#but this wont leave my head so i have to write it or perish

[eggcats]

I got distracted thinking about Housewife Vox, and if I had Vox's powers, I'd have blown out the city's power grid. So this is a completely self-indulgent (with some nsfw-ish near the end) fic offshoot of that post.

The other post you can choose to be one-sided, but this RadioStatic is reciprocated here. You were warned.

There's like, quite literally over 3k words here, and none of the (mild) nsfw-ish stuff doesn't even start until we hit 2k. Oops.

--

Alastor isn't completely unaware he's essentially kidnapped someone to live with him, in a way that could be misconstrued as a partner. He's been in hell for about 20 years, and before that, he lived in areas no one would exactly call....normal to typical white picket fence Americana. He's not completely ignorant of how it looks.

However, he's never been really good at noticing when other people have Those Kinds of feelings towards himself. (He doesn't feel those things, and so he doesn't even notice any supposed signals being sent). It's not even always intentional, it just never occurs to him that someone could (or would) be interested in him in such a way.

And so. He doesn't realize how Vox feels towards him. Not until he invites him to Cannibal Town to meet his beloved Rosie, and Vox can barely bring himself to be his typical charming self.

The tea is awkward, and Alastor is a little upset that, apparently, Vox is only okay with his cannibalism when it's not in his face - but isn't willing to accept it when he can't ignore it. Alastor is aware that his tastes are a little alarming to most of hell's population, but he thought Vox accepted it in him. (Perhaps he only made him dinner when it was venison because he could ignore the rest of it? Alastor assumed he usually prepared his sinner meat simply because he was the one bringing it in, but perhaps he was mistaken.)

It's not until the next time he visits his dear friend and he laments the issue when he discovers the truth. (He adores his Rosie, but the laughter she did in his face for his confusion he could have lived without. If he was any less of a gentleman, he would have mocked her snorting, but alas, his mother raised him better than that).

So now Alastor has to consider the fact that Vox himself is also aware of the strange dynamic they are living under and is apparently very interested in keeping it. (Even to the point of trying to scare off potential competition, an idea that is so laughable that he can't help but chuckle a bit.)

If that's the case, then he will simply continue on as normal. If he mentions him and Rosie simply being extremely close but neither having any romantic interest in the other before the next time he invites Vox to Cannibal Town, there's nothing more to it. (Vox's expression after doesn't do anything to him, nor is he pleasantly surprised how non-judgemental his picture box is when he isn't attempting to stake a non-contested claim. He also pointedly ignores any looks Rosie might be throwing him behind Vox's back.)

Alastor, therefore, believes himself to have resolved this "issue."

--

Vox, however, doesn't realize how blatant his affections are and is somehow convinced he's keeping them hidden. Vox, while enjoying PRETENDING to be a housewife to an attractive (cannibalistic, violent...oh, those teeth...) man, is terrified of accidentally crossing a line he's not aware of. He knows Alastor is okay with how they're currently operating, because Alastor is the one who created it. But, he hasn't shown any interest in anything MORE, and so Vox feels like he must content himself with just that - fantasies.

(If he sometimes imagines being swept off his feet when Alastor gets home and ravished on "their" marriage bed, well, that's between him and the walls).

Or it would be, if Alastor wasn't Alastor.

--

See. Alastor has a great deal of affection for Vox, but he's aware that they are in hell and that no one is here by accident. He doesn't LIKE the idea that Vox may simply be using his own interest for an advantage over him when he's vulnerable, but Alastor can't deny the very distinct possibility.

Even excepting that issue, Vox himself did not land in hell with the same right-out-the-gate power, and as it stands, any of Alastor's enemies would surely target Vox as a weakness of his. While certainly his picture box isn't completely as helpless as he likes to pretend, the idea of anyone even attempting to stake any kind of claim on him makes Alastor want to bite something.

So whenever he leaves, he uses his shadows to observe what Vox does on his own in Alastor's living space. He doesn't tell Vox this for a magnitude of reasons - wanting to see how he operates when he thinks he's alone, as well as Alastor having the ability to self-reflect enough to know his possessive ownership of things he considers HIS isn't something most others are okay with when that comes to other people.

(Alastor will find out later that Vox is absolutely more than okay with Alastor considering him his and very much LIKES his possessive attitude).

And for the most part, Vox doesn't do anything of note. Alastor has his shadows keep watch on him, but to allow Vox his privacy, he doesn't actually have them report directly or watch through them - unless his shadows believe something is relevant for him to see. So for a few weeks, his shadows presence around Vox when he is away is more of a security measure than anything else.

But eventually, they pick up on something strange. It's not a lot at a time, but it seems like Vox has taken it upon himself to steal small amounts of money from him. Alastor tries to negate this by simply inviting Vox shopping along with him and allowing him to choose whatever he wants to purchase. Alastor has even suggested Vox going shopping with his money on his own (while being protected from the shadows, of course) but even that was rejected.

Alastor can't understand any of it. He would understand if Vox was looking for some kind of escape from living with him, but the one (and only) time Alastor suggested Vox having his own place to live, Vox looked like he had shot his beloved pet in front of him. (Alastor is ignoring how pleased he is by this response. He didn't WANT his Vox to leave, but he refuses to be a similar man to his father and force him to. He enjoys treating Vox as if he belongs to him, but he wants Vox to want the leash - and not force it upon him).

Perhaps he simply enjoys theft. There are worse sins in hell, and it's not like Alastor is HIDING his money from him. The money would have undoubtedly been spent on his picture box regardless, so he doesn't mind as long as it brings him pleasure. To each their own.

Except one day after Alastor leaves, so does Vox. Which isn't completely unheard of, but him taking the stolen cash IS enough of a deviation from normal that his shadows alert him about it.

So Alastor follows him, determined to understand how the mind of his picture box works (so he can take care of him better so he'll never leave). And Vox goes clothes shopping, which wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary, except he (very poorly, his dear Vox is many things, but unnoticeable is not one of them) sneaks into the women's section and selects one, very simple, 1950s style dress.

Alastor wonders if he finally figured out the issue. For some reason, his Vox wants to wear women's clothing but isn't comfortable letting HIM know that. His dislike of both purchasing such items with Alastor (as well as simply shopping when Alastor would be aware he is, and expect to see what was purchased) makes sense to him.

This is easily solved. The idea that Alastor would CARE what clothing his picture box wants to wear is laughable - cannibalism is fine, but a dress is too far? Ridiculous.

He knows Vox has not been in hell for very long, so perhaps he hasn't yet realized that such societal taboos are generally accepted, considering the large magnitude of sins the rest of the population has committed. Not to mention that even while he was alive, he knew a great deal of people who regularly cross-dressed (such people were generally rejected by society enough to not care about anything society rejected about HIM).

Alastor is a little personally upset that his picture box believes HIMSELF to be someone who would be upset by something so minor, but perhaps they simply haven't lived together long enough. Regardless, now Alastor has a solution to this theft issue, and then he can purchase as many clothes, in whichever styles, for his dear. And perhaps he'll come to him the next time he wishes for something of his own.

Issue number two, resolved.

--

Sort of.

Vox has been planning this outing for months. He's been meticulous about only taking small amounts of money at a time to avoid detection. Vox is fairly certain Alastor doesn't suspect a thing - or else why would he continue to let his money be unguarded around him or take him on shopping trips and buying whatever he happens to look at for more than a few seconds.

Surely, if Alastor noticed the small amounts of change going missing every so often, he'd kick Vox out. (The time Alastor suggested he find his own place, he's certain his heart stopped for the second time. Luckily, before he could say anything incriminating about how much he WANTED to live with Alastor, he changed his mind about removing Vox from his life).

He knows it's a big risk, but a part of him NEEDS to fully embrace this fantasy of being a housewife. It's all he can think about.

(He might have convinced himself that if he can have one (1) singular self-indulgent fantasy to his heart's content on a day he knows Alastor will be gone, maybe he can put this behind him and stop wishing for more than he can have. It's one thing to pretend to be his housewife, but he knows it will never happen - if he can just get it out of his system, maybe he can Stop This Nonsense).

The entire walk to the clothing store Vox feels like he's being watched. Which he KNOWS is ridiculous - the only time anyone ever pays him any attention is when he's next to Alastor - but the feeling persists. It makes him even more anxious about this purchase than he already is (but he's committed at this point so he can't quit now).

Vox selects a fairly modest dress in a style that he had seen any number of women wearing when he was alive. (He tries to ignore how he has to make sure it buttons up due to his head. He's only insecure about it when he thinks about it, so if he ignores it, he can pretend he looks like anyone else).

He makes it back home to Alastor's place with plenty of time before he's due to be back, and so he wastes no time in changing.

--

When Vox returns home, Alastor fully intended on leaving his shadow and no longer observing him. The only thing he wanted to make sure was that he returned before Vox had the chance to change out of his dress, so Alastor could show what a good mate how little he cared about such frivolous things and perhaps be permitted to help him select such clothing on his next outing.

However, Vox's sudden utterance of his name was certainly unexpected. Alastor almost left his shadows, certain (somehow) he had been caught and spotted, and planned on how to explain his observation in a way that Didn't alarm his partner. 

Except. Nothing about whatever else Vox is doing seems to indicate that he knows Alastor is watching. Vox seems to be having an internal conversation with some imaginary version of himself, as he seems to be responding to words that no one (and certainly not Alastor) is saying. This is a unique development that Alastor did not anticipate, and he is not entirely certain how to continue from here. Certainly, Vox is under the assumption that he is alone now, but everything else he is doing indicates that on some level he is pretending Alastor is also with him. 

Surely the correct thing to do would be to watch to make sure he has not missed anything with Vox’s recent behavior towards himself. 

Nothing catches Alastor quite off guard more than when Vox suddenly tosses himself onto his own bed, with a breathy “Oh, Alastor!” accompanying it. This is certainly something the real Alastor has never done, and he is currently uncertain why the sudden imitation is being performed. 

Until Vox begins to touch himself (while continuing to say his name) and suddenly Alastor realizes what is going on. 

Oh. That’s. Unexpected. 

Is this the reason for the dress purchase? Or are they unrelated? Certainly Vox has never done quite so intimate things while saying his name before, as there is no way his shadows would NOT inform him of such activity. Does the dress arouse him in this way, or-?

Oh. Vox seems to have purchased the appropriate panties for such an outfit as well. Alastor has quite a good view now, and can see just how excited his picture box is with this apparent fantasy. He hasn’t removed any clothes yet, but considering his breathy whines and moans this is not a deterrent in the least (perhaps it enhances the sensation)?

This is quite the new development and Alastor isn’t quite certain what would be the most appropriate course of action. Certainly, despite his words saying otherwise, Vox is very unaware of just what show he is putting on for Alastor. Typically the correct course of action would be to leave him his own privacy.

But for whatever reason Alastor cannot turn his eyes away. 

Alastor knows himself, and his wants and desires and has never felt the desire or need to do such carnal actions, such as those being performed in his name. However, it never occurred to him how pleasing it could be to hear his name being spoken in such needy tones. He knows he quite enjoys it when those he is tearing apart are begging for mercy, but it never occurred to him that he might enjoy the same things in a dramatically different context. 

Alastor watches as Vox raises his dress, and begins to touch himself through his panties. Despite being clothed, he can see everything quite clearly and watches as Vox becomes more and more aroused. It’s not until a breathy “Alastor, please!” is uttered that Vox finally shoves down his panties and takes himself properly in his hand. It’s….quite a captivating sight. 

He watches as Vox becomes more and more excited, his mouth open as he pants, little digital hearts visible in his eyes, and a constant array of gasps and moans of his name being sung into the air above him. It’s more entrancing than anything he has ever seen before, and Alastor can understand wanting someone to desire you if this is how it looks to be worshiped. 

Alastor will purchase him the entire clothing store if this is his response to such clothing. So help him, Vox will never wear pants again if he can help it. 

It doesn’t take long for Vox to bring himself to completion, with a crescendo of Alastor’s name that he will save in his microphone for all of eternity, lest he dare forget the beauty of it. Alastor has not seen anything more divine than Vox with his back arched, crying his name, as he finishes all over himself with just the imagination of Alastor being there. 

