London, with Jane and Kingsley. They scoured Kings Road, Chelsea, for girls, and kept drugs in the fridge. Kingsley, lord of misrule, once bought his sons a gross of condoms. Jane, the much-admired “wicked stepmother”, finally presented the “semi-literate truant and waster” Martin with a reading list that ran from Jane Austen to Muriel Spark. She sent him to a Brighton crammer, where he thrived. Martin duly studied English at Exeter College, Oxford, with an “exhibition”: a scholarship, though of a minor kind.

After graduation, in 1971, he joined the Times Literary Supplement as an assistant, then as fiction editor. Starting with The Rachel Papers, his own apprentice fiction – smart, knowing, super-cool – flowed with little fuss. For Amis fils, “nothing is more ordinary to you than what your dad does all day”. In 1974, he moved from the TLS to the New Statesman: as deputy to the literary editor Claire Tomalin, then (until 1979), as books editor himself.

The Rachel Papers won a Somerset Maugham award. And the model for the “Rachel” fictionalised in his debut – his first love – introduced him to the Jewish themes that would draw him with increasing force. For a while, though, his fiction declined to grow up. Dead Babies (1975) performs stylistic somersaults around a country-house parody, although the warring foster-brothers of Success (1978) inaugurate the trademark Amis play of pairs.

Two sides of the Amis myth, or mask, solidified. With male chums – always Hitchens, often the poets James Fenton, Ian Hamilton and Clive James, or the novelists Julian Barnes and Ian McEwan – he adorned a sort of kebab-and-chips literary salon. They derided the old guard and lauded brave new voices. Yet Kingsley, old guard incarnate, remained an always honoured guest. Amis’s deep affection for his father, despite political and artistic clashes (Kingsley scorned his boy’s fancy technique, and reputedly chucked Money across the room), surprised and impressed their friends.

Like his father, Amis also picked up a reputation as an eager if inconstant lover. By his own account, he was a slow starter until the future magazine editor Tina Brown “rode into town and rescued me from Larkinland”. Soon, columnists began to chronicle – or fantasise – the romantic life of this literary wunderkind. Tomalin herself, Brown, Emma Soames, Julie Kavanagh: his liaisons with high-achieving women were mediated by salacious reporting, attracted awestruck gazes but also evil eyes. (His longest early relationship, with the photographer Angela Gorgas, left fewer media traces.)

Too short, too clever, too entitled, too rich: Amis became the author-ogre many loved to hate. Even his father remonstrated to Larkin when, in 1978, the son earned £38,000: “Little shit. 29, he is. Little shit.” Yet companions from that time recall no sneery seducer but a sweet, funny, sympathetic friend.

Come the early 80s, Amis as writer moved into higher gears. Other People (1981) heralded a mature interest in other minds and how to represent them. In 1984, the pyrotechnic satire and narrative trickery of the sensational Money both skewered an era of greed and glitz and, typically, embodied its appeal in the razzle-dazzle of its prose. The golden boy shone with a deeper lustre. His presence on Granta magazine’s 1983 roll-call of Best of Young British Novelists sealed his position on the crest of a new, media-savvy and PR-friendly, literary wave.

Also in 1984, the writer who had fretted that “childlessness will condemn you to childishness” married the American-born academic Antonia Phillips. Their son Louis arrived the same year, followed in 1986 by Jacob. With parenthood came an investment in the planet’s fate expressed in the bomb-shadowed stories of Einstein’s Monsters (1987), and the apocalyptic weather that roils around the large-scale comic dystopia of London Fields (1989). That book’s doomed antiheroine, Nicola Six, focused criticism of Amis as a serial fabricator of stereotypically damaged femmes fatales. The complaint, and the grounds for it, would persist.

At the same time, the comic craft that forged that novel’s darts-obsessed low-life Keith Talent could still make readers fall off their chairs with laughter. Visitors to the Amis work-flat in Westbourne Park loved to report on the blockish impedimenta of dartboard and pinball machine. Fewer clocked the neat editions of Bellow and Nabokov, twin touchstones of his art, on the shelves. The Holocaust motif and reverse narration of Time’s Arrow (1991) – shortlisted for the Booker prize – spoke of lofty formal ambitions, not laddish fun.

