#the black star and soul one is a reference to something from many moons ago. you don't need to worry about it

[forestfolke]

soul eater

#soul eater #my art #digital art #doodles #mifune #medusa gorgon #maka albarn #soul eater evans #dr. stein #marie mjolnir #spirit albarn #black star #the black star and soul one is a reference to something from many moons ago. you don't need to worry about it

[entishramblings]

The Essence of Arda [Legolas X Reader]

A.N: whoA okay so this fic took me on a whole ass adventure. I kinda just let the story go where it wanted to and ya know I’m kinda happy with how it turned out. Also, “(h/c)” means hair color...there is something I included but I wanted to make sure you guys could still see yourself as the character so yeah! Another also...I’m sorry....this was requested literally so long ago.

Request: @sokkasdarling — heyhey im gonna request smth cus i LOVE U AND UR WRITING HHHH okay so how about a jealous legolas fic where he thinks the reader and aragorn have a lil thing going on but they're just really great friends and she actually likes legolas very much?? please and thank you<3333

Pairing: Legolas X Reader

Summary: (Y/N) and Legolas’s paths cross in an unexpected way and the two develop feelings for each other. However, Legolas is unsure and gets jealous bc of the way Aragorn and (Y/N) interact.

Word Count: 3,661 (sorry I got a little carried away)

Warnings: angst, fluff, cuteness, jealousy, the tiniest amount of nudity

(gif not mine)

MASTERLIST | AO3

Legolas had met many wandering souls throughout his travels of middle earth—weathered, withered, and warped humans in particular, for the elements and loneliness seemed to affect them more so. Elves, on the other hand, were bound to nature. It was where their hearts rested and their spirits thrived; therefore, the desperation of the empty lands of Arda did not affect him. However, that didn’t mean he did not wish for company. So, on that account, Legolas made his way north towards the Dundain, in hopes to see his good friend Aragorn once more.

It was there, in the northern wilderness, where he met the most riveting and thought-provoking individual. The intriguing nature that compelled his attention was that she was so unlike the other humans he ventured upon, specifically because she wasn’t exactly human.

The first time he had met (Y/N) was when her sharp canine teeth were at his throat.

A (h/c) she-wolf had launched herself at him with an unhinged jaw and barring teeth. The nimble creature had been so swift that he, even as an elf, did not have time to react. The wolf had pinned him down with a viscous expression—laughing at his surprise. Legolas was only quick enough to pull a knife from his belt once he was already knocked down upon the mud. However, he hesitated just before he was going to strike the blade into the beasts’ belly.

As intimidated as he was, something in those vibrant earthy eyes made him halt. Was it the deep churning of the sea? The fresh breath of the sky? The moisture of the leaves? The pooling of sun-kissed honey? The thickness of clay-like soil? Legolas was unsure why exactly, but those eyes reflected the essence of Arda—they reflected it right back into his soul. And here was his miscalculation, for the natural instincts of a wolf would not suspend for its prey—well, not without a familiar voice calling out....?

“(Y/N), NO!”

The creature froze. She reluctantly backed off of his form but she did not let her guard down. Instead, she circled him with those same barring teeth and low growls.

Legolas inhaled a deep breath of cold air as he tried to re-center himself, for it was not often an elf got knocked on their ass and enthralled so deep in a beauty.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and focused in on his elvish senses—feeling every nerve in his body scream out to be alert.

Legolas’s ears picked up the first indication—the speaker.

A sound of rough, ragged panting carried through the breeze as his gaze whispered upon the being who had previously hollered—a worn down Ranger.

A small grin crossed the elf’s face. Aragon stood before Legolas, with hands on his knees, sucking in deep breathes. An entirely human action. The Ranger clearly had a hard time keeping up with the canine creature—which he surprisingly seemed to be acquainted with.

“Legolas, by the Valar, I didn’t know you were traveling through these parts,” He exclaimed.

The elf chuckled as he stood, brushing dirt off his palms.

“Well, I suppose I am lucky for she listens to you well,” He nodding at the wolf for reference.

The Ranger shook his head and let out an amused laugh. “She never listens to a thing I say. So, you are lucky, indeed.”

The wolf released a snort-like sound as if she was retorting to his words.

The Ranger rolled his eyes before speaking to Legolas again, “Let me show you to where we are camped. A hot meal will be waiting.”

Legolas smiled softly, “Thank you, Mellon Nin (my friend).”

The group—consisting of man, elf, and wolf—traveled through the woodland tundra with small conversation between the two who could speak. They shared their recent adventures and current news across the lands until they come upon a handful of Rangers around a blazing fire. They were clad in similar attire as Aragorn, being worn leather boots and thick fraying fabrics. Each of them had the same haunted expressions as many people Legolas had met, yet nothing like the joyful grin that pulled slightly at Aragorn’s lips.

The Ranger introduced each of his companions to the elf as he settled down upon a log. Legolas did the same, allowing himself to become enthralled by the brilliant flames. The she-wolf left his thoughts.

As the moon rose high and stars stretched across the sky, the rangers began to settle for the evening. It was then when the elf ducked away to relieve himself.

He made his way through the twisting trees in silence for he enjoyed listening to the sounds of night’s nature. But the normal chirps and hoots was not what met his ears; rather it was snapping bones and ripping skin, small groans and weak whimpers—it was pain.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and crept forward cautiously, fearful of what he might find.

The sounds let him towards a rather large bolder that was impeded in the ground and covered in thick moss. He was startled as he laid a hand on the cold stone, for a leg protruded upon the side—a leg belonging to the canine species.

It bended and it snapped, morphing into one of human nature—much like his own. It then disappeared behind the rock once more. He could not hold back the gasp that left his lips for witnessing such a thing was—shocking, confusing, terrifying. It was unnatural, but then again, what was ever natural within the lands of Arda?

Legolas’s attention was drawn upwards as a naked figure shakily stood before him.

She stood straight, with impeccable posture, and a head held high; but that is not what claimed his consciousness. It was that vibrant gaze, burning angry holes into him.

She spoke sharply, “Well, are you going to pass me my clothing?”

Instead of responding or making any motion, he froze as if he was deer hiding from the predator once more. His blue orbs locked onto hers, for he dared not let his gaze wander.

Dreadful silence hung in their air as he processed that the person before him indeed was a wolf moments before—the wolf.

However, that antagonizing absence of sound was disrupted when life was breathed back into him and he could finally move his lips. Though it came out as a whisper, for elves were conservative creatures and such a sight had caught him off guard, it still came out nonetheless.

“You are—are not entirely human.” He stated with an expression that seeped curiousness and inquiry.

“Though, currently, I am shaped like one. So, as you are in my way, I will ask you once again to pass me my clothing.” She reiterated.

Legolas’s brows pulled together and his lips mumbled her words back to her as he searched his mind for the meaning. He twisted around and around until a pile of dark fabrics caught his eye. He grasped them gently and passed it over the boulder between them into her calloused hands.

He turned so his back was facing her. His anxiety and awkwardness reverberated off of every word that non-consensually tumbled from his lips. “You are a shifter then—able to alter your form? A wolf....so I suppose it was you who almost tore my throat out.” He paused before recalling her name, “(Y/N).” He should have stopped there if he could, but alas, he couldn’t. “I have only ever met one other like you. His name was Beorn—a great black bear he was—“

She interrupted him, “Most elves I come across are not so verbal. Though, Strider had mentioned you before, Legolas. A strange fellow you are indeed.”

A small grin of embarrassment flickered across his face, not that she could see. “He called me strange?”

A laugh, sounding of blades of grass rubbing together against the wind, struck the air. (Y/N) spoke, “For an elf he had said. But truly, he was too generous with those extra words.”

Legolas tilted his head at that for it seemed to be an insult; but before he could decide on such a matter, she called out to him again—this time fully clothed and ten feet in front of him.

“Are you coming?”

He quickly scampered after her.

As he and (Y/N) entered the area, Aragorn, who still sat by the fire, glanced up with a shimmer in his eye.

Legolas gridded his teeth and sat down next to the man. In a voice as low and quiet as he could muster, he spoke to the Ranger. “Why didn’t you tell me she was the wolf?”

Aragorn smirked in amusement before whispering back, “I figured you would eventually come to that conclusion and by your expression it was not of the best experiences.”

Legolas shot his friend a glare, but that only made the Ranger grin more.

Luckily for the elf, (Y/N) interrupted the moment. “Strider, did you save me some stew? I’m starved.”

The man passed a bowl to her as he spoke, “You know I always do, (Y/N).”

She smiled gratefully.

The Ranger stood and made his way to his bedroll, clapping the elf on the shoulder as he went.

Legolas took notice of the interaction between the two and turned his attention to the woman sitting across from him.

Once he was sure Aragorn was out of ear shot, he spoke quite bluntly, “You and Strider....are you—“

She snorted, “No, no. His heart lies in Rivendell.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow, “And yours?”

(Y/N) shrugged and glanced up at the scenery around them. “Here. In the lands of middle earth.”

The elf tilted his head, examining her again.

She stopped her chewing and sent him an accusatory look. “What?”

Legolas smiled softly, “I sense that shifters are much like elves in that regard—bound to nature and tethered in the sky.”

She raised a brow, “And what makes you think that?”

He chuckled lightly at her bold fierceness, “Your eyes. I can see the essence of Arda in them.”

(Y/N) shook her head in amusement, “Elves and their poetry.” She paused, taking a moment to think. “Although what you say is true, it is within that where I think we differ. You elves are laced up spiritually whereas shifters are tied animalisticly.” When the elf did not respond she continued, “You care for morals, I care to survive.”

Legolas nodded in understanding, “Yet we both appreciate the beauty of it.”

The corner of her lip pulled upwards and she shook her head in agreement.

......

As time went on and the small group traveled, the female shifter and the elf became great friends—bonding over their infinity with nature. The two had split off from the rangers for a little while because (Y/N) wanted to see the forest of Greenwood and examine what seemed to be haunting it. However, after approximately two moon cycles, they met with Aragorn once more. He was not with his previous companions though, so it was only the three of them.

The months had gotten colder and they traveled upon open plains so (Y/N) stayed in her wolf form. It was easier for the time being. And it was in this shape that she came bounding towards the ranger that she had not seen in a while.

She jumped up upon him, knocking him to the ground as she had once done to Legolas. She plastered wet slobbery licks upon his face as his chest rumbled with laughter.

The elf could not help but feel a pang of jealous encase his heart. He had grown to develop feelings for the shifter as they had grown close over their journey. 

Just as he felt bound to nature, he felt bound to her.

So he stood, with a fire burning in his heart, as he watched (Y/N) give canine affection to his human friend.

As the days continued on, Legolas’s irritation grew. (Y/N) strayed closer to Aragorn’s side—rubbing her face against his leg and pawing at his feet in attempt to trip him.

Of course, Aragorn could pick up on the elf’s mood and angry looks. He had thought Legolas was aware of his lover in Rivendell, but perhaps not. The Ranger had wanted to find a moment alone with the elf so he could assure him of the sibling-like relationship between him and the shifter; but with open freezing lands like this, there was no privacy.

The small trio had settled upon large rocks for the night as that was the only shelter available. They lit a brilliant fire in attempt to starve off the nipping wind, but it only did so much.

Aragorn, wrapped in blankets, had fallen asleep quite quickly; whereas Legolas sat brooding, leaning against a boulder.

It was a moment before he noticed those curious eyes on him. They twinkled with the emotions of Arda, searching his soul. With a tilted head, the wolf approached him slowly.

She crawled forward, so close that her wet nose was inches from his own. She resting one large paw upon his thigh but her weight did not hurt him.

Legolas did not move because he was taken by surprise. (Y/N), as partially human, did understand boundaries; yet, she did not seem to care about them in this instance. Instead, she studied him—up close.

The elf knew that she was searching him for answers given she had noticed his mood as well. However, Legolas did not wish to give any. Therefore, he held his porcelain elf features strong, not bending to her intimidation. He starred right back at her. Though this time, his eyes were filled with anger and frustration—and (Y/N) could tell.

Legolas was upset with her for she blatantly gave Aragorn affections.

Could she not see his heart?

He had said he would not bend to her will and intimidation. He had decided he would be cold towards her. He had made a choice—a choice that he could not uphold as he gazed into her soft eyes of nature.

Slowly, he raised a gentle hand. He brought it close to her face. When she did not pull away, he cupped the canine’s features.

To his disbelief, (Y/N) completed an action he had never seen her do before—even with Aragorn. She leaned into his touch.

Legolas’s lips parted as the moment encapsulated his mind.

He let his hand fall slowly and (Y/N) leaped off his lap. But she did not scamper off in a different direction. Instead, she ducked into his side and curled up against him. She let her head rest on his lap.

Cautiously, Legolas began to stroke her soft, (h/c) fur. He let the short strands slip through his fingers, lulling her to sleep.

.....

When Legolas woke, (Y/N) was not in his sights. He sent a confused expression towards Aragorn who was tending to the dwindling flames.

“She will be back,” the Ranger stated simply.

The elf stood and walked towards Aragorn. “Where did she go?”

The ranger shrugged while biting back a smile.

Legolas frowned at his playful expression, “I know you know something, Aragorn.”

The man raised his brows. “I woke sometime in the night. You and (Y/N) seemed quite close.” He paused, the tone of his voice changing, “You know, she never lets anyone touch her like that.”

“Never have you....?” Legolas let his sentence trail off as the ranger shook his head.

Aragorn spoke again, “My heart rests with another.”

Their conversation was cut short by a feminine voice. “Have either of you seen my cloak?”

Legolas’s head snapped in the direction of the sound for it had been long since (Y/N) was in her human form.

The shifter stood before them shivering slightly in her clothes. They were clearly not fit for the freezing air as the fabric was thin—so thin that her the curve of her breasts and nipples was easily seen.

Legolas adverted his eyes and instantly began to ruffle through his bag as he spoke with concern in his tone. “(Y/N), why have you shifted to your human form? Did you not say it was safer for you to travel through this weather as a wolf?”

She sighed, “It is harder to communicate in my animal form.”

Both of the men knew what she was alluding to.

Legolas cleared his throat and pulled out a couple fabrics from his bag. “I have been carrying your cloak.” He moved towards her as he continued speaking. “Wear this as well. It is an elvish tunic weaved from my homeland; it will keep you warm.”

“Legolas, you don’t ha—“

He shook his head, “Please, I insist.”

(Y/N) reluctantly took it and pulled the fabric over her head. She frowned as she handled the wrap around ties, not quite able to figure out how they were supposed to lay.

The elf smiled softly, “Here, let me.”

Ever so gently he took the extra fabric in his hands and begun to weave it around her form. He tied the delicate cloths in a simple knot before moving to fasten her cloak under her chin.

“Thank you, Legolas.”

He tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “It is no problem.”

He turned to gather his belongings as they were to continue their way through Arda. However, as he did so, Aragorn shot him an amused playful look. The elf sent him a sharp glare in retribution.

.....

Within a couple days, a winter storm hit the group. Luckily, they were not far from a human town which they gratefully took refuge in. Of course, as they busted into the inn, many weird looks were thrown their direction. It was not often this area was crossed by elves and rangers—and skin changers, but they were unaware of (Y/N)’s less than human nature.

They each paid for a room and took time to settle into the warmth.

Legolas rested on the edge of the cot, fiddling with one of his blades. He had let his thoughts wander to a place he had been avoiding. A bond with nature was one thing he knew deep within his soul, but a bond with another was something untouched and left uncovered. Of course he had had acquaintances with friends and family; however, the bond he was debating over was one with a lover. He knew where his heart craved to be, yet he was unsure how to proceed.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the frame of his open door.

Legolas looked up to see (Y/N). She was wearing fresh clothing, likely washed and pressed by a maid. All the filth and grim had been scrubbed from her skin and her wet hair was pulled into a tight braid.

“(Y/N),” he stated simply. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head as she stepped into his room, “Well, not entirely.”

Legolas frowned at that comment.

The shifter walked closer until she stood only a foot from the elf.

He looked up into her vibrant eyes with question.

(Y/N) cleared her throat as she gently placed something soft and neatly folded into his hands. “Thank you for lending me your extra tunic.”

He smiled softly at her, “Won’t you need it again when we depart? The weather isn’t getting warmer anytime soon.”

A light chuckle rumbled in her chest and she shook her head in response.

Legolas placed the fabric next to him and looked up at her again. He did not notice he was staring until she whispered his name.

“Legolas, why do you do that?”

He tilted his head trying to hid his embarrassment, “What do you mean?”

Her teeth scraped her bottom lip, “Why do you look at me like that?”

The elf adverted his gaze, “My apologizes. I did not mean to offend you—“

(Y/N) interrupted him, “It is not an offense.” She sighed before speaking again. “You look at me like you marvel at nature—as if I am something so breath taking.”

“You are.” He frowned, “Do you not think so of yourself?”

The woman did not say a word; instead, she shifted her vision to the floor.

Legolas reached outwards and took her hand in his own. “You are breath taking, (Y/N)—even more so than nature.”

She shook her head, “I—I don’t understand.”

Legolas could not hold back any longer. He knew he needed to explain what he meant but no words could formulate such a thing. Therefore, he gave into his impulses and did the only thing he could think of to demonstrate it. The elf pulled her into him and grasped her cheeks with his hands. Legolas drew her face downward and smashed his lips against hers. When she did not reiterate any action he instantly pulled away. Had he taken a step too far?

“Legolas,” she breathed out in a whisper.

“I...I am sorry...I didn’t—“

She shook her head and clasped his cheeks, bringing his mouth to hers once again. Their lips moved together like the rhythmic dance of the wind—swirling and intertwining with eagerness. Legolas could taste the essence of Arda upon her lips—the sweet honey from east of the Anduin, the fresh berries from the region of Eriador, the bitter nuts from the mountains of Angmar. (Y/N) moved her body in-between his legs, but she decided that that was not close enough. So, she lifted herself into his lap, letting his calloused hands encircle her waist and hold her steady. She could feel the warmth of sparking fires, the comfort of soft wool, the shield of shelter from harsh winds. Legolas laid down upon the bed, pulling her form with him. He could hear the pounding of her heart and the gasps of her breath. Every sound she made did not escape him, it fueled him. (Y/N) tangled her fingers in his blonde locks and smiled against his lips for she recognized every aspect of nature within the elf, for it was in her too. It was the essence of Arda.

.....

Everything Tag: @sokkasdarling @scxundress @quilledinkpen @hufflepuffinblr @lea----b @aredhel-of-gondolin @princecami @the-fandoms-georgie @jazziwritestolkienprimary @swimming-in-stardust

Legolas Tag: @dark-angel-is-back @mylittle-escapingdreams @arandomfandomblog @moriamithril

#lord of the rings #lotr #the hobbit #legolas #aragorn #Legolas x reader #Legolas fic #legolas one shot #legolas drabble #legolas imagines #legolas one shots #legolas imagine #mirkwood #lotr fanfic #lotr fanfiction

[maxwell-grant]

What are your thoughts on Jekyll/Hyde and his archetype of the human periodically changing into a monster ?

Jekyll & Hyde was the 2nd horror story I read following Frankenstein, I got it off the same library and it always stuck very strongly with me even before I got into horror in general. I even dressed up as Jekyll/Hyde as a kid for a school fair by shredding a lab coat on one side and asking my sister to make-up claw gashes on my exposed arm and paint half of my face, although in hindsight I think I ended up looking more like Doctor Two-Face than Jekyll/Hyde, but I was 12 and didn't have any Victorian clothing to use so I had to make do. The first film project I tried doing at film school was intended to be a modern take on Jekyll & Hyde, and I didn't get much farther than a couple of discarded scripts

Much like Frankenstein, Mr Hyde as a character and a story is something that's kind of baked into everything I do artistically. And it's not just me, as even in pop culture itself, none of us can escape Mr Hyde. I would go so far as to argue Mr Hyde may be the single most significant character created by victorian fiction, if only by the sheer impact and legacy the character's had.

(Fan-art by guilhermefranco)

Part of what makes Mr Hyde such a powerful and lasting icon of pop culture is that the very premise of the book invites a personal reading that's gonna vary from person to person. Because everyone's familiar with the basic twist of the story, that it's a conflict of duality, of the good and evil sides, but everyone has a more personal idea of what those entail. Some people make the story more about class. A lot of readings laser-focus on sex and lust as the driving force, and there's also a lot of readings of Mr Hyde that tackle it to explore a more gendered perspective, and so forth.

I don't particularly take much notice of the Jekyll & Hyde adaptations partially because the novel's premise and themes have become baked so throughly into pop culture and explored in so many different and interesting ways, that I'm not particularly starving for good Jekyll & Hyde adaptations the way I am for Dracula and Frankenstein. The Fredric March film in particular is one that orbits my head less because of the film itself (although I do recommend it), but because of one specific scene, and that's when Jekyll first transforms into Hyde on screen.

Out of all the things they could have shown him doing right that second, they instead took the time to show him enjoying the rain.

Just Hyde taking off his hat and letting it all cascade on his face with this sheer enthusiasm like he's never been to the rain before, never enjoyed it before, and now that he's free from being Jekyll, he gets to enjoy life like he never has before. It's such an oddly humanizing moment to put amidst a horror movie, in the scene where you're ostensibly introducing the monster to the audience, and it makes such a stark contrast to the rest of the film where Hyde is completely irredeemable, but I think it's that contrast that makes the film's take on Hyde work so well even with it's diverging from the source material, even if I don't particularly like in general interpretations of Hyde that are focused on a sexual aspect.

Because one, it understands that Jekyll was fundamentally a self-serving coward and not a paragon of goodness, and two, it also understands one of the things that makes Hyde scary: He wants what all of us want, to live and be happy. He's happy when he leaves the lab and dances around in the rain like a giddy child, he's happy when he goes to places Jekyll couldn't dream of showing up, he's happy as a showgirl-abusing sexual predator. Hyde is all wants, all the time, and there's not that much difference between his wants, his domineering possessiveness, and the likes exhibited by Muriel's father and Jekyll's own within the very same film, which also works to emphasize one of the other ideas of the original story, that Edward Hyde doesn't come from nowhere. That no monster is closer to humanity than Mr Hyde, because he is us. He is the thing that Jekyll refused to take responsability for until it was too late.

(Art by LorenzoMastroianni)

While many of the ideas that defined Mr Hyde had already been explored in pop culture beforehand, Hyde popularized and redefined many of them in particular by modernizing the idea. He was the werewolf, the doppelganger, The Player On The Other Side, except he came from within. He was not transformed by circumstance, he made himself that way, and the elixir merely brought out something already inside his soul. To acknowledge that he's there is to acknowledge that he is you, and to not do that is to either lose to him, or perish. Hyde was there to address both the rot settling in Victorian society as well as grappling concerns over Darwinian heritage, of the realization that man has always had the beast inside of him (it's no accident that Hyde's main method of murder is by clubbing people to death with his cane like a caveman).

I've already argued on my post about Tarzan that the Wild Man archetype, beginning with Enkidu of The Epic of Gilgamesh, is the in-between man and beast, between superhero and monster, and that Mr Hyde is an essential component of the superhero's trajectory, as the creature split in between. That stories about dual personalities, doppelgangers, the duality of the soul, the hero with a day job and an after dark career, you can pinpoint Hyde as a turning point in how all of these solidified gradually in pop culture. And I've argued otherwise that The Punisher, for all that his image and narrative points otherwise, is ultimately just as much of a superhero as the rest of them, even if no one wants to admit it, drawing a parallel between The Punisher and Mr Hyde. And he's far from the only modern character that can invite this kind of parallel.

The idea of a regular person periodically or permanently transforming into, or revealing itself to be, something extraordinary and fantastic and scary, grappling with the divide it causes in their soul, and questions whether it's a new development or merely the truest parts of themselves coming to light at last, and the effects this transformation has for good and bad alike. The idea of a potent, dangerous, unpredictable enemy who ultimately is you, or at least a facet of you and what you can do. That these are bound to destroy each other if not reconciled with or overcome.

You know what are my thoughts on the archetype of "human periodically changing into a monster" are? Look around you and you're gonna see the myriad ways The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde's themes have manifested in the century and a half since the story's release. Why it shouldn't be any surprise whatsoever that Mr Hyde has become such an integral part of pop culture, in it's heroes and monsters alike. Why we can never escape Mr Hyde, just as Jekyll never could.

It is Nixon himself who represents that dark, venal and incurably violent side of the American character that almost every country in the world has learned to fear and despise. Our Barbie-doll president, with his Barbie-doll wife and his boxful of Barbie-doll children is also America's answer to the monstrous Mr. Hyde.

He speaks for the Werewolf in us; the bully, the predatory shyster who turns into something unspeakable, full of claws and bleeding string-warts on nights when the moon comes too close… - Hunter S. Thompson

There is a scene in the movie Pulp Fiction that explains almost every terrible thing happening in the news today. And it's not the scene where Ving Rhames shoots that guy's dick off. It's the part where the hit man played by John Travolta is talking about how somebody vandalized his car, and says this:

"Boy, I wish I could've caught him doing it. I'd have given anything to catch that asshole doing it. It'd been worth him doing it, just so I could've caught him doing it."

That last sentence is something everyone should understand about mankind. After all, the statement is completely illogical -- revenge is supposed to be about righting a wrong. But he wants to be wronged, specifically so he'll have an excuse to get revenge. We all do.

Why else would we love a good revenge movie? We sit in a theater and watch Liam Neeson's daughter get kidnapped. We're not sad about it, because we know he's a badass and he finally has permission to be awesome. Not a single person in that theater was rooting for it to all be an innocent misunderstanding. We wanted Liam to be wronged, because we wanted to see him kick ass. It's why so many people walk around with vigilante fantasies in their heads.

Long, long ago, the people in charge figured out that the easiest and most reliable way to bind a society together was by controlling and channeling our hate addiction. That's the reason why seeing hurricane wreckage on the news makes us mumble "That's sad" and maybe donate a few bucks to the Red Cross hurricane fund, while 9/11 sends us into a decade-long trillion-dollar rage that leaves the Middle East in flames.