Vox will never be allowed to utter another name from his mouth in such a way or Alastor will rip their spine out of their mouth for even daring to attempt it. Vox belongs to him, and he will never make those noises or put on a show for anyone other than Alastor (even if he has to chain his soul to himself to prevent it).

Alastor watches as Vox recovers, panting and coming down from his euphoria, and considers his next move. He is…unsure…how to broach such a topic to him, as this is nowhere near his specialty and such actions typically do not arouse much interest in him. 

He had plans for providing Vox the dresses and other clothing he desired, but bringing up these specific desires has never before been something he has ever wanted. (But oh, how he now wants). It’s a unique experience to want to watch as Vox takes himself apart for him (wanting to take him apart himself) but not simply just wanting it as seemingly others do. 

However, he is broken from his reverie by the noise of crying, and not the delicious version that he was just privy to. No, these are tears born of heartbreak and Alastor is both confused and alarmed by their appearance. Surely this type of self-pleasure is supposed to be pleasurable to the one doing it, or else why would anyone ever do such a thing? 

Why is his beautiful noisy picture box upset and who does he have to gut to prevent it from ever happening again?

He watches as Vox hugs himself on his bed and mumbles something that sounds alarmingly like “Stupid, like he’d ever want something that looks like you….” and Alastor is leaving his shadows before he even realizes he’s doing it. Before Vox notices he’s no longer alone, Alastor has wrapped his arms around him and holds him tight.

(Vox might have yelped in surprise and accidentally shocked Alastor in his charming way where he can’t control his electrical impulses. Alastor responds with his own pleasing radio waves to relax his current until it returns to normal). 

It seems to take a second for Vox to realize that Alastor being present means that he must have in some way witnessed his previous actions (and can certainly see not only him in a dress, but one that is very clearly wrecked in one very specific way). It is always so fascinating to watch how emotions play out on the face of his picture box, and this is no exception. However, before Vox can once again send himself down into the pit of self-loathing, Alastor hums a tune and rubs his own cheek against Vox’s.

--

“I must know. Was this a response to the dress or myself?”

“Wh-what?!”

“Regardless, I will purchase whatever dresses you desire if this is the result. My only requirement is that you allow me to be present next time.”

“H-how…?! What? Uh….I mean….you’re not…mad?”

“Why on earth would I be upset? Unless of course you meant to do this in a way where you would refuse my participation or observations, in which case I will lock you away until you change your mind.” 

“You-you WANT to be involved? But you’ve never-?”

“Oh certainly! While I’ve never desired such things for myself, watching you desire them is certainly an experience I would like to have! You are such a fascinating creature, darling, and I must keep such things all to myself.” 

“Can….can I kiss you?”

--

While doing such actions has never been something Alastor has had much interest in, doing them with Vox and watching his responses to them is quite another story. Left to his own devices, he would never desire such things nor wish to do any of them - but looking into the shy and hopeful eyes of his delightful picture box changes his perspective quite a bit. He has the most entertaining and pleasing responses to quite literally anything Alastor does to him, and it is quite enthralling the effect he has on the other.

He will be holding onto him for as long as he can, digging his claws into Vox so deeply that he will not ever be able to even imagine an afterlife without Alastor present.

#hazbin hotel #alastor #vox #hazbin alastor #hazbin vox #radiostatic #staticradio #staticlovetune #i think thats the reciprocal one #help ive fallen in 2sided radiostatic and i cant get up #fic #mine #be nice to me ive never actually written anything more than a fic prompt #but this wont leave my head so i have to write it or perish #also vox crossdresses a bit here bc housewife vox is too hot of a image to contain itself #wow i wrote a lot of words #watch as Alastor becomes more and more possessive as this goes on lmao #he witnessed vox pleasure himself to him once and was immediately like i will destroy anyone who even thinks of you like this you are MINE #housewife vox

[athymelyreply]

I'm sorry you're not feeling well!! Bringing you some soup and tea and a hug 🫂

Tell me about the Gawain and the Green Knight AU, I'm dying to know 👀

OMG OMG SO

There’s sooo many ways a green knight au could go. Obviously Hob is Gawain in this au and it could go one of a few ways

I’ll finish one version here and reblog this post with the others

also thank you so much you really are the best and the soup, tea,and opportunity to be insane about this au means the world to me. <3

fist: hobletheros+dreamling

hob is at the knightly Christmas party or whatever, destruction comes in and hobs knees go weak because “oh my god I want him to rail me” when the game is proposed Hob does the whole thing with destruction’s decapitation and is conflicted about it but then, as with the og story destruction picks up his head and tells him that he’ll see Hob next year. He leaves with a wink and Hob covered in destructions blood and thinks he might be a little in love (the boy falls fast).

a year goes by and he sets out on his pilgrimage to the green knights home. Our dear Hob is exhilarated and terrified and all around conflicted. He’ll get to see destruction again but in the same breath it’s his death sentence. Hob loves life, but if he must perish, he thinks maybe death at the hand of the green knight isn’t the worst way to go, maybe he’ll even get a kiss before he’s dead. his journey takes him to the castle of a man named Oletheros and his wife. The man is oddly reminiscent of the knight from the party, however Hob writes it off as him just feeling something for both the knight and this man. the lord of the castle makes the same deal as the original story: Hob may have whatever lord oletheros catches while hunting, on the condition that Hob give him anything he receives during the day. hob accepts. The wife tries to seduce Hob, telling him she wants him desperately. For extra fun the wife is fem! Dream. She’s dark and alluring and Hob can’t help but be drawn to her, but he knows it would be wrong to disrespect his host in that way, restraining his desire and instead accepting only one single kiss from dream (and oh her lips are so sweet, tasting of white wine and stars and the feeling of flying)

when lord oletheros returns with a deer, Hob gives him a kiss in return, finding himself falling into the lord’s mouth, a kiss with the feel of oak and passion and campfire. The lord welcomes his lips, pulls him into the kiss. Hob pulls himself away with a gasp and tries to continue on, doing his best not to look shaken.

the next day Hob allows himself 2 kisses from dream, both to taste the lord’s mouth and hers but one more time. Selfish he knows, but he is a hedonistic creature, and if these are to be his last few days alive, let them be good ones. Lord oletheros returns with a boar this time. Kisses are traded and Hob feels as if he’s drowning with nowhere to turn. He cannot break hospitality but gods with dream staring like that from under her eyelashes, and oletheros’s rough hands on him he feels as if he might go insane. the last day dream approaches him with a look that has Hob burning for her. Three kisses. It’s so good he could cry. And he does, telling her that he goes to his death on the morrow, and he has no choice but to leave. Dream brings a green sash, saying it will keep him from harm, and not to tell her husband about it, so he wont need to give it to him. the lord returns yet again bearing a fox this time. Kisses exchanged and Hob feels all tied up in knots, awaiting his death at the hands of that strange and handsome knight, and readying himself to leave behind the lord and his wife, both of which he feels he could love, maybe already does, but he cannot admit that just to leave them the next day. he bids them goodbye the next morning, taking the sash and hoping against hope that it will protect him and he can return to them. In the clearing with the green knight he kneels and presents his neck, but when the knight raises his axe Hob flinches. He still wishes to live. The knight scolds Hob for his cowardice in that incredible voice of his and so Hob steels himself, picturing the the faces of the lord, the knight, and the lady. If he should die it will be with love. He prepares for the blade to fall and

A gentle tap at the back of his neck. Only a small trickle of blood. then he feels a hand reach to help him stand. Destruction helps him to his feet and caresses hob’s cheek, lifting the little knights eyes to meet his. He speaks gently, saying that “that’s it, darling, that’s all there is. Come now, we really must fix that cut of yours.” He bandages the nick on Hob’s neck, explaining that his name is destruction, and he was lord oletheros. He tells Hob what a darling boy he is, what a good little knight, he soothes him. And Dream emerges from the trees, takes Hob’s teary face in his hands and kisses him. then they both get to soft dom the shit out of him and Hob gets to cry with relief and joy.

#dreamling #hobletheros #my writing #but not really writing #green knight au #You’re the best Aquila #You’ve got mail!

[thebadtimewolf]

ehehe

just so you all know, i love rose tyler every day. my love stops literally at the christmas invasion because then after cassandra the flanderization begins. if tenth doctor and tentoo has to perish so be it.

jack. girl find rex matheson already i dunno what you waiting on. *plays the star spangled banner jill scott edition* mekhi phifer come back and get ur fellow immortal man. he's starting to look like a wet cat again.

i love donna noble every full week, my love dont stop and now it wont. if tentoo has to die via aneurysm (because his mind refuse to let him speed up the tardis growth because once he does he'll do what the dr did and leave his kid and wife behind until the one time he does return, they too are left for dead buried in a rubble of his own negligence) for her to live, sorrows prayers. sorrows. prayers.

i love dr. martha jones every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year. if tenth doctor has to be beaten so bad by 8 9 12 13 14 15 and master!doctor? let it be so.

i love amy but girl get a therapist. rory get a therapist.

i love river song aka melody williams as much as donna. like girl you got an adoptive granddaughter that looks like jodie foster cosplaying you, if thats not memorable and romantic idk why the dr be fumbling that bag so badly. u can do better.

i love clara oswald but girl c'mon. you got too comfy as the goddess kali - even though you were nowhere near being her in any form to begin with - one time and suddenly you're the ghost you predicted. if the time council has to be humbled again? court is adjourned babes.

the moment aka the interface. baby girl thats actually a planetary bomb turned literal god, im sorry you keep being mistaken for rose tyler by everybody else but the doctor. you deserve better, something 13 and i agrees on according to the novelisation of your appearence. you are better. without you, 9 wouldnt have fell for rose in the first place.

bill potts i love until the stars stay in the universe. if she has to make fun of the dr even as part space sentient oil known as the pilot, fly on space cowboy.

nardole. you do good. odd you wearing gallifreyan citizen wear from the great time war in twice upon a time and no one said anything about it but... you do good.

yasmin khan i love just as much as martha and donna combined. bbc studios might not but i do.

empress rose. i love you more than rose tyler and rose tyler knows it thats why she was a cameo. i hope you get a spin off with 8 9 12 13 master doctor 14 15 and the moment because you deserve it more. i love you. i hope you never stop roasting and almost killing ten everytime he keeps trying to compare the ordinary shop girl fashioned into a soldier turned into a married housewife slash companion to the incomparable and incompatible freedom fighter turned general then empress that is you. im so sorry they trying to downgrade you because you're better than the alternate self he gave away twice. it heavily implied empress rose is more jenny's mum than rose tentoo tyler is and i feel like that should be addressed.... by beating tens arse..... and jenny hugs.

i love rose temple noble so much and i just got her. if bbc studio has to crumble under the strike i really want them to experience so it shall be.

ruby sunday. you are the first companion to have actually have their actress grow up, watch, and know of doctor who with a doctor whose actor also watches doctor who. you are a rare gem inbetween the sands of obliviousness and the sea of hyperawareness. if 14 has to die via tripping and bumping his head on a brick, rip to that tight fit he got on. what a truly mournful loss

i hate the writers that write you for it is their faults of inconsistency that makes me want better for you than the so call fans of your existence. you were set up with a belief system of your own making and then is written to betray that for a eldrich being that contradicts its own existence that could never say i love you and mean those words unless your blades are six inch deep into their hearts for a bullet is too kind and also too slow.

thry all reside and co exist.

anyway. i hope yasmin finney is traveling with them because they never said she was just an anniversary companion and we get to see ruby sunday and rose temple noble date each other.

yes its to make up tens mistake in separating the poc companions: cult survivor cleopatra hunsicker, clone descendant and bi cindy wu, and mexican-american time sensitive transhuman gabby gonzalez aka the best team tardis is when none of them are attracted to the doctor and vice versa. at least gabby met the moment.

and yes its to share this monstrosity i made due to lack of sleep from being awake 27 hours and 30 minutes:

i passed out right after this. and now im sharing this monstrosity to yall.

#bw: out of ethos #{👀martha come back} #{pls or come back as the moment the moment shapeshifts and i would love to see anyone incorporate their look to it}

[nafeary]

Cuddles and Snuggles with the Ikevamp Suitors

Anon asked:

Hello 👋, can I have some really short and maybe flowery scenarios of the Ikevamp suitors cuddling? Just some cute little paragraph (that can turn smutty but doesn’t have to be) I really really like your style of writing, you see. Thank you!!!!

