#I’m in agony misery woe

[nani-nonny]

Oh goody my carpal tunnel is back! Yippeee

Now I can spend more days of agony writing reports, typing fanfics, and making arts n crafts with the kids at work

Oh how wonderful life is!

[eolewyn1010]

Dragging Frankenstein - Chapter 8

Time to make an innocent bystander suffer!

“A thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime […]” but “such a declaration would have been considered as the ravings of a madman" – And we can’t have people thinking you’re crazy. Got it. IT’S ALL ABOUT ME: 8

“I suffered living torture” – he can’t even feel bad for Justine without whining about how he suffers from his guilt.

Strange timing to note that Justine has grown up hot.

“confused and unintelligible answer” – well, that sure is weird from SOMEONE WHO WAS UP ALL NIGHT.

I’m not sure how to feel about the Creature being so insidious. Like, why pin it on Justine? William was a little twit and at least hurting him was hurting Victor, but how does Justine play into that?

Come to think of it, the creature’s hand prints on William’s neck must be way too big for Justine’s hands. Does no one here even look at the evidence they have? Do they just rely on gossip and witnesses (of which there are none)?

“I am the cousin of the unhappy child, or rather his sister”, or his mother, or his sister-in-law. Whatever. INCEST VIBES: 8

“acted like a most affectionate mother” – EVERY WOMAN IS A MOM: 7

“My own agitation and anguish was extreme during the trial” IT’S ALL ABOUT ME: 9

Woe would be upon Victor if he ever realized that something in the world is not about him.

“the tortures of the accused did not equal mine” -.- This is so fucking entitled, it gets a double whammy. IT’S ALL ABOUT ME: 10

And then they actually BELIEVE that she’s guilty?? Even Victor doubts his conviction for a moment, what a fucking DUMBASS. Ugh, I can’t believe these people.

And I hate Justine’s confessor with a passion. That ain’t religious support; that is fucking emotional torture. And, as every torture, it gets a false confession.

“I soon shall see you in heaven” – uh, no, Justine, you’re about to die with a lie on your lips. According to your own convictions, you’re going to hell for perjury.

“The poor victim felt not as I did, such deep and bitter agony” …is Victor trying to set a record here or what? IT’S ALL ABOUT ME: 11

He does fucking NOTHING. He just WATCHES the whole ordeal. He watches Justine die and feels oh so bad for himself and doesn’t say ONE FUCKING WORD. I haaaaaate him.

And again, Victor gets gratefulness he doesn’t deserve. Justine, darling. Don’t. He’s got nothing to be credited for; he’s literally delivering you to the scaffold for. I dunno, his reputation?

“her’s was also the misery of innocence” – I think Victor has fallen in love with that count. IT’S ALL ABOUT ME: 12

Justine’s farewell to Elizabeth is so bittersweet, ngl, and gets her a queer send-off. DAS GAY: 19

“my purposed avowal died away on my lips” – yeah, right, as if. God, I hate him so much this chapter.

This chapter just may be where Shelley deliberately has the entire God-Adam-Lucifer parallel crash and burn. Because according to the set-up, the role of Eve, one that's crucial for the Paradise Lost reference, is not filled. Eve is curious and proactive, as much a corrupter as she is corruptible - but female characters in Frankenstein are all passive, meek little saints with no agenda. Justine clearly is punished for being in possession of something she shouldn't have, but she is as pure as they come. So her being punished is a miscarriage of justice - and Victor, self-proclaimed God, fails to set this right. Whelp, someone has to take the fall, Justine. Bummer. By which I mean Victor deserves to suffer.

[bi-demon-ium]

so i was watching the sandman and i just think actually the angel of death & the obituary writer au based on dream of the endless & hob gadling (except without the homoerotic subtext)

like. obviously it wouldn’t be just the same but what i’m saying is the obituary writer, obsessed with death and murder and etc, declaring he himself has no plans of dying any time soon as he fully intends to keep writing about it for a long time to come. Literally Death Herself is here for this and is like lol. lmao. okay then how about you meet me here in a hundred years then, mortal, and we’ll see how that goes for you.

she’s fully expecting him to admit his “mistake” but she meets him a hundred years later and he’s literally just as chipper and weird and offbeat and happy and he’s like oh my GOD they’ve invented so many cool new things and now i can write my obituaries on a TYPEWRITER do you know how COOL THAT IS and he’s just like. happily recounting all the stuff he’s seen and learned and she’s like “what the fuck” and the button-eyed raven is like WOE AND DESPAIR. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS DUDE

so shes like okay damn a hundred years again (i like to imagine they meet in a graveyard instead of a tavern but he does keep bringing tea and he insists on bringing a cup for both her and the button-eyed raven even though neither of them ever indulge) and they meet up and sure enough!!!! there he is, in all black, chattering on about how the interesting obituaries he’s made and how his taxidermy habit is going and the new advancements in the medical/death fields and she’s just like. very reluctantly growing fond of this strange little dude. she’s like “how can a mortal be so irritating and yet so goddamn endearing” and the button-eyed raven, who O.W. keeps bringing berries and little strips of meat and stuff for, is like MISERY AND AGONY. HE HAS GOOD TASTE THOUGH

and like. it soon becomes clear that he’s. kind of lonely. lowkey. man loves talking to her and telling her about all the wonders of life--and she’s listening and sharing literally zero (0) things about herself, although very funny if later she’s like [with great gravity] i.... am the angel of death and hes like yea i kno<3 im very good at this death stuff u kno i am The Obituary Writer and shes like (suddenly realizing she doesn’t actually know his name) hang on--

(alternatively she’s like *waiting for him to freak out* and he’s like oh. em. GEE! i’m a huge fan!!! you’re so cool wow i’m friends with the coolest person<3 and she’s like. right. i forgot. you’re fuckin weird.)

anyway like. idk it falls apart a little here but some other thoughts:

the obituary writer coming to her, deeply excited that he’s made a friend (!!!!!) a friend a friend a FRIEND!!!

the angel of death privately thinks but she is mortal, and you are not.

she is not happy to be proven right.

she wonders if this will make him ask for death.

it doesn’t.

(he doesn’t ask for charlotte’s life, either, only asks what can be done about the heart--asks what can be done, but not for her to do anything.)