The former was caused by wind; the latter was caused by monsters. The former makes us kind of bummed out; the latter gets us high.

It's easy to blame the news media for pumping us full of stories of mass shootings and kidnapped children, but that's stopping one step short of the answer: The media just gives us what we want. And what we want is to think we're beset on all sides by monsters.

The really popular stories will always feature monsters that are as different from us as possible. Think about Star Wars -- what real shithead has ever referred to himself as being on "the dark side"? In Harry Potter and countless fantasy universes, you have wizards working in "black magic" and the "dark arts." Can you imagine a scientist developing some technology for chemical weapons or invasive advertising openly thinking of what he does as "dark science"? Can you imagine a real world leader naming his headquarters "The Death Star" or "Mount Doom"?

Of course not. But we need to believe that evil people know they're evil, or else that would open the door to the fact that we might be evil without knowing it. I mean, sure, maybe we've bought chocolate that was made using child slaves or driven cars that poisoned the air, but we didn't do it to be evil -- we were simply doing whatever we felt like and ignoring the consequences. Not like Hitler and the bankers who ruined the economy and those people who burned the kittens -- they wake up every day intentionally dreaming up new evils to create. It's not like Hitler actually thought he was saving the world.

So no matter how many times you vote to cut food stamps and then use the money to buy a boat, you could still be way worse. You could, after all, be one of those murdering / lazy / ignorant / greedy / oppressive monsters that you know the world is full of, and that only your awesome moral code prevents you from turning into at any moment. And those monsters are out there.

They have to be. Because otherwise, we're the monsters - 5 Reasons Humanity Desperately Wants Monsters To Be Real, by Jason Pargin

(Two-Face sequence comes from the end of Batman Annual #14: Eye of the Beholder)

For good or bad, Hyde has become omnipresent. He's a part of our superheroes, he's a part of our supervillains, he's in our monsters. He lives and prattles in our ears, sometimes we need him to survive, and sometimes we become Hyde even when we don't need to, because our survival instincts or base cruelties or desperation brings out the worst in us. Sometimes we can beat him, and sometimes he's not that bad. Sometimes we do need to appease him and listen to what he says, about us and the world around us. And sometimes we need to do so specifically to prove him wrong and beat him again.

But he never, ever goes away, as he so accurately declares in the musical

Do you really think That I would ever let you go...

Do you think I'd ever set you free?

If you do, I'm sad to say It simply isn't so

You will never get away FROM MEEEEEE

(Art by Akreon on Artstation)

#tw: injury #tw: blood #tw: disfigurement #replies tag #dr jekyll and mr hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #robert louis stevenson #two-face #batman #monster tag #universal monsters #horror tag

[littlemisspascal]

Ezra’s Journal Entries #1-3

Fandom: Prospect / Pedro Pascal

Pairing: Ezra x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1,269

Summary: You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

Warnings: angsty fluff, Ezra’s dealing with the aftermath of the Green, language, 1st person POV (Ezra), dialogue in italics because that’s just how I chose to do it, no beta so all mistakes are mine

Author Note: I know I said Death and Angel would come out next, but I got such a inspiration high and the words came out so quickly I just told myself screw it and decided to share what I have. If anyone thinks this is a series worth pursuing, let me know. If you don’t, well, just be gentle please 💖

Cross-posted on AO3

Entries #4-6

Look for additional notes at the bottom.

My name is Ezra. 

I have my mama to thank for that. Time has erased her face from my memory, but her voice is ingrained into the tissue of my brain the same way these words are inked on this parchment. She was a bonafide believer that the meaning of a child’s name influenced the course of their destiny. When I was no taller than the height of her waist I learned my own name’s denotation: help.

It’s just a tick too ironic, isn’t it? To be destined to help others when I can’t help my own self. I gave the Green far too little credit. It didn’t just pilfer my arm to satisfy its ravenousness, it greedily stole my sense of purpose too. 

Every night I thank the deities you didn’t accompany me there. If the Green had taken you...

I know how worried you are about me, little love of mine. When I look at you, I find you already looking back, a sweet smile gracing your lips even as concern burns in your eyes as an eternal flame. From day one you’ve always been looking at me, seeing every disgraced flaw and scar—even the invisible ones carved into the darkest edges of my soul. Kevva knows I’ve never been capable of concealing anything from you, but fuck if I don’t wish I could sometimes.

You’re asleep now as I write this, tucked against my side in the vacant space my arm once occupied, drooling on my shirt. I love you so much it hurts. A black hole in my chest perpetually aching to be filled by your presence. And as we venture once more into the starry sea, our ship gliding past the imaginary wings of Noctua, I find myself recalling a theory you once told me many cycles ago about humans being made in the womb with stardust infused in their bones, linking them to the universe. You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

And it’s undoubtedly selfish, but all I could think of in that tender moment beyond kissing you was how I didn’t want an eternity spent together with our cosmic bodies intertwined. 

I want longer.

Soon after we awoke and each consumed a slice of bush bread bought during our recent docking at Kamrea, you fiddled with the channels on the ship’s radio, hoping to hear news from your homeworld but cursing when you only heard static. Then, without an ounce of forewarning, music burst out with an almighty scream through the speakers at full volume, flooding the whole compartment with a woman’s warbling. It was the same crusted Vayok song that merc Inumon blared in my ears during my last night on the Green, every note an individual needle piercing my skull, impossible to ignore.

Reality deserted me, leaving me to sink to the depths of the abyss within my mind where all I could see was Cee’s pale, disturbed expression as she looked to me for guidance. I remembered how my tongue felt clumsy in my mouth as I tried my damnedest to negotiate our transport, thinking if I could just piece together the right sequence of words, if I could just get their lingering eyes off of her, then maybe, maybe we’d have a chance at salvation. 

The memories coalesced, overlapping and blurring and mixing out of order. Each one was drenched in spilt blood.

Then your pinky wrapped around mine. The touch was soft yet firm, the action childlike in its innocence. It was such a jarring contradiction to my mind’s violent narrative, my consciousness was hurtled back into the living quarters of our ship as a result. You didn’t say anything when you saw I returned to you. Instead, you swallowed down the questions lodged in your throat and led me by our entwined fingers back to our bed.

There’s a plant back home called a dandelion, you told me with my head resting in your lap, a far better comfort than any pillow could provide me. It’s the only plant in the galaxy you can see the sun, the moon and the stars when you look at it. That’s not why it’s my favorite though.

I asked how it had won your heart’s favor if not due to its resemblance to the celestial bodies, then immediately found myself mesmerized by the smile that lit up your face as you peered down at me. My chest cavity tightened as I was filled with the profound longing to be able to suspend time, if only so I could stretch this moment to match the length of our separation, if only so I could erase the old and replace it with the beautiful new.

Dandelions grant wishes, babe. Anything you wish for with your whole heart, it will be yours to have.

I told you I wouldn’t wish for anything—nothing else in the galaxy could compare to the prettiest, wisest soul I’d ever encountered in all my years traversing it. You saw right through that lie with the same confident ease you see through all my masks and diversions, but—for the second time in the span of an hour—you held your tongue.

This journal’s as good a place as any to admit the honest truth. So here it is: I wish with the entirety of my bloody, beating heart I could be the man you deserve, little love of mine. 

When you read, whether it be a book or the flight manual, you have the precious habit of mouthing the words. I don’t think you have the faintest notion you’re even doing it, which makes it all the more endearing to watch.

My brother had a similar habit, always nose deep in the yellowing pages of classic literature, except he had a proclivity to spoil the plot when he talked in his sleep. I remember there was one particular novel he returned to often, sometimes reading from beginning to end, other times seeking out specific segments he’d underlined in bold, black pen. It was a rather dreary tale about war and rivalry and the process of determining one’s own identity. I became so exasperated with my brother’s obsession I considered shredding it on more than one occasion, only to immediately hate myself for entertaining the thought.

It was only after his death—twelve whole cycles, in fact—that I summoned up the will to open the front cover. Seeing his name scribbled in the corner, cursive and neat and so utterly him, nearly had me tearing the book in half, overcome with a vicious rage I had never known prior nor have I encountered since. But by the almighty grace of Kevva I reigned it in, chaining it to the agony and fear imprisoned within the confines of my rib cage, and turned the page.

There was one segment underlined not once, but three times, nearly bleeding ink onto the page behind it. When I close my eyes, the words are tattooed on the backs of my eyelids, as haunting as they are comforting.

So the more things remained the same, the more they changed after all. Nothing endures. Not love, not a tree, not even a death by violence.

The author lived and died centuries before my brother’s inception, that is an inarguable fact. 

But I know those words were written for him all the same. 

Notes: 

There is an actual theory humans are made of stardust ✨

The Sater within Prospect mention the Currents as being responsible for bringing Ezra and Cee to them, so I imagine them as similar to the Fates/Moirai in Greek mythology.

Noctua is a real life, extinct constellation that is Latin for owl. I thought within this Prospect universe it could exist as a type of landmark or coordinate. Plus I love owls 🦉

Crusted is a term from Prospect Ezra uses. Equivalent of damn. I think there’s something funny about how they use creamy as a positive adjective and crusted as negative.

Vayok is the alien language Inumon speaks within the movie, so I decided to write the song she blares as being sung in the same language

Bush bread is referenced in a deleted scene by Ezra, but a google search revealed to me it’s also a real life type of bread too

In the same deleted scene Ezra references that he has a brother. I haven’t decided his name yet/if he will have one

The book and quote Ezra refers to in #3 is John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. One of the few required reading books I liked back in high school.

The quote about dandelions being the sun, moon and stars is based on the legend of how dandelions came into existence. I always thought it was beautiful.

Series Taglist: @insomniamamma

Permanent Taglist: @promiscuoussatan, @melobee, @randomness501, @absurdthirst, @captain-jebi, @artsymaddie, @happiestsparkleofall, @disgruntledspacedad, @gallowsjoker, @aerynwrites, @vintagesaph, @sylphene, @chibi-yuki, @freeshavocadoooo, @stilllivindue2spite, @pointy-sharp, @leilei-draws, @over300books, @theocatkov, @oh-no-a-whovian, @you-and-i-deserve-the-world, @lin-djarin, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @coaaster, @waywardmando, @thisshipwillsail316, @grogusmum, @asta-lily, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @tacticalsparkles​

#ezra #ezra prospect #Prospect #ezra x reader #ezra x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ezra's journal #prospect fanfiction #ezra fanfic #my fic #my writing #pedrostories

[wntrsnat]

࿐Another Autumn Night

✧ Pairing: BuckyNat/Winterwidow

✧ Warnings: Depressive thoughts, low self-esteem and lots of self-blame, basically Spoiler-free.

✧ Word count: 1.5k words

✧ A/n: following one-shot takes place somewhere around Ed Brubaker’s Captain America comics, where Bucky took the that mantle. It was originally published a few months ago by me on Marvel Amino, so this is basically a late repost!

The night sky was full of stars but no moon. Skyscrapers shone bright, spilling the color upon dark night. The city came alive when noises had filled the streets. The lights and sounds of the big city have always delighted Bucky. Although the lifetime passed since his youth, he still heard the gunshots; bombs dropping everywhere; the desperate, angry screams; the lifeless bodies falling down, staining the earth with the blood – sounds of the war. The lively, loud streets reminded him that people were living their normal life without the war, without deaths and tortures.

Well, at least most of them lived it that way, normal way. For others, the war had never stopped. Instead, it mutated. There was no black and white anymore. The spectrum was all grey. And people? People just played along with it all. They were puppets who’s master always changed. Bucky knew it better than anyone.

It felt like he had been a puppet his whole life. Yet, he still blamed himself for everything. After all, blood was on his hands. He was the one victims remembered and hated. He destroyed their lives. They were deep down in the ground, dead. Their families grieved and cried, burying the dreams of happy life while he stood here as national hero, symbol of the country. He didn’t deserve to be here, walking down the street with his girlfriend, cherished by people.

“You need to stop thinking so much” Natasha remarked, wrapping her slender fingers around his waist. She hated when James brooded over his thoughts. It was easy to guess what they were. It felt like it was only thing on his mind ever since he took up the mantle of Captain America.

She was concerned about him. She couldn’t recall last time James properly slept. She always found him awake in the middle of the night, absent from their bed. Winter Soldier, murders, survival and Captain America- They always had same conversation each night. Tonight was no different. Except that Natalia convinced him to go for the walk. New York was quite a sight at night, especially during autumn. She hoped that it’d help him to get out of his head for a while.

Bucky sighed out, turning his head to her. He said nothing. Instead, his gaze lingered on Natalia, noticing the worry in her emerald eyes. At moments like this, he couldn’t help but wonder what did he do be loved by a woman like her. He had her right next to himself, walking down a park painted with orange, red and yellow leaves. Her fiery red hair sprawled on her shoulders, cold breeze brushed past her brown coat as street’s warm lights fell on her face, cooling down her dark red lipstick – she matched the autumn, looking better than mother nature herself. And Bucky, a complete idiot, phased out in his thoughts instead of enjoying their moment.

He didn’t deserve her either but here she was, unconditionally loving him. He didn’t understand what she saw in him. Natalia deserved the best and he certainly wasn’t it. Nevertheless, he was grateful for her. She made it all little easier for him. She was the reason James lived and fought. If not her, he would have put bullet through his brain to quiet the ghosts.

“It’s just” Bucky mumbled under his breath. He moved away his gaze, unable to look into her eyes. He didn’t want her to be worried about him. Natalia already had enough on her plate, he didn’t want to add on. Still, he knew that it was impossible to avoid “There’s too much rattling around in my head, lately” he said and rubbed nape of his neck.

“I know” Natasha faintly nodded, pressing her lips together. She knew it wasn’t just lately. At one point or another, there was always rattling around in his head. She could relate to that feeling. She wouldn’t even be worried if it wasn’t James who would beat up himself for his past, put himself in danger and damage his health all because he thought he deserved it. “That’s why you should stop thinking, милый мой (my dear)” she said, referring to what she had told him earlier.

“Well, you do have a point there” Bucky quietly commented. He for sure couldn’t say she was wrong; thinking so much, in such state of the mind, wouldn’t bring any good to him. Yet, how could any of his thoughts do him good. They just kept dragging him back to old, torn pages which he couldn’t fix. Bucky’s eyes moved back to Natalia, trying to hold on the moment. He caught himself almost zoning back out. Stop thinking, stop thinking – he told himself, breathing in cold air.

“Don’t I always?” She said with a small smile. She saw how James looked at her; she knew that he tried hard for her. She knew he tried hard to put away all negativity when he was with her. But that’s not what she wanted. She wanted him to try hard for himself. She wanted him to ignore negative thoughts for *himself*.

“Hmm… do you?” James hummed out, a faint chuckle left his lips. God, he loved that smile of hers – confident and self-assured in the best way possible. There was nothing arrogant about it, about her. Natalia knew herself, her skills and abilities; he adored it about her. He thought that it was what made her as strong as she was. That was quite important trait for agent or assassin; Exaggerating or underestimating your competence could lead to fatal outcome. And that is not what anyone wanted “you *can’t* be always right” He jokingly said, truth present in his words.

“I have never said I am always right” Natasha defended herself, throwing hands in the air as the sign of innocence. Indeed, no one could always be right, even Captain America himself. No matter who you were, you’d anyway manage to make a mistake “I meant that I always have a *point*. There’s big difference” she said and raised eyebrows, giving him a small look. More than often there was a bit of truth in everything; more or less, at least. Even villains themselves had some truth in their motivation, but it still didn’t make them right. That was difference between being right and having a point; you had truth in your words yet you were wrong in many ways as well.

“What’s the difference exactly?” Bucky asked and got closer. His flesh arm had been wrapped around Natalia. He hid the other one in the pocket of his jacket; the streets were filled with lights; he didn’t want metal to reflect them. It would cause unnecessary attention. Tonight, all he wanted was to relax with his girlfriend. Everything was rather beautiful and he didn’t want to miss out on that anymore. He didn’t know if it was only him or the autumn really did make everything so mesmerizing; except for Natalia, she always looked stunning.

Autumn reminded him of her in the way. It was odd enough to compare season and person but they really did match quite well. He thought they had similar temperament; one minute it could have been like this – calm and soothing, just a faint, cold breeze brushing past them and another minute, you could find yourself in home-wrecking storm or incredible rainfall; you never knew what you’d wake up to. You only knew one thing for sure, no matter what it’d be, it would still be amazing.

“I mean I can explain it on lots examples” Natasha exclaimed and got on her tip toes. She let silence fall between them as she thought what to say. She had lots of examples on her mind, for instance his thoughts: James thought it was his fault that people died – it was impossible to deny that there was bit of truth in that, he had a *point* but at the same time, he was very wrong. Or second example of this phenomenon was Tony Stark, the man was walking definition of ‘having a point’ himself. “But I’m too tired for that” She whispered against his lips, softly locking them together. Natasha decided to stay quiet. She didn’t want to remind him about either of those things. She didn’t want him to start thinking about it all and again lose himself in the thoughts. She’d rather appear defeated in James’ eyes than make him upset him.

“I bet you are” he ironically replied right before they kissed. A flush crept up his face, cheeks redder than leaves that hung on the trees. Bucky had been with lots of girls but none of them were quite like Natalia. She was only one who he could open up to. She was only one who would understand. There was something about her that touch his soul, his humanity. Neither of them made him feel the way she did.

They stood like this for quite a time, kissing under the weak, lamp lights - the only thing that lit up an empty park, showing them path to unknown. It felt like time had stopped around them. Nothing seemed to matter anymore; not even his worries, the cold breeze or the beautiful surroundings that autumn itself had painted. He didn’t deserve this happiness, not after everything he had done but damn, he was thankful to have her with him.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x natasha romanoff #bucky barnes x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #buckynat #buckynat fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel comics fanfic #omg #omg page #winterwidow #comics winterwidow

[nctzendreamz]

off the table — lee taeyong

genre: angst w/ hints of fluff.

warnings: language, mentions of drug abuse, and mental illness.

featuring: nct members + chan and felix from stray kids.

authors note: taeyong was perfect for this in my head. also, thank you ariana grande.

is love completely off the table?

will I ever love the same way again? will I ever love somebody like the way I did you?

it had been almost a year. almost a year since he had heard your laugh. you know, the one only he was capable of getting out of you. it was gentle, yet so vibrant that it could color even the most plain and unpleasant rooms. he had seen you do it a million times, but his favorite work of art of yours was the one you did on his heart.

obviously, he couldn’t see what the inside of him looked like. but he could feel it. before he met you, he was certain everything was pitch black. to be specific, the darkest shade of the night sky one could possible fathom. so much pain resided in him. some he brought to himself, some he did nothing to earn. regardless, it was there, and as anybody with demons did, he found coping methods.

that’s how he met you, actually. holed up a strip club he had no business being in. one, because there was no one here he truly wanted. he would never admit it outloud, but the thought of love warmed him. not much, but it did. more than silly one night stands that have soul ties no one wanted to keep.

you were clearly out of place in the building filled with the scent of marijuana and flashing lights, although it did perfectly consume your complexion in the most beautiful way. he observed you for what felt like hours, just admiring you. he had no idea he would want to do this for the rest of his life.

it didn’t take much liquid courage for him to approach you. he could sense your fear when his slender fingers touched your exposed shoulder. for some reason though, the minute your eyes locked it was as if you were looking at someone you had known for a million lifetimes. or maybe that was just Taeyong’s point of view. maybe, everything was all an illusion. meeting you. falling in love with you. you falling in love with him.

“it’s been awhile.” a voice snaps Taeyong out of his deep thinking. the minute his concentration breaks does his surroundings suddenly blast into the center of his cortex. the volume increases. he is in the real world again. he isn’t high, yet.

“yeah.” is all he can spit out. all of the different coversations he could hear take place all of a sudden was making him extremely frustrated and unable to form coherent thoughts. or maybe he wanted it that way so he wouldn’t have to think about you.

you loved coming here. he hated coming here. but he loved you, and your favorite thing to say to him was, “when you love someone, you do things you hate. just like me sitting and watching you smoke for hours without stopping.”

he never realized how much you hated his distractions.

the here, was a restaurant that resembled a sports bar back where you are from. the food was less Korean and more greasy chicken tenders. and you really admired their honey mustard. it was kind of ridiculous how much you loved this place. it was always crowded. the smell was odd - a mixture of people who can’t seem to do anything but drink beer and yell, and foreigners who hated living in Korea. this was the only taste of home they got, so they took advantage of it.

did you feel that way too?

he doesn’t know. and he doesn’t want to think about it. some soccer game was on. people were cheering. he was just waiting on his to-go order.

“how have you been?” the familiar woman asks behind the counter. she was definitely in her mid-50’s. he assumed. she always would be here when Taeyong was dragged along, and she was always nice. who wouldn’t be with all the money you gave to this place.

“i’ve been fine.”

taeyong feels a little cheery conversating with another human. if it wasn’t his dealer, there wasn’t anything to say if he was being quite honest. his relationship with his family died out a long time ago. the only person that he could talk to was himself. the guys who were constantly down in the basement at his dealer were cool, but they never really got him. they thought he was weird, violent. only you cared enough to see how sweet he was. to paint him.

“good to hear. you tell your lover that i miss them!”

his heart, still colored from the mention of you, breaks. it had broken many times from your presence on this earth being acknowledged. everytime his chest would explode into his stomach.

he couldn’t say anything.

he simply walks out the place, not caring about manners. he just wants to go home. he doesn’t even like these fucking chicken tenders, but he’s going to go home and eat them. in your honor.

“excuse me.” a voice exclaims as he finally makes it outside.

once again, words don’t leave his mouth. the woman was probably lost. he truthfully didn’t care. he didn’t care about anything anymore.

“sorry,” she begins. her hair is almost a white color. it’s clearly dyed, but she might have been naturally a darker shade of blonde since the coloring seemed too perfect. “i just...i’ve been watching you - wait, that sounds incredible creepy—“

no one could compare to you, but she reminded him of you. you always did this when you were nervous, or had a severe lack of sleep. you would say things you considered to be silly. fumble with your words. and you would always ruin it more by acknowledging it.

but he was never irritated. he thought it was the cutest thing in the entire world. you were the cutest thing in the entire world.

even now, he’s okay. maybe because he was reminded of you, he can appreciate the art.

“you’re really cute.” she finally spits out.

he couldn’t respond, for the third time today.

why was this so hard? it has almost been a fucking year. a year without you. a year without touching you.

yet, no one could ever compare. not the blonde woman standing in front of him. not the sky. not the stupid bar. even his drugs seemed lackluster to the high you gave him whenever you told him you loved him.

he walks away. he needs something. something to make him unable to think for the rest of the night.

never thought you’d be so damn hard to replace. i swear I don’t mean to be this way, if I can’t have you? is love completely off the table?

“y/n? you there?” you feel vibrations from snapping on your face from the man sitting beside you. he snapped three times, to be exact.

“yeah! yes.” you quickly correct, adjusting your posture along with it.

“i know you appreciate the arts, but that painting is nothing to stare at.”

the painting chan was referring to, seemed plain to a simple eye. it simply, was a black square. but you saw worlds in it. you saw him.

“you know christopher,” you cooed, giving his slim cheek a quick sqeeze before continuing, “just because something seems boring to the naked eye, doesn’t mean it actually is. sometimes, a simple work of art such as that lame black square can hold a thousand meanings.”

he smile is radiant. honestly, the neon colored walls in the movie theater couldn’t compare to it no matter how hard it tried. lately, you had been trying to predict what he would say when you tried to be somewhat of substance around him. you were truthfully scared of boring him.

maybe you saw yourself in the black square as well.

“you really find it interesting, love?”

his accent - God his accent. it had an effect on you that truthfully wasn’t healthy, but even so you always felt guilty when your heart would papilate as it touched your eardrums. but why? you were single. you were moving on.

you can’t even look at him anymore, so you settle on the painting once more. now that you think about it, it was kind of scary that it was in a movie theater. maybe chan was on to something - what was its purpose? to simply cause you pain? to make you think about things and people you could no longer have? a person who is the worst possible thing for your growth, but the best food for your pitiful, lonely soul?

“never mind, you’re right.” you stand promptly, suddenly wanting to get as far away from the evil on the wall. it didn’t matter how chilly it was outside.

“woah.” chan chases after you. you’re too quick though. you’ve practically swam through the crowd to escape into fresh air. what is wrong with you?

it doesn’t take long for you to find yourself at his car. his pride and joy by the way, in which he never let anyone else ride in yet. he had been saving for so long to get it. you didn’t know the model, all you knew was that it made loud noises when he wanted it to. the car was originally white, but the two of you agreed that it was the worse possible color for a car, so he got a paint job and now it was as black as a dark hole.

the stars are beaming, and it’s odd. you used to love nights like this. you preferred the day time, but it was something about a light in the dark, such as the moon that pulled you in. it always destroyed you in the end though.

“what did I do?” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“huh?” you wizzle in confusion, not understanding why he believed he had done anything but gave you a peaceful night not lost in your thoughts.

his eyes tell you everything you need to know before his mouth does. he isn’t questioning your ever changing emotions and happiness to hear satisfaction from your mouth - to boost his ego. he truly feels as if he’s ruined any chance he’s had with you simply from being himself. even so, as he waits for you to answer he’s taking his bomber jacket off for you to wear. he was sweet like that.

“chris, you are always perfect. why would you think anything different?” you say as you put the jacket on.

he’s holding back a smile, but you can tell it’s more so from your proper word choice, and not what you said.

“you trying to sound English?”

“no.” you giggle, pushing his shoulder lightly. “I’m just trying to communicate with you.”

“then tell the truth.” he prompts, taking a step closer to you.

“can I lean on the car?”

“yes.” he laughs in a low tone. “you can lean on the car.”

“okay.”

“okay.”

silence is filling the air, and it’s making you sick even though it shouldn’t be.

