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idiopath-fic-smile · 2 years ago

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this one goes out to all my Singin' in the Rain ot3 truthers—

Cosmo Brown had always known it would end like this.

Cosmo was a lot of things—in fact, you could argue he was too many—but he wasn’t dumb.

From the early years, when Cosmo and Don were just kids playing for pennies in pool halls, to their stint dodging rotten vegetables on Vaudeville stages across the very backwaters of America’s backwaters, to their first real breath of success in Hollywood (and then the second and the third and the fourth), Cosmo would catch a glimpse of his handsome, charismatic friend from the corner of his eye—a flash of dark hair, that perfect tooth powder ad smile—and know that for all Don’s protestations, someday the guy was gonna meet a wonderful girl and get married, settle down, and very gently slip off to the far edge of Cosmo’s life.

So yes, Cosmo had seen Kathy Selden coming. Not the details, not her sense of humor or her musical little laugh or the madcap way she really threw herself into dancing with them around Don’s place at 1:30 in the morning—and okay, certainly not the part at the beginning where she had jumped out of a cake at a party, but he thought a fella could be excused for not correctly divining that.

The general outline of the thing, though, how Don’s eyes followed her around a room...he had been preparing for Don to propose to Kathy ever since she’d tried to throw a pie at Don’s face. And when the happy day came, Cosmo had been ready with his best man suit, his best man speech, a slightly updated version of “Here Comes the Bride” that’d had Don and Kathy laughing all the way down the aisle.

Don and Kathy would buy a house together. They would have a swimming pool and a dog and then inevitably, a small parade of adorable little snot-nosed kids who would call him Uncle Cosmo, and they would spend less and less time with him, not on purpose but busy with the rest of their lives, and ultimately Cosmo would learn to make his peace with it because he’d have no other choice and he would have to try to move on and not live too much in his memories. He could picture it so clearly, he figured if the songwriting gig with Monumental didn’t pan out, he could always return to the backwater circuit with a new act: The Amazing Cosmo of the Cosmos—ladies and gentlemen, he sees the future, he reads the stars, he silently pines for his best married pal and all the while tap dancing!

Don and Kathy inviting him along on their honeymoon, though—that part was a surprise.

“What?” said Cosmo, hands frozen over the piano keys. He’d been busy with a brand-new assignment; on the heels of The Dancing Cavalier, offers were pouring in and he’d taken the first one scoring a movie that didn’t star anyone he was secretly in love with.

Don had looked a little wounded when Cosmo broke the news last week, but a guy had to start making his own way in the world. Besides, orchestrating layers of strings to swell as the camera zoomed in on Don and Kathy blissfully locking lips in radiant monochrome, oblivious to the rest of the world—well, Cosmo knew that dance, he had mastered the footwork, and he didn’t especially feel like a reprise.

It wasn’t lost on him that Kathy had dropped by his rehearsal space alone today. Of course, he had no idea what this meant—he didn’t think it was about the new job; Don didn’t tend to stay sore at him for that long—but Kathy was acting perfectly natural, and so probably the smart thing was to follow her lead.

“It’s a two-week transatlantic cruise,” she said now, gracefully dropping beside him on the piano bench. “We thought it would be nice to see Europe, take in the sights, get away from all the cameras.”

“Ah yes, such a wallflower, our dear Don,” said Cosmo solemnly. “Besieged on all sides by the love of his public, a tragedy of our times, up there with Lear! Hamlet! Caesar! The one with all the Greeks and the giant wooden horse, nay, nay, neigh.” He played a tragic little trill, for effect. Kathy huffed a laugh and smacked his arm.

“You know that’s not it,” she said. “Being watched all the time—we can’t always do what we want. It’s rotten.”

Tell me about it, thought Cosmo.

He was sort of seeing a fight choreographer named Archibald, who came from old money and was a “the third” or a “the fifth” but nice enough Cosmo might even forgive him for that. Archibald was trim and athletic, with dark brown hair that was just starting to go gray at the temples and enough discretion that Cosmo didn’t think they’d get caught. The only problem was that he didn’t laugh at Cosmo’s jokes, seemed to just tolerate them.

“What do you two even talk about, then?” Don had asked, when Cosmo had let this slip over drinks the same night he’d explained about the new movie project. (Cosmo had been trying to spend less time with Don and Kathy since the wedding but Don had said, “C’mon, pal, we miss you” and Kathy had laid one hand on his arm and peered up at him with her big green eyes and Cosmo was only one man.)

Cosmo had frowned, because Don hated Archibald, for reasons that were frankly mysterious. Then he’d looked up and grinned a grin he didn’t exactly feel and said,

“Tell you when you’re older,” and then Don had choked on his dry Martini even though Cosmo knew Don knew about Cosmo’s tendencies. It wasn’t something they discussed, and Cosmo had never properly gone with a guy before, but whenever a big-shot producer started complaining about all the degenerate queers in showbiz, Don always sharply steered the conversation someplace else. It was all very gallant and noble and knightly, and someday Don would play King Arthur and Kathy his lady Guinevere—

“Honestly, sometimes it feels as if we’re living in a fishbowl,” said Kathy now, in the present.

“And so your solution is to relocate,” said Cosmo, “to the biggest fishbowl on this here magnificent earth. The mighty ocean!” He struck up a sea shanty. “Oh blow the man down, blow the man down / way ay, blow the man down…”

Not everyone appreciated his musical flights of fancy, but when Cosmo turned, she was leaning with her elbow on the side arm of the piano, watching him with her chin on her hand and laughing.

“Just for two weeks,” she said. “So, are you coming?”

“With you two,” said Cosmo, just so there could be no misunderstandings. “On your one and only honeymoon.”

“Yes,” said Kathy.

“As what, your first mate?”

“Sure.” She grinned and threw him a quick salute. Cosmo was almost never attracted to women but in this case, he understood the appeal.

He swallowed. “You are aware of that ancient saying, ‘Two’s company and three’s a fast track to divorce court’?”

“You’re hardly a threat to our marriage, Cosmo,” she said, and he agreed, of course, in both directions, even, but it still stung to hear her say it out loud. For want of anything better to do, he gasped, clutched a hand to his chest and reeled backwards so hard, he threw himself off the piano bench, landing in a somersault on the floor.

Kathy spun around fluidly on the bench to face him, pleated skirt whirling a little, heels of her shoes clicking together.

“Oh, I said that badly,” she said. “I only mean that it’s more fun when you’re around. We have a better time, Don and me both. Remember the night we decided to make Dueling Cavalier a musical?”

“Do I remember the best night of my life?” Cosmo peered up at her from the hardwood. “Why yes, madam, now that you mention it, I believe it might ring a bell or two.”

“The best—” She frowned for a moment, and he remembered then that as a newly married woman, a newly married woman to Don Lockwood, no less, she’d no doubt experienced any number of evenings that blew that one out of the water.

Even besides that, it felt awfully revealing all of a sudden. Cosmo threw an arm over his eyes. He felt naked. He wished he was naked, because that might at least distract from whatever his face was doing.

“So it beats your time with Archibald, then?” said Kathy shrewdly.

Cosmo uncovered his eyes. He forgot, sometimes, that new as Kathy was to the moving pictures business, she was still a city girl, with a city girl’s worldliness. Also, Don had probably told her; that seemed like the kind of second-hand secrets married people shared with each other. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Hardly a topic for mixed company,” he said.

There was a pause.

“So yes,” she said and smiled with a smugness that would’ve been unbecoming were she not as cute as a button.

“What do you and Don have against the poor man anyway?” he groused. “He’s never done so much as sneezed in your direction, and if he did, I’m sure he’d use a handkerchief.”

“For one thing, we know you could do better,” said Kathy, folding her arms.

Cosmo elbowed his way back to sitting, brushing himself off with dignity. “Well, better’s not exactly knocking on my door right now.”

“This town doesn’t have an ounce of sense.” She reached down to offer him a hand up, pulling Cosmo to his feet; she was stronger than she looked. “Listen, two weeks away, it’ll be good for you.”

“What about you two?” Cosmo protested as he reclaimed his spot on the bench, Kathy sliding to make room.

“What about us?” said Kathy with wide eyes.

“Two newlyweds might want some alone time?” he offered weakly.

Kathy shrugged. “I told you, there won’t be reporters or cameras. It’ll be plenty private.”

“What about your matrimonial needs?”

“Which needs?”

His eyes narrowed; she was a terrific actress but suddenly he wasn’t sure he was buying it. Kathy wasn’t dumb either.

“You have to know what I mean. Don’t make me play Cole Porter at you,” said Cosmo. She hesitated, and Cosmo began to pluck out a melody: “Birds do it, bees do it / even educated fleas do it…” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Let’s do it,” sang Kathy, finishing the stanza in her lovely alto, “let’s fall in love.”

Cosmo stopped playing.

“I do know,” she said simply, “of course I do, and we’re not worried about it, alright? Listen, do you want to go?”

Cosmo, who had been carefully not asking himself that question, stared down at the piano keys. Did he want to go? He thought back to that night at Don’s, the three of them giddy with excitement and inspiration and sleep deprivation, running through the house, clowning around and dancing with no audience except each other—he hadn’t felt like a hanger-on then, like a third wheel or an extra limb or a chaperone. He’d felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, one note of a perfect chord.

Still.

“I can’t swim,” he said.

“They’ll have lifejackets,” said Kathy.

“I’ll have to work.”

“We’ll bring a piano.”

“All my houseplants will die,” said Cosmo.

“All your houseplants are fake,” she said. This was true, although he wasn’t sure how she knew since she’d never been to his house. She sighed. “Remember the night of that first screening, when you were about to expose Lina and instead of explaining what was happening, Don told me I had to sing, that I didn’t have a choice?”

He winced, thinking of Kathy’s heartbroken, tear-stained face before they’d pulled up the curtain and revealed who was really singing when Lina moved her lips.

“Yes, and I feel just awful about it.”

“Well, Don doesn’t,” said Kathy. “Because he knew it would take too long to convince me to do something that mean to her.”

“Mean?” Cosmo echoed. “She tried to trap you in a lifelong contract and steal your voice. A common sea witch wouldn’t stoop so low.”

“But there wasn’t time,” she pressed. “And anyway, he knew how it would end.”

“What’s your point?”

“We already bought your tickets,” said Kathy.

Cosmo gaped at her.

“We’ve cleared the trip with everyone at Monumental and anyway, like I said, we’ll have a piano on the boat.”

Distantly, he was aware his mouth was still hanging open. Kathy reached over with one light finger under his chin and gently closed it.

“That’s better,” she said, folding her hands daintily in her lap. It was around this time she seemed to realize it wasn’t some routine, that Cosmo really was well and truly stunned. “Of course, nobody is going to force you to go with us if you truly don’t want to,” she said into the silence.

“These tickets,” he said at last, “are they refundable?”

“Gosh,” said Kathy easily, “I can’t imagine they are, no.”

The thing was, none of them were hurting for money or work anymore, so the fact that Don and Kathy might be out even a few hundred dollars didn’t catch at him the way it might’ve some years earlier. No, the thought that really seized his imagination was the mental image of Don and Kathy planning this together, Don and Kathy discussing the matter with each other, maybe over breakfast—toast and coffee in their dressing gowns, so sure it was the right thing to do that they’d decided to just go ahead and make preparations: oh and a ticket for Cosmo, of course.

He could do it, he realized. He could go. He wanted to go. It was foolish, but Cosmo was an entertainer; he’d been doing foolish things in front of a roomful of witnesses since he was in shortpants.

“I’ll pack tonight,” he said.

“Perfect!” Kathy hopped off the bench and straightened out her dress. “And bring something nice to wear at dinner for a night or two; it doesn’t need to be black-tie formal, a good suit will do.”

He nodded. “I shall leave the top hat and monocle at home. Two weeks, you say?”

“Yes, and another half-day on either side flying to the harbor and back.” She reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “The itinerary,” she said. “Don and I are so glad you’ll be coming.”

“Uh-huh,” said Cosmo. “Say, where is that fella, anyway? What’s the big idea, can’t even stick around to ask his best pal to his own honeymoon?”

“He’s planning the trip,” said Kathy brightly. “Last-minute details. Anyway, he thought you and I should have a chat, one on one. He thought it might help.”

He blinked. “Help what?”

“Help us,” she said.

It was all starting to feel like a farce, like one of those old Vaudeville acts with a lot of fast talking.

“Did it?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Kathy warmly. She turned and began to walk towards the door. “See you at the airport tomorrow. Six AM sharp.”

“Six AM,” he said, and then, foolishly, “You know, I can see why he likes you.”

Kathy dimpled. “Oh, likewise!” She tossed him another smile and then she was heading out of sight down the hallway, shoes clacking rhythmically on the tile.

“Well,” said Cosmo to no one. He felt pole-axed, he decided. He wasn’t sure he had ever felt pole-axed in his life before, but there was no other word for it.

He played a chord, then another chord, then a few more.

“Pole-axed,” he sang, “out of whack, when you are near there’s only one drawback: I can’t be clever, no I lack the knack, Darling, I’m pole-axed, out of whack around you!”

It wasn’t exactly Cole Porter, but he’d take it, he thought, reaching for his pen. There was still an hour or two left before he’d need to race traffic home and dig out his suitcase. Apparently, he had early morning plans.

(ETA: if you didn't see, there is now a second part here!)

(ETA THE SECOND: the whole finished thing is now here!

#singin in the rain ot3 #i might write more idk but listen like you can probably imagine the rest of it #old-timey polyamorous shenanigans on a boat #pretty straightforward stuff #there's singing there's dancing and somehow don managed to 'accidentally' book cosmo in an adjoining bedroom etc etc

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keyoftheskeleton · 3 months ago

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Stage/Fright, but it's all of the suspected references/nods/allusions to IN9 episodes (also including likely nods to TLoG and Psychoville!)

INCLUDES HEAVY SPOILERS !! Read at your own risk. I warned you :]

Before I begin, I'd like to thank @spcvarney, @wintersoulwitch, @eliebluebell, @tynatheavocado and @somuchwatersoclosetohome for noticing some of these, too! BA (Hons) in Stage/Fright Studies continues!

Disclaimer: By no means are half of these even confirmed to be proper callbacks, it's more so based on mine and a few other people's findings. I'm not Reece nor am I Steve, so of course I'll never know if all of these were intentional or not intentional, and therefore I am not claiming these as being either!

ACT 1

The theatre sketch is set during a performance of Hamlet, similar to the TLoG sketch where theatre-goers comment on Hamlet as if it were a football/soccer game. (Multiple performances, seen in TLoG Live at Drury Lane)

"A House Divided" reveals that Reece's character in the theatre sketch is named Haig, perhaps a reference to the moviegoer with the same name who was pestered by Henry and Ally. (TLoG)

A character having a severe peanut allergy, being killed by sprinkling peanuts on his food in order to kill him off. (Similar to Maureen and David’s original idea on how to kill Robin in season 2 of Psychoville.)

The text messages appearing on stage, as well as the phone just not being great at picking up voice-to-text, autocorrecting terribly. (A Quiet Night In)

Steve’s character getting electrocuted. (Dead Line)

Haig's voice reportedly becoming somewhat more Edward Tattsyrup-ish as the run has progressed. (TLoG)

"Chekhov's pun", while obviously being a play on "Chekhov's gun", is related to the episode Riddle of the Sphinx.

The joke about Reece having to do a "really quick quick-change" and needing something funny to cover the fact that he was slipping off stage. While not an exact reference, I'm sure we're all aware of the fact that Reece, Steve, and Mark are the masters of incredibly quick and intricate quick changes. (TLoG)

The characters of Tommy and Len, as well as just the whole sketch. (Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room)

A kidnapping sketch. (Kid|Nap)

The kidnappers being the burglars. (A Quiet Night In)

The kidnapped celebrity's house is aptly on Mulberry Close.

The number on the bin is 18.

Kidnapper/Eddie!Len is similar in mannerisms to both Barry Baggs and Tubbs Tattsyrup. (TLoG)

Kidnapper/Ray!Tommy is similar in mannerisms to both Geoff Tipps and Lisgoe. (TLoG) ("Y'know I've got this gun don't you??")

Len tries (and fails) to use a gnome to break the security light. (Mulberry Close)

Big emphasis on "no names!" (The Bill, "you're the one who mentioned Susie, you said no names!")

Male hostages wear a paisley dressing gown, just as Squires does in Riddle of the Sphinx.

A relatively broad one (one of many to come, I'm afraid), but Len getting the kidnapped celebrity's show or character name wrong is similar to Jonah calling Devonshire a different county name every time he saw her. (The Curse of the Ninth)

Tommy referring to the kidnapped celebrity as "the commodity". (Psychoville)

The phone call to Lady Linda Lockwood involves the kidnapped celebrity pretending to be someone else (the live-in lover of Lady Linda Lockwood), specifically involving singing over the phone. (Last Gasp)

The wardobe full of people as the kidnapped celebrity tries to hide inside. (Sardines)

The single black shoe in the wardrobe. (Diddle Diddle Dumpling)

Tommy having to knock and ask Len to invite him back into the house. (The Stakeout)

During the call with Spengler, he mentions that Len/Eddie and Tommy/Ray are “brown bread, dead”. This could be a reference to the use of Cockney rhyming slang from Mother’s Ruin, as well as the fact that the exact line is in Psychoville, too.

While on the phone with Spengler, Tommy finds out that the house they were supposed to go to is a bungalow, and not a house with stairs up to another floor. (TLoG anniversary specials, where Geoff seemingly murders Pauline.)

The paper with the address on it was upside down, causing Len to go into the wrong house. (Once Removed and Wuthering Heist.)

Len mentions the fact that the job 'next week' is going to steal a painting from another house. (A Quiet Night In.)

The gun "having the safety on", but going off and killing the kidnapped celebrity anyway. (Wuthering Heist, as well as TLoG Apocalypse [RIP Mark Gatiss 1966-2005 /j].)

ACT 2

The phrenology bust in the background. (The Trolley Problem)

The various jars of body parts. (Private View, Love is a Stranger, as well as the TLoG vinyl collection.)

This is the second time we see an IN9 character played by Reece get hypnotised. (Zanzibar)

Funnily enough, this is also the second time we see an IN9 character played by Reece brutally have a portion of his leg chopped off. (Mother's Ruin)

The break of tension when Abby comes in to deliver the drinks order is similar to the break of tension seen in Seance Time when the crew reveals themselves to Tina.