(she’s glad he understands, glad he doesn’t presume--but wonders if it’s because she’s not a “friend”?)

also i was thinking about how it would be hard to separate O.W. from crestfall and being immortal usually lends to one moving around a lot but then i was like “lmao actually this is crestfall. everyone’s just like oh yeah that’s o.w. he’s been around since like the 1600s or something idk but he’s weird and he’s probably killed a guy at some point. great taste in wine tho”

 the angel of life, the interfering sibling with a grudge

also i feel like the hundred years thing wouldn’t hold up bc o.w. is just like. cheerfully like [starts shouting in a graveyard] HEY!!!! CAN I ASK YOU A QUESTION!!! IM WRITING AN OBITUARY ABOUT THIS LADY WHO DIED BY LEAF BLOWER AND I’D REALLY LIKE TO UNDERSTAND THE LOGISTICS HERE and she just walks out from behind a gravestone like. o.w. you DO know i’m busy right. and he’s like PLEASE and she’s like ...........................okay listen it was really funny actually,

would the angel of death, too, be captured? would o.w. imply she was a friend and invoke her rage/cold indifference/pride? how similar we getting here?

i just think Obituarywriter “If Someone Doesn’t Hug Him In Season Two I’m Rioting” Lastname deserves friends. and i feel like his relationship with the angel of death is real interesting bc it’s like ARE they friends? do they consider themselves friends? he’s clearly fine randomly talking to her about stuff and she definitely tolerates him (although there’s a comment about “i can’t WAIT to take your soul” i feel like she’s at the LEAST fond of him) so like. lkdfjgdfghg???

i feel like their relationship is best summed up by that thing i put in a summary once:

the angel of death watching her weird little guy vault some gravestones and sprint away before she's even finished her sentence: ah. what a weird little guy

[firespirited]

Gastrointestinal

distress? tag yourself

   agony    anguish    pain    misery    discomfort    torment    tribulation    woe    hurt    torture    sadness    sorrow    hardship    pang    excruciation    travail    affliction    danger    difficulty   heartbreak    trouble    unhappiness    strait(s)    emergency    rack    heartache    ache    cross    joylessness    jeopardy    soreness    crucible    twinge    smarting    pinch    trial    stitch   asperity    rigor    throe    danger    risk    jeopardy    trouble    peril    endangerment    imperilment    threat    helplessness    vulnerability    harm's way    precariousness    susceptibility    exposure    openness    weakness    liability    defenseless alarm    concern    anger    worry    disturb    bother    distract    discomfort    plague    disquiet   dismay    upset    agitate    discompose    unsettle    distemper    annoy    ail    haunt    exercise    flurry    irritate    fuss    perturb    frazzle    aggravate    derail    confuse    undo    exasperate    alarum    rattle    unhinge    hagride    weird out    embarrass    harass    vex    harry    fluster    freak (out)    bug    irk    fret    discourage    pique    put off    pester   chafe    discomfit    gall    grate    put out    rile    peeve    disconcert    nettle    bedevil    get    dispirit    chivy    abash    confound    discountenance    nonplus    shake up    mortify   dishearten    chivvy    faze    unnerve    jar    demoralize    daunt

I’m between gastrointestinal tribulation and gastrointestinal haunting today.

[elegyforiphigenia]

HAPPY NEW YEAR - or, punchdrunk ramblings.

The snake slithers round and digs its venomous fangs into its own flesh. Polluting its own body with destruction self-forged, the reptile has crafted a circle. Soon, the snake dies, but it is not afraid. Death is a little like shedding a skin, and it has experience in that. The old cloak falls to usher in the new. Across the city, bells toll out, heavy in their swinging gait of religion that does not understand it is not welcome in these halls. At first, singing for death, they are sombre creatures. Then, a lighter melody infects them, swelling across with joy – there is no longer death, for birth has come, and just as fear rings in the bells of death, hope tickles the bells of birth, for they forget death holds just as much life as first breaths. It would be an extraordinary thing – if it did not hark this repetitious cruelty. For some, perhaps, it is lovely: certainly, the mother who stands mourning too many of her children might rejoice in the knowledge that the circle will soon encircle her, and she will forget all these woes and she will hug her children to her breast once more. Another mother, however, might perceive it as the most monstrous creation: she watched her daughter die, and just as she gained vengeance for it – well, no time to dwell on that, for she must endure that horror once more. Both must watch their kin condemned, farewell consanguine dearest for they’ll slit you sanguine.

It must be nice to live in a world where the year, no matter the torment, will always culminate hopefully; where it seems as if you are gifted with a blank slate and a glass of prosecco beaming up at you with bubbles of promise. Oh, the bubbles will flatten, and your stomach will slowly begin to go queasy, realising it was all only a façade of the night, but nonetheless – you remember. Does it feel nice, to hold in your memory how the flames lapped at your skin? Lucky you, who might go forward with the knowledge to not tempt fate and touch fire. There’s a thing, some argue, called muscle memory; riding a bike is a bit like that, it gets ingrained in you, and even after a long while, you’ll never forget. You might argue that we get muscle memory: instinct kicks in with each time we forget and relive our steps. Perhaps in that there’s prophecy. With each new replay, each old hour of the damned, the suggestion lurks under that we will remember…but tell me this, you in your white masks spelling out nothing, does it ever change? It does not. You do not care. You are content, complicit to chain us to time, he who guards us and never lets us roam his vast majesty. Don’t worry, though. I’m not angry. I won’t chase you; even if I wanted to, even furies cannot outrun the hourglass before it tips again.

Small mercies. So some might say. We do not remember that we will relive. If riding a bike is muscle memory, then some experiences oppose this theory: the pain is forgotten so that we might willingly rebirth it. Childbirth is one of those things. Over and over again, women will endure a layer of hell, screaming and shattering and squelching out those darling first breaths as they breathe out agony. Would anyone want to stagger again into that cycle if they fully remembered the breaking? It’s a little loss. Something barely manageable. How could we endure it if we knew it would never end? The show must go on; the lotus eases the muscle. It’s sweet, doing nothing, it’s sweet, not remembering. But even then, we’re being lulled into the Lethe, and under its tides, we’ll never sleep. Even small mercies can go fuck themselves when every good is countered by evil twice the impact – even as I stand thankful that the pain goes, it swings battering round again; even as I reunite, all is snatched away again; even as I dream, there is always monsters.

Dismal words to hear; clawing misery into eyes till they bleed and wish that they, also, could be made to forget. But know this: just as the snake gnaws at itself, it defeats the evil, and just as monsters chase dreams, the dreams will always be chasing the monsters – that is how a circle keeps going, onwards and onwards and onwards. The melody swells in my chest, even now. Just as I perish, I am birthed again, and the ash paints me alive.

[dandelionsgrief]

NO TIME TO DIE

The sun no longer existed in my life. Woe dipped fingers begged to entwine within its effulgence warmth, skin stretched white o’re war bitten bones as I reached for her; pearlescent tears marring my body and my soul. Frightful of the hymns of darkness, she kissed me goodbye, fading into a monochrome melancholy. ᅠ

My despair hits me, feeling like a kiss as it weaves into my teardrops. Rose guilt thorns are penetrating through my esophagus, taking oxygen from my jaded lungs. My tired lungs. I have fought a good fight up until now. I stopped breathing the minute I was born, and somehow I’ve survived without it. Oxygen has become a privilege and one I don’t deserve. I’m just a walking corpse developed by my harrowing agony, begging to be freed from my written tragedy.