“y/n.” he finally speaks. you decide you have the balls to look at him even though it feels so wrong. the stars - they’re sparkling right into his eyes and you know you are the dumbest idiot on earth.

why can’t you just choose him?

the question is repeating over and over in your head, but no answer comes. well, no answer you want to hear comes. this should’ve been easy money. the perfect guy, with a good family and solid morals is madly in love with you. he’s still here, even when you barely give him anything to work with, and you’re thinking about others who were nothing close to that no matter how they made you feel.

“my confession ruined everything, didn’t it?”

it was about two months ago that chan confessed his love for you. you laughed a bit, as it made no sense. the two of you had been in the same circle for awhile, and you had been notified of his appreciation for you long ago, but he had seen you break. he watched you go from happy soul to broken and he still liked you? in what world?

you enjoyed his company. that’s why you began to hang out with him practically everyday - doing whatever you two wanted. most of the time you two just watched movies, or played silly board games. but sometimes you would go shopping, or he would play you his music he worked on. you could tell he lacked confidence on what he could become, but you knew he had the potential to be so great.

his confession was short and sweet. and the way he approached you, you could tell he was somewhat confident that you would feel the same. you did feel the same, but you also still had feelings for others. when you declined his request to take things to the next level, he didn’t get upset. or at the least he didn’t show it.

he promised the two of you would move at your pace. and that was all you needed to hear to know that maybe one day, when you got yourself together, the two of you could be something.

chan always protected you. you never felt endangered, or unsafe when you were with him. to you, he was sweet, to others he was still sweet, but he knew when to be stern.

“no. i promise.” is all you answer. “it’s cold.” here you go again trying to change the subject. this wasn’t like you.

he promptly unlocks the door to his car, opening it for you as well. it isn’t long before he’s on the drivers side turning on the car so you could feel some heat on your body.

“i won’t bring it up anymore.” he sighs.

“no chris. you bring it up everytime you feel it. i like you, okay? i do. i know I’ve never said it out loud before, but I do. i just...i don’t know what I’m doing right now. there are some things I have to get over you know?”

you can tell the amount of words you used - probably the most you had spoken to him in months shocked him, and made him feel extremely guilty. you know he didn’t want you to feel like he was trying to pressure you. all he wanted to have was something. something that made him feel as special as he knew you had made others feel in the past.

“y/n I’m a fucking idiot. God, don’t listen to me. you are perfect okay? we are working at your pace and we always will. i - fuck.” his face goes directly in his hands.

it’s cute - the way he cares about his every move around you so deeply. you remember what it felt like to feel like that. it was the most nerve wracking, yet butterfly giving thing to experience when around someone you admired so much.

“chris...” you whisper, removing his face from his palms. he had the softest hands ever. “hey, don’t beat yourself up okay? i know what you want and I know you have nothing but the purest intentions. if I didn’t feel that way I wouldn’t want to spend everyday with you okay? whatever you think this is, it is. i promise.”

“okay.” he sighs the biggest breath of relief you had heard in a long time. “okay. i know what we need.” he offers. your hand lingered on his, and he decided it would be best to hold yours as the opportunity presented itself. it’s nice - the warmness. yet, it feels incredibly wrong.

you truly didn’t mean to be this way. you would do anything to not be this way.

“let’s go cop something from felix. hm?”

what chan was reffering to was the good ole’ mean green, weed. you smoked a lot more in the past than you did now, but you were still no angel. especially tonight did getting high sound like the best decision you could have made.

“yes please.” you say without hesitation, leaning back in the seat. your left hand is still in chan’s right, and you don’t plan on letting go. felix’s house isn’t that far from here, so you know your pleasure will be coming sooner or later. chan starts the car and begins the journey. usually, the two of you drive with music on, but tonight the silence was what the both of you wanted.

secretly though, chan snuck his AirPod into his left ear. he loved music, but he could tell you weren’t in the mood. and he didn’t mind that. he would do anything for you. the lyrics resonated with his with his soul so much that he felt it ache, even though he felt he had no right.

i’ll wait for you

even if I always feel like I’ll be number two

to someone you can’t hold anymore

taeyong can’t even recall how long he had been pent up here, high as hell. intoxicated as fuck. the chicken tender meal he brought had been long gone, but not from his mouth. the junkies smelt food, and took food like the animals they claimed to be.

this all sucked so bad. he hated being here. but he couldn’t move.

it was so loud in here. the boys he knew - johnny, mark, and jaehyun were all present. they seemed to be the leaders of the basement and they also seemed to be functioning quite well considering how high they also were. taeyong couldn’t fathom or make out what their conversation were, but he assumed it was about girls. he caught, “they’re supposed to be here any minute now.” from jaehyun’s lip. he seemed to be the strongest ladies man. all taeyong knew, was that he wanted no parts of the drug induced orgy he knew was going to take place. he also knew if he didn’t leave, they didn’t care. they were going to give a show regardless.

“taeyong!” johnny yells, bringing him back to focus. johnny was always very intimidating. he wore a smile when he got what he wanted, but if he spoke to you and you didn’t listen, he quickly got upset. maybe he was different when he was sober, but that was never.

“what’s up.” taeyong answers dryly, still not looking at him.

“you know,” johnny sits down in the dirty floor right beside him. “you’ve never been fun, but you were more fun before than you are now.”

“i went through this phase.” mark interrupts, taking the seat on taeyong’s opposite side. “what is it? mommy issues? a girl? or a boy? if you get spicy like that.” he chuckles. he coughs right after.

“how about everything. except the last part.” taeyong whispers.

“oh...you have it rough. was your mom a druggie too?”

“no - well, I don’t know. i met her like once when I was younger. she told me ‘i did it for your good’ and left.”

“so you were in a foster home? or did you get adopted?”

“foster home. neglected, so now I’m like this.” he chuckles. he’s laughing, but in reality to admit these things out loud hurt, even though he was sure the other boys had similar or worse stories.

“and the girl?” mark asks. he had began to roll up another blunt in the midst of taeyong’s life story. maybe it was too much for him. or maybe he was just an addict.

“i cheated. and i was mean. she was the best thing ever though. she got me clean.”

“for what? a day?” johnny laughs outloud.

“well, not clean clean.” he explains. “but off the hard stuck like coke, and lsd and shit. we both smoked weed. and I smoked cigs.”

“ew!” the two of them exclaim. “cigs?”

“so you’re telling me that the two of you do every drug under the sun, but cigarettes are where you draw the line?”

“duh!”

“have you seen all the commercials? with the person with the hole in their throat sounding like the old shriveled lady from spongebob going ‘chocolate!’ we don’t want that!”

“cigarettes aren’t the only thing that can cause that, you know?”

“whatever.” johnny shivers as if he had just gotten the worse news ever. “so this girl wasn’t a druggie? why did she even like you?”

“i don’t know. still to this day I don’t know. but she did. and she tried everything to make me happy. it just felt too good to be true, so I ruined it.”

“damn bro.” mark sighs, taking a deep puff of his blunt. “i thought people only did stupid shit like that in the movies or tv shows.”

“hey hey now, markie.” a voice speaks out of the corner. “be nice to our new friend.”

it’s jaehyun. funny enough, jaehyun tried to get at you once long before you met taeyong, but you had no interest in him once you found out his issues. then again, while he was attracted to you, he didn’t want you to love him. he just wanted to corrupt you.

“our boy is broken hearted. seems to me like he just needs some fun.”

“relax, jae.” johnny explains. “he’s not there yet. let him fall for us on his time.”

“what are you on right now?” jaehyun inspects.

“just a couple of blunts.”

“so just a starter?”

“hyung...” mark sighs.

“okay okay. fine. but when the heartbreak starts to kick in more, i got something that’ll change your life. you just let me know.”

“he will.” johnny and mark say once again in unison.

“boys!” a voice yells. it makes everyone stand up minus taeyong, as he had no idea who it was. he can hear feet coming down the steps. there’s a boy with blonde hair. the same boy who let him in. he was a new face, but clearly an important one from the way even jaehyun was waiting for his comment.

“hi felix!” everyone begins to repeat after eachother.

his voice is deep as he speaks, and his accent is thick. his face itself may have not been scary, but the way he carried himself was.

“clean up this fucking mess. i know you can’t do anything about the shitty couches, but make an attempt. i got some good people coming over and I need quiet. when I bring them down here to show them the product, i need everyone on their best behavior.”

“what exactly does that mean?” taeyong speaks. maybe he shouldn’t have, because everyone is looking at him as if he just called the president a bitch to his face or something.

“you’re new here.” felix explains as he finishes his strut down the stairs. he can be seen more clearly now, and his outfit reminds taeyong of someone you knew. he couldn’t remember his name, but it was chan or something. “well, new to me.”

“and?”

“and...” felix crouches to his level. “im the boss. and all of you do what I say. my brother ran this like a crackhouse. i want us to make some real money, therefore you all will be getting cleaned up. there will be people coming in and out, looking at what we have, so try not to act like the druggie you are. thanks.”

“yes sir.” taeyong says, although he has no intentions of respecting this felix cat.

the doorbell rings promptly. the house wasn’t so big that they wouldn’t be able to hear. clearly this felix had plans to change that, but for now he had to settle.

“that’ll be them. look like friends so they won’t be scared. they’re not like us. or, what you will be.”

with that he leaves. everyone is silent as they want to know who exactly is this person. they all expected some rich man with a million connections to be at the door. they hear one voice - an accent is present. he’s laughing, and they hear the sound of them dapping up.

“friend.” the voice says. they must have not seen each other in a long while. “what’s up? how have you been?”

“oh, I’ve never been better.” felix says. “and y/n.”

the sound of your name makes taeyong’s heart stop in his chest. what the? how could you of all people be here? you hated drugs. this was clearly a trap house. this is where taeyong would go to get everything you wanted, but you always refused to go with him. what male had you here?

jaehyun is smiling as he recognizes your name too. taeyong can’t notice though as he is genuinely about to have a panic attack.

“come downstairs will you? since chan told me it was a special occasion, I decided I’d let you two take a look.”

“felix...are you running a trap house?” you joke, not realizing how true your words were.

“not at all, sweets.” he relaxes you. “i just have good shit from my brother that needs to be sold. this is our little secret though.”

“we know.” chan answers for you. “snitches get stitches.”

“and end up in ditches.” felix finishes. “there are people down here, but they’re just chilling. don’t be scared.”

the three of you make your way down to the basement. jaehyun is the first face you recognize. you feel sick, but he didn’t phase you that much.

the black haired boy though, sandwiched between two other guys, makes your trip and fall on the disgusting floor.

it’s him. it’s really him.

why? all you wanted to do was have fun. all you wanted to do was forget him.

you can see in his eyes does he want to explode. but this was his fault. this was all his fault.

to be continued...

#nct #nct 127 #nct imagine #taeyong nct #NCT angst #nct reactions #taeyong series #taeyong angst #taeyong imagine #nct imagines #NCT series #stray kids #stray kids felix #chan stray kids

[tar-oh]

Pick A Pile: What’s Coming At you in love

So, a few weeks ago I started a pile that ended up feeling really heavy and just not what you needed to hear. Like, I think a lot of us were going through some stuff (and maybe still are) and at that moment, it wasn’t a love message you guys needed. So, today I did a new one and this one felt so much better and happier? Also, you can tell I’m procrastinating schoolwork. lol So anyway, this is about what’s coming towards you in love. Most of the piles seem to focus on things that are already kind of going on, but some seemed to be about new things. So, I really do have to ask that you please only take what resonates and not try to make anything that doesn’t fit, fit. My biggest fear is that I’m going to give someone some false hope, so if it really does not sound like you or your situation, then don’t take it. But, also, know that it’s a general reading so it may not fit you and it also may be just super vague. That being said, you can choose more than one because maybe there’s one with more of the message for you or there’s more than one person coming towards you? Anyway, just choose the one you feel most called to.

Today, I’m feeling a Musketeers vibe so I’m using a picture of the guys from BBC’s Musketeers for you guys to choose: 1: Aramis, 2: Athos, 3: D’Artagnan, 4: Porthos :

Pile 1: Aramis

Cards: The Empress, 7 of Wands reversed, King of Swords, The Hierophant reversed, 8 of wands reversed, Death  I kind of get the sense that this pile is one that's been alone for a bit. I mean, maybe not a really long time, but like some of you were. With the empress I see that you're taking care of yourself, and even though it's 7 of wands and reversed, I get kind of a 9 of pentacles feel from this particular card. In this one she's just smelling the flowers, but content. But with it reserved, I see like this idea of feeling alone? Like, okay the first song that played when I started this pile was Moonlight Lines by Movements, and it's about two people who just kind of want someone to fill their bed with them. Like, this sense of wanting another body with them. Basically, a one night stand, but also someone to sleep next to for a night, right? I'm not necessarily getting a one-night-stand vibe as what's coming towards you (really, not at all), more just that feeling of wanting someone to be with you at night. A body beside yours. And, like this empress energy is you taking care of yourself but also you wanting to care for someone else. And, 7 of wands being reversed can be an exhausted energy. Like a, when am I going to find someone? But, also, I draw that 9 of pentacles feeling from it too because it's not like you're not doing okay. Like, I think you've been fine alone, but now you're just bored. The next song that played was Love Took The Last Of It by Movements, and I kind of think maybe you've been burned and maybe it took you a while to feel better and want to open up again. Or, maybe you just kind of have a habit of getting into situations that aren't for you and they fall through, so like, you're tired of this. I get the Death card with that, like you want to end this cycle. And I see death as being that, an end to a cycle. I always talk about how much I love that card, it's the card of change. Like, yes it means endings, but beginnings too? So, like, you're just ready to move out of this energy of being alone. The hierophant being reversed to me means that whoever it is coming towards you is not really your usual type. Upright, the Heirophant is all about convention and playing by the rules, and reversed it'd be the opposite, though I'm not reading it that way with this reading. Especially not with the King of Swords showing up. No, instead I'm just reading the Hierophant reversed as maybe this is someone who maybe at first when you meet, you're kind of like, "Oh, I don't know. They're not really following the standards I look out for." I don't mean someone not good for you. I mean, like as in maybe you have a list in your mind and this person doesn't really have all of those things on that list. Maybe they check a few, but there's a few things where you're kind of thinking that maybe it won't work. But, with the King of Swords, I see that they're really honest, maybe to a fault. And, the king on this particular card is old, but I don't really think it's that way for everyone, though I feel like for many of you there is an age gap but I don't think it's one like in this card where the girl towards the bottom of the card looks younger and he looks like he could be her grandpa or something. But, I think that him being older here also might point out that one of you is really wise. Like, old-soul wise. So maybe this is someone you look up to? A mentor of some sort, or just someone you look to for advice. I'm not sure. This could be reversed, and maybe your older than them/they look up to you, and maybe it's even that you're not their usual type? With the 8 of wands being reversed, I see that maybe this is just going to take a bit longer than you'd want. Like, maybe you two need more time to get to know each other. Or, even meet I guess since this is more along the lines of what's coming towards you. Anyway, I see it as coming slowly. Maybe it's delayed a little (which, I mean, at least here in the USA, things are still pretty crappy with Covid and doesn’t look to be getting better) So, this might just be a while out. But, again, with the death card, I see it being an end of a cycle. So maybe before you both can meet or end up together/around each other, you need to close out some things. Like, the Death card REALLY sticks out to me today. And it's funny because, it's the Scorpio card, and so that's like around Halloween, right? The Lovely Omen's deck Death card is so pretty. She wears this black and white striped suit, and like, it reminds me SO much of Beetlejuice lol so I'm getting halloween vibes here, so maybe that's significant to you both, like maybe a birthday in Scorpio season, or the surrounding sign seasons through out like Oct-Nov? Or, maybe that movie's plot has something significant to you both? (seeing this also with King of Swords too, like air signs, so Libra season so, again, october?) Or, maybe it's as simple as it being black and white and like again going back to the Heirophant being reversed and this idea that this is someone who may not fit what you're originally looking for or vice-versa, maybe it's like stop looking at everything so black and white. Look at the greys in between, right? I also want to point out that she's also wearing a moon necklace on the card, and this deck has a lot of references to the moon and stars in the other cards, but this necklace always stands out to me because it's reminds me of how with change comes uncertainty. So maybe it's going to feel really uncertain, especially with the idea of looking at the grays in between? Like, its kind of scary, but like, nothing in life is ever really all that certain? So, like, this unknown is staring straight at you, and I think these cards are kind of saying, "You obviously know how to take care of yourself, so you're going to be okay. Just try something new" Like, oof. I don't know where that last sentence came from, but yeah! Exactly how I'm feeling about this! Or. This person does have gray hair. Lol i mean I’m fairly young for gray hair and I get them when I’m super stressed. Like, look at Logan Lerman, he looks GORGEOUS with gray hair (and Im his age so!!! High Five to us for premature gray hairs!) (Okay, I had written earlier that this didn't seem like new energy but I deleted it because I was like idk, but the song Seneca by Movements came on -which i have it on shuffle but for some reason it's only playing this album?- and it's about someone thinking about how they still love an ex who's now engaged and like how bittersweet it is how they enjoy how happy they look but they miss them and like! Idk! for some this is definitely an ex, but for others it just someone you know already probably!!!) So, maybe even if it's not someone new, it's a new situation? Like, maybe this relationship with this person, even if you've never been in an actual one with them, it's like new to you both. New territory. And, the song In my Blood by Movements came on because again, it's not really shuffling the playlist, lol, but this feels like maybe this is someone you just have a connection to. Like, even if you two haven't known each other that long, you just feel that bond. And like going back to that scorpio energy, its intense I think. In that King of Swords card, that lady looks like she's kind of worshiping this king, and I think it's going to feel that way for both of you. Hopefully not like an obsessive thing, but more like a, you both really have the hots for each other and at any given point, you're both playing that lady on that card, hanging onto the other like that. And he looks really serious, so maybe someone here is really serious and more of an all-work-and-no-play kind of person, but like I don't read that as an absolute bummer. I read it more as someone who's like, just really good at getting shit done, even the hard stuff. Also, he's got a great body lmao so I think you're going to end up being super attracted to this person, even if it's not a jaw-dropping eyes meet the first time story, ya know? Like I said earlier, it's kind of a slow burn I think. I don't have any cups here, which I guess might pose a problem, because at first it seems like a lack of emotions? But I have swords and wands so I see a lot of action. But I also feel like you connect on an intellectual level, like I get that with the Hierophant (even if it's reversed) and King of Swords. I also feel like you'll have like an earthy kind of connection. Like, even though I feel there's a lot of passion, I also see that you two can just chill. Bottom of the deck energy for the Lovely Omens Deck was High Priestess. So, I definitely read this as you kind of maybe having a feeling that this is coming towards you. Also, with the hierophant, even with it being reversed, in this deck she's wearing moon earrings, but they're crescent moons. So, it's like the moon is whole with the two halves, and I definitely see that as another hint at knowing? Like, going back to the 7 of wands reversed and how I felt more of the 9 of pentacles with it instead, like you being alone for a while, but like maybe you kind of know something's going to happen. I think the death card also maybe says this to you, because you're aware that something's changing. Like, maybe you don't know exactly what, but it's changing and you feel this shift in the energy. The other deck has 7 of Swords here, and I really hate seeing this in a love reading, but I also kind of get that maybe it's just for those of you who do know each other, maybe at this exact moment you're not being truthful about feelings? Things that might be relevant: Taurus, Libra, Scorpio, October and November. Halloween. 13 or 31. 3, 7, Beetlejuice, I don't know! That black and white suit is so prominent to me today on that card! It always stands out but I never really thought about beetlejuice before, so lemme know if that resonates! Pile 2: Athos

Cards: Ace of Wands, 4 of Wands, Knight of Cups, The Hierophant, Judgement reversed, The Hanged Man With this one, I feel like someone in this is ignoring their feelings. Like, with the Hanged Man being here I definitely see that it's someone literally hanging back and thinking about things. And with Judgement reversed, I see that it's like a waiting period. So, I think this is an established connection, but like, nothings happening. Like, maybe not even communication, or like if there is, it's like you're not really talking. At least, not about what's going on between the two of you. And also Skin to Skin came on, and the first line in this song is interesting to me because it's "I'm certain that I'll circle back to you", so it's like neither of you are too worried, but maybe there's some frustration (but I don't really see that in the cards. They all kind of feel super chill, so I think whoever this is, they're really chill lol) There's also another line that makes me l think about this but also, the knight of cups gives me this vibe: "I know that you're so preoccupied..." And like, again, I feel this stagnation but like it's a chill one. Like you're both accepting that maybe it's supposed to happen? Just not now. And, so like this "preoccupied" person is like the hanged man, hanging back and thinking things through. I don't think it's that they're unsure. I think they know how they feel (the stars and the moons in her hair on the hangedman card definitely brings this to mind, like this knowing of the unknown, but also having hope, so it's like whoever this is, knows what they're not sure of if that makes sense! Same with the judgement card but she also has the sun on it! So she's holding all the hope, mysteries and happiness in her arms!!!) Ace of wands is like this new passion. Like, maybe after stagnancy is this moment where you two can express this passion, and with the Knight of Cups, I see that too. But, he's not moving on a horse like the other decks usually have. He's just sitting and look at that cup but looking really kind of...He looks like he's pouting honestly, but I don't get that from this. Like, he's looking at this covered cup and it's got stars, so again that hope is there. He has that hope, but it's covered up, so it's kept to him for now if that makes sense. But, with this ace of wands, I see a new start and like i think it's this start where he opens up that cup and out pours all those thoughts the hanged man had. And, the 4 of wands suggests this harmony that's coming with this. Like, you two just click and you balance each other out. And I'm sure you both know this. With this deck, sometimes you can read the looks on their faces two ways, like how the deck explains the card and also maybe a different way, so I kind of always can see two ways of looking at the faces. Some look sad but could also be contemplating things.  This card is definitely one of those cards. This one is about bringing difficulties to an end with alliances, I don't really think this was that difficult? Like, maybe I'm not getting the whole story. Maybe this period of stagnation has been a long time and you're both just tired of not seeing each other now or talking more, but like, I guess this is kind of you two coming together and bringing an end to this period of nothing. And the look on the one girls face, the one in the yellow dress, she looks tired but she looks so into this other girl, so like I think that's kind of what's going to happen. One day you're both are going to just simultaneously agree that you're done with this nothing and want something? Like, I don't think you're going to say it before deciding it but once it's decided you BOTH are going to be opening up your star cups and pour it all out. Bottom deck energy for this is the Death card and the high priestess. I wasn't going to mention it, but I almost feel like for a few of you, you should check out pile 1, mostly because Death was in that pile but also the High Priestess was bottom deck energy for that one too (just a different deck). But, these tell me that there's going to be a change. Like, I said you're going to get tired of this stagnation, and I think it's an end of a cycle within this particular relationship. And the high priestess brings back that idea of "I'm certain I'll circle back to you..." where there's a knowing that this isn't really done. It's just at a standstill. So, yeah. I think this stagnation will end. I don't know WHEN, I don't get a when. But, I don't think it's going to be FOREVER from now, especially because you did get 3 major arcana! Also, wands feels quicker and you got the ace of wands! So I feel like it's kind of a "whenever" kind of thing, which isn't very helpful. It could be tomorrow or next year, ya know? Though, as I was writing this the song 12 Weeks by Movements came on! So! For someone it MIGHT be 12 Weeks. It's interesting though, because the end of the song is something like "Fall in love and fall away", which I don't see that as an end, again kind of like you two caught feelings and then were put in a stand still? But, also with that 4 of wands card, it really feels like everything around them falls away around them, so maybe that's just kind of how you two are together. Like, you talk and there could be other people there, but it all falls away. You could be in a group conversation, but for some reason it feels like all the words you both say are pointed towards the other rather than the group? Again, take what resonates. If you know no one where your connection is like this than I really do not think this is your pile. Things that are relevant: Celestial bodies (like the sun, the moon, stars), butterflies (specifically pink and purple), Sagittarius, Taurus

