#and ill work through my stack of books to read!

[itshomeworkipromise]

and ill go on walks every day and shower every day and ill wake up before 2pm and ill go to class and i wont even complain about it. itll be normal. ill be normal :)

im reading through old stuff i wrote and convincing myself that this time, this school year, ill stick to it. ill post and ill study and i wont forget this blog exists and ill write to write and not just for assignments

[broke-on-books]

😍😍😍

[scorpioriesling]

OML so good things come it groups of three has had me in a headlock and I don’t want to escape. I have trieddddddd so very hard to find scraps of smth like it and I found nothing😔. So here I am wondering if we the people can get another Liam/Ridoc/Bodhi (or another combination of fw guys if ur feeling silly) x Reader PLEASE 🙏. If you wanna make it a part two or a whole new thing idc Ill eat whatever you give me your writing is AMAZING.

-🎀Anon

Good Things Come in Groups of Three (Round 2)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Liam x Ridoc x Bodhi x reader

Warning(s): 18+, mdni, smut

Summary: Studying in the library late at night has your mind wandering… you can blame it on the time of night, the lack of sleep, or simply being alone. Regardless of the excuse, you can’t seem to put those 3 boys out of your mind.

SR’s Note: Thank you for your patience, queen. (; I hope this part 2 measures up to your expectations!! Also, I don’t want to spoil anything, but I do have this group of 3 + reader involved once again!! It’s only a draft right now for Kinktober… so you definitely don’t want to miss out!

Tags: @mellowmusings @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @kitsunetori @velarisdusk (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

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Round 1

Your eyes roved over the text, trying to commit it to memory. Jesinia had done you a solid, pulling some of the best tomes for you to study before your test on Friday. Her expertise not only a scribe, but as your friend just might be what saved your grade.

If you could keep your mind from wandering, that is.

You'd caught yourself thinking, more than once, about the utterly insane predicament you'd found yourself in last week. It seemed that every time you turned a page in the textbook, images would race through your mind, each one as dirty as the last.

Liam fucking you in the shower.

Sitting atop Ridoc's face.

Bodhi's dick filling your throat.

...fuck.

You shake your head, the memory only sending more uncomfortable sensations to your core. This wasn't the time, nor the place -- nowhere, would ever be the time or place again. That was a one and done deal; one you'd be much too embarassed to repeat.

As your palms press into your eyes, you turn your attention to the wall clock, trying to make out the numbers it read.

11:57 pm.

Dammit, you hadn't wanted to be here this late. Perhaps all the reading and pouring over the material was good though, as you felt much more prepared for your upcoming exam. However, you'd failed to notice everyone emptying out of the library over the past few hours.

Your breath catches as you glance around, the dark silence of the hall sending a shiver down your spine. You were right, no one was here at this hour; it was simply you, and the stacks of books.

Book stacks you wouldn't mind being fucked against.

Okay, you really had to stop.

Glancing around once more, you slunk down into your chair a little lower, your fingers slowly leaving the table in favor of tracing along your leather pants. The pressure was getting unbearable, every moment of your past rendezvouz replaying in your mind as your panties grew wetter and wetter.

Ridoc's dick felt so good when he made you ride him.

You unzipped your leathers, your fingers slowly making their way underneath. A sigh escapes your lips as your fingertips brush your clothed clit, moving in small circles atop your panties.

Fuck... the sight of Liam jerking off to you too.

A soft whimper leaves your lips, your eyes widening into slits as you glance around one more time. You just had to make sure, certainly, that no one was in here.

Oh Gods... and Bodhi, spanking your ass-

"You do know this is a, public, space, don't you?"

Your eyes fly open, the figure standing just in the shadows of the nearby bookshelf causing your heart to race. Your hand flies from your pants as you shimmy in your chair, working to rezip.

"O-oh my Gods, uhm, oh my Gods-" you fumble, your vision blurred in embarassment as you stare down at your pants. Why wouldn't the damned zipper just fucking work, already?

Your breath hitches as a large, tanned hand moves atop yours. Your cheeks deepen in color, chest still rising and falling as the adrenaline courses through your veins.

"As your trainer," Bodhi says, his voice low. "I'd tell you to fix yourself, and send you to your dorm to finish this matter in private. Alone."

Your eyes slowly look up, meeting his darkened brown ones as he glares at you.

"But, as an interested party, I'm going to tell you to keep going."

You loose a shaky breath, his unforgiving stare a cross between anger and intrigue. You open your mouth to speak, but Bodhi's hand pushes your shoulder back against the back of the chair.

"Don't say a word, Y/N -- you got caught being a bad, bad girl." He tuts, leaning back to sit in the chair next to you. "Now, you answer to me."

You gulp, staying put as he stretches his legs out before him and gets comfortable, folding his muscled arms over his chest. He couldn’t possibly be serious!

"Keep going." He bites out, and you stare at him wide-eyed.

He scoffs. "What, now you can't hear, either? I said keep going." Your fingers fuddle with the waistband of your pants, shaking as you shove your leathers down to your knees.

"Mhm... play with that pussy, like the bad girl you fuckin' are."

Your fingers find your clit once more, the pleasure mounting in your core as Bodhi's eyes are glued to your every move. In an attempt to stifle your moan, your lip catches between your teeth, muffling the whimper. He's hovering over you in an instant, his hand braced against the back of your chair as his lips move mere inches from yours.

"Why so quiet tonight, hm?" He taunts, and you glare up at him as a wave of defiance rushes through you.

"B-because... it's a.. library." You grit out, failing to think of any other comeback. He laughs, full and unabashedly as he shakes his head low, his eyes meeting yours once more.

"You didn't seem to care that this is a library when you started playing with your cunt, though." He draws in a breath, his gaze flickering between your underwear and your face. "Bad riders don't get rewarded, Y/N... they only get punished."

Your heart races as two more figures appear from the shadows, their hungry gazes trained on you and your minstrations. A small swallow in fear is all Bodhi needs before his hands grip at your waist, hauling you atop the table and sending the books scattering to the floor.

"B-Bodhi... what-"

"Ohh, don't act like this isn't what you wanted," Ridoc sneers from beside you. He leans casually against the bookshelf, the obvious tent in his pants indication that maybe he wanted this to happen too.

"Oh, she wanted it alright," Bodhi huffs, grabbing your pants and roughly yanking them down your legs. He shucks your boots off, tossing them over his shoulder before ripping your pants over your feet. "Caught her playing with herself all alone in here."

Liam tsks, flanking the other side of the table as he watches in faux-disappointment. Had they all arranged this? Had they known you'd be in here?

"I-I..."

"Keep your mouth shut," Bodhi demands, yanking his own pants down just enough for his enormous erection to spring free. Your mouth waters at the sight; you'd forgotten how damn big he was.

"You're gonna work off this little violation, alright?" He chuckles, pulling you to the edge of the table so just your ass hung off the wood. His hand wraps around his cock, pumping it twice before sliding it against your soaking folds. You whimper, and he glares down at you.

"And... you'll be quiet if I say so, alright?" He chuckles, pressing the tip of his dick against your hole. "This is, after all, a library."

The sound threatening to erupt as he slides all the way in can only be described as nothing short of a deafening scream. He pushes himself all the way in, his pelvis flat against your thighs as you try and keep your noises at bay. Wasting no time, he yanks his cock out, only to slam back in with so much force that a small wail breaks free.

"Fuck... tight as fuck Y/N," he comments, speeding up as he fucks himself into you. "Squeezing my goddamned dick, baby."

You moan, the sound mixed with the creaking of the table beneath you. Bodhi's breaths come out in short pants above you, his gaze locked onto where his thick length is pounding into you.

"I... oh Gods," you cry out, your heaed turning to the side as you catch sight of Liam beside you. His tongue rakes across his bottom lip, his own cock hardening beneath his palm. The sight alone could make you cum, especially with the way Bodhi is pounding into you-

"Don't you dare cum," he growls, his hands bracing against your hips as he shoves you closer to him. Your gaze switches back to him as he leans over you, each stroke faster than the last as he barely pulls out anymore. "You're not cumming... not fucking yet."

You whimper as his mouth falls open above you, his eyes half-lidded as his thrusts grow sloppy. Your own impending orgasm has built up, threatening to burst any moment inside of you.

"B-Bodhi-"

"Fuck!' He shouts, your skin flush against his as his cock jumps, pumping his release inside of you. His breathing is heavy, his chest moving rapidly underneath the restraint of his zipped flight jacket. Your face twists in frustration, the heat in your lower tummy already receding as he yanks his cock out of you, a trail of clear semen following.

Sitting up on your hands, you only catch your breath for a minute before Liam saunters toward you, a cocky smile plastered on his face. His hands grip your knees, forcing your legs apart as you try and squeeze them together.

"You're not getting off that easy tonight -- I hope you've realized that."

You stare up at the gorgeous male; a dark, starved look crossing his features as he peers down at you. Your chest heaves as he slowly sits before you, only taking perch on the edge of the chair.

Goosebumps erupt across your skin as he leans forward, his lips mere inches from your glistening cunt -- and blows a stream of cool air across your skin. You clench around nothing, the sensation both extremely erotic and frustrating at the same time.

"Liam, please-"

"Ahh ahh," Bodhi tuts, leaning agaist a nearby table. "I said no mouthing off tonight, remember?"

Liam's dimple pops as he smiles, his handsome features only making you wish your cunt was pressed against his lips. You lie back down as he licks his lips once, his fingers softly trailing along the skin of your thighs. You whimper as he continues toying with you, barely able to keep your writhing at bay.

"Is this... what you want?" He says quietly, as his forefinger presses against your clit. You gasp, sitting up on your forearms to look down at his smug expression.

"Yes... oh Gods, please yes-" You grit out, as his digit slowly circles your clit. You squirm against the touch, wishing for more as he slides his finger around your sensitive bud.

"This isn't about you, though." He says, chuckling as he retracts his finger. He glances up at you before rising between your legs, his hands gripping your waist to flip you over onto your stomach. You gasp as your chest presses against the flat wood, and your stomach drops at the sight before you.

Ridoc stands on the other side of the table, his hand fisting his cock furiously as he gazes down at you.

"Open."

It's all you need to hear before widening your mouth, laying your tongue out flat just like he'd like it.

"Fuck... been waiting for this for damn near a week," he complains, slapping his length against your wet muscle. You squeak in pleasure as you feel Liam behind you, his fingers circling your pulsating opening.

"So wet, baby," he coos, as his ring and middle finger plunge into your aching pussy. He plunges them in, again and again-- the embarassing squelch of your vagina gripping his digits bringing a flush to your cheeks.

Ridoc's free hand caresses your chin, guiding his hard length to your awaiting mouth. You suck in a breath as he sinks his cock in, pushing it to the back of your throat as he groans. Gagging around him, he retracts, shoving back in moments later.

"Gods, Y/N -- you've been saving up for us, hm?" You hear the grin in Liam's voice, your cunt pulsating as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you. Unable to speak as Ridoc continues fucking your mouth, you only groan in response.

Liam curls his fingers, the tips rubbing against the sensitive spot inside -- you feel as though you'll explode. You huff out a breath, tears forming in your eyes as Ridoc continues assaulting your throat. The combined sensations are too much, your orgasm building with each minstration.

"It's a good thing you're so sexy," he laughs, patting you on the cheek with his free hand. "You've been on my mind all week, baby."

Liam retracts his fingers, and you cry out in frustration. Ridoc pulls out too, the emptiness on either end leaving you hot, bothered, and again, unreleased.

"Don't worry," Ridoc chuckles. "We still have more we want from you."

He appears on the opposite side of the table, standing where Liam just was, his open palm landing a harsh slap against the meat of your ass. You whine, only wishing he'd pleasure you more.

You don't have to beg much.

His hands clench around your hips, drawing you up onto your knees and forearms on the table. You wail again as he spanks you, clenching only when you feel his erection slapping against your cunt.

"You want me, huh?" He teases, landing another slap when you don't respond. "You want me to fuck you?"

You scream in pleasure, glancing behind you to watch as he slides his cock in.

"Yes, please Ridoc! Please fuck me-"

Your words are cut short as a hand wraps around your throat, yanking your head to look before you. Liam chuckles, his hands quickly finding your breast as he stands beside Bodhi -- who's guiding his cock to your lips.

"I told you," he grumbles. "Bad girls... have to be quiet."

He shoves his length in, choking you as he pushes down your throat. Liam pulls your hair, keeping your mouth in place as Bodhi fucks his dick down your raw throat. Ridoc pants from behind you, his girth reaching unimaginable depths inside your quaking pussy.

"You like that, huh?" Bodhi shakes his head, plunging his cock deeper in your mouth. "Like taking my cock while Ridoc fucks you?"

Another wave of pleasure racks your bones, the feeling of their dicks in two of your holes almost more than you can take. You gurgle around Bodhi's length as Ridoc's balls slap against your clit, heightening your senses even more.

"Can't... can't take much more," you garble out, and Liam's fingers pinch your nipple.

"You'll take, what we give you."

You squeak, tears threatening to spill over as you try your hardest to keep your orgasm at bay. Your walls clench around Ridoc's big cock, each thrust pushing you closer, and closer...

He cums with a gasp, hot ropes of his release splattering across your ass. He heaves as he squeezes your right buttcheek, his spent cock resting against the other. Bodhi grits his teeth before releasing as well, his seed spraying down your throat. He yanks his cock out, and Liam moves to hold your jaw as you muster a cough.

"Swallow it all," he commands, and you do as your told. Bodhi retreats, resting lazily in a chair as the aftermath of his orgasm washes over him.

If only you could feel the same.

You gulp down his salty-sweet taste, your muscles growing tired after your night of pleasure. Well... as much pleasure as you were allowed, orgasm-denial and all.

Liam pulls you off the table, holding you upright as he slowly backs you into one of the shadowed bookshelves. You groan again as he kneels before you, Bodhi and Ridoc flanking your either side.

"We've had our fun with you... do you think you deserve to cum?"

You nod your head at his sultry words, and he doesn't even look away from your glistening pussy as he speaks to the other two.

"Do you think she deserves to cum?"

Bodhi tuts while reaching for your chest, openly palming your left breast.

“I suppose she’s been quite good for us tonight.”

Liam nods in agreement, his lips pressing a single kiss against your folds. Your hips involuntarily buck in protest, a short moan coming out as Ridoc rolls your other nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Shhhh.. patience, baby.”

His voice alone could get you off, such contrast to his usually irritating tone.

Liam’s tongue flicks out, swiping across your cunt as he rolls his thumb over your clit. You squirm, your breaths coming out in quick bursts.

“L-Liam I… won’t last long-“

He chuckles, the vibration edging you further. Ridoc replaces his fingers with his mouth, leaning in to suck and mark your right breast with his teeth. You lean your head back against the shelves, the feeling of ecstasy finally within reach.

“You wanna cum, Y/N?” Bodhi’s breath skates across your skin, goosebumps arising just below your ear as he squeezes your breast partially hard.

“Such a little tease with these gorgeous things,” he continues, and you begin shaking, the feeling of the orgasm within reach.

“Oh FUCK, I’m-“

Ridoc’s hand claps over your mouth as Bodhi holds you upright. You tremble and shake atop Liam’s tongue, the pent up energy from all night finally reaching its sweet release. Liam’s hands reach around and squeeze your ass, holding you in place as you cum on his lips.

“Anybody in here?”

Your eyes widen, heartbeat quickening as you hear the male guard’s voice ring out through the otherwise empty library. Your eyes meet Bodhi’s, and he holds a single finger to his lips. Shh.

“Hello?”

The voice calls again, and the three of you stand in silence against the darkness from the shelves. After a few minutes, the entry door opens and closes once more, and you finally release a breath.

“Well… that was close,” you laugh, the first real sentence you’d uttered in hours. Surely the sunlight would be peeking through the windows anytime now…

You step toward your discarded clothes, making to grab them and put them on when a strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you tightly against a very bare, very toned chest.

“Oh come on — you didn’t think we were actually finished here, did you?”

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

mc messing with sebastian when they are Professor Black, I need it, please. I image mc going Mr. Sallow I've heard you and our new fifth year are sneaking out together. I hope nothing improper is happening. I wouldn’t wish to have to oversee a wedding during my time as headmaster.

Polyjuice Potion | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part One

Read Part Two →

BAHAHAHAH I STARTED WORKING ON THIS IMMEDIATELY BECAUSE THIS IS HILARIOUS, THANK YOU FOR THIS ASK I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!

Words: ~2,100

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Humor

The Polyjuice Potion had worked—perhaps a little too well.

You examined your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby suit of armor, recognizing yourself as Phineas Nigellus Black, the ever-ill-tempered, egotistical headmaster of Hogwarts. The pinched expression, the stiff posture, the perpetual air of disdain—it was all there. Even the scent of expensive cologne and the faintest trace of ink clung to the borrowed robes.

A smirk curled at your lips. Oh, this was going to be fun.

With an exaggerated gait befitting your new persona, you made your way through the halls, relishing the way students shrank back at your approach. Their hushed whispers and wary glances only fed your growing amusement.

The plan had been simple: borrow the headmaster’s form, strut around the castle unchecked, and slip into the Restricted Section of the library to retrieve a book you and Sebastian needed for your latest round of mischief. But when you happened to spot him lounging against a pillar in the Transfiguration Courtyard, casually chatting with a nervous-looking first-year, an even better idea formed in your mind.

You and Sebastian were newly courting, a fact that thrilled and terrified you in equal measure. There had always been something between you—something charged, something exhilarating—but now? Now your nightly post-curfew meetings had tipped over into the territory of... inappropriate. From late-night rendezvous in the Undercroft to the hours spent whispering in hushed tones behind stacks of books and the absolutely improper things he had said to you just last night beneath the Forbidden Forest’s canopy, it was a miracle you hadn’t already been caught.

And seeing him now, with your identity hidden, provided the perfect opportunity to push his buttons—and perhaps, make him think you had been caught in the act, after all.

With deliberate, booming steps, you approached, clearing your throat with all the authority you could muster.

“Mr. Sallow.”

Sebastian stiffened immediately, snapping to attention. The first-year beside him went rigid, then bolted without a word, leaving Sebastian standing alone, blinking up at you—well, at Professor Black��with rapidly dawning concern.

“Professor,” he greeted, schooling his features into careful neutrality.

You clasped your hands behind your back, surveying him with the kind of imperious air you imagined the real headmaster would use. “I have been informed of certain… late-night escapades involving you and our new fifth-year student.”

Sebastian’s expression flickered—so fast that most wouldn’t have caught it. A tightening of his jaw. A twitch of his fingers.

But you did.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said smoothly, ever the picture of a model student.

“Oh, don’t be coy, Mr. Sallow.” You tilted your chin, enjoying the way his confidence wavered. “I am well aware of the frequent, shall we say, disappearances you and your companion have orchestrated.”

Sebastian blinked. Then, to your delight, his composure cracked just a fraction more. “Disappearances?”

“Yes.” You let the word drag, savoring it. “Discreet meetings. Secluded alcoves. Library corners far removed from prying eyes.” You paused for effect. “Surely, you don’t think the faculty are so blind?”

Sebastian was staring at you now, eyes darting around as if trying to determine just how much you knew—or rather, how much ‘Black’ knew. The corners of his ears were already turning pink.

You pressed on. “One might begin to wonder if these outings are of an… inappropriate nature.”

Sebastian choked.

Actually choked.

His composure—so carefully maintained, so effortlessly wielded in the face of authority—shattered like glass. He coughed violently, eyes widening in what could only be described as pure, undiluted horror.

“Inappropriate?” he managed, voice an octave higher than usual. “Sir, I—”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “Now, now, Mr. Sallow, let us not be hasty in our denials.” You paced in a slow circle around him, watching the way his shoulders squared, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. “If, hypothetically, a situation were to arise—say, one resulting in an unexpected addition to the Hogwarts population—well, naturally, a marriage would be required.”

Sebastian’s mouth fell open.

“You mean a— a baby?!” he sputtered, looking positively scandalized. “What—no! That’s not—Sir, you have completely misunderstood—”

“I do hope so, for your sake.” You exhaled, shaking your head in mock disappointment. “It would be rather tedious, wouldn’t it? Organizing a ceremony, ensuring the Ministry is properly notified… And of course, the matter of parental consent.” You tutted. “Although, given your companion's… unfortunate lack of proper guardianship, I suppose we’d have to settle the matter internally. A pity, really.”

Sebastian’s ears were no longer pink; they were burning red.

“Sir,” he tried, his voice betraying the barest hint of a waver, “with all due respect, I—”

“Oh, but I must admit, the match does seem fitting.” You clasped your hands, peering down at him as if contemplating it seriously. “Our new fifth-year has certainly reined in that reckless streak of yours. A strong-willed partner to temper your unfortunate disregard for authority.” You sighed dramatically. “Perhaps it is not such a poor idea after all.”

Sebastian looked about two seconds from passing out. His mouth opened and closed, searching for a response but clearly coming up short. He was no doubt replaying every single one of your late-night meetings in his mind, tallying up just how scandalous they must seem from an outsider’s perspective.

You had never seen him so utterly speechless.

“Sir, I assure you, we are not—”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Not yet, perhaps.” Then, as if just coming to a realization, you gasped. “Or is it that you wish it were so?”

Sebastian made an awful noise—somewhere between a strangled yelp and a groan of agony. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, like he was caught between gesturing wildly in protest and gripping his own hair in frustration.

“Sir—”

"What is it, Sallow? Spit it out, will you."

Sebastian swallowed hard, his usual bravado entirely abandoned. "Sir, I—this is—it's not what you think!"

You raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "Oh? Enlighten me, then. What exactly do you think I think?"

Sebastian floundered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "We—we were just studying!"

You exhaled heavily, as though exhausted by the sheer absurdity of his excuse. "Studying?" you echoed, dryly. "In the dead of night? In hidden corners of the castle? With your hands where, exactly?"

Sebastian made another strangled noise, looking truly panicked now. You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He had no idea. Absolutely no clue. And it was delicious.

"Sir," he finally managed, voice cracking just a little. "I swear on Merlin’s grave, I have never—my hands have never—!"

Liar.

"Mmm." You narrowed your eyes at him, pretending to consider his words. "So you deny any inappropriate conduct with our new student? Any late-night whispers? Any—"

A voice rang out from behind you.

"Professor Black?"

You turned sharply on your heel, schooling your features into the most severe, disapproving expression you could muster. Ominis Gaunt stood a few paces away, his wand held aloft, his pale eyes blinking as he gauged the situation. His usual neutrality was in place, but you knew him well enough to detect the faint exasperation lingering beneath the surface.

As if he were already wondering what the hell Sebastian had done this time.

"Ah, Mr. Gaunt," you greeted, letting the headmaster’s usual tone of clipped condescension seep into your voice. "Excellent timing. I was just having a most illuminating discussion with your dear friend."

Ominis tilted his head ever so slightly, expression betraying a flicker of curiosity. "Sir?"

Sebastian, still reeling from your interrogation, turned to Ominis with wide, pleading eyes. The look clearly screamed: Help me.

You clasped your hands behind your back and resumed your slow, authoritative pacing. "Tell me, Mr. Gaunt, are you aware of your friend’s nightly disappearances with our newest fifth-year?"

Ominis frowned slightly. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Headmaster."

You hummed, turning to regard him with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze. "Is that so? And yet, I have been informed that Mr. Sallow has been... rather indiscreet in his late-night activities with her."

Sebastian choked again, making another strangled sound of distress. Ominis, for his part, merely exhaled through his nose, looking deeply unimpressed. "Sir, I can assure you, whatever you've heard has been exaggerated."

"Oh?" You arched a brow. "So you deny that Mr. Sallow has been sneaking about the castle at all hours, engaging in clandestine meetings?"