My liquid melancholy is spilling from quivering lips as I dawdled through the dried foliage and every shade of midnight hue reflecting off every gravestone. Autumn’s threnody; her maple foliage and burgundy, gold strings bloom, adorning my pale skin that mitigated my wax sealed misery. Earthly lullabies and moon cries share my oleaceae, scented grief. It seeps into my bloodstream, ebbing and flowing like the cerulean seas of Poseidon.

There really hasn’t been a time where I haven’t been haunted by these lingering shadows of somnolent August. The month my parents died, and the month where 𝒔𝒉𝒆 appeared. Deep cinnamon rays begin to fulminate, awakening my demons that only awakened her. Her whispers caress against my fair hair follicles, reminding me that she will always be there. That 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 will always be there, prying inside me, waiting to sink her claws into my innocence.

❪ 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭. ❫

The pallid walls of the hospital room is where my tangerine dreams laid to rest. The doctor sitting across from me paints his notebook with his black inked pen that hold my symptoms of depression. My sheepskin blends in with the hospital gown, and only then do I realize how long I’ve been here. My fingertips grasp at the hems as my head throbs from red paroxysms, coming and going like hot flashes. The drips of morphine and flatlines can be heard in the corridor across from me as lifeless bodies move around the facility waiting for their escort of death. I can feel every goosebump spread throughout my body, head to toe, and yet I still find their soulless presence to be more comforting than this wannabe doctor. I sit restlessly on the chair as a gossamer haze conceals my disoriented face from an anorexic heart.

“ 𝓔lena, you seem to be doing better. In just a few weeks you’ll be ready to see the world again. Live your life as a normal college student. How does that sound? ”

I’m terrified. I’m not ready. She’s not gone yet, please, I can’t be free. She’s going to kill me.

“ Sounds… great, Doctor. Thank you! ”

I could hear my screams from the inside of my body beginning to gnaw at my flesh as a sign of torment. A sign to tell the truth, but truthfully I just wanted to get out of here. I’m tired of this veil that conceals my misery. I just want to find peace, but I believe I’ll never find it. Every moment of darkness has taught me to accept that I’ll always be a soul without a home, but this is no time to die, to give up. For the sake of my parents, I have to live.

❪ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 ❫

The weight of despair is pressed against my chest as seaweed strings coil around my sea kissed throat, restricting my vocal cords as I’m slowly being devoured by my own mind. I find myself becoming dazed as every second dawns.

“ P𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 E𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙖 … ” Katherine chimed, making my ear twitch with fear.

Please, Not again… no. shut up. shut up. 𝐬̵𝐡̵𝐮̵𝐭̵𝐮̵𝐩̵𝐬̵𝐡̵𝐮̵𝐭̵𝐮̵𝐩̵!

I’m darting through the graveyard, batting against the opaqueness that besieged the dirt covered walkway. I didn’t care which direction I was going, I just needed to get her out of my head even if it meant to drown in the nearby lake as messed up as that sounds, but at least I know if I’m buried beneath the sea, she will be silenced forever.

I am tangled between hell—bent and hell—sent, the crux of my heartstrings are languorously yet almost beauteously undone as she pulled on my threads, tugging and guiding me like the puppet I am. Much like Frankenstein’s beast, I’m stitched together from my tormenting aches and pulled apart by the hands of my creator as long as my grief lasts. She uses it against me like kryptonite.

“ It 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮. 𝙬𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙚, 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩. ” Her words dripped like kerosine, burning every inch of my abdomen. I press my palm against my sternum as she has me against her morbid chokehold, suffocating me. My knees tremble as I fall against the wet plaque, my fingers desperately reaching for the sun again.

Another throbbing sensation blinds me, my orchid tears overflow from the waves of her torment. My ribs begin to splinter as my staccato core swells. 𝓚atherine’s tempestuous siren song has paralyzed me for the last time.

“ Your 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚. 𝙄 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩. 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪. ”

She inhales my honeysuckle gloom while she hears me drowning in her scarlet filled threat. I unwillingly 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞 into her cavity of rage and revenge as she colors my eyes with what’s not there.

Now would be a good time to die.

[definegodliness]

Tales of Sumeria

Old man Lot and I go way back. We used to play marbles during recess. He used to cheat, though, the sorry sod. I can't tell you how many times I needed to 'remind' him that dragging your finger forth an extra arm's length is considered poor form in mibster culture. Afterwards, he'd play fair for a little while, but all too soon he'd fall back to his cheating ways. It was just in his system. He'd wait for my short attention span to kick in, and as soon as I was distracted he'd drag the marble all the way to the pit. As if I couldn't hear the distinct sound a dragged marble made. He swindled me out of my favourite bonkers that way. Long story short: I fell out to him. Cocked my arm to give him a sharp blow to the nose, but as I swung some bullshit blinding light repelled me.

When I finally regained my vision, Sumeria was nothing more than a distant memory. I roamed a new Earth, where people didn't play marbles anymore. They even removed the concrete slabs with marble pits, and changed them for the bland uniform version matching the rest of the pavement. What a bore. I dwelled upon my bonkers. Shining and turqoise, with a circling flame of cyan, they were beautiful. Then it dawned on me: I had lost my marbles altogether. Woe was me. I had worked so hard to accumulate them, winning matches, well, against fair playing opponents that is. All that effort, all gone in a blinding flash. Surely, no fate in recorded history had ever been so unfortunate as mine.

Today I sit on a terrace within the perpetually burning city (it's a dry heat, you get used to it), drinking a Long Island Ice Tea, and lo, and behold: old man Lot shambles past. He's carrying two heavy buckets filled with sand, it seems. Now, I'm not one to hold grudges, so I call out to him.

"Yo, L-dog, what's the haps?"

“.את השם הזה לא שמעתי הרבה זמן”

To avoid any further linguistics confusion, I will spare you the conversation of us getting reacquainted. He sat down to tell me a very long story, but a cloud shaped like an elephant drifted by -- trunk and everything! -- so I didn’t catch the most of it. Something with burning and salt pillars. I told him there’s probably some ointment for that, and that he really should consider washing his pillar more often. He looked at me bewildered. I quickly changed the subject to the two sand-filled buckets. 

Lot grins and tells me they’re actually salt-filled. How peculiar. I ask why in the frickety-frack he’s carrying salt-filled buckets around in the searing heat of midday, and he answers that if I really want to know, I should help him carry them and he’ll show me. My curiosity gets the best of me. First I carry one bucket, but after a couple of steps old man Lot ‘throws out his back’ and is in great pain, he says. I carry both buckets and he limps for a while, then skips ahead when we’re near the goal of our little journey.