Pile 3: D’Artagnan

Cards: Justice, The Star(s), Queen of Swords, 8 of Pentacles, 3 of Swords reversed, 3 of cups Justice was the first card to fall out, and immediately I knew it was about a group who got the short end of the stick or something when it comes to love. Like, I hear, short end of the stick, like. Okay, so Queen of Swords is always described as like a woman alone who's been scorned, but I usually don't go by that because I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who are Queen of Sword types who haven't really had issues with love, they're just kind of That Way. But, like with Justice, I definitely see this as someone who was hurt in the past by love. Like, again. Short end of the stick. New Song D by the Front Bottoms is playing and there's this part in the bridge where he talks about how someone sold him a bike for $50 when the brakes weren't working, so like he was cheated out of $50 when he thought maybe it was worth $25 ? Like, Okay. So, with this, I'm getting that he was cheated money out of this, right? And maybe that is the case for some of you, but I'm getting more of an energy cheat if that makes sense. Like, you put a lot of energy into someone and a situation, and all they gave back was 1/4 of what you gave, and I'm getting that because I think maybe they thought they were giving you more (1/2 but still not enough), but they weren't, and you were just cheated out of this and left feeling drained because it was all one sided. And, I'm not saying this person didn't feel anything for you, I mean, they might have felt something but weren't able to give back the same amount because of things going on in their life. Or they were just like that. And there's another part in this song where he says "You wouldn't start because I wouldn't stop" and maybe it's also like you were giving too much even for them to like, take? Maybe it was just too much on their end and couldn't receive that much and too much for you to give so then you're both left with a disappointing situation. I also see 8 of pentacles kind of confirming this, like so much hard work was put into it on your end, but not enough to make it balanced. And it is NOT your fault. Like I feel the need to tell you that you have a big heart and that it's not your fault that someone else couldn't accept it the way you needed them to. 3 of swords reversed tells me that you're healing, though. Like, this happened and it probably really hurt but now you're healing. For some, because there are 2 3's, I think this was a case of being cheated on, but I don't think that's for everyone. Like, I really feel more like this was an unbalanced give and take situation. But, with the Justice here, I see that it WILL be balanced and whatever is coming in for you, will be more balanced. I almost feel, though, like this pile is less about what's coming and more about how you'll be doing better? Like, what's coming is really good and balanced, but also, you're healing, and I think it's always really nice to be able to look back at a heartbreak and not feel as bad about it as you did before. Like, sure it's probably always going to give a pang, but like with time, it heals. And, I know you probably wanted so badly for this to work out with this person, and I'm so sorry it didn't. Trust me, All I've ever known is unrequited love, so I really get that feeling of that realization when it becomes clear it's not going to work. One deck's bottom card was the Ace of Swords, so again, like I think this was that clarity you had about it not working, but I also see it as you seeing that it's just that this was not meant for you and that there's something better. And, that better is the star and justice. Like, this new person is going to bring in a lot of hope an balance. Like, this star card has two people on it, and it kind of looks like they're balancing out, right? So, yes. Definitely a lot of balance. And this person, I think, is going to be a lot of fun. The 3 of cups in this reading, to me, is more about how I think you two are going to hit it off in a friendly way first. And like, this might not even be a romantic love. It could just be a really good friend you make or have that's with you through your healing. But either way, platonic or not, I think this person is going to be someone you can lean on in this tough period, but also someone you can have fun with. The same song, new song d, has a part in the chorus where he says "I fell down, you propped me up" and I see this as being how your relationship will go. When someones down, the other will prop them up.But this isn't going to be all take and no give like this last person. No, again, it's going to be super balanced. Bottom deck energy for the other deck was Knight of Wands and in my last reading I compared him to D'Artagnan in the Three Musketeers and I think when he's not off trying to save the world, he's a really fun dude. Also, this is kind of weird and I'm going to have to make sure in the picture I take I get one of this Knight of Wands, because on the top border there's this weird like squiggle shapes, but it looks to me like...bodies? (It's kind of like that with the Queen of Swords too, with the top border?) Like bodies doing yoga lmao but like. I think you two are going to be physical (like! not in a sexual sense unless you're old enough and consenting!!), but more in a, touchy, huggy sense. So again, that propping up, but like physically and mental propping up. But, also, like maybe you two are always kind of touching. Like, shoulders next to each other, knees colliding, hand holding. Oof. That sounds so cute! I'm a little jealous. OH! This is also kind of weird, but in the same card behind him are this shapes that look like fleur-de-lis! And that's so weird considering that I think of D'Artagnan, a musketeer when I see this card! Ah! Anyway, I just see this as super healing for you, whoever this is. The shapes also kind of remind me of phoenix's, so! Maybe that's a message there. Like, emerging from the ashes of your former self? This is weird, because the next song that came on was Sour, a collab by 1990nowhere, Olivver the Kid and others, but I think that's interesting because maybe it goes with the past for you, like it soured. Like it looked sweet and then it soured? Then Are you Bored Yet? by Wallows came on so taking that literal, like you grew tired of how it was going. So I'm not sure if anyone resonates with those two songs, but I thought they seemed significant. Possibly relevant: Libra, Aquarius, Musketeers, fleur-de-lis, yoga, 1990, 3, 8 Pile 4: Porthos

Cards: Knight of cups, 2 of cups, 7 of wands, the lovers, 6 of swords, King of Pentacles I wasn't going to do a pile 4, but thought I should and like, yeah I'm glad I did because this feels like something someone needs to hear. So, someone here is leaving something. I think maybe you might want to read my last pick a pile I posted on here about what you need to hear. I definitely think this group showed up in that one. So, again, someone is leaving something, but I keep wanting to type someone! Ahh! Sorry! But, maybe there is someone leaving someone? I definitely have the song Scrawny by Wallows stuck in my head so maybe you're leaving a "scrawny motherfucker with a cool hairstyle"? lol or not! Maybe that's just a song being stuck in my head because it was in there earlier today, but? Like? Maybe it was meant to come back around for this reading. Anyway, I get this idea from 6 of swords because that can be about a spiritual/mental journal, but also sometimes a physical one. So, like mentally and physically leaving a situation. Also, I've read that 6 in tarot is about journeys, and we got two 6's (6 of Swords and the lovers), and even though the lovers is about unity, I think it's also leaving that life before that unity behind? So, I read that into this whole, you're leaving something (or someone in this is leaving something or someone, so it could be this person coming towards you leaving something). Also, 8 of cups was on the bottom of one of the decks, and that again is about leaving something, like mentally/spiritually. But, like, this has cups so there's more of an emotional element to it. Like, leaving something that wasn't fulfilling you, going towards that 9 of cups wish fulfillment, right? So, there is that energy here, and like, I kind of feel like 9 of Cups should have shown up too, because I almost feel like whoever is coming towards you is kind of a wish come true. So, with knight of cups, i kind of read it like I did for another pile, but maybe more into his expression than i had for that one, where he looks kind of pouty. For that pile I said it was like he was kind of waiting to open up this cup that is in front of him that he's looking at. It has stars on it, so it's like his cup of hope? And the knight of cups is usually seen as a love offer, (though I typed over so again, I think someone out there is leaving someone?) so like this star cup, when he opens it, will have that offer for you? Like his heart is in there for you (not physically like his organ lmao). And with 7 of wands, I almost wonder if maybe you're defensive to let it in or maybe they're even too defensive to open up that cup? Someone here is defensive, but I don't think that's needed because I see so much stability with this. Like, we have the King of Pentacles here. So, not only do I think one or both of you are doing okay like financially (like, able to pay the bills and maybe have a nice roof over your head), but I also just see it as stable. Like, they're a shelf and your love is safe to place on. Does that make sense? Omg I'm so corny in this pile I love it. Both the Lover's and two of cups are these soft cards. Like, physically, these two cards from these decks look so soft. The love in these cards, guys. Phew. The two of cups shows this lady kind of hanging on this man, and they have these soft, fond gazes at each other. And then, with the lovers in the other deck, it's so sweet. She's kissing the other girl's cheek and they just look like they're content in the moment? So, I definitely see this as something fulfilling for you both, like you're both gonna be such suckers for each other. Probably constantly getting those heart eyes. Like, think Evie and O'Connell heart eyes, if you've ever seen The Mummy from 1999. Like, the looks they give each other. I'm totally getting those vibes. Maybe you two are going to be really snarky to each other too? But you’ll find it so endearing. Another thing I want to add is that I think you two are going to be perfectly balanced like literally Yin and Yang. I mean, one girl on the lovers card is all white and the other is all black. And then on the two of cups, They're kind of contrasted in terms of hair. Also! Bottom card energy for one deck was Justice, so yes. Definitely balance and yin and yang. I think this also goes back to the King of Pentacles, like I almost even get that Two of Pentacles energy of balancing out things, but being able to do so whereas the other twos kind of are about choices. But this one isn't. And it's weird, because sometimes the lovers can be read as choices, but I don't here. Not with this pile. And maybe there is a choice about leaving something/someone, but like I think once that's done and over with, this love comes in. And it could just be simple like a mindset? Like with all the cups here, I definitely think it could be a mindset. Like one that makes you super emotional, so maybe this is an existing relationship that just needs like a change? That's probably for a few of you, but for others, I see that this is something that comes after a shift in mind, or like a physical one. I mean, the song Make Way by The Front Bottoms was playing here, and like, that song is kind of about making space for the new? "I make way for the expensive things in my head." And, I've kind of gotten this Death Card vibe with every pile, and at first I was like not getting that with this pile, but idk, with 6 of swords and 8 of cups, I kind of get that? Like ending something to begin something? Ending with the song Nobody Gets Me (Like You) by Wallows, and I think this is what its going to feel like with this person. This pile is so cute. :) Things that could be relevant: Gemini, Libra, water signs, Capricorn (Pentacles are earth, but I really get a cap vibe with this one today), heart eyes, The Mummy lol

#pick a pile #tarot #pick a card #pick-a-pile #pick-a-card #tarot reading

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Third: Killan

CW: Literally nothing beyond some vague visual references to past torture, plus some unpleasant/negative generalizations about a fictional species. Killan is truly living the comf dream.

TIMELINE: ... later

As always, Killan’s universe and details of fae meta/biology/magic all belong to @wildfaewhump!

Even though the young woman knew the way, it still took three hours to walk from the barn, where she always stopped first to give a final scritch behind the ears to her favorite barn cat, to her aunt's tiny wooden cabin. 

It wasn’t even an easy three hours of walking. Instead, it was three hours of hard hiking in her loose pants and shirt with a shawl thrown over for warmth, her thick black hair with its rough curls sticking to her neck with sweat even as she shivered from the chill breeze. Sometimes the walk felt like it was all straight up, placing each step with care as the rocks scattered back down below and her heavy boots dug into the earth to keep her hold. 

At least her skin had held its color from summer and she felt the warmth of the sun settle in as she walked up to see her aunt.

The old woman lived up high on a ridge, hugging the side of the great mountains where the fae stayed hidden, with a view in the winter of the village far below and in the summer of acres upon acres of bright green trees and fields.

No one lived closer to the fae than her aunt did without coming to harm - the young woman even saw them circling overhead sometimes, out on the hunt. She’d even seen a mother, or she thought it was a mother anyway, with three littler fae flying behind her. 

Might’ve been cute, if the fae didn’t teach their fledglings to hunt by siccing them on lambs and other defenseless things in the spring. The young woman had made a note of the fledglings, that year, and they’d kept an eye out. No lambs went missing, though, so maybe the fae mam had decided to teach her babes to hunt somewhere else.

Living this close to the fae was dangerous. Anyone else would’ve been terrified to live that way, but her aunt had kept the same home since she built it herself as a young woman and swore she would live nowhere else.

I have honest dealings with Sidhe, love, said the old woman - who wasn't really her aunt, not by blood, but who was connected to her instead through a complex web of distant relations and friendships that her family simply called kin. Honest as can be. There had been a twinkle in milky green eyes that the young woman never quite understood, when she said those words. You might say, if you were so inclined, that I have had the most honest sort of dealings one can have.

Her aunt’s laughter had near lifted the roof off with its volume, and the young woman had smiled uncertainly along, even though she didn’t quite get the joke. 

Her aunt’s sense of humor always puzzled her. Fae weren’t to be joked about, not with such a jovial, even affectionate, tone. They were dangerous. They hurt people, slaughtered those who tried to find the pass through the mountains. They spoiled milk and made people sick. Everyone in the village kept iron along every window and doorway to keep the fae out. 

Everyone except her aunt, whose windows were always open, like she wanted them to crawl in with their wiry limbs and claw her face off. It had never happened, but… still. It wasn’t safe to live alone, to live so close to the fae. Her aunt did it anyway.

The young woman didn’t even know her real first name. She was Aunt Llyrie, but everyone knew Llyrie was just a name she’d taken, said she’d been given by someone and thought she’d keep.

By who, Auntie?

Mmmn, someone else, from long ago, when I was prettier than I had any right to be and he took a liking to walking on the ground for a while. That’s all you’ll ever need to know, love.

The young woman and her sisters and cousins had all asked her aunt, and the answer was always the same. Someone else. What could that even mean? 

She was called Aunt Llyrie because all women above an age were Aunt So-and-So or Auntie Whoever. It was simply how you did things, and the young woman had never thought twice about it. Her mother's sister was her aunt, and so was the old woman up on the ridge who grew herbs and made potions and salves. She came down only to check on pregnant women and new babies, and otherwise people who needed help went to her.

Not that very many people did. The old woman was spoken of in hushed tones. People made a sign against evil, they called her touched. 

But they asked her to be there when their babies were born, anyway. No woman had died in childbirth in forty-three years, not since the old woman had taken up midwifery and started bringing her medicines with her. She had been there for the births of babies, and those babies’ babies. She might be there to meet the first babies’ grandbabies, too.

Who knew?

She was odd, though. Ask her about the fae and her aunt's face would settle into a hundred wrinkles like lines on an ancient browned map as she smiled.

Her voice creaked a little as age wore down its firm strength in sound but not in the iron-tough foundation of her spirit, and she would only shake her head. I do not fear the Sidhe. Will they carry an old woman away when they did not take the young one? Paugh, maybe he will one day. I would thank him for the final journey into the sky. 

The young woman didn’t understand that, either. 

Still, she had gone to see her aunt a hundred times or more, in her life. She was always welcomed with open arms by a woman who had seen her coming long before she actually arrived. 

Today, though, she wound her way up the small path only to find her aunt’s cabin closed up tight. Even the shutters to those open windows were closed, despite the mild mountain air. A thin curl of smoke wound up from the chimney, the only sign of life beyond the solid black cat who slept along the low stone wall that encircled the garden. She gave it a quick run of fingers along the top of its head and down its back as she passed, feeling it arch up gratefully into her touch. It meowed, stretching, and leapt gracefully down to the path to trot along beside her.

Swallowing, she knocked on her aunt’s door, feeling trepidation curl cold and heavy in the bottom of her stomach. “Auntie? Are you at home?”

Where else would she be? In the young woman’s twenty years on earth, she had never once seen her aunt be anywhere else but home or seeing to the birthing of a baby. And since there were no new babies in the village…

The door popped open with a creak of ancient hinges, and the young woman swallowed as her aunt’s eyes peered through, with an expression she had never seen before - suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, I-” The young woman blinked, startled. She felt suddenly guilty, even though she had committed no crime. Did I do something wrong and I just don’t remember? “I came to ask for a tincture, there’s an ague has hit the blacksmith and his family. My mam sent me up-”

Her aunt cleared her throat, cracked the door just a little bit wider. “Today’s not the day for it, love,” She said, her voice slightly sharp, snappish in a way that made the young woman take a step back, unsettled and uncertain. 

“Well, I… it’s just, the ague is quite-... Aunt, are you well?” The young woman’s head tilted, trying to take a closer look, only to have the old woman close the door slightly, showing just one blue eye through the crack. Her heart began to race. She had clearly done something, said something on her last visit, angered the old woman in some way. But she had no idea what she could possibly have done. “If you’re sick, Auntie, I could nurse you?”

“I’m not sick, dear.” There was a pause, the old woman taking time to think, and then she said, “Can you keep a secret, love? From everyone but me?”

“A… a secret?” Despite her nervousness, and how ominous everything seemed when put together, the young woman had to admit she felt no small thrill at the idea of something secret. In a village like hers, there was no such thing as a secret. Even a quick kiss with the blacksmith’s son was reported to her mam within minutes, and she a grown woman whose kisses should be her own business by now. “I could, Auntie, of course I could. But what is the secret?”

Her aunt hesitated a moment more, and then the door swung open. Inside smelled like a mix of smoke and something savory, and the young woman’s eyes lit on the meat pies cooling out on the table as she stepped into the open cabin’s kitchen-side. “You must swear on your life you won’t tell a soul, love.”

“I won’t, Auntie, swear on my heart.” Her eyes scanned the walls, finding all the cooking pans hung on their hooks, bundles of herbs drying above the fireplace, a kettle hung for water to boil for tea. It was all the same, and yet there was a change in the air in here, something different indeed. Something smelled sharp and cold, like the way the night smelled in autumn when the sky was clear and the stars gave off nearly as much light as the moon. “What is the secret?”

There was a rustling from the bed-corner, and the young woman turned that way to stare, wide-eyed, at what she thought at first must be the largest bird she had ever seen. 

Her aunt’s hand, warm, dry, with softly wrinkled brown skin like thin creased paper folded a thousand times until it is nearly cloth, came to rest lightly on her shoulder. “It’s not a ‘what’,” She said, her voice gentle. “It’s a ‘who’.”

“Wh-what-”

The wings moved, parting to reveal-

“Gods almighty, a fae!” The young woman scrambled backwards, tripped over a broom, fell flat on her arse on the flat wooden slats of the floor. She let out a breathy scream, backing up until her back hit the wall, grabbing the handle of a cast-iron cookpan as tightly as she could - let the bastard fae try to hurt her, she’d whack it with iron until its face was nothing but boils, she would, she’d not go quietly into some fae’s stomach - and holding it in front of her as a weapon.

The thing on the bed flinched back when she did, curling itself up tightly, staring at her with wide, terrified bright blue eyes with razor-thin slit pupils, perfectly inhuman. Its face, though… well, its face and hair looked nothing like she’d been told fae should look. It wasn’t angular or pointy-chinned, had no pointed ear that folded back or forwards, it just looked like… like a person. Like some man her own age, really. 

It looked… well, it looked frightened, is what. Of her.

It made a high keening sound of fear, not a human sound at all.

“Calm, the both of you,” Her aunt snapped, stepping between them. The young woman didn’t move, kept the iron pan out ahead of her like a knight brandishing a sword. The fae-but-not-fae stayed pressed up against the wall in the bed, his wings shivering, trilling low in its throat. She could hear the feathers rustling with its fear. “He won’t hurt you, love. He’s just looking for a place to heal.”

“H-Heal? From what?” Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. She was proud of that. 

Her aunt began to laugh, and the young woman simply stared blankly, wondering if the old woman had perhaps lost her mind. “The ague, dear. Same as the blacksmith. This young man has taken quite ill.”

The young woman turned narrowed eyes back to the thing on the bed. Had it bewitched her aunt, somehow? Used their wicked dark magics on her? “Fae don’t catch our sicknesses, Auntie.”

“Hm, that’s true.” Her aunt’s smile was shining, beatific. “Fae don’t. But this young man isn’t fae. He came in delirious overnight. I’ve given him a tincture has brought his fever down some, though not all. Come, love. It’s rude to threaten a young man without even learning his name.”

“But-... but he-...” She frowned, and took a step closer, and then another. The thing on the bed did look like a young man, that was true. He wore tattered old clothes, worn to holes where his knobby knees poked through. But for his wings and his eyes… “He’s not… fae? But the wings-”

“Mmmn, yes. I did ask about that. He says they came later.” Her aunt shrugged, as if to say, pay it no mind. “He’ll not give me a name but said I could call him Del. That’s fae for boy, that is.”

“How d’you know that?” She took a closer look at the old woman, then, and wondered how much about the woman’s life she had kept secret from the village, too.

“Just do. Isn’t important. So anyway, he clearly knows a fae, even if he isn’t one.”

“I-I’m not,” The young man spoke for the first time. His voice was low and hoarse, but sort of… lovely, too. The young woman took another step closer, slowly lowering the cookpan. “I’m not fae.”

“Are you… half-breed, then?” The young woman asked.

The boy looked away from her, and it was that more than anything that made her think he wasn’t fae at all. Everyone knew fae would never look away from you, never let a threat or a meal pass their sight. Everyone knew that.

“No,” He said, softly. “I’m not. Half-made, maybe. Are you-... her niece?” His eyes went, puzzled, from the young woman to the elderly one.

The young woman’s aunt threw her head back and laughed, shining laughter that filled the room all the way to the roof, and even the young woman felt an answering smile on her lips. “Oh, my, no, sweet boy. I’m just an old crone in the woods. Now, your tea’s just about ready, and here I am with a new guest to serve the extra to. Let’s make introductions, and you’ll stay for dinner, love,” She said, turning her eyes back to the young woman.

“But the blacksmith-”

“Will be right as rain by morning. First, though, you’ll stay for tea. My name is Llyrie, this is Del, and… Del, let me introduce this woman who would hit you with a pan if she could.” 

“She could,” The young man - Del - said. He smiled. It was faint, but there, and if it weren’t for his eyes she might have said it was a handsome smile indeed. “I wouldn’t, um, wouldn’t stop her.”

Despite herself, the young woman smiled at Del, and watched the tension in his wings relax, just a little. The kettle began to whistle as the water boiled within, and the old woman moved it to rest to the side, pouring in a generous palmful of dried herbs, leaves, and flowers to steep. Then she moved over to the bed, reaching out, and the young woman’s muscles tensed, her hand jerking forwards and then stopping itself, as she watched the old woman grip onto the not-fae’s taloned right hand as though he were perfectly normal, perfectly human. 

“You’re safe,” The old woman said, softly. “Nothing with wings has ever come to harm in my home, Del.”

The not-fae - the young man, wasn’t he, really? Just a young man, and yet all wrong and not a young man at all - nodded, slowly. “Please,” He whispered. “I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone.”

He sounded so… genuine. It didn’t seem like a trick at all.

The young woman did not lighten her grip on the pan.

“Del,” Her aunt said, patting the back of his hand while holding it, and his talons never touched her, “this young lady is one I have known her whole life. Come here, love, say hello.”

The young woman moved carefully, cautiously closer. She could see, now, the bright red blotches along Del’s cheeks that gave away his lingering fever, the shadows under the bright blue eyes that spoke of restless sleep or little sleep at all. This close, she could see that he was still trembling, just a little, even relaxed. 

“Hello,” She said, softly.

“Hello,” The young man said in return. “I’m-... I’m Del.”

“She said that.” He looked down, and a bit of wavy light brown hair fell over his eyes, hiding them from view. She leaned slightly forward, until he looked up again. It was… strange, to see inhuman eyes in a very human face, but if she really thought about it, they were… pretty, weren’t they? “Del, are you-... sure you’re not fae?”

“Pretty sure.” He had a hint of wry humor in his voice at that. He glanced over at one wing, then back at her. “Last anyone checked, anyway.”

She realized, all at once, that there were rings pierced through his wings in two places, just above his shoulders and again at the topmost join. Small brass rings ran through the piercing, and they clinked a little when his wings shifted. 

Who had done that? She’d never heard of fae piercing their own wings before. But if he wasn’t fae, maybe… maybe whatever he was did it. Maybe there was more than fae in the world with wings. 

“Will you… show me your teeth, Del?” She asked, voice low and quiet. Her auntie hissed at her about rudeness, but the boy obeyed immediately, baring his blunt, human teeth. She breathed out in relief at the same time her stomach twisted at the thoughtless, instant obedience. 

“Auntie, you said you… you found him sick?”

The old woman nodded, checking on the scent of the tea steeping in the kettle. “He was wandering the woods talking to no one. He’s lucky I found him first.”

“He sure is. My da and the others’d sooner shoot him than speak to him.” Del’s wings bristled, nervously, and she glanced back over at him, flushing slightly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk about you like you’re not right here, should I?”

“It’s all right,” He offered. “I’m used to it.”

“Still. Just ‘cause you’re used to rudeness doesn’t make it any less rude. And I haven’t told you what I’m called, either.” She held out her right hand, watched him hesitate and look down at his talons, and then she laughed and held out her left. He slowly reached his left hand - simply human, nothing else - out to shake hers. 

“I don’t know what you are,” She said, voice firm, “But you don’t seem like you’ll hurt me, and my auntie likes you. You’re Del?”

He nodded, slowly, eyes on her face in a way that made her feel strange, like her skin was stretched too tightly over her body, like her nerves were too close to the surface. “You can call me that, yes.”

“All right, I will. Nice to meet you, Del. I’m Laekna.”

---

Tagging Killan’s crew:  @astrobly​​ @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions, @broken-horn, @moose-teeth, @whumpfigure, @spiffythespook, @oceanthesarcasamfox,  @whump-only, @just-strawberry-jam(if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

#whump #but not really #killan is babey and saddest boy #fluff #pure fluff #all comfort no hurt #prelude to a sickfic #sick whumpee #freed whumpee #recovering whumpee #introducing [REDACTED] #fantasy setting #winged whumpee #fantasy whump #magical whumpee #angry caretaker #comforting caretaker #comf #I wrote a nice thing #so there you gremlins

[rosesmith18]

Moonlight Night

This is a simple one-shot about Vanessa and the hardships she faces internally being a new mother to her son Thomas, and what doing your best as a mother can lead to. This story references some events from other story ideas of mine, and takes place at two separate periods.(You can also find it on Fanfiction.net under Phineas & Ferb if you prefer reading fanfics like that)

Phineas and Ferb Belongs to Dan Povenmire & Jeff 'Swampy' Marsh

Vanessa Doofenshmirtz Belongs to Dan Povenmire & Jeff 'Swampy' Marsh

Thomas Fletcher Belongs to Melty64 on DeviantArt

                                               Moonlight Night

Vanessa had always adored the night, for it's vast, bright sky of stars, it's calming, black emptiness, and of course it's ever changing master; the moon. The day her husband had exposed her to a true starry night under the full moon was still one of her fondest memories. So, as the cries of a newborn babe rang out calling for Vanessa to leave her soft bed, and enjoy the serene silence of the night much like the serene silence of her spouse, Vanessa found herself unable to begrudge for long.

"Oh, Thomas. What's wrong?" Vanessa questioned the whining brunet babe in his linen crib. A soft, tired, motherly smile on her face that managed to reach her eyes despite their weariness. This had been the fourth time this weekend alone she had awakened to the needy whimpers of her only child. It was never this bad when her husband was by their son's side. There was just a confidence in Ferb when he stared upon their child that Vanessa could never muster. Even now as she smiled down at him with all her motherly love; Thomas screamed with outreached hands for something Vanessa feared she could never give him. Hopelessly trumped by the ceaseless wooing, Vanessa pulled her baby from his crib and into her tired, trembling arms. Thomas clung to his mothers pajama collar as he went on whimpering into her chest. Vanessa's hoarse voice hummed the melody of 'Weißt du wieviel Sternlein stehen?' against the few tuffs of brown hair atop her son's head. Her feet carried them to the balcony that branched off from her and her husband's bedroom. She slid the glass door open and allowed Thomas' cry to fill the fresh air. The sounds of crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the gentle wind usually relaxed Vanessa, but not tonight, when they did nothing for the baby within her embrace. Vanessa looked upon the moon, a waxing crescent, holding itself high above the sky. It's light bared down on her as if trying to soothe her exhausted mind and body. Vanessa wondered to herself if that was even possible when Thomas' cries were as hoarse as her own hums. How could she find peace when there seemed to be none for her child? Her eyes pricked with tears as her thoughts became heavy, and her humming tempered out. Vanessa's expression tensed as Thomas' screams grew louder, and she winced when he tugged at a strand of her brunette locks. She instinctively yanked her head hair away in pain; Frustration and insecurity bubbling in the pit of her stomach. "Why…" She began to mutter out in a desperate plea for guidance when her sapphire irises met Thomas' own. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, his cheeks stained with tears, and lips squished inwards. His brow frowned in what she could only identify as unadulterated anguish. Vanessa's chest tightened as her mouth snapped shut. She was ashamed of herself for even thinking of asking such a thing. 'Why won't he stop?' She had been tempted to question the insightful light shining down on her, but that wasn't what she wanted. She didn't want to silence him. She just wanted to know, to know...exactly what he wanted to know. All she wanted was to know why everything seemed wrong; Why nothing she gave him brought him joy. But, this face devoid of all human deception and ruled by no human expectations begged for the answer to a similar question; 'Why can't you be happy with me?' It was such a simple question, as to be expected of a child. Why can't you be happy with me? Why can't you just smile at me? Why can't you live in the moment with me? Vanessa took a deep breath as she debated the millions of responses she could give that her son likely wouldn't understand. "I don't know." Was the reply she settled on; The simple, honest truth from which all her stress stemmed from. Her expression shifted to a tense less frown that one often gave when the situation couldn't become pleasant no matter what you did, though it became one of astonishment as she watched her own son's expression alter. His once agonized gaze searching for acceptance became one of acknowledgement as his features relaxed. It was as if he was telling her; 'That's okay. Neither do I.' then a yawn left his lips.