Heya! I love love love requests like these, they really make my day. Considering I didn’t want to give everything the same plot, I figured I’d just allow my creative freedom to run rampage.

I’m sorry I haven’t been posting much, but school is keeping me pretty busy (a week of holidays are coming up tho hehehehe). This has been sitting in my WIPs for an eternity, and I finished the last five bois today (it’s Sunday/Monday midnight by the time I’m scheduling this YEET).

I hope you’ll all manage to find some comfort in this, and I hope you’ll all enjoy (and remember to drink water~)

Also, I don’t care what Cybird says; Theo is 186cm and I do not take criticism on this.

Warnings: implied sexual intercourse (only for Leo tho), otherwise only toothrottingly sweet fluff... maybe angst, too. Blame Aki)

Napoleon Bonaparte

『laying siege to your heart』

Laughter prompted your body to tremor in delight upon seeing the form of your lover snuggling his blanket, spilling into the room in coaction with the afternoon rays streaming in buoyant ribbons. Napoleon lethargically peeked past his lashes, grinning as he grasped your hand to pull you into his awaiting arms.

Your head fit perfectly underneath his chin, your bodies an amalgamation of puzzle pieces enjoying their reunion. You allowed a few teasing quips to spill from your lips, regretting to have done so tout de suite as your body writhed beneath his butterfly kisses tickling your nape. The most darling sounding giggles encompasses your ears, eliciting some of your own as you tried your best to escape his tight embrace.

Eventually, he stilled, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and holding you for what felt like an entire eternity—no ounce of egomania weighed upon you, the fierceness of it brought forth by his sheer adoration for yourself. And even if he were to lay siege for an eternity, you couldn’t see yourself caring if you were pledged with no disparate treatment.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

『moonlight tryst』

If there was one thing you’ve come to cherish, it would be the time of the moon, when it reigned the sky in its eerie glory. You’ve never been able to see the stars’ purity, constellations clearer than ever before. Perchance, the appreciation stemmed from the company the firmament would gift you with, when the other half of your bed was frozen and weeping alongside you in abandonment. Yet, as you mused your loneliness, approaching echoes of heels hitting the tiled floor incited your gaze to leave the stars, instead turning to embrace the sight of your lover coming to join you to your tryst.

Stars melted into fervid streams of gems, pouring upon Wolf’s skin, hair, and eyes, aiding his appearance to leave you blinded beneath its ethereal irradiance. You picked up a ribbon le Comte had gifted you long ago, jesting the embroidered amethysts would gracefully accompany the composer’s own set of eyes; but the juxtaposition left you disenchanted at the blunt and transparent crystals, opting to tie his alabaster strands with it, shivering slightly as you parted a curtain over his nape.

He enfolded your hands with his, hastily trying to get it off. However, his lips were quickly claimed by his muse, pouring every emotion and feeling you could gather into it. You were glad for the minuscule distraction, even more so as his arms fell limp, succumbing to your passion—nay, not without teasing remarks, leaving your pounding heart at the wolf’s mercy, and carrying your cries into the night in concordance with the owls’ song.

Leonardo da Vinci

『the gift of light』

At times, your relationship felt like stumbling through an obsidian forest, the only object not the plunged into abyssal realms a map to show you the right path. The map knew everything, could achieve anything, would create the unimaginable, while you were left impotently relying one its guidance.

Leonardo was aware of these clouds obscuring your emotions, hindering your felicity, and he was unsure whether he should act upon it. Perchance, it would leave you in deeper misery, but he’d take the chance to undress the light in your eyes.

You essentially knew that that was what a relationship with Leonardo da Vinci would result in; after all, no one could possibly match his genius. Natheless, the string pinioning your souls was stubborn, and it would be near impossible for anything to deter you from this love.

As you straddled him, panting in exhaustion with sweat glistening like deep sea pearls across your bodies, he slid his hands past your ears, tugging on the ribbon keeping your hair up. They ran past your bare shoulders, a cascade of bougainvillea shadowing the outside world from seeing your lover’s flushed expression. With his hands still resting on your cheeks, he pulled you toward himself, capturing your lips with raw ardour. A gossamer simper slumbered onto his face just as the sun announced the arrival of dayspring, enkindling the forest in the light of dawn.

Arthur Conan Doyle

『cosy and secluded dancing』

A myriad of candles appeared to dance within the salon, frolicking in the gentle zephyrs through the opened window. The lovers exuded the impression of pure serenity, swaying in each other’s clutches in synchronisation with the flames.

A saxophone urged your feet to tap along the tiled floor, the beat accompanying the agute anecdotes Arthur shared with you. A simper blossomed on your face as the topic of them always managed to include yourself in some way or another; you’d taken notice of this the further you relationship wrote itself. And just like his words filled the paper with ease under the influence of his fountain of delight, so did the words pertaining to your mutual ardour.

As you allowed your lips to meet his nose, perplexity pulled your brows into a furrow—how anyone could just accept all the malicious comments of “mongrel”, “bastard”, and other vile slurs without retaliating in defense was beyond you, especially when a simple action like yours dissolved him into a fumbling mess, his footing faltering to and fro akin to the rustling branches outside. It was nothing but a mystery, but he was your mystery. And you had more than enough time to solve him, buoyantly filling the paper with breathings of your love along the way.

Vincent Van Gogh

『picnic in a flower meadow』

There was nothing but warmth—the ground, the breeze, the sun’s ever so gentle embrace on this bright autumn’s day, creating an atmosphere of absolute serenity.

However, the sun wasn’t the only one to embrace you. You felt your lover’s breathing gently caressing your face, his heartbeat beneath your head the sole sound next to the sunflowers’ ever so tranquil rustling.

Another breeze ruffled his flaxen tufts of hair, eliciting the tiniest of giggles as they brushed against his nose. As his hands rose up to brush your hair, he gifted to with the most brilliant grin, the epitome of an angel walking amongst mortals.

It made you nuzzle closer into his chest, inhaling the wonted scent of paint and dried sunflowers. Opting to enjoy these last moments of your picnic with the artist, your eyes fluttered close to the most ethereal sight on earth.

Theodorus Van Gogh

『unfeigned aftermath of a fight』

Ire was not strange to him, acquaintances till death, for sure. Nevertheless, these kind of manners didn’t appeal to him, but charading as the scapegoat for his brother’s wealth has made him into the devil’s advocate—and old habits hardly perish.

His hands caught the last few droplets of despair running down your chin, stroking your own pair of hands as he held you from behind. A few moments prior, he had shown you his quiet, oftentimes guarded, ardour, carrying these words to your ear. It left you nearly broken, the brush having stumbled across the artwork, red marks littering the void. But as fast as the shade spread, so did the greens and blues, the yellows and whites; if someone knew how to fix these mistakes, it was Theo himself.

In favour of his height, he straightened to place his chin atop your head, allowing you to lean into him. You couldn’t even remember what miscellaneous things you’d been fighting about, rendering your throats hoarse and your hearts wound; alas, as perilous as his clamours were, he never failed to apologise, whispering adorations as sweet as the saccharine treats he enjoyed.

Truly, as painful as some words could be, he always committed to proving you his worth. He just didn’t realize that that was irrelevant; after all, your devotion for him ran deeper than any slash could ever reach.

Dazai Osamu

『tranquil lazing in the garden』

Amidst the most delicate petals and the green leaves, the pond’s reflection of two twirling birds was similar to the lovers leaning against an oak, intertwined branches unable to release their hold.

You were situated between his legs, his broad chest acting as your pillow of comfort. It was a serene kind of purity, the meadow’s song—flora and fauna uniting to create a serenade of peace—coaxing your pair into a state free of despair and ire. That is, until he let his lips flutter down your exposed neck, prompting you to grip the flesh of his thighs a bit tighter.

The butterfly kisses didn’t appear to end anytime soon, not that you payed it much negative mind. A simper danced across both of your faces as a butterfly, with gossamer wings fluttering gently, landed on your lover’s finger, drawing a titter to resound throughout the garden.

He beheld your reach for the lepidopteran creature, the flaxen colours scintillant in your orbs. Perchance this little guy was an omen of genuine ebullience. However, certainty belay onto his thoughts, knowing that you were nothing but a sign of fortune, even to someone as tainted as himself.

Isaac Newton

『snuggles to chase away self doubt』

Unrelentingly, you pushed chocolate into his calloused hands, pledging that the tryto-something—“it’s tryptophan, darling”—would surely lift his solemn mood, clouds of doubt and pressure weighing upon him. He’d been used to the wallowing forlorn, solus; he’d been used to secluding himself apart from any comfort helping hands could give.

But now, now he’d been exposed to a star, more lucent than the North Star could ever dream to be, which shared its balmy rays with him, never imploring for anything in return.

As the slightly bitter treat melted in his mouth, he pulled the almost oneiric appearance of his sweetheart closer to him, your foreheads colliding together to display the sanguine shade of his fiery cheeks. Both of you chortled at his endearing ardency, finding yourself neglecting the light mound rising from the top of your head as you beheld his cherry blossom orbs.

He wasn’t a man of many words, his thoughts the stars he couldn’t fathom into constellations; and while all he could manage were the faintest pleas of gratitude, you knew that that was his crisp layer masking the dispatch of genuineness. Underneath, he was just as sweet and fulfilling as the fruit he so hastily denied. These obstinate and vexing thoughts pulled at the corners of his mouth, but you were swift in your endeavor to diminish them, letting your fingers glissade like zephyrs through the wild locks of salmon and ever so gently massaging him with their tips.

Jean d’Arc

『eskimo kisses and pep talks』

Jean oftentimes felt as if the world was weighing upon his lungs, threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. With his wings clipped and feet bound, all be could was sing in fear and cry for help, knowing he was undeserving of such feat. And yet, you were holding him closer than he’d ever been held before, kissing every scar, every painful remainder of his past, with the force of what could only be described as love.

He’d call himself vile names, thinking nothing much of it, and you’d never grasped what he meant. Moronic? His gentleness spoke of wisdom that many men could only dream of owning. Appalling? You would incessantly reassure him that his arms were your favorite place to while in, and that you wanted to feel his pulse through your veins. Ugly? His eyes met the moon and became almost prismatic as he claimed so, releasing that inhumanly beautiful hue of disenthralled, limitless amethysts, his skin reflecting the pale alabaster rays. How could a person so stunning and breathtaking be ugly? A person so kind and selfless?

Jean scoffed at your sentiment; withal, he allowed himself to succumb to his selfishness, brushing your nose with his own in an anguished assay to express his gratitude. You responded with a glee, succumbing to his endearing affection. He could only yearn for you to be able to withstand the barrel of infinity that he was bound to curse you with.

William Shakespeare

『interruptions ft puck』

You rose to the canorous breathing of your lover, nay, soulmate; that much was apparent judging by the euphoria encompassing your entire being at the sole mention of his name. It perplexed you how you were able to manage waking up to this empyrean sight without your heart granting the artist its last applause.

From his flushed checks, to his bare chest exposed to your own, to his lean arms reaching around yourself to tangle his fingers within your mane, more delicate and loving than the activities of the previous night required—you knew you were borne under a lucky star, whose only affiliation could possibly be be playwright claiming you his, cradling you with nothing but the zephyrs of a quiet twilight downpour.

You noticed a few candles he’d lit, most likely while you still rested, and they carried scents of raspberry sorbet, wafting around you in refreshing sprites. They were made my William himself, akin to the abundance of objects you’d sentimentally ramble about; and yet, he’d obstinately organise the most trivial things, no matter the obstacle of time and place.

Warmth engulfed your heart, your mind and being at how utterly cherished you were within his arms, and a few tears threatened their exeunt, but you suppressed your expression to the best of your ability, not wanting to worry him ignominiously. The fortunate appearance of your favourite character from the playwright’s own little story supported your despair de trop—even if he might not have intended to.

The little bunny hopped onto your lover’s head, staring down at you as if to mark his own territory. However, this attempt only prompted laughter to spill from your lips, and it amplified as William plucked Puck from his hair, placing him in midst of your tangled limps.