In journalism and fiction, Amis magnetised mimics and fan-boys (fewer girls) by the score. The essays gathered first in The War Against Cliché (2001) and, later, in 2017, The Rub of Time, recruited a tribe of wannabes – which rather missed their point. Hubris was ascribed to him, not espoused by him. Envious back-biters feasted on his every mishap or misstep.

The 90s saw his dental problems become a bizarre media fixation: he retaliated, gloriously, with the all-you-can-eat dentist-surgery horrors of his 2000 memoir Experience. Less reparable, his marriage broke up. He married Isabel Fonseca, an American-Uruguayan journalist and author, in 1996. Their daughters, Fernanda and Clio, were born in 1997 and 1999.

The media onslaught intensified with Amis’s most elaborate novel of doubles and rivals: the death-haunted, long-winded literary satire of The Information (1994). Its large advance drew sniper fire. So did Amis’s split from his agent Pat Kavanagh – and from her husband, Barnes – in favour of Andrew Wylie. Kingsley’s decline, after his parting from Jane, darkened his son’s horizons and turned Amis’s mind to “the information” (about mortality) that struck as a “negative eureka moment” in his 40s. What Amis called, after Kingsley’s death in 1995, the “passage to the main event” now suffused his work. He found death “always in my thoughts, like an unwanted song”.

In 2000, his sister, Sally, died, aged 46, after periods of depression and alcoholism. Griefs accumulated: the 1994 revelation of Lucy’s fate throws a pall over the superb Experience that wit can hardly lift. Still, in the mid-90s, Amis met his eldest child. Delilah was born in 1976 while her mother, Lamorna – who later killed herself – was married to the journalist-historian Patrick Seale. Larkin’s bleak emotional wilderness had terrified Amis. If anything, he overcompensated: so much life, so much love, but so much loss as well.

Amis, Isabel and their daughters set up home in London, at the other end of the Primrose Hill road where Kingsley had finally gone back to live with Hilly and her third husband. Post-millennium, his writing took a more political turn. Hitchens had always figured for Amis as the ideal type of the public intellectual. Now, the virtuoso storyteller – who identified as a centre-left gradualist – craved a slice of that gravitas himself. In Koba the Dread, Amis’s account of Stalin’s atrocities paid homage too to Kingsley and the ardent anti-communism of his circle: notably, the historian Robert Conquest.

It was 9/11 and its aftermath that propelled Amis into front-line polemics. Islamist terrorism revived a catastrophist strain in his work: the concept of entropy haunts earlier books. In the topical essays collected as The Second Plane in 2008, it threatened to elevate political foes into metaphysical demons. Rash interview statements prompted charges of Islamophobia. More soberly, Inside Story concludes that “the real danger of terrorism lies not in what it inflicts but what it provokes”. Still, the op-ed pundit Amis could drop his verbal, even moral, compass.

By the later 2000s, Amis began to look fragile, with the stiff gait of a veteran tennis player (he enjoyed the game, and wrote well on it). His mid-2000s fiction – Yellow Dog, House of Meetings – revisited old haunts: celebrity excess and tabloid depravity in the former; the lingering horror of Soviet atrocity in the latter. Calm spells with his family in seaside Uruguay raised spirits, as for a while did stints as a creative-writing professor at Manchester University.

With The Pregnant Widow (2010), his ambitions climbed again. Within its uproarious, comic-pastoral mode, the novel counts the costs of the sexual revolution that, for Amis, had devoured his vulnerable sister. To Amis, no longer a gleeful beneficiary of post-60s erotic liberation but its appalled historian, “the boys could just go on being boys. It was the girls who had to choose.”

In 2010, the Amis family began the process of moving from London to New York: Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. In Amis’s telling, the need to live near his elderly mother-in-law hastened the move. British media read it as a snub to his celebrity-mad homeland and its jeering fourth estate. Lionel Asbo (2012), with its scattergun satire on lottery-winning oiks in a plebeian nightmare, rather confirmed that view.