                                        *Thirteen Years Later*

The sobs of a lost soul echoed through the Fletcher resident with a vengeance. Determined in their aim to destroy and replace the fabric of serene silence that so often filled the almost boundless mansion, and yet, the sound begged to be silenced by that familiar, promising serenity. Sadly, the founder of the serenity they cried out for had left quite some hours ago. No, instead the lost souls' pitiful whines were heard only by another, younger lost one who prayed for a sign. 'Oh, what was it to do?' it asked the moon above which only shined down in quiet understanding as always. For moments the young one stood under the moon, thoughtful of everything around it; the vengeful sobs, dissipating serenity, and understanding moon. He felt alone in this contradicting, changing environment that was both oh so familiar and oh so foreign. But, he was not alone. Another was there screaming with an outreached hand for company that he could provide, that is, if he was brave enough. If he had the courage to take a leap of faith, and accept the hand in place of he who came before, yet did not come now. He locked eyes with the moon one last time, his irises as dark and as vast as the sky above. This time he did not ask what to do, or what to say, or where to go. He simply prayed for the courage to live-in this moment-as the moon did; with honest purpose, and knowing, and calming silence. His feet guided him to the home of distress that he would attempt to ease. His hand shook as it reached for the door. He turned the knob with as much control as he could muster, and with a deep breath, pushed the door open. On the bed, a brunette woman curled into herself, shaking yet unmoving. She sneered at the sound of the door, though did not look in it's direction. The younger felt the hair on his body stand up ready to hiss back, but he didn't let himself. He took a cautious step closer, and felt his heart tense as the woman pushed herself up quickly, and snapped her head in the younger man's direction. Her brow was frowned, her teeth bared, and cheeks stained. He didn't let himself hiss, or whimper, or attack, or run. Her sharp, intense sapphire eyes shattered before melting into a set of blue orbs more akin to the ocean tide. Her brow raised, her teeth disappeared behind her quivering lips, and her new tears danced down her cheek. He had seen that face so many times in the past few weeks; he knew his fear had shown on his face. She shot her head away in shame, falling to the bed once more.

"Oh gott…" She muttered under her breath. "...Was tue ich?" He did not know what she was saying, but he pitted the way the words left her. 'Oh, how broken she looked.' He thought, had thought more than once since meeting her. He stepped ever closer to the side of the bed, and when she did not move, he sat beside her. She glanced up at him with eyes that said what she dared not to, however he could read them as clear as a cloudless day. He didn't know how or why, but he could read her eyes. Bore into them with irises of identical nature and feel what she felt. She called him her son, her pride and joy, her only child, and he wanted so badly for her to be his mother. Maybe that was why he came to her when she cried for someone, anyone. When she cried to be held, and cared for, and told that everything was alright. He ran his fingers through her soft, chocolate locks that matched his own perfectly; in color, in texture, in tone. Her eyes widened as if he had promised her the world in place of these lonely walls, and she pulled his hand in hers. 'Stay with me.' Her grip begged of him, and despite the cold air that ran through his spine, he nodded.

#phineas and ferb #fanfic #oc #vanessa doofenshmirtz #next gen #thomas fletcher #family #ferbnessa #mnt #marie and thomas

[bestworstcase]

cliff notes bitter snow lore

aka notes i can’t reasonably cram into a story

GEOGRAPHY

the seven kingdoms  trading alliance. sometimes also referred to as the pact. spans most of the western half of the continent. galcrest and ingvarr control the northwest, koto the central plains, corona and pittsford the western coast, bayangor the southeast and neserdnia the far south. with the exception of landlocked koto all member states are seafaring countries, with corona and neserdnia having the most prominent naval cultures. ingvarr is known as the fist of the seven kingdoms due to the renowned strength of its standing army; the other nations are economic powers rather than military ones. neither corona nor pittsford has a standing army.

corona large kingdom on the west coast of the continent. a prosperous trading nation. fishing, agriculture, silver mining, lumber are major industries. roughly bisected by the pingora mountain range which extend east into blavenia, corona’s eastern neighbor. south of the pingoras is the region where saporia used to be; much of the former border follows the general line of the mountains. there are pockets in the south where saporian is still spoken over coronan and much of central-south population is bilingual. 

major cities include herzingen (the capital, built on an island, basically canon!corona), anbruch (an old fort near the former saporian border that grew over time; varian’s village is one of many satellite settlements whose farms support support anbruch’s population), alcorcia (a port town in the south, notorious for being a hotbed of separatists and pirates), and carcathune (the old saporian capital, still half in ruins). 

other nations tend to be smaller and weaker, both militaristically and economically speaking. equis is the strongest nation outside of the seven kingdoms and a persistent thorn in the pact’s side due to longstanding rivalry with corona, robust navy, and financing of privateers. it lies on the northwest coast and shares its southernmost border with corona. 

blavenia, eldora, and marne vie with koto for control over the central plains. eldora and marne are neighbors and have been closely allied for centuries, blavenia has a loose alliance with equis based mostly on the grounds of rivalry with corona and the enemy of my enemy principle. arianna was minor eldoran nobility prior to marrying into the coronan monarchy, and vardaros is a major eldoran city. 

the hlessian league is a major alliance shared by nations in the northeastern region of the continent. it is controlled by arendelle, seland, and skaron—the triad of kingdoms that occupy the hlessian penninsula for which the league is named—but includes a half dozen smaller nations as well. trade agreements are in place between the seven kingdoms and the league but they are also frequent rivals in trade with unaffiliated nations and tensions are always sort of high

quintonia is a small sovereign duchy wedged between ingvarr and koto which controls an important mountain pass, making it a gateway for trade. it has been invaded many times but is currently a member of the hlessian league, which gives it a measure of protection. presently ruled by the duchess rosalia morcant.

aphelion is the name of the “dark kingdom.” it’s on the far eastern end of the continent and very far away from corona. it lies in the gigantic caldera of an ancient supervolcano and in modern times is almost completely abandoned due to the desolation caused by the moonstone. many aphelionese refugees live in neighboring volkan (a large empire that stretches to the eastern coast), zamora (a small kingdom to the north), or antares (a powerful city-state situated to the west, not far from the great tree); others dispersed even farther to the west, and there are thriving aphelionese communities as far west as the hlessian penninsula. 

RELIGION AND MAGIC

magic in general

comes from powerful beings; call them gods, call them demons, call them natural forces of the cosmos, whatever, the point is that if you want to do magic you need the direct patronage of an entity like zhan tiri or you need to perform rituals to temporarily draw the attention of one. gifts, bargains, curses. as a general rule gaining the permanent patronage of such a being requires hard work, dedication, and sacrifice, but can grant you tremendous power; rituals and bargains take less work and are far less risky, but they’re also temporary and most useful for the creation of enchanted artifacts, which last much longer and are a common means of splitting the difference between patronage and ritual.

due to the nature of magic and the necessity of some form of mutual exchange between practitioner and power, magic often features worship or religious elements to some degree.

coronan heliolatry 

sun cult built around solar worship and the myth of the sundrop. the cult had a lot of power in corona’s early history but it has declined in prominence significantly over the centuries mainly because the actual sundrop was never found. values healing, truth, growth, and peace. in modern times its biggest influence on coronan culture is death rites, which involve cremation on funeral barges that are sailed into the east at sunrise. frederic yoinking the sundrop and feeding it to his wife caused something of a schism because on the one hand now the coronan princess is a vessel of the sun but on the other the king just killed an avatar of the sun what. that said most coronans are secular or if religious at all might go to temple for, like, midsummer and the harvest service and perhaps mutter a prayer on occasion. 

the saporian ternary

back in the day saporia was a theocratic oligarchy controlled by the three cults of the divine ternary. unlike the coronan sun cult the cults of the divine ternary are still a prominent part of daily life for saporian coronans, though none of them are sanctioned by the coronan government and thus they seldom if ever practice openly. the deities of the divine ternary are:

char malách, the sacred terror, god of wonder [pronounced “kahr mal-AHK”, the ch is a phlegmy k]

his sphere is beauty, imagination, the arts, ambition and inspiration. he is associated with the sun and stars, fire, stone, metal, jewels, creativity and craftsmanship; also earthquakes, volcanoes, and wildfires. he never takes a physical form and is often depicted as a twisting, liquescent, burning spiral. his devotees are artisans, architects, artists, and outside of the cult they’re best known for having a yearly holiday where they make art for the specific purpose of setting it on fire.

his cult is called the temple of splendor (chalán hechá) and its members are sometimes referred to as the terrified (aráloshem)

cathay, the bone hound, goddess of woe [pronounced “kath-AY”]

her sphere is the dead, grief and loss, obsession and madness. she is associated with eclipses, rust, desolation, neglect, abandonment; pestilence and famine, war and treachery. though she is widely feared she is not considered evil, but rather more akin to a shadow cast by a bright light; she represents the natural opposite of the living world. she always appears as a large skeletal hound with dirt packed between the bones and hackles of rusted metal. 

members of her cult are called barrow-makers (sholámar) and some of her priests practice a form of necromancy that involves self-mutilation and the reanimation of corpses. 

zhan tiri, the lady of the woods, goddess of ways [pronounced “zahn tiri,” with a long a.]

her sphere is nature, wildness, passion, cycles and change. she is associated with the sea, the sky, soil and storms; growth, decay, and renewal; beginnings and endings, life and death, the cycle of the seasons, choices and consequence, freedom and will; trees, thorns, and flowers. her physical form is protean in the extreme and often chimerical, straddling the border between animal and plant, and in varying states of decay; her iconography varies accordingly but she’s almost always depicted with large, curling, ramlike horns. 

members of her cult commonly refer to her as “our lady” (crezathan), and she has a host of other epithets: the black goat, the mother of thorns, web-spinner, flower-maker, sun-eater, lady of the woods. her cult is called the thorn syconium (cáshacathán) and has been working for centuries to weaken the boundaries between this realm and the dimension into which lord demanitus bound her a thousand years ago.

the saporian word for god/deity (zátocha) translates literally as revenant; the beings of the ternary are said to have grown from fragments of a greater cosmic power which was destroyed during the creation of the world. they are also euphemistically called the gentry (zatem).

the moonstone cult

before the desolation began a thousand years ago, the moonstone and the black rocks were a linchpin of aphelionese culture, with the moonstone being worshipped as a protective and transformative force. its cult developed a branch of magic that involves siphoning, channeling, and binding with the use of rituals and talismans. two of the incantations lord demanitus recorded in his scroll—the withering spell and the invocation of the moon—originated with the moonstone cult, and he later used them as a basis for the composition of the healing spell and the invocation of the sun. 

a “mind trap” is one of the better known types of talismans used by the moonstone cult. its common name in coronan/english is a poor translation of an aphelionese word that more accurately means “spirit anchor,” and the talismans play an important role in aphelionese necromancy, which involved summoning spirits and binding them as shades in the physical plane. a living person who binds themself to a spirit anchor is able to call on the moonstone’s power to perform staggering feats of magic, but this was seldom done because binding your soul to a rock leaves you vulnerable to anyone who manages to get their hands on it. they’re difficult to make and only a single soul can be bound to each stone, making the practice even rarer. their reputation far exceeds their actual use and is founded mostly on the misunderstanding that a single talisman can “control the minds of anyone who’s sworn loyalty to the moonstone” a la canon. 

lord demanitus got his hands on one of these talismans while researching the moonstone and did basically the magical equivalent of hacking it to turn it into a phylactery so he could lich it up. this.. provoked the moonstone and ultimately lead to the desolation, with the entire kingdom of aphelion being reduced to solid rock and dust. 

speaking of that...

DEMANITUS, ZHAN TIRI, AND THE DROPS

the sundrop

primarily a healing/restorative power. it can generate light and heat, heal injuries, cure illness, push away death, reveal truth, and inspire hope. its magic also casts a shadow, of a sort, generating a dark, purely destructive and corruptive force. 

the healing incantation draws on the restorative powers of the sundrop. over time, prolonged use results in a physical dependence on the sundrop’s magic, as the “shadow” of it sinks deeper and deeper into the body. 

the invocation of the sun channels the raw power of the sun itself through the sundrop. its effect is most pronounced during the daytime and strongest in summer, when the sun is closest. using it also consumes/burns the physical body of the user until the channeled power is released, which can be fatal in reckless hands.

the moonstone

a warden whose purpose is to contain the shadows of the sundrop; it does so by forming them into the black rocks, rendering them inert. its magic is oriented around change, transformation, and movement. it also reflects the magic of the sundrop in a far less potent form; where the sundrop heals, the moonstone can grant the strength to simply keep going far beyond the point where a person should have collapsed, for example. 

the withering incantation enlivens the sundrop’s shadow, drawing it out of the black rocks or siphoning the life out of everything nearby when used by the moonstone or sundrop respectively. 

the invocation of the moon, like its counterpart, channels the raw power of the moon through the moonstone. it’s strongest at night and when the moon is full. it’s also less dangerous than the invocation of the sun, because it draws on the strength of the user’s will rather than body, though incautious use can shatter the user’s mind.

both drops

fell when the world was a newly-formed ball of magma. they worked in concert to cool and stabilize the globe and are effectively the progenitors of all life. the moonstone’s black rocks run through the core of the world, and the roots of the sundrop encompassed the whole globe. 

when frederic pulled the sundrop out of the earth, he essentially killed it. the heart of its power flowed into rapunzel and stayed there, but the roots began to die and rot. the sundrop’s shadow grew stronger as it faded, leading to the wild growth of black rock as the moonstone struggled to contain it all. gothel keeping rapunzel in a tower made it worse by separating the sundrop from the earth. 

demanitus’s belief that the sundrop and moonstone “long to reunite” is a little mistaken; they were already united before frederic uprooted the sundrop and upset the natural balance they shared. unlike in canon, the drops have little interest and no ability to recombine into a greater power and return to the cosmos; they built this world together and have made it their home. they do, however, want the sundrop to be released so it can regrow and heal.

zhan tiri and the ancient power

jinarche, the celestial light, is a primordial entity associated with order, light, and stasis who either created or is the cosmos. when the primordial stasis was disrupted by the appearance of hunger, jinarche was torn apart, unleashing darkness and chaos into the world. as she died, hunger devoured her, feeding on her power; corrupting it but being likewise corrupted; this force became zhan tiri. other pieces of jinarche became the sun, moon, stars, and the molten embryo of the planet. the sun/moon drops were created by the sun and moon to restore balance. various other powers developed over time out of leftover bits of jinarche and the interactions between earlier forces. the cosmos is a flourishing ecosystem growing in the carcass of a dead god, basically.

zhan tiri’s basic nature, accordingly, is Hunger. but on top of that there’s a messy amalgam of a personality she developed over her billions of years of existence in a you are what you eat sort of way.

she’s drawn to the sun/moon drops (and vice versa) because the drops are remnants of jinarche and zhan tiri is a cursed reincarnation of jinarche, sort of; a cosmic parasite that became. if she were to acquire both drops that would essentially sort of... burn out the corruption / fuse them all and flip them to just being jinarche for all intents and purposes. the drops do not want this to happen. zhan tiri also does not want this to happen but her solution is to acquire human vessels for the drops, like oven mitts.

demanitus imprisoned her in a void dimension a thousand years prior to the story and since then she’s been reduced to the cosmic equivalent of shoving her fingers through cracks under the door. her cults and those few disciples who escaped being killed or bound by demanitus have been busily weakening the boundaries ever since, with the ultimate goal of eroding it enough for her to break free completely.

demanitus

was the scion of minor coronan nobility and grew up during the peak of the sun cult’s power. became obsessed with the legend of the sundrop and determined to find it. was nineteen when he met a saporian scholar and learned just enough about the divine ternary to get himself into trouble by following the logic of: these people call their weird demon patron flower-maker -> she must have something to do with the sundrop flower -> i will summon her to help me find it What Could Go Wrong

(everything. everything could go wrong)

zhan tiri wasn’t opposed to helping at first because: oven mitt, but demanitus, being a youthfully stupid nineteen year old aristocrat, treated her like a servant instead of a powerful being he was petitioning for help so she was like; knock it off you brat, and ripped half his face off. 

cue bad decisions tango. after he seals zhan tiri for the first time (in the mountain beneath his family home, the dummy) he tries to settle down to raise a family but eventually the spreading corruption and his horrorterror eldritch vision gets to be too much so he fucks off into the night to become a vagrant warlock/artificer. gets obsessed with the moonstone and sundrop again. the drama with his trusted pupils betraying him and unleashing zhan tiri again happens when demanitus is in his sixties and his quest to figure out a way to get rid of her Forever puts him on the path that leads to him making himself a lich and triggering the desolation of aphelion. 

he has a big book of eldritch lore that he wrote over the course of his first century which he passed to his eldest grandson when he “dies,” to ensure that corona is protected by his legacy even when he’s not around. this gets handed down from parent to child for generations until it eventually ends up in the hands of his distant descendant, xavier. 

the disciples

sugracha il pchela, tromus matthiaos, and calanthe gothel were demanitus’s pupils and the only ones he trusted enough to bring with him to his ancestral home while searching for the sundrop. this backfired on him spectacularly when sugracha stumbled through the half-rotten magical bindings that kept zhan tiri imprisoned beneath his house, ended up haunted and sort of obsessed, and dragged matthiaos and calanthe down with her. sugracha and matthiaos were and still are extremely loyal; both of them like the power, sugracha sees zhan tiri as something of a muse, and matthiaos has a more classic scholar-patron relationship with her. calanthe on the other hand wanted immortality, decided the price zhan tiri demanded was too steep, and dipped as soon as she found the sundrop.

#rta #tts #bitter snow #[rambles about lore for nine pages] this is fine

[7-wonders]

Naked & Afraid

Summary: You finally (unwillingly, like everything else that’s happened to you since that night in the parking lot) meet your father-in-law in what is arguably some of the weirdest circumstances you’ve ever dealt with.

Word Count: 3734

A/N: What, Claire finally updated Mad Love? Hell must’ve frozen over and pigs are surely flying! Feedback is always appreciated (even the h8ers; bring it on hunny I’m always up for a throwdown), and if you liked this chapter I would love if you would reblog and/or leave me a comment!

Read Mad Love (part one) HERE | Read Totally F***ed (part two) HERE | Read The Isle of Flightless Birds (part three) HERE | Read A Hard Day’s Night (part four) HERE | Read Pour One Out (part five) HERE | Read Where Angels Fear to Tread (part six) HERE

Every single thing about Michael Langdon and the life that he lives is the epitome of luxury, so it comes as no surprise that the en suite bathroom that has been deemed yours is just as opulent as everything else you’ve seen. After an incredibly long week that’s seemed to stretch for months, the large, ornate bathtub is the only thing on your mind. After Michael cut dinner short tonight, an issue with the Cooperative requiring his attention, you found yourself sitting on your bed and trying to figure out what to do with an unexpected free evening. Your head is still spinning after everything that’s happened in the past couple of days, and a long bath is where you tend to do your best thinking and decompressing. Today, especially, there’s a lot to think about.

The sound of rushing water fills the bathroom and echoes off of the large granite walls (who has granite walls?). Sticking your hand under the steady stream, you fiddle with the knob for a few moments before finding your ideal temperature. The bathtub starts to fill quickly, and you pour a generous amount of some fragrant lavender bubble bath into the water. You sit back on the balls of your feet, waiting for the bath to fill to your desired depth before rushing to turn it off. Glancing one last time to make sure you remembered to lock the door, you yank your clothes off of your body before sinking into the bath.

You sigh audibly once the hot water covers your body, the heat immediately going to work at relaxing your muscles. Relaxing against the back of the porcelain tub, you turn your phone on to play some music and stare up at the ceiling. There’s a chandelier, because of course there is. Although the signature black is prevalent throughout the room, you’re pleased to see some accents of purple and silver as well. Your thoughts, which can never just remain on one topic for an extended period of time, quickly shift to what’s happened yesterday and today.

The major thing is, of course, the kiss that you shared with Michael mere hours ago. More specifically, why the hell did you reciprocate the kiss? He certainly didn’t use his magic on you; even if you didn’t know what magic felt like when it was used on you now, the stern warning that you would beat his ass scared him enough to not even consider it. But, it’s not as if you like him. At best, you’re starting to tolerate him. That doesn’t mean you’ve ever thought about kissing him before, no matter how soft his lips actually are.

Maybe it was a lapse in judgement? Or maybe drunk (Y/N) was still lurking in the darkest recesses of your mind, just waiting for a moment to come out and screw everything up. A single kiss does not equal attraction of any kind. Michael’s arrogant, nosy, doesn’t understand boundaries, is the literal Antichrist and, to top it off, kidnapped you to be his unwilling bride. But at the same time, he obviously didn’t have a very loving or normal childhood, and he’s been used as a puppet by so many: Ms. Mead, the Satanists, his father. You don’t empathize with him, or even excuse his actions due to what he’s gone through. You do, however, understand why he acts the way that he does; maybe that makes all the difference.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but it’s obvious that you did. One moment, you’re relaxing in a bathtub and pondering how weird your life has gotten, and then you blink and you’re here. Well, wherever ‘here’ is. Everything’s dark, as if you’re standing outside in an empty field with no sign of stars, the moon, or any lights. Your eyes take a minute to adjust, but even then you’re still unable to see any sign of life. Although you can’t see anything, you can feel that something, or someone, is here with you.

The hair on your arms prickles, goosebumps rising as you feel a pair of piercing eyes watching you. The worst part, though, is that you can’t tell which direction they’re looking at you from. Just when you turn around to try and catch them, the feeling’s from behind you. It’s everywhere: Your back, your arms, your side, your face. At times it feels like you’re nose to nose with this entity, even though there’s nothing there. Your breathing picks up, nervously coming out in visible puffs as you wrap your arms around yourself. Looking down suddenly, you’re grateful that you’re not still naked in this dream (or vision, or premonition). You’re wearing the same clothes that you were wearing earlier today, almost as if you had dressed yourself while asleep.

As far as you can tell, you’re alone. That is, until you’re not. You spin around in a slow circle one last time, shrieking loudly when you come face to face with a man. A small smile has his pink lips upturned, showing his amusement at your fear. He’s tall, tall enough that his neck is bent in order to look at you. His unruly black hair somehow manages to look like he styled it that way, and his hazel eyes seem to flicker and crackle with sparks. You stumble backwards, desperate to put some space between you and this stranger. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, reminding you of how Michael looks when he smells your fear in the air.

“Who are you?” Your voice, although you attempt to sound strong, comes out shaky and hesitant.

“I am known by many different names, and I possess many different faces.” He quips, taking one long step closer to you. “Mmm, but of course you would not recognize me as I am now, right, sweet (Y/N)?”

“How do you know my name?”

He doesn’t answer. In a split second, he’s changed from the man with the mop of black hair to a tall man with brown hair and brown eyes, a trimmed beard on his face. If it weren’t for the same sparks in his eyes, you would have thought it was a completely different person.

“Does this not work for you, either?” His form changes again, to that of a teenage boy in an ill-fitting sweater and ratty jeans. His blond hair hasn’t been combed in a while, but he has the same brown eyes as that of the man before him.

“Stop doing this!” You snap, half-tempted to smack him.

“Oh, but I think you will quite enjoy this next form.” Suddenly, Michael stands before you. It looks just like the Michael you know, except for those eyes. Michael’s eyes, the real Michael’s eyes, lack that odd flame in them that this person has.

“Change back.” You say through gritted teeth. You’re not sure why the sight of him makes you feel so odd, but it does.

“You are no fun at all.” He sighs, reverting back to the original form that you first saw him in.

“I’m going to ask you this one more time. Who. Are. You?” Your hands are balled into fists at your sides, and you can feel your nails digging into the calloused flesh there.

“‘The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.’” He quips. It sounds familiar, what he’s saying, but you have no clue where you would have heard something like this before. “Why did you react the way that you did when I assumed the image of my son?”

“Your son? Who’s your…” You trail off upon realizing the only person that he could possibly be referring to as his son. He smirks, knowing that you’re hoping with every fiber of your being that he’s not who you think he is.

“Such a smart woman you are, (Y/N).” His voice drips with the same saccharine that tempted Eve when she stood at that lonely tree in the Garden of Eden, listening to the lies of the serpent as he whispered in her ear that the Forbidden Fruit would provide her the same knowledge that God himself possessed. “Surely you have heard some of my names. Beelzebub, Mephistopheles, Lucifer--” he cuts himself off, and the grin that he shoots your way has you shuddering at the mere sight of it, “--Satan.”

“You can’t be, I--how am I here?” There’s so much about this situation that’s wrong, but for some reason your mind latches onto the sheer absurdity of waking up in an actual hellscape.

“My dear, I’m the Devil. A mere parlor trick is all it took to get you into my domain.” He spreads his arms wide, proud of the desolate landscape that stretches ahead for miles and miles.