Comte de Saint-Germain

『napping in front of his fireplace』

The fireplace was ablaze, each scarlet flame radiating heat as the fumes frolicked in delight. With your legs angled to your lover’s lap and your fingers clutching his dress shirt, you were curled into the man’s side, the sofa cushioning your assay to sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open when you felt the snug quilt slide over your shoulders, meeting brilliant gold whose owner was busy with shielding you from the frigid cold. His hand released the fabric, instead opting to ever so carefully grasp your chin, as if frightened you were a withering rose.

Words of adoring troths danced on your lips, assuring him that you weren’t fragile, that he mustn’t fret upon your disappearance. He could only place a kiss between your brows, aware that silence weighed more than words ever could; his mirth was apparent as he pulled you closer to him, wanting nothing but to transcend time and space for his other half.

Sebastian

『oreos, milk, and ice cream』

There were certain difficulties when your heart belonged to two people, but even more so when it belonged to multiple places—or periods. Nevertheless, being employed to a time-traveling and immortal boss had its certain advantages.

You knew he longed for these items as much as you did, yet only organised them as you uttered these fantasies in a sleepy stupor. Enthusiasm spurring the atmosphere, you scooped the icy vanilla custard into crystalline bowls, improvident about the dampness coating your fingers. Before the fallen spoon could hit the ground, your lover caught it, trapping your back against his chest as he placed it back onto the counter.

His reverberating laughter prompted your own, enjoying the sensation of the flush body enbosoming your own. Arms winding across your chest, further strengthening the protective cocoon, a feather brushed your neck as he kissed with the ilk of cotton fields. You couldn’t halt the goosebumps from waltzing to the rhythm of his teasing, rather opting to stuff an Oreo past his appealing lips.

Tag list: @juminly @kisara-16 @sweetlittlemouse @thesirenwashere @nad-zeta @delicateikemenmemes

#ikemen vampire #ikemen series #ikevamp #ikemen headcanons #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen napoleon #ikemen leonardo #ikemen mozart #ikemen arthur #ikemen vincent #ikemen theodorus #ikemen theo #ikemen dazai #ikemen isaac #ikemen jean #ikemen shakespeare #ikemen william #ikemen le comte #ikemen comte #ikemen sebastian

[iamtheempress]

Cold Blooded

A Dragon Ball Horror Fic {Part 11}

☆☆☆

Frieza’s slow. Patient. Methodical. With every step his little smile returns to his face as he sees the lab with which he made his first realization he felt something towards her. Its almost sentimental to him. 

From within the sterile lab the petrified scientist looked for anything. Anything at all to defend herself, then ran to the opposite door. The only one used to escape by the incinerator. So much for that. With the power out and backup generator fried the only thing working is this horrible white light blinking on and off in the lab…

Shes fucked. SHes fucked and she knows it.. No goodbye to Vegeta or anything. Her tomb is her laboratory. A place of creation. “Dammit...DAMMIT!” she shouts and her eyes meet with the vials of liquid that could potentially save her life... 

The corrosive material. The same which she used to pierce his membrane.

“Perfect…” She whispered out, only to be taken from thought fromthe door creaking open. 

“If theres anything that is perfect here, my dear Carlie it is you…” Hes more clear here, hes golden… this is his form he was talking about right. Its nightmarish and sleek.

“I hate to make things so short but i must inform you my dear… this is your last time on earth… from here i have a fleet at my command waiting for OUR arrival. You will never return to this wretched dirtball again for as long as you shall live.” He promises crossing the room with both arms locked prim and proper at the base of his spine he now easily towers over her, whereas before he was exactly her height.

Shes cornered. The position shes put herself in is foolish at best. Caught between Frieza and a concrete wall and a counter top with 50 vials of liquid.

“And if your moronic primate and his little friends find it necessary to hunt you down…” He raises his hand to her cheek and she flinches, his thumb grazes her bottom lip. Solid scarlet red eyes focused on her mouth and then her eyes as he leans closer. “Ill kill them one by one… and ill make sure that you watch. As my empress you will see that your former friends perish appropriately…” Carlie pipes up as Friezas now mere inches from her lips. 

“And i have no say in any of this… your just going to fucking take me..” She chokes out a cry, tears threatening to spill down her flush cheeks. “OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOO!! Carlie Carlie CARLIE!!! You never had a choice… you accepted me like a true friend… instead of cowering in fear of me… and you assume I WOULDNT take the opportunity to snatch you up??? Your a prize to be won… and one i wont let go to waste for the likes of that brutish little runt of a monkey…” He comments, absolutely preening with success and excitement. 

Carlie reached behind her and grabbed the rack of vials and brought it over her head into the crown of Friezas head, smashing it and pouring the corrosive material all over the Emperor and onto his flesh. The human woman bared her nails and threw any and all caution to the wind. 

“What in the-you…” Frieza backed up adn looked at his shoulders and didnt notice the human girl lunging at him with nails digging into his neck and dragging down harshly. Cutting clean into his flesh leaving a deep scratch like a wild cat.

“You made the worst decision, Carlie…” Frieza lulled grimacing. The scientist reared back and punched the emperor in the face square in the teeth. A tooth came out… he got some of the acid in his mouth too. Carlies minor victory was short lived. With blinding speed Frieza snatched the humans neck and gripped it. Forcing her to the ground. 

“Out of every smart thing you have done, Carlie. That was certainly the stupidest thing any human has ever done. So yes. A job well done is in order. You have infuriated the Emperor of the Universe to the point where i wlll not take pity upon you..” While choking under the golden tyrants grip she used all the strength she had inher not to pull his hand from her throat but to scratch and mangle his chest and any exposed area. With reckless and careless abandon. Shes mindlessly fighting back to achieve a hollow victory.

A very hollow victory. 

“F-Fuck you! Fuck you and y-your damned offer to be a fucking empress! Im Vege-AAAAH!” SHe screams loudly when the worst pain entered her stomach. A fucking death beam straight into her stomach and out her back. 

“You are a filthy mouthed little whore. You were coppulating with the primate, do you truly think id want my reproductive organs anywhere near your own when that monkey has slavved about inside of you…” Friezas fingers tighten more around her neck, her eyes wide and blood shot. 

“Tut tut now… I wanted to actually see this serum your so proud of in action.. Dont go dying on me n-” She reaches her arms up and scratches hellishly at his neck gasping for air that will never reach her pretty lips. He lifts her head abit and moves her head… Like its some sick fantasy to see someone teetering on the edge of life and death so callously.. 

Her eyes wept as she now kicked and scratched as the grinning tyrant… who bit his lip ensuring shes getting closer to death.. The blood she was laying on was her own but the blood that dripped on her from him was cold..

Friezas just as cold blooded as the life fuel that runs through his veins… “You feel that? That is because of you you wretch.. I offered you my blood for your hoidy toidy experiments. I know you done amazing things with it.. You can SEE me as you take your last breaths..OH THATS RIGHT!! I almost forgot.” He smiles and takes a needle and shoves it into her neck as the vision slipped and she was just about to cusp into the otherworld. 

With that very press of her serum coursing through her veins she understood how potent and strong it truly was… She felt alive. Rejuvenated. Her heart pounding and face dark blue from him squeezing the air from her lungs. “See? It worked! And you got to see it yourself… You should be sooooooo proud…” 

Carlie closed her mouth and looked right up at Frieza with petrified eyes. Shaking and feeling the life slip slowly from her body. “I will remember that when i see Vegeta again… that i was the last thing you ever seen… not that he would give a damn…” He sunk down and pressed his lips firm against the cold girls lips, molding them to hers, for several seconds Frieza felt euphoric… eyes closed and reveling in his first and her final kiss.

Before he could pull away he crushed her throat beneath his grip and felt her go limp beneath him. His lips smack as he pulls away from the body of the woman he wanted to call his empress… Frieza stared at her.. At her corpse.. At her hand and then at the ring.

Then up at the window to the viewing room.. HIs neck and chest was ruined.

Scratched and mangled to high hell. Carlies last stand displayed on his neck. Permanently.

The emperor knelt down and took the ring from her corpse and pushed hair from her face, and exited capsule corp out the back and into the night. Emotions very unclear in Friezas head, he was silent. Brooding. Depressed.

Several minutes pass. Capsule Corp was silent.. A dome with a lone corpse inside waiting to be found.

Bulma had returned with Goku and Vegeta who opened up Capsule Corp from its power shut down. Lights thrown back on and the search was on. Vegeta tore up everything. Bulma said nothing and allowed him to search for her. 

“Do you think Frieza escaped with her??” Goku questioned following Vegeta to the door to Carlies lab. Vegeta remained silent, his heart pounding in his ears. He stopped dead in his tracks upon finding the mangled door to the lower lab. 

“No…” The prince burst down the stairs to the most grizzly scene he had ever bared witness too. Despite destroying entire planets and killing millions in his time while working for Frieza.. 

No death had affected him so horribly then her own.

Bulma started weeping, as Vegeta lifted her in his arms. Kneeling in a pool of her own blood. It felt like an eternity before he spoke..

“Kakarot.. Bulma.. Get the Dragon Balls.”

☆☆☆

@dragonblobz @lilfriezatyrant @gallickingun @kamehamethot @gonuclear @memevember @msgreenverse @lizardhipsdontlie @thotful-writing @supremeleadershitlord​ @memevember​ @dragonball-hcs-or-sum-shit​

#Cold Blooded fic #gore tw #neck breaking tw #final girl #slitting tw #cutting tw #scratching tw #needles tw #asphyxiation tw #choking tw #yandere behavior tw #i cried writing this #like sobbed #Frieza #vegeta #Vegeta x reader #vegeta x oc #Frieza x reader #frieza x oc #dragon ball fic #DBZ #DBS

[arcanegummi]

Mother Hen

(OCxJulian fic)

A loud bunch of thumps was heard on the upper floor of the shop, then a quiet "ouch...", which was followed by many heavy footsteps up the stairs. "Quinn?? What happened, are you alright?" Julian practically tripped over himself getting upstairs. It was after hours, both the clinic and shop were locked up. Quinn needed a book from upstairs, and asked Julian to close up.

Quinn was on the floor, books piled onto their back. A shelf that originally held books had broken, being just too tall for them, so they pulled it off the wall trying to get a heavy book off. They laughed from the floor. "Yeah... yeah I'm fine dont worry babe." They rolled onto their back, wincing as they moved their knee.

"No you're not." He huffed a little, picking Quinn up princess style. "Did your knee give out again?"

"Yeah.. went up on my toes and I grabbed the shelf to hold myself up and it gave out." They rubbed their head a little, leaning into Julian's chest. "I'm okay, just hurts a bit." Their voice was soft, the fall clearly knocking the wind out of them.

Julian carefully puts Quinn on their bed, handing them the book and sitting on the floor across from them. "You're not bruised anywhere.. does it hurt?" He gently ran his fingers down Quinn's thigh, making the other giggle.

"Nope, and that tickles, stop it." They pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, gripping the book. "You really dont need to worry about me so much, I'm pretty durable."

"You wont be saying that when you're all achey tomorrow." Julian gently scolds as he stands. "I'm making you some of your pain relief tea."

"I see you've moved on from attempting pain relief with leeches?" They teased.

"After that second incident in the aqueduct? Never again."

"Awe.. I thought you would've looked back on that little date fondly." Quinn teased.

Julian's face erupted into deep red. "You know what I meant..." he busied himself with grabbing his coat and boots. "Dont try standing on your knee, I'll be back soon." He gave a worried glance back before heading downstairs.

Quinn sighed as they nuzzled down into bed, lighting the candles in their room with a little flick to each. After about 20 minutes, it seemed a little suspicious... water doesn't take 20 minutes to boil... hm. Despite Julian's insistence, Quinn stood carefully and scooted down the steps sitting down. No fall risk if you dont use your leg right? They looked through the kitchen and front room.. where did Julian go?? He stopped running off with no explanation after the incident on their anniversary...

With a huff, they maneuvered around holding onto walls until they could glance out the windows. Not in the garden... seriously.. how does he manage to slip away so easily? Besides.. what would he have gone out for?