Amis enjoyed the Brooklyn weather, the freedom from spiteful gossip, his welcome on New York’s literary scene. But he missed British backchat: his west London patch, from the pub quiz-machines of Portobello Road to the sports clubs of Paddington, had served well as scruffy muse.

Thanks to Fonseca’s heritage, Amis now had Jewish daughters. Jewish histories, fears and hopes felt nearer than ever. Yet his concentration-camp novel The Zone of Interest affirmed that, for Amis, nothing stood beyond a joke. “How can you presume to laugh at Hitlerism?” asked a German critic. For Amis, how could he not? Any depiction of Nazi evil that overlooked its farcical absurdity lent it weight and credit it did not deserve.

His two wisest jokers had exited: Bellow, with dementia, in 2005; Hitchens, from cancer, in 2011. The loss of a virtual father and a virtual brother whetted fears of death but also (with Hitchens) sharpened the appetite for life: “the delight of sentience”. Kingsley had called a late novel The Anti-Death League, but Martin would never have signed up. “Without death there is no art,” he wrote. Bellow’s and Hitchens’s passing fed tremendous elegiac passages amid the multiform miscellany of Inside Story, where tricky “autofiction” sits beside heartfelt, no-frills memoir.

With its musings on “how busy death always is, and what great plans it has for us”, Inside Story felt like a valediction. If so, it was one in which Amis’s acrobatic wit defied both gravity and solemnity. He wrote with discipline and dedication, and wrestled with all the anguish of his age. Yet that pleasure-giving principle makes his long shelf of books feel playfully, buoyantly light.

He is survived by Isabel, and by his children, Delilah, Louis, Jacob, Fernanda and Clio.

🔔 Martin Louis Amis, writer, born 25 August 1949; died 19 May 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Martin Amis #in memoriam

[feraltuxedo]

WIP Wednesday Friday: revisiting an old fic.

There are several WIPs I'm working on at the moment, but the one that's been demanding all my attention is something I never thought I'd write: a sequel for my very first fic Never Have I Ever (Been Myself).

Like I'm sure many fic writers' first work, this story has a special place in my heart. It's the thing that motivated me to write, and the story that probably spent the longest time in my head before I actually made the effort to put it into words.

But it's also so clearly a first story. The pacing is clumsy, the plotting very simple, and the prose... actually, I quite like the prose. But were I to write the same fic today, it would likely read very differently.

Never Have I Ever features many of the themes and tropes I return to over and over again in later fics: it's a human rock musician/actor AU playing with age gap and wealth gap dynamics. It's deeply mired in British culture and British pop culture. It's a bit of fluff, a bit of angst, and a guaranteed happy ending.

And, weirdly, I wanted to return to it. So what I've been working on is a long-ish one shot that has BAFTA-winning actor Aziraphale Fell attend his very first rock music festival in order to surprise guitarist Crowley.

Anyway, here's a snippet of pure fluff:

‘Can’t believe you’re actually sleeping in a tent,’ Crowley said, as he lowered himself onto the fleece blanket he’d spread out to cover the crinkly polyester lining. ‘I’ve been reliably informed that’s the thing to do at events such as this.’ Crowley threw his head back in laughter and lifted himself up on his elbows, stretched out like a mermaid on a rock. ‘Have you ever been to a festival before?’ ‘Of course I have!’ ‘Glyndebourne doesn’t count. Nor do the Proms.’ ‘Ah. No, in that case.’ ‘Couldn’t you have booked a hotel room in Shrewsbury or something?’ ‘I could have.’ Crowley didn’t ask why he hadn’t. Ever since they’d met, Aziraphale had been desperate for new experiences. And oh, how he’d indulged him, with an enthusiasm and passion Aziraphale had never possessed, not even when he’d been in his thirties himself. He slipped his wellies off his feet and crouched down next to Crowley. The ground was hard underneath his knees and elbows, despite the fleece blanket, and he let himself be wrapped up in the pointy angles of Crowley’s body instead, which, paradoxically were all the more soothing. ‘You were marvellous on stage, you know that?’ ‘You’ve mentioned it a few times, but it never hurts to hear again.’ ‘You were. Even the people who had no idea who you were were singing along by the end.’ ‘And you?’ ‘I always sing along, you know that.’ ‘Wish I’d seen you.’ ‘I’m glad you didn’t. I meant to surprise you, and I managed, despite the best efforts of your villainous security person.’ ‘Torben’s awesome. D’you know he can open a beer bottle with his eye socket?’ ‘I’m not at all surprised to hear that.’ ‘This is by far the biggest festival we’ve played, like, ever. The last one had us sleeping in tents.’ ‘You’re not sleeping in tents here?’ ‘Oh no, we’re staying in this caravan thing, which is pretty nice. Comfortable. Got to share a bed with Ana but that’s fine. They call it a trailer, though.’ Aziraphale laughed softly into the scintillating warmth of Crowley’s neckline. ‘I’m aware of trailers, my dear. Quite familiar with them, in fact.’ ‘Alright, Mr Hollywood Big Name Film Star.’ Aziraphale sighed and snuggled deeper into Crowley’s arms. He smelled lovely, like herbal shampoo and the cigarette he’d surreptitiously smoked on the walk to the tent. The chatter of people outside merged with the deep rumble of Crowley’s breathing, and the quiet beating of his heart against his chest. And as if this symphony of comfort couldn’t get more perfect, it began to rain. Gentle drops, irregular and insistent, drumming down on the tent above. It was frightfully romantic.

#my writing #current WIP #Good Omens AU #Good Omens

[llflorence]

When you are old - Human AU, professors, there was only one office, Rated E

Aziraphale was an old soul. 

He always had been. From the time he could talk, it was said he was wise for his age. Intelligent, dignified, he enjoyed the finer things in life. A well-versed book of poetry penned by an esteemed writer, the firm press of piano keys to a time-worn tune. He loved old movies and ancient gardens and hand-me-down baking recipes and long-forgotten, grown-over graveyards. Some thought him odd, set in his ways, stuffy. But he loved what he loved, and it made him happy. Why would he ever change?

Aziraphale lived a simple life. He woke each morning with a prayer of gratitude for his historic two-bedroom home. He showered and shaved and dressed for the day. After tea and breakfast, he mounted his vintage Azor Amsterdam (a very good bicycle indeed), and set off for the campus. His leather book bag rested safely in the forward basket like Toto and Dorothy.

He was getting on in years where he sometimes had to walk and push the bike up the hill near the park. Fifty had come and gone, but he still felt seventeen. Even if his body had accumulated extra baggage, his mind was sharp and agile. And besides. Age was just a number.

Aziraphale was lucky. He had a good job as a tenured professor in the English Department, teaching three classes a semester. His colleagues were more than amiable, several of them having become fast and firm friends. He had a nice stash put away, portioned his salary into a decent 403b, with enough money left over for frivolous things like root beer floats with chocolate ice cream and summer-colored sprinkles.

All of that changed with the entrance of one Anthony J. Crowley. 

It was August. The summer was winding down, and the school year gearing up. Staff had returned, faculty soon to follow. His building had scheduled an informational meeting to welcome newcomers and catch up with the old. The department head had oodles of Big Ideas he wanted to share, even though Gabriel didn’t have the greatest track record of follow-through.

Still, the appetizers were always lovely, and the conversation was scintillating.

The glorious smells of freshly ground coffee and sweet, steamed milk welcomed Aziraphale as he entered the eating establishment. It was a venue he’d visited twice before. They offered an eclectic menu, vegan and vegetarian-friendly. If Gabriel did anything right, it was to put on a good show with an inviting atmosphere. And this place met the bill.

Aziraphale waved at Sociology-Anthology. The professors there shared a secretary with the English Department. This meant that whenever anything needed doing, the two departments would cross over, meeting in her office, fighting over territory and who needed what first.