Maggie had initially asked for a chai latte. (The Stakeout)

Vince didn't have enough time to finish the cryptic in the Guardian. (Riddle of the Sphinx)

Sherry's audition tape is for 'Amazon's Dante's "Inferno"/"The Divine Comedy" show'. Tim Key name drop. (Plodding On)

Technically speaking, Amazon's show is the same as, or at least similar to, the Ninth Circle. (Simon Says)

The whole idea that there is a ghost backstage messing with the cast of "La Terreur de L'asile". Sherry being spooked by a fake head. (Dead Line)

"We'll give the role to Sheridan Smith." (The 12 Days of Christine)

Marcus gets Abby's hopes up about potentially taking the role that Sherry was scared into abandoning, only to crush them. This is similar to Rosie Cavaliero and Steve's exchange about the part in "The Divine Comedy". (Plodding On)

The head falling to spook Sherry earlier fell in the exact same place as the light that fell and killed Steve, a physical reference to "it wasn't a ghost, it was a warning." (The Bones of St. Nicholas)

Reece and Steve both dying after finishing season 9, meaning they've both died after finishing their 'ninth symphony'. (The Curse of the Ninth)

The mention of Reece and Steve's inside joke of whoever gets to the office first pretends to be dead, waiting for the other to come in and see. (Mentioned in both Plodding On and The Party's Over.)

"I can't believe the twist was that you were a ghost all along!" "We really have run out of ideas." (Plodding On, "we've only done it three times.")

Reece being a ghost all along and being the cause of Steve's death is very similar to Maureen being a ghost for all of Death Be Not Proud and being the ultimate cause of David's death.

Reece's distaste of his understudy "fucking little Toby". A stretch, perhaps, but certainly reminiscent of themes in The Understudy.

Reece intending to kill Toby, though accidentally killing Steve instead. Similar to Maxwell unknowingly intending to kill Jorg, though killing Yves instead in La Couchette.

The entire amazing performance that is Tears of Laughter. (Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room)

The wordplay near the end of Tears of Laughter is incredibly similar to the wordplay featured in lots of IN9 episodes, more specifically Wuthering Heist and Zanzibar. The "plethora, that means a lot!" line, for example, is in Wuthering Heist.

"We'll leave the light on so you don't get lonely!" - Toby leaving the light on for Reece and Steve is like how Beattie leaves the radio on for Maureen and David. (Death Be Not Proud)

Other small things, and a slight plug for Percy's running celebrity guest list (huge props to them!):

As of 05/04, Joe Pasquale, Joel Dommett (host of The Masked Singer UK), Jonathan Ross (judge on The Masked Singer UK) and Jason Manford have all appeared as the kidnapped celebrity. This is just funny to me as Joe and Jason are mentioned by name in the show, and The Masked Singer is mentioned as well.

Mark Gatiss, a fellow member from The League of Gentlemen, was a kidnapped celebrity (much earlier in the run than a lot of us thought he'd be, let's be honest). I am jealous of that audience.

When The Actor Kevin Eldon was the kidnapped celebrity, he caused Reece to start singing the Hokey Cokey, a reference to Henry's consequence of being hypnotised in Zanzibar. I am also very jealous of that audience.

When Denis Lawson was the kidnapped celebrity, the comment Len makes about their job next week was slightly altered to mention the fact that they were stealing a painting from a man who looked very similar to Denis Lawson, a nod to the fact that Denis played Gerald in A Quiet Night In. I was in that audience!

When Elaine Page was the kidnapped celebrity, her and Steve did a small portion of “I Know Him So Well”, sung in Empty Orchestra. (My Empty Orchestra loving heart is overjoyed.)

Several kidnapped celebrities obviously referred to Reece and Steve being in The League of Gentlemen. David Walliams said that he "preferred when they worked with Mark Gatiss, AND JEREMY DYSON!" Also mentioning their TLOG past, Jonathan Ross reportedly praised Mark Gatiss’ “swan-like neck”, while saying that Steve looked like a hedgehog, and Reece was “easily forgettable as a short, bland, fairly handsome guy”. Ironic, as he then forgot to mention Jeremy Dyson.

#i am a little proud of my recollection skills #thank you to everyone who helped!#if you realise any more references feel free to share!#i will add with credit :]#stage/fright #stage/fright spoilers #s/f #inside no. 9 #inside no 9 #in9 #tlog #the league of gentlemen #psychoville #reece shearsmith #steve pemberton

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maroonshirt81 · 5 months ago

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Am I No Joke to You?

9k carcar os

Carlos also knew Oscar didn’t hate him because he had asked him outright, and the answer had been, “Yes, Carlos, I have a dartboard with your face pinned to it right above my desk. You never noticed?”

(He had secretly checked. There wasn’t one.)

Unfortunately, the only conclusion left to draw was that Oscar simply didn’t find him funny. And Carlos refused to believe that.

---

or: 5 times Carlos failed to make Oscar laugh and 1 time he succeeded

___

(extract:)

“Maybe you just rub him the wrong way,” Lando suggested, sitting on the edge of the table in their office break room like he had never before heard of the concept of chairs.

“But you always make fun of him, and he’s all ‘heeheehee!’” Carlos objected, scowling at the new coffee machine, which looked more like an airplane dashboard, with random blinking buttons and different levers.

“Maybe,” Lando continued, “you have to learn to rub him the right way, yeah?”

“I do not plan on rubbing my paralegal in any way, Lando,” Carlos huffed.

“Maybe you should?”

Carlos turned away from the futuristic machine to throw Lando an incredulous look. “I hope you are joking.”

“Dead serious,” Lando said, looking—in fact—dead serious. “I actually think he likes you.”

“I think it’s time to take you to the vet again,” Carlos mumbled, turning back to the coffee machine, which unfortunately hadn’t magically turned less complicated in the last five seconds, even though Carlos’s need for coffee had just skyrocketed.

“Look, mate—some people are just like that,” Lando continued cheerfully. “When they have a crush on someone, they become all mean and playfully judgy. He probably wants to look cool in front of you—can’t really do that when he’s giggling like a schoolgirl at everything you say.”

Carlos decided the best course of action was to ignore Lando and his crazy conspiracy theories that no one but his therapist should ever hear spoken out loud.

“This thing should come with a robot barista!” he said, pressing a few random buttons. Thankfully, he heard Lando dissolve into giggles behind him, so any further advice was successfully silenced for now. “What did they expect, putting this into a lawyers’ break room? Intelligent people? I get paid to talk for a living, not push buttons. We even have an elevator guy!”

Lando’s giggles evolved into a full-mode laughing fit, which Carlos knew he would not recover from for the foreseeable future, so Carlos was free to fall into his rant for an appreciative audience. The shrieking laughter was already attracting other people—the door to the break room opened to reveal Alex and… Oscar.

Perfect.

“Hellooo?” Carlos sing-songed, knocking against the coffee machine’s top. “Maybe it is voice-activated?” He grabbed one of the random handles and spoke into it like a microphone, “One espresso, please, Mr. Machine.”

Lando let out a howl. Oscar was stone-faced as always.

“Look at this!” Carlos ranted, pointing at a temperature gauge. “Why does it have a speedometer? Am I supposed to regulate the speed of the coffee flow myself?” He yanked one of the levers and blanched when it actually came off, turning to give Alex and Oscar a guilty look, as if he had just realized they were witnesses to his crime. “You saw nothing!” he said, hiding the lever behind his back. “I am serious! If you rat me out, I will bring you down. I know some good lawyers!”

Alex laughed, like any normal person would.

Oscar looked like Carlos had just recited a bad rendition of Hamlet in front of the class. But not only that. He was also coming closer, until he was standing right in Carlos’s space, reaching around him to grab the broken lever. And then, as if he had done nothing else his entire life, he pushed the lever back into its place, grabbed a clean espresso glass from the cupboard, put it under the machine, and pressed a button, upon which a stream of delicious-smelling espresso flowed into the glass.

Carlos, too stunned to speak, had kind of forgotten to give Oscar some actual space to work his magic and was now standing so close, he could count the moles on his cheek.

Oscar turned to look him straight in the eye and said, “You see. There’s a button that says ‘espresso’ on it. What you want to do is—you push it.”

Carlos silently gawked back until the machine stopped whirring. Oscar held his gaze. When Carlos didn’t say anything, he finally turned back to the machine. “You know what?” he said, pushing the same button again. “Let’s get you a double.”

Lando’s laughing fit was reaching the stages of teary breathlessness, squirming on the floor red-faced and weak, and Oscar looked way too proud of himself as he pushed the espresso glass, filled to the brim, into Carlos’s hand.

“Maybe you’d understand the coffee machine better if you actually got your own coffee from time to time instead of making your paralegal get it for you?”

Carlos grabbed the almost overflowing cup and shuffled over to the table, sinking down into his chair with a thousand-yard stare into the warm brown of the espresso foam.

“Anyone else want anything?” Oscar asked the room. Carlos assumed Alex shook his head because all he could hear was Lando wheezing, followed by the whirring of the machine as Oscar made his own coffee.

“All right, back to work,” he announced a minute later. When Carlos finally looked up, he saw that Oscar had stolen his #1 Boss mug and was silently toasting him before walking out of the room.

“Oh my God,” Alex snorted as the door closed behind him. “He is hilarious around you, Carlos!”

“Yes, you two should have your own show!” Lando agreed from the floor, still wheezing for air. He started to pull himself up by the table leg, his flushed face appearing over the surface. “Are you seriously making him get your coffee?”

“It was one time!” Carlos said darkly. “By accident.”

“How do you make someone get you coffee by accident?” Alex inquired.

“He was getting chummy with Verstappen, so I needed him to be busy.”

“Ah,” Lando coughed as he plopped his ass back onto the table’s edge, continuing his boycotting of chairs. Then, out of nowhere, he turned to Alex. “Hey, do you see Oscar’s Insta stories every Sunday?”

Alex looked just as confused about the sudden change in topic as Carlos. “Huh?”

“Yeah, every Sunday, he posts the same picture of the view from the lookout at the top of the mountain with the caption #cyclinglife or something equally lame.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen it,” Alex said. “Why?”

“Yes, why are you telling this story to Alex like it’s not clearly aimed at me?” Carlos asked, frowning.

Lando shrugged, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a grin. “Just to have plaulsibl—uhm. Pausible—shit! Plaulauli—fuck, it’s getting worse…”

Carlos gravely shook his head. “How you finished your degree, I will never understand.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lando snorted. “That’s why you’re the one talking in front of big audiences, and I’m the one holding the clients’ hands and making them laugh. Who needs to know how to say ‘palausible denybility’ anyway?”

“This is why I keep my accent,” Carlos declared. “Because it makes me pronounce English better! Listen!” He took a deep breath and moved his hand like a conductor as he slowly spelled it out for Lando.

“Plau-si-ble De-nia-bibli—FUCK!”

Lando collapsed right back onto the floor.

#carcar #oscar piastri #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #f1 rpf #oscarlos #my fics

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thepastisalreadywritten · 1 year ago

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Inside William’s Next Act: Tatler’s May issue goes behind the scenes as the Prince of Wales is rising above the noise — and playing the long game

The burden of leadership is falling upon Prince William, but as former BBC Royal Correspondent, Wesley Kerr OBE, explains in Tatler’s May cover story, the future king is taking charge

By Wesley Kerr OBE

21 March 2024

When I first met Prince William in 2009, he asked me if I could tell him how he could win the National Lottery.

It was a jokey quip from someone who has since become the Prince of Wales, the holder of three dukedoms, three earldoms, two baronies and two knighthoods, and heir to the most prestigious throne on earth.

He was, of course, being relatable; I was representing the organisation that had allocated Lottery funding towards the Whitechapel Gallery and he wanted to put me at ease.

William is grand but different, royal but real.

At 6ft 3in, he has the bearing and looks great in uniform after a distinguished, gallant military career.

He will be one of the tallest of Britain’s kings since Edward Longshanks in the 14th century and should one day be crowned sitting above the Stone of Scone that Edward ‘borrowed.’

William, by contrast, has a deep affinity with Scotland and Wales, having lived in both nations and gained solace from the Scottish landscape after his mother died.

He’s popular in America and understands that the Crown’s relationship to the Commonwealth must evolve.

The Prince of Wales has long believed that ‘the Royal Family has to modernise and develop as it goes along, and it has to stay relevant’, as he once said in an interview.

He seeks his own way of being relatable, of benefitting everybody, in the context of an ancient institution undergoing significant challenge and upheaval, as the head of a nation divided by hard times, conflicts abroad, and social and political uncertainty.

We might recognise Shakespeare’s powerful line spoken by Claudius in Hamlet: ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’

With the triple announcement in January and February of the Princess of Wales’s abdominal surgery and long convalescence, of King Charles’s prostate procedure and then of his cancer diagnosis, the burden of leadership has fallen on 76-year-old Queen Camilla and, crucially, on William.

The Prince of Wales’s time has come to step up; and so he has deftly done.

In recent months, we have seen a fully-fledged deputy head of state putting into practice his long-held ideas, speaking out on the most contentious issue of the day and taking direct action on homelessness.

Last June, he unveiled the multi-agency Homewards initiative with the huge aspiration of ending homelessness, backed with £3 million from his Foundation to spearhead action across the UK.

He is consolidating Heads Together, the long-standing campaign on mental health, and fundraises for charities like London’s Air Ambulance Charity.

He was, of course, once a pilot for the East Anglian Air Ambulance services – a profession that had its downside: seeing people in extremis or at death’s door, he found himself ‘taking home people’s trauma, people’s sadness.’

Tom Cruise was a guest at the recent London’s Air Ambulance Charity fundraiser, William’s first gala event after Kate’s operation.

And more stardust followed when William showed that, even without his wife by his side, he could outclass any movie star at the Baftas.

There’s also his immense aim of helping to ‘repair the planet’ itself with his Earthshot Prize: five annual awards of £1 million for transformative environmental projects with worldwide application.

This project has a laser focus on biodiversity, better air quality, cleaner seas, reducing waste and combating climate change. Similar aims to his father; different means to achieve the goal.

On the issue which has caused huge convulsions – the Middle East conflict – William’s 20 February statement from Kensington Palace grabbed attention.

He said he was ‘deeply concerned about the terrible human cost of the conflict since the Hamas terrorist attack on 7 October. Too many have been killed.’

There were criticisms – along the lines of ‘the late Queen would have never spoken out like this’ or ‘what right does he have to meddle in politics?’ – but it was hard to disagree with his carefully calibrated words.

His call for peace, the ‘desperate need’ for humanitarian aid, the return of the hostages.

The statement was approved by His Majesty’s Government, likely cleared with the King himself at Sandringham the previous weekend and also backed by the chief rabbi of Great Britain, Sir Ephraim Mirvis.

Indeed, William and Catherine had immediately spoken out on the horrors of 7 October.

William followed up the week after his Kensington Palace statement by visiting a synagogue and sending a ‘powerful message’, according to the chief rabbi, by meeting a Holocaust survivor and condemning anti-Semitism.

This is rooted in deep personal conviction following William’s 2018 visit to Israel and the West Bank, says Valentine Low, the distinguished author of Courtiers and The Times’s royal correspondent of 15 years, who was on that 2018 trip.

‘William was so moved by his visit to Israel and the West Bank, he found it very affecting, and he was not going to drop this issue – he was going to pay attention to it for the rest of his life,’ says Low.

‘He must feel that… not to say something on the most important issue in the world [at that moment] would be a bit odd if you feel so strongly about it.’

There was concern from some commentators about politicising the monarchy, but this rose above the particulars of party politics.

As Prince of Wales, like his father before him, there is perhaps space to speak out sparingly on carefully chosen issues.

On this occasion, his views were in line with majority public opinion.

On homelessness, news came that same week that William was planning to build 24 homes for the homeless on his Duchy of Cornwall estate.

‘William’s impact is very personal,’ says Mick Clarke, chief executive of The Passage, a charity providing emergency accommodation for London’s homeless.

‘Two weeks before Christmas, the prince came to our Resource Centre in Victoria for a Christmas lunch for 150 people.

He was scheduled to stay for an hour, to help serve, wash up, and talk to people.

He ended up staying for two and a quarter hours, during which time he went from table to table and spoke to every single person.’

Clarke continues:

‘William has an ability to listen, talk and to put people at ease. During the November 2020 lockdown, he came on three separate occasions to help.

It gave the team a boost that he took the time; it was his way of saying: “I support you; you’re doing a great job.”’

Seyi Obakin, chief executive of Centrepoint, one of the prince’s best-known causes, adds:

‘People associate his patronage with the big moments like the time he and I slept under Blackfriars Bridge.

The things that stick with me are smaller in scale and the more profound for it – in quieter moments, away from the cameras, where he has volunteered his time.’

It is a different approach from the King’s.

As Prince of Wales, he was involved in the minutiae of dozens of issues at any one time, working into the night to follow up on emails, crafting his speeches, writing or dictating notes.

Add to that much nationwide touring over 40 years (after he left active military service in 1976), fitting in multiple engagements, often being greeted formally by lord lieutenants.

This is not William’s style. He has commended his father’s model, but he does things his own way.

Although patronages are under review, William has up till now far fewer than either his father or his grandparents.

Charles is sympathetic to William’s approach and his desire to make time with his young family sacrosanct.

They are confidantes, attested by the night of Queen Elizabeth’s death.

They were both at Birkhall with Camilla, reviewing funeral arrangements while the rest of the grieving family were nearby at Balmoral, hosted by the Princess Royal.

Charles has had almost six decades in public life and is the senior statesman of our time, with even longer in the spotlight than Joe Biden.

After Eton and St Andrew’s University, where he met Catherine, William served in three branches of the military between 2006 and 2013, finishing as a seasoned and skilled helicopter rescue pilot.

His later employment as an air ambulance pilot stopped in 2017, when he became a full-time working royal.

At that time, not so long ago – with Harry unmarried, Andrew undisgraced, and Philip and Elizabeth still active – William shared the spotlight.

Now, after the King, he’s the key man.

He can look back on the success of his first big campaign initially launched with his wife and brother in 2016: Heads Together.

‘We are delighted that Prince William should have become such a positive and sympathetic advocate for mental health through his Heads Together initiative and now well-established text service, Shout, among other projects,’ says the longtime CEO and founder of Sane, the remarkable Marjorie Wallace CBE.

‘It is not always known that he follows in the footsteps of his father, the King, whose inspiration and vision were vital in the creation of our mental health charity Sane.

As founding patron, he was instrumental in establishing our 365-days-a-year helpline and was a remarkable and selfless support to me in setting up the Prince of Wales International Centre for Sane Research.’

'Indeed,' says Wallace, 'this is where Prince William echoes the work of his father, showing the same ‘understanding and compassion for people struggling through dark and difficult times of their lives and has done much to raise awareness and encourage those affected to speak out and seek help.

We owe a huge debt to His Majesty and the Prince of Wales for their involvement in this still-neglected area.’

Just as I saw all those years ago at that early solo engagement in Whitechapel, William still approaches his public duties with humour and fun.

‘He defuses the formality with jocularity,’ says Valentine Low, citing two public events in 2023 that he witnessed.

In April last year, while on a visit to Birmingham, William randomly answered the phone in an Indian restaurant he was being shown around and took a table booking from a customer – an endearing act of spontaneity.