Quinn sat at their table, pouting more than they would admit. That tea was gonna be very nice... No more than 5 minutes later, Malak hopped up into the windowsill, demanding head scratches. "Hmm..." Quinn gently pet the bird. "Wheres my boyfriend Malak?" They smiled. "Hes so mean to leave me here, alone and injured." They giggled softly, dramatically laying against the table. "I'm sure to perish, just *perish* without the attention I deserve, Malak."

Malak seemed unimpressed.

"Well.. at least I have you." They grabbed a small cookie from a jar and gave it to the raven, who ate it up happily. Just then, the door opened veerrry softly, to make as little noise as possible so that-

"Quinn? What are you doing down here! You're supposed to be resting your leg, how did you get downstairs?" It was Julian, holding a small package wrapped in purple parchment. "What's that?" Quinn changed the subject.

"You could've fallen and hurt yourself!" Julian changed it right back. Hes good at that.

"Nahhh, I sat on the steps. Like.. I scooted down. On my butt. No leg usage." They blinked their soft green eyes up at him, kitten like.

He sighed, weak to the cuteness of his partner. "Fine. But you walked on it to get to the table." He scooped them up once more. "When I tell you to lay down, then lay down."

"Oh like you ever listen to me when I worry about you." Quinn wrapped an arm around his neck, laughing softly. "You're just as stubborn as I am." They nuzzled up into his neck as he carried them up the steps and back into bed. "Besides... I was worried.. you just disappeared.."

"Ah.. right... about that." He put the package in Quinns lap. "I figured.. you really like Mazelinka's cookies, I didnt think it would take so long to go get them.." his cheeks were a soft pink.

"Awe.. you're the sweetest, sunshine.." they pull him down slightly and peck his cheek. "But please tell me if you leave... I was worried.." He nodded sheepishly, unwrapping the cookies.

"I'll make your tea now.. get comfy." Quinn smiled as he walked downstairs, taking a bite. Mmm... cinnamon.

After a just a few minutes, Julian was back with a mug of tea and Malak on his shoulder. "Someone stopped by I see."

"He kept me company, didnt you?" Quinn addressed the bird, who swooped up to his little nest in the window. Quinn moved over to the side to let Julian get comfortable as well. They leaned up against him, sipping their tea, when Julian spoke. "I know I may seem over protective or worried sometimes... but I really just want you to be safe." He rested his hand on Quinn's hip, pulling them close. "I failed you once.. I don't want to do it again."

Quinn's face fell a little. "Oh.. sunshine you didnt.. no. Please dont talk like that. You didnt fail anything, I'm right here aren't I?" They gently tilt his head so he looks down at them. "I really appreciate how much you care.. and I dont plan on going anywhere any time soon."

He sighed softly and kissed Quinn's forehead. "You scare me sometimes.. you know that?"

"What else are lovers for?" They hum softly and kiss his chin. "Now.. I'm getting tired." They put the candles out and the empty mug and cookies on the shelf next to the bed. "Hold me?"

"Anything you want, darling." He wraps an arm around their waist and gently runs his fingers through their hair. "Get some rest.. we have an important day tomorrow."

"Yeah.." they hum, cheek against his chest. Listening to Julian's heartbeat lull them softly off to sleep.

(Hope you enjoyed, I havent written anything in a long time. This was fun. I'm probably gonna write more fic with other characters too. This was really self indulgent becuase my knee hurts really badly right now and I wanted Julian worrying about me lmao)

#julian devorak #the arcana #the arcana oc #the arcana julian #the arcana original character #the arcana fanfic

[ikesenhell]

Used to It

You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here or become a Patron of mine! NOTES: I had SO MUCH FUN writing this commission for @tarralin! She wanted an answer to a slight throwaway line from The Measurement of Time--the part where Abbot wrote to have a mage brought to The City, which was never resolved. Well, she wanted a resolution! THIS WONT MAKE MUCH SENSE IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE SERIES. 

The crumpled missive that made it on the feet of a bedraggled falcon to their walls called for a mage. Abbot’s clean, curt handwriting made it plain: this was an emergency. It wasn’t typical for their northern brethren to call so desperately for magical aid elsewhere. Doubtless it really was urgent.

Still. They couldn’t spare their best--that was the aide directly to the Southern King. The second in command had a horrific fear of water, so she wouldn’t do. So it fell to their third. With little more than an hour’s time to prepare himself, they boarded the finest they could spare onto their fastest ship and sent it upriver, praying they weren’t too late.

---

“His highness of the Southern Kingdom sent me.” Vervan Bistei hadn’t suffered through seasickness, foul food, the constant threat of pirates and the damned northern rain just to deal with the guards of the port. He flapped the royal seal at them. “Lord Tirian Kennyo the Youngest called for our aid.”

Both of the guards stared. Finally, Vervan sighed. “He’s also referred to as ‘Abbot’.”

“Oh!” The taller of the two laughed. “Why didn't you just say so?”

“Because it’s rude?” Honestly, what was it with these guards? Vervan tapped his foot impatiently. “Will you let me through?”

“We can’t exactly do that,” the shorter one explained. “The city is sort of on lockdown. I’ll have to get one of the Nine to clear you, so I’ll just get Abbot up here, and hopefully we can get this whole mess sorted out.”

Simple enough. Vervan nodded. “Right. Then I’ll wait right here. It shouldn’t be too long, right?”

---

Wrong.

They left him waiting in the harbor for the better part of four hours. He nodded off from the bench where they’d let him settle in, and when he awoke it was to a gentle tap on his shoulder. Vervan started, blinking up at the intruder.

“I--oh!”

“I--” Abbot paused and let the mage hastily drop to his knee. “That’s not necessary.”

“Of course it is. Greetings, your highness Lord Tirian Kennyo the Youngest, I am Vervan Bistei. Your brothers sent me with their compliments in return to your letter.”

“I--thank you.” Was the man blushing? He hesitated. “Please get up. I am just a soldier here.”

Vervan jumped to his feet. “Of course. My most sincere apologies.”

“And mine as well. Since I wrote that letter, the situation has, ah… resolved itself.”

Oh. So… “What you mean to say is, you have no further need of me?”

“No.” Abbot was silent a sheepish moment. “No, we had another mage sort of--ah, surprise us with his arrival. Unfortunately my missive was long gone by the time he arrived.”

Vervan did his best to shove down his disappointment. “Of course. I suppose it can’t be helped. No harm, no foul. I should just be on my way, then.”

“Of course. Err, where is the ship you arrived on…?”

What a question! Vervan almost laughed. “Why, none other than the Red Flagship! It’s right--”

Where previously the ship had moored there was now nothing at the dock--just a vast red sail in the dusky distance. Vervan blinked once, twice, three times, doing his best to comprehend what was happening. They’d left him. They’d left him! The bastards! He’d only insulted their cooking once (or twice, frankly, but that second time he’d apologized); how dare they just leave him on this slip of nothing!

“Ah,” Abbot noted thinly. “Apparently they were in a hurry.”

“You don’t say.” Vervan couldn’t bite back his disdain. “It seems I am at your disposal regardless.”

The young lord cast him a long, penetrating look before shrugging. “Well, there is the college here. I suppose we could lodge you there while I send for another ship for you--or would you prefer to go with one of the overland caravans?”

The caravans? Through the dusty desert? Perish the thought! Vervan just shook his head hastily. “No, no, I can wait for another ship.”

“Fair enough. Come along, then. I’ll see what we can do for you.”

---

The City was miserably cold in the mornings. Vervan hated how the salty spray gathered in thick bands across his windows, how he could see his breath spiraling overhead in the unvarnished rafters of the mage barracks. Down south, the sun greeted him long before he rose. Here, they were lucky to have it at all. He bound himself in thick layers of cloaks and waddled his way to the Nine’s quarters.

Captain Uesugi greeted him with a penetrating stare. “You’re dressed for winter.”

“Captain,” he replied stoically, doing his best not to make a fool of himself before her. She had such a storied lineage--how could he not know of her? “I’m not quite accustomed to the climate. At least it grows warmer soon, aye?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Our seasons are reversed from the Southern Lands. It hasn’t yet come to winter.”

What? Vervan nearly collapsed. “It gets colder yet?”

“This is balmy. Come. You wanted something to do, yes? We can give you some rounds on the parapets.” And with that, she swept past him, her shoulders bare to the chill. Vervan granted himself five seconds to wonder what god he’d angered before he scuttled after her.

The work they gave him was grinding and manual. Much of it revolved around just walking around the walls and staring out over the ocean and fields, standing out in the rain and sleet, shivering in his layers. How could anyone stand this place? The water crashed like a horrific cacophony against the black cliffs. Its people were drab and lifeless. It was nothing, nothing like the wonderful, colorful, plush life he’d gotten accustomed to in the Southern Lands.

They had him on dock duty in the dead of the damnable night when he met her.

Truth be told, he was barely paying attention. He’d found a dry patch between some pillars and was stuck to it, lighting a little flame to warm his hands when he heard the splash.

“Who is there?” He called.

“No one!” Came a cheery answer.

Someone thought they were being smart with him. Vervan rolled his eyes and extricated himself from the small hole, confronting the woman on the dock’s edge. “By order of the City, these docks are closed come nightfall.”

The woman in the cloak just smiled prettily at him. She had bright eyes like an ocean tide and dark skin, thick ringlets of hair draping around her neck. His first thought was that she didn't belong in this godforsaken place--a lady like her should be someplace civilized, like down south.  “I haven’t seen you before. What’s your name?”

“My name?” That took him just off guard. “Err, Vervan. But that really doesn’t matter. You have to leave.”

“Do I?” She shot him a smile and extended her hand, offering him a smooth black stone. “Come on. Throw rocks with me. Are you the one they sent from the south?”

“I--yes, but you can’t be here--”

Finally she peeled back her cloak hood and smiled at him. Jewels dripped from her earlobes, her neck, the trim of her dress. Who was she? Vervan paused, utterly speechless at her beauty. “This could be our little secret.”

“I--” He hesitated once more. Was this a trick? “I’m sorry, my lady, but--”

“It’s alright,” she soothed. “Just ‘Talia’ will do.”

Talia? Talia. Where had he heard that name before--oh!

“Your highness!” Dropping to his knees, Vervan put his forehead to her palm. “I am so sorry, I didn't know--”

“I said ‘just Talia’.” But the queen laughed and touched his head, soft as a feather. “Please. Rise. My mother would have nothing of this thing, and neither will I.”

“I--” Vervan staggered to his feet. He’d never come so close to royalty before. “I apologize. You, certainly, can walk wherever you like.”

Talia shot him a sly wink. “You’d find that Captain Uesugi will disagree, but she’s not here to chastise me now, is she? Come. Would you like to throw a rock with me?”

“I’ll--I’ll decline.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” she mused, allowing a laugh only a half second later. “If someone hits my grandfather, it would be best if it were me.”

He didn't know what to say. Tongue-tied and shaken, Vervan hugged back into the shadows of a nearby statue (it featured a man and a woman dancing, the man wearing a uniform of the Nine) and watched her until she left.

---

The Nine soldier called Sasuke Sarutobi greeted him the next day. “You have a new assignment.”

“Is it outdoors?” Vervan groused. “I hope not.”

Sarutobi shot him a look and offered him the slip of paper instead. “As it happens, yes.”

“Marvelous!” Snatching up the paper, Vervan shook it open with a roll of his eyes. “Shall I stand in the wettest part of the city, perfectly still? Shall the Captain have me walk knee-deep into the blasted surf for eight hours? Shall I clean a rock with a toothpick?”

“Actually,” the other man noted, “It’s a detail assignment. The Queen requested you.”

Vervan dropped the letter from sheer shock.

---

The job was simple enough: serve as her guard while she took the rounds on the walls. Vanity kept Vervan from wearing all his plain cloaks, so he did his best to disguise his shivering in his best southern wear. The Queen took one look at him and unclasped her own cloak, offering it to him.

“You’re freezing.”

“I refuse. You are too kind, your highness.”

She laughed and offered it to him again. “It won’t do for you to chatter the whole way around the walls. Your clothes are not suited to our weather.”

Reluctantly he took it, clasping it gratefully around his neck. “I haven’t yet gotten used to your climate, it seems.”