Criminology was there, too, at least two out of the three of them. Though Aziraphale didn’t have an imagination open enough to figure out what curating future police officers had to do with literature and poetry. It was probably just the collapse of resources; more cuts to save the bottom line.

He stopped at the first table for a glass of sparkling something, pausing to sniff its contents before tasting. It proved to be something along the spectrum of apple to pear. Passable, if dry and tart.

He greeted Technical Writing with a handshake, accepting the slap on the back in congratulations for Aziraphale’s newest published work. It was nothing, really, just a spot of poetry he’d been working on for a few years. But sometimes it was nice to be recognized.

“Oi! Professor!”

The sound of that melodic voice, pure and simple and joyous, brought a surge of warmth in Aziraphale’s chest. He’d grown quite fond of the two adjuncts over the past few years. Taken them under his wing, so to speak. They’d both blossomed and flourished and branched out in the fullest way possible, and the radiant smiles on Eric and Muriel’s faces were a sight to behold.

“Hello, Dears,” he crooned, laying a gentle hand on each of their shoulders. Muriel had sprouted patches of freckles over their soft, flat nose, and Eric sported beautiful, long, sparkling lashes. They both looked well-rested and refreshed, eager to begin another year. And eager to spill with the latest gossip.

“Did you hear?” Eric hissed, beckoning Aziraphale to take a seat with them. “They’ve hired a new prof in Cosmology?”

Muriel, too excited to wait for his answer, flapped their hands and picked up where Eric left off. “He’s straight off sabbatical, working on his book. Something about gravity waves, and LIGO?”

Aziraphale sucked in his chin and tilted his head. ”Hm. Cal-Tech. Very impressive. I imagine they’ve brought him on to pick up the pace with retention rates in the scientific fields.”

Eric chortled and shared a look with Muriel. “Oh, he’ll retain ‘em, all right. I have a feeling they’ll be filling his classes like wildfire. The waiting lists will be miles long.”

“Yeah,” Muriel gushed. Their cheeks flushed rosy with excitement. They raised an unhurried hand, fanning themselves daintily. “He’s definitely going to create waves.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I suspect you young people crush on all the older professors.”

Eric looked scandalized. “No! Not on you, not at all!”

Muriel was backtracking faster than Aziraphale’s humility could keep up. “Of course not! You’re more of a father figure.”

Eric nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Father. Where this guy is more of a Daddy.”

The two youngsters giggled, leaning in towards each other, sharing a moment of unbridled glee. Aziraphale smiled, amused, mildly curious. If he read Generation Y’s signs correctly, the newest Physics instructor was handsome.

Aziraphale was decent enough looking. He took care of his skin and his teeth, practiced self-care, and rode his bike daily. If he happened to overindulge a bit on – well, on everything – who in their right conscience could equally judge him?

“How was your summer,” Aziraphale redirected, noting the delightful way Muriel leaned onto Eric’s shoulder. There was something platonic about it, something wholesome, endearing. Two of his favorite people in the world getting on so well warmed his heart.

There was a shared retelling of travels, to the Ozarks, the Upper Peninsula, the ocean. Both spoke with such animation it was like being part of the live-action. Aziraphale nodded and exclaimed and generally felt proud of the quests the two young people had accomplished.

As they spoke, Aziraphale’s mind drifted. Back to the unfinished drawing on his easel. To the rising bread dough on his windowsill. The new sheet music on the piano. He hadn’t traveled, but he still had a lovely summer himself, alone, unbothered. At home. Part of him wished he were back there right now.

But time marched on, and future generations depended on him. Who would guide them through dangling participles and that delicate tipping point between over- and under-describing?

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and smiled as his colleagues drew up memories and painted exciting retellings. And when Gabriel entered the building, commanding the attention of all gathered there, Aziraphale considered escaping through the back door on the way to the lavatory.

He didn’t, of course. He stayed. Aziraphale stayed and he listened to the corporate wafflings of a man so far in the bureaucratic shift, he risked falling into the abyss, never to be Humanities again.