It is a sculpture made of salt. His wife, he says. And I blink once, and blink twice, trying to think of something natural to say, but the blank expression never leaves my face. Old man Lot has clearly gone insane. I mean, I lost my marbles, but this was some next level bat shit craziness. I mumble something like ‘pleased to meet you’, as Lot yoinks the two salt-filled buckets out of my hands. He’s in his own world now, humming Ode an die Freude as he rolls out a leather kit, exposing a myriad of sculpting tools. 

I watch him breathlessly as he dances around the sculpture, nipping and tucking away. Removing salt from his ‘wife’’s body; a little less here, and a little less there. Then, he starts applying salt, using spit and sweat as he is sweating profusely, face all flustered in excitement. By now, his ‘wife’ has a caricature styled wasp waist, legs for days, and knockers that wouldn’t fit amid the length of the alphabet and can only be described as Z++.

Meanwhile, I have taken a couple of steps back, actually trying to covertly leave the scene, but it’s like watching a car crash, and despite it feeling wrong I fail to look away. He disappears behind his ‘wife’’s back, and I hear him feverishly muttering: ‘more salt, more salt’, as he is clearly shaping her honkytonk bedonkadonk junk in the trunk bootay. I watch it slowly popping out from the sides. Then, his muttering changes to grunts and groans as he, evidently, starts losing control. And as the air fills with old man Lot’s Ur-rowdy, elongated moans, I slap my hand against my face in dumbfoundedness and vicarious shame. Still looking through my fingers, though. 

I’m thinking, ‘there is no ointment in the universe that could ever treat these levels of pillar mistreatment’, as I watch the salt sculpture shimmy and tremble. Then, right at the moment of Lot’s Gorilla roaring climax, tragedy strikes. It seems that in Icarian befatedness, old man Lot went too far shaping his ‘wife’ to the ideal of his bestial fantasies. The grossly top-heavy sculpture, sitting on that two-hand-wrappable waist, collapses. All I hear now are wails of agony. He does not acknowledge me, nor the head of the sculpture that rolls to my feet, instead he is caught up in his own world of misery, frantically sweeping and clutching the crumbled remnants of booty. 

Hesitantly, I look down to my feet, and to the face of Lot’s ‘wife’. For some reason she looks exactly like Billy Crystal, beard and all. It’s an acquired taste, I suppose. Who am I to judge? Her eyes are spectacular, though. Shining and turqoise, with a circling flame of cyan. My bonkers. They are as beautiful as the day I lost them. I reach out for them to retrieve them, but once more a bright flash of light repels me. As I regain my vision I am a child again, frolicking a school playground in the 1990′s. 

Sandstone has been changed for concrete. But there they are, the slabs with pits to accommodate little mibsters. There’s a boy on the playground, he cheats but he doesn’t have a lot of friends, and it seems like he could use one. We play marbles together. I shrug when he swindles me out of my bonkers. Subconsciously, the lessons of past lifetimes linger. Somehow, somewhere, I remember there was a lifetime wherein I thought mine was the most unfortunate fate in recorded history for losing my marbles, but I’ve come to realize some people need them more than I do in the end. And somehow, somewhere, I have a feeling my new friend will find better use of them.

--- 11-9-2021, M.A. Tempels ©

[tiny-brooklyn-newsie]

I’m sorry. I hate scrolling through a long post.

Guzman Twins meet Agony, from Into The Woods.

Both:

Agony! Oh the torture they teach!

Jacob:

What's as intriguing—

David:

Or half so fatiguing—

Both:

As what's out of reach?

David:

Am I not sensitive, clever, well-mannered, considerate

Passionate, charming, as kind as I'm handsome

And heir to a throne?!

Jacob:

You are everything maidens could wish for!

David:

Then why no?

Jacob:

Do I know?

David:

That girl must be mad!

Jacob:

You know nothing of madness…

…'Til you're climbing her hair, and you see her

Up there, as you're nearing her

All the while hearing her "A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah"

Both:

Agony!

David:

Misery!

Jacob:

Woe!

Both:

Though it's different for each

David:

Always ten steps behind—

Jacob:

Always ten feet below—

Both:

And she's just out of reach

Agony that can cut like a knife!

I must have her to wife

[wherethingscomebackx]

Top 25 Larry fics of 2019

It’s that time again!

You may be familiar with these lists:

Top 25 Larry fics of 2016

Top 25 Larry fics of 2017

Top 25 Larry fics of 2018

As always, I read a lot of fic and the majority of it is Larry. I like making lists and I like Larry so I thought I’d do some minimal research of the top 25 larry fics published/completed in 2019 in order of least to most kudos (with links). All of these fics are top notch so you should all check them out! 

25.) Foolishy Laying Our Hearts on the Table by @runaway-train-works (11k)

“You think Harry wants that?”

“Dunno. Maybe. Wanna make him happy.” Harry takes advantage of the red light he’s pulled up to turn and look properly at Louis’ face. He’s not even looking in Harry’s direction though, focused instead on something out of his side window, head drooped, mindlessly playing with the string of his hoodie between his fingers, lost in his own world somewhere. For some reason, it makes Harry’s spine straighten.

“Because he’s your best mate?” Harry questions carefully.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

He couldn’t have heard him right. “What?”

Louis releases a deep breath, still not turning around. Harry wonders who he thinks he’s talking to right now. “He’s so pretty. Want to kiss him all day long. And buy him a big house and give him presents and marry him.”

Or

The one where Harry is in love with his best friend Louis but doesn't think he stands a chance until some wisdom teeth and a rather unusual confession might just change his mind.

24.) Tainted Saints And Velvet Vices by @toomanydreamers (126k)

A self-fulfilling Hogwarts AU in which Louis is new to seventh year and Harry is the resident devil-may-care Slytherin set to make his entire experience a living misery. Due to less than favourable circumstances they're forced to forge an unwilling, tentative relationship for their own survival. Repressed emotions, decidedly unromantic ballroom dancing, Triwizard Tournament tasks, creative jinxes and twilight flying above the Forbidden Forest ensue.

23.) all we can do is keep breathing by @avocadolouie (310k)

“Harry, I-I’m so sorry…” Louis stutters out, trying to keep his voice level and even, to portray a depiction of strength, but with the way Harry is looking at him, staring at him like he has a personal passage way straight to Louis’ soul, it’s so hard, nearly impossible.

That simple opening phrase, that short introductory acknowledgement that is often rushed out so easily, painlessly, at a safe distance. Giving a doctor the ability to portray empathy without true emotion, without feeling the full brunt and sheer force of the underlying pain itself.