“No. Few do.” And she smiled--smiled!--at that. “How do you like it?”

“Well enough.”

Apparently that didn't satisfy her. She shot him a knowing look until he broke down and admitted, “Not very well.”

“I imagine. It grows on you.”

“Perhaps like mold,” Vervan answered before he could stop himself, “Or a particularly potent fungus.”

“Oh! And your sharpness returns! And here I thought you’d shamed yourself once already before me.”

His ears were red and he knew it. “Begging your pardon, your highness. I simply can’t fathom how a lady of breeding and charm likes it here.”

“I told you,” she replied, innocent and sweet. It sent shivers up his arms. “It grows on you.”

---

She summoned him more often after that. (“Dare I ask why, your highness?” “Talia. And I find your cutting humor refreshing, Vervan.”) Sometimes they huddled in the library as the storms raged outside, salt and wind rattling at the stained glass. Sometimes he followed her on her long walks around the walls or the city streets at night, watching the way she watched everything else.

And it was impossible, after long enough, not to sense her in the things around him. The freezing mornings no longer bothered him. He watched his breath curl in lacy spirals around the rough-hewn ceiling and wondered at the pattern of it. One day he caught himself swinging the window open and inhaling the tang of salt (and he shivered at how barbaric he’d become, hastily shutting it as soon as he could). Finally he went down to the marketplace--which wasn’t as awful as he’d expected--and purchased a set of new clothes for himself better suited to the weather.

“I received word today,” Abbot informed him. “Your ship will come back in springtime. It’s too choppy in the winter to send a boat.”

“Marvelous,” Vervan allowed. “So I shall be here for the whole blasted freeze?”

Abbot shrugged before allowing a small smile. “You get used to it.”

Damn it all, he was getting used to it. The Southern Lands didn't have stars the way they did in The City. He paused in the empty street center on his way home some nights, staring up into the yawning abyss, trying to guess how many pinpricks of multicolored light hung overhead and failing utterly in his estimations. Snow spiraled in over the ocean and he watched the water freeze in thick sheets by the docks, drifts settling along the houses.

“Your highness,” he inquired one day from his place behind the throne, watching the angry winter ocean break against the obsidian cliffs. “Could you answer a question?”

She cast him a smile. “Talia.”

Vervan swallowed hard. “Forgive me, Talia.”

“Indeed. What is your question?”

“What does one get used to, here?”

Her smile faded. At last she rose and reached for him, entwining her fingers in his. “Come with me.”

Together they braved the frigid chill and took the long, winding path to the docks. He warmed her with a simple spell as they pattered alongside the ocean, the planks bucking and swaying underfoot. There--at the very end--she paused and thrust her hand out toward the horizon.

“Yes?” Vervan asked, uncertain what was happening.

“That water,” Talia announced, gravely serious, ���connects us to every single piece of land in the world. It takes us to the Trinity Island, where my grandparents fell in love and my city was saved. It takes us to the river that steers us south. It threatens our destruction and brings us life-giving rain and rocked me to sleep every night as a child. In that water is the spirit of everyone I’ve ever loved. It gives and it takes and it transforms, and still, we know nothing of it. Can you say the same of your land?”

Vervan took a step closer to the edge and stared into the inky-dark water, the sheet of ice over top the only barrier between him and it. It simply dipped down, down, down, well past his eyes, well beyond what he could fathom--like the stars uncountable.

“No,” he admitted. “No. My land is known to me.”

The Queen smiled serenely at him. “That is our beloved city, my dear. It is unknowable, and we love it for its mysteries.”

---

The boat came for him that spring, ferried by the same captain as before. He took one look at Vervan and laughed.

“My, but you look more weathered!”

Vervan could only shrug. “They don’t have lotion like they do in the south here. It’s all for staving off the cold.”

“The bloody north. Well, up you come.” The captain paused to grimace at the City, wrapping his fist tight around the ropes. “I don’t envy your being trapped here. I can’t imagine it was something enjoyable.”

He paused, one foot on the edge of the ship, the other still braced firmly on the docks. What could he say to that? Floundering, Vervan hesitated only a moment longer--

And imagined a world without all those stars.

He backed away from the edge of the boat.

“No, thank you.” And after a pause, he laughed and said, “You sort of learn to love it.”

#Commission #My writing #The Measurement of Time #Used To It #what do I even tag this as? #TMOT #Captain Uesugi #Female!Uesugi #Sasuke Sarutobi #ikesen descendants

[sparkledeerfr]

Excerpts from Harper’s Diary

The story of what happened to two kids from a small house, as told by their lifelong butler/caretaker.

Warnings: Child death, death mentions (neither graphic).

My work with the Whitmore family has thus far been quite easy and enjoyable. One never knows when taking a new position how exactly things will work out, but I do like taking chances with smaller upstarts such as this.

That’s not technically true- Lady Mendoza apparently comes from an illustrious lineage, since fallen on hard times as such things are wont to do, looking to reclaim some position in society by marrying a man of good standing but with little wealth to his name. One of those families that likes to hide how close they are to bankruptcy. No doubt the in laws may come around should Mendoza succeed in righting the ship. The decision to settle south, right on the border of her home flight and Plague is a bit odd, but perhaps she intends to keep her head down and out of the way of more powerful houses.

I myself prefer staying back, helping where I can, seeing how things work out. They seem a good match, and both their backgrounds means they are more grateful for ‘the help’ than others of their peerage might be. At least they hardly seem the type to be angry should they find this diary.

---

A first nest! Of course Mendoza had the good sense to wait until they were fully settled, the prospects of money in place and some saved despite Regent’s (and such an odd name, perhaps his parents had always intended for him to be a placeholder? No matter) insistence on spending it on luxury items. Always need to keep up appearances with him.  

Due to my condition I stayed far away from the eggs, and will do so when they hatch. Young children are so susceptible to even the slightest change in magic, and should anyone find out about my ailment, should anything happen to the children, I know who will be blamed. The Lord and Lady might understand, being more educated, but the rumors always do start flying and it doesn’t take long for backwards notions to become ‘truth’.

‘Vampire’. Please. As though I’m some sort of blood drinking monster.

----

Sad news- it seems none of the children made it. There is a thought among the staff that being so close to Plague while not being of that flight themselves may have led to some problems, but no one knows for certain.

Mendoza of course is trying to keep a cheerful face and things running, though I can see the worry. I did do a little digging and searching- no foul play at least. Perhaps just poor luck. They’re both young and in good health, they can try again.

---

More sad news- only one child in the nest, and they did not even fully hatch. Next time I will be less cautious and try and find out more directly what is going on. It seems I can hardly make things worse.

---

The problem was more fully and quickly discovered than I expected, though again through sad means. The issue is not with disease, perhaps closer to a genetic fault, though not one of the usual ones: the children have a great overabundance of magic, simply too much to allow their mortal bodies to keep up.

The poor thing was oozing pink and red, pure concentrated energy right through her mouth and nose. She and her brother perished within two days.

At least...well at least I can be of service. Hopefully Mendoza will not take my suggestion poorly- offering to leech energy from children can come off as quite sinister.

---

Another singular child, one I kept close to and was there for his birth, the Lord and Lady eyeing me not with suspicion but a sort of worried hope. The birth seemed blessed from the start- a boy with strange Plague eyes and the spiral form of a distant relation. Incredibly lucky.

But of course I was considered lucky- the wildclaw boy from a wildclaw mother and a skydancer father. Strange dark eyes instead of whites. Lucky. Blessed. And cursed.

As I held the boy in my hands and a nurse wiped off the remains of the egg I realized- he was like me. There was no magic whatsoever. He would live but…

Did I somehow do this?

----

The boy is growing, and the parents do not seem to blame me in the slightest. In fact they seem well relieved, even if he’ll never be able to cast anything, even if he’ll have to leech energy from others to stay alive, even if it means he can never really be alone for long.

He is alive, they have a son and heir who is growing into a healthy young man. That’s all that matters to them, and they thank me for helping solve their ‘deficiencies’ (a thing said in private, a confession- poor things overly blame themselves).

They want another child, and they want me to keep close by again. I don’t have the heart to tell them no, nor to tell them what rumors will surely circulate in the future.

An essence ‘vampire’ noble. Well. At least he will be difficult to ignore.

---

Another singular egg, this time a girl, and this time with the ‘fault’ of the other children. She began coughing and shaking not long after being born, but with me around to leech some of it off she seems to have quieted into a more healthy baby. At least I can buy her time.

Her brother loves her already- they are hardly apart. Hopefully he will not lose her, and perhaps they can balance one another out.

Far too much and far too little. Perhaps there is such a thing as destiny.

---

They are both growing nicely, and one would hardly suspect that either of them have an ailment. The boy has taken to nobility quickly, though I must admit his attitude leaves something to be desired at times. He doesn’t have the patience or forgiveness of his parents, seems to have forgotten the hard work they put in to make sure he grew up wealthy and with a name.

Perhaps it is the children of other houses that he hangs around with at times influencing him. I must admit I also worry that he’s taken to his condition a little too well- yes, it can be used offensively, but he seems to consider himself better for having it. I worry that with no one (especially myself) around to watch him, he bullies others. Why ask for what you can take?

His sister on the other hand has thankfully gone in the other direction. She’s willful but kind, almost always outdoors with the animals, her nose in a book. You’d think she was a stable girl looking to up her station through education. They still balance one another out well, and hopefully will continue to do so.

---

The boy and girl had an awful falling out. It seems he thinks her wanting to seek education elsewhere, to teach somewhere, is a personal slight against him. I know she has been teaching others in private- she is a powerful creature when she chooses to be, a mix of Plague and Arcane- but actually leaving was a bridge too far for him.

I do not think this is pure selfishness on his part, whatever else I think of the boy. I believe he genuinely loves his sister and thought they would always be together. He is afraid to be alone.

---

There is something wrong, but I do not know what.

It started with the girl’s sigils- easily spotted glowing a reddish pink, popping up all over the manor. When asked, she responded that they were nothing and not to worry about it, but something in her voice and face were off. I wanted to trust her, and for her to trust me as she always had, so I left the matter alone, insisting that she could talk to me about anything.

But the situation has only gotten worse, they are near everywhere now, growing in size, scaring you half to death when you round a corner at night and see glowing runes nearly in your face. She looks worn as though from worry, lack of sleep, or both. She has taken to carrying a clock around with her, glancing at it at all hours of the day.

I have heard no rumors, no stirrings from nearby houses, no nosy cooks or housekeepers with an inkling of what is causing her to do this, as though she’s preparing for something. There are always casual threats of course, especially further to the south, but even with a smaller force such as we have it would be foolish for some band of raiders to attempt something.

Her brother has confronted her as well, so at least I can be assured that the blame for this does not lie with him.

---

I still do not know exactly what happened or why it occurred, but I will be writing in as much detail as I can lest I forget anything later.

She was tired, exhausted, sitting on a bench and drinking a near full glass of brandy and smoking a cigar. I knew that she had picked up the drinking habit heavily the prior week, but again did not know the reason why. She looked like she had been fighting something by herself- worry aging her to the point that she looked older than her brother.

I sat by her, determined again to at least attempt to get something out of her, but she surprised me by talking first. “I tried, Harper,” she said, staring ahead at nothing. “I’ve tried everything in all kinds of ways, but there’s no point. It ends the same way, so I’m going to at least save you and Ambros.”

“My love, what are you-” I started, completely unsure of what she was talking about, but knowing that she was no liar. Whatever this was, it was important, and true at least to her.

“Harper in two minutes you’re going to get Ambros and go out through the south door,” she said, reciting with a dead voice. “Two men are going to try and stop you from going forward. I need you to kill them and keep going, and you don’t stop, okay? You don’t stop for anything and you get my brother out of here.”

“And what about-”

“One minute fourty-five.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to go north, and you’re not going to try and find me, not for a long time,” at this she looked at me, those eyes that could be mistaken for plague or arcane pink depending on the light devoid of their usual warmth.

“Love, what has caused this?”

“One minute,” she said, glancing down to the ever present clock. “I know you can do this, Harper, I’ve seen what you can do when you decide to stop putting a clamp on that ‘condition’ of yours. You’re the best to take care of Ambros. You can teach him.”