Aziraphale humored his boss, greeted him warmly when his speech was done. It wasn’t Gabriel’s fault he was a pompous blowhard; he’d been designed that way.

“So,” Aziraphale posed, taking a step back when Gabriel leaned too far into his space. “We’re to move offices again? I’ve heard?”

Gabriel stared blankly at him for two seconds too long. “Oh! Yes! That’s right! They’re remodeling the offices in Tower to take care of the leaky roof. And that means we all get to be a little bit cozy for the first semester.”

Aziraphale didn’t like the sound of that. He’d only occupied his single office for three years now. After sharing for years before that, constantly shifting office mates, the thought of having another was unbearable.

“Oh? When will we find out where –?”

“All in good time,” the man drawled, rocking back on his heels. ���There are still two weeks left until freshman orientation.”

Gabriel patted Aziraphale’s shoulder awkwardly, bouncing with misdirected importance along to Human Resources. He didn’t know. They were weeks from the beginning of the semester, and the department head didn’t know where their offices were.

“Oh, dear.”

Imagine Aziraphale’s surprise when, exactly thirteen days from then, he received an email from the chancellor. 

We appreciate your patience as we work to secure the safety of our faculty, staff and students. Office numbers are now posted on the Campus Portal.

Imagine Aziraphale’s surprise when, upon logging in, he discovered he was to be sharing an office in the science building with the new professor in Cosmology.

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose just below the reading glasses and sighed.

He packed up his bike the very next day, bright and early, intent on claiming the desk with drawers that locked. He parked his bike, looped the chain through the tire, and hefted his bag over one shoulder.

The Science Building lay perpendicular to the English Department, cozying up to the two-story library and campus store next door. It was an older section, much older than Aziraphale’s short tenure. It was notorious for musty smells and loud, echoing halls, and not because of the experiments in two large labs.

The halls were empty, his footsteps falling on dull, worn tiles. He followed the numbers on doors, searching for the assigned seven-seven-seven, armed with a key and a foreboding sense of doom.

Aziraphale needn’t have worried about drawers. The two desks that occupied the space didn’t have any. There were no windows, no bookshelves, no storage space at all. Just aging dark wood paneling on the walls, the two pieces of Ikea furniture pushed together like naughty children forced to hug each other in a timeout.

The heavy plank of a door closed behind him, rattling the ancient hinges and Aziraphale’s composure.

He exhaled heavily, set his bag against the wall, and pushed one of the desks into the far corner. Then he collected his nameplate and desk calendar out of his personal things. He set them on his desk and staked claim to that portion of the room.

With no chair, there was little else he could do. He’d have to wait until Maintenance chased down something suitable and —

The door flew open, banging against the wall with the force of a sledgehammer. A clatter sounded in the hallway, and a talk, dark, gangly someone shoved a chair on rollers through the entryway.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, quite taken aback. The chair skidded to a stop as it connected with the desk. And then another chair rocketed into the room, colliding with the other and toppling over.

“Goodness!”

If Aziraphale was shocked and startled by the unannounced entrance of flying furniture, it was nothing compared to his reaction to their pilot.

It wasn’t the dramatic upsweep of burgundy-red coils and the angular frame. It wasn’t the warm, California-brown skin, the completely unnecessary dark glasses worn indoors. And it wasn’t even the hipster black-on-black ensemble that hung off the man’s shoulders in an unfairly attractive way. At any other time, the combination of these characteristics would send Aziraphale’s heart into overdrive. 

But the way the man said his name was unforgivable.

“Hiya, ‘Ziraphale! How’s it going?”

He completely left off the first syllable, negating the importance of his identity, a proverbial thumbing of his nose at any sense of first impressions.

Aziraphale’s disgust caught in his throat. Never mind the positively aristocratic nose, the sensual hint of an underbite. The unmistakable air of confidence, the flirty tease of hair on his chest. It didn’t matter he swaggered inside like he owned the place, bending elegantly to set the chair right, smiling with moviestar quality and impeccable grace. He was a flash bastard, and Aziraphale decided he strongly disliked the man.