Ominis remained impassive. "Sebastian has always been prone to wandering, sir. It’s hardly a new development."

Sebastian latched onto that defense like a lifeline. "Exactly! I just—wander. Aimlessly. Like a—like a ghost!"

Ominis sighed. "Not helping, Sebastian."

You clasped your chin in mock contemplation, as if seriously weighing their words. "I see. And if I were to question our new fifth-year about these wandering excursions, would they give me the same answer?"

Sebastian blanched. Ominis, however, remained eerily calm.

"Undoubtedly," Ominis said smoothly. "And, if I may be so bold, sir, surely the Headmaster has far more pressing matters to concern himself with than the idle movements of two students?"

You narrowed your eyes at him. Clever. Too clever. Ominis knew how to handle authority far too well.

But you weren’t done yet.

You sighed heavily, shaking your head. "Mr. Gaunt, as Headmaster it is my duty to ensure the propriety of all student conduct—especially when it comes to matters of… courtship.”

Sebastian, who had been clinging to Ominis' defense like a drowning man to driftwood, practically flinched at the word.

“Sir, we’re—there’s no—” he croaked.

You cut him off with a sharp wave of your hand, shifting your gaze back to Ominis, whose composed expression now held the barest trace of tension. “Surely, Mr. Gaunt, you, of all people, can appreciate the need for… structure, when it comes to matters of the heart. A proper match. A respectable arrangement.” You sighed, feigning concern. “But alas, young love is so often reckless. Thoughtless. Irresponsible.” You clasped your hands behind your back and shook your head gravely. “Which is why I fear Mr. Sallow is on course to... how shall I say it? Ruin his own future prospects.”

Sebastian, who had already been pale, seemed to turn an even more ghostly shade. “Sir, I—I don’t understand.”

“Oh, but it is quite simple, Mr. Sallow,” you continued smoothly. “Should a scandal arise—an unfortunate circumstance, let’s say—there would be consequences. A proper course of action would have to be taken.”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered wildly between you and Ominis, looking more and more like a cornered animal.

Ominis, who had been handling this entire exchange with relative poise, finally faltered. “Sir, surely—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” you interrupted, waving a hand in exasperation. “You’ll both insist that nothing untoward has occurred. But I must consider appearances, Mr. Gaunt. And if Hogwarts were to find itself at the center of an improper affair, well, we would have no choice but to ensure all parties involved were secured in a respectable manner.”

Sebastian made a sound so strangled it barely qualified as human.

Ominis, for the first time, looked genuinely speechless. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again as though he had completely lost the ability to formulate words.

You clasped your hands behind your back, nodding in a manner you hoped conveyed utmost seriousness. “Yes, yes. A proper arrangement. Ensuring the integrity of all involved parties.” You let the silence stretch, watching as Sebastian struggled to form a coherent response.

“Sir, that is—” Sebastian finally managed, his voice cracking. “That’s completely unnecessary! I assure you, we have done nothing inappropriate!”

“Oh?” You arched a brow, unimpressed. “So you deny any late-night rendezvous? Any secluded meetings?”

Sebastian groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I—yes, I mean, no! I mean—we weren’t—oh, for Merlin’s sake!”

Ominis, ever the composed one, finally seemed to regain his ability to speak. “Sir, if I may, I truly do not believe this warrants such drastic measures.”

You hummed, considering. “Perhaps. But one cannot be too careful. The reputation of this institution, and our new fifth year, is at stake.” You turned a sharp gaze to Sebastian. “You do care about your companion’s reputation, don’t you, Mr. Sallow?”

Sebastian looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. “Of course I do!”

“Then it is settled,” you said with finality. “Should any… unfortunate rumors arise, we will be prepared to handle the situation appropriately.”

Sebastian groaned again, looking pleadingly at Ominis, who, for once, had no retort prepared. He merely rubbed his temple, looking as though he too wished to vanish from existence.

With that, you turned on your heel, sweeping away with the same imperious air Phineas Nigellus Black was known for, leaving behind a thoroughly scandalized Sebastian Sallow and an utterly exasperated Ominis Gaunt.

And the second you were out of sight, you bolted, biting down hard on your knuckles to keep from cackling out loud.

Oh, that had been worth every single second.

Read Part Two →

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

MORE THAN WORDS (4).

PAIRING — writer!steve rogers x librarian f!reader

CONTENTS — miniseries; alternate universe—modern setting/library/small town; second chances at love; angst with happy ending [*tw: grief, mourning, illness, character deaths]; eventual fluff; book spine poetry (kind of).

SERIES SUMMARY — It’s been five years and he’s lost his way. Steve Rogers has taken a hiatus from his writing career and moves to the small town of Westview to escape the memories of a love lost. He unexpectedly finds a kindred spirit in the local librarian, and something compels him to begin communicating with you using the only way he knows how—by using the spines of your books.

WORD COUNT — 6.9k

NOTES — please note that this is me posting some of my old work, and also, i’m not playing around with those warnings. i wrote this as a response to my own experience with grief, and it’s not always pretty. if you are experiencing the same thing, as we all inevitably do, please know you are not alone. reach out to your loved ones; tomorrow is never guaranteed, after all. take care <3

✩ series masterlist ✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

They had only ever discussed books, but what, in this life, is more personal than books? —GABRIELLE ZEVIN, “The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry”

You should have known something was up when you walked into the main lobby and saw the Maximoffs grinning at you like total creeps.

If you didn’t know any better and if they weren’t your friends, you might have already called the cops.

Instead, you ignore their leering and roll the returns cart next to the front desk, after really taking your time putting books away. It was already almost the end of the work day.

Wanda is excitedly waving you over, Pietro smirking as he busies himself wiping down some of the tables and computers. When you approach, she links her arm through yours and pulls you closer. 

“So, there was this guy who came in earlier and he asked me to give you these.” She points to the stack of books at the corner of the front desk with a flourish, and for a moment, you’re confused. But then she kindly explains, “read the spines, in order.”

Book Girl by Sarah Clarkson Nobody Will Tell You This But Me by Bess Kalb It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine In Fact by Lee Gutkind It’s a Long Way Down by Ian Canon

You aren’t sure what to make of it, at first. You look up at Wanda, and she’s looking at you expectantly, her eyes wide. A huge smile breaks out across her pretty face, and she’s obviously waiting for a reaction of some kind. 

“Well?!” She presses when you don’t say anything.

“Well, what?”

“What do you think?” She asks impatiently.

“...I don’t know. What am I supposed to think?”

“Don’t you think it’s really... special?” She offers, shrugging her shoulders. Bending forward, she rests an elbow on the desk’s surface, her cheek fitting in the palm of her hand. She sighs dreamily. “A stranger saw what was in your soul and reached out to you.” 

She says, looking over at the books with affection. She had always known they were capable of many things, but this is a new one. Suddenly, she straightens and grins widely at you. 

“You should make one for him, too.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Wan.” You scoff. “Plus, now I have to go and put these back! It was inconsiderate of him, if you ask me.” You grab the books and start to walk off.

“Noooo,” your best friend whines, trying to take them back from you. “I think it would be kind of fun, don’t you? Like book spine poetry, but a little bit different.” She then gets a thoughtful look in her eyes. “He looked sad. Maybe he needs someone to reach out, too.” Despite this, you decide to brush it off again. 

Besides, what would you even say back to him? You don’t know this person.

“Forget it. Now, I’m gonna put these back and then we get ready to close up.” You move to leave the lobby, but Wanda declares that this stranger signed up for a library card that morning.

“His name is Steve Rogers.”

“As if that’s supposed to mean anything to m—” But before you can finish your sentence, it’s like a lightbulb goes off in your head. Steve Rogers? Hang on. You’re pretty sure you do know that name. 

Turning to the front desk again to point a warning finger at Wanda, who watches your retreating figure with deflated shoulders, you pretend like you’re heading back to your office when, in reality, you’re ducking somewhere between the shelves of the literature department.

You find several novels written by one Steve Rogers. You flip absentmindedly through the pages of one, a harrowing but beautiful love story. There are quite a few of his books here, in your library, and most of them were published a while ago. You read through the back covers, discovering he doesn’t write for any particular genre. 

In fact, he’s kind of all over the place. You pick up another one, and this one has an about-the-author section on the inside flap, and curiosity gets the better of you. You debate with yourself for a few minutes before opening it up, a photo of the man you saw earlier that day smiling back at you.

You’re transported back to the moment you first saw him, to when you had wanted to say something to soothe him, to try, even for a moment, to take away his pain. You hadn’t, but this stranger, Steve, had seen what was in your heart, too. With trembling fingers, you touch your hand to the photo, as if by doing so it would provide you with all the answers you need. Nothing. Instead, you read through his short profile.

Steven Grant Rogers is the New York Times bestselling author of You’ve Ruined My Life , a book he began writing shortly after graduating from Columbia University. Now a full-time writer, he and his wife Peggy call the Brooklyn area their home. You can visit Steve online at www.steverogersbooks.com or on Twitter (@StevenGRogers). 

Brooklyn.

You wonder what brought him here, to this tiny little town that’s so small you have to zoom in practically a million times on Google Maps in order to even see it. And he has a wife; does she have something to do with it? Is she the one Steve remembers? 

Your heart hurts, because you can’t imagine what that would be like. Your parents were together in death, and never had to go a moment without each other in the end. Did they have a family? You shake your head; as if it could be less tragic just because children weren’t involved.

Life really is so unfair sometimes.

As you glance down at the photograph in the open book in your hands, trying to reconcile the image of this younger, happier man with the one you met the other day. 

His smile in the photo is sweet and innocent, but his eyes sparkle with just a touch of mischief. The man you met last week was the same, but older, and wiser. His eyes are different now, too, blue-green pools of regret and sadness and pain.

It’s been a while of you standing here staring at the books, so you decide it’s time for you to get back to reality now. You make a note of the location, before reluctantly putting Steve’s novels back on the shelf and returning to your depressing office to finish up your work for the day. You go to leave, but instead, you quickly step back and pull a copy of You’ve Ruined My Life off the shelf, taking it with you to read over your lunch break.

By the end of the week, you will have finished the rest of his novels.

Later, at the end of the work day, Wanda is tidying up and getting ready to go home. However, she comes across a new stack of books on a shelf near the front doors. They are tucked away in its own little corner, lying flat, arranged in very particular order, on the “This Week’s Recommendations” shelf. Wanda smiles at what she sees.

Hello Stranger by Lisa Kleypas I Can See Clearly Now by Peggy Doherty DeLong We Are All the Same in the Dark by Julia Heaberlin With Gratitude by Marala Scott Book Girl by Sarah Clarkson

A week later, Wanda is thrilled when Steve stops by again. He, on the other hand, is a little nervous. It’s been four years since he’s had any normal interaction outside of his usual social circle, so he doesn’t know the etiquette for this kind of thing. Was it inappropriate? Did you find it creepy? Would he be banned from the library forever?

He hadn’t done it for any particular reason, but he wanted you to know that he saw your pain. Steve had already failed his neighbour, his new friend; he’s not ready for the knowledge that he could have helped someone else only to walk away having done absolutely nothing. If not for his own conscience, then at the very least to avoid disappointing Peggy.

Steve enters the library almost cautiously, like he’s a wanted man and there’s a poster with his name and photo on it taped to the wall somewhere. He carefully peruses the shelves of the history section, when he sees the girl from last time. Wanda. She’s putting some books back on one of the shelves when she makes eye contact.

“It’s you! Hey!” She rushes over and beams up at him, and Steve has no idea what to do. His social interactions are limited to pretty much just Thor, and his friends from New York whenever they visit. “How’s it going?” She asks when he doesn’t say anything.

“Um, good,” he says, turning back to the book he’s pulled off the shelf: Ask a Historian by Greg Jenner.

“Ooh, that’s a fun one.” Wanda says, peering at the cover. “Normally, I’m not really a non-fiction reader, but I’m trying to broaden my horizons, you know?” 

Steve smiles at this, because it reminds him of how Peggy used to say she only read mystery novels, but since she married a writer, she would be willing to try out the other genres. Wanda watches as Steve smiles, wondering if she should tell him that she knows he’s a writer.

She decides against it, as it would probably just make him uncomfortable. He seems pretty skittish already. “Have you seen them?” She asks instead.

“Seen what?” Before he can get another word out, she is smiling widely and pulling him by the arm. He closes his book, allowing her to drag him to the shelves right in front of the main doors. With a flourish, Wanda points to the stack of books in its own isolated corner.

“She... She replied?” Steve asks, surprised to say the very least. He looks over at Wanda, who’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen—not just on her, but on anyone else he’s ever met.

“Yeah! At first, she was all moody, like ugh, now I have to go put these back where he found them!” She says, imitating your voice and the scowl that had been on your face. Steve finds himself chuckling under his breath, because Wanda reminds him of Rebecca, Bucky’s younger sister, bubbly and cheerful. 

“But then,” Wanda continues. “She secretly went and selected these for you. She tried to be all stealthy about it, but I found them just before we closed up that day. I made sure they stayed so you would see them... even if I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected a reply from you, let alone one like this. You had seen his pain too, just as he had seen yours. It makes him ache, this connection to another human being who isn’t someone from his old life.

“Are you going to do another one?” Wanda asks, staring at the books. She thinks about you, her friend, so unlike yourself in these past few years, because you had been put through the wringer once, had barely survived, and now the universe was asking you to do it all over again. Nothing Wanda could say made you feel better, and you confided in absolutely no one. Yet, somehow, you’ve made a connection with Steve, a total stranger.

Wanda believes it’s too special to let go of, so she will do her best to make sure you don’t. “Something made you do it once, why not do it again?”

Yes, Steve thinks. Why not?

After about an hour of searching, he finds what he’s looking for. He doesn’t know if it’s too personal, but he supposes he’ll just have to see what your response will be to find out. Leaving them on the shelf where you had left your books, he looks over his shoulder at Wanda, who gives him a thumbs up.

When he leaves, Wanda sends Pietro over to the shelf with his phone. Her brother takes a quick picture before strolling back to the checkout desk. When they look down at his screen and read through the message, they wonder if this may be something more than just the unorthodox beginning of a new friendship.

Maybe Next Time by Christina C. Jones When I See You Again by Daryl Banner Tell Me Three Things by Julie Buxbaum

A few days later, Steve puts his phone away before entering the library. He just got off a call with his editor, proclaiming his desire to write again. He couldn’t promise he’d have anything ready right away, but he was trying. 

He actually had written some things in the last five years, but he took no joy in it. But maybe, now he could find something else that he could write about. Maybe, he can rediscover the pleasure he used to get from writing, from putting pen to paper.

He sets up at his usual table, the one just steps away from your office. Glancing over at the front desk, Wanda gives him a thumbs up with a smile. They have come to an agreement of sorts; she would watch over his table as he wandered the aisles, having discovered what he did for a living when she found more than a few of his books over in the fiction and literature department. 

Over the past week or so, he’s definitely grown a soft spot for the young brunette, something about her sweet charm reminding him of Peggy.

As he walks away with a wave to head to the second floor, he passes by the corner of Wanda’s desk—the new spot now unofficially designated for the book exchanges that you and he had started the last time he saw you. 

The two of you decided to put your books in a safer spot, where the other patrons wouldn’t accidentally take them. Your books still rest where you left them; you had responded to his request to tell him three things about you with titles that showcased a sense of humour.

Smooth Talking Stranger by Lisa Kleypas If You Must Know by Jamie Beck I Will Judge You By Your Bookshelf by Grant Snider The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo by Amy Schumer Will My Cat Eat My Eyeballs? by Caitlin Doughty & Dianna Ruz

Steve has to muffle a laugh at the last one, lest anyone complain about him for it. Also, you have a tattoo? On your lower back? Steve feels his cheeks warming at the mental image before trying to shake it off. He quickly takes a picture of the cat book to send to Bucky, who has a pet of his own. He then heads up the stairs to the second floor.

He browses through the philosophy section, not really knowing what he’s looking for. He pulls random ones off the shelves, flipping through them hoping he’ll find something of interest. Occasionally he sees a particularly compelling passage in an otherwise dull book, but sometimes that’s all he needs. 

Not today, however. Nothing seems to stick. He considers using the digital catalog to try and search for something, but ultimately decides against it as Steve doesn’t even have a particular topic in mind. It wouldn’t be of much help anyhow.

Instead, he wanders from shelf to shelf, getting lost in some of the newer titles. He comes across a title that he’s already finished but decides it’s good enough to read again. He sits on the floor, back up against the shelf, falling back into a familiar world, being pleasantly surprised when he finds something he missed the first time around.

Someone turns the corner and stops when they see the aisle is occupied, and Steve thinks he’s in the way. Looking up, he’s about to apologize for taking up so much space, but then he sees it’s you. Steve gets to his feet, realizing it’s the first time he’s seen you in person since that first day.

“Hello, stranger,” you say, repeating the first words you ever spoke to him. Smiling to yourself, you remember that, actually, he’s not really a stranger anymore.

“Steve Rogers,” he corrects, quickly introducing himself, not knowing that you are already privy to this little detail. When you tell him your name in return, he repeats it to himself under his breath, willing it to memory. The two of you then just stare at each other in awkward silence for a moment, not knowing how to start a conversation.

You return a book to one of the shelves and Steve gets a glimpse of the title— God: An Anatomy. Silently, you think to yourself that you aren’t sure whether to curse or thank Wanda later for giving you a chance to speak to this nice new stranger in town, as she had been the one to place the book in your hands, asking you to put it back for her. 

Did she realize that you were her boss? Now you know why she had been smirking when she asked. You swear, if you didn’t love her so much...

“So, it’s your turn, I believe.”

“My what?” Steve asks, the book still laying open in his large palm.

“I told you three things. It’s your turn.” It would have been easy for you to turn around and walk away after putting the book back, but you find that you like his voice. He’s not at all what you would have expected from a big shot writer from New York. Steve Rogers is kindness incarnate. You can feel it oozing out of him, laced into the deep timbre of his voice, like he can’t help it, like it’s a part of his very nature.

“Oh. Right now?” It surprises both of you when he breathes a laugh. The sound is foreign to Steve’s own ears, catching him off guard. You find yourself following his lead, causing Steve to grip his book a little tighter; your laughter is as clear and as pretty as the sound of a bell.

“No, not right now. Or at all. Only if you want to.” Silence falls between you for a few moments, and you think that’s probably your cue to leave. But before you can turn and wave him goodbye, you hear him speak.

“I’m from Brooklyn. I’m married. My wife died.” The words come tumbling out before Steve can stop them. The last three are a surprise, because he realizes he’s never said them out loud before. In fact, if he really thinks about it, he’s probably been avoiding every possible scenario where he’d have to use those words. 

By not saying them out loud, he could pretend like Peggy was anywhere in the world. Maybe on a business trip somewhere. Maybe vacationing on a beach in California. Maybe learning a new language in Europe. Now, however, all of that comes to an end.

He looks over at you to gauge your reaction, but you simply stare back at him. Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know; all the patience, understanding, and empathy he never knew he needed is reflected back at him. And acknowledgement. 

Above everything else, all Steve had wanted was for someone to see his pain; he didn’t need them to understand it. Nobody ever would, not really; his relationship and love for Peggy had been unique, just as everyone else’s had been. How could they know how he felt? They could have some idea, but what they imagined wouldn’t even come close to reality.

Steve wants to ask you the source of your pain then, but realizes it’s a very personal question. Despite what the two of you share, this strange new kinship, he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Because he knows that, while there’s never a right thing to say in situations like these, there’s always a wrong thing to say. 

He writes for a living, he prides himself on being able to use words to his advantage, to tell a story... but he finds himself having a hard time with them now. Somehow it’s different when you’re talking to a real person, sharing tales about actual life-altering events. Is it a talent that ebbs away after years of nonuse? Can you lose the gift of writing?

Having been through the loss of a loved one yourself, you decide to skip over the usual comments. The I’m sorry for your loss’s , the how are you doing’s , and the give it time’s, because you know none of it will make any difference. 

The last one would probably just hurt his feelings, because they had always hurt yours. As if a little bit of time could ever make you feel better about what happened to your parents. You feel that even if you lived to be a hundred, you would still look back and the pain would still feel as fresh as it does today, as it did ten years ago. 

It wasn’t enough that your parents had to die, but the thought that their last moments had been ones of fear and panic? And Loki, the love of your life—how he had suffered! And that’s the thing that threatens to do you in. The knowledge of their agony.

And let’s say that it is true that time is what you need; what if the amount of time left in your hourglass simply wasn’t enough? What if you needed much more? Centuries, or millennia even? What then?

Then, the phrase “time heals all wounds” is no longer a comfort, but a prison sentence.

So, instead, you glance over at the book you just returned to the shelf. “Do you believe in god, Mr. Rogers?”

“Steve,” he corrects instantly, bringing a small smile to your face. “And I... don’t know. I think I did. Before.”

“Then what do you believe in now?”

“That’s a good question.” Maybe a pile of books could tell you better than he could, despite the fact that he’s supposed to have a way with words. “I’ll have to think about that one.” He promises, finally cracking a smile at the prospect of returning and, hopefully, seeing you again.

You find his response a few days later, smiling to yourself as you discover one more side to your new friend.

I Believe in… by Pearl Fuyo Gaskins The Idea of Justice by Amartya Sen The Power of Empathy by Arthur Ciaramicolli The Kindness of Strangers by Katrina Kittle The Course of Love by Alain de Botton

And thus begins a change at the Westview Library over the following weeks.

Your book exchanges with Steve happen more frequently, and it takes you a few times to realize that occasionally, he’ll just drop a book off at your usual spot, the corner of Wanda’s desk, the one that’s up against the wall. It’s not a message, but just a recommendation. 

You would inhale whatever he left you, even if you thought it wouldn’t be what you expected. Even if you had previously read one of the author’s other works and decided you didn’t like their writing style. Steve seemed to know what you would like, and every time he left a single book in your special little corner, you wouldn’t even have to rush to finish it.

You started leaving suggestions of your own, too, a little bit afraid since he’s a professional and all. What if he thought your tastes juvenile, especially since one time you suggested a YA novel, but he told you that it was one he read back when he was in college—and it changed his life. 

One day, you cheekily left a copy of You’ve Ruined My Life, his book, in the corner. He couldn’t look you in the eye the next time you saw him, making you laugh out loud, earning a few glares from the other patrons who were trying to concentrate.

“You do this for a living, Steve. Why are you embarrassed?” You asked him, still trying to stifle giggles.

“I don’t know. It’s just weird.”

“Your friends haven’t read any of your books?”

“If they have, they’ve never said anything. And I prefer it that way.”

“But you’re so good!” He flushed bright red at your praise, bowing his head and avoiding your eye for the rest of the day, which you found quite endearing. He is handsome, kind, talented, and modest. Some might say Steve Rogers is the whole package.

Occasionally he would pepper in something totally different into your exchanges, asking you questions about your life as if he could no longer hold back his curiosity.

Before You Go by Clare Swatman Tell Me by Olivia Cunning Only If You Want by Rachel Noelle What Happened to You? by Bruce D. Perry

You had stared at the last one for a really long time, wondering if there was a book out there that could answer for you. Despite your budding new friendship, there are still some things too difficult to voice. For a while, you thought you’d ignore it, maybe start a new topic, or maybe stop the exchanges altogether. But then you saw him one day, sitting at his usual table, reading quietly. A strand of his blond hair had fallen out of place, but he made no move to brush it back.

You realize then that you really liked Steve. He was uniquely kind, shown by the way he reached out to you when he really didn’t have to. He could have done what anyone else might have done and walked away, forgot all about you, and went on with his life. 

If anyone could understand what you went through, even just a little, it was Steve. Before this, he had never asked you about your past, despite him never hesitating to share about Peggy when you mustered up the guts to ask him. He would later admit that he liked talking about Peggy, even if it hurt.