On his arrival later that day, the unsuspecting diner was surprised to be told exactly whom he had been talking to.

In October, Low reported, William ‘unleashed his inner flirt as he hugged his way through a visit with Caribbean elders [in Cardiff] to mark Black History Month.

As he gave one woman a hug – for longer than she expected – he joked: “I draw the line at kissing.”

And while posing for a group photograph, he prompted gales of laughter when he quipped: “Who is pinching my bottom?”’

Low believes that when William eventually becomes king, he will be more ‘radical’ than his father but wonders if people will respond to ‘call me William’ when ‘the whole point of the Royal Family is mystique and being different.’

However, William has thought deeply about his current role and is prepared for whatever his future holds.

For now, there is a decision to be made on Prince George’s secondary schooling. It’s said that five public schools are being considered, all fee-paying.

Eton is single-sex and boarding but close to home. Marlborough (Catherine’s alma mater) is co-ed and full boarding. And Oundle, St Edward’s Oxford and Bradfield College (close to Kate’s parents) are co-ed with a mix of boarding and day.

As parents, William and Catherine aspire to raise their children ‘as good people with the idea of service and duty to others as very important’, William said in an interview with the BBC in 2016.

‘Within our family unit, we are a normal family.’ Which may be one reason why he is so resistant to their privacy being compromised either by the media or close family members.

The 19th-century author Walter Bagehot wrote:

‘A family on the throne is an interesting idea also. It brings down the pride of sovereignty to the level of petty life… a princely marriage is the brilliant edition of a universal fact, and, as such, it rivets mankind.’

If hereditary monarchy is to survive, it must beguile us but also demonstrate its utility, that it is a force for good.

William said in that 2016 interview, ‘I’m going to get plenty of criticism over my lifetime,’ echoing Queen Elizabeth II’s famous Guildhall speech in 1992 ‘that criticism is good for people and institutions that are part of public life. No institution – city, monarchy, whatever – should expect to be free from the scrutiny of those who give it their loyalty and support, not to mention those who don’t.’

William saw close up his mother’s ability to bring public focus and her own personal magnetism to any subject or cause she focused on.

He admires his father’s work ethic, the way he ‘really digs down,’ sometimes literally (I understand that gardening is giving the King solace during his cancer treatment).

But the biggest influence for William was Her late Majesty, as he said on her 90th birthday.

As an Eton schoolboy, William made weekend visits to the big house on the hill, being mentored by Granny rather as she had been tutored in the Second World War by the then vice-provost of Eton, Sir Henry Marten.

William said in 2016:

‘In the Queen, I have an extraordinary example of somebody who’s done an enormous amount of good and she’s probably the best role model I could have.’

That said, his aim was ‘finding your own path but with very good examples and guidance around you to support you.'

Queen Elizabeth II had a brilliant way of rising above the fray and usually being either a step ahead of public opinion or in tune with it.

If you are at the helm of affairs in a privileged hereditary position, your duty is to serve and use your pulpit for the benefit of others.

In a democracy, monarchy is accountable.

The scrutiny is intense, with an army of commentators paid for wisdom and hot air about each no-show, parsing each announcement, interpreting each image.

William takes the long view. He has ‘wide horizons,’ says Mick Clarke.

‘There are so many causes that are more palatable and easier to achieve than ending homelessness, but his commitment and drive are 100 per cent.’

The prince seeks a different way of being royal in an ancient institution that must move with the times. His task? To develop something modern in an ever-changing world.

He faces all sorts of new issues – or old issues in new guises.

Noises off from within the family don’t help – Andrew’s difficulties, or the suggestions of prejudice from Montecito a couple of years ago (now seemingly withdrawn), which prompted William’s most vehement soundbite: ‘We’re very much not a racist family.’

William is maybe a new kind of leader who can keep the monarchy relevant and resonant in the coming decades.

Queen Elizabeth II is a powerful exemplar and memory, but she was of her time. William is his own man.

He must overcome and think beyond ‘the unforgiving minute.’

Indeed, he could seek inspiration in Rudyard Kipling’s poem, If.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch[…]

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

This article was first published in the May 2024 issue, on sale Thursday, 28 March.

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whencyclopedia · 3 months ago

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Titus Andronicus

Titus Andronicus is the earliest tragedy by William Shakespeare (l. c.1564-1616), probably written sometime between 1589 and 1593, and first performed in 1594. Infamous for its gratuitous violence and two-dimensional characters, Titus Andronicus is quite different from Shakespeare's other works – indeed, although it was initially quite popular with Elizabethan audiences, it has since become regarded as his least esteemed play.

Background

Despite its initial popularity with the crowds of Elizabethan theatre, Titus Andronicus has been held in low regard since the 1700s and is still generally considered the worst of Shakespeare's plays. Dr. Samuel Johnson, writing in the 18th century, maintains that its use of barbaric violence "can scarcely be conceived tolerable to any audience," while T. S. Eliot, writing two centuries later, dismisses it entirely as "one of the stupidest and most uninspired plays ever written" (Bloom 78; McDonald, 1213). Throughout the centuries, literary scholars have been baffled by the idea that the author of Titus Andronicus could have possibly been the same genius who wrote such works as Macbeth and Othello, and, indeed, several have suggested that Shakespeare was not the author at all. However, most modern scholars would agree not only that Shakespeare did write the play but that it was an important step in the development of his career. As literary scholar Harold Bloom puts it: " matters only because Shakespeare, alas, undoubtedly wrote it, and by doing so largely purged Marlowe and Kyd from his imagination" (86).

By referencing Christopher Marlowe and Thomas Kyd, Bloom alludes to the classification of Titus Andronicus as a 'revenge play', a genre that was much in vogue in the early 1590s. Indeed, Marlowe was well-known for such revenge plays as The Jew of Malta (c. 1589) while Kyd's major contribution to the genre, The Spanish Tragedy (c. 1587), was probably the most popular play to grace the English stage until the advent of Hamlet (c. 1600). As a young playwright trying to make a name for himself in London, Shakespeare probably hoped to emulate the success of Marlowe and Kyd by writing his own revenge play, and their influence can clearly be seen in Titus Andronicus. Shakespeare's villainous character Aaron the Moor, for example, seems to have been closely modeled on Barabas, the wicked antihero of Marlowe's The Jew of Malta. Bloom demonstrates the similarities between the two characters by juxtaposing their respective monologues, wherein each character revels in committing evil acts for evil's sake. But while Marlowe's Barabas finds joy in pinning taunting messages to the corpses of men who have hanged themselves, Shakespeare's Aaron takes things a step further and carves his messages directly into the flesh of dead men. Thus, Bloom contends that Shakespeare has created a "Marlovian monster more outrageous than anyone in Marlowe" and has, therefore, surpassed him (82). Titus Andronicus is noteworthy, therefore, not necessarily for its own merits, but because it allowed Shakespeare to master the revenge play, achieve recognition as a playwright, and move beyond the influence of the likes of Marlowe and Kyd.

By going to see a revenge tragedy, Elizabethan playgoers would have expected a certain amount of blood and gore, much as a modern moviegoer would expect going to see the latest slasher film. Certainly, Titus Andronicus would have given them their money's worth – amongst the atrocities committed over the course of the play are 14 murders, several bodily mutilations, a gangrape, a live burial, and an instance of cannibalism. The earliest of these heinous acts are committed by the titular hero himself; we have barely met Titus Andronicus when he callously orders Queen Tamora's eldest son to be ritually sacrificed, shortly before murdering his own son in a fit of rage. From this point on, the violence is committed against Titus and his family – Titus not only loses two more sons and a hand, but his daughter Lavinia is brutally raped and mutilated. His final revenge seems to ring hollow; after cooking Demetrius and Chiron (Lavinia's rapists) into pies and serving them to their mother, Titus murders Lavinia in an honor killing. As Bloom notes, "one feels that the tormented Lavinia should have had some choice in the matter" of her own death (80). Aside from many of the characters feeling two-dimensional, Bloom argues that they moreover have no redeeming qualities, with the sole exception of Aaron the Moor, whose villainy is so over the top as to be quite funny. Indeed, Aaron's dialogue contains much of the wordplay in the show, and he has the honor of delivering this Shakespearean version of a "your mother" joke:

DEMETRIUS

Villain, what hast thou done?

AARON

That which thou canst not undo.

CHIRON

Thou hast undone our mother.

AARON

Villain, I have done thy mother.

(4.2.73-76).

Finally, it is worth noting that Titus Andronicus is the only one of Shakespeare's ancient Roman plays to not be based on a historical or semi-historical source. He seems to have drawn from the plays of Seneca – particularly Thyestes (c. 62 CE) – which had inspired the trend of Elizabethan revenge plays in the first place. The moment where Atreus cooks Thyestes' sons and serves them to their unsuspecting father was particularly instrumental to the climax of Shakespeare's own play. Additionally, Shakespeare drew from Ovid's Metamorphoses, constantly referencing the tragic tale of Philomel, who is raped by Tereus. Scholar Russ McDonald points out that Shakespeare was probably also influenced by the violent political landscape all around him, which was, in the 1590s, "a shadowy realm of religious intrigue, talk of treason, assassination attempts, and dirty tricks performed by the queen's secret police" (1217). One method of punishment for slandering the queen was to have one's hand cut off, something that occurs multiple times in Titus Andronicus; this leads McDonald to suspect that Shakespeare looked to his contemporary England as a model for this Roman drama.

⇒ Titus Andronicus

#History #TitusAndronicus #ElizabethanTheatre #ChristopherMarlowe #RevengePlay #ThomasKyd #WilliamShakespeare #WHE

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amarynthian-chronicles · 1 year ago

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Extended Contract Chapter 1

Fae Prince Sun, Fae Prince Moon, Fae King Eclipse x Witch Reader

(You are a witch that fell for the oldest trick in the book by giving your name to the mischievous Fae princes of the Celestial Court. Such an inconvenience on what was supposed to be a typical office night. You are honestly not having it. They, however, do seem quite happy about having you. You decide to make a deal with the Fae King to regain your freedom. The only thing that is functional in the whole situation is your phone signal in the Fae Kingdom.)

Warnings: kidnapping, suggestive themes, gore and the usual Fae tomfoolery

“May I have your name?“

“Of course, it is Y/N.“

“Your precious contribution is very much appreciated.“

It is not every day that one seals their own fate because of a simple misunderstanding of idioms and literal meanings, but there you were, bound to the realm of the Fae Folk and belonging to the royal twins of the Celestial Court. Mondays were known to be unlucky days, but this was just ridiculous.

You weren't really in the mood for getting abducted, thank you very much.

There were so many assignments and drafts due next week and you feared Vanessa's wrath far more than you feared the dark magic of enamoured Fae.

Furthermore, you had the misfortune of being stuck with those mischievous miscreants in the middle of the witching hour. The law firm building was empty, the cranky doorman had left hours ago and the janitor had the habit of never arriving before six in the morning. You could scream, but that would not do much good. The cameras did not pick up sound and technology could not record the presence of the Fae, so the only thing you would accomplish is create evidence of your own insanity.

“Excuse me, I really must protest.“

You were in the process of trying to escape the grip of the regal solar-themed Fae. He seemed rather amused, since you weren't really successful, but he almost seemed to be playfully encouraging you to keep trying. Prince Sun had always been a very supportive person, even if he was the one causing the problem in the first place.

“Go on, beautiful, nobody is stopping you. I think that every once in a while everybody needs to raise objections and such. It is healthy.“

His lunar twin grinned, red eyes glowing with roguish mirth.

“I wholeheartedly agree with you, brother. We fully encourage sincerity and dialogue.“

You told them that you wanted to make an appeal. They happily informed you that such a thing was not possible and that you officially belonged to them. You were certainly not touched by their infectious enthusiasm. After all, being gifted with a human's True Name was an experience akin to a cat falling into a whole box full of catnip for them.

“You will play with us forever."

“The Celestial Court is a wondrous place.“

“Word games galore.“

“But beware, for danger lurks in each syllable, my love.“

“Blades caress the consonants and glide along the vowels.“

“Running is futile, but at least it is a very healthy activity. It is always important to get some cardio for the day.“

By all logic, you should be feeling some form of despair and terror, but you were mostly suffering from a horrible case of injured pride. You had fallen for the oldest trick since the dawn of magic. You were an absolute idiot. True, you were running on two cups of coffee, you had not slept properly in a week and your blood sugar levels were more tragic than Shakespeare's “Hamlet“. In your defense, working for William Afton, attorney at law, was no walk in the bloody park. Especially when you had Vanessa as your immediate taskmaster.

You had grown tired of struggling, giving yourself a few moments of respite. Prince Sun was holding you bridal style, his blue gaze soft, showing a type of adoration one would give to a hidden treasure, a joy one experiences when holding a droplet of water in a desert.

Prince Moon had a personality that was diametrically opposite to that of his brother. Hunger reigned in his eyes. Your essence was intoxicating, calling for him, enticing him. You dared not even imagine what his claws could do to you, nor what he could accomplish with his razor-sharp teeth.

Rowan charms could no longer save you, nor could silver. Leaves of holly had no more power, either. You couldn't bribe the royal twins with cream either, since apparently you were the new dessert in the grand scheme of things.

Moon reached out with his claws, searching for your delicate hand. He traced his claw along the sensitive flesh of your inner wrist with all the fervour and ardour of a lover, inspecting the soft skin. Upon giving your name to them, two different markings had manifested on each inner wrist respectively. A crescent moon on the right one and the mark of the sun on the left one.

“Gentlemen, there has obviously been a bit of a miscommunication.“

“Yes, those tend to be very practical in our line of work.“

“I don't have time for this, do you have any idea how many assignments I have due next week?“

“Actually, we do. I must voice our disapproval of you overworking yourself in general. Following orders of such unworthy scoundrels.“

“Well, I am not really in the mood for changing one group of masters for another. I wish to be taken to the Fae King.“

“You will meet him later anyway, he is a bit busy now.“

“No, no, not in that way. I wish to make my complaint.“

“Haven't we closed that topic already?“

“I demand my freedom back. You two said that King Eclipse could grant it to me if I convince him to. Although, I see now that this statement does not exclude you two being capable of the same thing and most likely you are just using the wording to trick me to stop asking you.“

“Can you blame us?“

“Yes. I blame you. And I judge you.“

In spite of it all, you had to admit the celestial princes were quite handsome and their appearance would normally be breathtaking, if you weren't meeting them under such circumstances.

In a resting position, their large wings almost appeared like regal capes. Complementary colours reigned in their respective palettes. Deep royal blues of Prince Moon's wings were speckled with tiny stars, while the rich golden hues of Prince Sun's had swirls of blue interwoven in their texture. In a way, the twins were perfectly symmetrical when it came to the design of their wings. Their attire was similar to that of jesters, but far more elaborate and indicative of their status. Silk and velvet were present, bejeweled buttons, finely tailored doublets.

Both of them were eager, lovestruck and needy. To a degree you almost felt like a lamp attracting a pair of silly mothlings. Which was fitting, considering they too had wings and all.

As Moon was still caressing you along your inner forearm, Sun could not resist nuzzling your hair. You could have sworn that you heard both of them purr. A part of you wondered how on earth did such a scene appear on the cameras, were you simply just floating around and talking to yourself? You internally apologized in advance to any poor security worker that would have to go through the recordings later.

Sun's voice brought you back from your silly reveries, his cheek resting on your head.

“As soft as silk.“

You had been somewhat aware that a pair of Fae had been hunting you for the past several weeks, but it was impossible to decipher their identity. Their glamour and shielding spells had been extremely powerful, their cunning unparalleled and their tricks endless. In many ways, they had been testing you, the purity of your heart and the strength of your soul. They would come to you, disguised either as lost little animals in need of help, or as injured humans in need of assistance. You would always help, no questions asked and always ignoring the warning tingle of enemy magic. Your mind had completely warped to the logic of the normal world and you no longer asked yourself the questions a witch would.

You did not suspect the odd new coworkers that had appeared out of nowhere either, nor did you seem to wonder where they had come from. You had simply accepted that you probably just never noticed them before and that they had always been there. A few pleasantries here, a few kind words there, and that had been all. Of course, all up till tonight when the name trick finally came to rip the veil of denial off.

You huffed, unphased by Sun's compliments regarding your hair.

“Were you the one that has been making those silly fairy-locks I kept waking up with? Those are impossible to untangle!“

“Technically you are not supposed to do that, elsewise you bring misfortune upon yourself. The poor keyboard on your laptop suffered a premature death because of that.“

“I really liked that laptop.“

“I know.“

“It was brand new.“

“May it rest in peace.“

You looked over at the little digital clock on a nearby desk. The witching hour was almost over and the power of the Fae would slightly weaken after four in the morning. If you somehow escaped them, maybe you could distract them enough till the desired hour strikes. Your magical weapons may at least have a fair chance afterwards.

You gasped as Moon leaned closer to you, his hand caressing your cheek, sliding down to your neck, distracting you with pleasurable sensations and making your spine tingle.

“What is going on in that pretty little head of yours, wishing star?“

“Nothing much, honestly.“

Both of them spread their giant wings, showing all of their glory, then draped them over you in what one may interpret as a soothing and protective gesture, but given the circumstances, it was also a demonstration of entrapment.

Impish jesters, forever grinning, forever teasing.

It was one thing to be bound and made to serve an ordinary fairy. It was a completely different thing to be serving the royal twins of the Celestial Court. They were dangerous, powerful, their stature surpassed even the tallest of humans, their urges were never satisfied and their desires never at rest. Not to mention that they were the most competent tricksters of the Fae kingdom.

Fairies were incapable of lying. Therefore, they had to resort to literal meanings and multiple interpretations, distortions, tricks. You could imply one thing that was perfectly accepted and understood in human society, but they would purposefully give it an obscure meaning that was still not a falsehood.

Your predicament was ironic in many ways. Embarassing even. To be precise, you came from a long line of magical practitioners that had been known over the centuries as the Cunning Folk. Various terms existed for such people, but in the modern times the closest definition would be light witches. It was an adequate name that differentiated them from warlocks or dark witches.

You, dear Y/N, had done your best in life to keep the madness of magic at bay. Yes, you knew how to ward yourself from curious spirits, you always had your trusted rolled up newspaper at the ready to hit the local boogeyman on the head when he was living rent-free under your bed, and pretty much every imp on the block knew to avoid you if they wanted to keep all their limbs attached.

Fae Folk, however, were a different story. Long ago, it had been a custom for the Fae to connect to members of the Cunning Folk in order to form a soul bond. A familiar and their witch, in a way. It had always been a connection stronger than any spell and a love more intense than any passionate marriage.

All of that had changed when the realm of the Fae had been afflicted by a darkness far more potent than any light spell could heal. The Hopes and Dreams of children had become scarce and all that was once joyful and innocent had become corrupted and ruined. The Fae King had become cruel and wicked, his once cheerful and loving demeanour had transformed into that of a deranged villain. He did have an odd shift of behaviour on certain birthdays, though, and this would usually take everyone aback for a solid twenty-four hours.