But Louis feels it, he feels the crushing agony laced behind the phrase, he feels the weight of the painful words slipping from his lips, the cause and effect that the three-word expression holds. The distantly empty “I’m so sorry” that doctors throw out in self-preservation, isn’t at all empty for him. Louis recognizes it, he understands it, he feels it.

--

a fated story of two broken and battered boys who barely survived the unimaginable and how the love of one little brave girl defies all the odds and somehow puts them back together.

22.) Raise a Glass to the Four of Us by @2tiedships2 (25k)

Louis stared at his luggage.

Well. Apparently not his luggage, because the clothing he was looking at currently was a: worth more than everything he currently possessed, b: not his size at all, and c: more suited for a fancy ass lawyer than a holiday in NYC with his best mates.

“Ooh, nice loafers,” Niall said as he pulled one out of the suitcase. “I love the rainbows.”

“Okay,” Liam began. “What do you want to do first? Eat, shop for new clothes, or spend hours on the phone with the airline?”

Louis continued to stare at the luggage.

21.) You Have to Retreat to Advance by @2tiedships2 (18k)

“What am I going to do, Perrie? I can’t go on this retreat by myself. My boss literally said he wants to meet my omega.” Harry paused. “Okay, not literally but he definitely expects me to be bringing him.”

“Don’t people go on these things by themselves?” Perrie asked.

Harry shrugged. “Of course but that’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“My boss is expecting to meet my omega! I don’t have an omega!”

“Is this a paying gig?” Perrie asked.

“You mean paying an omega to spend the weekend with me? I’m sure the resort has nice amenities. Does that count?”

“I take that as a no,” Perrie said with an eye roll. “It’s okay, Louis might be willing to do it for free.”

“Who’s Louis?”

Or the one where Harry is expected to bring his longterm omega to the company's mountain retreat. Since he hadn't told anyone that they'd broken up months ago, he now has to find someone willing to play the part.

20.) A Darker Shade of Love by LittleSpoonStyles94 (750k)

Louis is a 30 year old multi-billionaire with a very dark past. He is violent and is a sadist with a taste for pain. Harry Styles is a 19 year old student who sets out to London after being kicked out by his homophobic father to follow his dreams. He wants to go to the best University to study but he needs a lot of money so he starts to work as a part time stripper at a gay club to support his studies and his life. The club he works at, Garland's, is part owned by Louis Tomlinson. When they meet, its life changing for the both of them.

19.) You Still Make Sense to Me by @amories (37k)

Harry, Louis, and their family navigate life together through the years.

18.) Like Water Over Fire (Like Water On Fire) by @mcssymon (119k)

“I’m sorry your highness, I think I misheard you, did you really say that you are hoping to meet your husband?” Oh god, Louis panicked. Was Prince Harry gay? Was he even allowed to be gay? Surely he wouldn’t be allowed to have a selection from a group of men, right?

Prince Harry looked partly like he wanted to laugh, but also very, very nervous about what he had just admitted, “Yes, sir, you heard correctly”

Or Prince Harry has 46 men and 13 weeks to find the husband of his dreams, Louis has a limited amount to time to live out a royal fantasy. They might just be exactly what the other needs.

17.) waiting for the tides to meet by @nauticalleeds (59k)

Louis lets out a deep breath, thinking about Harry’s soulmate. Thinking about how Harry’s soulmate is probably as beautiful as Harry, some person that Louis cannot compare to, and how the universe has chosen them to be Harry’s. Fuck the universe. “Fuck you,” he calls out to the universe. He’s aware of how crazy he sounds.

Maybe he is crazy, with how he’s falling for Harry. And fuck that, too.

Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.

Featuring a lovely cup of OT5, a road trip down the coast, and a scene where Harry eats a whole head of lettuce. Don't ask why.

16.) Call Answered by @vondrostes (249k)

The day after his 27th birthday, Harry Styles attempts suicide. Louis is flown to his bedside to unravel the mystery of why he did it after a flash drive is found with a note attached, addressed to Louis. On it are a collection of 78 songs, all written for different dates from their past.

15.) Counterbalance by @louandhazaf (44k)

Harry Styles loves two things: teaching ballet and racing motorcycles. Those two worlds collide when his greatest rival on the track, Louis “Tommo” Tomlinson brings his tiny siblings to Harry’s class.

14.) Everywhere and Nowhere by @2tiedships2 (16k)

Niall took a seat and said, "Apparently Louis' downstairs neighbor is a fan of giving Louis creepy gifts. Maybe I should go introduce myself and tell him that Louis actually prefers food."

"What has he given you?" Liam asked.

Louis shrugged as it were no big deal. "There was a rabbit's foot keychain on the door a little after he left from introducing himself and there was a small teddy bear sitting by my door tonight. Obviously I can't prove it's from him, but they seem to have his scent. I could be wrong though."

"Wow," Liam said, looking deep in thought. "That's old school."

"What's old school?" Niall asked. "Giving creepy gifts?"

"I've never known an alpha to do it, to be honest, but he's courting you."

Louis couldn't contain his look of disbelief directed at Liam. "He's courting me. Like some sort of romantic shit they'd do in the 1800s or something?"

13.) Swallow The Knife by whoknows (76k)

“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.

“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”

Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.

Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”

12.) and oh, all of your saturdays could end up in woe by ihavetoomuchfreetime (70k)

a fic in which louis' in a long-term relationship with an abusive asshole, niall, zayn and liam are so far but not really, and harry is that all too friendly guy who works in sainsbury's.

11.) thinking about the t-shirt you slept in by @absoloutenonsense (52k)

Harry's alpha fraternity donates to a local thrift shop (because of Liam's latent crush on a cute beta in his lecture). Louis' financial situation (and confusing omega instincts) lead him to make some interesting fashion purchases. Lots of pizza, feelings, and not-really-lying.

10.) Consequences by @allwaswell16 (78k)

Two years ago Harry let his powerful family come between him and the love of his life, something he deeply regrets. Louis has tried to move on from their devastating break up. Sometimes, he even thinks he has. It only takes one moment to freeze them back in time.

An amnesia au

9.) Strawberries & Cigarettes by @dimpled-halo (76k)

Harry looks up and immediately freezes. Next to Ms. Archie stands the boy from just the other day. The boy with the leather jacket and chipped black nails, that might or might not be sketched in the very book Harry has just placed on the table in front of him. The leather jacket is missing today, probably because they aren’t allowed as part of their required uniform attire, but Harry can still see the fading black nail polish on his nails, and eyeliner around his eyes. Harry’s mouth goes a little dry. This boy is so intriguing to him.

“Ye-yes, Ms. Archie?” Harry tries to play it cool, but he’s almost positive that his cheeks are burning red, and he’s relieved neither of them can tell how fast his heart is beating in his chest.