He likes telling people about what she liked, things she did that made him laugh, things that only she would do. He liked sharing that part of her with others. It made him feel like she was still around, in some way. 

But he didn’t feel like he could talk to his friends about it, even though some time has gone by since her passing. His friends avoided the subject like the plague, either out of their own grief or in an effort to spare him from his. Steve thought it was a shame, because he wanted to talk about Peggy with people who had known her, people who had loved her like he did.

Spilling his guts out to a therapist was fine, and sometimes even cathartic, but there are times when that isn’t what he needs. But he didn’t know how to bring it up, not even with his best friend Bucky, who had ultimately decided to sacrifice his own chance at happiness out of fear.

You had never thought about things that way before. Talking about Loki was still too painful, even to Wanda and Pietro. But when you think about sharing stories about him, sweet things he used to do for Wanda unprompted, or the way he and Pietro would revert back to being teenage boys whenever they were together, it makes you ache but in the best way. 

You only ever know a person one way, or maybe two if you were lucky, but it is only when they are gone that it really hits you that they might have been someone else to others. There were sides of them you would never know... would sharing that be sort of like discovering someone new?

You had always chosen to take the coward’s way out, opting not to speak when it really mattered. It had cost you everything. Maybe this time, just this once, you could take courage.

The Orphan Daughter by Cari Noga A Love Story Starring My Dead Best Friend by Emily Horner Sorrowland by Rivers Solomon

Steve didn’t press you for more. Instead, he just responded in his usual compassionate way.

I’m Sorry by Gina and Mercer Mayer I Wish I Had… by Giovanna Zoboli A Manual for Heartache by Cathy Rentzenbrink

The subject was never broached again. Steve was probably waiting for you to decide when you were ready to share, if you ever would be. He went back to leaving you book recommendations, or asking more mundane, sillier, funnier questions.

It then went from recommendations to this game you would play. You made a comment once about how a lot of books were inspired by song titles or lyrics. Now, there is a growing pile of books with musical names. Wanda and Pietro knew not to touch your exchanges, and you never made a move to put any of the books back, unless they were specifically requested and you had no other copies available. 

How to Save a Life by Sara Zarr Since You’ve Been Gone by Morgan Matson Chasing Pavements by Neha Yasmin Norwegian Wood by Haruki Marukami (Don’t You) Forget About Me by Kate Karyus Quinn Jesse’s Girl by Miranda Kenneally Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro All the Single Ladies by Rebecca Traister Heartbreak Hotel by Jonathan Kellerman Message in a Bottle by Nicholas Sparks

Steve sits across from you now, at his usual table, his laptop open in front of him. He’s typing away, but then he’ll heave a sigh and hit the backspace button over and over again in frustration. The crease between his eyebrows is so deep that you’re a little worried the wrinkle might become permanently etched into his skin. 

It startles you when you catch yourself trying to memorize the lines of his face, perfectly symmetrical and imperfectly interesting all at once. 

You tell him you’ll leave him to it as he falls back into concentration. You whisper a goodbye, before heading back to your office. You’ve been spending less time in there, which you suppose is a bad thing, but it’s not like you can’t get your work done elsewhere. All you need to do is unplug your laptop and you’re free to roam the premises, and answering a flurry of emails doesn’t require that much privacy, after all. Sometimes, you would sit with Steve as he wrote, you doing your research and responding to messages, the two of you working in comfortable silence.

Well, besides, this time is usually a slow period for you. People are just returning to school after the holiday season, and papers won’t be due for at least another month or two. Professors and students aren’t really spending much time at the library in the first few weeks of the semester. Westview is small, so you can’t really afford to put up as many events as you would like, or invite any of the big name authors for book signings and such.

Wanda had suggested asking Steve, but you would feel a little weird doing it. Besides, he’s working on a new novel right now, and surely doesn’t have the time for anything of the sort.

Your day drags on, and given your improving mood lately, you find it a little less difficult to venture into Loki’s office today. Only a little. Ever since that first time, you started coming in here often, as if by sitting in this empty room you could somehow be closer to him. Heart wrenching, you rummage through the packed-up boxes again. 

Maybe you should have just left everything out where it had been, because with how often you’ve been going through his things lately— just one last time, you’d tell yourself—it seemed counterproductive.

When you initially packed all of this stuff away, you had wanted to get it done as quickly as possible. You didn’t pause to take in all the things he kept in his drawers, to really take in the photos he kept on his desk—ones from his trips to the UK, back when he was still healthy and happy. How strange it was that you couldn’t conjure up images of him from back then without help, even though you had years with him before he got sick. 

Each time you searched through his things, you found something new—a scrawled note on the back of a photograph, the dark green ribbon you had used to wrap one of his birthday presents, the ticket stub from when the two of you went out to the movies one day, after deciding to meet for the very first time outside of work.

Today, you discover a wad of paper stuck between the pages of a book, breath hitching when you unfold them to see his neat cursive handwriting. You look away for a moment, as if you had found his secret diary entries. He had tucked them away for a reason; perhaps you shouldn’t read it. But curious and dizzy with longing, you can’t resist the urge.

They aren’t diary entries, but poems. You smile wistfully to yourself as you read through them, most are short and sweet. He describes the tranquility of an autumn morning, the unexpected comfort of returning to his hometown, the peace that can be found between the pages of a book. 

He’d even written a cute one about Ollie, complete with an excellent drawing of your cat in the top corner. The next one, however, despite your earlier good mood, sinks you back into darkness. Fifty Words for Love, he’d called it, with your name printed neatly at the very end of the list.

You grab a pencil from another box, scrawling in his name next to yours. Tears burn at your eyes, prompting you to bite down on your lip hard enough that you think you might draw blood. Don’t do it, you tell yourself. Crying solves nothing! But the dam is beginning to burst, and you let out a small whimper when the tears flow free and splatter onto the page.

The sound of someone calling your name has you scrambling to wipe them away. You turn away from the door, despite knowing it’s too late—whoever it is has already seen you. Embarrassed and still sniffling, you slap a smile onto your face before looking up. It falters, however, when you are met with the desperately desolate eyes of your friend Thor.

You haven’t seen him in months. Eight months to be exact. Not since he left Westview shortly after the funeral and began ignoring your calls. He had then sent you a single text message before months of radio silence: I need time. I’ll be back.

Thor looks different, just like Pietro had told you. He looks nothing like the person you had known since high school. Your first instinct is to hold him close, to try and take the pain from him, but white-hot anger burns in your chest. 

You hear the first syllables of an apology, but you pull back. He doesn’t let you. He wipes at your tears and you can’t help but sigh under his touch. Despite your anger, you’ve missed him. You’ve worried about him. You still do.

“Thor—”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why did you leave?” But it’s a silly question. You know perfectly well why.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“I needed you and you left me.” It was unfair and you knew it. Thor and Loki were cousins, but it would have been more accurate to describe them as brothers. Thor was allowed to leave, to take time away to grieve and process everything that happened. But you were also allowed to be angry at him for leaving. Both things could be true. Nobody did anything wrong, and the situation was just helpless all around.

“I won’t leave again.” Thor promises, wrapping his arms around you. You let him for now, just needing to be near someone who had loved Loki just as much as you do, if not even more so. Some of the time, that alone is enough to bring you back from the pits of despair.

If anyone had ever told you that this is how your friendship with Thor would play out, you would have laughed in their face. You used to always say that it was impossible to stay mad at him, and he knew just how to make you laugh even when you were pissed. Not anymore, though.

Unfortunately, both of you have been irrevocably changed.

Thor had been a happy and eager spectator as your story with Loki unfolded. He began introducing you to people as his cousin, much to others’ confusion. 

“Oh, sorry,” he would then correct himself with a teasing grin. “My cousin-in-law.” 

Loki would flush pink, whacking Thor in the chest before turning to you with a small smile, rolling his eyes.

You pull away from Thor now, the betrayal of his abandonment coming back full force. If he had known how much Loki had meant to you, how could he have left? You know the answer already. If you had the same option, you would have taken it without question. You would have left this place, eager to outrun the pain of a love lost. 

Your rational mind is not in play right now, however, and you shove Thor away a little more harshly than you had initially intended. Nevertheless, your heart swells with a twisted sort of satisfaction at the hurt that flashes across his features.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“And I don’t forgive you. Not yet.” You spit at him, taking large steps back from him to return to your office.

“I’m angry too, you know.”

“I know —” You begin, because you do know. It would be a surprise if he weren’t. Nobody watches someone they love die, watches them succumb to an illness that took a tiny part of them away every single day, only to emerge unscathed. But apparently, that’s not what he meant.

“Why didn’t you just tell him?”

“What?”

“He said he loved you. You said nothing. Even if you had to fucking lie—!” Thor’s voice breaks towards the end and he stops, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales harshly in frustration. His outburst surprises you, because Thor usually isn’t one for profanity. You think you’ve only heard him swear a handful of times in the years you’ve known him, and none of those times were ever directed at you. “Even if you had to lie, why couldn’t you just say it? He was dying anyway!”

“Oh, screw you. You know it wouldn’t have been a lie,” you say, raising your own voice, indignant. How could he accuse you of such a thing?

“And yet you said nothing. He was dying, and you didn’t say it back! For all you know, he died thinking you didn’t feel the same.” You shake your head at this, heart shattering, because that simply could not be true. Loki knew. He had to know. He had to, even without you having to say it. “And maybe I left because you were the one I was angry at!” 

Thor’s chest is heaving by now, fresh tears shimmering on his lower lashes. You hear him swear again, and he buries his face in his hands at the whimper that escapes your throat. This isn’t how he wanted this to go. He wasn’t supposed to be saying all of this. He was supposed to be making things better, not worse.

Thor puts his hands down to make eye contact, slowly shaking his head, as if trying to tell you that he didn’t mean it. But you know he had. All this time, he had been angry at you, and he could never bring himself to admit it until now. How hard it must have been for him to try and hold it back. 

The knowledge, strangely, brings you relief. Because the thought had crossed your mind more than once that Loki should have gotten angry at you too. You would have been, if you were in his position. 

Even faced with a ticking clock, even though you were very well aware of the fact that you were running out of time, you couldn’t manage to say three little words to him? Not even his dying could convince you to be honest with yourself?

More than regretful, it left you feeling ashamed. Your love for Loki amounted to so much more than the situation you created, but this is the legacy you’ve chosen. As the saying goes, you’ve made your bed. Now you must lie in it. But you are convinced that you may never sleep again.

Thor is crossing the room again, now holding his arms out in a silent plea before he touches you. Your face falls, knowing that you’re the one who should be asking for forgiveness—but your words fail you one more time. 

Why is it always so difficult to say the things that matter? 

With no answer, you once again opt for being a coward. Once again, you leave words unsaid. Once again, you feel you’ve made the wrong choice.

But at the very least, your actions can speak for you. You reach up to wrap your arms around him, allowing him to come close and rest his head on your shoulder. Thor’s sadness radiates off of him in waves, seeping into your skin and settling into your heart. The words you leave unspoken, you hope, somehow, can reach him in the same way.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

We may be plenty fragile, but we are also the only ones who can decide to change. —ALI BENJAMIN, “The Thing About Jellyfish” 

to be continued.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[ideas-4-stories]

One piece story idea where Buggy has had medical issues since he was a baby, but most of them went unknown, undiagnosed, or not caught early enough to "make a difference".

Buggy with an autoimmune disorder of some kind (leaning to fibromayalgia bc I love projecting on my baby blue blorbo, but also the overactive nerves would tie in nicely with his devil fruit)

Buggy with hypermobility at the very least, possible Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, but it's damn near impossible to properly diagnose due to his DF and the tech available by and large.

On the Oro Jackson, few genuinely believed when Buggy would say something hurt or felt wrong or when he was more foggy headed than usual. Shanks could always read him like an open book. Roger could hear the changes in his youngest's Voice. Crocus did the best he could, but his options were limited and his attention was split. It was Roger, Rayleigh and Shanks who were Buggy's main support system.

Roger absolutely cried the first time Buggy got injured in a big fight and casually relocated a joint with just a soft hiss. That alone had been jarring, but Buggy's response to Shanks' worried question of "are you okay, does it hurt-," left the captain biting back tears. How else is a father supposed to feel when his little boy simply rolls hod eyes and says "not much more than normal"

When Roger disbanded the crew, the plan was to leave the boys on Drum. It had good doctors, Buggy would get more support, and it was rarely an island under siege due to the medical renown it had. They of course did not tell the boys as such, and it was only through a series of wacky events that lead Kureha to meeting them and taking a liking to their sparks. Shanks wasn't the most interested in medicine but he learned some things, specifically first aid and some things to help Buggy. He actually found psychology pretty interesting when he had the patience and attention span to spare. Buggy on the other hand took to it all like a fish to water.

They were there for almost two years when the newspaper was delivered and both boys lost their SHIT when the headline announced the execution of their captain, their father. Kureha sent them off, arguably with more supplies than they needed, and gave them her Denden number to reach her if they needed anything at all. She couldn't go with them, but she refused to send them truly alone.

They have their fight in the plaza, but it doesn't end with a monumental break up. They meet back up the next day, and they bite the bullet together and talk.

They take some time to come to a decision moving forward.

They ultimately decide to go with the co-captain avenue but with careful misdirection and smoke and mirrors. To the world at large, they will seem completely independent and unrelated. In truth, they will be leveraging their independent skills to further themselves and each other. The brains and brawn, as it were.

It works out in their favor for a good deal of time until the cluster fuck that is marineford. Secrets are out, identities revealed, and Buggy is having 6395716 panic attacks stacked up like Legos.

He and Shanks roll with it as best they can, trying to salvage what they feasibly could.

Two years later, Cross Guild is formed and begins rolling. Buggy's crew knows of his illnesses/disabilities, but he has a strict set up to address them. It's on a need to know basis.

Crocodile and Mihawk just so happened to swirl in like a hurricane and never got the memo until there was an attack on the island.

Somehow, someway, Buggy got absolutely soaked in sea water, but he's still fighting, knives in hand, bobbing and weaving with a trail of blood in his wake. It's as he pivots to lunge that Mihawk catches sight of him suddenly paling, a minute flinch, but beyond that, Buggy doesn't react, instead throwing the knife, reaching down and making a strange move at his knee before he cringed, took a sharp inhale, and dove back into the fray.

Upon asking why, hours later in the meeting tent, the swordsman and mafioso present blink when Buggy shrugs and says "oh, my knee cap tried to dislocate. Couldn't disconnect with the sea water so I had to push it back by hand."

"Pardon?"

"Hm?" Buggy glances up from where he's brushing some dried remnants of the battle from his locks, one eye shut against the debris. "What?"

"What caused the injury? I did not see any attacks to your legs in the chaos."

"Oh, it just happens sometimes," Buggy says casually, as if this were knowledge the other two ought to know. "I'm used to it."

They are not sure what to do, nor how to respond. They let it rest for the time being but they do keep a closer eye on their chairman following this.

They learn Buggy is rather adept at working with and around his unusual burdens, either disconnecting a joint or alleviating pressure on it until it can be addressed, even chop-chopping the offending area back to the proper place. They catch sight, now that they know to look, of hints of braces, wraps, the way Buggy occasionally presses his iced drink to a knee, a wrist, on an ankle in movements familiar but exceedingly casual, never belying their true purpose.

It is then that the two dark haired men realize there is much more to their clown than they first assumed.

I agree that overactive nerves would tie nicely with his Devil Fruit. Buggy having medical issues that went unknown, undiagnosed, or wasn’t caught early enough would make sense after all if the HC that Buggy was with the Roger Pirates as a baby or even if he wasn’t with them during his infant stage. These are pirates, how are they supposed to know that they need to look for things that could be wrong with the two babies they now have?

I’m sure some of them have things that have went unknown and undiagnosed. Anyway, back to Buggy, I had to look up Ehlers Danlos Syndrome because I didn't know what it was. I agree that it would be nearly impossible to diagnose properly because of no good tech around, as well as the fact he is on a pirate crew, I assume for the most pirate crews they don't stick around island for very long. I HC that Buggy swallowed the Bara Bara Fruit when he was nine.

Poor Buggy, I want to think that more people on the crew understood that Buggy has problems but didn’t how they could help him. Because acting like Buggy was fragile would make Buggy become angry because kid doesn’t want to be treated like that.

Poor Roger, having to watch that without saying anything, with all the other times it happened. Then after he disbanded the crew. Leaving them on Drum Island is a good choice and it makes sense that they didn’t tell the boys (I feel like they don’t tell the boys many things that should of been talked about, but this might be a good thing they didn’t say anything about. But who knows)

I wonder what the series of wacky events were to the meeting between them and Kureha? To me, they seemed like it there in this AU.

I think anyone would lose their shit if they see someone, they really love is getting murdered in front of so many people. I feel that Kureha only let them go because she knew they would go anyway, and this way let’s her give Buggy and Shanks the supplies they need.

I believe that with all the stress and pain of losing someone they hold dear in their hearts. I think Buggy wasn’t in the right mind set nor was Shanks in a way. Anyway, Love that they came back around to talk about it. I think the smoke & mirrors co-captain route they have… or is it more like Buggy and Shanks are allies? They have their own crews, but they still have each.

Then Marineford happened, poor Buggy and Shanks. I hope in this AU that Ace lives, but it was never stated so I don't know.

The idea that Buggy's crew knows about his illnesses/disabilities makes me feel that his followers would say he so strong to overcome them or we just talking about Buggy's crew from East Blue. Then yeah, those folks definitely know about his illnesses/disabilities.

Mihawk and Crocodile coming in without any knowledge and it took a battle to find out. I can see Buggy is nonchalantly about it as Mihawk did a doubletake when he said ‘Pardon?’ Crocodile did a doubletake too, because with those two didn’t know.

Once Crocodile and Mihawk know about what’s going on with Buggy, they see that the signs were always there. It’s just they didn’t paid attention to those signs, but they are.

[nellasbookplanet]

Book recs: my favorite 2024 reads

I read over 160 books this year. Let's fucking go.

Note: List excludes re-reads and sequels, I am however not above including franchise novels and tie-ins.

Chain-Gang All-Stars by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah

Dystopia. In a near future America, inmates on death row or with life sentences can choose to participate in death matches for entertainment. If they survive long enough - a rare case indeed - they regain their freedom. Among these prisoners are Loretta Thurwar and Hamara "Hurricane Staxxx" Stacker, partners behind the scenes and close to the deadline of a possible release - if only they can survive for long enough. As the game continues to be stacked against them and protests mount outside, two women fight for love, freedom, and their own humanity. Chain-Gang All-Stars is bleak and unflinching as well as genuinely hopeful in its portrayal of a dark but all too real possible future.

Goddess of Filth by V. Castro

Horror novella. What starts as a drunken seance between friends ends with one of them chanting in Nahuatl, the language of their Aztec ancestors. Following that night, the formerly shy Fernanda has changed. While her family calls for priests, claiming her possessed by a demon, Fernanda’s friends believe what has taken up residence in her is something decidedly older. A quick read featuring female rage, desire and empowerment, this is a different twist on the typical possession story.

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez

Science fiction. A strange child lands on an isolated planet, scaring its inhabitants into handing him over into the hands of Nia Amani. As captain of a transport ship, Nia is not only the planet's only contact with the outside world, she is also a woman out of time, years compressing into months as she travels through space at high speeds. Now responsible for a child who doesn't speak and in a galaxy that wishes them ill, she must rethink exactly what she wants to do with her life, and what she's prepared to give up. Features multiple major queer characters.

The Women Could Fly by Megan Giddings

In an alternate version of our present, the witch hunt never ended. Women are constantly watched and expected to marry young so their husbands can keep an eye on them. When she was fourteen, Josephine's mother disappeared, leveling suspicions at both mother and daughter of possible witchcraft. Now, nearly a decade and a half later, Jo, in trying to finally accept her missing mother as dead, decides to follow up on a set of seemingly nonsensical instructions left in her will. Features a bisexual lead!

Cottonwood by R. Lee Smith

Science fiction romance. 20 years ago, aliens arrived on Earth, neither invaders nor diplomats but refugees. Now they are being kept in integration camps away from the human population, meaning Sarah has never met one before getting a job as a social worker in one of the camps, at which point the true treatment of the aliens at once become horrifyingly clear to her. Sanford, single father, has a decades long plan to flee the prison that is Earth, and maybe with Sarah's help it can finally reach fruition. Includes dark elements such as torture, sexual assault, and pet death.

Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett

Historical fantasy. Emily Wilde is a professor who prefers the company of faeries, dangerous but bound to rules she can understand, to that of humans, who she finds inexplicable. Working on her faerie encyclopedia, she travels on a research expedition to the faraway Hrafnsvik, hoping for some solitary months of study. Her hopes are dashed when Wendell Bambleby, rival scholar and possible faerie in hiding, arrives on her doorstep. But Wendell's aggravating presence is far from Emily's only problem, as the Hidden Folk of Hrafnsvik turns out to be far more dangerous than expected.

Mass Effect Andromeda: Annihilation by Catherynne M. Valente

In a ship carrying 20 000 colonists on a centuries long trip to the Andromeda galaxy, something has gone wrong. A small contingent of crew representing the various races on board has been woken up to find out why colonists are dying in their sleep, but the situation quickly gets worse. Soon a pathogen is spreading and jumping species, threatening the entire ship before it has even reached its goal. Tie-in novel for the Mass Effect games; while I love it a lot, you're unlikely to get the full experience unless you've also played the games.

Under Fortunate Stars by Ren Hutchings

Two ships have gotten stuck in a rift in space, isolated outside of time. One of them is the Jonah, a ship dodging a generations long war against an alien species, carrying a small crew of smugglers, an unintended passenger, and a hijacker. The other ship is the Gallion, which arrived from 150 years in the future carrying an alien ambassador - and whose crew is awestruck at meeting the heroes of the Jonah, known to have ended the war. As the two crews struggle to understand each other's timelines, they must also work together to leave the rift before they're stranded forever. Multiple queer characters, however the main romance plotlines are m/f.

The Good Demon by Jimmy Cajoleas

Young adult horror. Clare has recently been put through a successful exorcism, but rather than help her, it has left her miserable. Clare's demon was her closest friend and had been for years, and without her Clare is left alone and lost. Set on getting her friend back, Clare starts seeking clues her demon seems to have left her, and in doing so starts finding dark, old secrets buried in the history of her home town.

Such Sharp Teeth by Kim Harrison

When her pregnant twin sister is left by her boyfriend, Rory decides to go back to her home town and stay with her for a time. But the town is also the home of old childhood trauma, and something wild is roaming the woods. When she gets attacked and mauled one night, Rory's successful life is changed forever. Lycanthropy used as a metaphor for female rage, trauma, and bad coping mechanisms.

The Angel of the Crows by Katherine Addison

Sherlock Holmes retelling, historical fantasy. After having been injured fighting a war against fallen angels, Doyle returns to London to survive on only a veteran's pension. To afford a place to live in the city, Doyle finds a housemate in Crow, an eccentric angel with a great curiosity for humans and a knack for solving crime. And London needs its protector - supernatural beings walk the streets, and a someone going by the name Jack the Ripper terrifies the citizens at night.

The Spider and Her Demons by sydney khoo

Young adult fantasy. All teenager Zhi wants is a normal life (and possibly for her harsh aunt to be a bit nicer), but it’s hard when she’s half spider demon. Every day she must conceal her true nature and hide in human guise. When she slips up and eats a man in front of her rich, aloof classmate Dior, Zhi thinks her life is over. But Dior has secrets of her own, and she is dead set on making herself a part of Zhi's life.