In light of all that, the Cunning Folk had gone into hiding and refused any new bonds with the Fae. This was unacceptable, since the Fae had depended immensely on the sweet nectar that human souls could provide, especially when that soul happened to be a magical one. Consequently, over the centuries the Fae had to resort to various tricks, from luring humans into their fairy circles, kidnapping them and taking them to their kingdom, tricking them with various word games and always having them fall in traps when they least expected it. Certain Fae were less malevolent and were simply in dire need and want of being parents to a child, so they would take human babies to raise them as their own, leaving changelings in their place.

And despite all your efforts, you still managed to become a captive. Go figure.

Prince Sun, ruler of the waking dreams, bringer of hope, and Prince Moon, protector of sleeping children and vanquisher of nightmares. All of those titles did sound pretty cute, but both of them were still impish fiends that loved to play pranks on adults. Oh, well, your time was running out, so you had to think of something fast. Or at least try to reach the little dagger with Runes that you had all nicely hidden and tucked away in a secret pocket of your trousers. You never knew when you would need to stab something supernatural. Or open an envelope.

You concocted a little plan and hoped for the best.

Trickery was not limited to the Fae and you lowkey felt proud of your cunning ways as you pulled Moon into a deep kiss, much to his initial shock. He began to eagerly reciprocate, the sweet haze of lust conspiring against him, your softness and loveliness engulfing his mind. Desire was a natural solvent to rational thought and you had no problems with using that against him. Sun, on the other hand, was both shocked, and slightly jealous, but he did know that something was off.

His suspicions were only confirmed when, in the span of several seconds, you pulled out a silver dagger with enough Runic carvings to obliterate a whole magical army, casually stabbed Moon's heart as if the very gesture was the most normal thing in the world, used Sun's surprise to wriggle out of his grasp and you ran away down the corridors like a feral kitten. Well, at least you were productive.

As you ran, your phone began to ring, conveniently giving up your location in the process, but oh well. It was Vanny, so of course you had to pick up.

“Y/N, where is that briefing paper that you were supposed to email me literally yesterday?“

“I'm in a bit of a situation, Vanessa.“

“What is it now?“

“Well, apparently I am getting married.“

“Congratulations, I still want that briefing.“

“I will call you back, alright?“

Meanwhile, Prince Moon was having a bit of an existential crisis. He stood there, shocked, dagger protruding from his heart.

Oh, yes, it hurt. It burned, stinged, all of the unpleasant things that one may imagine. However, it was nothing compared to how it could have been. The newly forged bond made him immune to most of your deadly spells and Runes, so at worst he would feel temporary pain and then it would cease.

In a way, his desire and respect for you only increased. A Fae always respected good examples of trickery.

Sun could not stop himself from wheezing, very much entertained with the situation.

“You really walked into that one, Moon.“

“Shut up.“

He would still make you pay for that little insult, nonetheless. The corridors had morphed into the same scenery over and over, the windows were suddenly sealed shut, the nearby doors leading to a dead end or into a void of eternal nothingness. You could no longer trust your senses, for mad whispers kept disrupting reality. Only a few more minutes, you hoped for only a few more minutes till the witching hour ends.

You were honestly an idiot for trusting your own luck.

Moon's voice echoed throughout the corridors, ominous and demonic. A bit spicy, as well.

“You should have saved that fire for the wedding night, wishing star.“

“Goodness gracious.“

It became rather obvious that Vanessa would not be getting that briefing paper anytime soon, nor would our good old William Afton be getting his early morning coffee next week, either. Or any week, for that matter. It was a tragedy beyond description, may he rest in pieces.

You had to stop to catch your breath, panting, perfectly aware of the fact that you were mostly screwed. Well, a part of your mind tried to add some rational remarks and told you that living with the Fae couldn't be that bad and at least you would hopefully be getting some really cute royal garments or something. When in doubt, at least material things never disappointed you.

Ghostly hands rose from the ground, grasping at your ankles, your calves, your thighs. You fell forwards unceremoniously and you would have experienced quite a hit to the ground had the hands not grasped you, shielding you from the hard floor.

“What a perfect way to spend my night, being manhandled seventy percent of the time.“

Wrestling them was useless, but at least there was more dignity in that than just doing nothing and thinking about the meaning of life till your captors arrived.

Prince Sun appeared first, somewhat sympathetic, but also visibly tired from all the shenanigans. He let you have your little moment of heroism, though.

“Take your time, darling one.“

“Oh, sod off.“

Prince Moon arrived soon after, eyes glowing a dangerous shade of crimson, the dagger still embedded in his chest. He pulled the blade out, his gaze following the path of the rivulets of blood, almost enchanted by the pattern they were making as they glided along the expertly made Runic symbols.

“Love the craftsmanship on this one. It would have been a poetic death. Stricken by a wishing star, tearing my heart asunder, red pearls the only gifts I have to offer.“

Sun went over to you, partially teasing, partially serious.

“Someone is a bit violent. Are you alright, darling one? Do you wish to talk about some unresolved issues?“

“You two are literally stealing me away.“

“It's not that bad. We shall be loving and caring consorts to you. After all, our bond is basically an engagement.“

“This is the shoddiest proposal ever. How is this even supposed to work, each of you gets their own day of the week?“

“We'll share equally.“

“Excuse me, I am not a meal.“

“Really? You do seem rather delicious.“

“This isn't fair. Do you have any idea how homesick humans can get in the realm of the Fae?“

“We have many spells designed to bedazzle the mind and encourage you to forget the mortal world. And everyone is nice in their own way once you get to know them.“

“You two had no other member of the Cunning Folk to bother and you just had to stumble upon me?“

The dark spell was lifted and you found yourself free. Well, not for long, since the twins were at your side once more. Sun kissed your hand like a true gentleman, his wings making the faintest flutter of joy.

“We searched for a heart of gold and dreams of hope.“

“And you decided to look in a law firm?“

“Bright light contrasts best against a shadowy background.“

“Can I see the terms and conditions of my service?“

“Oh? Good idea! You can read all of that on our way to the palace! It will be so much fun to explain it to you. Of course, the letters are inverted, so you will need a mirror just to read it.“

He conjured a seemingly reasonable rolled-up piece of paper, before letting it unfold. It reached the ground in a comical fashion and kept on going till the end of the corridor.

“Sun, that list is longer than the border of Ancient Rome.“

“Indeed! I had it shortened to make it easier for you.“

“Dear god.“

“I also must say that I wrote it myself. I do my fair share of corporate business and contracts with humans are my specialty, but I do prefer to engage in theater. I may have given a certain playwright a few tips on writing his special little Midsummer work.“

“Old Will? For real?“

“Wonderful chap to have a pint with at the pub. I am certain he would have had an aneurysm had he lived to see what his reputation had become nowadays. A cheerful knave being the main topic for school and homework? Scandalous. He was a most charming actor and a talented wizard of words. Had many a verbal battle with him, and I never managed to snag his soul. I fully respect him for that.“

“Good to know. Regardless, I still wish to talk to your brother about this whole affair. It is my right, considering the fact that I am not a normal human and I do have certain perks. I am certain that King Eclipse will have more respect for old customs than you two.“

Sun and Moon gave each other a look, before giggling at you, as if charmed by how silly your request was.

“King Eclipse? Darling one, do beware.“

“The knave stole the moonlight fair.“

“Neither fools nor traitors breathe for long in his lair.“

“Be our guest, challenge him, if you dare.“

You raised an eyebrow at their improvised little poetic endeavour, tilting your head, curious.

“Did you two just come up with that?“

“Well, we did think of incorporating a iambic pentameter somewhere in there, but we simply decided to free verse it.“

Needless to say that the whole charade continued even after they had conjured a portal to their world, taking you with them. You were playing a dangerous game, but realistically you had nothing to lose. Well, except your dignity and maybe your life, but nothing lasts forever anyway, so might as well.

Your case was one type of extreme. On the other end of the city, two members of the Fae species were in the process of “adopting“ a few bundles of joy. The bear Fae and the wolf Fae were aware that two children were very unhappy in their orphanage and oftentimes they would hear the little girl, Cassie, vocalize her wish to be taken away by magical creatures. The boy, Gregory, had nothing against any of that, as long as there was proper acommodation involved. He hated the hard old bed he had in the orphanage and the food was positively awful.

Of course, there had to be an equivalent exchange, so the two Fae had to bring some friends along. One of them was not too thrilled.

“Why are we doing this? I don't want to stay in the human world.“

“You only need to stay till the next full Moon, Bonnie, and then you will be free of the obligation. Monty will keep you company.“

“Monty is insane.“

“Don't be rude.“

“He pushed me off the stairs, Roxy.“

“Happens.“

Montgomery was far too busy exploring the wonders of a music player to really care where he was, honestly. A few broken orphanage windows and one angry half-blind nun later, the wolf Fae and the bear Fae had become proud new adoptive parents. Bonnie and Monty would have to serve as changeling replacements for a bit, but that is what happens when you lose fairy chess. You owe favours.

By the time Roxy and Freddy had returned home, Gregory had partially woken up, while Cassie was all snuggled in the soft pillows of her new bed. They boy looked around his new house, nonchalant and trying to read what was happening from the clues given.

“Have I been kidnapped?“

“Some may call it that.“

“By fairies? Like, a changeling type of situation?“

“Yes, but I assure you we are using all of the safety protocols that are necessary.“

“Well, I'll be damned.“

“We do wish to make the best effort and become your new family, Gregory. For you and Cassie.“

“Is that food over there? Cupcakes?“

“Oh, indeed, with buttercream and cherries.“

Gregory observed the treats for a good few moments, thought a bit, weighed all his options and of course made the best possible decision for himself in that type of situation. Fairy food was usually a forbidden thing, but he was already stolen anyway.

“I am a simple lad, I see free food and I cannot complain.“

AO3

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aller-geez · 4 months ago

Text

A Place Among Predators

(A Fang Family Reunion [pt 1 of 3])

written & illustrated by: allergeez ✨

Summary: Kriia knew meeting her boyfriend’s family in person would be a challenge, but she wasn’t expecting to do it while sick. Determined not to let a bad cold ruin everything, she pushes through the long journey to the Fang Estate in Erinth—a sprawling gothic mansion deep in a fog-laden hamlet, surrounded by towering ancient trees and steeped in eerie tradition.

The Fang family is infamous, their name carrying both power and mystery. They are elite, deeply respected, and bound by customs older than the land itself. To be accepted among them is no small feat. Kriia is determined to prove herself, to show that she belongs in their world—sickness be damned. But as the weekend unfolds, she quickly realizes that navigating the weight of tradition, the watchful eyes of powerful predators, and the growing pressure of keeping up appearances might be more than she bargained for.

As the family prepares for The Culling—a ritual that is equal parts necessary and haunting—Kriia is faced with the question: Can she truly find her place among predators? Or will the weight of expectation and the secrets beneath the Fang family's legacy prove too much to bear? 8.7k words

Content Warnings:

Body Horror & Supernatural Themes: Discussions of rituals, feeding on souls, and predatory instincts.

Illness Depiction: Heavy focus on sickness symptoms, including sneezing, fever, congestion, and exhaustion.

Family Expectations & Social Pressure: Themes of proving oneself, feeling like an outsider, and navigating unfamiliar traditions.

Violence & Dark Fantasy Elements: References to hunting and an intense family ritual with potentially unsettling implications.

Emotional Themes: Grief, loss, and finding belonging.

Rexar had been talking about this trip for weeks.

Every chance he got, he’d bring it up—in the car, at dinner, during their late-night video game marathons, even half-asleep with his head on Kriia’s lap, mumbling about how she was going to love it there.

“The Erinth estate’s insane, babe,” he’d say, voice brimming with the kind of enthusiasm he usually reserved for trap metal concerts and street fights. “Like, picture a mansion, but make it even more ridiculous. The halls are so long you could probably start a new civilization in one and no one would find you for weeks. And my family? They’re gonna love you. My mom runs the house. My dad runs the family.” Rexar said it simply, like it was an undeniable fact. “She’s the heart. He’s the teeth.”

Kriia had smiled, feigned confidence, nodded along. But in reality?

She was nervous as hell.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t met the Fangs before. She had—technically.

Over countless video calls, she’d laughed with his sisters, exchanged sarcastic banter with his brothers, even had a full hour-long conversation with his mom once when Rexar fell asleep on the call.

And they’d all been nothing but welcoming.

But meeting them in person? That was different.

She’d heard stories—so many stories.

Rexar had grown up surrounded by opulence, expectations, and something much darker lurking beneath the surface. The Fang family was old, powerful, and steeped in traditions that most people wouldn’t even believe. She had listened as Rexar shrugged off details that would have sent a normal person running—details about The Culling, the way his family hunted, the weight of the rituals that dictated their lives.

And she had nodded, laughed at his dry humor, accepted it.

Because that’s what you did when you loved someone.

Still, accepting was not the same as understanding.

She wasn’t just meeting his parents. She was stepping into the den of one of the most feared and revered predator bloodlines in existence.

And she was going in as an outsider.

That fact alone was enough to set her teeth on edge.

Rexar, of course, had no clue about her nerves.

He was too excited, too caught up in the idea of bringing her home, showing her somewhere he grew up, finally letting his family meet the person he had willingly fasted an entire year for.

"You know they already love you, right?" Rexar had said one night, sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on the armrest, flipping a guitar pick between his fingers.

Kriia had snorted, stretching out beside him. "They love me through a screen, Rex. That's different."

He had turned his head toward her, grinning. "Nah. Trust me. You're gonna kill it."

That was the problem.

She was supposed to kill it.

Charm them. Impress them. Prove that she belonged in Rexar’s world, that she was strong enough to handle whatever expectations came with being tied to a Fang.

And she would.

Or—she would have.

If she didn’t wake up sick as hell.

The second she opened her eyes, she knew something was off.

Her throat ached, scratchy and raw like she’d swallowed a handful of gravel in her sleep. Her head was thick and stuffy, her sinuses tickling like they were threatening to betray her at any second.

She groaned, rolling onto her side, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

No. Nope. This wasn’t happening.

She wasn’t getting sick.

Not today.

She sniffled experimentally—bad idea.

The tickle in her nose flared instantly, sharp and relentless, pushing up until she had no choice but to snap forward into her pillow.

“h’kTSHHh!—hh’ihhNGXT’uhh!”

A second later, she heard Rexar stirring from his spot beside her, groggy and half-awake.

Shit.

She froze, heart hammering. Do not wake up. Go back to sleep.

He made a vague, grumbling noise, then—mercifully—went quiet again.

Crisis averted.

She exhaled slowly, carefully, then dragged herself upright, ignoring the way her head swam.

She reached blindly for her phone, checking the time.

They were leaving in two hours.

Okay. She could fix this.

If there was one thing Kriia was good at, it was bullshitting.

All she had to do was act normal.

The plan was simple.

1. Shower—because maybe she’d feel less like death warmed over if she was at least clean.

2. Cold meds—the good kind, the kind that would at least hold her together until they got there.

3. Fake it. Pretend. Do what she did best—act like nothing was wrong.

She could handle this.

She had no other choice.

With a deep breath, she sniffled back the worst of the congestion, squared her shoulders, and got to work.

Because if Rexar wanted this weekend to be perfect—

She was damn well going to make sure it was.

The purr of the Hummer’s massive engine vibrated through Kriia’s bones as they sped down the highway, Rexar drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in perfect sync with the metal blaring through the speakers.

Nine hours.

That was how long it took to get from their home in Scrila to the Fang Estate in Erinth.

Nine. Goddamn. Hours.

Kriia had been hanging in at first. She was exhausted, sure, but the road trip had started out fun—they took turns picking songs, made dramatic performances out of their favorites, and had stopped for snacks at every possible gas station, stocking up on caffeinated sugar bombs and salty junk food like they were preparing for war.

But by the halfway mark?

Kriia was fucking struggling.

The cold meds she had taken before they left had started wearing off hours ago, and now, with nothing but sheer willpower and stubbornness keeping her upright, her body was starting to revolt.

The pressure in her sinuses had built steadily throughout the drive, growing heavier, thicker, until her whole face felt like it was packed with cement.

Her throat was raw, scratchy from all the silent coughing she had been forcing into her sleeve whenever Rexar wasn’t looking. And her headache?

Fucking. Brutal.

Still—she was holding it together.

For now.

Barely.

The real problem was the sneezing.

Kriia had spent years mastering the art of holding back sneezes. It was a skill she had perfected out of pure necessity—after all, she wasn’t exactly the kind of person who liked drawing attention to herself when she was feeling vulnerable.

And right now?

She was feeling very fucking vulnerable.

Unfortunately, her immune system didn’t give a shit about her pride.

The fits were coming whether she wanted them to or not.

The only thing she could do was stifle them beyond recognition.

She had gotten good at it—good enough that Rexar, despite being stupidly observant, hadn’t noticed.

Yet.

But it was getting harder. Way harder.

The congestion behind her eyes made every suppressed sneeze feel like a personal attack. The second she forced one down, the next was already building, lingering at the edge of her senses, taunting her.

By hour six, Kriia was unraveling.

Her sinuses were a disaster, her throat raw, and every inhale felt like it might trigger something disastrous. Her head pounded in rhythm with the dull hum of the highway, and she was starting to feel like her body was actively trying to betray her.

Meanwhile, Rexar was completely, blissfully unaware.

One hand on the wheel, the other rummaging through a bag of snacks, he was happily rambling about the estate, his energy seemingly endless despite the grueling drive.

“Oh, princess—wait till you see the library. It’s got, like, secret doors and shit. I used to sneak in there all the time as a kid just to—hold up.”

Kriia barely had time to react before her breath caught sharply.

No. No, no, no—

She twisted into her sleeve just in time—

“h'NGXt!—hh’tSHH’kngt!—hhHh’NGXTCHh-uhh!”

The force of it left her momentarily stunned, her head dipping forward as she pressed her wrist firmly under her nose, willing herself to keep it together.

Rexar shot her a look. “Was that a sneeze?”

She blinked, feigning innocence. “Huh?”

His squint deepened. “I heard something.”

She sniffled discreetly, forcing a casual shrug. “Probably the radio.”

There was a beat of silence where she could feel him considering it—

Then, miraculously, Rexar just shrugged and went back to his snack raid, muttering something about "needing a damn drink."

Kriia exhaled slowly, carefully, pressing her knuckles under her nose as another tickle flared dangerously in her sinuses.

That had been way too close.

She couldn’t let that happen again.

She just had to hold on a little longer.

By the time they finally pulled up to the Fang Estate, Kriia was holding on by a thread.

The place was breathtaking—a sprawling gothic estate nestled within a fog-laden hamlet, its towering spires barely visible through the dense mist. Ancient trees loomed on all sides, their twisted branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, their bark slick with the ever-present damp. The air was thick with the scent of moss, rain-soaked earth, and the faint, lingering traces of old woodsmoke, wrapping around them like a second skin.