“I’m not your ‘dear.’” You retort, eyes widening when you realize that you just sassed Satan himself. Instead of stealing your soul and banishing you to the Ninth Circle of Hell, which is what you’re expecting, he stares at you for a moment before laughing loudly.

“See, everytime I think that I chose the wrong mortal to be my son’s companion, you prove to me that I made the correct choice.” He seems proud of himself, standing tall and with his chest out.

“You ruined my life with your ‘choice.’”

Satan’s face falls, and he takes another step closer to you. “I have given you the opportunity to be great!”

“You stole my free will!”

“Thanks to me, you will rule the New World side-by-side with Michael. You are the missing link to bring about our plans for the Apocalypse. My son, as I am sure you have noticed, is all too human. I blame his mother; gentle, impassioned Vivien did not pass many things down to Michael, but she did manage to give the boy an overly caring heart. He needs someone to fulfill his heart’s desires, and who better than the one who was handpicked for him?”

“The Apocalypse,” you scoff, choosing to ignore the last part of his spiel for now as you look the Devil right in the eyes. “Why do you even want to bring about the Apocalypse? Once everyone’s dead, there’s no more new souls for you to torture.”

“Hell is not just made up of the souls of the damned, (Y/N). Legions of demons, swarms of locusts and scorpions, plagues that mankind has long since forgotten. My domain shall no longer be restricted just to Hell. Instead, Hell, and all of her beasts, will wreak havoc upon the Earth.”

“You want to kill billions of people, just so that you and your buddies can get your jollies?”

“Chaos and disorder are what keeps the world running. I am merely trying to make sure that only those who can survive the most chaotic of situations will populate the New World. Which, might I remind you, you shall have a hand in ruling.”

“I don’t want your fucking crown or kingdom.”

You go to whirl around, hoping that there will be some door that you missed when you first woke up here, but you’re faced again with Satan. When you try to back away from him, a ring of flames encircles both of you, effectively trapping you with him. He snatches your wrist, and your eyes widen at the sharp talons digging into your skin.

“Did your mother never teach you that gratitude is a virtue?” His voice comes out as a thunder, shaking the very ground that you stand on.

You really should tone down the sass and backtalk, but you can’t help it when a man as arrogant as any you’ve ever met stands mere inches away. “That’s really rich, coming from the literal Devil.”

“You foolish, insolent little girl. You have no idea what I am capable of.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as he loosens his grip on your wrist, allowing you to snatch your extremity back from him. You rub the skin, visibly marked and bleeding in areas where the talons pierced through, as gently as possible while trying to gain some feeling back into your tingling hand.

“I embody the seven deadly sins,” he continues. “I can become your greatest desire…”

You haven’t been looking at him while attending to your wrist, but your movements stop at the sudden change of voice when he reaches the end of his sentence. Moving your eyes slowly upwards, you let out a harsh breath when you’re greeted with Michael’s smirking face. The Michael doppelgänger slowly walks towards you, lifting a chilly hand up to your face and caressing your cheek.

“Don’t touch me.” You mutter, unable to look away from his cerulean eyes.

“C’mon, (Y/N),” even his mocking tone sounds just like the Michael that you know, “don’t play coy with me. I can see into the deepest parts of your soul. That purity that you try so furiously to embody, tinted black in some areas. You desire me, even though you hate to admit it.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.” He whispers, breath ghosting across your face while he moves even closer to yours. “The very essence of your being calls out for me, just as I call out for you. We were created for each other. No matter how much you try and fight it, we belong to each other. Soon enough, your mind will give into what your soul already knows.”

“Stop it!” You shout, shoving him away from you.

Satan goes stumbling back, caught off-guard by your sudden attack and nearly topping into the flames. When he rights himself again, he has a devil’s grin plastered across his original face.

“As I was saying, I can become your greatest desire, but I can also transform into your worst nightmare.”

He starts to shift and change, body convulsing as bones grow from out of nowhere. Satan’s no longer a man, although was the title of ‘man’ ever one that could be bestowed upon him? Instead, he’s a horrific, imposing creature with multiple heads that almost looks like some sort of dragon.

“‘And I saw a beast coming out of the sea,’” he bellows, all of the heads combining their voices to form a roar that has you clapping your hands over your ears. “‘It had ten horns and seven heads, with ten crowns on its horns, and on each head a blasphemous name.’”

Vaguely, you realize that the heads are quoting some part of the Book of Revelation, but you don’t have time to wonder about if the Devil has the Bible memorized when the heads of the beast unhinge their jaws, showing off their gaping maws and the dim glow of fire being conjured from deep in their belly. As the heads start to lower towards you, you drop to your knees and let out a blood curdling shriek.

Michael senses your panic before he hears your terrified screams. He springs up from his plush leather chair in his office, abruptly ending the phone call he was just on with a couple of world leaders. Your screams permeate the air, Michael’s heart pounding in terror at what you could possibly be experiencing right now. In his mind, there’s no time to waste. He blasts the bathroom door open the moment that it comes into view, hoping that you’ll forgive him for barging in on you while you’re nude.

Your subconscious, which Satan had pulled into Hell the moment your eyes slipped closed for longer than a second, had jolted back into your body upon sensing your imminent demise. In your panic, you had slipped under the water, inhaling mouthfuls of it as your lungs tried to breathe normally again. Your hands cling to the lip of the tub, almost like you’re worried that something will swim up from the depths of the bath and attempt to drag you back under. Alternating between screaming and coughing up the water that has invaded your lungs, your eyes remain clenched tight.

Michael reaches for you before his mind can start to think about the repercussions of doing so, arms slipping under your body and pulling you out of the water. His suit is soaking wet now, but he doesn’t care. He’s never seen you like this before, so terror-stricken that you can’t even open your eyes, and it shakes him to his core. You thrash against his firm chest, sure that Satan has shifted back and captured you in hell. It’s only when you hear his frantically calm reassurances that your body stops writhing.

“Hey, you’re okay, it’s fine. I’m here, nothing can hurt you.” He soothes you, waiting patiently for your eyes to flutter open.

“Michael? It’s...it’s actually you, right?” Your voice is meek in a way that he’s never heard before.

“Why wouldn’t it be me?” Your eyes fill with tears at the memory, and you shake your head before burying your face in his chest, sobs wracking your body. “What happened to you?”

The only sounds you make are the small whimpers that slip past the barrier of your mouth, floating to Michael’s ears. His fingers go to your back, freezing when he remembers that you’re naked. Hesitantly, he grabs a towel and wraps you in it, though you’re still too shocked to even care. Michael holds you tightly against him, rubbing circles on your back and listening to your heart to make sure it evens out. It takes a while, but it slowly manages to go to a rate that wouldn’t have an Apple Watch alerting its owner of a possible heart attack.

“(Y/N), is it okay if I get you dressed?” If your head wasn’t pressed against his chest, he wouldn’t even be aware that you had nodded in response to his request, the movement was so small.

Michael can tell that the steady metronome of his heart is calming to you, so he remains silent while he runs another towel through your hair. He’s gentle with you, almost like you’re a wisp of smoke he’s managed to capture in his hands; one wrong movement, and you’ll disappear. He helps to tug the black nightdress over your head, looking up at the ceiling while he inches it down past your thighs until you’re modest. A wave of his bejeweled hand makes the bathtub start to drain, the sound of the water level receding helping to fill the silence of the bathroom.

You’re exhausted, although you’re not sure if it’s from the near-drowning that still has your lungs feeling like they’re burning or the fact that Satan literally had you in Hell with him. When Michael picks you up in his arms, you don’t even bother to protest what he’s doing. The covers of your bed have already been turned down, likely the work of a maid slipping in while you were first in the bathroom. Michael sets you down amongst the plush pillows and starts to pull the blankets up around you, but stops when you grab his hand.

“It was Satan.” You mutter, tired eyes gazing up to see his panicked reaction.

“What?”

“Lay down with me.” Patting the spot on the bed next to you, Michael slowly slips his shoes off before sliding in next to you. You smile slightly at how he still respects your space, fingers just barely brushing against yours in an effort to not piss you off. “I must have fallen asleep while I was taking a bath. It felt like I only blinked, and suddenly I was in this pitch black landscape…”

You tell him everything about the confrontation with his father, only leaving out the part where Satan accused Michael of being your greatest desire. He listens intently throughout your entire story, saving all of his comments for after you’re finished.

“Why did he show himself to you?” Michael mutters, almost as if he’s talking to himself.

“Does he normally not do that?”

“I’ve never actually seen him before. My father has an...odd way of communicating with me, and that usually involves some sort of visions or rituals. I don’t understand why you’re--” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening while he lets out a sigh. “--he’s not pleased with either of us.”

“He couldn’t just have a friendly conversation with you instead of dragging me to Hell?”

“This was intended to be a message that would resonate with both of us. Would you have taken me seriously if he had spoken to me during a ritual?”

“You already know I wouldn’t.”

“Then what better way to voice his displeasure than by getting the skeptic, the unwilling second part of this equation, to be the messenger?”

“I don’t understand why he’s not pleased, though. I married you. Isn’t that enough?”

Michael grimaces. “You’re far more headstrong than he thought you would be. I think, when my father was picking a bride for me, he imagined that she would be this demure little thing who faithfully worshipped Satan and had already accrued a body count by her eighteenth birthday. You are almost the exact opposite of that, and it infuriates him. Any wrench in our plans means more time that’s wasted.”

“What you order on Amazon versus what shows up.” You joke, chuckling when Michael stifles a smile. “C’mon, that was funny!”

“It’s time for you to get some rest, (Y/N).” Michael reminds you, stroking your damp hair back from your face. His clothes are no longer wet, and you briefly wonder if he used his magic to dry them before nerves seize your stomach.

“Wait! Please don’t leave me.” You plead, gripping his arm tightly with both of yours. Michael looks concerned, and you sigh. “I’m scared that he’ll get me again if I fall asleep.”

Michael’s arms wrap around you, securing you against his chest. That steady rhythm that makes up his heartbeat starts to calm you again, and you use the sound to ground yourself.

“I won’t let him anywhere near you, I promise.” You can’t be too sure, considering how fast you drift off, but it feels like he lays a kiss to your forehead.

Michael keeps his promise, remaining with you until long after you’re asleep. When his own eyes start to slip closed, he allows himself to fall asleep next to you, protecting you no matter what.

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#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon imagines #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon fanfiction #american horror story #american horror story imagine #american horror story apocalypse #ahs #ahs imagine #ahs apocalypse #*taps on microphone* are these tags on???

[lemonietrinket]

King and Lionheart ||| King!Jungwoo x RoyalKnight!Reader

Part One

Genres: Fantasy, some Fluff, Angst but has a happy ending! Word Count: 2533 Warnings: Grisly ideas with a lot of death but no severe descriptions of it Theme Song: King and Lionheart - Of Monsters and Men

AN: Based kind of closely to the lyrics of the song? It’s really good! And I didn’t intend for this to be a two-parter, but yeah it turned out that way and I’m really sorry. Hopefully, it won’t be too long until Part Two is up. Thanks for reading!

~~~

The sky was an oil painting, vast brushstrokes of emerald steadily cloaking the azure-tinted clouds that graced the night. Stars speckled the deep blue silk as if a thousand ghosts were peering down at the horror that had unfurled at the foot of the fear-stacked mountains—thistle hued rock gashes in the snow.

The streets were crowded with translucent spirits, their bodies chained in silver to their spots. Their eyes were piercing, staring into the souls of those still attached to the mortal plane, filled with sorrow and the ferocity of dry anger.

But though it should have been, their fury was not aimed at you.

The two of you picked your way through the street. Jungwoo stumbled, his eyes meeting those of the lost, the slow tears refusing to halt. A neverending cascade, striking trails across his mottled cheeks. Trembling lips were silent, the only exception being his hushed breaths that collided with the air and froze.

You watched him carefully as you stepped over rubble from the ceremonial grounds, eyes never leaving his wavering features. Golden flags were torn and muddied with charred remains at his feet, as he came to a stop at a mother’s spirit hovering at the lengths of her restraints. A fragile, swallowed whimper left his body. It felt as if it carried his whole body behind it, yet was so quiet you almost missed it.

You took to his side, standing between him and the wayward figure. Your hand cradled his shoulder, leading him away from the remnants and into the middle of the abandoned street.

You had aimed only to talk to him, but he broke, pressing his head into the furs at your neck and crying openly.  His sobs remained to be the worst sound you had heard, and you had heard many things.

Creatures built like towers made of scales fashioned of the carcasses they feasted upon, whose screams grasped at the depths of your heart. Abominations crafted of salt that tore at their own injuries as they battled, forcing bloodcurdling roars so grating that you could not believe they could emanate from something that was once human.  The guttural clicks from the bone crusted maws of a beast you never did fully lay eyes upon, and you praise the deities above that made that so, daily.

None of it compared to the wound his sadness inflicted. 

And there he was, his eyes as warm as summer nights where a blanket was no longer needed, his voice as sweet and smooth as butternut, his smile as bright and beautiful as the moon... he was the kindest soul. He greeted magpies no matter their number, and left food grown in the royal gardens for the deer of the forest. 

He was your King, and you were his lionheart. You’d fight whatever came his way—and it wasn’t simply because of the job anymore, it had moved beyond that level a long time ago—and you’d protect him no matter the cost.

.

You held is larger frame in your arms, a thick glove easing his hood rimmed with ermine, pure and speckled with onyx, over his light hair. As he trembled, you felt your heart twist.

None of this was his fault. If you had not opened the gate, after hearing his ‘voice’, had thought rationally about the logistics of the height of the wall and how, in the spontaneous game, he could have gotten over to the other side to call your name, everything would have been fine.

You had a hand in the disaster, meanwhile, he played no part. And yet he blamed himself.

“Don’t look at them, Woo,” you whispered reassuringly, “they may be angry, but it is not aimed at you—it never will be.”

He whined, clutching at your padded coat as he clung even closer to you.

It was a lie. It was aimed at him. Though not rightly.

.

He’d inherited a tumultuous throne that he hadn’t been raised for, had faced three onslaughts and the threat of war at least once, all of which caused by bad decisions on the behalf of his predecessor, his childless, wreckless cousin. The people were angry before the fourth invasion arrived, though they had mostly kept it to themselves.

It wouldn’t have a chance to outpour, at least when they were alive. Now their spirits inhabited the streets linked to their chains, and they had the chance to show their anger in their cursed form of the afterlife. 

It wasn’t his fault.

Even a country with the strongest army and all the resources of the world and preparation time leaking into months could not have withstood what had massacred the city.

They called themselves the Jotun but it was foul play to call themselves by that name, as even a true Jotun would not have been able to do what they did. Their attacks left people in pain long after death, as they stole everything, including the bodies of the people left unguarded.

It was fair to say there were no survivors, besides the two of you.

Just the King and Lionheart, heading south to seek help.

.

.

.

Your eyes scoured the busy streets, every stall, every face, every shadow, every crevice. You saw no danger, but you could not find him anywhere. You jumped in a poor attempt to see over the heads of the masses. But his bunny smile and his long white coat were nowhere to be seen.

You’d left for the best part of an hour, waiting to see the King of the realm of Aldworth. After attempting to be granted an audience with the three previous dominions that you had passed through to no avail, the King—a lady nearly as tall as the doors she had built with her own hands—had given you the opportunity to speak.

Your King had been left outside. You knew it would have been better for him to be the one that performed the speech—the plea for aid and forces to relinquish his kingdom from the control of the Jotun—but as soon as the words had come to your lips you recognised the dimmed glow his eyes and changed your mind.

The King had let you leave as she worked with her advisors to decide, but now, yours was missing. 

Crowds of people scurried from left and right, then round and round and back again. Their bodies melded and waned, shades of brown to black, like the warm earth of ice-moult. Their lungs made weak clouds, that amalgamated into one thin mist, their voices carrying like the war cry of a long-slumbered deity of thunder, and their smiles narrowed into deceit.

And then a weight smashed into your back, very nearly knocking you off-guard.

Your hand flicked upwards out of instinct, to find no hilt. 

It was then you realised that the arms at your neck were not malicious, and fit snugly at your collarbones, as a certain pair had always done.

“I’m sorry!” the man exclaimed, but there was the familiar lilt of mischief in his voice. 

You gazed back, feeling your back unfurl and tendons relax, to see a huge grin on his face. “Jungwoo! Where were—? What did you do?”

“Nothing!” he cried, just as he always did whenever he had something to hide. 

You sighed. “Your Majesty, I’ve known you since we were children, I think I know when you’re lying to me. Now—”

He suddenly let go, swinging round to look at you, face to face. 

That was something you could never quite face confidently, his intense stare. Deep irises of earth, when the ice-melt had washed away and left the ground umber in the place of pristine. Everything else you showed no fear, but with him, you felt your iron shell melt. He’d gotten them from his mother. 

“I hid, because I wondered what you would do if I didn’t turn up,” he admitted, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands entwined behind his back, “but then I felt too bad, and I was scared you’d throw a man into the ocean again, so I came straight back.”

“Is that all?” You frowned, ignoring the subtle dig.

He nodded enthusiastically, whispering an apology in a tone a thread away from serious.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling. “Honestly, Your Majesty—”

“Woo! You always call me Woo, why aren’t you calling me Woo now?” he interjected, forcing his lip to quiver.

You pursed your own. “Because we are in public and it is not etiquette to refer to a monarch by nickname, and you know that, Your Majesty, now please—”

“But I like being called Woo!” he exclaimed. A few merchants sent the two of you a few unnerved glances as they passed. You responded with a glare, and it had the desired effect, as they scuttled off towards the docks.

Jungwoo seemed to go into deep thought for a brief moment, eyes wandering about somewhat vacantly before he managed to reach a conclusion. “Wait! If I order you to call me Woo, doesn’t that mean you have to?”

You opened your mouth to begin, before you halted yourself. Though it was an unexpected conclusion, Jungwoo wasn’t exactly wrong. And with his beautiful eyes glittering in the knowledge that he’d won, you had half a mind to give in. Luckily rationality kicked in, and you swiftly decided it was safer to attempt to move on. 

“As I was saying, Your Majesty, I expected so much worse than you merely hiding, and so please refrain from minor tricks—”

“Oh!”

You huffed. Being held by hierarchical convention really did take the pinch of salt sometimes.

Jungwoo smiled that radiant grin that rivalled the sun as he continued. “And I bought this with the savings money!” 

You were about to request as calmly as you could manage to let you finish when he unclasped his hands from behind his back to reveal a hulking great sword gripped feebly between his fingers.

It had a hilt made of what looked to be pure gold, engraved with a series of runes and pictographs, telling something of a great hero slaying an ineffable beast from the oceans. Its edge was so clear and gleaming that even you had no idea what it was fashioned of—only that it could perhaps cleave bone in two, and that it had the appearance of costing the entire lot of your savings.

Words tumbled from your tongue, quivering and broken. “What is—? Jungwoo?!”

“Look it’s alright! You needed a new one after your old one broke and this one is pretty and the seller said it was magic so—”

“Jungwoo!”

“Y/N!” he said mock-sternly, though his expression seemed to be tinted with a seriousness you rarely got to see. “You are my holy, royal, sacred, personal knight! I can’t allow you to be under-resourced. That would make me a bad king, right?” He paused, and you originally expected that it was in an effort to await your affirmation. However, it dawned on you quickly that it was worse than that. His face fell, the smile that had the power to turn even the strongest hearts to putty dissipating on his features, until you were left with only an expression of emptiness before you. 

“Who am I kidding, Y/N... I’m already a bad king,” he sighed, swallowing thickly as he tried to hold the threads of his voice together, “and not giving you a sword to help you do your job—the job that I gave you, that you didn’t ask for... that would make me the worst king known.”

His words left you stunned, a condition you hadn’t felt in so long that you couldn’t place the last time you had experienced the loss of words, the swimming of your thoughts, the lack of clarity and solutions. 

When you remained unbudged, lips agape and eyes wide and concerned, he continued, “You’ve gotten me through so much, Y/N. You’re my best advisor, my oldest and closest friend, my... my only friend... you’re the last survivor of my kingdom, besides myself. You deserve much more than this, but... this is all I can give you.”

You felt your throat tighten, breath staggered. You knew you should accept the sword, but your hands stuck by your side.

The wind slowly picked up, toying with the crimson flags of the street as the people of the marketplace seemed to fade into alleyways and nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice nearly so low the breeze almost carried it away, his lip trembling as his gentle face crumpled.

It was at his unnecessary words that something snapped in your brain.

“No apologies,” you stated bluntly, swinging into gear after buffering and taking the sword swiftly in one hand, “not to me at least. We will get the kingdom back, your people back, we’ll get everything back—no matter the cost.” You weighed the weapon in your palms, scarred from numerous grapples and close encounters with the old acquaintance of Death, and raised the blade where you could see the reflections of the sky, watery and pale. “When this sword and I are done, there will not be a single Jotun left.”

“Promise me...” he began.

You lowered the sword, to meet the gaze of his watery eyes, only to find his head still bowed. “Your Majesty?”

There was a wavering exhale, as he worked up the effort to speak rather carefully, “Promise me that the cost will not be you.”

You paused. Even if you’d known him for as long as your memory allowed you to know, this man was always full of surprises. Or perhaps your ignorance had stunted your awareness to see this one coming. 

“Is that what you would prefer?” you enquired clearly, turning your head to try and get a better view of his expression. “Over your sacred duties to the throne and the guilt of losing the people?”

Jungwoo didn’t move. He remained still for the longest time, beyond the point that you began to worry. You could almost hear the thoughts, whistling through his mind at the speeds of a gale, crashing like an avalanche through a village against the walls of his mind.

You were about to call his name when he finally lifted his head. His features were stone, firm-set yet saddened.

He nodded once, and you were left stunned.

“Even if the cost of my life was the only way to bring them all...?” 

He nodded again, with more clarity, a determination in his eyes that you knew would not fade, no matter the words you spent. You’d only seen it once before, on the day that he asked you to be his knight, his guard for his life. You had been completely unable to turn his words down then too, if you had even wanted to.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “you are my King, Woo.” You divulged in a final glance of your reflection in the blade, before adjusting the old sheath that had remained upon your back. “And so, your word shall be done.”

The sword slotted into the leather as if it destiny was made in those pure seconds alone. 

~~~

Part Two - coming soon

Masterlist

[edited: 2/04/2020] 

#jungwoo #jungwoo nct #jungwoo x reader #jungwoo angst #jungwoo fic #jungwoo multiparter #nct x reader #nct imagine #jungwoo imagine #jungwoo x reader imagine #jungwoo x reader adventure #jungwoo fantasy au #jungwoo royal au #nct angst #jungwoo x reader angst #nct x reader angst

[one-of-us-must-be-crazy]

6?

things you said under the stars and in the grass

What up, this got super dark! I recently found out that the little bitch of a mental problem I have stems from ~trauma~ according to science, and becuase Ripley clearly hasn’t suffered enough, I played around with some of the symptoms of this ~absolute bullshit~ illness. Anyhow, vague references to ideation and intrusive thoughts of s*lf harm, so…read with care? Don’t worry too much, I know ya’ll come here for the cute shit and there’s plenty of that too.

“We don’t have to go home,” Ripley says, angry at herself for using the word ‘home’ instead of Luna and implying her preference of locale. Angry, too, that she grew roots, angry that she was satisfied when she only ever had been a drifter, leaving the second that things felt safe and warm, preferring the honesty of the cold detachment to past jobs, neighbors, and various places. 

“You’re very strange, you know.” It’s a kind way to phrase ‘absolute headcase’ and she knows well that he wouldn’t ever call her that, or think it, but she knows too that it’s true. A plethora of complexes and traumas and fears that make her once short fuse a non-existent one. 

Anymore she’s a pile of gunpowder in a world of small fires, and just two days ago she dropped the (plastic) sugar jar over coffee and began screaming, shaking in anger and rage that felt like it materialized out of thin air, so much awfulness coming out that she didn’t think she could stop, knowing it was absurd, knowing she was having a temper-tantrum like a child, but if she stopped screaming a string of profanities aimed at the jar, at herself, at the whole fucking satellite, she thought for sure she’d implode, guts boiling over. 

They had already chosen the dates for a camping trip, a first trip to Terra (dumb as hell, she knew that too, to take him to the middle of fucking nowhere instead of some city, some cultural center where he could see humanity and maybe learn something, feel something. Maybe she was afraid his intelligence and curiosity would take away his focus from her, unlike here where he’d be forced even closer to her, and sure she’s the first to deny that he’s a PA program, but really what was she using him for? 

Ripley loved this wonderful person, yes, but there was always that nasty cloud in the back of her head that reminded her she loved the way Chris treated her, and loved the attention and dedication, and maybe that was why this person so far removed from anything she’d ever wanted before appealed to her so much.

“Why do you say that?” she says, the racing thoughts making her words faster to make up for the time between what he said and when she answered, anxious that it was too long, knowing logically it was just a moment.

“Becuase you’re still under a great deal of mental duress, and you choose to sleep in a tent that provides only minimal shelter, and spend your time with me, still, after over a year of being back in human company. Becuase you’re offering a computer with legs the choice of where you spend your future.” 

She considers his words, spoken with an admiration close to hero-worship, a distant form of love she has to keep pulling him back from, she’s only a human, and a very poor one at that. This hatred of nothing, maybe of herself, definitely of herself, possibly of other things, but this raging blind hatred that forms a drastic black cloud over so many slight inconveniences, that turned her world into stark extremes (he’s late, clearly he’s not coming home, go fuck yourself, it’s your fault, you should just–), perhaps she’s always had it.

You have to have something foul in your shriveled heart to have murdered again and again without immediate feeling (but I didn’t, I hurt so horribly with fear and grief each time I thought I would fall over), without remorse (every day, every fucking day, I feel it). 

A machine programmed to be dedicated to its owner is the only thing that ever stayed around you. 

The last thing that she wants is to be touched right now, but oblivious to what she’s containing in her head, aware that whatever is going on in his mind is likely of an unpleasant nature too, she doesn’t fight off when he reaches out and takes her hand in his, a little tighter than what would be considered comfortable. 