A Madness of Angels by Kate Griffin

Urban fantasy. Two years ago, sorcerer Matthew Swift was killed. Today, he woke back up. And he isn't alone in his body, but rather in the company of the blue electric angels, who lived in the telephone lines and are now experiencing the world for the first time through him. Now, he seeks vengeance not only against the one who killed him, but also against the one who brought him back. Absolutely buck wild unique take on switching and merging pov betwen singular and plural.

The Fall that Saved Us by Tamara Jerée

Sapphic romance. Cassiel is of angelic heritage, raised to fight and kill demons alongside her family. But Cassiel has left the hunt and her family behind, wanting a normal life. For three years she's built a life for herself, cut off from her family, but now a demon has found her, sent to collect her soul. Except, the demon isn't any more interested in following the orders of her family than Cassiel is. Can they work together to free themselves from the expectations placed on them?

Spiderlight by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Fantasy. A small band of heroes prophesied to defeat an evil king must follow the "spider's path"; to find the way they seek the aid of dangerous, man-eating giant spiders. As spiders don't keep maps, their mage turns one of the spiders into human guise, forcing it to lead their way if it is ever to return to its true form. Both dark and immensely funny, Spiderlight is at once a love letter to classical heroic fantasy quests and a deconstruction of the idea of 'evil races' in the fantasy genre.

Providence Girls by Morgan Dante

Sapphic horror re-imagining of several of H.P. Lovecraft's works from the point of view of the women sidelined as victims in the originals. Forced to abandon her not-quite-human children to escape a cult seeking to sacrifice her, Lavinia nearly dies from exposure in the woods. She's saved by the prickly Asenath, and they find themselves growing close as Lavinia regains her strength. But Asenath's own dark past is catching up, as she too begins to transform into something not entirely human.

Amatka by Karin Tidbeck

Dystopia with especially creative world-building and a sapphic romance. In a vague past, something caused a group of humans to become trapped in an alien world, where the laws of reality themselves react in hostile ways to humanity's attempt at life and stability. To survive, strict rules and censorship are put in place, with harsh punishments for any overstep. Vanja is sent to the distant colony Amatka to do market research. In her research, she starts finding out the truth of the laws she chafes under, and begins to wonder whether life is really worth living if change isn't made.

Some Desperate Glory by Emily Tesh

Having grown up on the heavily militarized Gaea Station, Kyr has spent her whole life training to become a soldier, aiming to bring power back to humanity after Earth was destroyed in an alien war decades ago. But when she is relegated to the nursery to birth future sons and her brother is sent on a suicide mission, Kyr breaks the rules for the first time in her life. Breaking out an alien prisoner and working alongside her brother's asshole friend, she flees Gaea Station to save her brother and bring glory to humanity. But along the way she finds out there’s much she doesn't know, about Gaea station and her own family both.

The Calculating Stars by Mary Robinette Kowal

Alternate history. In 1952, history changes when a massive meteorite hits the Earth, killing thousands and kickstarting a global climate change that will soon make the planet uninhabitable. To save humanity from extinction, the world begins to come together to bring us to space before it's too late. Elma York, WASP pilot in the war and expert mathematician, is hoping to become one of the astronauts, but finds that she and her women friends have to work harder than anyone else to be given room in the mission.

To Shape a Dragon's Breath by Moniquill Blackgoose

Young adult fantasy. Anequs is a young indigenous woman in a land ruled by Anglish conquerors. When Anequs finds a dragon egg and bonds with the hatchling, she is forced to travel away to attend an academy for dragon riders as one of only two indigenous students. Pulled between the traditions of her family and the ideas of the conquerors - many of which want her out of the academy no matter what - Anequs must find her place in the world as a dragon rider.

What Doesn’t Break by Cassandra Khaw

Fantasy, character study. You’re unlikely to get the full experience of What Doesn’t Break unless you’re also a viewer of Critical Role. It follows the backstory of Laudna, undead sorceress and warlock with the ghostly presence of the necromancer who once murdered her keeping residence in her mind and tugging at her strings. For thirty years, Laudna wanders the outskirts of society, forced into a lonely existence by her visibly undead status, and tries to understand what she wants to do with her un-life.

[author-by-night]

I watched a movie from 1982: The Last Unicorn. In it, the titular unicorn sets out on an adventure of her own making essentially to breathe life into the dying embers of the world she knows. I watched as she met every challenge she faced with poise and dignity. I watched as her drive and inner spirit moved the plot forward. I watched as the power, influence, and selfish desires of bumbling men complicated her journey, reshaped her body, and stamped trauma onto her mind that she would carry forever. I watched as she was bested in every contest of might until the final act, and as the movie laid out in its text that such things were not in her lane. That was what heroes do, it said, and in my head all I could hear was “men’s work.” I watched as the unicorn’s love for a man changed her until she could fight in the way parceled out for men and become something more than she had started, transcending an immortal stagnancy to evolve into something singular and lonely. I saw that her ability to contribute to the narrative hinged on her love and her capacity to persevere, but more fundamentally to suffer. I understood that this was what the movie saw to be women’s power, and that sat ill with me, but the unicorn’s journey remained so inspiring that she and the movie stuck with me for good. The rest rolled off my shoulders, cause… I mean it was an 80s movie based on a book from the late 60s. I applied the phrase “for its time” like a lotion, took what resonated, and moved on…

I watched a movie from 1999: The Matrix. In it, a man (though I would later see the trans allegory) walks through the steps of waking up to the cultural bindings that trap him and in the end transcends them. I watched as every step of his journey was enabled by the support of the character who was, by several orders of magnitude, the coolest woman I’d ever seen: Trinity. I went starry-eyed, not realizing my appreciation extended to wanting to be her. She was everything: cool, witty, strong, tough, determined, stylish, and gorgeous to boot. On first watch I marveled uncritically. By my half dozenth watch it hit me that everything she did amounted to getting the leading man where he needed to be. I realized that as a narrative device she existed not to change a world in need of changing but to back Neo’s play so that he could swan in and finish the fight she’d been fighting all her life. Her love, her strength, her labor: all a great big alley-oop. I cringed, but I told myself that at least she had power and agency. That mattered. So I rewatched it about another thousand times, took what resonated, and moved on.

I watched a movie from 2003: Pirates of the Caribbean - Curse of the Black Pearl. In it, though this isn’t the point by half, a woman as obsessed with pirates as I’ve always been gets to live out her swashbuckling fantasies. I watched as she lived by her wits, eyes rolling at every dunce of a man to get in her way. I watched as she scrapped her way through with resourcefulness and hijinks, but only actually accomplished her goals when leveraging a privileged station based solely on her value to men. All her efforts fell flat: she’d flee swiftly and still get kidnapped, deal shrewdly but right into the bad guy’s hands, recapture the Black Pearl so sneakily and deftly only for her allies to immediately sail away with it. I watched all the men around her win on their own merits: Jack Sparrow through his canny and luck, Will Turner through his swordsmanship, Barbossa through ruthless overwhelming power. The message read all too clear to me: Elizabeth Swann was meant to be fun, I was not only allowed but encouraged to like her, but I could only experience her in a narrative written by men where the world was stacked against her. A world written by men couldn’t let her win outside of borrowing their power. The force of it hit me like a brick across the eyes. I wanted to love the daring and suave Miss Swann even as what she meant left me seething. I watched the sequels and in some ways it appeared to get better, but only on the surface. She got in sword fights and won, but that was never really who she was, was it? She became a pirate queen… but only through the aid of Jack Sparrow and only to suit his plans. She could not win and remain herself, and for everything that she could have accomplished what the narrative chose to focus on was her as Will Turner’s consolation prize for being stuck at the helm of the Dutchman. I gritted my teeth, got called a misogynist every time I wasn’t sufficiently enthusiastic about Elizabeth Swann, resolved to take what resonated from fanfic, and moved on.

I watched a movie from 2015: Mad Max - Fury Road. In it, and this is almost entirely the point, a tough-as-nails road warrior leads a fierce battle for the freedom of women from the clutches of a powerful man. I watched as Mad Max also participated, because it was not his story, and the movie only kind of pretended it was. I watched Furiosa be everything I wanted to see in a strong woman. I watched the story happen on her terms, through her plans, moving forward under her power and through her agency. I watched her be celebrated as the hero of the narrative, both in-world and by the fans. I watched the women she worked to save take an active role, take the movie by storm, and be vindicated time and again. I sat thinking about that movie for days after I watched it, went to see it twice in theaters, got the blu ray as soon as I could find it. The one thing I could never quite shake was why it had to be Mad Max’s name on the title card. But of course it did, right? That’s the industry, for you. An established IP name puts butts in seats. Appealing to men with the plausible deniability that maybe it was Max’s story sidesteps a boycott from the patriarchy. There are pragmatic reasons, ones that make sense. Though I still wished it could have been a story advertised and told without the intrusion of Max, there was still so much good and seeing a blockbuster movie of that magnitude with a narrative driven so completely by women felt like progress. So I took what resonated, and so much did, and moved on.

I watched a movie called Alien. In it, a space trucker struggles to survive an encounter with a horrible monster in space. I watched as men in authority and corporate interests screw her over at every turn. I watched as she made all the right moves against an implacable foe and survived against incalculable odds because she was strong, smart, and capable. I noted that the advertising didn’t even make a big deal out of her, they just told the story they wanted to tell. I read deeper, finding interview material confirming that gender commentary was at the forefront of the creative team’s minds. I looked up the date of release for this post… and found that it was 1979. The earliest of all the movies I wanted to reference, and by my measure the most progressive. A knot forms in my throat as I wonder what that means about progress, and I hopefully chalk it up to a fluke. A movie far ahead of its time. Cinema’s ability and willingness to tell women’s stories mist still be moving forward, I tell myself, and I move on.

(From here on, there be relevant spoilers.)

I watch a movie from 2024: War of the Rohirrim. In it, a princess of Rohan survives an attempted coup and saves the kingdom. I watch the trailer so many times over, and as it centers itself on the lost shieldmaidens of Rohan in all its iterations—even casting Miranda Otto to narrate as Eowyn—my optimism and nervousness increase in equal measure. I watch as the princess is introduced as an adventure-loving free spirit, and hope we will see her shine. Then I watch her barely impact the narrative for nearly half the movie’s runtime. There are good moments. She takes down a rabid oliphaunt by being a fast rider unafraid to put herself in danger. She rescues the common folk of Edoras by going rogue and choosing the right moment to evacuate them. Towards the end of the movie when she’s finally put in charge her ingenuity and prowess lead to her ending the conflict barely losing a single soul under her protection. But for every one of these, I watch the movie cut what inherent feminism there might be off at the knees. I watch it open on an argument over arranged marriage and on the king ignoring the princess’ every word because… of course it does. I watch the princess sob before or after nearly every major plot point. I watch all of her strength and savvy melt into paralyzed uselessness any time a man attacks her in a way reminiscent of sexual assault. I watch her endanger her subjects by showing mercy multiple times over to a man who has spent the movie oathbreaking and betraying. I watch the narrative unravel into near nonsense around her until the hand of the author is so apparent that it’s tough to tell what can be credited to her actions and what just… happens. It reminds me of every flaw that’s ever bothered me in movies featuring strong women throughout my life. I struggle to find anything that resonates because it feels like an echo, like the kind of movie we should be well past by now, and I’m tired of waiting and hoping for this caliber of gender ideology to become dinosaur thinking.

War of the Rohirrim isn’t a bad movie. It’s thoroughly middling by way of a mixed experience: some epic moments, some eye rollers, and a lot of dial tone in between. I could tolerate that more if it didn’t still carry the misogynist baggage of movies 40 years its senior. Part of why I’m upset with it is likely that I dared to hope it would be something more than it was. If you go in with no expectations other than to see pretty anime you might like it. But the audience it advertises to are those who would see a movie centering on a strong woman and those who enjoy Lord of the Rings fiction, and I feel it falls short for both target audiences. Which leaves the question… who is it even for?

Going forward I’m going to hold Amalthea, Trinity, Furiosa, some fanfic version of what Elizabeth Swann might have been, and the incomparable Ellen Ripley close to my heart and in my pantheon of fictional feminine all timers. I’ll treasure every addition that list, and do my best to put out my own media where women can shine like a wish into the world. But more than anything I long for a future where young women can carry around not a list of shining exceptions in a world of mens’ media, but standouts in a world where fiction that really values women is the norm.

[hannahssimblr]

And so, begins an intense drive for work like I have never experienced. Perhaps work is the wrong word, as not much about creating art feels that way. Never before with ordinary, academically focussed work have I adopted this kind of extraordinary discipline to the point that I simply get through the motions of the ins and outs of my ordinary days, looking forward to the moment that I can lock myself away in my bedroom and draw for the evenings and into the night.

I draw everything in sight. I study fabric; the crinkle of the duvet, the crease in my pillows and the piles of discarded clothing on my bedroom floor. I draw the curtains from ten positions, then ten more. I study the exacting edges of man made objects. The hard, smooth ceramic of the mugs I should have brought back to the kitchen days ago, the individual keys of my laptop, a tastefully arranged stack of books from dad’s library that he surely won’t notice are missing unless he has a sudden urge to read about the battle of the bulge or Haguenau for the thousandth time. 

Mostly I study myself, my own anatomy, feet, legs, arms and fingers and all of the weird little bits of me that move about beneath the skin. I fill pages and pages this way, so many that I run out of paper and start drawing in between all of the drawings I’ve already done, overlapping like the work of an obsessed madman. Maybe I am. 

Have I eaten today? 

Often I pull up a mirror and study my own face in different ways. I pull different expressions or control the lighting so that I can create soft, diffused light in the early morning, or cast angular shadows over my cheek with the artificial glow of a desk light when the sun sets and the room around me is black like spilled ink. 

At school when I lay my work on the table for Miss O’Reilly I’m embarrassed by how many drawings of my own likeness cram the bursting pages of my sketchbooks. They look like the journals of a raving egomaniac to me, but to her it resembles art. She tells me that I show a lot of real promise, and that I have more to learn. I agree with her, and spend lunchtime in the library.

Art and science, it seems, go hand in hand. Hunched in a dark corner where nobody can see how uncool I have become, I pore over anatomy diagrams and look at muscles and tendons and bones. I learn what everything is called and the shape it makes when the skin is pulled taut over it. 

When it is curved on one side, it’s straight on the other, I observe, as I draw my finger down the length of an illustrated thigh on page sixty four of Biology Plus for Leaving Cert, trying not to think about how this is probably the closest I’ve come to intimacy with another human being in months, and as someone as uncontrollably and constantly horny as I am it’s becoming difficult to ignore. Maybe I should text Tara Neary and ask if she’ll help me study biology…

No.

I hastily skip over the pages about reproduction and start reading about something called the Cephalic vein instead. Sexy. 

I even log into the library computers and watch disgusting medical videos of dissections which make me feel so ill that I think I might lose my lunch, but they are informative as much as they make me feel like I am displaying psychopathic behaviour and worry that I am on a slippery slope towards becoming one of those people that murders cats and rabbits just so that he can cut them up and peer at their insides. What’s next? Robbing graves?

“Look up blue waffle next.”

I jump, and spin around to Jen who is leaning over my shoulder, and I quickly close all windows from the Video Atlas of Human Anatomy website. “And that’s fucking sick, whatever that is.” 

“Jesus, Jen, you scared me.”

“Only because I caught you looking at something you shouldn’t.” 

“It’s just biology,” I grumble, and she pinches my arm before pulling up a seat and slumping into it, “I didn’t think I’d find you here of all places. The elusive Jude Turner.”

“Is that what they call me now?”

“I’m afraid so. But honestly I thought you were doing something way more interesting with all your alone time these days.”

“I’m studying.”

“Do you know how to study?”

“Clearly.” 

She sighs, “Well can you give it a rest? I miss you. We don’t hang out enough lately.”

“It’s not because I hate you or something…”

“I know, you’re busy, busy, busy, drawing all the time. Ugh. I get it. Is this how you’re going to be all summer too? Down on the beach in Wexford drawing scabby seagulls?”

“If you wanted to hang out you could always come over to my house and let me draw you again, as long as you won’t move around so much this time.”

“I can’t not move!” She says in outrage, and as the librarian promptly shushes her she lowers the volume, “It’s so boring just to sit there and do nothing, I can’t think of anything worse. Oh no wait, I can, it’s hanging out with Michelle and Evan without you there to laugh at them with me. And now that it’s getting warmer and the days are longer I just want to be outside, but my only options are to sit in the park and watch them kiss or go for a sad walk all on my own, Judie,” she takes my hands, “Please, give it a rest. Down the pencils, I’m begging you.”

“I just really like learning about this.”

“Yes, but can you like it six days a week instead of seven? Can you give me a day? A measly day for old Jenny?”

“I see you Tuesdays still,” I point out, though I know that grilling her with maths questions while she groans in despair into her pillow isn’t exactly her definition of fun, but can’t she see that this is important to me? I can’t forgo my Ivy duties or rugby, so I must forgo my social evenings instead. Something's got to give, and now it has, and for the good of my future I have stopped texting everyone back. 

“We’re having a bonfire night at the weekend, will you come?”

“Who is?”

“Me and my friends.”

“The emos.”

“Yeah, the emos. What other friends do I have? Now that it’s finally semi-warm-ish we thought we’d have a fun night up by the beach and just sit around and chat by the fire. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Well, yeah,” I admit reluctantly. “I do like a bonfire.”

“Of course you do, my little arsonist. So come. It’ll be good for you to get out and do something. You’re an extrovert, you’re not meant to be so cooped up.”

I begin to protest that I don’t feel cooped up, even, astoundingly, when I’m at home with my family. I feel alive and free in my artistic pursuits since I’ve unlocked this new exciting part of myself. I’m capable of focussing on something, doesn’t Jen understand how significant that is? But then again,  maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s abnormal not to socialise with other teenagers for three weeks in a row. 

“Alright, I’ll come then.”

“That’s more like it,” Jen ruffles my hair, no doubt getting it all out of place, but it’s fine, I’ll fix it later in the mirror when I’m back drawing my nose or my chin for the umpteenth time. “We’ll have a lovely time! I’m excited now!”

“Yeah, don’t get too excited, I feel like the librarian might have something to say about that.”

Jen peers around to see the daggers being shot her way, “Okay, fine. I’ll leave you alone.”

“You promise?”

“Yes! Look, I’m going!” She untangles her legs from the chair and does a whole show of sneaking away as quietly as humanly possible while watching the librarian with performative caution, “Hey,” She hisses from the door, just when I had started to believe she was truly gone, “Don't forget to look up blue waffle. Trust me.”

“Get out of here!”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[lovehugsandcandy]

tongue of silver, taste of blood

Pairing: Aerin x f!MC, Blades of Light and Shadow

Ratings: M (blood, illness, pain, swearing)

Word Count: ~11,000

A/N: This is set after Book 2, with the assumption that Nifara will be the villain? Idk. Thank you to @choicesficwriterscreations for all the work you do on the archive!

Summary: In which Aerin meets the vhampyrs. In which the vhampyrs learn the tale of the mercenaries of Lord Kelvin Gillbottle. And in which that tale gets the ending it deserves.

He feels it, the telltale prickling in his head, a subtle but undeniably present static behind his forehead. 

There’s someone else in his mind.

Aerin clears his throat and speaks aloud, alone in the empty cell. “I know you’re there.”

Hello, Little Human. Apparently, you know my tricks. She’s probing, delving into his psyche, but he bats down everything rising to the surface as he desperately searches for a thought to cling to, something innocuous, unrevealing, something that won’t put his entire mission in danger.

“I will tell you…” He cuts off to cough. “I will tell you the story of Lord Kelvin Gill-“

Little Human, I don’t want stories. The voice hisses, but Aerin is certain; he knows, if he can keep his mind focused on nonsense, there will be nothing of value for the voice to discover.

“Well, it’s not about Lord Gillbottle, per se, but more about his mercenaries.”

And so he starts the story, a fanciful tale of roving adventurers becoming heroes, and it continues until the static leaves his mind and, exhausted, he slides into unconsciousness.

~~~~~

“What do you mean the vhampyrs can read minds?”

Aerin jerks awake. It’s cold wherever he is; he’s since lost track of where the vhampyrs led him, somewhere through a maze of never-ending stone stairs and dusty crypts, and even rubbing his hands over his arms doesn’t quell the chill. There’s one blanket, threadbare, draped over his legs, but he refuses to clamber into the bed he was given so when he lies on the floor, the cold of the stone seeps unyielding into his bones. 

Searching through the recess of his brain, thankfully, it’s quiet - his thoughts are clear. No static. During the day, the vhampyrs sleep, so he’s alone in his mind; besides, he knows that voice that just echoed in his head. 

It wasn’t the vhampyr.

It was a memory. Mal, leaning over a tattered map, in the Palace Archive.

More of the memory returns to him, unbidden.

“What do you mean the vhampyrs can read minds?”

“Not all, but some. The powerful ones. They can delve into your head,” Kade says, a stack of tomes towered beside him to match the two spread open before him, his fingers flipping carefully through weathered pages. It appears that he has pulled every single book he could find on the creatures from the entire Palace Archives; Aerin is almost impressed.

“Can you stop it somehow?” Raine asks, already in planning mode.

“No,” Tyril says, shaking his head. “Not to that I know of. An Elven lord once tried to create a charm of sorts, but it failed miserably. And then they drained his blood and put his head on a stake.”

“Vile creatures.” Imtura crosses her hands over her chest as she speaks. “Are you sure we need to meet with them?”

Rain frowns. “Yes. We need them as allies.”

“But we managed before, with allies that can’t read our minds.” Imtura says.

“The stakes are even higher now.” At least Raine looks apologetic as she continues. “We need anyone we can find.”

Aerin frowns before offering a likely unwelcome interjection. “And, there is something you can do. You can’t stop them from trying to get their way into your head, but you can stop them from finding anything.”

“What do you mean, princeling?” Tyril asks.

Aerin sighs, glancing away. “When someone else is in your mind, you can sense it, feel it. It’s a bit like static in your brain. So, when you sense it starting, you need to think of something else, something you don’t want them to know. Or they will learn everything.”

“Of course you know what it’s like to have voices in your head,” Mal sneers, and Aerin glares back. 

“Well, they couldn’t read your mind, as there’s nothing of value there.”

“Enough.” Raine speaks, cutting off the brewing brawl. “It’s not much, but it is something. Time is of the essence here; we will need to split up.” Aerin waits and doesn’t breathe while she surveys the group. “Valax and I will work on that unstable rift. Tyril, could you and Mal travel to the Cliffs of Colaris? Imtura, you will go to Necropolis and meet with the vhampyrs. Nia will accompany you. And…” Aerin shifts his feet as her eyes meet his. “Aerin will go, too.”

Imtura grimaces, swatting his arm; Aerin tries not to wince at the sharp ache. “Looks like it’s you, me, and Nia, princeling.”

At least Raine looks apologetic and hangs back, waiting until the others have left to catch his arm. “Are you ok with this? Going into the vhampyrs’ lair?”

“Where no one has come back from alive?”

“Those are just stories.” 

Aerin grimaces and says, “Even the stories are unsettling.”

“They are sentient; I am sure we can reason with them.”

“Are you sure I can’t accompany you instead?”

She sighs. “Kade filled me in on everything he knew about the vhampyrs. Their ways of living, their power structure. I need a diplomat, someone who can drive agreement with them.”

“Imtura can’t do that?”

Raine laughs softly, and it’s so much like music that he’s compelled to smile back. “She can get you physically out of there if need be, and Nia will protect you all with her Light. But I need you to get through to the vhampyrs. Just like you struck an accord with Baroness Isador, I need someone clever to do the same with the immortal.”

He rubs the back of his neck; while he would rather travel with Raine, he can’t doubt the logic. He does have half a mind to doubt the faith she shows in him, but decides to only reply with “I’ll try.”

“I know.” She glances around, making sure that their companions have departed before stepping forward, catching his cheek in her palm. “You’ll come back to me, right?”

“Of course.” He smirks; judging by her raised eyebrow, she’s thinking of all the times he left. And yet, each time, he returned. “Raine. I will always come back to you; I told you, until you order me away, I will be here.” He tangles their fingers together.

“I know. But I am sorry to make you do this.”

“It’s alright.” She has no idea what he would do for her and, before he can profess that lengthy list, she leans forward to press her lips to his. 

Aerin’s eyes fly open. They cannot have this part of his memory; he would die before he lets any of the bloodsuckers take it from him. This one is his - and Raine’s - theirs alone.

These memories come like a dream, but he’s unsure whether he’s still sleeping. All he knows is that it’s night.

At least he thinks it is. With no windows, the passage of time has become choppy, incoherent. The servants, clad in dark shrouds, deliver food twice a day; assuming it was dusk and dawn, it’s been two days. 

Four meals.

He eats little.

Aerin clambers from the floor, just as the familiar static returns. 

Hello, Little Human. The voice speaks, disembodied. He’s alone in the cell, the words only in his mind and, if he weren’t familiar with whispers calling out to him, he’s sure it would be thoroughly disorienting.

“Hello.”

I would like to ask you something. Lady Lilith is still surface level, not digging yet, so he entertains the query.

“What?”

What does the Commander of the Armies of Light want with creatures of darkness?

“You live in this realm, so you have an interest in its continuation, do you not?”

The issues of the human world do not concern us anymore.

“This is bigger than just one race, truly.” The static grows louder and he winces; she’s now deeper, looking for the truth in his words. He begins the story anew. “So Lord Gillbottle had asked the mercenaries to travel through the deep, dark forest.”

This again?

“Yes, it’s called the Deadwood, where I come from. You’d fit right in.”

Very funny, Little Human.

“So Lord Gillbottle sends them to the Deadwood, but he never expected that they would run into the drakna.”

What are drakna?

“Giant monsters. Horrid things. My brother - I mean - anyway. The monsters were chasing a pair of princes.”

Human princes?

“Yes, human princes traveling the kingdom from Whitetower.”

Why were there princes in the Deadwood?

“They were traveling. Do you want to hear the story or not? The mercenaries bravely fought off the drakna and saved the princes.”

Why?

At this, he loses focus. “What do you mean, why?”

Why did they save the princes?

Dumbstruck, he’s not quite sure how to respond. “Have you never done anything because it was the right thing to do?”

There’s laughter, and it’s a brittle, olden sound that seems to travel over centuries. What do you think, Little Human?

“I think you have. I think you have done good before.”

The voice only snorts at that.

“They saved the princes because that is what heroes do. But there was gold involved. Later.”

Later in this interminable tale?

“If you would rather discuss terms of joining the Unified Forces of the Light Realm as we fight the Olden G-”

Enough! The scream echoes around his skull and he winces, palms jumping up to cover his ears. But they do nothing to dim the screech coming from his own mind. It is an insult that the Commander did not come. We will not engage in discussions with feeble diplomats.

Aerin drops his hands, stung. “I’m not just a diplomat.”

What do you mean? The voice changes to a purr and he realizes, a split-second too late, that he lost control.

“I mean to say, would you like me to continue the story?”

If you are not just a diplomat, then who are you?

Aerin doesn’t reply, only runs through times tables in his mind until he feels ready to speak. He doesn’t want to give them any ammunition. 

Indeed, he’s not quite sure he knows the answer himself. 

Finally, when he has assured himself that his thoughts and voice are all under control, he speaks. “The princes gave the mercenaries gold to accompany them through the forest. Well, they promised them gold. But before they got the gold, they needed to set up camp for the night. So they all set up camp by a lake, and settled down.”

And so the story continues until the static subsides, and he is finally left alone with his thoughts.