The boy seems to also recognize Harry, because his lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“Harry is at the top of his class. He’s your best bet at getting familiar with things around here.” She explains.

Louis nods, his smirk still very prominent on his face. “Thank you Ms. Archie. I’ll be sure to take advantage of young Harold here.”

*

Summary: Two stories, eleven years, and the two boys that never stopped loving each other.

8.) Pain makes people change by Deidei (113k)

An organization called Canis Lupus existed solely for changing humans imprisoned in their wolf form back to their human form. Some people after experiencing some traumatic event can only ‘’protect’’ themselves from the pain by forgetting everything. To do that, to feel safe, they shift into their wolf form.

Which they'll be stuck in forever should no one intervene.

Louis Tomlison went through a traumatic experience at the age of twelve in which he lost his mother, to make the pain go away he shifted into a wolf and fled. He survived in the wild as a wolf for five years until Canis Lupis caught him... Though he wasn't alone, he had a pup at his side.

7.) Pretty Please (With Sugar On Top) by @angelichl (113k)

Harry is a sugar baby omega who cons rich alphas for a living. Louis is a rich alpha with too much self-control.

6.) Enemies with benefits by ssii8 (267k)

Where Harry is captain of basketball team and Louis is captain of football team and they hate each other. But somehow this doesn't stop them from having sex.

And everything is perfect until they start to feel something more.

5.) Ready To Fall by whoknows (21k)

“Ninety and rising,” Nick says triumphantly, as though making Harry’s heartbeat pick up by thrusting an obscenely attractive person in front of his face is any kind of success. “Louis Tomlinson has just walked into our control room and suddenly our dear Harry Styles has lost all ability to speak. Could this be some kind of strange coincidence?”

“I hate you,” Harry hisses, forcing his eyes back into Nick’s direction, uncaring that the mic must have picked it up. “I thought we agreed that you were going to play fair.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nick denies, except he’s holding up a picture of Louis’ face now, sharp cheekbones prominent, soft lashes nearly sweeping against his cheeks as he looks down, and his fucking mouth –

“A hundred and two!” Nick crows, all but clapping his hands together in glee. “The highest it’s ever been!”

“To be fair, I did bend over the desk on purpose,” Louis’ voice comes crackling in the headphones. Harry practically breaks his neck whipping his head around at the sound of it, gaping at him through the glass panel. “You can’t really blame him for getting a little excited about that, can you?”

4.) Close to Nowhere by @angelichl (34k)

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Louis threatened as he quickly stepped out of his jeans.

“I don’t think that would work very well baby, seeing as you talk to dead people all the time.”

“I’ll kill you in your sleep and ignore your ghost. And don’t call me that.”

Louis and Harry are psychics who kind of hate each other. They go to Tennessee to investigate a haunting.

3.) Play Pretend, Find a Friend? by @angelichl (40k)

They had to pull back for air. Louis surveyed the guy’s face, in awe of his blown pupils and sharp jawline, the way their shared spit glistened on his lips.

“Hi,” he breathed. He blinked, and came back to himself a little bit, blushing at his own boldness. “Sorry. Is this okay?”

The stranger removed his right hand from the curve of Louis’ waist in order to cup his jaw, tilting it up to the angle he desired. He pressed their lips together, murmuring, “Definitely.” And then he kissed harder.

When Louis sees his ex-boyfriend kissing a random girl at a party, he acts out of blind jealousy. He kisses the first guy he can find. It turns into a thing.

INSPIRED BY CLOUDS.

2.) Let Me Feel Your Heartbeat by @angelichl (34k)

Harry is 98% sure Louis hates him. So he feels like his bewilderment is justified when the omega offers to help him through his rut.

1.) All My Colours by IceQueenRia (267k)

Green… yellow… red. Red! RED!!!

Some people were born Dominant and others submissive. Sixteen year old Louis Tomlinson was a submissive and was proud to be so… until he was forced to his knees for the first time. The man before him was every subs nightmare, an abusive Dom, the kind who didn’t believe in the colour ‘red’ unless it was in the form of blood.

There were others, but Louis was the ‘favourite’ and he was the one the Dom liked to ‘play with’ the most. In fact, when the rescue team arrived, Louis was the one currently providing ‘service’ to the Dom.

Or

Louis, Zayn and Niall are abused subs. Liam Payne is their devoted new Guidance Counsellor who just wants to make Niall smile and hear Zayn speak. As for Louis, he knows his guidance won’t be enough to help the boy heal. No, Louis Tomlinson needs something very special and very specific. He needs Harry Styles.

[nani-nonny]

Oh to be a rottmnt writer that doesn’t include action in EVERY fic they plan and plot out ~

[girl-in-the-tower]

snippet: winter’s child, you call for me

Summary: Stuck in the artificially lit hallway of the hospital, Theo deals with the aftermath of an Overblot encounter.

i will follow you into the dark (cover) ↠ gavin mikhail

When Kore was seven, Theo broke his leg.

He wasn’t sure how it had happened - trek gone wrong, or maybe just his own bad luck - but it was certain that he’d have to be on bed rest for a while. This, in itself, did not overly trouble him. It would not be the first time he’d had to limit himself to desk work, and if he was honest, he enjoyed the downtime that came included. 

And he’d missed Kore too. He had been gone for two weeks now and the work was beginning to take its toll on him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in a proper bed and had a nice, warm meal. A break would be exactly what he needed.

The only issue was Kore herself, who as soon as she saw him - bruised and bleeding, barely able to stand on his own feet - started wailing, fat tears running down her cheeks as she clung to his coat. She’d made him sit in bed all day and cuddled next to him at night, tiny hands gripping his much bigger one.

“I’ll keep you safe, Theo. So you can sleep peacefully now.”

Her eyes, heavy with exhaustion, threatened to close at any moment, but her stubborn heart refused to let them rest. He’d had to wrap her up in his arms and murmur a song he’d barely remember to finally get her to sleep. 

It shocked him to see just how much she was affected by such a little thing.

He’d thought back on all the skinned knees, all the little cuts, all the bloody noses she’s endured in this yet short life of hers. Never once did she cry or fuss over them. The nightmares, the bullying, the doubts - none of them had her look as miserable as she did when she saw him limping through the front door. The fracture was not serious in the least, but she’d vowed to be there for him all the same. Just like how he’d been there for her, when he’d held her hand as they went skating so she wouldn’t fall down on the ice, or when he’d pulled her away from the open flame so she wouldn’t be burned, or when he’d tell her stories to make her forget about dark mirrors and deep lakes that one could drown in.

He’d been there for all of them. Every moment. Every experience. He’d warded her against the worst that the world had to offer just so he could see her smile brightly and joyfully for the rest of her life. He’d done his best to put the world at her feet.