Beyond the estate, narrow cobblestone streets wound through the small village, the old-world charm almost eerie in the dim, muted light. Weathered lanterns flickered weakly against the fog, casting long, wavering shadows along the path. In the distance, the silhouette of a towering chapel stood against the treeline, its steeple barely cutting through the mist.

The weight of history clung to the land, as if the very stones beneath their feet had been watching, listening, for centuries.

It was exactly what she imagined a Fang estate would look like.

And standing at the entrance, waiting for them, was Zeraphine Fang herself.

Rexar’s mother.

Fuck.

The moment the car stopped, Rexar practically leapt out, grinning wide as he scooped his mom into a hug.

Zeraphine laughed, the sound warm and low, wrapping her arms around him easily despite the height difference. She was tall for a woman, but Rexar still dwarfed her at 6’4.

She was beautiful in the way that older predator women always were—sharp features, effortless poise, and an air of quiet authority.

Her hair was shoulder-length, silver-blonde, with streaks of deep red, the curls framing her face in a way that made her look both regal and dangerous at the same time. Her eyes—a striking mix of gray and crimson—studied Rexar with fondness before flicking toward the car.

Kriia, meanwhile, was fighting for her goddamn life.

The second she reached for the door handle, the tickle in her sinuses surged, sharp and demanding, her breath catching involuntarily.

No. Not now.

She pressed two fingers under her nose, holding her breath, waiting it out.

After a few agonizing seconds, the feeling eased just enough for her to pull herself together.

She sniffled discreetly, squared her shoulders, and finally stepped out of the car.

Rexar was already waving her over excitedly, looking like he was having the best day of his life.

And when Kriia finally reached them, Zeraphine turned to her with a warm, knowing smile.

“You must be Kriia,” she said, voice smooth and rich with a hint of amusement.

Kriia offered her best grin, shaking her hand firmly.

“That’s me.”

Zeraphine hummed, studying her.

"Rexar’s told us so much about you," she said. "We were starting to think you weren’t real."

Kriia snorted, then instantly regretted it as it sent a sharp tickle straight up her sinuses.

She sniffled quickly, covering it with a casual laugh.

“Well, I’m here now,” she said smoothly. “And trust me—I’m just as real as the headache he gives me every day.”

Zeraphine laughed, and just like that—some of Kriia’s nerves faded.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

The inside of the estate was somehow even bigger than Kriia had expected.

The ceilings stretched impossibly high, held up by carved stone pillars that looked ancient yet impeccably maintained. The floors were polished dark wood, the walls adorned with massive oil paintings of regal, sharp-featured ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow them as they walked. Chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the space, their intricate metalwork shaped like curling flames—an unsubtle nod to the Fang family’s infamous pyromancy.

And the people?

Everywhere.

Fangs of every shape and size moved through the halls, some dressed in modern, casual clothes, others in traditional, high-collared attire that made them look like they had walked straight out of an old vampire novel. They were a beautiful, predatory mix—all of them sharing the Fang bloodline’s striking features, their sharp eyes flickering with interest as they passed.

As they navigated the sprawling halls of the Erinth Fang Estate, Rexar led Kriia past a series of towering archways, nodding enthusiastically at passing relatives, most of whom greeted him with fond smiles, a high-five, or a large, Fang-esque hug.

Every few feet, someone else recognized Rexar.

And every single one of them commented on how much he had grown.

He was thirty. He had not grown in years.

"Rexar! Gods, look at you—it's been ages!"

"Holy shit, you're huge! What are they feeding you?"

"How do you keep getting bigger?!"

"You’re gonna hit seven feet soon at this rate!"

Rexar, to his credit, took it all in stride.

"Y’know, I get that a lot."

His usual wide, charming grin was permanently fixed to his face, laughing and greeting each one with his signature easy warmth. He was in his element here—his energy infectious, his confidence effortless.

Kriia, meanwhile, was struggling.

Her head pounded, her sinuses burned, and every breath she took felt like she was inhaling through wet cotton. The heavy fog outside pressed in against the estate, seeping through the ancient stone walls and settling into her bones, making her fever feel ten times worse. The damp, clinging air carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and moss-covered stone, thick and inescapable.

She forced herself to stand tall, nodding politely when introduced, but her body was screaming at her to lie down and never get up. The flickering lanterns cast elongated shadows against the towering bookshelves and worn wooden beams, giving everything a dreamlike haze—though whether it was the fever or the fog outside, she wasn’t sure.

And then—of course—they ran into Perry.

He stood at the end of the corridor, leaning against a carved stone pillar, arms folded neatly over his chest. Even at a distance, his mismatched eyes were sharp, dissecting, their eerie glow fixed on Rexar with an air of casual disapproval.

His horns—deep green, curling like polished obsidian—caught the light, and his sleek, dark coat made him look like he had just stepped out of some high-end magazine. Not a single thing about him was out of place.

Which made him the complete opposite of Rexar, who immediately grinned like he’d just spotted his favorite person in the world.

"Perry!" Rexar called out, clapping a hand on his shoulder before he could dodge. “Dude, I was hoping I’d run into you! What’s up, man?”

Perry barely reacted, save for the subtle, impatient flick of his eyes toward Rexar’s hand, which was still on his shoulder.

"Apparently, you," he deadpanned, his voice smooth, clipped, and carrying zero enthusiasm.

Rexar just laughed, ignoring the obvious distaste and squeezing his shoulder once before finally letting go.

“Bro, don’t act like you’re not happy to see me,” he teased. “You missed me, admit it.”

Perry exhaled through his nose, the closest thing he ever gave to an eye roll, and finally turned his attention to Kriia.

His gaze flickered over her just once—quick, assessing, noting everything.

The too-flushed cheeks. The slight sheen of sweat. The way she subtly swallowed before speaking, as if trying to soothe a sore throat.

Interesting.

"Kriia," he said smoothly, offering a hand. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”

Kriia, despite feeling like death, still managed to shake his hand firmly, flashing the same confident smirk she always did over video calls.

“Likewise.”

She sniffled subtly, barely catching it before it became too obvious.

Perry didn’t miss it.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just tilted his head slightly, gaze still locked onto hers, like he was picking her apart in real time.

Rexar, completely oblivious to the tension, clapped Perry on the back again and laughed.

"Man, don’t let him intimidate you, babygirl," he said to Kriia, grinning. "Perry tries to be all mysterious and broody, but deep down? He’s just a big nerd."

Perry’s jaw twitched.

“Charming,” he said dryly.

Kriia barely bit back a smirk.

She was sick as hell, but Rexar being this unfazed by Perry’s entire existence was genuinely hilarious.

Still, before Perry could respond, Zeraphine poked her head out from one of the doorways down the hall, waving the two over.

“Rex baby, you want to see your room?”

Rexar perked up instantly. "Hell yeah, let’s go!"

Kriia took the lifeline instantly, already turning to follow him.

But just before she could go—

Perry’s voice followed her.

Soft. Amused.

“I do hope you enjoy the weekend, Kriia.”

She didn’t need to look back to know he was smirking.

And she didn’t need to hear the subtext to know exactly what he meant.

He knew.

And he was waiting to see how long she could keep up the act.

Every step she took felt heavier, her body dragging with the weight of exhaustion. The fever simmering under her skin had grown worse in the time it took to get from the car to their room, the heat pressing into her bones like a slow, persistent burn.

Her sinuses throbbed, packed so thick with congestion that each inhale felt like breathing through damp cotton. She sniffled discreetly, but it was a losing battle—her nose was running and stuffy at the same time, leaving her in a constant cycle of either sniffling or swallowing around the thickness in her throat.

Her ears felt clogged, her head aching dully from the sheer pressure building behind her eyes.

And the sneezes?

A fucking nightmare.

She had managed to hold them back so far, each sharp tickle forcing her to pause for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek, pressing her wrist hard against her nose, waiting for it to fade.

She was losing, though.

Her breath kept hitching, forcing her to turn away slightly, feigning a casual rub at her nose while she swallowed back the urge.

No one had noticed yet.

But one person did.

Zeraphine.

Rexar’s mother didn’t say anything.

But Kriia felt the weight of her gaze.

Sharp, perceptive, knowing.

Still, she didn’t comment.

Instead, she simply led them down the long hallway, her tone warm as she spoke.

"This will be your room for the weekend."

She pushed open the massive double doors, revealing a sprawling bedroom steeped in old-world grandeur.

A towering four-poster bed dominated the center, its dark oak frame carved with intricate patterns, draped in layers of deep crimson and black silk. Heavy velvet curtains framed the windows, their fabric thick enough to block out the ever-present fog that curled outside. Beyond the glass, the hamlet stretched out in eerie silence, the twisted silhouettes of ancient trees barely visible through the shifting mist. The scent of damp stone and aged wood lingered in the air, grounding the room in a sense of history—both elegant and haunting.

There was a fireplace, already lit, casting dancing orange light against the stone walls. A sitting area with plush chairs and an ornate wooden desk sat in the corner, complete with a collection of old books and handwritten letters.

It was beautiful.

And Kriia barely saw it.

She was too focused on staying upright.

Zeraphine turned to them with a graceful smile.

"Dinner will be ready in an hour," she said, voice warm. "I'll leave you two to settle in."

With one last look at Kriia—a look that said she had noticed every damn thing—she turned and disappeared down the hall.

And the second the doors shut behind her?

Kriia crumpled onto the bed, groaning into the blankets. A deep, miserable groan muffled into the pillows, vibrating with pure exhaustion.

She felt like absolute shit.

Her body was overheated, her skin clammy from the fever that had been slowly rising all day. Every inch of her throbbed, her muscles sore from the sheer effort of keeping herself upright for the past nine hours. Her head pounded, a dull, relentless ache pressing against her skull, making even the dim, golden glow of the bedside lamps feel like too much.

And her sinuses?

Completely, hopelessly clogged.

She couldn’t get a single proper breath through her nose, forcing her to breathe through her mouth—which only aggravated her raw, aching throat further. Every inhale felt thick, like she was pulling air through a straw filled with molasses.

Her ears were stuffed up, too, muffling the sounds around her, making everything feel just slightly off-kilter.

And then—there was the tickle.

That constant, merciless itch deep in her sinuses, teasing at her already overwhelmed nerves, threatening to push her over the edge.

Kriia pressed her wrist hard against her nose, willing the sensation to fade, her breath hitching in silent desperation. She couldn’t lose control now.

Not here.

Not with Rexar watching.

But fuck, it was so strong—spreading like static electricity, crawling its way up until her breath gave a sudden, sharp hiccup.

Shit—no, no, no.

She twisted just in time, barely managing to stifle the fit into the blankets, her shoulders jerking violently with each suppressed sneeze.

"hh’kNXT’tt!—h'NGXT’chh!—hh!—hh’tSSHhu!"

The last one slipped out—harsh, scraping, far too wet.

A sharp sniffle followed, barely enough to clear the congestion, and she immediately winced at how obvious it sounded.

Rexar, who had just sat down beside her, froze.

His red-flecked eyes narrowed instantly, brows furrowing in suspicion.

"Babe," he said, nudging her gently. "What’s up? You’ve been, like… weirdly quiet since we got here."

Kriia hesitated.

She couldn’t tell him.

If his family found out she was sick, they’d probably shove her straight into the tunnels like they did with him whenever he got sick as a kid.

The thought made her stomach twist.

Kriia forced herself to sit up, ignoring the way her vision tilted dangerously for a moment. She plastered on a smirk, one she hoped still had its usual confidence, and shot Rexar her best “I’m totally fine” look.

“Just—tired from the drive,” she said, voice hoarse but light, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m good.”

Rexar squinted.

He wasn’t buying it.

His storm-gray eyes flickered over her face, taking in every detail—the slight flush to her cheeks, the glassy haze in her eyes, the way her breathing wasn’t quite right, just a little too controlled.

But instead of pressing, he sighed through his nose, leaning back slightly against the edge of the bed.

“If you say so,” he muttered, not sounding convinced.

Then, instead of calling her out, he gestured toward the room around them.

“Y’know, this place is kinda sentimental for me,” he admitted, a rare softness creeping into his voice. “I stayed here a lot growing up, when we came through Erinth for Cullings. Out of all the rooms in the estate, this one was always mine.”

Kriia glanced around, trying to focus on his words instead of the relentless tickle in her sinuses.

The room was massive, all dark stone and deep crimson accents, exuding the weight of old money and older secrets. A towering four-poster bed stood at its center, draped in impossibly soft-looking blankets, its heavy wooden frame carved with intricate, timeworn details.

One entire wall was dominated by towering windows, their glass fogged at the edges, offering a ghostly view of the mist-laden hamlet beyond. Gnarled, ancient trees loomed just beyond the estate’s perimeter, their twisted branches half-lost in the dense, ever-present fog. On the opposite side of the room, a fireplace stretched nearly to the ceiling, the kind so cavernous it looked like it could swallow a person whole, its hearth blackened with age.

It was exactly the kind of place she could picture a younger Rexar sprawled across the bed, lazily strumming his guitar, trying to carve out a space for himself in the sprawling, shadowed world of his family.

She wanted to say something—maybe make a teasing remark about how absurdly dramatic it was that he had his own gothic prince suite—but—

The tickle flared.

Her breath hitched.

Shit—

Kriia turned sharply away, muffling the sneezes as best she could into her wrist.

“h’KTSCHhh! hh’ihhNGXT’uhh! hh’kTSSHh’uhh!”

Messy, unrestrained—still stifled, but nowhere near subtle.

The second the sneezes escaped, she felt Rexar move.

Before she could even recover, he was already at her side, one warm, calloused hand brushing across her cheek, checking her temperature.

“Ah—dude,” she croaked, barely managing to play it off.

Rexar’s expression flickered with suspicion, his grey-red eyes narrowing slightly.

“Dust?” she supplied quickly, sniffling thickly and waving a vague hand toward the air. “There’s—like, I dunno—old books or something in here, right?”

He didn’t look convinced.

But after a long, assessing pause, he just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Yeah, maybe.”

Crisis averted.

Kriia exhaled slowly, schooling her expression into something more relaxed as she turned away, reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand.

But then—

Her breath caught again.

Shit.

She barely had time to wrench her sleeve up before another harsh, stifled sneeze ripped through her. “Heh’n’gtx!” Then another. “hhh’nGNxxt!” And another. “H’GXTSH’ue!”

Rexar straightened immediately, brows furrowing. “Okay, that is not dust.”

Kriia swallowed hard, scrubbing at her nose with the heel of her hand. “It’s fine,” she rasped, already feeling the telltale burn building again. “I’m fine—”

“Babe.”

She could hear it in his voice—the shift from playful skepticism to something more serious, more concerned.

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong to be.

She was losing this battle.

Her breath kept hitching, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back the sneezes threatening to overwhelm her. Rexar could see it, his gaze sharpening as he stepped closer, watching her carefully.

“Kr—”

A knock at the door.

Kriia could’ve kissed whoever it was.

She latched onto the distraction instantly, clearing her throat and quickly scrubbing her sleeve under her nose as a tiny, hesitant voice called from the hallway:

“Um… dinner’s almost ready.”

Kriia and Rexar both turned toward the door.

Rexar’s expression softened instantly.

“That’s Runa,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “My youngest sister.”

Kriia seized the opportunity, shoving the blankets off herself as she stood, forcing a grin. “Right. Let’s go.”

Rexar hesitated.

His concern hadn’t faded—not by a long shot—but with his little sister waiting outside, he let it go.

For now.

The Fang dining hall was colossal.

Massive chandeliers cast a warm, flickering glow over the endless stretch of dark wooden tables, each overflowing with platters of lavishly prepared meats, charred vegetables, and golden, freshly baked bread. The scent alone was intoxicating—smoky, rich, layered with spices Kriia couldn’t even begin to place.

And the sheer number of people in the room? Overwhelming.

The instant they walked in, Kriia barely had time to register the vastness of the space before ten distinct voices erupted all at once.

“Rex!!”

The pack descended.

Thorne and Sylwen, the oldest of the Fang siblings, towered over the rest—Thorne with his heavy, bear-like frame and Sylwen’s coolly amused expression as she leaned on her twin’s shoulder. Elaris and Garrik were next, talking over each other as they teased Rexar, shoving him playfully like they were still in their teenage years.

Nyxara and Marwyn were elegant in their greetings, Nyxara rolling her eyes with a fond “Still slouching, I see,” while Marwyn gave a rare, but genuine smile, offering a quick, affectionate “Welcome home, little brother.”

Varos, the last of the older brothers, grinned wickedly and mussed Rexar’s hair, dodging the half-hearted swipe aimed at his arm.

Then came Zyra, barreling into Rexar with all the force her twenty-year-old self could muster, already grilling him for stories about Scrila, about his band, about literally everything he hadn’t told her yet.

Vesper lingered a little behind, cool and observant, offering only a “Glad you made it in one piece,” before retreating back to her seat.

And finally, Runa, the shyest of them all, stood just behind them, watching Kriia more than Rexar.

Kriia forced a smile, but her head was spinning.

So many names. So many faces.

Kriia hadn’t even noticed the man at the head of the table until his deep, commanding voice cut through the lively conversation. “Rexar. You’ve finally decided to show up this year.” Orin Fang’s sharp, piercing gaze flickered between his son and Kriia, assessing, weighing. His presence was imposing—not loud, not overbearing, but absolute.

And not just Rexar’s direct family members, either—she recognized some of his extended family sitting among the others at the table:

Aunt Lilith, the infamous adventurer who had found and adopted Perry, nudging Uncle Zerrok with her elbow looking far too amused as she watched the chaos unfold

Aunt Selka, Aunt Erisen, and Aunt Calista, all chatting amongst themselves, but keeping a keen eye on their younger relatives.

Cousins Loriel and Rivana, each engaged in their own quiet conversation, but still offering Rexar a nod of greeting.

It was a lot to take in.

And Rexar?

He was completely in his element.

Laughing, talking, effortlessly shifting between every conversation, giving as good as he got whenever one of his siblings teased him for staying away too long. He thrived in the attention, soaking it up like a plant in the sun, answering every question, grinning through every jab.

Meanwhile, Kriia?

Dying.

She was tense, silent, nothing like the quick-witted, sharp-tongued version of herself that his family had seen over video calls.

And it was not going unnoticed.

Especially not by Zeraphine.

His mother had seated herself near the head of the table, but Kriia could feel her gaze on her, assessing.

Still, she said nothing.

She merely gestured for them to take their seats, and the moment they did—the real feast began.

The food was undeniably incredible. Every dish was rich and indulgent, perfectly seasoned, the flavors both comforting and decadent. Under any other circumstances, Kriia would have been devouring it with reckless abandon.

But instead—

She was fighting a war.