~~~~~~

Would you like to see my fangs?

The buzzing in his skull howls, and he forces it aside. “That is a very odd question, not something polite company generally asks.”

Lady Lilith giggles. Would you? The others always seem fascinated.

And then she’s there, the door flying open at her inhuman strength; Aerin can just glance through the doorway to see a milling servant before Lady Lilith closes it again, the slam shaking the walls. 

“Hello,” he says, rising from where he had been picking through his meal (breakfast or dinner, who could ever tell?). “I’m flattered to warrant a visit.”

“You cannot see my fangs without my presence.”

“I am not sure that -“

“When the humans come, they always stare. Wouldn’t you like a peek?”

He doesn’t yet know what to make of her. She looks remarkably like a child, a rather pale one, but still small. Her bony wrists peek out from her shroud and her smile is almost impish in candlelight, but, when she speaks, Gods, Aerin cannot believe he ever considered her young. The weathered tone of her low voice carries eons, millennia, and it echoes dully in his ears. “I am not interested in your fangs. I am interested in your alliance.”

She’s at his side in an instant, the superhuman speed a blur to his human eye, and her thin fingers drag his hair back so his neck is bared. It’s an uncomfortable angle, the crown of his head tilted so far towards the side of the room that his throat feels stretched and his eyes water, but he forgets the pain when he feels two pin-sharp teeth, right at his jugular.

“I could do it. Right now.” She’s so close her lips brush against his skin with every word, breath tickling the curls that graze his neck, and his heart leaps into a frenetic pace in his chest. “I can see your pulse, Little Human. So close. May I just- may I taste?”

“No.” 

“But it smells so delicious. You don’t understand, do you, what it does to us. Like metal and vengeance and pain. May I?”

It’s a struggle to stay still, but he does, though the nails digging into his scalp make his eyes water, though all he can see is the uneven ceiling above his head. If he sways closer, the sharp points will pierce his skin and, if he moves farther, the hand gripping his curls would snap his neck. “No.”

Finally, with a low groan, she releases him. “You’re lucky you are somewhat amusing. Little Human.”

“Aw, you noticed? I’m touched.”

“I do hope your Commander comes for you.” She steps toward the door, turning as her hand grasps the handle. “It would be a shame if you perished before she arrived.”

By the tone of her voice, Aerin is not sure she considers it any shame at all.

~~~~~

When he is sure it’s daytime (at least he thinks, he thinks, he thinks he is losing his mind) and the vhampyrs are asleep in coffins of their own, he tries to remember, as much as he can, anything, anything at all, that would prove useful.

He remembers packing for the trip, a satchel long lost.

He remembers leading horses over uneven terrain and then, when the path was too treacherous, walking on foot, for days.

And he remembers the starkness of the ruins, Necropolis empty and falling into dust before his very eyes.

“Where are we supposed to look?” Nia asks, carefully stepping over a fallen column. 

“The crypts.” Aerin answers. It feels a betrayal (yet another one) to hope they don’t find it.

They pass ruins and more ruins. Buildings, crumbling to dust. Town squares, desolate and silent save for the howling wind. It’s old, deserted, and they walk down streets of rubble until they come to the center of the city and one solitary mausoleum.

Aerin has seen his share of palaces, but this stands alone in his mind. It’s the only structure truly standing for miles, four stone walls seemingly untouched by the ravages of time. The walls are a deep gray, imposing and strong; if not for the rays of twilight glinting across the stone, they would look almost black. They enclose a space no larger than a single room at the Whitetower palace, short and squat. There are no windows, only an imposing metal door stretching into a pointed arch.

“Is this the place?” Imtura’s eyes are dubious as she takes in the stone. “I don���t know if I can fit inside.”

“Must be. It must go down, underneath the city.” Aerin answers.

Imtura cuts her eyes to him before she turns to the iron-wrought door with a shake of her head. “Shall we?”

“No, let’s wait. We need to give it a few minutes.”

“Why?” Nia looks curiously at him.

“The vhampyrs won’t be awake. They sleep during the day and… and hunt at night. We need to catch them right as they wake up.”

“How do you know all this, landrat?”

“Books in the Archives, research.” He shrugs. “It’s mostly fable, but better than nothing.”

“Anything else we should know?” Nia asks.

“They do not feel temperature; those receptors on their skin are all dead. They drink blood, obviously, but also eat things full of blood, organs, the like. Don’t eat the food. It’s not meant for human or orc consumption; legends claim that ingesting food touched by the hands of an immortal can make you ill. Like, incredibly, deadly ill.”

“Sounds pleasant.”

“Indeed.” Aerin wracks his brain for any other tidbit of information he has gleaned from the archives. “The clan is about fifty individual vhampyrs, all sharing a fang line.”

Nia glances at him. “A fang line?”

“The clan is all descended from the bite of the clean leader. Very hierarchical, and we will be expected to show extreme deference to the leaders. And they are very devoted to those in the clan; loyalty is highly valued.”

“So they probably won’t take too kindly to betrayers, will they, princeling?”

Aerin shakes his head, something like dread pooling in his stomach. “Probably not.” Not one race in the world takes kindly to traitors; it’s not like the vhampyrs would be an exception. “I don’t remember much else. It’s been so long since I dove into that section of the archives.”

“It’s fine.” Nia smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure it will be enough.”

“Reckon we can enter now?” Imtura asks.

Aerin surveys the horizon. The sun has just dipped below treeline; while the hazy clouds above reflect a few pale rays, it is undoubtedly dusk. “Yes. We should go.”

Imtura leads them closer down the path, weathered and crunching beneath their feet, and they stand before the unnervingly imposing door of the tiny building.

Something tickles in Aerin’s memory, something about visiting.

Before he can parse the recollection, Imtura knocks and the door creaks open. A tall, thin vhampyr stands before them; Aerin tries not to gape, but he’s sure his mouth is hanging open. This is the first vhampyr he’s seen in the flesh and, while he knows that staring is a rudeness, he can’t help himself. The vhampyr is pale, his flesh almost glowing like moonlight, and his eyes beam a pale red that seems to overshadow his entire face. His cape is deep obsidian, flowing out behind him in the evening breeze, and thin fingers curl around the door.

Those red eyes stare at them for entirely too long; Aerin shivers under their weight but, if Raine is relying on his diplomacy, then he has no choice but to step forward.

“Hello. My name is Aerin Valleros, emissary of the Commander of the Armies of Light,” Aerin bobs his head in greeting and gestures to each of his party, “and these are my companions, Imtrua Tal Kaelen, of the United Clans of Flotilla, and Nia Ellarious, Head Priestess of the High Temple of Whitetower.”

If the vhampyr knew of them, he did not react, only continued to drive his eerie gaze straight into Aerin’s soul.

Aerin inhales before continuing. “We are here on behalf of the Commander to discuss a matter of deep import that would affect the entire realm.”

Still, the vhampyr says nothing, the silence eerie and cold, though his long fingers tighten against the doorway. Slowly, he steps back, and Aerin shares a glance with Nia and Imtura. Shrugging, Imtura takes a step forward and, as her foot hovers over the threshold, Aerin grabs her arm, stopping her in her tracks. She only raises an eyebrow but obliges, taking a step back.

Aerin addresses the vhampyr. “May we come in?”

His heart hammers as he waits but, finally, there is a slight smile and the ghoul speaks at last, voice like the rattle of a scroll over every consonant. “Please be welcome.”

They follow his silent footsteps and, in a low tone, Aerin whispers, “We need to be invited inside. It’s important to them.”

Imtura only shrugs and ducks as they follow down a pale stairwell, torches lighting the way on each side. Aerin loses track of how deep into the earth they travel, but, eventually, the stairs open into a wide entryway where three additional vhampyrs await them. This is obviously the ruling family. There’s a broad man clad in a black cape, looking impossibly tall in the flickering torches. The woman beside him is adorned in a dazzling deep red gown, lace dancing up a gray collarbone to highlight a dazzling blood-red gemstone dangling from a satin ribbon. And then there’s a girl, perhaps twelve, looking intently at them, clad in a simple dark shroud clamped tightly around her torso with thin hands that taper off into pointed nails.

“Hello.” Aerin nods and, though his mouth runs suddenly dry, he curls his fingers into his palms and continues. “I am is Aerin Valleros, the emissary of the Commander of the Armies of Light, and these are my companions, Imtrua Tal Kaelen, of the United Clans of Flotilla, and Nia Ellarious, Head Priestess of the High Temple of Whitetower.” Imtura and Nia step forward, Nia with a small curtsy.

The three vhampyrs turn and look at each other before the man steps forward. “I am Baron Claudius, and this is Madame Miriam.” The woman curtsies as she is introduced, and a hint of fang peeks out underneath burgundy lipstick. “And this little one is Lady Lilith. Thank you for respecting our customs; as we would not seek to enter your home uninvited, we appreciate your courtesy of the same.” The child smiles, a tight, forced movement, and terror creeps up Aerin’s spine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, and we thank you for your hospitality. We come about a war brewing in the realm of Light and seek your assistance.”

“A war?” Madame Miriam, mouth agape.

Imtura jumps in. “And it will come for you if we can’t stop it.”

“Ha. War does not concern us,” Baron Claudius scoffs. “We have seen many wars over the millennia and outlasted them all.”

Aerin tries not to shiver as he speaks, but the underground chill winds its way through his tunic. “This war is different. The Old Gods come for the Realm, and they shall spare none.”

The Baron stares at him, eyes narrow, before turning back to his companions for another round of wordless conversation. Aerin barely has a moment to wonder if they’re in each other’s minds when there is a hum, right in the center of forehead, and then a soft whir of static stretching to his temples. 

‘No.’

He purposely clears his mind, surveying each of the vhampyrs in turn, the frown of the Baron, the smirk of Madame Miriam’s rouged lips, the forceful eyes of Lady Lilith.

‘Begone!’

With a sigh, the static recedes. He tries to catch the eye of one of his companions, to see if they had felt the same, when Madame Miriam speaks.

“We could… we could discuss the matter over our evening meal.”

“Splendid,” the Baron nods, but his smile stays contained to his lips. “Come.”

With only a worried glance between each other, Aein, Nia, and Imtura make their way further into the crypts.

Aerin wonders if he should have turned around then, should have fled, given up on the vhampyr allies and ran, like a coward. 

He has plenty of experience in that, after all.

No. Not anymore. Not now, he wouldn’t have. He remembers his last conversation with Raine, the earnestness on her face, her hands sure and soft in his.

Even knowing his fate rests within these damp walls, he would do it all over again.

~~~~~

On the third day, Lady Lilith brings him a tray of food in person.

The blanket is still wrapped around his legs, accomplishing nothing against the frigid underground floor, but he scrambles up as soon as he sees her.

“Lady Lilith, hello.” He bows his head. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“I come with your breakfast.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t need to lift the lid to know it is the fat and muscle of some unfortunate animal. Raw. The smell is familiar enough by now. “I would offer you a seat but, as you see, I have no chair.”

“I prefer the floor.” She gracefully lowers to the ground, knees tucked primly beneath her, and studies him under eyelashes that are tinged with white. “You know, we do get some word of human events.”

“Truly?” he asks, placing the platter down before joining her on the ground. 

“Yes. We know a bit of the outside world, but had no idea the emissaries of Light would dare come see us.” Lady Lilith looks about him, almost bored, but there is an edge to her voice that sets Aerin nerves aflame.

“And what do you hear from outside?”

“Snippets. Stories of those who live in the Light Realm.” She waves her hand, dismissive, unaffected. “The Elves have magic, the Orcan do not. And there are humans, like you.” Her violet eyes darken as they glare at him. “They serve a King. A Valleros King.” 

Aerin freezes, breath shallow. “Oh?”

“You did say…” She leans forward so they are at eye level; he can see her pupils narrow in the center of her violet irises. “You did say your name was Aerin, correct?”

He doesn’t answer until her hand drapes over his shoulder, and those gray talons dig into his skin. “Yes.”

“Aerin Valleros.”

“Yes.”

She straightens with triumph in her eyes. “So we have a Little Prince, do we not?”

“You’ve heard of me? I’m flattered.” He’s sure his smirk wavers, and it takes every focus to steady it.

“Why does a Prince follow the Commander? Is that how it works in the human world?”

He takes too long to answer, and soon, the buzzing is back. Little Prince?

“Don’t call me that.”

Why not?

A memory resurfaces, Itty Bitty Prince, and he shoves it down, away, away. “So the two princes and the mercenaries awoke, and the drakna had recaptured them.”

This again?

“They all awoke inside the drakna nest, a vile place, these gross cocoons suspended over the forest floor. Just a mass of goo so thick the sunlight cannot penetrate.”

I don’t like sunlight anyway.

“I’m aware, but humans live in sunlight; we need it to see. So our mercenaries and princes were all trapped in this vile goo cocoon, and the hero rescued them.”

Wait, who is the hero?

“One of the mercenaries, please keep up.”

Ah, of course.

“She used her sword and arrows to free her friends and the princes and, while they all were rescued, they actually killed the drakna queen, the biggest and baddest of the monsters. But there was still trouble afoot.”

Does this story ever end?

“The princes were actually evil.”

Oooh, a twist. I like it.

“Yes, but the mercenaries didn’t know that. The princes are hiding their evil nature, one better than the other.”

Are they really evil? Or do people just think that they are evil because they don’t understand?

Aerin stops and stares at her, watching the violet in her eyes dim. He knows he’s out of practice dealing with emotions, but he is clever, quick-witted, and, after years of deception, he understands people. There’s something here. “Lady Lilith, will you speak with me? In person?” The static recedes.

“Aren’t you going to tell the rest of the story?” she asks aloud.

“I don’t think you’re evil. You know that, right? And neither does the Commander. If we did, we wouldn’t have come here. We wouldn’t want to be allies.”

Lady Lilith studies him for so long that he starts to fear he read her wrong. But then she leaps to her feet, her shroud swirling about her like a ghostly mist. “I will…” She opens the door and fixes him with an inscrutable glance. “I will speak with you tomorrow.”

~~~~~

And on that day, he’s starving.

“You know we don’t really eat this food, right?”

There is a pause in his brain. What do you mean?

“Humans need different food than you. We don’t drink-” He eyes the copper pitcher at his side dubiously. “-blood.”

There is a longer pause. You don’t?

“Do you remember being alive? Being mortal?”

Vaguely. It was so long ago.

“Well, when you were, I assure you, unless you were a mosquito, you did not drink blood.”

It’s been so, so long.

“You must have seen a lot of change.” Aerin wonders what it’s like to watch time flow past you while you yourself remain still. Probably like watching Whitetower from a prison window, he supposes, or watching the walls of an underground crypt. Time passes somehow while you yourself don’t move.

It’s hard to keep track of, sometimes. I guess we forget how to care for a human.

“You should have started with a dog.”

She chuckles and the static blooms in his mind before trailing away and Aerin is, once again, alone with his thoughts.

He waits, watching the door, and when she doesn’t return after an interminable time, he peeks at the food under the platter. As he guessed, inedible raw meat of indeterminate origin. However, he’s out of options. 

Snatching a torch from the wall, he does his best. Tilting the platter lets him rotate the meal without touching it and, though it burns his fingers a few times, eventually he can make enough of a char that at least it isn’t raw.

His own warnings about the vhampyr food echo as he takes his first bite. And then his second. And then he is losing count, for the bites that follow consist of him ingesting the food as fast as he can.

His stomach roils as he finally empties the platter and, while his vision is a little wonky, he feels decent - well, as decent as one can be when trapped in a crypt full of vhampyrs. So he supposes that’s something.

~~~~~

Worse than the hunger is the solitude. It's tedious, pacing the four walls of his cell, one direction and then the other to break up the monotony. And it's also terribly lonely. Ever since he rejoined Raine and her party, he had thought - hoped - that the heartache that followed him since birth might be healing, every jovial conversation and gentle caress sewing up a deep pain like mending a rip in fabric.

Unfortunately, it's easier to be alone when it's all you know; now that he's known friendship, love, well, this loneliness is excruciating.

On day five, Lady Lilith finally returns with some water. 

“Oh, hello, Lady Lilith. You’re awake.” He clambers up and bows; time seems to flow differently within the four walls of his cell. Wasn’t it the middle of the day? “How can you spend your time speaking with me? Don’t you need to feed?”

Her laugh is bitter, older than time itself, and it sends a shiver down his spine. “I have servants to hunt for me. Here. Drink.”

He looks into the pitcher, eyebrow raised. There is a fir sprig floating at the top, and three shiny pebbles glint at the bottom. “Thank you.”

“It’s from the river in the woods. Far from Necropolis. It should be safe.”

He takes a tentative sip, and then another, and soon he is gulping his way through the entire pitcher. “It’s perfect. Hint of pine.”

“I can get more. Tomorrow. The sun will be up soon.”

“It will?” Without a window, time is meaningless.

She sits across from him, gnawing her lower lip where a smear of red appears to be drying. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you one of the princes?”

“Who? … oh, from the story.” He pauses. “I’m flattered that you’re actually invested in my tale.”

“Well?”

He checks his mind and, thankfully, he is alone; it’s much harder to deceive someone who can hear your thoughts.. “I am a prince but, Lady Lilith, it’s just a story.”

She frowns, as if his answer is unsatisfactory. “And how does it end, Little Prince?”

“Please stop calling me-”

“How does it end?”

“I… I’m not sure.” He knows how parts of the story end, of course, the defeat of the Dreadlord and the Ashen Empress, and the rise of Nifara. But the entire story? “I guess we will have to see when I get to the conclusion.”

“I like happy endings.”

“... I would not have guessed that.”

She giggles, hand over her lips, and only the pale skin and purple eyes give away the fact that she is not a normal child. “Who doesn’t like a happy ending? Will this story have a happy ending? Please?”