“When did you see me-”

“Again and again,” she said, standing and looking back to me. “You’re a good man, you know. Sorry I didn’t appreciate you more.”

“And you a good child,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

There was an explosion, screaming, but she just looked down to that clock and then back to me.

I did as she asked.

---

The boy blames his sister now, for everything. I do not know what else to tell him aside from that I feel it is untrue. I do not know how to comfort him at the death of his parents, his house, his future. It's all ash, aside from me, and I hardly feel a worthy substitute but at least I can teach him how to survive.

I hope his sister is well. I hope I will see her again.

Somewhere in the southern Icefield…

...a man enters what used to be a barn, converted now into a small living space. He clicks on the light and a woman looks up from a glass covered desk, bleary eyed, hands around a clock. “Cake,” Ruthers says,  somewhere between a snap and a growl. “You were supposed to pick up that feed shipment hours ago.”

She stares at him, eyes half hidden by unkempt hair, her long since past caring at the state of it. “Whoops,” she replies, trying not to roll her eyes. “I’ll get it in a minute.”

“Once real winter starts-”

“I know, I know,” she says, waving a hand and looking back down at the clock. “Can’t go mistiming things.”

#sparklelore #(cake is obviously not her birth name) #but eh #'Deer did you make lore out of how many times that pair wegged you?' #yes yes I did

[forestsstories]

Kitchen Calamity

The hour is oh thirteen hundred hours. I have surrendered all hope of peace with an unrelenting enemy. The sounds of warfare fill the air and I begin to wonder if I shall ever sleep again, if I even survive this battle. My beloved has turned on me in my hour of need and is unresponsive. If this should reach him, know my love for you is like a cavernous canyon. Both vast and deep. Farewell.

               “Darling I don’t think canyons can be cavernous. By their nature canyons don’t have ceilings and therefore cannot be cavernous.” Josh scowled as Derek chuckled. “But your poetic phrasing is sweet. However we do have to get this baby fed.” Derek kissed the tip of Joshes nose before turning his attention back to the baby who was perched in a high chair. “Nyeeeeroooom!” Derek maneuvered the spoon the way parents are wont to do in the vain hope of coaxing the child to open her mouth. Her mouth however was set in a stubborn pout as she scowled at her would be feeder.

               I fear we shall starve here, set behind the wall of our scowling opponent. All hope should be henceforth abandoned as metal is flying in my direction once more. Surely we shall perish here my love. And yet, success! A hole in our enemy’s defenses has been breached! Perhaps there is hope after all. With my love by my side I shall- “Babe, you need to stop writing and feed your niece. The bedroom is still a mess from the diaper debacle and eventually we’re probably going to have to change her again.” Joshes nose scrunched at the thought and he reluctantly took over trying to convince the child to not wallpaper their kitchen with green mush the origin of which could no longer be deciphered. He had moderate success and by the time Derek returned was running a clean cloth over the baby’s face. “Done? Wow.” Derek’s eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “You didn’t skip any steps did you?” His voice had an accusatory edge and Josh crossed his arms. “Now why would I skip steps? Put food on spoon, put spoon in mouth, wait for swallow, repeat.” Derek quirked an eyebrow. “Then why is the little jar still mostly full? Did you only feed her two spoonfuls?”

“Yes! I followed the instructions! Put food on spoon, put spoon in mouth…” Derek frowned thoughtfully while Josh continued explaining. “Well, that is true… maybe that’s all babies need. Okay, so what is next?” Joshes rant ceased immediately as he once again consulted the instructions. “Put her down with a bottle. Wait what? You can’t club a baby with a bottle what’s she saying?!” Joshes voice once again got high as Derek snatched the page from his hands. “I mean I’ve had to put down animals before but what kind of monster does she think I am?! No, I’m not going to put down her baby I don’t care what she s-“

“Josh.” Derek’s voice was soothing as he crooned at him. “Your sister does not want you to kill her baby.”

“But the instructions-“

“I’m sure she just means to put it down out of the high chair. Let’s put it on the floor with a bottle okay?” At that Derek plucked an empty pop bottle off the counter. “I mean, we have toys for it so I don’t know why it would need a bottle but maybe it just likes them.” The baby cooed as Derek lifted it from the high chair, reaching once more for his tie as he set it on the kitchen floor. “I’m going to get these dishes caught up, why don’t you clean the walls?” Josh waited several minutes for his pulse to return to a normal rate before he took a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.” All was well. Except that it wasn’t. All was not well at all.

               You may have no experience with babies. In which case I would like to inform you that a kitchen floor is absolutely no place to leave one. Josh had hardly touched cloth to wall when a piercing wail made his hands shoot to the sides of his head to shield his ears. Pots clanged into the sink as Derek did the same and both scanned the room for the source of the unbearable noise. Halfway across the room from where they’d left her was the child, her hand caught in a cupboard door and an unholy screech echoing from her tiny lungs. Both men sprang into action, tripping over each other as they gently eased her fingers from the crack between cupboard and door. “Is she ok?”

“No she’s not okay!” Derek cooed softly at the child as he picked it up and rocked it. “She could have lost a finger, I thought we had babyproof things on those doors?”

“We do!” Joshes pulse rapidly began to rise again when he thought of what his sister might do to them if she learned about this. “They must not be installed correctly. Hold on, let me get the instructions, I’ll uninstall and reinstall them.”

“I mean, is that really important right now?” The baby’s shrieking had subsided to gentle hiccups. “We just have to watch her. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere she’s not supposed to.” Josh shook his head.

“That would be like leaving faulty virus protection on a computer and telling someone to avoid sites where viruses are common. The program is faulty, we have to reinstall it.”

“Yes but fixing the computer’s components is more important than making sure the malware protection is properly installed.” Derek’s lips pursed as they entered into an ages long debate. “The health of the machine is your first concern. Hardware before software.” Joshes eyes flared.

“But if your software is up to date you have a better chance of not damaging the hardware!” The argument continued to escalate, and in their fervour neither man noticed a soft yawn like the coo of a dove and gentle snoring as the child nestled into Derek’s chest and closed her eyes. Calm rhythmic breaths warmed his shirt as they argued pointlessly about the hardware or software, of the child who could care less.

#shortstorysunday #short story sunday #writers #writing #creative writing #baby antics #lgbtq #short story #babies #married life #cute #funny #baby humour #baby humor #comedy

[someonetotaketheedgeoff-blog]

15.09.2018 - Journal

(Some of this was written when I travelled with my family in America in the last 2 months)

4.07.2018

I picked a good time to quit comedy… just moments before Nanette. Maybe I’ll actually do something good if I make music instead of making jokes about fucking myself with an ex-girlfriend’s dildo.

I wont stay up late waiting to go on. Or be brutalised by Open Mic magazine on Facebook. Anything not to upset my fragile sense of self-esteem. There’s not much that's funny to me anymore… oh well… who gives a fuck anyway…

… So Liam goes into his little room and quietly dreams up his last open mic set…. hahaha… comedy can get you pretty fucked up! ... who gives a fuck anyway…

9.07.2018

Whenever I’m in a big city all I hear is it whispering (or perhaps screaming) to me - ‘can I just have some fucking money?!’  

I wonder how much I’m a product of my own fear. And also how much of what I make is a response to that fear.

It’s mostly been about death for me for the last 3 - 5 years. All I’ve done is use death to explain everything. I’ve used it to draw a line under certain things within myself and the exterior world. Seems lazy to me now.

Is laziness the fear of pain? Is a lack of motivation due to fear? A fear of failing?

It seems fear’s only a good motivator when you’re aware of what you’re afraid of and why.

23.07.2018

Travelling in America/being in America’s like being in GTA but you’re not any of the main characters.

24.07.2018

Not doing anything or not trying IS FAILING!

25.07.2018

Saw a guy stop in the subway, put his bag on the ground and re-adjust himself to get out a camera so he could take a photo of some graffiti on the wall that said ‘I love porno’.

Being in an all black neighbourhood I feel as if the black people are annoyed at me or my presence.

I keep think about the word ‘nigger’ and I keep thinking about the word ‘cracker’.

The current most popular, agreed upon philosophy on slur usage is do not say any word that has negative history associated with it and do not say ‘nigger’ if you’re not black.

Recently ‘retarded’ has been considered more offensive than it used to be and if you happen to use it you’re now accused of being an immoral person and presumably you think people that suffer mental deficiencies are bags of shit and you want to set them all on fire.

I have no problem with discussing words and I’m not even so much of a Doug Stanhope/iDubbbzTV nerd that I think the best world is a world where you say everything all the time in every context.

What I have a massive problem with is the presumption of hate and the pompousness of people downright attacking people that slip out ‘x’ word when a word is still in the process of being fazed out. It’s bloody political correctness gone quickly without open discussion and kindness!

Words are simply the end point of a vortex of shit and ideas and slang and culture. They are the bookend to a concept and when people get really caught up with words it kinda scares me.

The problem with these kinda bullshit discussions (especially on the internet) is that when you argue or discuss this shit the assumed reason for your questioning is that I want to be able to say ‘nigga’ with my friends for some unknown reason. But I don’t and I don’t understand why anyone would want to other than the fact that they’ve been told they can’t or they’re at a Klan meeting.

What I’m confused about is if words hold so much apparent power and evil due to their history then isn’t simply being white the most offensive and on the nose thing you can do? Probably, kinda, yeah.

Yet black people don’t fucking loose their shit when you walk into a room being all white and whiting the whole place up by being white. They simply get on with their lives. I believe the same shit could be applied to words. At least in a reactionary sense… it doesn’t make sense to berate a stranger with venom for saying that the fact that none of the self serve screens in Macca’s were working was retarded. I don’t know if this metaphor works. I’m just slightly confused as too why I get all my information on how to best treat minorities forced onto me from young well off white people in beer gardens. I just sit there and listen for a bit and then I stare into the reflective glare coming off their nose ring.

1.08.2018

Saw a full American fat guy in a servo. He was so fat I had to focus on not double-taking at him by staring intently at the fridge at the Dr. Pepper selection.

He looked beyond human.

13.08.2018

For some reason I am smoking again. It’s a never ending battle. Oh well. Strangely I don’t mind.

I smoked a cigarette I crafted from all the butts I could find in my parent’s house. Something I’ve done probably over 100 times in my life.

I find that I clench my jaw all the time. I’ve only noticed it recently. Through meditating and not doing drugs. I’ve noticed it. I thought I had neck cancer but the strange feeling of ache comes from my constantly clenching my jaw.

I worry that maybe I’ve done drugs and drank for so long now and started at a young age that the tracks within my brain are a little fucked. Or maybe I just have too high hopes for a sober life to be a more peaceful, and mentally stable one. Maybe the only thing I’ll gain is a healthier body.

I’m just afraid of all the horrible shit that’s inside my head. I’m afraid of being unlovable because of my desires and my personality. I don’t want to face in fear of losing Tash and revealing to her that I’m evil.

This seems to be the crux of all relationships. All of them. In the whole world. You know that you need to face the truth to get to the next stage. But it seems it will be so lonely, so terrifying and so cold… we don’t want to see the monsters that might lurk within us.

The thing is it’s almost impossible to have an honest relationship and never have turbulence. You can have a dishonest relationship with turbulence but the turbulence will be about bullshit like - ‘you said you were going to clean the extractor fan in the kitchen weeks ago…’ or ‘stop leaving your guitar on the couch…’ and such things might blow into massive arguments.

Relationships are designed to be a nightmare. Not by anyone in particular but by our hope for them and isolation and alienation we all experience internally in this society.

A relationship is a small life within your life.

Dependant on the extremity of a relationship (and obviously that is a relative thing but for sake of argument we’ll say a relationship where you truly considered that you would commit yourself to this other person until you or they or both had died) it could possibly be an interesting simulation of life after death (at least in an abstracted way).

When a relationship of said extremity begins to fall apart (for whatever reason) it’s interesting to note that you feel as if you’re dying and that there’s in fact no perceivable life to lead after the break up or if their is one it will be hellish and a subhuman existence not worth living.

When you survived a relationship that you’d committed everything to how did you feel?