Her sinuses were on fire, the relentless tickle teasing deep within her nose, an unbearable itch that refused to settle. Her head throbbed, her throat was raw, and the effort of stifling every cough, every sneeze, every miserable sniffle was draining her by the second.

She couldn’t let them hear. Couldn’t let them see.

So she played it off.

Whenever her breath hitched, she masked it with a sip of water, letting the glass linger near her face just long enough to cover her expression.

Whenever the urge to cough clawed at her chest, she disguised it as clearing her throat, forcing it to be soft, controlled.

And when—despite everything—a sneeze finally won, slipping past her defenses, she stifled it so viciously into her napkin that it barely made a sound.

"hh’NGXt’CHH!—hh’ihhGNXT’uhh!"

Still, Rexar’s head turned.

He hadn’t missed it.

His eyes narrowed slightly, his easygoing demeanor not shifting, but his attention firmly locking on her now.

She sniffled hard, pretending to wipe at her mouth with her napkin, her fingers pressing just under her nose as if adjusting her septum piercing. The tickle flared violently in retaliation, and she barely managed to smother another round of sneezes into the fabric before they could escape.

"h’KTSCHh!—hh’kTSHH’uhh!!"

Her shoulders trembled with the effort.

Rexar didn’t blink.

She avoided his gaze.

She pushed food around her plate, nodding along absently to whatever conversation was happening, hoping he would just let it go.

For a while, he did.

But as the night wore on, she found herself retreating further and further into silence.

By the time dessert was served, she wasn’t even pretending to eat anymore.

And that?

That was when Rexar really noticed.

The second the meal ended, Rexar pushed back from the table, stretching like it was no big deal.

“We’re crashing early,” he announced, casual and easy, glancing at Kriia like this had been her idea all along. “Long drive, y’know?”

A few of his siblings groaned in protest, but Zeraphine only nodded.

“Get some rest, love,” she said, her voice gentle—too knowing.

Kriia forced a weak smile, offering a polite “Goodnight,” before following Rexar out of the dining hall.

The instant they were out of sight—

“Okay. Spill.”

Kriia sighed, already knowing this was coming.

She was too tired to fight it anymore.

So, after a long pause—

She finally admitted it.

“I think I’m sick...”

The words sat between them for a moment, hanging heavy in the dimly lit hallway.

Rexar’s expression shifted instantly—the teasing gone, the concern fully settling in.

His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, his voice dropping into something softer.

“Babe…”

Kriia sighed, letting herself lean into his warmth, just for a second.

“It’s fine,” she mumbled. “I just—I feel kinda shitty. And I probably look even worse.”

That got her a reaction.

Rexar huffed, offended on her behalf.

“You always look hot,” he corrected, squeezing her waist for emphasis. “But also, what the hell, why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Kriia groaned, burying her face into his shoulder.

“Because! It’s your family! I didn’t wanna be that girl—the one who shows up and instantly hides in the guest room for two days. I already feel like an outsider here, I don’t want them thinking I’m—”

She cut herself off.

She didn’t want them thinking she was weak.

Didn’t want them to see her as pathetic, breakable, a fragile little thing that needed handling with care.

Didn’t want them to send her to the tunnels.

Rexar sighed, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head.

“Kriia. Baby angel. My precious little babydoll.”

His voice was gentle, but firm.

“You’re not hiding. You’re sick.”

She huffed, sniffling miserably against his chest.

“Doesn’t make a difference.”

He chuckled, low and fond.

“Princess, they love you. My mom is, like, obsessed with you. And if she knew you were sick, she’d probably be in our room right now with a whole-ass team of healers, force-feeding you soup.”

Kriia shuddered at the thought.

Rexar just laughed.

“See? Wouldn’t be so bad.”

She grumbled, muttering something about how she’d rather be left for dead, but she didn’t argue.

And Rexar?

He saw right through her.

So, instead of pressing, he scooped her up effortlessly, carrying her toward their room like she weighed absolutely nothing.

Kriia let him.

Mostly because she was exhausted.

But also because—even if she’d never admit it—Rexar’s arms were warm. Safe.

And right now?

That was exactly what she needed.

Kriia woke up to the soft murmur of the TV and Rexar’s body heat pressed against her back.

For a second, she could almost pretend she was back home.

Back in their ridiculously oversized bed, tangled in blankets, half-awake while some stupid reality show droned on in the background.

Except—

She wasn’t.

Her head throbbed, her throat was on fire, and she was very much not home.

A deep, prickling tickle bloomed high in her sinuses, sharp and relentless, overtaking her before she even had the chance to fight it.

"hhh’tSCHHh! hh’TSSCHhh’uhh!—hH’ihhNGXSH’uhh!"

The sneezes burst out of her in rapid succession, harsh and miserable, muffled only slightly by the pillow she had buried her face into.

Rexar’s hand found her back immediately, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

“Morning, beautiful.”

His voice was still rough with sleep, but his teasing grin was already in place.

Kriia groaned louder, half sniffling, half glaring at him.

“Shut up.”

Rexar chuckled, completely unbothered, still tracing mindless patterns along her spine.

“You sleep okay?”

She grunted in response.

It was halfhearted at best.

Another sharp inhale cut through the thick air, and she barely managed to twist away before another fit overtook her, her body jerking forward with the force of it.

“Hihh’GXXTsh! ehh’Gxxtchh! Hiihh’NGnxxt’iuh!”

Rexar winced in sympathy, his arm sliding fully around her waist, voice dipping into something softer.

“You feel any better?”

Kriia sniffled, scrubbing at her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie.

Another grunt.

Less convincing.

Rexar sighed.

“Didn’t think so.”

He spent the entire day doting on her.

Fetching her water, bringing her food she barely touched, pulling the blankets up when she shivered, turning the TV up when she was too tired to talk.

Kriia tried to tell him to stop. Tried to insist she was fine, that she didn’t need him to hover.

But Rexar wasn’t having it.

“If you’re not gonna let me call my mom in here to actually take care of you, then you’re just gonna have to deal with me doing it.”

Kriia groaned, throwing an arm over her face.

“Unacceptable.”

Her breath suddenly hitched, a sharp gasp catching in her throat before she could stop it—

“Hh’NDKT’ih! H’GXTSH’ue! K’GNSH’iiew!”

The force of the sneezes rocked her forward, tearing through her already raw throat, leaving her sniffling and dazed.

Rexar just laughed, rubbing circles into her back as she curled into herself.

“Too bad, babygirl.”

She tried to glare at him, but her head was too heavy, and he was too warm, and the congestion thickening behind her eyes made it impossible to do anything except melt further into his side.

Her breath shuddered violently, her whole body tensing against him as the sneezes overtook her without warning—

“hh’NGXT’uhh! hh’NTSCHh’iew! hH’ihhKSHh’uehh—hh’NGXT’uhh! H’GXTSH’ue!”

A sharp gasp tore through her chest, but the fit wasn’t done with her yet. Her nostrils flared desperately, damp and quivering as her breath hitched unevenly. She was completely helpless against it, caught in a torturous limbo where the sneezes refused to come but refused to fade.

Rexar barely had time to glance down before she sneezed again—directly into his side.

It was messy, wet, leaving a small damp spot on his shirt that she barely had the energy to be mortified about. He felt her tense in embarrassment, her fingers twitching against his chest like she wanted to pull away, but he just chuckled softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer.

“Bless you, Princess,” he purred, voice thick with lazy amusement.

Kriia let out a miserable, stuffy whimper, her breath still trembling on the edge of another fit. Her nose twitched against him, red and dripping, her eyes glassy with the effort of trying to force it out.

Rexar watched her with open adoration, his grin widening as she wriggled in frustration, her breath hitching miserably without relief.

“Poor babygirl,” he murmured in her ear, his voice warm and teasing, sending a fresh shiver through her exhausted frame.

Her eyes fluttered open just long enough to shoot him the weakest, most pitiful glare he’d ever seen.

He grinned.

Without her even having to ask, he brought his hand up, his calloused fingertips tracing a slow, featherlight line from the bridge of her nose to the very tip—then back up again.

Kriia jolted, her breath stuttering sharply in response.

But still, the fit refused to break.

Her nostrils flared wildly, her damp, pinkened nose twitching with the maddening, stuck sensation. A tiny tear welled at the corner of her eye, her lips parting with helpless, stuttering gasps.

Rexar chuckled, feeling a little bad but unable to stop himself from enjoying the sight.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he teased, switching tactics, his nail ghosting lightly along the delicate curve of her septum, then tracing along the sensitive rims of her nostrils. “Your nose is being real stubborn today, huh?”

She whined, voice so small, so utterly wrecked with congestion and frustration that he had to bite back a groan.

Then—finally—her breath hitched in a violent gasp.

Her whole body tensed, her chest stuttering against his as she pitched forward into him.

“Ngt’chh! hptt’CH! GXTtt’chh! hh’GKXT’ihh! hh—hHh’KSHHhh’iew!—hh’ihh’KSHHh’uhh! hh’HKXT’chh! hH’ihh’kSHHh’uehh!”

The fit tore through her in drawn-out, rapid-fire bursts, barely muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Rexar hummed in praise, rubbing slow, soothing circles along her back as she shuddered against him, breathless and spent.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, lips brushing against her temple. “Knew you had it in you.”

Kriia let out a muffled, mortified whimper, burying her face in her hands, her entire body radiating warmth—though whether it was from the fever or sheer embarrassment, Rexar couldn’t tell.

“Th-thag you,” she mumbled, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

He pressed a slow, affectionate kiss to her temple, his hand still tracing soft, absentminded circles against her back.

“Anytime, babygirl.”

And for the rest of the day, she let herself exist in the cocoon of his warmth, his hands in her hair, the deep rumble of his voice as he mindlessly narrated whatever show was playing.

For the first time since they got here—

She felt safe.

But by the time the sun started to set, Kriia knew what was coming.

She’d known since before they even left Scrila.

Tonight was The Culling.

And Rexar was leaving.

She could feel it—the shift in his energy, the way his usual easy charm had dimmed.

He was still smiling, still laughing, still teasing her every chance he got.

But beneath it?

There was something heavier.

Something quieter.

The Fang estate had been alive with movement, every member of the family preparing for what was, to them, a sacred tradition.

Kriia had heard about The Culling countless times, had seen the way it weighed on Rexar, had even researched the ritualistic nature of it out of curiosity.

But knowing and witnessing were two entirely different things.

She’d never actually seen him leave for one before.

Never watched him stand among his family—ten siblings, mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, elders—each one of them primed for the hunt, their energy buzzing, their monstrous nature barely contained beneath their skin.

And Rexar?

Even through all his laughs, his jokes, his easygoing demeanor—

Kriia could see the shift in him.

The way his posture stiffened, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way he let his family’s excitement wash over him without really absorbing it.

This wasn’t something he did joyfully.

It was something he did because he had to.

She hadn’t realized she was staring until he turned, his gray-red eyes finding hers.

For a moment, everything else blurred.

The laughter. The conversation. The chaos.

There was only him.

Kriia rolled onto her side, watching him as he sat on the edge of the bed, tying his boots.

He had felt her staring.

“What?”

She hesitated.

Then—

“You okay?”

Rexar’s hands paused.

For just a second.

Then—

He smirked, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Worried about me, babygirl?”

Kriia huffed, shoving a pillow at him.

“Shut up.”

Rexar laughed, catching it easily, but his eyes were softer now.

He turned back, finishing the laces, rolling his shoulders.

Preparing.

Then—

He leaned down, pressing a slow, warm kiss to her forehead.

“Get some sleep, Princess. I love you more than anything.”

And before she could respond—

He was gone.

The night air was thick with anticipation as the Fang family gathered in the heart of the fog-laden hamlet, shrouded by towering, ancient trees. Wisps of mist curled between the gnarled roots and moss-draped branches, swallowing the lantern light and casting eerie, shifting shadows across the damp cobblestone streets. The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke clung to the cold breeze, a stark contrast to the simmering energy crackling between the assembled predators.

Beyond the hamlet’s outskirts, the dense forest stretched into the unknown, its depths cloaked in darkness, alive with the whisper of unseen things stirring in the undergrowth. The weight of ritual hung heavy in the air—the unspoken understanding that tonight, they would indulge the hunger coiled deep in their bones.

The silence was unnatural. Expectant.

It settled over the group like a second skin, pressing in with the weight of something inevitable.

Rexar stood among them, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders loose and easy despite the tension curling around them all. He knew what was coming. The moment they were all together, away from the house, away from Kriia—someone was bound to bring it up.

It didn’t take long.

“So, your girl’s been hiding all day,” Garrik said, voice light but pointed. “Thought she was supposed to be meeting everyone?”

Nyxara, ever the blunt one, snorted. “You sure she didn’t change her mind about us?”

“She’s been so different in person,” Elaris added, brow furrowed. “Quiet. She barely spoke at dinner.”

There were murmurs of agreement, a ripple of speculation moving through the group. Rexar caught the way Aunt Selka exchanged a glance with Aunt Erisen, the subtle crease in Zeraphine’s brow, the way Varos leaned in slightly, listening.

He let it go on for a second—just a second—before sighing dramatically, shaking his head.

“Oh, come on.”

The conversation stuttered. Eyes turned toward him.

Rexar smirked, crossing his arms. “You guys are acting like she’s avoiding you.”

Sylwen tilted her head. “…Isn’t she?”

“No,” Rexar scoffed. “She’s sick.”

That got their attention.

Zeraphine’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Rexar continued, grin still easy, but voice a little gentler now. “She’s been trying to hide it ‘cause she didn’t want you guys to hate her. Or worse, send her to the tunnels.”

That earned a collective groan.

“We would never send her to the tunnels,” Marwyn said, exasperated.

“That’s awful,” Aunt Calista added, shaking her head.

Runa, the youngest, tugged at Rexar’s sleeve, looking up at him with wide, worried eyes. “Is she okay?”

Rexar ruffled her hair. “She’ll be fine. She just needs rest.”

There was a brief pause—then, a wave of understanding.

His aunts, his sisters, even a few of his cousins let out soft, sympathetic sounds.

“She should’ve just told us,” Nyxara mused, frowning.

“We’ll have to make sure she’s comfortable tomorrow,” Zeraphine said firmly.

Rexar huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes fondly. “Yeah, I figured this would happen.”

The teasing remarks about Kriia’s absence faded into something else entirely—concern, acceptance, understanding.

Rexar felt something loosen in his chest.

She had nothing to worry about.

His family had already claimed her as one of their own.

The Culling took hours.

Kriia had fallen asleep at some point, but when the sound of voices finally pulled her back to consciousness, it was different.

Louder.

Brighter.

The moment the front doors opened, the entire mansion came alive.

Laughter echoed through the halls, voices booming, the weight of the hunt still thrumming through the air like a second heartbeat.

Kriia sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes.

The estate felt entirely different than it had earlier—like it had been recharged, revitalized.

Like a holiday feast had just ended, and the guests were still riding the high of indulgence.

And then—

There was Rexar.

She heard him before she saw him, his deep, lively voice cutting through the noise.

He sounded good. Energized.

For the first time in months, his hunger was gone.

And when he finally knocked at the door, his voice gentle, but teasing—

“Babygirl? You decent?”

Kriia couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, come in.”

The door clicked open, and when she saw him—

For a moment, she forgot she even felt like shit.

His features were alive in a way they hadn’t been in so long.

His cheeks flushed, his eyes bright, his usual lazy smirk tugging at his lips, the smoke drifting from his nose in thin streams.

But more than that—

There was something lighter about him.

Like a weight had been lifted.

Like he could finally breathe.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he beat her to it.

“You have a visitor. They have something for you.”

Kriia blinked.

Then, from behind him, a tiny, shy voice.

“…I made you tea… w-with honey.”

Kriia’s heart stopped.

There, peeking nervously from behind Rexar’s arm—was Runa.

His youngest sister.

She looked so small, barely seven years old, holding a delicate porcelain cup with both hands like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Auntie Lilith helped,” Runa admitted quietly, her big red-gray eyes darting between Kriia and Rexar.

“But I—I hope you feel better.”

Kriia swallowed.

For the second time that night, she felt something warm bloom in her chest.

Slowly, carefully, she reached out and took the cup, her fingers brushing against Runa’s.

The last thing she had expected tonight was for anyone—let alone Rexar’s tiny, reserved little sister—to show up with something just for her.

The overwhelming warmth in her chest was almost too much.

“Oh, come here,” she murmured, reaching for her.

Runa hesitated for only a second before letting Kriia pull her into a hug, small arms wrapping lightly around her middle.

“Thank you, Runa, that’s so sweet of you…” Kriia said, her voice a little thick.

Runa just nodded against her before pulling away, cheeks slightly pink. She gave a tiny wave, then slipped back out of the room, leaving Kriia clutching the warm mug like it was the most precious thing she had ever received.

She swallowed, staring down at it for a moment, then glanced up at Rexar.

His expression was… sheepish.

“Sooo,” he drawled. “I might’ve mentioned to everyone that you were sick.”

Kriia blinked. “Rex.”

“Look, I had to! They were all wondering why you were hiding, and I wasn’t about to let them think you just didn’t like them.” He grinned, leaning in a little. “Besides, now they feel awful that you’ve been feeling like shit. So, uh. You should probably prepare yourself.”

She frowned. “For what?”

“For the whole Fang package,” Rexar said, wiggling his fingers dramatically. “And when I say my family goes overboard with the whole caretaking thing, I mean it. You are about to be aggressively babied.”

Kriia let out a hoarse, tired laugh, shaking her head.

And then—

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them.

Rexar’s grin faltered. “Princess?”

Kriia sniffled, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve. “Sorry,” she muttered, voice cracking slightly. “I just… I didn’t think they’d actually care this much. I thought I’d come here and feel like an outsider. I thought they’d be pissed that I wasn’t out there proving myself or whatever. But instead—” She let out a shaky breath. “They actually care...”

Rexar’s expression softened.

She cleared her throat, blinking quickly, but the words spilled out before she could stop them.

“You know I don’t really have family,” she murmured. “Not since my dad passed. And I know I joke about how obnoxious yours is, but—” Her voice wavered. “I think I get it now. You’re really lucky, Rex.”

His brows furrowed, something fond and unbearably warm settling behind his crimson-ringed gaze.

Slowly, he reached out, cupping the side of her face with a calloused hand. His thumb brushed gently under her eye, catching a stray tear before it could slip down her cheek.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I am.” Rexar's expression softened more, his usual cocky grin giving way to something quieter, something unbearably fond.

"But babydoll, of course they care," he continued, his usually sharp eyes filled to the brim with adoration for the woman in front of him. "You’re important to me. That means you’re important to them. That’s just how it works."

Kriia’s throat tightened. "I don’t even know how to handle that."

Rexar let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You don’t have to ‘handle’ anything, Krii. You just gotta let people give a shit about you."

Kriia huffed, rolling her eyes even as she sniffled. "That’s a lot harder than you make it sound."