The new professor leaned against the desk in the center of the room, crossing one long, thin leg over the other at the ankles. He grinned unabashedly, waiting for Aziraphale’s response, capable-looking fingers spread wide over his knees.

“Oh, excuse my manners,” he exclaimed, abruptly pushing away from the desk and taking two steps in Aziraphale’s direction. “Anthony J. Crowley. Gen R.”

He offered a hand, peering over the sunglasses with wide, striking amber eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale was caught looking, drinking in the animal-like qualities within, like a wolf, or an eagle. But it would take a lot more than a stunning set of peepers to get Aziraphale to shake a man’s hand who couldn’t even get his blessed name right.

“Charmed,” he hummed, lips set firmly against the surface of his teeth, hands clenched at his sides. Mr. Crowley raised one eyebrow quizzically, a feat Aziraphale had attempted and failed many times. He straightened from his forward-inclined state, kicking out one foot and cocking his hip to the outside.

“So, we’re to be ‘mates, eh?” 

Aziraphale didn’t trust the way he drew out the ‘m,’ making it seem dirty, insinuating innuendo in the vilest manner possible. It was crass. It was uncultured. It was – well, it was infuriatingly alluring.

“Appears so.” 

Aziraphale watched as Mr. Crowley’s gaze swept from tip to toe and then back again, ending with a coy smile and the smacking of pink lips.

“Any allergies?”

“What?”

“All-er-gies.” He strung it out as if Aziraphale were stupid. “You know. Rashes, hives, uncontrollable sneezing. That kind of thing.”

Aziraphale huffed, drawing himself to his fullest height as if he were above such trivial chatter. “I heard what you said. I just needed clarification.”

Mr. Crowley’s chin dimpled as he nodded. “I’ve got a carload of plants I’ll be stashing here. Brightens the atmosphere. Cleans the air.”

Aziraphale scoffed, gesturing to the absolute water closet of an office. “There’s hardly room for two people, let alone decorations.”

“Oh, they’re not just for decoration,” the man argued, shifting from one foot to the other, still grinning. “They’re family.”

Before Aziraphale could open his mouth to protest, one such specimen appeared in the doorway, a broad-leafed, pod-bearing monstrosity held securely in the arms of one Muriel the Adjunct.

“Oh!” They startled, allowing the potted leaf-bearing object to be lifted from sturdy hands. “You’re here too! How wonderful!”

Aziraphale bit back the snarl that threatened to vocalize and forced a smile. “You’re helping. That’s – very kind of you.”

Muriel wiped their hands on their cutoff jeans. “Yes. Mr. Crowley needed a hand, seeing as his were full with the two chairs. Isn’t it great that he brought one for you as well?”

Aziraphale shifted his gaze from Muriel to Mr. Crowley, noticing the smugness with which the man slouched once more against the desk. “These are your chairs?” he asked, hoping he sounded appreciative of the gesture, even though he very much intended to procure a chair of his own, with much better lumbar support.

“Yep. One for you. One for me. Figured it was the least I could do, knowing what it can be like sharing an office with me.”

Aziraphale couldn’t determine whether the man was teasing or not. “That was – decent of you.”

“Wasn’t it now?” The strength of Mr. Crowley’s smile was as powerful as two suns. He really did think highly of himself, didn’t he?

Muriel cleared their throat, looked proud and absolutely honored to be carting the man’s things around like a servant. “Right. I’ll just run down and collect the rest of the plants.”

And they were off with the jauntiest of steps.

Aziraphale rounded on Mr. Crowley, intending to scold the man for taking advantage of Muriel’s kind and overzealous nature. But the professor had removed his sunglasses and was peering down that elegant nose, a self-assured grin on the most perfect of mouths.

It was honestly quite stunning.

“It was good to meet you,” the man crooned, voice dripping like the smoothest of honeyed concoctions. “I’m sure we’ll be great friends before the semester is through.”

Aziraphale highly doubted that. They didn’t seem to have anything at all in common.

“You as well,” he offered, never one to be impolite.