I assume it was horrendous. But assuming you’re still alive and reading this… you must’ve started to feel somewhat normal once again.

Like awaking from a vivid dream it fades away rapidly. You played a different character, you lead a different life. You feel a horribleness deep inside. Not about the person but about the situation. Is this how it has to be? That the people you commit so intensely to, that you fuck and spend countless hours with then have to perish abstractly and then repressed as they fade into the background sometimes never to be spoken about or spoken to again…

I have a girlfriend now. And it terrifies my to think that the pattern may repeat.

***

We believe the internet is everlasting. Whether we research it or not, whether we know it consciously or not.

As much as we might make comments about Facebook and say things like- ‘be careful uploading those photos of your arsehole… you know that stuff will be up there forever’ I believe we’re secretly subconsciously screeching with joy at the fact that these photo’s will be up forever. As much as people have a disdain about Facebook and social media we adore it’s implied permanence. We believe that Facebook will be around after we’re dead. I say ‘believe’ because do you know how the fucking internet works? Do you know how a website is created? I fucking don’t. I don’t know if the internet would still exist if all the power plugs in the world were pulled out of there sockets. I’m a fucking idiot! A fucking idiot that has faith in the permanence of the internet… I mean… obviously… I write a blog mostly about death and existential dread and it put on… the internet.

The internet is now our saviour. It is the modern sleek titanium, bomb proof, indestructible, deathless park bench where you can scratch ‘L.D. was here’ and have a more solidified faith that it’ll be around for a while. And the longer it hangs around the more eye balls will see it, eye balls connected to a concious brain that’ll have no choice but to think ‘hey that guy was there’… and even if it’s just for one second your existence has been stretched just a tiny bit longer.

(People that love us are what we all orbit around all of our lives. If they happen to reject you at some point or disappear we then break away from that orbit and hurtle through abstract nothingness).

17.08.2018

Going to the pub was a bad idea. I went there thinking - ‘well… I kinda want to have just one drink’. The legs were aching and my poor sense of personal entitlement to some kind of ‘treat’ was raging within me. A very problematic thing for anyone that isn’t fulfilled in the work that that do (i.e. most people). I felt as I for some reason I deserved a beer. Also it was freezing cold. My feet were soaking wet and frozen due to my old decrepit shoes. I continued walking up the street. I noticed I had all these thoughts swirling in my mind. They all flew past me whispering - ‘it’s OK to have a beer’.

I watched them all swirl around in my head. I crossed my metaphorical arms and tutted. As I tutted I looked at the swirling thoughts and said - ‘fuck off… are you serious? You know this’s absolute bullshit. We don’t ‘deserve’ a drink… we don’t even probably technically want one… why are we actually going to do this?’

‘Yeah but we’ll only have one! Not even a pint mind you and then we’ll write a new to-do list and then maybe we see someone maybe we don’t and then we head off home and get down to work for a couple of solid hours before we go to bed’ said one of the thoughts.

‘Well OK… when you put it like that… that sounds nearly OK… but don’t you think there’s a chance that we might throw all that shit out the window and because we actually weren’t planning or trying to get drunk…. you’re going to use reverse psychology on me and then we actually will get drunk and most likely indulge in more heavily than if I’d actually planned to indulge…’ I replied.

‘Look don’t read into it just get into that pub… get a beer… have a cigarette in the beer garden, get out you’re little notebook and it’ll be just a quick little pop in, no worries, blah blah, etc, tomato tomato’ ’

‘Well alright then you’ve swung me round, but surely just like a small drink, like a ten ounce… you know we’re trying to focus on money and we’re only starting to face the fact of how much money we piss away on alcohol and other similar shit…’

‘Yea, yea, yea don’t worry just a ten ounce… don’t you worry about that’.

I walked up to the bar.

‘Yes what can I get you?’

‘Ah… could get a ten ounce of Little Creatures?’

‘Ah it’s actually $5 a pint right now and $10 dollars for a jug?’ she grinned slightly.

‘Ah…’.

I turned to the floating thoughts. I gave them a warning look. They all looked back at me like a pack of hyenas.

I began drowning internally - ‘Ah fuck! Na, na, na, I knew some bullshit like this was going to happen… action stations… we gotta think of some other shit… what else do they have on tap… maybe a stubby? Fuck!’

‘Hey this is great news! What a bargain! Don’t worry about it we’ll just drink that one pint and leave… no worries’ cackled the hyenas.

I ended up drinking maybe 5 pints. A bunch of my friends turned up and I talked a bunch of shit for a long, long time. It was as if ‘the plan’ had been completely erased from my mind like the bar lady had men in blacked me with the shine of her bar blade and I was back in the drinking business and also the business of not following my dreams and the business of having no self control.

The arguments in the pub got very heated. I have a few friends that can get heated during argument, (I mean who doesn’t) but I have to say it stresses me out a bit but even more so it confuses me. Every time an argument gets to that stage I don’t really trust anything that’s happening anymore. Your/my emotions are taking over and also everyone’s pissed. I think it’s interesting to me to watch people’s attention spans disintegrate at the pub. The more everyone drinks the quicker a group conversation subject topic can change hands. It’s not hard to do, barely anyone notices it and you can do it in a matter of seconds. You could be having a super intense discussion about anything and if you just interrupt everyone enough and interject a barrage of some current novelty bullshit topic that’s circling you can derail shit very quickly.

21.08.2018

Last week at the pub a friend told me that he basically waits for inspiration. He felt he should never force himself to create anything. Recently I’ve been getting back into the Stephen Pressfield way of thinking that he explains in the book The War Of Art. A book that basically shows you how to be a professional whatever, artist, musician, sports player, whatever. It’s a book that gives tools to fight the part of you that doesn't want to sit down and do the work. In other words it fights the notion of ‘waiting for inspiration’.

Very, very few times in my life have I been struck with overwhelming flaming inspiration to do anything. It happened more when I was a child. When I’d wake up early on a weekend I’d have the inspiration akin to fucking Michelangelo to go and make Lego spaceship car things out of all the see- through green pieces of Lego.

But when you get to around 7, 8, 9, 10 and beyond I think (I’m not a psychologist) you begin to second guess all that shit. You begin to be your own worst critic. Because fascinatingly nearly every kid up until that age will be happy to do a bit of drawing or play various characters in a fictional story they create on the spot. And then it all stops and this horrible awareness kicks in.

I define it as the point where you used to play with toys as a kid in your room. Each character having a crazy back story and way of speaking. You’d play, alone and be completely immersed. Your mum or dad would pop there head into the room to ask if you wanted cornflakes or some shit and you’d be like a focused director waving off an intern - ‘yea yea, sure, just have it on my desk, I’m working right now’. But then something changes around that age and when one of your parents pops their head into the room you freeze and quite your voice. You suddenly feel cripplingly self aware, maybe even stupid. You tell them to go away maybe or wait for them to leave before you get back into to the action.

Then one day you go to the studio (aka your bedroom with a mat on the floor resembling a city that we all had) and the juice is gone, the mojo is gone, you pick up the toys and you try to croak out their particular voice and you just feel stupid, looking quickly back at your bedroom door, making sure no one heard.

All of this stuff reminds me of a Picasso quote [R.I.P. 25.10.1881 - 19.06.2018*] - ‘Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up’.

I’ve always found it interesting. I think encapsulates what I’m saying. Most people have some kind of creativity or at least blissful ignorance of expression at an age and then their brains get bigger or something and they become pimply teenagers that struggle to even walk down the street without worrying about everything detail about themselves and then they learn to just manage that shit as they enter adult life.

*I’ve chose Picasso’s death date to be the release date of Nanette. I can’t really be bothered explaining why that is right now so I guess if you really want to know you’ll have to watch Nanette.

30.08.2018

I’m often confused as to why everyone has an opinion and why you seemingly have to have an opinion.

’I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing’ - Socrates

In my college years I used to be a bit of an air headed stoner art wanker and I still am but the difference is now I have opinions on things. Back then I didn’t really have opinions. And I did it on purpose because I knew that I didn’t know anything. However it didn’t really help me socially and it didn’t help in my relationships and it didn’t really help with my self-esteem. Not initially but eventually I started to feel like I was just drifting away into an abstract world of nothingness. People don’t really take you seriously when you don’t have any solid opinions. It’s probably not a ‘masculine’ trait.

Reminds of a Dylan Moran bit:

‘Men; strong opinions with no information’

#Relationships #Facebook #America #Retarded #Dylan Moran #Someone To Take The Edge Off #liam donnelly #American Fat #self esteem #nhilism #death #Journal #The Pub

[readbookywooks]

My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings and allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva forever; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships which travellers in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die and leave my adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled, and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the daemon who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes forever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me." I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance. I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy and have destroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away, when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper, "I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have determined to live, and I am satisfied." I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded, but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than mortal speed. I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not how. Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace of him I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand what I have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps and when I most murmured would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me. The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish. I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the daemon generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking. My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I feel for them! How did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the daemon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided me and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over" - these words were legible in one of these inscriptions - "you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive." Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage! As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words: "Prepare! Your toils only begin; wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred." My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seasons of the south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep, but I knelt down and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him. Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that when I first saw the ocean he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols, putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice or frozen by the eternal frosts. On hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had escaped me, and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the frozen ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from land. I cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came and made the paths of the sea secure. By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! With what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart! Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud. But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible, nor did I again lose sight of it except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it, and when, after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me. But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished; in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening and thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died, and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars, and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southwards, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is unfulfilled. Oh! When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live - swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart; but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiendlike malice. Hear him not; call on the names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near and direct the steel aright. Walton, in continuation. August 26th, 17- You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor. His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth, yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster has, then, really existence! I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his creature's formation, but on this point he was impenetrable. "Are you mad, my friend?" said he. "Or whither does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries and do not seek to increase your own." Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked to see them and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places, but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. "Since you have preserved my narration," said he, "I would not that a mutilated one should go down to posterity." Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale and his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! The only joy that he can now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse with his friends and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth. Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall. "When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound, but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me when others would have been oppressed, for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect without passion my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise." Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea. "I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation of Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility to my fellow creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled and I may die." My beloved Sister, September 2nd I write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England and the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice which admit of no escape and threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows whom I have persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid, but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause. And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! My beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband and lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven bless you and make you so! My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He endeavours to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other navigators who have attempted this sea, and in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence; when he speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their energies, and while they hear his voice they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole- hills which will vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this despair. September 5th A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although it is highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it. We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness. I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend - his eyes half closed and his limbs hanging listlessly - I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southwards. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered, when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said, "What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you, then, so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? "And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called forth and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm - firesides. Why, that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe." He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire and consider of what had been said, that I would not lead them farther north if they strenuously desired the contrary, but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return. They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and almost deprived of life. How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than return shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships. September 7th The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess to bear this injustice with patience. September 12th It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted towards England and towards you, I will not despond. September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril, but as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in such a degree that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this and that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England." "Do you, then, really return?" "Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return." "Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted. It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live. His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near, said, "Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and was bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. "This was my duty, but there was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to my attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that he may render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue. "Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil this task; and now that you are returning to England, you will have little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may still be misled by passion. "That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed." His voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his effort, he sank into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted again to speak but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed forever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips. Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this glorious spirit? What can I say that will enable you to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find consolation. I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise and examine. Good night, my sister. Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe. I entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe - gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on him to stay. He paused, looking on me with wonder, and again turning towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion. "That is also my victim!" he exclaimed. "In his murder my crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted being! What does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer me." His voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his passion. "Your repentance," I said, "is now superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience and heeded the stings of remorse before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived." "And do you dream?" said the daemon. "Do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse? He," he continued, pointing to the corpse, "he suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh! Not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine. "After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was forever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not disobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!" I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled within me. "Wretch!" I said. "It is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power." "Oh, it is not thus - not thus," interrupted the being. "Yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone. "You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were forever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood boils at the recollection of this injustice. "But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. "There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me, but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more. "Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being and accomplish that which must be done, but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice raft which brought me thither and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks. "Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death? "Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine, for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them forever. "But soon," he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell." He sprang from the cabin window as he said this, upon the ice raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.

#Frankenstein