"Yeah, I know," he said, pulling her closer, "but you’ll get used to it. Promise."

For the first time in days, Kriia let herself sink into his warmth, into the steady rise and fall of his chest, into the safety of knowing—really knowing—that she wasn’t alone in this.

That maybe, for the first time in a long time, she had a family again. And that made everything worth it.

To be continued… ✨

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ladydigianna · 3 months ago

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buying you time || part 1

past! neil perry x reader, present! charlie dalton x reader

1960 – A Kingdom Without a King

Welton Academy still stood, unchanged, but it no longer felt like home.

You had returned, though you weren’t sure why. Perhaps it was because some part of you still belonged to the past, trapped in the halls where laughter and poetry once reigned. The world had moved on, but your heart remained behind, tangled in memories that refused to fade.

Neil Perry had been gone for over a year now.

The weight of him pressed against your ribcage, an ache that never dulled. Time had passed, seasons had changed, but grief remained—woven into you like Penelope’s shroud, stitched together by day, unraveled by night.

And Charlie Dalton had been watching.

Waiting.

The boy who had never known patience now stood by your side, silent and steady, never pushing, never demanding. Just… there.

You weren’t sure how much longer he would wait.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted him to.

⸻

1959 – The Game

“You don’t have to do this.”

Neil grinned at you, mischief flickering behind his eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You rolled your eyes, watching as he lined up his shot. The Dead Poets had taken refuge at the Dalton estate for the weekend, and Neil had challenged Charlie to an archery contest. A terrible idea, really, given that neither of them had ever touched a bow before.

Charlie leaned against a tree, smirking. “Come on, Perry, show me what you got.”

Neil raised the bow, drew back the string, and let the arrow fly. It wobbled through the air before plummeting into the dirt several feet away from the target.

Charlie burst into laughter.

Neil turned to you, utterly unbothered. “That was just a warm-up.”

You shook your head, smiling. “I think you’re better at monologues than marksmanship.”

He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Lucky for you, I’m very good at monologues.”

Charlie groaned. “Please, spare us.”

Neil ignored him, turning back to you, his voice dropping into something softer. “Do you think I could do it?”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Win the throne.”

You studied him, the way his hands tightened around the bow, the way his shoulders tensed. This was a game, but for Neil, it was something more. A challenge. A test. Proof that he could defy the fate his father had set for him.

“Of course you could,” you said.

Neil smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Charlie noticed too.

Later that night, as you sat by the fire, Charlie nudged your shoulder. “You really think he could win?”

You looked across the room, where Neil sat reading, the flickering light casting shadows over his face.

“I think he already has.”

⸻

1960 – The Unfinished Letter

You found it in Neil’s old copy of Hamlet, the pages worn from his touch.

The ink was smudged in places, as if he had hesitated while writing, but the words were clear.

“Father,” it began.

“I know you will never understand, but I cannot live the life you want for me. I tried. I swear I tried. But my heart does not belong to textbooks and law degrees. It belongs to the stage, to poetry, to the kind of love that makes life worth living. I cannot keep pretending to be someone I am not. I have been buying myself time, hoping I would find another way. But time is running out.”

“I am sorry.”

“I love you.”

It wasn’t finished.

It never would be.

Charlie found you later, sitting on the floor of your room, the letter crumpled in your hands. He didn’t say anything—just sat beside you, waiting.

After a long silence, you whispered, “I should give it to his father.”

Charlie exhaled sharply. “What do you think that’ll change?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

“Then don’t do it.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “You think he deserves this? After everything?”

You closed your eyes. “No.”

Charlie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then let it go.”

You shook your head. “I don’t know how.”

Charlie hesitated before reaching for your hand.

“Then let me help.”

⸻

1959 – The Last Performance

The theater was alive.

The air thrummed with energy, with the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. The audience sat in hushed anticipation, waiting for the curtain to rise.

Neil stood at the center of it all, his presence electric, his voice steady.

“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!” he declared, his words ringing through the space.

You watched from the wings, breath caught in your throat. He was radiant, every inch the king he had always longed to be.

When the play ended, when the applause roared like thunder, he found you backstage, his face alight with triumph.

“I did it,” he whispered.

“You did,” you breathed, pressing a kiss to his lips.

And for one perfect moment, the world was his.

⸻

1960 – The Storm

It rained the night Neil died.

A storm, violent and unrelenting.

You had run through it, breathless, desperate, slipping on the wet ground as you stumbled toward his house. Charlie had been right behind you, cursing under his breath, but you had barely heard him.

By the time you arrived, the world had already gone silent.

Neil’s mother was standing in the doorway, her face pale, her hands shaking. She had not spoken a word as she stepped aside, letting you and Charlie inside.

The house smelled of gunpowder.

Of smoke and sin.

You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t cried. You had simply stood there, staring at the body of the boy you loved, knowing in your soul that time had finally run out.

⸻

1960 – The Final Choice

You stood at Neil’s grave, the cold biting at your skin.

“I never thought it would come to this,” you whispered.

The wind howled in response.

Charlie stood a few steps behind, waiting, always waiting.

You turned to him, your voice barely above a whisper. “How did you do it?”

Charlie exhaled slowly, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Do what?”

“Let him go.”

He was quiet for a long moment before he said, “I didn’t.”

You frowned, but he shook his head. “You don’t let go of someone like Neil. You just… learn to live with the hole they left behind.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

Charlie gave you a sad smile. “Not really.”

You looked back at the gravestone, the name carved into the marble like a wound that would never heal.

Neil Perry.

“I don’t know how to live without him,” you admitted.

Charlie took a step closer, his voice steady. “Then let me teach you.”

You turned to him, really looking at him for the first time in months. His eyes were different now, shadowed with grief, but there was something else there too.

Something like hope.

You hesitated, then reached for his hand. His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to let go of the past.

Maybe it was time to start again.

And as Charlie squeezed your hand, anchoring you to the present, you thought—perhaps Neil would have wanted that too.

#dead poets headcanons #xreader #ladydigianna #fanfiction #dps x reader #dead poets society x reader #charlie dalton x reader #neil perry x reader

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ineffablyruined · 2 years ago

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I Can Make A Difference

My thoughts on the theme for Day 2 of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies event!

See my meta here about Aziraphale's elevator grin and why I completely believe he has a Plan (always with the capital letter).

If I'm being honest, I don't know what I believe his Plan is. But, what I do want to talk about is his character and what I think he's going to bring to Heaven.

I firmly believe that the Metatron only cared about separating Crowley and Aziraphale because he was scared of their combined power.

I mean, these two already stopped Armageddon once when they teamed up. Now they are performing 25 Lazari miracles when miracles are usually measured in centilazari or millilazari. Neil even says it's mostly millilazari, which is 1/1000 of a single lazari. Their combined power is insane and they weren't even trying. So, of course they must be separated.

And the easiest way to do this? Take the easily manipulated one and bring him back to Heaven, of course. Who cares that he's in a position of power? All it takes to get him to agree to anything you want is a little bit of mirrored speech patterns, support for his favorite activity of ingesting human substances, and some flattery. He couldn't be more easily controlled, right? RIGHT?

But, what the Metatron didn't know, couldn't possibly have known, is that Aziraphale is the angel with an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong and the backbone to stand up for it at all costs.

And he's not going to be as easy to get rid of as Gabriel was, because the problem (for the Metatron) with Aziraphale is that he's not going to tell Heaven, "No," And make it easy for them to fire him. That's what Gabriel did, and it was immediate demotion. But Aziraphale? He's going to talk about it, he's going to ask questions about it, or even flat out lie about it, and he's going to make them doubt their own plans. Probably not the Metatron, but all the other angels? Absolutely.

Want to know how I know?

He's been standing up to people, lying, and convincing them to do things he wants them to for literal millennia.

The Heaven v. Hell fight could've just continued right along, but in comes Aziraphale, asking questions about if it's the Great Plan or the Ineffable Plan, and suddenly no one knows for sure and the whole thing falls apart.

He convinces Crowley with little more than a look to make Hamlet a success.

He stands up to the archangels in the Job minisode, and when that doesn't work, he fakes it with his bestie, and outright lies to seal the deal.

He's going up to Heaven and he's going to make those idiots do the right thing regardless of how they feel about it, and he's going to do it in a way that makes them think it was their idea in the first place.

The Metatron may be a master manipulator, but two can play that game. And my money is on Aziraphale.

#gomensnaap #day 2 #good omens meta #Aziraphale #BAMF Aziraphale #good omens s2 #good omens s3 thoughts #good omens speculation #good omens #good omens spoilers #good omens season 2 spoilers #aziraphale

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literaryvein-reblogs · 7 months ago

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The Basic Elements of Tragedy

When we think of tragedy in the context of literature in English, we think first of Shakespeare: of the ‘great tragedies’, Hamlet (1600– 1), Othello (1604), King Lear (1605) and Macbeth (1606). With such plays in mind, and adapting Aristotle’s definition in the Poetics, we could suggest that tragedy comprises 4 basic elements.

There is a central character (the protagonist), someone who is ‘noble’ and with whom we are able to sympathize or identify.

This character should suffer and (preferably) die, and his or her downfall or death should roughly coincide with the end of the play.

The downfall or death of the central character should be felt by the spectator or reader to be both inevitable and ‘right’ but at the same time in some sense unjustifiable and unacceptable.

It has to feel apocalyptic. As we have already indicated, it is not just the death of the protagonist with which we are presented in a tragedy: in identifying with the protagonist who dies, we are also drawn into thinking about our own death. And because the protagonist’s death is invariably shattering to other characters, tragedy always engages with a broader sense of death and destruction, a shattering of society or the world as a whole.

Without these 4 elements, there cannot be a tragedy.

From an Aristotelian perspective we might want to propose additional elements, in particular the notions of:

peripeteia (‘reversal’),

anagnorisis (‘revelation’ or ‘coming to self-knowledge’) and

hamartia (‘tragic flaw’ or ‘error’).

Tragedy is offensive, it generates disunity and exposes disharmony.

Like psychoanalytic theory (itself of course crucially indebted to Sophocles’s Oedipus the King), tragedy makes the unconscious public.

It leaves us uncertain about our very identities, uncertain about how we feel, about what has happened to us.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

#literature #writeblr #writers on tumblr #dark academia #spilled ink #writing reference #writing prompt #creative writing #fiction #writing inspiration #writing ideas #writing notes #light academia #writing resources

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scalproie · 2 years ago

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So. Detective Noel:

Introduced himself with the words "I'm golden" - it'd be redundant to say that gold and yellow are pretty important in malevolent, often linked to john, yellow and the king. Just a few episodes ago we were told that "nothing gold can stay". So maybe it's just a generic greeting but also it's too on the nose. Why specifically golden?

"Believe me, I know it" when told about Arkham

Just after saying that, he asks Arthur to light his cigarette, presumably out of nowhere, twice. Now see, we havent seen the lighter in a hot minute but it was important enough that Arthur has the "This Too Shall Pass" lighter all the way from Arkham at the beginning and its special enough that Kayne missed it when listing Arthur's inventory, and now Noel has seen it

Some people have noted that his reference to hamlet is the same the King in Yellow did (as adam) all the way back in season 1 when Arthur was in a coma

They also noted that the way he answers Arthur's questions of what he wants have the same cadence as Kayne's answers back in Carcosa in the Dreamlands

And of course, he seems to know about eldritch beings and the likes and what Arthur went through seems familiar to him enough

#WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY #is he related to someone we already know or is he a new player is what im asking #tagging later #malevolent #malevolent spoilers

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orqheuss · 9 months ago

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Even the iron still fears the rot PART 6

(Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow/GN!Reader ANGST)

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Summary:

What was a stupid man to the will of a god? *** Fire and carnage call your name, and you answer with a smile. God have mercy on the souls who take what is yours.

Word count: 5.5k

Tags: murder, dismemberment, immolation (burning alive), body horror, graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of murder, manic behavior, gore, blood, strangulation, disembowelment, decapitation, torture, medieval torture methods, delusions of grandeur, mania, morally grey character, eldritch horror elements, slight cannibalism? kind of, just lots of blood and guts and murder

Read at your own discretion. Seriously.

See authors note at the end

Fire was always your element, that's why it was such a shock when you were sorted into Hufflepuff. Of course, the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. You weren't brave in the face of danger like Gryffindor, weren't ambitious in all aspects of life like Slytherin, and definitely weren't wise beyond measure like Ravenclaw. But, Merlin, were you loyal, and loyalty came with a certain type of fire that kept you burning.

There really was no other element that fit Hufflepuff. Sure, earth was stagnant— safe. But, even the ground is failable. The earth cracks— it splinters— it breaks under too much pressure. Fire thrives. Fire breathes. Fire learns. Loyalty comes with the same type of knowledge. You learn how people tick— how the world moves around you and interacts with everything it touches. Those you have touched you had to study first before placing your loyalty in their hands. Their mannerisms, their disposition; anything that gives them that unique other-ness that set them apart from the rest of the kindling around you. You didn’t trust easily, like some of your other housemates. It took you time to learn things about people. But, once they earned your loyalty, there was no question that they deserved it.

Fire is much the same, in a sense. It was loyal to the wood that burned under its embers— loyal to the air that fueled its hearth. It takes its time to light, letting the friction of another's touch warm their skin first before setting itself ablaze. You needed to be gentle with it, lest it fizzled out before a spark could even be made. But, once it starts, it's almost impossible to kill it before it wishes to die. It can be a small pyre, just enough to warm those brave enough to put their hands near its flame— the caress of a friend, arms wrapped around your shoulders or fingers in your hair. It can also be an inferno, tendrils of heat licking at the sky as it scorches through the trees and buildings of towns, countries, worlds, devouring everything it can reach and so much more.

Tonight, you were the inferno.

The coordinates in the letter were straightforward enough. You flew south east, taking off from just outside the covered bridge along the south side of Hogwarts and flying down, down, down over the Hamlets until you reached the northern tip of the South Sea Bog. Viering off to the right as the crow flies, you circle the air until an abandoned bothy caught your line of sight. You landed roughly, narrowly avoiding the large tree decorating the center of the space, and touching your feet to the ground with such velocity that it must have created waves. Voices came from your north side— maybe ten, you could hear, maybe more. Their thick cockney accents called into the night like the sound of woodpeckers drilling into a yew. Identical balls of light glowed to life from their stations— one on the roof of a dismally grey building and the other roaming along the exterior wall. If it was another time, a different situation perhaps, you would have taken a moment to marvel at the lovely little feat of magic.

Creeping closer, you get a better view of the tiny hobble. It was a measly little feat of architecture, maybe the size of a classroom if you had to guess. The entirety of it was made out of grody, dilapidated stone with moss just beginning to peek through the cracks between bricks. Half of its base was sunk into the ground at least a foot or two, giving the small structure a slight tilt on its axis. There were no windows or doors from what you could see, just the neverending grey on grey on grey. Even the moss was tinged grey, like it was dying from just being a part of the terrible walls. No one would have ever found this place if it wasn’t for the coordinates— it was far off the beaten path and unassuming enough that many would deem it a simple ruin. It probably was up until two days ago. No sound could be heard besides the incessant rumble of the men talking and the soft call of frogs along the water's edge. It would be easy to take them out, there were enough stones around to create their own personal rock slide. You could do a number of things with your ancient magic if you focused enough. You could turn them into chickens and take them back to the castle kitchens, make them the size of bugs and squish them into nothing but red stains and bursted entrails on the ground, eviscerate them entirely— just dust in the breeze; none of those options were appalling enough to satiate the hunger burning in your gut.

Monsters deserved a monstrous death.

There was a time, a year ago at most, that you could be considered the same— a monster. That’s what Rookwood called you, anyway. A pretty monster. A beautiful weapon.

He had no idea how true his assessment was. Not until it was his pulse pounding under your fingers, his breaths getting weaker and weaker with each squeeze. He was easy prey.

Monster.

How simple.

There was truly no point in sneaking up on the camp. Not that the element of surprise really mattered, anyway. You wanted them to know you were here— that you were coming for what was rightfully yours. You wanted them afraid of the dark and the cold like a child calling out for its mother, fearful of what could be hunting them in the places that they couldn’t see. They took something from you, and you were going to take their lives as collateral.

Your first course of action was taking a barrel of smoke powder and slamming it down on the head of the nearest poacher; the bottom source of light blinked out with him. The boom was catastrophic— the light blinding like an asteroid crashing into the ground. Viscera coated the dying earth in a lovely red, the man’s blood painting the atrocious grey building the color of your festering ire. All attention was suddenly on you.

Good.

The harsh crackle of magic filled the swamp around you, sparks flying to the left and right of your form as you quickly zipped along the treeline, narrowly avoiding death by the skin of your teeth. The villains laughed with each strike, too giddy in their hunt to realize that they were firing into empty air. They were nothing but naive woodland creatures, grazing upon the earth below their cloven hooves and drinking from the stream nearby, unaware of the rifle narrowed at their succulent flanks. Your burning hatred gave you a strength you had never known, even with the thrum of a magic so ancient and uncharted under your skin. Whole trees were lifted with your ire, their bark splintering against the wall of the bothy with each flick of your wrist. Each action was haphazard and chaotic, but filled with purpose all the same. You hoped the cacophony of your destruction made it through the thick stone walls before you. I’m coming, my loves, it shouted. Hold on just a moment more.

You were toying with the villains, a dance of agony and death— knowing you were there, but never being able to see you. One lone member of the pack came into view, his back to you and his wand poised to strike. Your diffindo struck him perfectly across the neck, his head falling to the ground with a satisfying plop.

Two down, eight to go.

You made your move then, taking the break in the chaos to disappear from your original position and reappear atop the slanted house in a fury of twisting light. The two patrolling the space didn’t have the chance to defend themselves before you swished your wand in their direction, summoning your ancient magic from deep within your veins and melting their insides into the consistency of gravy at Sunday dinner. Their screams of pain ricocheted off the tall mountains in the distance, bathing the valley in the sound of murder before pittering off into gargles as their lungs liquified inside their chest. You stepped back from the carnage, avoiding the steaming puddle of goop that was once their eyes and other various internal organs. Two birds, one stone.

It was oddly calming, taking their lives. Like breathing.

By now, the other six poachers had noticed your appearance on the roof. A pity, truly. You wanted to continue your little game for a moment longer. No matter, though, you sighed to yourself. Calls to order came from your right, their voices bubbling over with nervous panic. You felt your head whip in their direction, seemingly moving on its own accord. An unearthly smile stretched the skin of your cheeks, something primal glinting in the way your canines caught the ball of light bobbing next to your hand. The three men below you stilled, eyes wide in their sockets as you prowled closer to the edge of the roof. Fear screamed from their bodies like cicadas in the dead of night— their heartbeats slamming against their chests at the speed of a hummingbird. You figured that if you concentrated enough, you could hear them pour from their bodies like water, gushing more and more until the stream stilled and their pathetic forms fell back into the earth where they came from. Delicious. You smiled wider.