So then, were was he when it happened?

What could he have been doing when she took off into the night with only that boy and Bae for company? What could have been more important than making sure she did not fall down that cliff trying to save a stranger she’d never met in her life? Why did he let her meet that monster, black ink pouring out of every crack in its body, that charged at her the moment it laid eyes on her?

“She hit the stone wall so hard... I... I could hear the bones crack.” The boy’s eyes were so full of fright that Theo almost felt bad for him. The feeling was however only momentary, forgotten as soon as he looked over at the figure of a man lying on the hospital bed. Mere hours ago he was raging against them, and now he was slumbering, unaware of the damage he’d done.  

He’d found them just in time. Just before they could have...

“I’m... I’m sorry... I just... She helped me save my father... If it wasn’t for her...”

Theo can’t bear to hear the rest of the sentence. It seems like a cruel joke to him that he’d have to lose his daughter just so another father could be reunited with his son. How can there be justice in that?

He goes back to pacing in front of the emergency room with baited breath. He wants to go in and do something - anything - to make this all go away. In this dimly lit place he feels as if he’s a little child again hiding behind his mother’s skirts and hoping to pass unnoticed by the misfortunes of the world. But that’s a ridiculous thought. No one is ever spared their terrible gaze.

The doctor who met them when they came in finally leaves the room and as the curtains sway, he catches sight of her, lying in the bed, surrounded by machines and apparatus whose use he couldn’t even begin to phantom. Her face is so pale that he feels his heart stop for a moment. He isn’t sure what he does or says next, but all of a sudden the woman, plump with rosy cheeks and full of life, has her hand on his arm and is helping him sit down in a nearby chair. She has a calm and friendly tone and she explains to him just how lucky his daughter was, because while she’s broken a few ribs and her right arm, none of the vital organs were damaged. It’ll be hard for a while and the road to recovery will be long, but with proper care she’s positive she’ll be completely back to normal. 

He knows that he should be happy for that, and he is, but suddenly he feels a great dread overcome him as he wonders just who will take care of her garden in the meantime? It’s stupid to worry about it. For all he cared Theo would tear it up himself if it meant she would get out of there right now. Yet of all the things in the world he could be thinking about, that is the only one that comes to mind. He wants to laugh at how asinine that thought is. 

Thankfully, the doctor asks him if he would like to see her now that’s she stable. His throat tightens so much that he can only nod as she leads him to the room.   

The first thing that strikes him, besides the paleness, is how still she is. She shouldn’t be so still. Were it not for the constant beeping of the heart monitor, he would have though...

His mind tries to tell him that the worst has passed. That she’s here now, hurt, but safe and not dying at the bottom of some cliff. It tries to reason with him, but his heart is not fooled. Agony and sorrow, those are merely facts of life. He knows this all to well. Horrible, unspeakable things happen every day. You could be doing work in the backyard, ensuring the harvest will be plentiful, when you hear them knocking on your door. You see them huddled outside your door, all the hardships and woes you’ll ever encounter in your life. They all push and pull at each other, all trying to be the first that enters your home. Behind them is the black hearse in which they have arrived and it keeps spewing more and more and more of them. So many that there is a sea of little black bowler hats that are taken off at the same time as you hear them say in a single voice: 

“Terribly sorry to intrude upon you.”

He knows all this. He knows their insidious ways and their heartless whims. Death happens. Calamity strikes. Misery, tragedy, despair - it’s like they all follow one after the one. 

But they all happen to someone else. Not to them. Not to her.

Not to the little girl who asks for a story before bedtime; who holds her father’s hand tightly when she drags him into her garden to show him just how prettily the flowers have bloomed; who asks to be carried on his shoulders so she can touch the frozen branches with her bare hand; who pouts when she’s told to finish her lettuce salad; who always scraps her knees when they play hide and seek; who cuddles next to him when he’d just broken his foot and with all the love in her little heart promises to keep him safe from the terrible dangers that knock on their door.

They don’t happen to her. Not to that little girl. His little girl.

They shouldn’t.

Theo wishes he could hold her hand and kiss her forehead, so all the bruises and cuts are wiped away. He wishes he could switch her ribs with his and feel every ounce of her pain on his own skin instead. He wishes he could spare her from all this.

But he’s afraid that if he touches her now, she’d break apart. 

He’d always had a talent for destroying the things he cared about. He doesn’t want that for her.

So he sits down on the chair next to her bed and waits for the weight on his shoulders to get just a little lighter. 

He waits for the darkness to disappear.

He waits for absolution.

[mercsandmonstersarchived]

Agony, Misery, Woe (Open rp)

Garrett smiled sadly, “My brother, Poet, and I are princes. Me, being the oldest, I’m set to become king. I was once married. So was my brother. My first love, she and I separated after she found out I had an affair with not only another princess, but the wife of a baker. My brother’s wife, well, she went slowly went mad, after having bore twins in a remote desert. Her mother, a witch, blinded my brother, but her tears mended his eyes. She threw herself in the giantess’ path and the giantess stepped on her.” 

[404fmdminjung]

creative claims verification — gone

summary: a song about one stage of heartbreak — full on sadness. dated sometime in february 2021 warnings: none wc: 1920 (not including lyrics)

off days become more and more frequent. days turn into weeks of silence, no new news of fuse. at first, it’s like a call of freedom, liberation from the day to day monotony of standing on stage, gearing up with the lyrics already written for her and each movement dictated weeks before presentation. however, that all fades quickly — soon after, she finds herself lost in the days of monotony. nothing to do, no new friends. just the same old tricks and finds across seoul to keep her days busy when the time’s filled with individual schedules and sparse photoshoots here and there.

maybe, that’s how she landed in the mecca of tourist attractions and promoted instrument heavens. north of insadong, and she’s found her fix of caffeine in the nooks of an old-fashioned hanok cafe — a day filled with solace and silence, ignorance to the buzz of her phone inside her backpack when she hides behind a oversized hat and a mask sneaking into a small corner store in nagwon-dong.

she bows her head, says her greetings to the staff working. nobody notices her, at least — she doesn’t think they do. covert and curious, she marches straight to the lined wall of electric guitars. far from a professional, an enthusiast at best, her hands motion for staff for help when she finds herself at a standstill with one beautiful ivory piece.

“can i test it?” her eyes look at the worker, his eyes widen when recognition becomes clear. 

professionalism still reigns, and she sits on a stool, one knee bent. she starts off shaky with one chord she fishes out from her memories. starts fiddling out the rest when her fingers shift from one take of muscle memory to the next.

they say money doesn’t buy happiness, but it can fill some void — fill in the gaps, provide inspiration at best.