Anthony Crowley, with his suave hair and clothing, sun-kissed skin, and frankly unprofessional demeanor for one of such stature, gave a little salute and slunk past Aziraphale and out the door. There, he paused, backed up a step and leaned once more into the room.

“By the way,” he drawled, one hand on the doorframe, sunglasses dangling from long, manicured fingers. He nodded in the direction of Aziraphale’s cornflower blue cardigan. “Nice jumper. I have the same one. Wouldn’t it be wild if we both wore it on the same day?”

His smile widened to gremlin-like proportions, and then he disappeared, leaving Aziraphale wondering how things could possibly go more wrong.

He looked down at the soft cabled material, at the swell of his abdomen over the top of his substantial beltline, running a hand over the faint column of buttons from the shirt underneath. It was one of his favorites, wonderfully soft and incredibly comfortable. He looked over at the potted plant, thought of the youthful, energetic enthusiasm of Anthony J. Crowley. And suddenly, he felt very, very old.

“Well, ol’ boy,” he said to himself, reaching for his bag and pocketing his key. He’d forego moving the rest of his things for another day. He suddenly didn’t feel much like returning to work, anytime soon. “Looks like you’re in for one hell of a semester.”

On AO3

#ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #llflorence

[aliatori]

Hello my beloved, for the WIP game may I request Gab Birthday? And may I be an indecisive Libra and also request This close to the new moon? Thank youuuu 😘

Hiii you thank you for asking!

Gab Birthday is like, a two-year running project that I maybe should abandon but I am determined to finish. For whatever reason his Aries birthday always sneaks up on me, and then four months pass, and then I am back here at the start of the cycle again.

I think it's one of those cases where I'm trying to do too much in a piece and I should scrap the whole thing for a re-write, but. We'll see.

In the meantime, here's an excerpt of Gabriel's new and improved captaining, featuring the Squall's new navigator:

“The Unchartables are sly. Can’t trust your eyes or your charts, which means most folks who try and sail through them are fucked six ways to sundown. But we got something they don’t.” The ratlines sway behind Dagger as the Squall catches a headwind. Gabriel reaches for her sculpted shoulder, for the coil of bondmark etched in holy shadow across her skin. She hesitates, frowning, back to adjusting the emerald bindings around her chest as she stalls. Gabriel waits for her approval; touching someone’s bondmark or focus ain’t blasphemy anymore within the fold, but it’s seven hells of a bleeding trespass without permission, and he’s not keen on his kidney being made into a pincushion. Finally, she nods, then slides her focus down until it’s white-knuckled in her grip. After a murmured prayer to Xeheia which Dagger echoes, he places a hand on her shoulder and dives into the Depths with her in tow. Submerging into the holy, tenebrous Depths of the Watcher’s domain lances him with euphoria, cold and bright as lightning. Gabriel ain’t here to cavort, though. He’s here as a guide. And guide he will. Ignoring the scintillant points and rumbling tangles of his crew in the bond, as known to him as the bondmark blazing to life on his skin, he focuses on Dagger, narrowing down the rushing flood of power to a single presence. She’s familiar to him by now—staunch iron, lingering ozone, the heat of a glowing blade steaming in Xeheia’s lifeblood. Gabriel’s careful not to entwine them too closely, to not blend his presence overmuch with her own. Instead of down toward the locus of the Watcher’s core, Gabriel beckons Dagger’s awareness out in the direction of their destination. The seas belong to Xeheia. They always have. And now, restored and with worship befitting her as the most holy goddess of storm and sea, her reach extends further and further. When charts lie and eyes fail, Xeheia’s gloaming tide yields only truth in her waters.

This close to the new moon is what happens when I read a really good book and latch on to the concept of gender-affirming hysterectomies via monster cannibalism. Then one-shot draft a short story about it. Then let autosave do its thing and not bother titling it.

(WIP game asks here)

#ali answers #the forsaken and the forsworn #my writing #long post for ts #thanks for asking luv u #and lucky for u you'll see the new moon stuff..... eventually