True fright danced in the frigid air around you, ruffling the honey toned sweater clinging to your torso and making your scarf sway in the breeze— a child as innocent as freshly fallen snow covered in the blood of their enemies. One should never trust the illusion of blind naivety.

The tiny ball of light, barely larger than a bludger, nudged you in the arm as it continued on its predetermined path, drawing your attention away from the cowering men. You picked it up gently, twirling it around in your left hand as you raised it closer to your face.

“Dear God…” breathed one of the poachers at your feet, visibly recoiling as your grin came into better focus. A Muggleborn like me, you mused. Interesting.

Your grin stretched wider as a demented laugh poured from your lips. “No,” you sneered. “He is not coming.”

A pop— you squeezed the light in your hand and bathed the world in total darkness.

“I am your god now.”

True black night only lasted for a moment before the three fearful poachers raised their wands into the air, light streaming from the tips like a tiny balefire against the starry sky. They turned their gaze back to the roof, but you were gone, nothing but smoke and the last little tendrils of blue magic fizzing in the air. You could hear their hearts— staccato beats to the symphony of your horror. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. It was glorious, tantalizing, divine. You were ravenous for their blood. You wanted to spill their hot, life-giving essence across the world in a rainfall of astronomical proportions. You wanted their bodies piled against the stone walls until their skeletons created a terrible bone door like the many hidden in the Feldcroft catacombs. Bone doors, bone stairs, bone decorations…hell, the ivory material would even make a lovely handle for your wand. Maybe you’d gift them to your beloved boys after finally setting them free— a cat dropping a mouse at the feet of its owner after a hunt well done.

The men remained stone still where they originally stood, backs now turned to the wall and wands waving wildly in front of them for any chance of spotting you in the dark. A dark chuckle bubbled from somewhere inside of you, sounding deep and deranged in the chilled night air. Their heartbeats picked up. You smiled. A flash of light streaked across the ground near their faces— you— and then their wands were gone, and everything was black once again.

The darkness had a comfort to it, that night. Most are afraid of the dark— of what could come out of the dark. Demons, ghosts, horrors unknown to mankind. It sucked the air from your lungs and left you shivering on the ground, truly scared and blubbering for your mother. The darkness swallowed happiness and light, it hid behind your terror and smelled your fear. You reveled in it— thrived in it. In that moment, feral and begging to choke on the blood of your enemies as you ripped their skin from their throats, you felt at home.

You were the monster in the dark.

You were their nightmare.

You were their god.

The four horsemen of the apocalypse perched on your shoulders and whispered sweet nothings in your ears, and it sounded like music.

In that dark— that dread— even you weren’t sure where you were. You were everywhere. You were nowhere. You were both. You were neither. You were all.

What was a stupid man to the will of a god?

You picked them off one by one; first the three at your feet, then the three hiding from you in the thicket. They could not hide from fate.

One went down in a trickle of fire, your hands gripping at their gnashing jaw and feeding the incendio from your wand down their throat. Hellfire cannot kill the beast.

Two choked on their own tongues, your bombarda launching them through the air and skewering them on the branch of a tree, their limbs limp at their sides and blood dripping from their mouths frozen in a silent scream. Red was beginning to become your favorite color.

That left the three in the woods, no doubt soiling their britches at the sounds of their compatriots' violent demise. The trees shivered under your harsh gaze, fearful of what your ire would bring to those hiding amongst their trunks. You were beginning to get bored of the chase— it was time to get what you came for.

Callously casting accio along the treeline, you pulled one of the poachers to you, their face gaunt and their body shaking in horror. Your brows furrowed at the sight, smile finally dropping from your face at the view of only one body instead of three. Anger festered under your skin as you dropped the sniveling man, already annoyed by his pleas for mercy. The smell of urine clung to his form and you cringed internally. Grabbing at the collar of his robe, you pulled him up from where he crumpled to the ground, dragging him until you were face to face. Tears clung to his lashes and it gave you the slightest shiver of vindication.

“Where are the others?” You said, serene and calm; your face gave a much different tone as your mouth twitched, fighting against the urge to twist your lips into an animalistic snarl.

“They— they ran.” He stuttered, lower lip trembling.

You sighed to yourself, finally allowing your visage to drop its neutrality and turn into the terrible thing it desired— all teeth and malice. Coal blazed to life in your eyes.

“How disappointing.” You sneered in his face, throwing him roughly into the side of the bothy and watching him slide down against the grotesque floor, blood and mud mixing together into a thick viscous paste.

You could taste his panic in the air around you, mixing with the copper of the ichor plastered against every surface imaginable. It was truly a bloodbath at your feet. You were sure you didn’t look much better; you could see the vibrant crimson liquid dripping down your face and arms in his wet eyes. You bathed in the lives you took, and it looked like war paint.

Your anger vibrated against your skin, electricity sparking in the air around you and twirling around your body like a macabre dance of death— a masochistic tango. The man whimpered before you, trembling at the image of your glory— your birthright covering your form in foreboding lightning of blues and golds. Now you were a god.

A beauty of carnage. A vision in red.

You stalked closer to your prey, teeth chattering and tongue desperate to taste the death rattle that would breathe from his throat at the time of his demise. This one needed to be good— slow. You wanted to take your time. You needed answers.

“Where is the entrance?” You asked, squatting down and resting your elbows against your knees— the picture of relaxation in the face of danger— a tiger playing with its food before tearing into its flesh. The poachers' shivers grew more violent by the second.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish struggling for air on land, words beginning then stuttering to a halt as fast as they left his lips. Each syllable wasted sent a spike of rage in your gut— his squeaks of terror no longer giving you a taste of joy, instead filling you with fury. Time was wasting. Ominis and Sebastian could be dead, and he was stalling.

You pressed your wand harshly into his face, the tip divoting his cheek painfully and the hot wood sizzling his skin. Burnt flesh filled your nostrils. He squeaked out a whimper.

“Where is the entrance, rat?” Your voice was filled with a dark, tempestuous temper.

The tears gathering behind his eyes finally spilled down his face, blubbering like a toddler with a skinned knee.

“It-It’s around f-front. You ‘ave to t-tap the bricks. Like this.” He said, demonstrating the pattern to you before struggling to lean away. His voice cracked pathetically. “Please spare me. Please. I ‘ave a family— ‘ave kids. I-I’ll tell the others to never mess with ya or ya boys again. Please ‘ave mercy!”

His voice sobbed into the night, grating against your ears. Your anger felt like a festering boil in your gut, growing more and more until it was fit to burst. He had children? Children like the ones he helped kidnap and torture? How dare he beg for his life using them as leverage. Ominis and Sebastian were your family. They were yours. And he t o u c h e d them. You were going to make him feel every bit of pain he could. You wanted to see how much evil evil could take.

You stood to your full height, your limbs stretching taller than ever before— taller than the sky. Taller than the heavens. Before the useless, weak man stood something reverent. Mania blistered under your skin and whole forest fires screamed behind your eyes.

You were a wildfire— a blaze in the dark.

And blazes b u r n.

His feet struggled against the muck-covered floor, boots slipping from under him as he tried desperately to run from your imposing form.

Your smile stretched across your face, cheeks straining against the pressure and teeth glowing in the moonlight. “Pick a god and pray, coward.”

Fire circled around you, streaming from the tip of your wand like a fountain of deadly light as you raised it slowly over your head. Your arms thrusted upwards towards the blackness above, fingers spread wide like a sinner praying at the pews of his own end. A circle of embers blazed to life around the sniffling man, scorching the ground and drying the earth to clay pottery. The grass caught ablaze and smoke poured into the sky.

Heavy pants cascaded around you like a waterfall, whimpers and pleas sounding like music to the deaf. “Please! Mercy! Mer—”

A tornado of flame swallowed the man whole, and the night was filled with screams once again.

The inside of the bothy was just as dark and dismal as the outside— more grey attacking all surfaces and covering everything in an eerie shade of desolation. The only difference was the presence of natural light and sound; as soon as you entered it was like being trapped in the center of a tornado: peaceful, quiet, calm, but something temperamental lurking on all sides. Behind the coded bricks lay a long hallway, stacks of boxes lining the walls from the floor to the ceiling. The smell of mildew hung heavy in the space, coating the air around you like a thick paste. Each step made it harder and harder to breathe, the only thing keeping you going is the burning hatred boiling over in your chest. Every inch of you felt like a bomb close to explosion— one wrong move and the whole place would go up in flames.

You moved steadily down the hallway, careful to not jostle anything in your path lest it alert anyone hiding in the shadows. You gripped your wand tightly in your hand, the gilded handle threatening to slip from your grasp because of the blood coating your palms. Blood covered you from the top of your head to the boots adorning your feet, each step leaving a perfect imprint of your heels like deer tracks in the snow. Water trickled down from the ceiling, each droplet ricocheting around the thin, claustrophobic space, and booming in your ears. Your eye twitched along with the beat. Drip, drip, drip. It filled the room with macabre music, beginning your true orchestral ode to death— the magnum opus of your building rage.

From the left came the sound of scuttering of feet against the dirt floor below. Your head whipped in their direction, eyes wild and teeth bared, ready to tear and rip and devour. You can see nothing in the darkness, just the neverending blackness holding your future victory or death. The sound was to your right now, shoes sliding against the floor like a ghost calling to you. You growled low in your throat— beastly. Feral.

A strong, heavy voice broke through the stagnant quiet. “Fiat lux.”

From the nothingness came a blaze of light, blue and twinkling like the stars above. One of those glowing circles from outside began to take form, wisps of magic circling around and around until a solid shape formed. Before you stood a brute of a man, eyes narrowed against yours and grin thin and cracking across his face like shattered porcelain. His arms were crossed against his chest, biceps thicker than the trunks of live oak trees and no less strong and powerful.

“You’re a long way from home, little rabbit.” He sneered, gravel thick in his voice like he swallowed rocks.

You leveled your wand at his chest, a clandestine smile stretching your cheeks.

“Where are they?” You purred, the picture of innocence if not for the death that hung from you like a second skin.

This man was not a danger to you— he was nothing. You were something holy in this place of hellish savagery. He would soon kneel at the pews of your righteousness just like the others did.

The man tisked, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “That’s no way to start a conversation. How about we try a ‘hello’?”

You grit your teeth, tone still sickeningly sweet and dripping with the deranged vivocity that lay under your skin since Ominis and Sebastian had been taken from you. “How about you step aside before I grind your bones into dust?”

He laughed, grating and rough against the sensitive skin of your ears. You didn’t want his laughter, you wanted his screams.

“You’re different from what I expected.” He mused, drawing his wand and twirling it between his fingers. His laissez faire attitude singed the ends of your veins, setting your sinew alight in a fiery storm. “They talked about you, you know. How much they loved you— how they prayed you’d come save them. It was pathetic, really, how much hope they had.”

Your ears twitched at his use of past tense.

Loved you.

Prayed for you.

Hoped for you.

The connotations made you feel vicious.

God help this wretched filth if they took what you loved away from you.

If the brute wanted a reaction, he would get one.

He twirled the ball of light in his hand now, revealing his mangled face and disintegrating teeth to the world. You laughed in his face at his pitiful attempt of intimidation.

That cocky, full of himself look in his eyes made you want to squash his weak larynx under your foot.

His pompous attitude was beginning to get tiring. You raised your wand in front of you, wordlessly casting lumos and hovering the tip near your face. As soon as your bloody visage came into view his eyes widened, lids stretched from his cheeks to his brows and eyeballs threatening to pop out of their homes like a corpse baking under the sun. It was glorious. His sudden nervousness flooded the room with the smell of sweat, and you couldn’t wait to take a swim in those cataclysmic waters.

That never ceasing smile on your face stretched somehow wider until it reached a point of madness. You stepped closer to the poacher, now minutely quivering in his large boots under the intensity of your gaze. In the low light, your pupils seemed to glow like a predator hiding in the tall bushes— demented glee turning the once muted colors a startling vermillion. Ancient magic coursed under your skin and sparked into the air. Luminous blue and encompassing red swirled under your feet until everything blended into an otherworldly purple, dyeing the room like stained glass in a cathedral. Manic energy twinkled in your eyes, and your hands longed to write entire scriptures on the walls in his blood.

The weak little poacher attempted to straighten his shoulders, making a big show of standing tall and resolute in the stone doorway between you and your prize, and you couldn’t help the barking laugh that bubbled from your chest. What a pathetic waste of space.

His eyebrows twitched, eyes still filled with fear but voice tinged with animosity. “What did you do, you little shit?”

His snarl fell to deaf ears— nothing but the madness inside consuming you. You laughed again, maniacal and hysteric like a hyena on a hunt, and began slowly pacing back and forth, making sure to keep your eyes trained on him as you inched closer and closer.

“Oh, a little of this. A little of that. I can go more into detail if you’d like?” You stopped then, standing an arms width from the man and twirling your wand between your fingers like he did earlier. The smile never left your face, and you doubted it would for some time. “The screams were my favorite part.”

He growled, jowls dripping saliva and wand poised to strike— the ball of light unceremoniously dropped from his hand and floated peacefully in the air. “You’re going to pay for that, and when I’m done with you, I’m going to go back to your little boys and crush their skulls under my boot.”

You flipped your own wand around in your fingers, tip pointed upwards towards his face and arm lax. A serene calmness flooded your body once again as you prepared for what was sure to be another short lived duel. “I’d love to see you try.”

His blinding anger was met with indifference, your eyes rolling on their own accord, easily deflecting the cast he sent your way with a dazzling show of sparks. Each spell he sent towards you was sent back tenfold, your blazing magic cracking against the mediocre shield the man threw up moments before you retaliated. As you stepped forwards he stepped back— a deadly game of cat and mouse that could only end in complete annihilation. You toyed with him more, smile never once leaving your lips and eyes nearly unblinking as the poacher's ragged face became more and more gaunt with distress. It was enjoyable, leading him through your little game— playing with your food before going in for the kill, like a wolf chasing a rabbit through the thicket.

With a flick of your wrist you sent your ancient magic in his direction, letting your malice carry the tendrils around his form before moving your arms in the shape of a large X. With each stretch of your arm came the loud thump of the weak little man slamming against the unforgiving ground below. His yells of pain were magnetic, drawing you closer to his torture as the smell of fresh, oozing blood filled your nostrils. You licked your lips with delight— glorious death.

Again, your mind chanted. Again again again.

For a moment the man didn’t move, the only sound breathing through the room being the delicate drops of water falling from the slanted ceiling. Some part of your twisted, idled mind believed you could still hear the beat of his heart thrumming in your ears. Maybe you could. Maybe it was your own heartbeat. At this point, nothing truly mattered anymore.

The brute groaned on the floor, arms carefully picking himself up and legs trembling as he raised to his full height again. Blood dribbled from the corners of his lips as he spit a chunk of flesh to the ground, watching his own tongue wiggle for a moment before falling still. A thick, muddled growl grumbled low in his throat at the sight.

“Awe,” you cooed. “What a pity.”

With a flash of movement the man threw his wand to the side, eyes wild and teeth bared in a snarl as he charged. A terrible yell screamed from his throat, no vowels or consonants able to be said without the piece of muscle once connected to his mouth, just the grotesque sound of rage and carnage. You easily side stepped as he blew past you, his hands grasping for your arms with no luck, leaving streaks of fingerprints in the blood marring your skin as he feebly fought for purchase. He slammed into the boxes behind you, tumbling heavily to the ground with another pitiful groan. You laughed heartily at the sound of his demise.

Tired of your new toy, you watched him stand to his feet once more, a look of boredom glazing over your eyes. The pathetic man snarled once again, steam nearly coming from his nose like a charging bull as he geared up to attack. This time you saved him the energy, easily throwing him across the room and into the other tall stack of boxes. He laid still again, breaths entering and leaving his lungs with heavy pants. You stalked towards him, prey finally in your clutches and a look of pure mania bleeding through your face with an intensity that would scare even the most deplorable of villains. His body slumped as you toed him over, eyes glazed as they stared at you, all the fight once in his body now sinking into the ground like toxic waste.

Your smile turned strained, the corners of your lips twitching in irritation. It was only fun when they fought back.

“Beg,” you said, voice empty. “Beg for your life.”

From his red-painted lips came a watery gargle, teeth stained the color of his fate. The chasm that once held his precious tongue now bare and splattered in crimson.

You tisked, condescension steadily dripping with each click of your intact tongue. Your foot carefully slotted itself in the space between his chin and his chest, pressing down against his Adam's apple.

“Can’t do it?” You asked. “What a shame.”

With a slash of your wand, blood began to bloom across his pudgy stomach, the slice from your silent diffindo digging deep under the layers of his skin and muscle until it reached the tightly knit knots of his intestines.

Pointing at the mess of flesh, you ignored the gargled sobs coming from under your heel as you spoke. “Levioso.”

With the steady hands of a medic, you levitated the dying man into the air by his longest organs, dragging him higher and higher into the sky until his entrails were able to wrap themselves around the ceiling beam above.

“Incarcerous.”

The flesh followed your direction. From the beams he hung there, arms spread wide at his side and legs dangling feebly in the air like a phoenix rising from the ashes. You released the body, letting gravity take hold as you watched his intestines hold strong to the stretch of wood they were tied around. Blood fell from the wound like rainfall before pooling on the ground in an incarnadine pond.

For the first time that hellish night, a bit of disgust slithered its way into your gut.

This monster was as much a part of you as the person who fixed their lover's little black button was.

Panic began to bubble inside of your chest again after hours of lying dormant, your eyes banishing the clouded malice that resided there for a moment before the storm struck again. Resolute determination covered your face like a mask as you shook it all away— there would be time to dismantle your evil and cry for your corpse-heavy soul later.

The poachers' blood began to seep under the door as you turned towards your future.

AN: Firstly, I want to say thank you so much to all of you who have continued to read this story even though its been A YEAR since I updated. Yea. Oops. I'm real sorry y'all. I wish I had one of those Ao3 writer things like "sorry I was in a cult lol" or "I was in a car accident and wrote this in the hospital" but I don't. I genuinely just couldn't bring myself to write. I don't even know why. Maybe I don't want this story to end. Maybe I'm just pulling shit outta my ass. Who knows. I'm determined to finish this, though, so I will.

Secondly, I am splitting this final chapter that I'm working on into two. So, expect another part after this. Right now the draft is nearing 10k words and I haven't even gotten close to the end, so I thought it would be best to split it lol.

I got a lot of feedback from some of my creative writing kids while working on this, and I honestly couldn't have brought myself to write more without them. Their demented murder ideas and praise kept me going. Thank you Lyric and Kory. I know you won't see this because if I get even a whiff of you on my Ao3 or Tumblr I will end you and you know it, but the help is still appreciated more than you know.

Please don't hesitate to comment or send me messages, and get ready for the finale.

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