“Hard to think of it, isn’t it?” he breaks her silence again, and she doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck what he’s doing with this bullshit small talk, can’t they–

“What?”

“Luna. The moon. Seen from down here as humans only ever saw it, and to think there’s a city there now, sprawling, an expansive training base….our home. All contained in that silver glow.”

“Pearl.”

“Pardon?”

“Every fucking poet and shit alway wanted to call the moon silver, and it’s not, it’s fucking pearl, it’s one lonely sad little orb on the horizon and–”

“Amanda?” He sits up onto his elbows, and Amanda forces her eyes shut against the burn of angry tears.

“Fuck. Sorry. It’s not silver.”

“No,” he says softly, lying back down, “I suppose it isn’t.”

“If you like it better here, we don’t have to go back.” She says it out of duty, out of consideration, because this kind and patient man deserves the world and he’s trapped himself with her, and they’re out here looking at stars like they’re young and ignorant that there are monsters out there, and every moving speck of light could be carrying them like a fucking plague ship full of ghosts, corpses, and demons. Later he’ll surprise her with something else, like the wine he had brought last night, or the popcorn he taught himself to make over a fire their first night, and then he’ll climb into the two sleeping bags they had zipped together, hold her like she’s something special and–

“Would you like to go home?” he asks her, ignoring her previous question.

“Why the hell would we cut this trip short?”

“You haven’t been….You aren’t yourself this week, maybe resting in your own bed could be better for you?”

Whatever God that could be that could ever give a shit about her worthless soul still help her, she almost told Samuels to fuck himself.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,”

“I feel like this all the time, it’s always there, even if it’s not loud it’s just…fucking there like some annoying white noise and yes, I’m myself right now, becuase this is what I am. A fucked up asshole.”

“I’m not going to debate with you on that, or argue about how you feel. I’ll never know, I never could know. I haven’t seen what you have or done what you’ve had to do without choice, or lived the life you have, but I’ve seen you smile and laugh, and I’ve seen you light up with joy like stars,” she’s still looking at the sky, afraid to look at him, so angry and so scared at once that it feels like something is eating at her heart and for a terrified second she puts her hand over her chest to feel if something’s about to claw out of it.

She glimpses to the side; he’s still focused on the sky too.

“Amy,” he inches closer to her, and it makes her feel like a cornered animal.

“What?”

“If I told you that you were coming down with the flu, would you allow me to take care of you, assist you in caring for yourself, or take you for professional human medical attention?”

“Not this analogy again,”

“You’re broken, that doesn’t mean you can’t be helped, or mended entirely.”

The bubble of anger is about to burst, and she came close to hitting him once in the past, lashing out becuase he was unlucky enough to be there and ask her to stop screaming.

“I don’t want to talk about it, I really don’t,” she was suddenly all too hot, and sat up enough to take off her sweater, dressed down to her sports bra and shorts. 

“You’ll freeze,”

“You’re warm enough,” she said, the closest thing to affection she could state right now, and when she didn’t flinch at his further motions to approach, he wriggled up against her, moving his arm so she could rest her head on his shoulder–harder than the autumn ground, but at least warmer than it was.

“You’re a good person, love. I’ve met so many bad ones, I would know,” he said, and kissed the top of her head softly.

#annie gets anons #I'm always rabid for feedback but for this I would really really appreciate reactions #since it was a hella personal take on it

[purplesurveys]

556

What's something that means a lot to you? My dog. How do you like your potatoes? French fries, baked potatoes, baked chips, and mashed potatoes. Who's your best friend? My girlfriend and Angela. What was on the last sandwich you ate? I don’t eat a lot of sandwiches...I think the last one I bought was a Monte Cristo from Starbucks andddddd Google says it has ham, cheese, and egg batter in it. Who was the last person you talked to? Personally, my sister. In general, it was Gab.

What's a TV show you never miss? I don’t like watching shows as they air because I HATE cliffhangers and waiting entire weeks for new content, so I can’t really answer this because the shows I watch are either over (Breaking Bad, Friends) or they roll out full seasons of it on Netflix (The Crown, Queer Eye, Black Mirror). Who stars in your favourite movie? Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney. Do you think Lady Gaga will ever become an actress? Well, she is now. She even won an Oscar – granted it was for a song, but still. Who sits beside you in your period 2 class? I have different classes everyday and I barely know my classmates in all of them. I never was the kind of person who minded being alone in my subjects. What movie did you last see in theaters? Hello, Love, Goodbye. What would you do if someone ran up and hugged you? If it was a man that I didn’t know, I would probably just look at him in fear and be petrified. If it was someone else I’d give them the benefit of the doubt and ask if they knew me from somewhere. Do you like the band Train? I just like the one song of theirs, Hey Soul Sister. I’m not really interested in their other songs. Have you ever lied about your gender? No. What was the last alcoholic beverage you consumed? Rum and coke, but there was definitely more rum in it than coke. Are you funny? I can be, if I’m with the right people and in the right disposition.

What are you planning on doing on your next birthday? 22...I dunno really. Dinner with my girlfriend would already sound wonderful. What words can make you happy every time you hear them? Last-minute “There will be no class today/tomorrow” emails from professors. Have you ever been to Las Vegas? No.  Has a movie ever made you cry? Of course. Do you smile open-mouthed or closed-mouthed? Open-mouthed if the camera is a little far away or if I’m in a group shot; closed-mouthed if the camera is near or if I’m part of a selfie because I’m conscious of my teeth. When was the last time you went outside? Yesterday I went to school. What gaming systems do you own? The only one we regularly use is the PS4, but we had had a lot of consoles in the past because my dad, sister, and brother all play video games. Do you know anyone else with your last name other than family? Sure. It’s not very common, but not completely rare either. I’ve seen a handful of people with the last name. When was the last time you wore a bathing suit? Last week of August when we went to Nasugbu for a day trip to the beach. Does anyone have a crush on you? I would hope Gab still has one on me. What's your best friend's ex's name? Angela hasn’t had an ex. She’s had crushes and almosts before, though. When was the last time you laughed? Not sure. Maybe a few minutes ago looking at memes on Facebook. Do you like fish & chips? I don’t really like fish, so no. Is your favourite band still together? They are but they haven’t been making new material. Are you a trekkie? I thought this referred to a person who liked trekking lmaoooo but looking at the definition, I am most definitely not. Any movies you’re looking forward to seeing? I know it’s not supposed to be a groundbreaking piece of cinema but I cannot wait to watch the new Charlie’s Angels with Kristen in it. Where do you see most of your concerts? The shows I go to are typically at the Mall of Asia Arena. The two times it had been in a different place was for Coldplay and One Direction, but even those shows were held in the Mall of Asia Concert Grounds, which is in the same complex, just outside. What color do you wear most? Black, I think. What's your mom's name? Her nickname is Abby. Have you ever had escargot? I’ve had snails in the past but not escargot. What do you think about the recent discovery of water on the moon? I think any discovery in space is breathtaking. What ad is on the side of your page currently? There aren’t any ads on Tumblr at the moment. I’m not so sure if they entertain ads on this side at all, actually. Do you use Google every day? Yeah, I use Chrome. What's your favorite kind of sandwich? Monte Cristo or banh mi. How many cavities do you have? I dunno. But I have to go to the dentist soon for sure because I’ve been getting the WORST, head-splitting toothaches in the last couple of weeks. Do you have braces? Nope. But I used to have them. What time do you wake up on an average day? This semester, it’s either 5:30 or 7 AM depending on my first class of the day. If I can sleep in I usually fully wake up by 8:30 at the latest. Do you take foreign language classes? I don’t, because in my curriculum I don’t have to. Do you like facial hair? If it’s taken care of well, I don’t mind it. Any closing words? Bring on the surveys.

#survey #surveys

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 5 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: The Youth of Bacchus is listed publicly as being part of a “private collection”, so AU-fictionally-speaking, who knows, it could theoretically belong to the Shepherds. I’ve been meaning to feature Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in some kind of story for ages, as I’ve loved it all my life (I listened to this version a lot while I wrote this part). I had to include a little nod to my fellow Sagittarius, Jane Austen, with her famous line, spoken by Darcy to Lizzie in a moment of passionate abandon, from Pride & Prejudice (“you have bewitched me, body and soul”), though the title of my fic came originally from the song Hypnotised by Years & Years, as I’ve mentioned before. I mirrored the “breathing” advice from their mothers on purpose. That moment Kenzie stares at Duncan with tears in her eyes over dinner was my homage to that gif floating around of Mallory looking across the table (I always imagine she’s looking at Michael). I’m learning some fascinating stuff from my research for this fic, including the fact that in order to be issued a Black AmEx (“Centurion Card”) you need a special invitation and are required to pay an initiation fee of $7500 with an annual fee of $2500. Rumor has it (it hasn’t been confirmed on record) that Black Card holders need a net worth of around $16 million to qualify. I also learned that Bordeaux goes well with duck a l’orange, which, as a vegetarian, is a thing I probably would have never known otherwise. The line “Then I must be thy lady, but I know / When thou hast stolen away from fairy land” is from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Bouguereau cunnilingus I came up with in my sleep last night and I’m totally in love with it. His painting Evening Mood (which Duncan thinks of when Kenzie is standing there naked in the candlelight) is enshrined at the Museum of Fine Arts, in Cuba. I’m so proud of this part; I worked really hard on it and put a lot of my own emotions into it. I’m proud of what I’ve written here and what I’ve done so far with this story, and that’s a wonderful feeling. If anyone else wants to do visual edits or moodboards for the fic, I’d be so thrilled. The one @nat-de-lioncourt made (here) made me ecstatically happy. I posted some screenshots of the playlist I made for writing the fic on my Twitter, if you’re interested in my music influences/the mood I’m trying to create so far.  And as ever, if you’re reading and enjoying, your comments mean everything to me.

Duncan felt as though his spirit was trying to break free from his body. He was leaning against the obsidian counter in his spotless kitchen, his sleek black phone clutched in his hands, tapping it every now and again to check the time, quiet strains of classical music coming from the turntable in the corner of his office; Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. He fiddled with the cufflinks of his shirt again; they were rose gold with black onyx stones. He ran his fingers down his Balmain one-button velvet jacket, breathing deep, letting it out at a measured pace, re-adjusting the collar of his black shirt, though it had already been perfectly straight. Annette had taught him to breathe carefully from the time she had begun to bring him to public events with her when he was still in elementary school. “Never let them see your nervousness,” she had insisted, holding his small hand in hers, pushing at his back so he’d stand straight. “These people feed on weakness, and you must appear to be untouchable them. Breathe until your fear fades away. You can’t use it where you’re going.”

Oddly, he often thought it was the best advice his mother had ever given him. You can’t use it where you’re going; as if his destiny was to do something great, no matter his own doubts about himself. She had always said it with absolute conviction. He knew his mother loved him. That was an absolute, unshakeable truth. Maybe she could accept Kenzie, because I think I love her. He brought his hand to his chin in that familiar tick, running his right index and middle fingers over his bottom lip. That thought had come unbidden, like a tide to the shore. God. I think I do. I don’t know her yet, but I think I love her. It’s so strange.

He made himself breathe out again, focusing his attention on the strains of the Sonata’s first movement; it had always made him think of the dead of night, some abandoned moor far from civilization, bathed in the glow of the moon and a universe full of a million stars hovering above, looking down on the tiny rock of humanity with a studied, sympathetic indifference. Wretched humankind, he thought, moving slowly to the study, all alone in an empty cosmos. It was a thought he’d had many times before, but this time, oddly, his resolute conviction in it faltered. Maybe alone. Maybe not. His eyes fell over the painting that stretched, colossal, against the wall facing his desk.

It was Bouguereau's The Youth of Bacchus. His mother had bought it for him for his 18th birthday: yes, the original. The Shepherds had a net worth of over 3 billion, and she had insisted he needed a legitimate piece when he’d moved into his penthouse alone. He’d always loved it; “it reminds me of when you were a boy and I bought you those mythology books you’d read for hours and hours,” Annette had said, her finger stroking his cheek. He’d gone through a period in his adolescence where he was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology; had practically every book ever published on the subject, most of them still on his study shelves, though Edith Hamilton’s was always his favorite. He had gazed at the bacchanalia depicted in the painting countless times, its naked, dancing figures, feverish in their revelry; sometimes he would come here and sit in the leather chair behind the mahogany desk, just to stare at it until whatever vinyl he’d placed on the turntable wound down to silence. It had always been odd to him that though the painting referred to Bacchus’ youth (he, the god of hedonism), he was depicted as a pot-bellied old man in it, teetering on a donkey. Duncan had long-ago decided that Bouguereau meant it in reference to Bacchus’ spirit, his essence, one of endless mischief and debauchery. He thought back on the many nights he’d indulged in debauchery himself; the women and men he’d taken into his bed, careless to know their names, content with the pleasures of the flesh, rarely feeling the impulse to see them again. When your mother was Annette Shepherd, you could afford to pay off any troublesome, tiresome attentions. Duncan found that though he’d often felt lust, any experience he’d had until last night had not deigned to come close to the wild, somehow almost painful, intoxicating energy he’d felt when Mackenzie Stone was in his arms. It was as if he’d never known what passion truly was until the moment he’d kissed her, her mouth opening to him; hadn’t understood the winding way of the universe at all until she’d been under him, her sweet whisper in his ear, her small hands on his skin, around his length, in his hair. Her smell, her touch, her presence was like waking up for the first time on a cool spring morning after winter, seeing the sunlight course over some distant hill, watching auburn clouds float into the ether as dawn kissed the world. She had reminded him, or perhaps made him realize truly for the first time, that being alive was miraculous indeed; and he wanted the feeling again, the grip of the desire to live. And that was passion, he thought. Passion was her eyes, where he’d seen her soul floating behind them, seeing his, as though they’d been long lost from each other, and now, finally, had found each other again, through time.

Bewitched, body and soul, he thought, and he could not remember what the line was from. God, but that’s how I feel. He’d considered himself a staunch atheist since he was little more than a child, but something about this woman, this wondrous angel so she seemed, made his resolve falter for the first time in memory. Maybe there is something out there, he thought, surprising himself, a shiver falling down his spine under the weight of his velvet jacket, the C-sharp minor of the Sonata boring into his mind. She exists, and she is some kind of miracle, so maybe something is. Fuck. It was as if someone else had entered his body since last night; the better version of himself, desperate to be good enough for her, desperate to hope for a world where she truly existed, and was not some free-falling fantasy of his own invention.

He fiddled with his onyx cufflinks, clearing his throat, moving to where he kept a small bar cart beside the table the record player rested on, an ornate, priceless Tiffany lamp beside it. He poured a finger of bourbon and drank it down, wiping his lips on the back of his hand as the final strokes of the first movement ended. He glanced at his watch (the Cartier again); it was 8:20 PM. It was time to go; time to go to her.

Surprising himself again, he thought out a silent prayer for the first time since he was a boy: if anyone is out there, give me courage.

------

Samuel shut the door behind Duncan as he slid into the backseat of the black BMW. Duncan felt as though he could jump out of his skin at any moment; his resolve was trembling, and the feeling was truly putting him off-guard. Am I actually good enough for this woman? The thought flitted across his mind and he felt utterly shaken by it, as though someone else had invaded his mind. But he knew the thought was his own. He knew he was truly wondering what he’d done to deserve her in his bed, enraptured, the euphoria of her seeping into his senses. He couldn’t believe he was about to see her again. His body felt like it was vibrating, the bourbon he had drunk to calm his nerves giving them an edge instead, an overwhelming intensity.

“Are you alright, Mr. Shepherd?” Samuel was sitting in the driver’s seat again, peering at Duncan over his glasses, a combination of concern and amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Samuel, I need your good thoughts tonight,” Duncan replied, his guard down. “I need all the help I can get. I’m enamoured with this woman. I’m crazy about her.”

“Let your heart be your guide, Mr. Shepherd.” Samuel held his gaze for a moment, and then looked down, toward the stretch of asphalt in front of Duncan’s high rise. The car moved forward, streamlined, humming quietly, toward Duncan’s destiny.

----

Duncan had texted Mackenzie again a few hours before; after the conversation during which she’d gazed at her phone in awe, falling into the constellation of Cancer on her bed, unbeknownst to him. He’d asked for her address; it was now programmed into Samuel’s GPS, so he could see the minutes counting down to their arrival. He took another deep breath; let it out in a steady stream, opposing thumb pressing into his palm; his eyes, sapphire-like, gazed out the window, reflecting the glowing lights of a Washington evening. He thought of Kenzie in her little black dress, her ankles wrapped in laces, the crystal floating at her throat, her eyes, gazing at him, full of hidden emotion. Her voice rising in his shower; baby, I want you to come. He closed his eyes and his head, crowned in curls, fell back on the leather seat. God, her fingers in mine, her hard little nipples and sweet clit in my mouth and the feeling of her body clenching around mine, how was that real, how is it still all so real and yet like a dream, the smell of vetiver and her skin, her moans, her hair glowing in the light over the bed--

“Mr. Shepherd, we’re here.”

His eyes snapped open, an involuntary fear rising in them. They’d pulled up to an apartment complex, relatively modern, with glass doors leading to an entryway and the doors of the inner apartments visible within.

Kenzie.

“Here I go.”

Samuel nodded, the wry smile playing around his mouth again.

“Mr. Shepherd.”

For the breadth of a heartbeat, Duncan paused, then he pushed the door of the BMW open and stepped onto the sidewalk. Apartment 1R was Mackenzie’s; she’d texted even her apartment number to him. She was trusting him with it, and he understood this innately. He straightened his Balmain jacket (already straight), rubbed the finger into his palm again, ran that nervous, constant hand against his bottom lip, and walked to the glass door, pulling it open. The second door was locked; he saw a neat row of buzzers beside it, each with a tile clearly printed with apartment numbers underneath. 1R. Stone. He breathed in again, long and low, and pressed the buzzer.

He held the breath as the moment hung there, unmoving.

Then a buzzing sound emanated from the foyer where he stood; he pulled the second door open.

Inside, there were four apartments in a long row, and a corner where the hallway turned towards more apartments along the next wall. He walked (wearing black Saint Laurent Wyatt boots tonight, the buckles hidden beneath the hem of his tailored slacks) to the end, where the corner began; 1R. A gold crescent moon ornament, hung from a small nail and a gold-painted, braided length of rope, shimmered in the hallway light against the door. There was a one-sided peephole facing him; he stared at it for a moment; he breathed again, and then he knocked.

An aching pause again; and then she opened the door.

Mackenzie stood there, her chestnut waves falling down over her shoulders and her back (moons along her head, he thought, stunned, moonlight in her hair), and she met his gaze, her hazel eyes aglow with silent fire, though her expression was full of apprehension she clearly had not been able to conceal. He went to speak, but his breath seemed caught in his lungs; he looked at her and his heart was struck with a quiver of aching need. Her mouth was darkly colored; her eyelids were dark, black kohl around her eyes; tonight she was like the hidden face of the moon, and he was immediately beguiled, under her spell.

She was wearing a dress that seemed to be cut out of the air itself; its neckline plunged down through the space between her breasts, coming together beneath them in a deep V, the skin there luminous in the light (I want to kiss that skin now); it was black like the dress she’d been wearing the night before, but it had long sleeves that came down to past her wrists, pointing towards her knuckles. It had been tailored to her small waist, tailored so it hugged against the rise of her chest and the elegant inclines of her arms, and then it fell from her hips, in waves of more silken velvet an inch above her knee, waves he wanted to kneel into, bury himself inside. Knee-high heeled boots stretched along her slender legs (the legs whose ankles I kissed, their redness building an ache in me, he thought), their toes coming to points, but the stretch of skin between where the boots began and her skirt ended was entrancing to him; he wanted to press his mouth there and move it up between her legs again; he ached at the thought. Around her neck was a velvet choker (my hands there my lips on her mouth), and hanging from it was a black inverted moon, its crescent points hanging down towards her shoulder blades. The sight of it sent a cool chill along the back of his neck; it seemed an omen, occult and knowing, a feminine eye that knew him and could see all of his secrets. He resigned himself to this; I would tell her anything. And he knew it was true.

“Kenzie,” he said breathlessly, overwhelmed. She was real. He hadn’t dreamt her; not last night, not this morning, when her light scattered along the hall as she ran away from him. And she was beautiful beyond all words to him; her realness, her weight, her beauty, within and without, shining like a darkened star in the twilight.

“God, you look beautiful.”

“So do you,” a nervous smile spread over her little mouth, and he thought of honey, roses, wine, the sweetness of your soul, Kenzie--and he moved forward, his lips capturing hers, his hands burying themselves in her cascade of hair, and he felt lost for a moment, lost in the tangibility of touching her again, full of relief at her reality. “You’re real,” he whispered into her mouth; he couldn’t stop. “You’re real, and I didn’t dream you.” He breathed in her smell; her perfume was the same. Vetiver, geranium, roses. He wanted to drink it like nectar.

“I know. I was afraid of the same thing. That I’d imagined you.” Her little face was turned up to him, and her darkly-shadowed eyes glistened with moisture. He was filled with a terrible fear that she would begin to cry; he felt a twinge around his heart, a wrenching horror at the idea of her sadness.

“I’m here.” He pressed his forehead into hers for a moment, his fingers trailing through her hair, his eyes closing, overwhelmed. “We’re both here. Everything was real. Everything is real. This is real.”

Her little hands went around his wrists for a moment as he held her, twining her fingers through his on either side of her face, clutching him to her, and he felt a burst of energy, as if her sweetness, her care, her nature of goodness, seeped through her into him, bathing him in warmth, and then she stepped away, out of his grasp. “Take me to dinner, Duncan Shepherd. I’m fucking starving.” She smiled again, like honey, he thought, and he smiled back at her (he watched her face blush towards him at his smile and his heart clenched again), and then he grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her through the door, his fingers pressing into her, the warmth of hand spreading into him like the glow of home after a long, cold walk in the dark.

-----

Duncan grasped Mackenzie’s little hand as she slid into the backseat of the BMW, her eyes meeting Samuel’s through his rearview mirror as they always did Duncan’s. Duncan could see the smile in Samuel’s eyes; he was delighted. Duncan slid in beside her and pulled the door shut, anxious to be near her; Kenzie looked so unbelievably beautiful, he felt dazed, blinded, disoriented once again, wistful for them to be alone together.

“Samuel--this is Mackenzie Stone.”

Duncan watched the clouded patina that immediately came into Samuel’s usually clear brown eyes. “Stone. You wouldn’t be Madeline Stone’s daughter now, would you?”

Kenzie put her chin up, meeting Samuel’s gaze through the mirror, bringing her hands together in her lap over her little purse (it was different than the clutch she’d had at the party; this one had a strap to go over her shoulder, and a gold buckle shaped like a crescent moon, this one facing in a waxing direction). Duncan felt a sort of fierce pride wash over him as he gazed at her lovely, shadowed face, the blush of her cheek and the incline of her neck. She’s brave; she’s honest. She’s so easy to fall in love with.

“I am.”

Samuel didn’t miss a beat, letting his concern slide away. Duncan silently thanked him. “Delighted to finally meet you, Miss Stone. Duncan has said only the best of you.”

“He doesn’t know me that well yet,” she laughed a little, glancing at Duncan, and he was full suddenly to the brim with the desire to hold her, kiss her again, melt into her. Samuel chuckled with her, his very white teeth flashing, his eyes dancing behind his square glasses. He liked her very much; Duncan could tell. How could you not, Duncan thought. Look at her.

“I can’t wait to know you more,” he said to her, Samuel’s watchful eye be damned. He reached to her lap and grasped her hand, looking at her carefully. He wanted her to see how sincerely he meant what he was saying. “I want to know you more than anything.” Kenzie looked at him, her hazel eyes taking on that strange dark hue again, and then she looked down at his hands, as if she felt overwhelmed by his gaze. Samuel’s attention seemed to strategically slide away from them; Duncan didn’t even need to ask him, the partition between the front and back seats rolled up languidly, almost absent-mindedly, and the car moved forward. By the time it arrived in front of Le Diplomate, Duncan and Kenzie were breathless, eyes glittering, breath hitching from the wild locking of their mouths, and Duncan’s lips were smeared with her dark lipstick. She put her delicate thumb up to his mouth as the car stopped, to wipe it away; Duncan captured the finger in his mouth, and sucked at it for a moment, lost in the ecstasy of her touch, the taste of her.

“Duncan,” she whispered, the longing in her voice inconcealable. “My lipstick is all over you.”

“Good. I want it there.”

She smiled at him, and he couldn’t hold back the moan; “Kenzie, baby,” he tried to kiss her again, his mouth hovering over hers, but she pulled away, the smile turning mischievous, and he knew she was watching the yearning in his gaze and his body with satisfaction; she quickly wiped the stain from his mouth before he could bite her finger again, and pulled her hand away.

“Later,” she said, their eyes meeting, and the core of his body tingled, as if touched by a live wire. “Later, I belong to you.” A chill coursed down his spine. He wanted to press his mouth between her legs and make her scream again. He wanted to press his face into the hollow of her neck, buried inside her. But patience was a virtue. He owed her his patience.

The partition went down, languidly; “Samuel, I’ll text you when we need the car. Thank you,” Duncan said. Samuel replied with the smile still dancing on his features, his bright eyes on Mackenzie. “Certainly, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” Kenzie said shyly, smiling back at him sweetly.

“It is truly a pleasure, Miss Stone,” Samuel replied, and she grinned.

Duncan helped her from the backseat, his large hand grasping her small fingers with fervent attention. “I like him very much,” she said to him quietly, smoothing her dress nervously; his other hand came around and felt at her waist, moving up and down for a moment, lost in the soft feeling of her, steadying her. “He likes you too,” he replied, bringing his face close to her again, breathing in her intoxicating scent. “Samuel’s worked for my family since before I was born, and I trust him with my life. I know when he likes or dislikes someone right away. He thought you were lovely. And you are. You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met.”

He couldn’t stop himself; the words tumbled out of him, fervently.