Aerin looks around the room, the windowless walls, the coffin as the sole piece of furniture, the fact that he hasn’t seen the sun in a week, and the only answer he can provide is “I’m not sure.”

~~~~~

“Please, be seated.”

The table is adorned with a tablecloth of deep red, a couple servants smoothing the edges while another carts pitchers to the table. Four serving platters sit covered, the closest just inches away from the ivory plate and crystal wine glass placed in front of him.

It smells of decay.

Imtura sits to his right, muscles tense and ready, while Nia’s face is only calm and curious. He sometimes envies her inner strength, her fortitude under challenging conditions, and never more so than now, as six unnaturally colored eyes follow his every move.

When the servants lift the platters’ covers with a flourish, Aerin can only stare in horror at what emerges underneath, more innards than he has ever seen - entrails, one platter stacked with hearts glistening so vividly that he can only imagine they were beating just hours ago, red jellied concoctions dotted with organ meat. Then, servants pour red liquid into his wine glass, and he needs to fight the dry heave as the smell of iron wafts up. Nia turns to him and all he can do is shake his head, subtly; they cannot and should not consume this.

“Thank you for your hospitality, but I regret that we cannot partake of your generosity this evening,” he says, swallowing down the bile, “Unfortunately we cannot eat a single-”

“Why?” Lady Lilith looks at him, tilting her head. “I assure you, these are from animals. No… humans were harmed in the making of this meal. You are a human, yes?” The last question is a purr, and all of Aerin’s hackles rise.

“I am. And we eat our meat-”

“If these delicacies were created from people, would you eat them?” Madame Miriam asks, and he could almost believe in her naivete had her eyes not been gleaming like the ruby at her throat.

His stomach turns. “Unfortunately, I would rather spend our time discussing the great threat to our Realm. The Commander of the Armies of Light is gathering allies-”

“And where is this Commander of yours?” Lady Lilith lifts her fork, sharp points of her fingernails gleaming like a knife edge, and, too swiftly for his eyes to catch, stabs it into the center of a heart, plucking it triumphantly from the platter. “Could they not come to beg for assistance themselves?”

Imtura crosses her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately, she’s busy at the moment.”

“But we are her trusted emissaries and I assure you that any agreement we make will be-” Aerin jumps in, but it’s too late.

“We would prefer to discuss the matter with your Commander.” Baron Claudius interjects around a mouthful of liquid. Aerin is watching a drop of red pool at the corner of his lips, just beginning to descend down his graying chin when he feels it - again - the buzz in his mind.

Quickly, he surveys the table; the Baron still swigs his blood, Madame Miriam is cutting a piece of jellied carcass, but Lady Lilith, the young one, is staring at him as if she were trying to drill through his skull.

He imagines that she is.

‘Begone from my mind.’

He realizes in shock that he has found the leader of the fang line, in the guise of a small slender child.

Her voice is a hiss in his head. ‘You’re clever, Little Human.’ It’s nauseating, the familiarity of another’s voice in his brain, another’s whispers he can’t drown out; this time, there is no stone to rip from his chest to end the hushed tone rattling his brain.

‘Begone,’ he grinds back. ‘Leave my head.’ When the static doesn’t abate, he fills his head with song, as loudly as he can without moving his lips. Just when Gartho is about to abscond with the queen’s buttons and hood, it’s gone. The roar leaves his head, and he is left with blessed silence.

“Do you really think we should get involved in the affairs of mortals?” Madame Miriam is asking once his attention returns to the table.

The Baron opens his mouth to reply, but Lady Lilith beats him to it, standing with a clatter. “We may, but only if we can speak to this Commander herself.”

The other two vhampyrs stand, and Aerin is wise enough to know they are being dismissed, so he stands as well, Nia and Imtura following.

“We will relay this information and return post haste. I am sure that -”

“Not all of you will.” Lady Lilith’s mouth opens into a smile that showcases her shiny, deadly teeth; Aerin averts his eyes. “One of you will stay. To ensure she will come.”

“Excuse me? No one is staying.” Imtura takes a step forward, as if to go through the table, but Aerin stops her with a hand on her bicep. 

Lady Lilith’s eyes flash molten violet, and she says, “I want an assurance that your Commander will visit us in person. Either two of you leave or none of you do.” 

Aerin has made many misjudgments in his life, far too many to count, but he’s sure that this could play out one of two ways. In one scenario, he, Nia, and Imtura die. And in the other? “Fine,” he replies, directly to Lady Lilith and her fanged smile.

“Aerin, what do you-?”

“Nia, it’s fine.”

Lady Lilith’s smile grows wider, and she claps her hands together in murderous glee. “Excellent. It’s decided. The human boy will stay.”

“No.” Imtura moves as if to reach for her axes, and his fingers tighten.

“Imtura, stop.”

“Have you lost it, landrat?”

“It’s fine.” He grinds out, dropping his voice to a whisper. “They could kill us all before you manage to pull one ax, I assure you.”

“We can’t leave you here, Raine will-”

“Raine will come. We will have our detente. It will be fine.” He holds her gaze, just long enough that she softens, and then he drops her arm with a sigh. Turning to the vhampyrs, he speaks louder. “And you assure me that they will have safe passage out of the city?”

“Surely. We’d never go back on our word.” Lady Lilith’s smirk does not give him confidence, but none of this plan gives him any kind of surety.

He steps forward with one last glance to Nia and Imtura, hoping they can read his plea to flee. And then, turning to the vhampyr leader, he nods. “I will stay.”

“Splendid. Follow me. I will show you to your quarters.”

He doesn’t watch Nia and Imtura leave - he can’t. Unfortunately, he lacks the bravery to watch them go silently, to not call out to them and beg them to wait, so he doesn’t even turn. He only follows Lady Lilith’s careful footsteps down more steps than he can count, mind-boggling pathways carved of the earth and inhabited for thousands of years. Just when he is sure he’s seen these particular cobblestones previously on their trek, she stops, pointing to a doorway.

“And this is where you will stay.”

Aerin’s eyes widen as he takes in the room. He’s definitely stayed in worse accommodations, but, with the past year at his back, his hackles rise at yet another prison cell. His fingers tremble, and his breath hitches shortly, hints of gray at the edges of his vision, before he can return to himself. Vaguely, so long ago it may have been another life, he remembers telling Raine to take a deep breath, right when the current of pain threatened to tear her away, and he is grateful for the reminder even as he stores it as far out of reach as possible. He inhales, slowly, and glances around.

There is one large room, windowless like all the others, and the three torches are too few to provide much light in the chilly chamber. To the right is a small door, almost certainly leading to a washroom or lavatory, but his gaze is transfixed by the deep mahogany at the center of the room.

“Is that… is that meant to be my bed?”

“Yes?” Lady Lilith eyes him, and he tries to stifle his discontent. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s just… humans don’t sleep in coffins.”

“Then what do you sleep in?”

“Beds?”

She narrows her eyes, pondering. “You know, I vaguely remember beds.”

“Do you? Because this is not exactly…”

“It will need to do.” Her voice sounds curt, eyes assessing. “If your Commander is all you claim, you won’t be here for long.”

“She is all I claim and more.”

“Well, then.” 

She turns to leave, but Aerin stops her with one more question. “Am I truly to remain stuck in this room?”

“It’s safer for you if you do.” She yanks open the door, forcefully, and Aerin is struck, but the incongruity of her slight frame and the fearsome strength it holds. “But this lock here will make sure of it.”

The door closes with a slam, and his shoulders droop. He should be used to prisons. He’s been in his fair share recently. 

But none so unnervingly creepy.

When his eyes fly open, his mind is ablaze in static and he sits up in a panic, shockingly thrown awake in a mere instant. “I can sing you the ballad - it’s a good one. How Gartho Swindled the Elven Queen.”

No need.

“Did you know that the mercenaries helped at the Battle of Whitetower?” His stomach aches, an empty yawning sensation that makes it hard to focus on his words.

Do you dream often?

“Never. I never do.”

Don’t lie to me, Little Prince.

He squints his eyes, trying to fight back the buzz in his mind. “Perhaps I prefer to keep my dreams to myself.”

Why? That was a boring dream. And I was there for it; I already knew what happened. Do you know why I wanted you to stay?

“Stay here?”

Yes.

He’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer. “Why?”

Because you fought me. The others, the green one, your pretty friend, they didn’t even know I was there.

“You mean they didn’t know you were in their heads?” So much for his advice.

The green one thinks of her mother. And the pretty one wanted to help us. But you? You fought me. And after so long, I do like a challenge?

“So if I had let you see into my mind, you would have let me go?”

Maybe. Maybe not. It may still have ended up like your dream. Who knows?

After a life lived as a miserable failure, it’s only fitting that his success lead him into a vhampyr’s lair. “Do you dream?”

Lady Lilith hums, and it makes his brain shake. Sometimes. Sometimes I dream of things far past, of people I once cared for. Do you?

I do not, I do not, I do not. Perhaps if he repeats it enough, it will be true.

I can tell you are lying.

“I dream of the mercenaries.” He will never reveal the dreams he revels in, keeps close to his heart. “Where did I leave off in my tale?”

Your stories are tiresome.

“I am tiresome. So the mercenaries were just leaving the forest with the evil princes when they had to part ways.”

Why?

“They were going in separate directions, but one of the evil princes knew they would meet again.”

How?

“Uh… evil ways?” Aerin shrugs, even though she cannot see it, and continues on. “But they do meet again. Later. The mercenaries go on their way to the Elven city, and the princes return home to the palace.”

What is the Elven city like?

“I’ve never been.” He’d always wanted to visit, had read tomes about it at the Archives, but only King Arlan and the Crown Prince had been permitted to visit. “I’ve heard it chiseled into a mountain.”

So there is no daylight. Maybe I could visit.

“Would you like to?”

Yes. There is… much in this world I have not seen.

“Odd, since you’ve been alive for so long.”

Most places do not take kindly to immortal visitors and most people do not visit us. We’ve never had a human visitor before.

“Can’t imagine why,” Aerin mumbles.

We’ve had humans come, a few, but only to request to be turned. Or to hunt us.

“I can imagine that those hunters turned into the hunted.”

She chuckles. Yes, very quickly… and deliciously.

“Did you turn any of them?”

The ones we took a liking to. Sometimes, it doesn’t work and they perish, most painfully.

He shudders. If his current predicament is bad, he can’t imagine worse.

What is it like in the human world?

The question seems honest, curious, and the static doesn’t deepen - she’s not probing his thoughts and memories for information. “It’s not underground, for one. Our buildings are above ground since we can be in the sunlight, and there are towns and cities where many humans live together, much like this.”

Are they all related? Like us?

“Not everyone in a city, but families will usually share a home.”

Do you have a home?

His gut twists and his fingers tremble, a curious unsettling shake, so he curves his hands into fists so tight his fingernails dig into flesh. “I did. Once. But now I travel by the Commander’s side, mostly.”

So you are always working.

“It’s not always work. We share meals, for example, share stories. Campfires and adventures and… other things.” Aerin needs to screw his eyes shut to hide the tears welling just behind his eyelids. Thinking about Raine hurts.

You are very loyal to your Commander.

“I wasn’t always.” It might be a mistake to divulge, but his situation can’t get much worse. “We went through a lot of struggles to get to where we are.”

Why? Is… Is your Commander mean?

“What? No! The struggles were mine and mine alone.” He swallows hard. “The Commander is… incredible. You will see when you meet her.”

Do you still think she is coming?

He doesn’t answer the question. In his heart, he knows that she would never leave any of them behind. But in his mind, well, he can see the danger of bringing the entire party to Necropolis and, if she had to lose a member of her party, unfortunately, the non-magical weakling betrayer would be the most logical choice, regardless of whatever undefined attachment existed between them. 

Lady Lilith continues. Or do you think she will leave you to be locked away with the vhampyrs, never to be freed?

He doesn’t answer that question either, but shoots back one of his own. “If she does come, what will you do when she arrives?”

Lady Lilith doesn’t reply.

~~~~~

It starts slowly. 

His mind starts to play tricks on him, a flash of light where none exists, a phantom touch when he’s alone. He opens his eyes to see Raine, standing in a corner looking downcast; when he leaps up to greet her, she disappears, his hands wrapping around cold air.

He could almost brush it off as a symptom of imprisonment when the cough begins, settling in his chest as a heavy weight.

His voice cracks in the middle of the tale. He’s just recounting how the mercenaries are gathering troops to fight the Ashen Empress when Lady Lilith interjects.

Do you need water?

“From the river? Sure, thank you.”

When Lady Lilith returns, he’s overheating despite the chill, traces of sweat beginning at his hairline, slipping down his face.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course.” He wipes his brow. “Now where was I?”

“The evil Ashen Empress. Was she evil like the princes?”

“I…” It takes him far longer than he’d like to answer this question. “No. The princes were different. The Empress wanted to kill everyone.”

“Sometimes those that the world thinks are murderers are actually something different.”

His head begins to throb. “Lady Lilith, are you speaking in riddles?”

“No, continue, continue. So the mercenaries prepare for war.”

“Yes. So they all get ready, very exciting. Even the bard is there.”

“Who?”

“The hero’s brother. He tells stories, sings tales of old.”

“Like you?”

“This isn’t a tale of old! This was about the Battle of-”

“I thought it was just a story.” Lady Lilith narrows her eyes.

“Of course it is.” 

“Then, will you ever tell me the ending? How does it end?”

He doesn’t know; he can only pray - not here, not here, please, not here. “I will tell you the end, but-” He’s cut off by a cough. “Do you… do you mind if we continue the story later? I’m not… I forget the words.”

Lady Lilith looks confused, but nods. Aerin doesn’t look up as she leaves, only focusing on a singular point on the stone floor to keep the nausea at bay.

~~~~~

Seven days.

Fourteen meals.

Though he may have lost count.

~~~~~

Ten days.

The world sways, as if his vision were failing or if he were no longer on solid ground, instead tilted at stomach-churning angles.

That morning (or whatever ill-defined time the exhaustion threatens to take him away), he can’t take the chill of the floor any longer, so he grabs the wispy blanket and crawls into the coffin.

The walls are green velvet, soft, and it’s absurdly comfortable.

Dimly, before sleep takes him, he thinks that he might want to stay there forever.

~~~~~

Thirteen days.

The blood in his veins burns. Is it his own?

If they were going to come, wouldn’t they be here by now?

~~~~~

“And then the portals opened, and the battle began.” Aerin tries to move his eyelids, but they only open halfway. He can see the ceiling through the flutter of his lashes, and the sweat pouring off him has soaked the velvet of his coffin. If he could get up, he’s sure he would see a wet imprint of his body in darkened green, but he can’t even imagine moving. 

“Were they all there?”

“Hmmm…. Who?” Aerin’s losing his mind and he’s pretty sure he lost the plot of his own story, but he can see the moon from his cell twirling in frantic circles before his eyes but he’s underground (he thinks, he thinks) so he’s sure he’s seeing things but can he truly be sure of anything anymore? What story was he telling? 

“The mercenaries?”

“Where?”

“At the battle against the Ash Empress!”

“Ah, yes. They were there. They all were. The Hero, the priestess, the Orcan princess, the grumpy mage, the insufferable rogue.”

“Was the bard there?”

He blinks. The walls appear to be dripping blood. “Yes. Why? Is that your favorite character?”

“I appreciate a good storyteller.”

“Ah…” Aerin trails off as his vision is almost entirely red. “Well, I do… I do apologize that I am not…” And then there is only darkness.

~~~~~

It’s dark. 

It’s always so dark.

~~~~~

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, Little Prince!”

It’s painful to open his eyes. His head hammers in pain, almost overpowering Lady Lilith’s words, but he can hear the years in her voice over his headache. “What?”

“You need to stay awake, Little Prince.”

He is exhausted, so bone-weary that the strength to hold her gaze is painful. “I want to sleep.”

“No.” There is panic in the word. “No, you mustn’t, you mustn’t.” He nods, but his eyes slide shut. “No! Please. Tell me… tell me about the story.”

“What about it?” he murmurs.

“It’s always been real, hasn’t it?”

His lips are so dry that he tastes blood every time he licks his lips. “What has?”

“The story. The mercenaries.”

“Of course… mostly.” Even his bones are tired, but he doesn’t need to defend himself from the outside voices in his brain anymore. His mind is empty.

“Little Prince.” Lady Lilith grabs his shoulders and shakes; he winces. “Sorry. Tell me the story again.”

“Which one?”

“Any one.” His eyes flutter shut, and she rubs his shoulder, gentler this time. “Aerin!”

“The Heroes went into the forest and defeated the monsters and saved the princes. And they all fought a God of Old. It was real.” 

“You were there.”

“Yes, we all were.” The cold has seeped into his brain, and every inhale audibly cracks his ribs.

“Your companions? The travelers we dined with? They were there?” He can only nod. “And who is your green friend?”

“The tough one.”

“And the pretty human?”

“The kind one.”

“And which character are you?”

There are spots in Aerin’s visions, dark masses that sway about the periphery. “The one who either leaves…” He breaks off with a cough so deep it feels like it’s scarring his lung with every forceful exhale. “Or gets left behind.” And then the black spots enlarge and swallow him whole.

~~~~~ 

There’s sunlight. Aerin looks around him in awe. There’s sunlight!

He takes a deep breath of the fresh forest air, looking around in utter delight. The canopy of trees about his head is sparse, allowing ample daylight to filter through, and the harmonies of song and merriment carry down a dirt path. 

As he steps forward, he realizes in an instant where he is. These are the woods outside Riverbend and, as he turns the corner nearing the temple, he stops short at the figure waiting for him, lounging on a boulder.

“Raine!” He jogs forward, smiling growing wider with every step, until he slows when he is mere feet from her. As she stands, there is fury painting her flawless features. “Raine, what’s wrong?”

Her voice drips venom. “You lied to me.”

“What?” He wracks his brain for deception and nothing comes. “I… no, no longer. What do you mean?”

“You said you would come back.”

“I… I am here now.” He’s not quite sure what she’s referring to, but he’s standing right before her, in the flesh. “I am here. I will always be here.”

“That is not true, Aerin. That is what you do. You leave.”

“But I -”

“You leave me.”

“No.” He shakes his head frantically. “No, I never wish to be parted from you, you know that. I would never, never again.” His legs carry him forward to embrace her, but she only steps away, tears brimming in her eyes.

“You promised.” A sudden wind whips through the wood as she turns away, leaden steps taking her further from him. “Aerin,” she calls over her shoulder, “you promised.”

“Wait.” He wraps his arm around his torso; the wind turns frigid, so cold, always so cold, and she crests over a hill and out of side. “Wait!” His useless feet won’t move and the chill settles in his bones. Is this his destiny? Doomed to be separated from the one person whom his heart beats for?

The chattering of his teeth awakens him.

When Aerin opens his eyes, Lady Lilith stands above him, worry lines etched in the pale skin of her forehead.

“That’s not concerning.” A cough cuts him off, and he waits until his lungs stop rattling to speak. “Not concerning at all, waking up to a vhampyr staring at you.”

“I would change you.” She whispers, urgently. “If I had to, I would.”

“No.” More coughing. “No.” His mind flashes to a millennium without sunlight, missing the golden rays of sunshine peeking over the Cartesian Sea, the bustle of the Whitetower marketplace, the sun gleaming off Raine’s hair, her smile as they hike through woods bathed in the afternoon warmth. “Don’t change me.”

Lady Lilith blinks back tears, though a few break free to edge over her cheekbone. They glisten in the torchlight, like dew at breaking dawn, a sight he shall never see again.

His own eyes start to sting, sweat trailing down his face, and there’s salt on his tongue. Lady Lilith grabs his hand, clutching it carefully in her corded strength, holding tight until the darkness welcomes him again.

~~~~~

Days fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen don’t count.

He doesn’t wake up for them.

~~~~~

He can hear the voice above him, and it could be a dream; it must be a dream. 

His mind is his own, but it’s playing tricks on him, assuredly, because it sounds like Raine is standing right above his head.

He’s flying, the room spinning in circles about him, and if he looks at the walls about him, they blur as if he turning around and around, faster and faster, and there is a light, somewhere, from outside, or maybe inside his skull, and he is dying, he is dead; he has been reborn, and he cannot breathe. 

He rolls over and vomits.

As he’s wiping bile from his lips, the door opens and Lady Lilith storms in. “Let’s get you up, Little Prince.”

“Please stop calling me that.” He wipes his lips on his sleeve and his teeth chatter against the fabric. It’s so cold.

“You need to get up. We have guests.”

“What- who-”

With superhuman strength, she jostles him until, while he may be on two feet, he is mostly leaning on her, draped over a small shoulder as he takes one stuttering step after another. They travel through the crypts, torchlight causing shadows to jump across the walls, making him nauseous anew, but finally, they reach a wooden door.

Even though it’s latched tight, he can hear voices on the other side. Loud. Unyielding. “I demand my diplomat.”

Aerin raises his head. “Raine? Is it really-”

The static invades his skull again. Who is she?

“Stop, please stop!” He tries to sing Gartho the Trickster but he can’t focus; his temples throb and besides, all that matters is that Raine is on the other side of this damnable door. 

Who is she?

“She’s the Hero.”

Who?

“The Hero of Morella, Commander of the all the Forces of Light, Savior of the Reams and Champion to All, please just-”

Lady Lilith shifts him so she can peer into his face. She speaks now, out of his head, her voice a whisper in the hall. “Is she the same hero from the mercenary tale? With the princes?”

“Yes.” Aerin is too weak to lie; he can’t even raise his hands to wipe the moisture pooling in his eyes. “Please, just- I just need to see her.”

The vhampyr leader is silent for far too long before she lowers him to the ground, crouching in the dirt beside him. “Aerin.” Her palm graces his cheek and it’s cold, so cold, and the shivering hurts his teeth. “How does the story end?”

And he doesn’t think, just replies, too weak to manufacture any artifice. The story ends the only way possible, the only way it can truly end, and, when he trails off into silence, her violet eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Finally, she stands and speaks. “Wait here.” With that command, she strides through the doorway and he hears the dull sound of a latch locking.

Aerin could almost cry, in an inglorious heap, with one measly door between him and Raine. He crawls forward over the rough earth, stones digging into his fingertips and leaving bloody droplets in the dirt. When he makes it to the door, he lifts his hands to bang against the wood but his fists barely make a sound; he is so weak, so tired, and the grains of the wooden boards are swirling before his eyes. He can’t even yell, voice a mere croak, and he slides in defeat down to the floor.

He has failed, he realizes. He was not able to broker an accord, was not even able to get any kind of agreement, and he wasn’t able to protect Raine.

And then the ground rushes up to meet his face and there is only silence.

~~~~~

He’s in the air, he’s flying, he’s falling.

There’s yelling, but it’s not him; his mouth feels like it has been stuffed with gauze, and his eyes only open wide enough for his lashes to flutter tremulously in his vision but he’s on his feet, somehow.

There’s the unsheathing of a sword.

More yelling.

The sheathing of a sword.

A flash of yellow and gold in front of him, steady arms holding him up as his boots struggle and fail to find purchase on the floor.

Safety.

“I’m sorry,” he says the words into the armor mushed into his cheek, but he’s not sure anyone can hear him. His throat is so raw, he can barely hear himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. For all of it.”

More yelling.

Static and buzzing, traveling from his forehead to his ears, just a roar frying his brain cells, and he can’t even fight it as he passes out again.

He awakens again to a flash of green, and he’s soaring through the air anew; while there is less screaming, he’s numb and cannot feel a thing. The world spins and that’s when his brain shuts down.

~~~~~

When he awakens, actually awakens, he is in a plush bed, and light streams into the room. It’s been so long since he has seen the sun that he only gapes at the golden rays streaming through the window. The room is warm, especially under plush covers, and it’s been so long since he’s seen sunlight and felt warmth on his skin that he props up on one wavering elbow and stares for minutes until he realizes, with a start, that he’s in Raine’s palace room.

“Good morning.”

He starts again at a voice to his left and, though it aches, he turns to see Raine perched on a chair, staring at him and gnawing on her bottom lip. He means to say hello, truly he does, but all that emerges from his mouth is “Oww.”

“Are you ok?” She’s at his side in an instant.

“I love you.” It’s raspy but audible, and he sighs as he sinks back into the plush mattress.

“That… is not an answer to my question.”

“I know, but I spent the last few weeks wondering if I could ever say it again, so I didn’t want to miss my moment.”

She shakes her head fondly and threads a hand through his curls before carefully sliding onto the bed next to him. “I love you, too.”

“I had a feeling,” he replies; she chuffs his shoulder and, for the first time in weeks, he feels like he can relax. “I told you I would come back.”

“Do not- Do not joke about that. Do you know what state we found you in?”

 “A state befitting of my heroic deeds?”

“I thought you were going to die!” The arm that has wound its way around his waist squeezes tighter. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Eh, I was fine. I will be fine. Just a few more minutes, and I will be right as rain.” His eyes flutter shut, only to fly open again. “Did they agree?”

“Who?”

“Lady Lilith. Did she - did she agree to have the vhampyrs join us?”

“She did…” Raine’s words are careful, slow. “We had quite the discussion while you were close to death.”

“Sounds enlightening; my apologies for missing it. What did she say?”

“She said you taught her a lot about humans.”

“Hmmm… like that we don’t drink blood?”

“Among other things. She said that if you personally go to inform them of the battle, their forces will join.”

“Couldn’t someone else go? Mal? He would love the trip, I’m sure.”

“She specifically requested you. She seemed to like you.”

He quirks a shoulder. “I didn’t know what to expect of the vhampyrs. They seemed… lonely.”

“She said you told her stories.”

“I did.” He chuckles at that. “She kept trying to read my mind. And you know how I like my secrets.”

“She said you told of the mercenaries of Lord Kelvin Gillbottle.” A sad smile plays on her lips. “Aerin? Did you truly believe I would leave you?”

“What do you mean? No! Not really. “

“What do you mean, not really?”

“I guess - the longer it was there, the harder it was to tell the difference between what was real and what was not. But I knew, in my heart, I knew you would come for me.”

“Then… why is that not the story you told her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“She said that, every night, you would tell her the story of us meeting in the Deadwood. And that, in every telling, the mercenaries realized the princes were evil and tortured them. Killed one in cold blood. And I locked the other away with the vhampyrs, never to be freed, as revenge for his disloyalty.”

He blinks. “That’s not how I said the story ended.” He tries to sit up, but it is futile until Raine slides her arm around him, a line of solid strength and care propping him up.

“That’s what she told me.”

“That trickster… Raine, that’s not the ending I made up.”

Her eyes, large and bright in sunshine, bore into his. “Then how did you end the tale?”

“I said…” He breaks off with another cough and she hands him a waterskin; the liquid is mercifully cool on his throat. “I said that the mercenaries met two evil princes in the forest.”

“Aerin, that’s not…”

“Shhh, it’s my story. I said that the mercenaries met two evil princes in the forest. One died.” Raine’s face softens at this, but she doesn’t interrupt, so he continues. “The other realized the error of his ways. He- he fell in love with one of the mercenaries, the hero, and stayed by her side, forever, until the end of time.”

She bites her lip, eyes welling with unshed tears, and, just as Aerin moves to apologize, she nods. “Yes. That is exactly how the story ends.”

[sapphicbookclub]

Author Spotlight: Tamara Jerée

Check out this wonderful essay on sapphic, Black, paranormal romances from Tamara Jerée. Tamara is the author of The Fall That Saved Us, a current club read out today!

As writers, we often hear that we should write the book we want to read. For me, that’s meant writing into a niche that feels largely unacknowledged. The more descriptors I stack—sapphic, Black, paranormal, romance—the shorter the list of books becomes. Finding darker sapphic romance by and about lesbians of color is hard. Stepping into a bookstore, I often feel like there is still a narrow range within which the publishing industry will allow us to exist. Readers don’t seek out our books in the same ways. Especially when compared to the diverse range of literary experiences for white women, I feel the lack.

I can immediately think of a few adult titles that fit into the Black sapphic paranormal romance genre. There’s Darknesses by Lachelle Seville, a romance featuring a sapphic Dracula. I was excited to find that Fiona Zedde, whose contemporary romances kept popping up as a recommendation for me, also writes paranormal romance. Every Dark Desire is the first in her vampire series. (If you’re interested in a comprehensive list, Tuesday Harper maintains a searchable database of Black WLW books here. I stumbled upon some new titles for my TBR!)

In lieu of paranormal romance, I often find myself reaching for sapphic horror to fill out my moody reading list. The Wicked and the Willing by Lianyu Tan is an F/F erotic horror novel set in Singapore that follows a maidservant and her vampire mistress. House of Hunger by Alexis Henderson is a gothic horror novel that doesn’t call its vampires vampires but nevertheless satisfied my need for bloody, brooding sapphics.

I’m compelled by erotic horror—and horror that winks at the erotic—because it confronts our personal and cultural fears and, in doing so, leaves us with nothing more to be scared of. Here, look at our depth and ugliness and resilience and strange pleasures. Ultimately, look at how we survived. Those darker elements influence all my work. I want the catharsis of safely staring down weird and terrible things. When combined with the structure of romance, the guaranteed HEA reassures. Maybe you’ve been through a long night, but you deserve happiness.

I want to talk about the first novel in the Black lesbian paranormal genre that ever made me feel seen as a writer, the one that sank its teeth into me and made me think this is possible; this is where my work wants to be. Published in 1991, The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez follows a queer Black vampire through the antebellum era and into the present before casting her and her chosen family into a speculative future. The novel isn’t a romance, but it does catalogue Gilda’s lovers through the ages—who she chooses to bring into immortal life and how they care for each other in a hostile world.

In the introduction, Gomez discusses how nervous she was about the book because lesbians in her community were skeptical of the rep. Attaching something taboo like vampirism to a Black lesbian protagonist? It was risky. Their concerns remind me so much of the debate in queer circles today over what depictions of ourselves and our communities are proper. We worry about writing people like us as villains or monsters because it would give fuel to hegemonic perspectives that are already eager to see us as deviant and evil.

As one of those readers and writers who finds power in reclaiming the monster, of being an antagonist to an unjust society, I’m thankful for Gilda. And I’m so glad Gomez took the risk. It’s empowered me as a Black lesbian writing romance that confronts heavy themes of mental illness and healing from abuse through a paranormal and fantastic lens. In my debut novel The Fall That Saved Us, Avitue—the succubus love interest—is an unrepentant villain, a sexy bad girl unafraid to show her teeth to a world that’s hurt her. She’s a monster because others have said so, and she wears the title as a badge of honor. The main character Cassiel, however, views Avitue as a savior—from her scarred past and a stagnant present.

The Gilda Stories expanded for me what we can be and do. There’s an infinite number of Black stories we can tell. Black people can be anything we want, including the hot lady monster who gets the girl.

[the-grey-hunt]

i was tagged by @catamaranthenonnewtonianfluid for a "nine books on your to-read list" game! thanks for passing it along!

Charlie Bone and the Castle of Mirrors. I'm rereading the whole series for fun and currently halfway through the book that comes before this one. I'm learning that I remember very little about this series

I'm going to grab the pile of books I recently brought home from work and just go down the stack for the rest of these, to shame myself into actually reading them XD number two is Wild Card, a book of tarot interpretation. I can't keep using the little pamphlets that came with the cards

Tricking Power Into Performing Acts of Love--political/nonfiction on the nature of tricksters. The author came by our store once and I was intrigued

Codex Black: Bird of Ill Omen. This one I really liked book one and have had book two on reserve for AGES. it's a graphic novel set in 15th century mesoamerica and is soooooo pretty

On Palestine--I recently finished Haymarket Press' "From The River To The Sea" anthology and have had this one in my pile for a while, so it's being moved up the list from "will read eventually"

The Age of the Vikings, because one can never have enough medieval nonfic

Translation State. I can't get enough Imperial Radch and this is close enough!

Death of the Author: this is actually a new Nnedi Okorafor that I got as an advance copy months ago, and have naturally delayed long enough that it's now coming out officially in the next few weeks. i've loved everything okorafor i've ever read

Punished. the other book by this author, Stolen, was really good, and both are modern fiction about the saami community in norway. looking forward to this one

i tag @inukagome15 @cinderpaw1 @dancer4813 @raychleadele @havencall @shippingbell @thiaquiche and whoever else would like to play!

[fridgemagnethusband]

Die Schöne und das Biest

Chapter Ten: The Weight of Trust

something something burnout’s a bitch, but i’m a bigger one!!! as an apology, here’s a longer than normal chapter. i hope this update finds you unhinged <3

(also, special thanks to our very own @jadedisaster for beta reading my nonsense at odd hours, rain or shine!!!)

Three weeks.

It had taken all of three weeks to bankrupt your patience before you’d returned to the secret cottage, abducting the herbalist’s typewriter and a handful of their journals with the intention of transcribing the most important entries. Just three weeks without Heisenberg’s company before you’d thrown all caution to the wind and gone directly against his orders.

Time better spent piecing things together instead of holding out hope for the bastard, you scoff, still annoyed with yourself for caring in the first place. Your orders with the Duke continued to disappear from the clipboard before returning in the form of crates left outside the hallway leading to the flat, so you knew Heisenberg was still kicking around somewhere in the factory. What business is it of yours whether the man showered, slept, or ate?

You absentmindedly thumb through several more weeks worth of transcribed journal pages, vision blurring as thoughts of what exactly all of this was pointing to chased you through the hallways of your mind. You’d spent countless days and nights slogging through chapter after dense chapter of Heisenberg’s textbooks and the herbalist’s various journals in search of answers to the very question, but every page read only raised more questions. Who was the herbalist, and why did he come here in the first place? Why didn’t anyone speak of him, and what fate could have befallen him? You wished you could find his name amongst his things, perhaps look for it in the graveyard. His journals painted an uncanny picture of the village in so many broad strokes, but betrayed little about himself save for his opinions and the careful treatment of his patients. You throw the stack of papers onto the coffee table with a frown.

The hematology text you’d started with sits beside the dwindling pile of unread books, seemingly as harmless as those surrounding it. Nevertheless, you side eye it carefully as you mentally sift through the slurred chatter you’d occasionally overheard in the bar over the years.

There was no shortage of gossip regarding the goings-on of Castle Dimistrescu - some believed the unsociable Countess’ enriched red wine contained the blood of the village’s most beautiful maidens, or that she drained virgins of their blood and bathed in it, or that her trio of daughters mercilessly feasted on the flesh of men. Far-fetched rumors perpetuated by half-witted peasants, you’d thought; it was more likely that the servant girls had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and run off with their lovers to neighboring villages, or that the men had gotten too drunk and stumbled into the reservoir. Goodness knows there was little else to do here. As far as you could tell, the Countess gave the village’s girls a chance to send money home to their poor families. Perhaps if you had thought yourself a little more pleasant to look at, you too would’ve sought out work in the castle at one point in time.

But then, there had also been the occasional frenzied account of a wolf-demons skulking in the night, and you had chalked those up as cock-and-bull stories too. After your encounter with the beast some time ago, you’d been a little more willing to give these tall-tales some reconsideration. The herbalist’s journal entries only further corroborated the idea that something was deeply wrong with the village, as they often made mention of the village inhabitants coming down with various respiratory and gastrointestinal illnesses, most of which the herbalist had attributed to encounters with something in the church. Could it have been intentional?

You had been given more than a few reasons to distrust Mother Miranda over the years, but to imply that she would intentionally make her followers sick? What did she stand to gain? Perhaps an opportunity to “save” them? And if Mother Miranda isn’t above making her followers sick, then who was to say the Countess isn’t turning maids into wine? You pinch the bridge of your nose, setting aside your absurd speculations in favor of a more rational approach.

I ought to ask Heisenberg about the nature of the Countess’ work next time he’s topside. He may know. Afterall, they attend the same meetings, you submit, completely disregarding the fact that the two of you hadn’t spoken in several weeks.

Or maybe he knows because he has a hand in it, suggests the ever-growing voice of paranoia in the back of your mind.

Your dubious glare lands on the remnants of the drink you’d shamelessly poured yourself some hours ago and you take one last deep gulp of it, increasingly unsure as to whether your employer’s expensive bourbon reserves were helping to drown out the venomous voice of paranoia, or fan its overly suspicious flames. Even momentarily entertaining the thought that Heisenberg could be involved in their machinations fills you with a deep sense of guilt, and you scold yourself for forming suspicions based on chatter, affiliation, and the ramblings of some herb doctor long gone.

But if not that, then what? What else did you have to go off of?

Unrequited glances across the bar? A handful of shared meals? A smattering of evenings spent together in the study? This spell of complete isolation was demonstration enough that you knew nothing about the man, that you had grossly miscalculated both his desire for company and capacity for spite. Had you really been so desperate for companionship after your father’s death that you would jump headlong into the servitude of a man who was little more than a stranger?

The hall clock chimes its disapproval in the next room and you cast your glass aside, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes as you consider the prospect of surrendering to sleep. Taking up the poker with an exhale, you spread the dying embers across the floor of the fireplace before smothering them with ash. You trace the cool wood of the banister with your fingertips, breath catching in your throat at the sound of a stray creak somewhere within the factory. When it proves to be nothing more, you climb the stairs, pulling your door shut behind you with a faint click.

—

You cross your arms, settling back onto the sofa so as to better resist the urge to push the miserable machine over the edge of the steamer trunk turned coffee table. Of course the damned thing was out of ink. It was only a matter of time, the way you’d been going at it. But for it to do this after you spent all that time cleaning it? Gave it a new home, a purpose?

You sag further into your seat as you survey the study, scattered pages littering seemingly every surface. If given enough time, you were certain you could have put everything in chronological order based entirely on how many coffee rings or bourbon spills each page contained. You think back to the room’s state before your initial occupation of the flat. Had you known it would end up right back where it started, you’d have saved yourself the trouble and left it as it was.

At least there’s not cigar ash everywhere this time.

A pang of loneliness echoes in the cavern of your chest before you can even finish the thought. Funny, how willingly you would overlook the abysmal state of the flat if it meant you could have the gruff company that came with it. Funnier still was how quickly you’d grown accustomed to said company after spending so many years by yourself in your little shack. You’d lost track of how many times you had wondered whether or not he’d come to enjoy your routine, whether he’d craved companionship too.

Don’t be silly. He’s got the Duke and the pretty barkeep and all the other Lords. He got on just fine before you came along, and he’ll get on just the same after you leave.

The next stack of untouched journals taunts you from the end table and your lip curls as you consider the prospect of copying out the herbalist’s notes by hand. Surely the time spent looking for a new ribbon or even an inkwell could be made up for by typing them out after you’d found one. The apparatus had become a strange extension of you, a fundamental part of piecing together the mystery of the herbalist’s affairs. No, a pen simply wasn’t the tool for this job. It only served to slow you down. You quickly decided you were better off tearing the flat apart instead; after all, you were the only one who had to live with the aftermath.

—

Despite your efforts, your early morning rummage proves fruitless, and you give in with little more than an “Oh, to hell with it”. At least if Heisenberg found out about your transgressions, he’d be forced to confront you, which meant you got what you wanted either way.

The groan of the gate to the plaza announces your arrival, and the Duke’s face rounds into a soft smile that you can’t help but return.

“Ah, Y/N. I was starting to think Lord Heisenberg was holding you prisoner. I take it he’s kept you busy?” He watches intently as you settle against a barrel with a small huff.

“Busy doesn’t begin to cover it. I’ve spent the last few weeks doing nothing but reading textbooks and doing laundry and governing his ludicrous machines. I’ve hardly got time for anything else, the way the equipment acts up and the way my reading pile seems to grow overnight.”

He waits patiently, giving both you and your words room to breathe. Wishing to avoid speaking about your absent employer altogether, you scan the Duke’s wares, stretching to try to see behind him.

“Say, you wouldn’t still happen to have that typewriter of yours, would you?”

“Well of course, my dear,” his pale brows furrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, my ribbon needs replacing and I was wondering if you had any spools on hand.”

“No new ribbons, no. Mine doesn’t get much use these days, but I suppose I could check to see if-,” he cuts himself off before focusing his shrewd gaze on you. “Wherever did you find a typewriter?”

Shit. You’d grown so accustomed to working with it, you’d nearly forgotten you’d stolen it.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff Lord Heisenberg has laying around the factory,” you shove off from the barrel with an eye roll. “All kinds of gadgets, just waiting to be saved.” It wasn’t strictly a lie.

“Ah, yes. I’m quite familiar with his penchant for tinkering. Still, what use do you have for it? Don’t tell me that you’ve taken up typing?”

“Afraid so. He has me taking notes. I find it’s faster than writing it all by hand.” A bitter guilt washes over you as you lie to your only friend with ease. You’d had a lot of practice with being sneaky as of late, slipping out of the factory at odd hours to make your trek to the cottage. But outright lying?

“Ah, I see. Will you be needing any materials for maintenance? Does it appear to be well looked after?”

“No, not particularly. Go ahead and add those to the list as well, if you think they’ll come in handy.”

“Consider it done, my dear,” he jots down a short list and tucks it into a breast pocket with a smile. “Now, as lovely as it’s been to see your sweet face, I must leave you here. Lady Beneviento is expecting a delivery, and I don’t wish to keep her waiting.”

“I could take it for you,” you suggest, mouth moving faster than your brain. Unsurprisingly, his eyes narrow at the suggestion.

I have to ask her about the herbalist. This is the perfect excuse to speak to her.

“I was actually headed up there myself, on an errand. Heisenberg’s orders.” You lift your bag and pat its side for emphasis, praying he doesn’t inquire further.

He does.

“Heisenberg’s orders?” he repeats, a tinge of doubt seeping into his normally cool tone. “What business does he have with Lady Beneviento that cannot be conducted at one of their meetings?”

Had your subsequent scream not been internal, it might have been heard for miles around.

“I nearly asked the same thing, but I’m not about to let a chance to leave the factory slip me by. Even if I knew, I’m not certain I’d be at liberty to say.” You hold your breath.

His eyes search your face for a few moments too long, and he gives a great sigh, seemingly having found whatever it was he was looking for in it.

“No point in both of us disrupting her day, then. I don’t particularly enjoy the trek anyhow,” he trails, turning to grab something from behind him. Dangling wares jangle a discordant song as the caravan rocks slightly. “I do not need to remind you that my customers’ privacy is-”

“Paramount.”

“Paramount,” he echoes, holding a small parcel and twin spools of used ribbon out to you.

“I’ll take great care in getting it to her.”

“I trust you will, my dear.”

You gently tuck the items into your bag, the weight of his trust heavy on both your back and mind as you make to set off.

“Y/N?”

His voice causes you to freeze, and you turn back to look at him as you grasp the icy cold gate leading to the Beneviento estate.

“Yes, Duke?”

You struggle to hold the man’s gaze, the features of his face set in sad, resigned lines, and sadness floods your heart at having deceived someone who clearly cares so deeply for you.

“Please be careful.”

—

A spectral fog licks the floor of the narrow, steep-sided valley, carrying with it the musky-sweet perfume of decomposition that only belongs to late autumn; crushed moss, dark humus, and wet bark herald the waning daylight — an imminent omen of the long winter nights to come.

Overhead, the twisted limbs of gnarled trees claw their way across the sky, their dark silhouettes little more than blurs in the gray haze. You puzzle at the empty bird cages that hang lifeless from them, and continue to wade through the otherworldly damp – the muffled shuffling of your feet the only discernible source of noise – and a dull sense of foreboding begins to lap at the periphery of your thoughts. Struggling to see more than a few feet ahead, you become less certain with every step that the path you’re on will actually lead you to the Beneviento estate.

After a time, the walls of the ravine open up, unceremoniously spitting you out at the edge of a gorge. You stop, watching as the fog behind you lazily runs over the threshold, spurred on by your momentum. It spills into the chasm below, which flows with an even thicker brume. A quiet fear churns in the empty pit of your stomach and you swallow, willing yourself not to think about how deep the abyss may or may not be. You shift your attention to the bridge that presumably spans it, and your fear cements in your gut. The fibers that make up the ropes are frayed and worn, sticking out from the bridge wherever they’ve unraveled, and a great number of boards appear to be loose, clinging to the rope where they haven’t gone missing entirely. You doubt the rest of the bridge looks any better, but the fog smothers it well before you can tell. You lightly kick the anchoring point of the bridge a couple of times, as though that might further betray its integrity - or lack thereof.

I’m starting to understand why he’s not fond of the trek.

Gripping the main cables of the bridge, you take a timid step. When the first board doesn’t immediately give way, you risk a second, and a third. It’s not until you’re what must be halfway across that you feel compelled to look behind you, the uneasy feeling of being watched making the hairs on the back of your neck stand erect. The caw of a crow cuts through the heavy silence and your head snaps around. You struggle to distinguish its silhouette against the pale gray of the fog, but can just make out the air billowing where it’s been disturbed by the dampened flutter of wings and the glow of a single blue eye. A shiver bolts down your spine and you abandon all caution as you race to cross the rest of the bridge, ropes and boards groaning under the strain of your frantic movements.

Your feet pound a panicked rhythm into the uneven path as they carry you away from the bridge, and it’s not until you stumble over a stray root and pitch headlong into the dirt that your momentum finally stops. The sudden fall knocks the wind out of you, a sharp pain developing in your chest as you unsuccessfully gasp for air.

He’d be glad to know that my disobedience isn’t going totally unpunished.  

Clustered gravestones stare down at you as you lay sprawled on the ground, struggling to regain your breath. You manage to right yourself as it comes back to you in short, ragged gasps, the ache in your arm quickly replacing the discomfort in your chest. You stoop to collect the contents of your bag and rub your wrist reflexively, assessing the extent of the damage. The pain radiates as you test it gingerly.

Sprained, maybe.

“And all because of some fucking crow,” you grumble. “When did I get to be so lily-livered?”

A sudden sense of stillness washes over you as you take in the bunched graves. The names of the deceased are barely visible under the moss and lichens that cling to the neglected markers, their epitaphs as long forgotten as the individuals they were meant to commemorate. At the very least, you could make out that they largely seemed to belong to various members of House Beneviento. Tendrils of fog drift aimlessly between them, tangling in the bunches of yellow, hood-shaped flowers that sprout from the graves.

Must be the Aconitum variety the herbalist wrote about.

On plucking a stem, you fold it into a kerchief produced from your bag.

You turn your attention to the strange, gothic structure nestled into the craggy rocks behind the graves. It stands proud, cathedral-like in its architecture, with a small rose window and red, iron doors. They groan in protest at your intrusion, displeased that you should see fit to cross their threshold. You step into a dimly lit stone corridor and are greeted by a musty smell and the sound of dripping water; you clutch your arms to your chest as though the action might keep the damp air inside from clinging to your person.

The heavy doors clang shut behind you, and you round the corner to find a few lit candles silently standing vigil in a stone alcove, their soft bodies merging where their dripping wax meets. The corridor is punctuated by a small, ornate elevator - not totally unlike the one in the factory - and you press the singular button on the polished brass plate embedded in the wall; after a few moments, a bell buzzes, heralding the arrival of the lift and the gate lurches open, allowing you entry. You step inside, pressing yet again the only button available to you, and the lattice shuts you into its confines. You wince at the sound, and a seed of doubt begins to take root in your stomach as you begin to wonder if you weren’t trading one cage in for another. The elevator jerks to life and you steady yourself, focusing on the clammy stone wall descending around you in an attempt to will your hesitation away.

Surely the Duke wouldn’t have let me come here if he thought it was of any danger to me.

The single lightbulb flickers overhead as if to challenge the notion.

Of course, he’s also operating under the impression that Heisenberg knows I’m here.

Another ding heralds your arrival, and you step out into a stone corridor, swatting the thought aside like an errant fly. The roar of rushing water fills the air, and you freeze in your tracks at the mouth of the cave. A cutting wind howls around you, whipping your hair and cloak into a frenzy as you steady yourself against the cold wall of the cave.

The once-illustrious House Beneviento clings to the edge of a jagged cliff face, the rocky precipice dropping sharply into the churning, frothy waters of the waterfall that cascades behind it. Steeply sloping rooflines and intricate spires stand as proud as the surrounding mountains; the long shadows they cast across the crumbling, ivy-ridden facade of the manor obscure the narrow arch windows that lurk in the recesses, their drawn curtains hanging heavy in the hardwood frames. There was no denying that the light had undoubtedly long since gone out of the manor, but you didn’t have to try very hard to imagine what it must have looked like in its full glory. Beautiful and imposing.