“God, Duncan,” she said, her hair shimmering in the lamps outside the entrance, her breath sweet against his face, her eyes glowing, hypnotizing him in their ethereal embrace. “How are you so wonderful?”

“Kenzie, it’s for you. It’s all for you. Anything you want, I want to give it to you.”

She laughed. “Right now, I want dinner. And a glass of wine. That would be nice.”

“So much dinner and so many glasses of wine are in store for you, Madame.” He pulled away, grasping her little hand tightly, the eyes of DC society be damned for now. He’d reserved a private room, but he didn’t care who saw them on their way to it (and he noticed several unfamiliar but attentive eyes follow them through the dining hall--clearly they recognized him); he felt an encroaching abandon, as though nothing and no one could tear him away from her now; let everyone see her, let everyone see them together, and he would do whatever it took to protect her, to sway his immovable mother to good graces when the time came. But first, this evening. First, Kenzie. Angel.

He saw Kenzie’s hesitant face as the waiter helped her into her seat; she saw the exhaustive wine menu and an overwhelmed look came into her eyes at its massive length.

“May I order the wine?” He asked her, his eyes on her, gentle.

“Yes, please.” He wanted to soothe the worry from her; he wanted her to feel comfortable to let her guard down, to be herself with him. Wine menus could get fucked if they made her doubt herself. Anything and anyone could get fucked, as far as he was concerned, if they looked at her the wrong way.

“Château Trotte Vieille Bordeaux, please,” he murmured to the waiter after he perused its exhaustive length for a short minute; he’d looked over this particular menu many times before. He watched Mackenzie’s wide, beautiful eyes glance down at the menu, searching for the wine he’d chosen; they widened further and he knew she’d noticed the price tag. The waiter (a tall young man with a thin face, a long nose and close-cropped hair) nodded, eyeing Mackenzie very briefly with badly-veiled interest; Duncan could see that the waiter recognized him as well, and was clearly curious about the beauty sitting with him in a private room. A less observant person would have perhaps missed the look, but Duncan was almost preternatural in his ability to read others; a useful talent he’d learned from watching his mother and listening to her through years of gains on political stages. He wondered how much a future reporter would pay the man to give them information about Duncan Shepherd’s date at Le Diplomate on a recent Sunday in May, the details of Mackenzie’s appearance, the coy Instagram shots that could potentially materialize of them later. He could see the headlines on the gossip websites now. Duncan Shepherd Spotted Arriving and Leaving with Political Enemy’s Daughter From Intimate Dinner At Posh French Restaurant.

I don’t care, he thought, staring into Kenzie’s eyes, which met his with a mixture of hesitance and open avidity, and that crushing feeling around his heart recurred. He reached out and took her hand. I just don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this woman mine.

“$245. I saw that. Oh my god,” Kenzie breathed, holding his fingers tightly. “That’s the money I spend on groceries in a month.” Nervousness had seeped into her eyes as she stared at him, her mouth open in a kind of stunned realization.

“Kenzie. It’s nothing. My mother spends that much every week on cold-pressed juice.”

“Duncan.”

“You’ll love it. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect with the duck a l’orange, which is, by the way, better here than the duck I’ve had in Paris.”

“Duncan.”

“Kenzie.”

“I feel strange.”

She was biting her lip, and her eyes looked frightened. They pierced his heart; he ached to soothe her again, ached to calm her.

“Mackenzie, listen to me. Please don’t. This is my life. I understand that it may be strange to you, but I will do whatever I can to make you feel more comfortable, more at ease. Anything. Don’t be afraid, Kenzie. I want you here. I want you to be here with me right now, and no one else. Mackenzie Stone, I don’t care about anything else right now except being here with you.”

He watched her face, her eyes growing shiny with the tears hiding behind them, and her little mouth trembled ever-so-slightly, a strange smile falling over her features. She sniffed a little, and a single tear fell from her eye, dropping down onto the immaculate white tablecloth, spreading into a damp orb. He grasped her hand desperately, his thumb rubbing against her wrist. “Baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

She breathed, silently, her overwhelmed expression clinging to the certainty in his blue eyes; he watched her throat and the rise of her collarbones, wanting to press his lips against her there; he watched the whiteness of the skin between the plunging neckline of her extraordinarily beautiful dress. And then her expression seemed to clear from what she saw in his face; she nodded a little, the smile trembling still but steadying for him. “Okay, baby,” she whispered. And he squeezed her hand, his smile widening to her, nodding back.

----

The duck tasted even more wonderful tonight; it was simultaneously the best meal he’d ever had and the one he felt he’d remember the least, somehow; he could only think of and focus on her eyes and her hair and her throat and her gold headband adorned with moons and the tiny movements of her hands and fingers as she ate her bread or stabbed a forkful of spinach or a morsel of perfectly roasted duck or drank the (absolutely exquisite) vintage Bordeaux from her wine glass, catching the dim, romantic evening candlelight from their table in its reflection. He somehow felt he’d never seen another person so clearly and entirely before this night; she was a revelation, so real and so beautiful and her eyes were full of emotion and so open to him, it absolutely took his breath away. He watched her ease into the meal and into his words as they talked; she told him about her father, far away in LaLa land, writing about film, forgetting to send her birthday cards, about her best friend Claire (“shares her name with the president, oddly enough”), and the love she shared with her mother. And there we can agree, he’d said, and told her about his mother, too. “I know how she can seem,” he said, looking away, referring to Annette’s sharp television interviews and her well-chronicled contentions with the press, “but I love her deeply, and she loves me. That’s an unshakeable truth, and it gives me comfort in life.” Kenzie had nodded, understanding. “I feel the same way about my mother,” she had agreed. “She’s there for me when no one else is. She’s given me so much advice that has helped me survive; she’s been a guiding light to me. I admire her strength and fearlessness so much.” Throughout the meal and as they talked, they continued to reach for each other’s hands every now and then; Duncan pressing his thumb gently into circles in her palm, his hands trailing down the expanse of her slender fingers. She’d grasp his fingers one by one, caressing the shape of his knuckles, making him shiver. At one point as he gazed at her left hand in his between staring into her eyes (god, her eyes, I love them so much, like stars), he wondered what it would look like with a ring from him adorning it. He blushed at the imagining; and then he wondered, quietly, what kind of ring she would love. A moonstone, he thought immediately, somehow sure right away, as though she’d told him herself. A moonstone, because she’s like the face of the moon to me, penetrating my spirit, exquisite and divine. He kept the thought to himself, tucking it away to look at later, as she told him about her work as a journalist, how much it made her hope for and want to fight for a kinder, better world. His eyes clouded with her sincerity; he was shaken with a moment of doubt regarding the work he did for his mother, and he knew it was dark work, cloudy work, and not for the first time, he felt deeply conflicted, perhaps now more than he ever had, especially hearing her sincerity. “I feel as though I can’t say no to her, my mother is the only person who has always been there for me,” he murmured. The sympathy shone out from Mackenzie’s eyes, and he knew she did not judge him harshly; knew she understood his confusion.

“I’ve seen and felt how wonderful you are,” she said. “I feel it now. We can always work to be better, be kinder, be gentler. I think it’s something you do every day, little by little, work at like a sculptor chipping away at a stone. Eventually it becomes something extraordinary. But that’s from hundreds of days of tiny work. For me, working on a story is like that. A tiny chipping away to find the essence of truth in something. I think that’s what life is, really. Hundreds and hundreds of days of little work.”

“I want to try to do that with you, Kenzie. Work together like that, a little bit at a time, for hundreds of days.”

Her eyes settled into his. He watched her breathe out, slowly, setting her fork down, the velvet choker at her throat, its moon charm catching the light.

He said it before he lost his nerve. “Mackenzie. Would you...be with me? Would you be mine?”

“Duncan. Oh, my god. I…” Mackenzie trailed off, staring at him. Her shock seemed to extend, and she was quiet. Her eyes had taken on that greenish hue that startled him deeply again. Her soul, deep in thought, full of tangled emotion.

He bit his lip, his eyes darkening, and he looked down for a moment, grasped his wine glass, drank deeply. He set it down, slowly, carefully.

“I know...this all seems so sudden, so fast. But I feel something for you that I’ve never felt for anyone. I meant everything I said to you today. You’ve brought an ache into my heart. I want you. Not just in my bed. I want you in my life. I want you, Kenzie. All of you.”

The moment hovered, quieted. They regarded each other. He felt her eyes rove over him as soft, pulsing music played in the background of the room; down from his dark hair, thrown back, to his eyes, meeting hers with hope and desire, his lips (which would kiss you every day, kiss you always, Kenzie), the fine sheen of ever-present stubble on his cheeks, the bob of his throat, the high collar of his dark shirt, the fall of his velvet blazer over his tall frame, down his arm and to his wrists, his silver Cartier watch shining against the candlelight, down his long hands, one resting against his thigh, the other hovering an inch away from hers on the table, index finger stretched. Light seemed to cascade behind her head, and he was reminded of the way she’d looked last night, like there was a halo around her head, golden and iridescent. It was as if he could see the outline of her soul, and it shook him to the core, again, trembling. He was bare under her gaze; he felt like she was looking into the essence of him, weighing him, deciding his fate. He waited. He had decided what he wanted, and had spoken it to her, and so at least he had had the courage to be honest. At least, he said to himself, I was brave in the sight of her wonder.

She lifted her head a little, and the light danced off her headband adorned with moons. She looked like a queen to him in that moment; like a Waterhouse priestess, throwing gold dust and magick into the night, and he was struck by her lovely, coiled energy, her power over him. She smiled at him, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. It was blinding, overwhelming, filling him with her brightness, the beauty that shined out of her spirit.

“Yes,” she said, her voice steady, smooth, like honey. “Yes, I will, Duncan. Yes.”

He grinned, grabbed onto her hand, leaned toward her, his joy immediate.

“On one condition.”

He stopped. “Anything, Mackenzie. Anything.”

“Be mine, too, Duncan Shepherd. Will you be mine?” A little laugh flitted through her words. He could see the joy in her eyes, and it moved him deeply.

He breathed a sigh of relief; it felt like a weight was lifting off his heart, like wings were beating inside his ribcage.

“Kenzie, yes. Yes, a hundred times, yes. I’m yours.”

-----

They were anxious to be alone together, then; Duncan ached for her, and she whispered “let’s go”, draining her wine glass, the flash of her white throat setting his nerves on edge; Duncan had hurriedly passed his Black AmEx to the waiter, who brought it back to him with a swiftness that seemed almost supernatural. The evening seemed to be pushing them toward their private rendezvous; Duncan no longer wanted anyone else to be near them. He wanted her to himself, this divine goddess who had said she would be his; he still couldn’t grasp that she had accepted him, still felt terrified she’d disappear. He wondered if that feeling would ever fade, or if he’d always feel that fear, that ache for her, already dreading the moment she would leave.

Duncan had texted Samuel and as they practically ran from the entrance of the brightly-lit facade of the buzzing brasserie, their hands clasped together tightly, not noticing the eyes of some of the diners following them this time, not caring, he was struck with relief to see the BMW quietly humming on the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the lamps along the sidewalk. He opened the door for Mackenzie, catching her in his arms for a moment, pressing his lips into the soft space between her ear and her jaw, achingly. She leaned into him, her little body folding into his arms, sucking the air from his lungs, intoxicating. Angel baby. His own. She flitted away from him, disappearing into the backseat, and he followed her eagerly; Then I must be thy lady; but I know / When thou hast stolen away from a fairy land...the line hovered in his subconscious. She was like Titania, queen of the fae, scattering gold, her laugh making flowers burst into bloom, and as he pressed into her in the backseat, the flowers bloomed in his mind and his senses as he kissed her and her little mouth opened against him, her hair tangled in his fingers.

-----

When they’d finally arrived back at his penthouse, she hushed him when he tried to press into her again, impatient for her, his arms around her back, under her shoulder blades, trying to be delicate, afraid he might break her apart with his urgency. “I want a little bit more wine, baby, get me some?” The way she said baby, into his mouth, caused heat to pool in the bottom of his stomach. “Kenzie, baby...” he groaned into her softly, he couldn’t stop. Last night felt like it had happened a hundred days ago--he was starving for her again. He shook his head a little, dizzy, loathe to let go of her.

She grabbed the sides of his velvet jacket with her little fingers; “get it for me baby, I want it,” and he loved the pout on her lips, loved it like he loved her eyelashes, her glowing cheeks, her sweet smell, her insistence. “Kiss me first,” he begged, and he knew he was begging, and he didn’t care, he was lost in her. She pressed her open mouth into his bottom lip, sucking it carefully, slowly, and he pressed his hands into her breasts, trying to hold back the rough desire he felt, the skin between held in her plunging neckline, feeling her hot skin there. “There,” she breathed, releasing him. “Now, baby, give me what I want.”

“Mhmm,” he murmured, his head swimming, letting go of her, aching. He looked back as he moved through his vast living room with its lush carpet and low leather couch, trailing his finger absently along its back, watching her watch him (with eyes ringed in gold) move into his study, where he kept an opulently stacked wine rack beside the standing bar. He pulled a Chablis Grand Cru from the middle rack of the temperature-controlled glass case (a bottle worth an absurd amount of money--at least a grand--but his head swam and he couldn’t care at all, money meant nothing to him right now next to her) and as he turned, he saw that she had followed him, boots cast aside somewhere, on soft, bare feet, into his study behind him, hair shimmering, the gold of her glimmering. She pouted. “I wanted to scare you,” she whispered, eyes glowing.

“You look like an angel,” he replied, the bottle dangling carelessly from his fingers. She smiled, turning, looking at him over her shoulder, the dress falling in the light, beautiful beyond words to him. She turned her face towards the wall that faced his desk (her hair in waves of gold); and she gasped, her eyes falling over the huge expanse of The Youth of Bacchus. She paused for a moment, staring, and then took two hesitant, soft steps toward it, clearly in awe. He came up behind her, setting the bottle to the side of his polished mahogany desk, folding his arms around her waist, nuzzling his mouth into her neck.

“Is this real?” she whispered, leaning into him.

“Yes,” he murmured, kissing under her ear, kissing the incline of her neck falling into her shoulders. “It’s real. It’s called The Youth of Bacchus. My mother gave it to me when I was 18.”

“God. Duncan. It’s so beautiful. It’s beautiful beyond words.”

“No,” he whispered into her ear, kissing it, capturing the lobe in his lips, “you are, Kenzie, you are, only you…”

He turned her face to him, kissing her deeply, his tongue in her mouth, her scent crashing into him, and his arms turned her so he could grasp her hips, and he lifted her, light as air, onto the edge of his desk, her little elegant feet suspended several feet in the air, dangling over its edge. She pressed her hands back onto its smooth surface, and he leaned into her, tasting her, hands running over her in ardent waves, whispering into her, “angel, beloved, baby” and he moved his head down, pushing up the velvet folds of her flowing dress, cut to her body like it was part of her, finding her panties (wet against her for him again, god, he loved it so much), these ones made of soft lace, and his hands pulled them off her, hurried, impatient, and he buried his mouth on her clit, sucking with urgency, and she threw her head back, “oh my god, Duncan, fuck, babyyy,” and he saw her eyes floating back and forth between him and the gigantic painting against the wall of his study, caught up in its beauty, caught up in him, and her eyes clouded with green and gold, as he worked his mouth against her, her hand finding the back of his head, holding him flush to her sweetness, and as she came, crying out with a sound that threatened to overwhelm him in the crashing wave of his desire, he saw a tear fall from her eyes, catching the low, soft light, and he thought about god again, thought that maybe there was something in the universe that had brought her to him, into his arms, and he was full of joy.

----

He led her into the bathroom, the joy still dancing in his heart, inside his blue eyes. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said, and she giggled, clutching his hand, feeling carefully along the doorway with the other one, bare feet padding onto the cold, seamless stone tiles. She stopped; he pressed the fingers of his right hand, hot with his want, along the white skin between her breasts where the dress fell down into the void of her, against her neck, thumb trailing over her bottom lip.

“Okay, baby, open them.”

She opened her eyes wide and gasped again; all along the edges of his claw-foot tub there were roses, so many roses, dozens and dozens of roses, their stems stripped of their thorns and woven together in a tapestry, all the deep carmine red of her lips last night when she’d kissed him under the night sky for the first time; handfuls of petals floated over the surface of the water, steaming into the air, and the bath itself was surrounded by white pillar candles, illuminating the otherwise-dark bathroom with a soft, melting glow. He watched her delighted face with relief; “do you like it?” he asked, unable to keep the hopeful, wistful edge from his voice.

“Oh, Duncan, I love it. I love it so much. It’s wondrous. It’s divine.”

You are, you are, you are, he thought, his mind repeating it over and over, the only prayer he ever wanted to recite. Kenzie, Kenzie, Kenzie.

He watched her, aching, in the candlelight. She gazed at him, her face aglow. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Undress me.”

He leaned into her, desperately; his hands found the zipper at her back, pulling it down with soft urgency as she ran her fingers along his neck and his chest and against the rise of his crotch, pressing carefully and insistently. He moaned, shivering, pushing the heaven-soft sleeves down her arms, feeling her skin with his fingers, relishing the way her breasts, nipples hard, emerged from the cupped embrace of her plunging bodice, his mouth on her neck again. Her dress fell to the ground in a soft heap; she stood before him and he thought of another Bouguereau painting, its beauty flashing in his mind yet paling to her before him in the flesh, one called Evening Mood, the white-skinned nymph of twilight hovering over soft waves, her head softly turned in ecstasy, a crescent moon hanging behind her bowing head.

“You look like the moon,” he said, wonderingly, as her hands pulled at his jacket and pushed it away and her demanding fingers undid his shirt and unbuckled his belt, pulling the zipper of his pants down, pulling out his hard, aching length, her mouth open, her face looking up to him, her eyes impatient, her moon headband and black choker, hugging her neck like a lover (him, her lover) the only things she now wore. He loved that she was wearing her adorning jewelry again, like last night, as they were about to fuck; he loved the artistry of her, unpretentious, unstudied, gold and soft and starry and his, his own, for she’d accepted him, and she was his now, and he was hers, and that was all he knew and all he wanted to know. Her hands drifted over the length of his cock, languid but concentrated, and he pulled away from her touch, leading her to the steaming bathtub, the roses making way for them as he pulled her down into it with him, pulling her on top of him again, loving the feeling of her body hovering above him that way. She reached down into the hot, almost scalding water, its heat causing goosebumps to rise on both of them; gripped the length of his cock again, fingers grazing his sensitive head, her face hovering over his, her mouth almost kissing his, but not quite, her breath cascading into him and she moaned as she stroked him and he moaned into her in return, lost in her, his impossibly blue eyes falling into the night of her, “Mackenzie, baby, that feels so fucking good, you’re as beautiful as an angel, oh god, Kenzie, I love you--”, and the roses clung to the sides of her white skin, the steam that rose off the water enshrining her, and her mouth finally clashed into his, stifling his ardent admission, and he thought again that he could die and be content in the death, content because his last moments had belonged to her.

“Come for me this time, baby love, come for me, okay?” She murmured these sweet words into him, and he nodded, his brow furrowed, completely lost in her touch and her voice; she stopped the firm stroke of her hand around his hardness, and moving her hips, eased down onto him until he was buried in her, gasping, and she moved again, grinding down on him, causing him to stutter “fu-fu-uu-ckk” into her neck, against the softness of her chin, into her skin, and she said “I love you too, I’m yours baby, all yours, come for me,” and he couldn’t stop it, his release was so deep and so consuming that his moan bled into a wild cry that he tried to stifle between the space of her breasts where her dress had plunged, showing her heart to him under the shadow of her delicate bones, and he couldn’t believe that he could have ever felt so good, clutching her little body against him, her soul held in his hands this way. She was his, she had said yes, she was his, this angel, an angel, she loved him and heaven had fallen to earth, and he was holding it, her, she was heaven, heaven in his hands, heaven on his lips, heaven, heaven, heaven...

#millory #body and soul #duncan shepherd #duncan shepherd au #millory au #cody fern #billie lourd #collie #cody x billie #duncan x mackenzie #duncan shepherd x mackenzie stone #duncan shepherd x mallory #ahs apocalypse #house of cards #collie au #michael x mallory #my fic #body and soul millory au

[blvebee]

A History of Damien’s Earth

IN THE BEGINNING..... We don’t know anything about the beginning, beyond the word of various religious texts. However, at this point, a brief few points must be made before we begin.

The timeline of the Earth can be divided into Ages. Each Age is set apart from the next by Gaia resetting the Earth back to it’s factory settings, typically due to some apocalyptic tragedy.

Everything is true*, in regards to real-life legends, religions, mythos, conspiracy theories. If I reference something that sounds like a real-life myth, it’s because i’m referencing that real-life myth, as it exists. While Secret World Legends mixes and merges its myths to create a complete quilt of lore, most everything is taken from its original form and can be recognized.

“The secret world” is the name given to the cultures and communities that have been separated from the rest of the world due to their nature. This encompasses many communities across the entire Earth, on every continent, in every country. The deeper you go into the secret world, the more you come to understand why it is kept secret. Ignorance is bliss.

*Not everything is true. The world isn’t flat, but it is hollow. Aliens didn’t build the pyramids, but maybe they weren’t built for quite the reason you thought they were. SWL tends to avoid bad myths that they can’t do anything with.

Some names you might want to know:

The Host: Effectively God of this reality. Notably absent.

Gaia: The Immaculate Machine. The Goddess Machine. The World Tree. The Earth Mother. Protects Earth from outside threats.

The Bees: A group of humans that have been turned into immortal superhumans by Gaia, via bees swallowed in sleep. The protagonist is one. Sometimes referred to as Gaia’s antibodies.

The Protagonist: For all intents and purposes on this blog, Damien. But i’ll be keeping it vague because everyone else who plays this game will have their own protagonist.

The Dreamers: The terrifying Eldritch Gods that sleep below the surface of the Earth, and have since, presumably, the beginning of the Ages. If they wake for even a moment, the world may end, permanently, through being eaten.

IN THE FIRST AGE..... Very little knowledge exists from the first age. There are some mentions of the Garden of Eden, as well as the creation of the first humans. There are also whispers of a war between angels, the Grigori verses the Nephilim. (Can be paraphrased as, respectively, good angels vs bad angels, but it’s not quite as simple as that.) There are also still a few living beings from this age. Notably a number of angels, and Lilith, one of the first humans and mother of all monsters.

IN THE SECOND AGE..... the Hell Dimensions were made by The Host, and were introduced to Earth. Originally, this was just another form of reality; undergoing a test run. Demons and Humans associated freely during this age.   Samael, an angel from the first age, claims it was a time when iron cathedrals stained the moon blood red with sacrificial pyres. By the end of this Age, Hell had been abandoned as a flawed creation by the Host, and cut off from Earth and it’s Anima, doomed to become the Hell we know it as in the current age.

IN THE THIRD AGE..... human civilization rose to the highest level, as technology was created that could run indefinitely and repair itself infinitely. Humanity also gained the knowledge to warp the laws of reality as they saw fit. Cities walked on spider legs across whole oceans. With the power of Anima at their disposal, Third Age humans surpassed all others in terms of advancement. Several gods from other cultures are cited as being from this era, with mythos about them surviving through the catastrophic turn of this Age. 

The third age ended apocalyptically, when Lilith and her husband Samael damaged an Engine, a device created to lull the dreamers into sleep, and woke one for but a single moment. It sleepily strangled the world, and fell back under. Thus ended the third age.

IN THE FOURTH AGE.... we come to the present day. 2012. The Mayans are cited as predicting the beginning of the end on their calendars. A filthy bomb goes off in Tokyo. Gaia shudders.

Centuries ago, the Secret Societies begin to form. 

One: Blue. Ancient Egypt. The Children of the Eye and the Pyramid. “The Enlightened Ones.” Translation: Illuminati. They seek forbidden knowledge. They sit behind the Pharaoh’s throne. The original puppet masters. The New World, with the first colonizing ships. They weave infrastructure so tightly, a web so suffocating, that no other secret society can breathe on this land. 

Two: Red. The Keepers of the Holy Grail. The Pureblooded. The Fighters. To take sword to demon flesh is to breathe. The Tower of Babel, once. Today, London. Not much has changed. Not much has to change. Where the Illuminati chase the next wave, the Templar stand still and true. Only recently have they begun to frequently admit women and people of color into their ranks.

Three: Green. Chaos. From it they come, and into it they go. A suicide a century ago causes a tsunami today. When you subscribe to Chaos, you follow no master, but that of the Algorithm. The Dragon spirals through the universe. it predates Gaia. It will outlive Gaia. Those who gather in Seoul will tell you this. They aren’t wrong.

Enter: Today. The Dreamers Dream. Their dreams manifest physically, as a black, slimy substance that corrupts absolutely. Body and soul. Today it is called the Filth. It leaks through dozens of dimensions on phantom gravity. 

Lilith made a cult. She wanted to capture the Dreamers’ power for herself. The Morninglight, it is called. They worship the Dreamers, unknowingly. Their rituals mimic their desires. They pretend to eat stars. The cult is led by Philip Marquard. He was meant to be an easy puppet to control, but the Dreamers interfaced with him, and now he has a whole cult to use to wake them.

In an attempt to assassinate Lilith, a bomb was made. A filthy bomb. A man was recruited. Anxious, lonely, eager to please. John Copley took a bomb into the subway in Tokyo. He panicked. He detonated it too early. The filth overtook all of Kaidan. It spreads through the dimensions. It spreads across the Earth. It corrupts absolutely. Gaia shudders. She calls to the Host.

The Host does not answer. Her messengers, her bees, search for the next best thing. They find it in people.

A week after Tokyo, a bee flies into the Protagonist’s window, into their mouth, and changes them. They dream about voices, begging them to listen, to make the right choices. They wake up and spend the next week being genetically rewritten into a whole new entity. At the end of the week, they are contacted by one of the three secret societies, and conscripted into service.

PART 2 COMING SOONtm

#|| ooc #|| headcanon #long post