A flicker of movement in one of the windows betrays what appears to be the silhouette of a woman, and you fight to steel yourself against your sudden unease.

Forging on, you push through the wrought-iron gate, taking little note of the overgrown hedges, yellow flowers, and trees that line the stone path. The sense of foreboding that hangs heavy in the air further suffocates you with each step, but your curiosity pulls you along the flags, towards the veranda, up its sloping steps, and before a set of stately double doors. With a slight tremble, you raise a gentle fist to strike the hardwood before the last vapors of your resolve can fully dissipate.

You’re denied the chance as hinges, worn and rusted by years of neglect, strain against the weight of the doors; the old wood itself moans, grudgingly adding its complaint to the eerie chorus. The faint glow of warm lights and a delicate floral scent escape the widening gap, and you apologetically lower your hand as you’re faced by the lady of the house.

–

Despite the obvious ticking of a clock somewhere behind you, time seems to hang suspended in the air.

Anticipation and restlessness quietly coalesce in the pit of your stomach as you look around the informal sitting room in wait of your gracious hostess. The lighting is soft, the various scattered fixtures and candles bathing the tastefully arranged furniture in a warm yellow. Upholstered armchairs and beautifully crafted end tables consort with stray stacks of books atop complementary plush rugs. Sturdy cabinets house sterling heirlooms, fine dishes, and assortments of porcelain dolls. A heavy writing desk stands in the middle of the room, its grandeur only exceeded by the elaborately carved fireplace that stands guard behind it. A mix of old-world charm and faded elegance.

You settle into your seat, only vaguely aware of the sounds of Lady Beneviento busying herself in what you can only assume is the kitchen the next room over. The unmistakable crackles of a gramophone can just be made out over a lush orchestration and the soft clanking of cups or plates, and you wonder which fanciful room in the house it could be coming from.

The gentle aroma of something baked permeates the air, and some of the sense of urgency that had fueled your trek here begins to slip away from you at the thought of getting to eat something you didn’t have to prepare yourself. You close your eyes, pulling the velvety sweetness in, and are almost immediately startled back to reality as Lady Beneviento sets a surprisingly large tea tray down on the polished wooden table with a thud. She begins to offload a number of plates from the tray, the table quickly overflowing with an array of delicacies, and you begin to marvel at how quickly she prepared it all when you recall that she must have been expecting the Duke. Layered honey cakes with jam and cream, sweet breads, plum dumplings, and petite finger sandwiches beckon to you, practically begging to be savored.

You clear your throat, quickly remembering what few manners your father and the Duke had struggled to instill in you.

“Thank you for going to the trouble of preparing all of this. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

She continues as though you had said nothing, placing a delicate saucer and teacup setting in front of either of you. You examine the intricate botanical pattern on the dishes intently, half-wishing to escape what was quickly becoming a suffocating awkwardness, and an aromatic steam fills the room as Lady Beneviento pours a floral tisane. The sound of a tiny silver spoon clinking against the sugar bowl grounds you, and you watch as Lady Beneviento heaps several spoonfuls into her own teacup. She wordlessly offers the bowl to you, and you grab it with a quiet ‘thank you’, taking note of how rough her hands are as your fingers brush momentarily.

You jump, spilling sugar across your saucer as your hostess finally breaks the silence. Barring your arrival, she hadn’t spoken. You had only received a soft but terse ‘come in’ and ‘please sit’ after being whisked out of the main parlor.

“You have impeccable timing. I’ve only just pulled these out of the oven,” she moves to grab the plum dumplings, placing a few on either of your plates. Her voice is cool and even, if not a bit small. “You must try one while it’s still warm.”

You reach for it with a sheepish smile, worried that if you speak she’ll spook or vanish into thin air. Taking a bite, you fail to stifle a groan as you savor the crunchy buttery dumpling that coats the tangy, juicy plum inside.

She sweeps her veil across her face with the back of her hand and tucks it behind an ear in a graceful movement, revealing a single hazel eye. Her gaze is piercing, going well beyond casual eye contact. You’re racked with an immediate sense of recognition as you stare back at her, and you’re overcome with the feeling that she sees you, maybe even knows you on a more profound level. Perhaps as one outsider recognizes another, perhaps something more. A mournful smile plays on her lips, and she continues to peer at you over a sip of her tea. You shift your eyes to the side, the intensity of her look suddenly overwhelming.

One particular porcelain doll across the room catches your full attention; she wears a serene expression, her facial features finely painted, and dons meticulously detailed clothing made from any number of luxurious ribbons and laces and silks. Something like a memory dances on the edge of your consciousness, tantalizingly out of reach.

Lady Beneviento clears her throat.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, not at all. It’s silly,” you tilt your head. “I think I might have had a similar doll as a little girl. Perhaps even the same one,” you trail off, brows furrowed as you strain to remember.

She looks over her shoulder at it briefly.

“Yes, well. The Duke sold them for me for some time. I imagine most little girls in the village had one,” she suggests with a flippant wave of her hand.

“Right,” you smile sweetly, knowing damn well your father couldn’t have afforded something so elegant. You bank the thought for later, taking another bite of the dumpling.

“Tell me then. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

You have the good sense to wipe at the corners of your mouth with the linen napkin provided as you finish chewing, mouth overly full of food. It only buys you a few precious seconds of thought, but it’s enough time to steel your nerves.

“I’ve brought you a package, my Lady.”

“A package?”

You retrieve the parcel from your bag, wrapped in the Duke’s signature brown paper and tied off with a string, and hand it to her across the table. She takes it, looking up at you with more than a trace of suspicion in her eye. “It is unlike him to not make a delivery himself.”

“That would be my fault. I offered to bring it up for him.”

“As a favor? Or has he taken on an errand girl?”

“Oh, not hardly,” you start, trying not to snort at the thought of having to make deliveries to the villagers. “I act as assistant to Lord Heisenberg.”

She stops mid-sip, something like bewilderment briefly flashing across her face, and you puzzle momentarily over another bite.

Perhaps he hadn’t mentioned bringing on an assistant. Or is she simply surprised that he would bother with someone like me?

It only takes her a moment to regain her composure before she presses on, cutting your speculation short.

“So you are here on his account then,” she posits, her voice going somewhat flat at the notion. She reaches for a finger sandwich before settling back in her chair.

Tension begins to weave a tight web across the table and you scramble to unravel it before Lady Beneviento detaches from the conversation altogether. You set your cup down with a clatter, some tea sloshing over the side and onto the saucer.

“I’ve misled you,” you apologize, voice unsteady as you rifle through the contents of your bag. “I’m not here on his business either.” Producing the copy of Alkaloids of Mountainous Plants, you place the book in the middle of the table as explanation. Time stretches further, your certainty that it was a mistake to have come here growing with every passing second, and you search her face for any signs of recognition.

Her tea cup rattles against the saucer as she moves to set it down, and with still trembling hands, she reaches out to take the book. She smooths a hand over its cover, a stray cat come home, before clutching it to her chest.

“You’re not supposed to have been able to-” she starts, her face equal parts disbelief and distress as she calculates exactly how you could’ve come across it. “How did you get this?”

There’s a pregnant pause as you both contemplate what all the other might know. An intense twinge begins to blossom behind your eyes, something foreign exerting pressure on the boundaries of your mind. You glance suspiciously at your tea, squinting against the sudden pain, and proceed as though the question hadn't been posed at all.

“I’ve come to ask if you know the herbalist who used to live outside of the village.”

“Well of course I knew her, she was-” her voice is hasty before faltering, and she presses her hand to her mouth with a small gasp.

The worst of the headache recedes nearly as quickly as it came on, leaving a lingering ache in its place. You rub your temple as Lady Beneviento looks at you, the look of horror on her half-shrouded face thinly veiled at best.

It hadn't even occurred to you that the herbalist might be a woman. Suddenly, the herbalist’s offhanded mentionings of being distrusted by the village made more sense; not only was the cottage grossly removed from the village, but it housed a single woman practicing medicine. You nod sympathetically, no stranger to the sense of alienation that must’ve haunted her.

“What was she like?”

She fidgets with her hands in her lap, and you observe her wrestling with the personal consequences of revealing her thoughts. Her eye darts around before landing on you, and the trust she considers placing in you is palpable. She takes a single deep breath of resignation and reaches for the teapot, pouring both of you more as though you hadn’t spilled it across her nice table linens.

“She was an outcast,” she answers, mouth a little tight as she replaces the teapot. “And kind beyond measure.”

It was evident enough from her journal entries. She cared deeply for the people of the village despite their obvious aversions, and went to lengths bordering on strange to make sure they received the treatments they needed. You relax slightly in your chair, growing more comfortable in your mutual discomfort.

“Is that what drove her to leave? Being an outcast, I mean.”

A sharp, metallic clang echoes throughout the room as Lady Beneviento’s spoon crashes against the wooden floor. A series of softer, arhythmic thuds amplify the noise as it bounces slightly, and the resonant tone reverberating through the room tapers into silence.

“Leave. Leave?” Hysteria creeps into her voice as she chews on the word. “Whatever gave you the impression that she could have left?”

You reel at her sudden change in demeanor, stammering as you rush to make yourself understood.

“I just thought that since she’s not here anymore and nobody speaks of her she might have-”

“No,” she asserts, rising from her spot at the table without warning. There is a dangerous edge to her voice that you wouldn’t have previously thought her capable of, and you watch as she grips the edge of the table with ferocity. “She was overly inquisitive, and took inconsiderate risks despite being warned. Her search for information despite predictable consequences was her undoing. In fact, she’d have been better off had she never come here in the first place.”

Your jaw hangs slack, composure momentarily shattered in the face of raw emotion. Perhaps you weren’t so different, having wandered up here impulsively with little regard for possible repercussions. You close your mouth, swallowing the shock as you struggle to find words.

“My sincerest apologies, my Lady. You have to know I had no intentions of upsetting you when I came here.”

She straightens, brushing her dress front off before folding her hands, the image of nobility if not for her heaving chest. Not wanting to overstay your welcome anymore than you already have, you start to gather your things and stand across from her, watching as she readjusts her veil.

“I had better get going.” The initial strike of a grandfather clock chiming cuts through the charged air, each additional bong seemingly louder than the last as the two of you face one another, motionless. You grasp the strap of your bag, slinging it across your shoulder and tugging it into place before draping your cloak around your shoulders - the first comfortable sensations you’ve experienced since arriving. “Thank you for the tea and dumplings, Lady Beneviento. You’re a talented baker.”

She dips her head, following you out into the formal parlor. You catch a glimpse of her portrait on the wall leading up the stairs and are surprised by how much younger and happier she looks.

Seems not even the Lords and Ladies are immune to the toll this place takes on people.

She opens the door for you, cutting you off as you inhale to thank her one more time.

“I think it would be unwise for you to return here.”

You give a single nod, taking your leave.

The walk home is largely uneventful, save for getting to appreciate the contents of the garden you’d previously ran through and having to navigate the bridge one more time. The Duke’s caravan is gone when you get back to the plaza, somewhat to your chagrin but mostly to your relief. He hadn’t mentioned that he’d be leaving when you’d spoken earlier, but then, you didn’t exactly tell him of your plans either.

Your feet are heavy as you slog up the steps past the ruins, but your thoughts weigh heavier as Lady Beneviento’s words ring out in your mind.

Her search for information despite predictable consequences was her undoing.

“Undoing,” you mutter, chewing your lip. “Undoing as in destruction, or undoing as in death?”

You recall that the herbalist had suspected the villagers of getting sick after being exposed to something in the church - wine or bread if memory serves - but at no point had she outright accused Mother Miranda of having tampered with it. It was Lady Beneviento herself who had urged the herbalist against bringing it to Miranda’s attention. Urged her against crossing Mother Miranda. Perhaps your drunken musings from the night before hadn’t been as baseless as previously thought.

You lean against the bridge a moment, watching as the waters of the reservoir race below. As much as you didn’t want to consider the possibility of Heisenberg colluding with Mother Miranda, it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t know anything about her dealings in the village. After all, what reason would she have to form an alliance with the Four Lords of the Village if not to use their influence to some extent?

You set the line of thought aside for the time being as you squeeze in through the iron doors of the factory, choosing instead to focus on making a beeline for the bath. It would all make more sense after a bath.

–

You linger in the vestibule as you fiddle with the last few buttons on one of Heisenberg’s shirts; you’d tailored enough of them to get you through the work week, and figured there was no harm in keeping one or two of the more stained ones to sleep in. At least any ink smudges acquired while fiddling with the typewriter wouldn’t look amiss.

The hardwood floor is cold under the pads of your feet, and you repress a shiver while you dig your gifted ribbons out of your bag before heading toward the study in search of a drink worthy of tonight’s undertaking. Strange didn’t quite cover the scope of today’s events, but it had certainly left you feeling as such. Maybe had your sleep schedule been more than a sad afterthought, you’d have crawled into the middle of your plush bed and slept it all off, putting some much needed distance between you and your escapade. Regrettably, this was not the case.

You blindly grope for a glass, and when your fingers finally connect, you set it on top of the bar beside your ribbon with a dull thunk. The decanter feels a little lighter than you remember, but then, you hadn’t done much to rectify that. You free the stopper, sloshing the now-liberated liquid into your glass with less expertise than perhaps necessary.

Hope it’s not too expensive.

The soft snick of a lighter’s sparkwheel sounds behind you, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you carefully replace the stopper to the decanter. You raise your glass to your lips, pull a generous mouthful of bourbon across your tongue, and chew it casually, slowly, in the hopes that it might better coat the razor sharp edges of the words to come.

A swallow, an exhale.

When the oak finish has dissipated completely from your palate, you turn around and inhale the heady smoke blooming between the two of you, allowing yourself one last indulgence before you face the music.

You open your eyes to the crimson glow of a lit cigar reflected in a pair of onyx lenses.

“You’ve been busy, doll.”

Taglist: @artist-bby @ambiguous-g @honimello​ @butterflysist3r @spac3witch @xyinparadise​ @fantrashtic-emily @emmathedestroyer @eleeloo @strayczennies @reddbishop​ @cakelover365​ @jackysenpaii​ @lilcocakitty​ @pinemangojuice

[beautyofsorrow]

For the Star Trek meme, 7, 17 and 46!

7. Who would make up your crew dream team?

AHAHAHAHA. look i'm not gonna try to build a coherent crew i'm just gonna smash all my favorite characters into a room together:

pike and sisko, obviously, because they're captain dads who cook

una chin-riley, number one of my heart

b'elanna who can fix anything including my mental illness

seven because i cannot separate her from b'elanna they're a pair ok

jadzia, my slutty slutty icon (as an extra treat she and una can kiss)

uhura, icon and legend

mariner for some chaos

m'benga and chapel in medical (i simply cannot perceive the tng crew at this time, but in an alternate universe where picard season 3 never happened this slot would go to crusher)

and then kira because. she's kira.

would also love to see la'an and worf interact tho i know there would be a Lot of klingon war stuff for la'an to work through first but i think once all that's out the airlock they'd have fun being miserable together

17. What role would you have aboard a starship?

i would not be on a starship i am a plant and i need sunlight and fresh air too much. i would be the one my starship dwelling friends come to visit on shore leave and i would cook them a veritable feast and then give everyone a stack of books like i'm assigning them summer reading

46. If they rebooted *insert show here* who out of modern day actors would you pick to play the main characters?

....i was just thinking the other day i would love to see kate siegel on star trek. i do not think she would do it but she'd make a great jadzia.

please do not ever reboot ds9 tho i do not wanna see them murder my beloved. please just leave ds9 alone exactly as it is.

star trek ask meme

[portablefrailty]

June 1, 1925

100 Years Ago Today

(according to the files of Edward R. Cuthbert, USMC)

"Tried to sleep a little but couldn't. Stood another 12 and 4, 8 and 12. Got all the coal on about 2:30. 1600 tons full up."

--Dick Cuthbert, June 1st, 1925

Coaling was arguably the most hated and unpleasant duty sailors had to perform in pre-World War I navies. By 1925 nearly every ship in the US fleet had converted to oil and thus their crews were spared the ordeal but not the Seattle boys. Though impressive in appearance, swift and powerful in action, and though she enjoyed the prestige that came with being the flagship of the entire United States fleet, the Seattle was one of the last coal burners remaining in active service and on coaling day all hands who served aboard her--sailors and marines, officers and enlisted men--had to do their part.

Essentially the work entailed shoveling coal massive piles of anthracite coal from a dockside, barge, or the deck of a refueling collier into massive sacks which were then hauled aboard the ship's main deck by winch and pulley rigs. From their the coal was shoveled through purpose-built hatchways down chutes into the storage bunkers that served the engineering plant. Standing knee deep in the stuff with black dust filling the air, men in the bunkers carefully repositioned the coal as it came in until each bunker was stacked from front to back, floor to ceiling. Finally, the crew had to scrub down every surface of the ship followed by their uniforms, skin, and hair until the only remaining trace of coal dust was the coating in each of their lungs.

The photos I inherited from Dick include many images of him and his shipmates performing this dirty chore. The subjects in these photographs usually seem cheerful, despite the drudgery of their task. They were, after all, strong young men born of a more stoic era. Coaling or no, they loved America, the navy and the ship on which they served. Their faces also convey a sense of camaraderie born of shared suffering, a cheer that belies the arduous conditions of their task: a full day's hard labor under a merciless tropical sun with dust got in their eyes, under their fingernails, in their mouths and between their teeth. Apart from their smiles, each man is a Dickensian caricature: shirtless, muscle-bound and caked with soot and sweat.

---

In other parts of the world:

On June 1st, 1925 Babe Ruth made his season debut at Yankee Stadium after missing two months with a mysterious abdominal ailment. He went 0-2 in a 5-3 loss to the defending champions, the Washington Senators--a disappointing result that presaged a lost season in the Bronx.

Lost in the shuffle of the otherwise unremarkable game was the 8th inning substitution of shortstop Paul Wanninger for a 21-year-old Lou Gehrig. Despite flying out in his lone at bat, Gehrig’s appearance would mark the first of a string of 2000+ consecutive games played that would go on until 1939 when terminal illness would tragically cut short his career.

Meanwhile, the Maw family of Mendham, New Jersey welcomed a baby girl. She had been due in May and her parents had planned to give her that name but a hard delivery postponed her arrival until the new month and so she was christened June Maw. She would go one to live another 87 years, long enough to attend the marriage of this author with one of her lovely granddaughters, to mail countless packages of rice crispy treats and, in her final hours, knit the first piece of a quilt that would become my son's baby blanket.

Thank you for reading. This is the second of a series of 100 years ago today posts I plan on publishing inspired by the photojournals of my great-grandfather, Edward Richard (Dick) Cuthbert, a US marine who served from 1924-27 aboard the USS Seattle. In inherited the books when I was 13. Five years ago I decided to restore Dick's photographs and transcribe his writings to preserve them for all time--a project that ultimately spurred me to write a full account of what is often overlooked period in American cultural and military history. You see, Dick was a poster marine--a handsome, imposing, paragon of military virtue--and the ship on which he served was the flagship of the entire US Fleet. His travels took him through the Caribbean and Panama Canal, up and down both costs, and across the equator and international date line to the far corners of the South Pacific. Along the way he lived and worked in close proximity to a senior admirals who were heroes of the Spanish American War and WWI and up and coming junior officers (like Chester Nimitz) destined for greatness in WWII. He stood honor guard during diplomatic visits by foreign heads of state, governors, and military brass. He witnessed the dangerous and awkward birth of naval aviation and took part in vast war games that were dress rehearsals for the war against Japan. Dick and his fleet mates were fed, feted and entertained all over the world. They were treated to vaudeville and orchestral performances, horse races, air shows, Samoan dances, and Panamanian bullfights. They swam at Waikiki and Lahaina Roads, played baseball against Australian cricket clubs and golf with Maori caddies in New Zealand. They bought beaded necklaces, grass skirts, and Tahitian pearls. And they met girls. On piers thronged with cheering crowds, at YMCA balls waiting with their dance cards and tiny pencils, along beaches in frumpy bathing costumes, in flapper frocks and pearls at speakeasies from Brooklyn to Honolulu. If I can provide but a glimpse of the fun, excitement and fascination of Dick's experiences, my efforts will not have gone to waste.

[casspurrjoybell-26]

Too Old For This - Chapter 4 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Leroy occasionally stopped by the house.

He would look into the overgrown lawn, jumping over the picket fence if he saw a cat.

Sometimes Zachary's face would become visible through the windows of the sunroom and other times he would move his wheelchair and watch Leroy from the comfort of the porch.

Leroy would mostly say hello and Zachary would say hello back, smiling in a way that seemed unsure of himself before proceeding not to say another word for the rest of the time Leroy was there.

Things went on like this for the next month or so and soon, Leroy accepted it was routine and his venture into the bungalow was a one-time thing it seemed.

Too bad because he had begun to hyper-fixate on the man, wondering things about him that would only be appropriate to ask in the context of a friendship.

He wanted to better understand his illness... understand why it seemed like he was always alone even though he mentioned living with his sister.

He also wanted to ask other things.

He wanted to ask the man about his social life 'even though he suspected there wasn't much of any' what he liked to do, eat and experience.

Leroy had been intrigued one of the days the man had come outside and read a book on the porch.

He'd wanted to ask what he was reading... start a conversation maybe but the man's mannerisms were stiff and nervous and the younger man felt that maybe it wasn't a good time. 

It was unfortunate because he'd hoped they'd become friends.  

"What are you thinking about?" Leroy blinked before moving his face to the person staring right at him.

Clarissa... the administrative admin.... was bent over his desk with a puzzled frown on her face.

Leroy shook his head.

"Nothing," he said, forcing himself to smile a little like he hadn't just zoned out at work.

"Okay then..." Clarissa said, standing up straight as she turned a paper on the desk.

"I brought this over so you can take a look, it's the group insurance policy, let me know what you think."

Leroy's eyes moved to the paper.

Ah, yes, he remembered the company was updating their insurance provider. 

"Drop it off at my table on your way out. If I've clocked out, feel free to simply email me your thoughts," Clarissa said, giving him that half smile of hers that was serious, yet betraying her friendliness.

She was a plump short woman with dirty blonde curls and thin lips that were always over-lined with red lipstick.

She wore her hair in tight curls and always had a pair of black heel pumps that compensated for her shy of 5'0 stature.

Leroy nodded.

"I'll do that." 

"Awesome, I'll leave you alone now," the lady said, turning on her heels and walking away from his small office which was more of a concerted storage room.

Leroy sighed, picking up the stack of stapled paper before flipping through it.

"It's not like I have anything better to do," he mumbled to himself.

If there was one thing positive Leroy could say about his job it would be that it wasn't very tasking.

In fact, Leroy could be fired tomorrow and no one would have to replace him.

They'd just shuffle most of his stuff between the analyst on the ground and the administrative team.

Anyone could write power points and speak to clients and anyone with half a brain could work with a reasonable budget.

Seventy percent of his job was making phone calls, attending meetings and booking clients.

He wasn't even in sales... the sales team brought in the clients and he simply managed them.

For many people and sometimes even for Leroy, this was a good team but other times he felt like he'd stagnated, that he wasn't of much importance and that he could be doing something more important and worthwhile with his life.

Leroy sighed, starting to find it hard to read through the lists of covered procedures as his thoughts overwhelmed him.

He was having one of his moods where he was deeply dissatisfied with how things were going and yet, didn't lift a finger to do much about it.

Sometimes he wasn't even sure he felt bad.

Sure, there was his job but it was only the surface of his feelings.

'Zachary,'  he wondered, frowning a bit.

He bit his bottom lip and leaned back on his office chair, narrowing his eyes at the white walls of his office as he contemplated why he'd thought of the man.

Maybe the initial excitement about meeting and engaging with him had fizzled into a rather disappointing aftertaste since they didn't really interact much after the whole basement and cat incident.  

But what had he been expecting?      

To be honest, Leroy wasn't sure.

Maybe a new friend?

That didn't make much sense though, Zachary was very different from the type of people Leroy spent time with.

The man was painfully reserved, didn't seem like he would do well in social situations, and was much older.

Leroy's friends were often his age and sometimes younger than him... a bit embarrassing because it felt it showed his immaturity a bit.

These were the people on his level... younger twenty-something-year-olds still in college who played video games online with him.

No, that wasn't it.

There was something else.

The energy in the basement.

He had felt it.

They'd been comfortable with each other.

Related to each other's experiences regardless of how different they were.

Leroy had felt heard.

At ease.

He had been excited to experience that again and after weeks of going back all he'd been met with was Zachary's figure that was occasionally on the porch.

Nothing more.

His frustration was coming to a realization that it had been a one-time thing.  

Which was rather unfortunate.

Leroy sighed, staring down at his desk and then his watch.

He had thirty or so minutes before he had to clock out.

'No one's going to notice if I leave early, anyway.'