“can i buy this one?” she asks. 

-

when she’s home, her mind hones in on the chord progression played at a store. a near hour of a makeshift solo jam session — but there’s no jamming nor is there the head-banging thrill of loud clamor. instead, it becomes a soft lull to getting lost into a mindless melody when her heart doesn’t know where it beats anymore, and her time strung to nothing.

being at home doesn’t lessen any of the unresolved wounds, nor does it stitch together the edges of a torn heart. superficial happiness from a new bought item dissolves, so — she decides to bask in it. bask in the comfort of her home studio, where the lights dimmed low and the guitar that rests in her lap play the eulogy to what she’s wanted to avoid for so long.

it starts slow and steady, the same easy chord brought back in her mind. she strums, continues to strum. lets her fingers dig deep, the strings pressing lesions into her skin by the time the first chord becomes ingrained in her head (she makes note of that, doesn’t want to forget the first one). 

and what she wants out of this track is something casual, something real. because the flashback memory of it all being gone, and happy smiles become a harrowing question of whether it was ever real at all — she doesn’t know, doesn’t want an answer. maybe, she just wants to wallow in it and swallow self-misery as if it’s a blip of a pill rendering her useless. 

from the chords come the plucks of the notes, and repetition. it clings on her mind like a reckoning for asinine mind, gone and lost. senseless till she figures — she doesn’t want no frills, no thrills in a song where she wants it to be a visceral, yet tangible embodiment of walking through with a bleak expression and empty head. she wants a seamless track of a vacuum mind — empty and numb.

when she presses record, she strums up the first two chords into the pluck. leaves it at just that before she repeats again, humming incomprehensible mumbles to whatever words will fill the void soon. 

but inspiration strikes once more, and she sets the guitar down, halts the recording when her hands pull out the piece of paper and the other scrambles for a pen sitting on her desk.

because in the end, the mindless nothings going inside her head all spawn from a vision, an image. a recollection of memories lost and gone, where he juxtaposes himself onto someone else — someone else that’s not her.

the first words she comes up with is how her story becomes another cliche — but cliches are there for reason as she’s been reminded time and time again. repetition as life moves in patterns of repeating circles, and what’s become the constant variable in all of this is just the pain that hits from heartbreak. pathetic, and true. she’s only been a cesspool of blue.

Another story that's sad and true I can feel the pain, can you? You had to be the one to let me down To colour me blue

pathetic at best is how she envisions herself — when her mind renders clear, it’s the words in english that come forth. a twist of tongues becomes a near mockery of her life back and forth shuttling countries — funny, how the one thing of permanency to tether her back to this life now was the one who left her in the ruins of the aftermath.

yet, when she envisions in her mind, she only thinks of herself as a fool.

the one who let him render her speechless with his sly gazes and cheeky smiles, broken promises and empty whispers only to set her up for the greatest travesty — broken love. she writes down each piece of her broken facade and shattered guard. each piece of herself she severed off when she gave to him. as much as she’d hate to admit, without him, she feels numb.

genuine laughter that breeds itself in her heart, she sows those only to reap nothing but faux leaves and frail stems. because what it feels like is getting hit over and over, run over. each piece of herself lost and stolen only to be left to fend the foreign feeling of being alone again. 

hatred, it’s a strong word — but if she uses it anywhere, it’s here.

I just wanna be the one But to you we're already done Tell me, why'd you have to hit and run me? Now I'm all alone, crying ugly You broke my heart just for fun Took my love and just left me numb Now it's eight in the morning Hate in the morning (All because of you)

she thinks to each time of each day where her fingers hover over the screen of his call. one press spurred by impulse, and she reads the radio silence of a dead-beat line. no reception as she calls out to an empty void speaking the overgrown woes to a dead-end. he’ll play it like that, take his actor grin and sprawl it across the world to flash on tv with the pretty girl linked in his arms.

funny, how it looks from the outside looking in.

there’s something lost, no longer the sharp-edged tongue she prides herself in wielding together in moments alone. an individualist — yeah, the highlight of her past-time. however, that only dissipates to whatever’s left to make of the ugly sobs that cry out to nothing in the middle of the night declaration of accepting what’s already run its final course.

she’s no longer what she used to be, at least — she doesn’t see herself like that anymore.

I see you changed your number, that's why you don’t get my calls

I gave you all of me, now you don't wanna be involved

her eyes rove over what she’s written, a pathetic remedy for a poorer cause. how many love songs she’s written about some skeleton in her back closet — but that skeleton isn’t one she can bury past six feet. because by fate of her own hands, she pulls it out each time. stares at it head-on only to drown back at the replay of memories that flood her whole. 

nobody teaches you how to survive heartbreak, not when you’ve fought so hard to hold onto something you’ve rejected your whole life.

it’s a question of what it means to let go, or whether she wants to at all.

(for the sake of tonight, she wants to hold on. wants to breathe in each moment till it chokes her whole, and her tears get lodged deep in her throat).

she sing-songs the words to the track looping in the background, and maybe at first she doesn’t know what it feels like to mouth off an empty string of words when she feels so hollow. what she is, is only a hollow shell trying to salvage anything to make her feel remotely full again. 

what she pulls off is a simple melody when she sings, finds herself crying again as she muffles her mouth with the force of her own palm. save for another day, she’ll try again when she’s less on the verge of cracking whole.

 -

inevitably, she finds herself drawn back to it like a moth at a flame. nearly sadistic how humans become attuned to the feeling of pain and emotional agony when she fixes up the mic to the computer and places it in front of her.

eyes swollen and puffy, tainted with a tinge of red — she’s been up nights still crying over another sight, another news article. another sign of him in shining lights.

perhaps, this is just bad karma she’s pocketed over the years, now coming into full fruition. but she dismisses those thoughts because tonight, she wants to be selfish and take in whatever she’s feeling and weave it into the words she keeps in her mind tonight — even if that rakes in the barrage of tears and inaudible breaths she takes in between.

there’s awareness that her voice is high pitched, breaching the hearts of ‘happy-go-lucky’, but for the sake of wanting to centralize herself in how she feels, she pulls her voice down low where there’s a melt of grit and a vacant mold that just holds the words still. the first verse goes, and she tries again — it still sounds too upbeat, so she pulls it lower to an almost-mumble where it fits the bill of what she’s envisioned.

it transfers over to the second, where it repeats. figures this is just one big picture of repetition when all her mind circles around is one thing.

but when she turns to the chorus, she cuts her voice into pieces. shifts the gones into pure staccatos with the roughness of each sharp turn. jagged and pieced apart, she doesn’t care for smoothness. because in hindsight, heartbreak is everything but smooth — it becomes a dissonance, too washed out by the cloud of media and over-romanticized dramas. she wants something real, vulnerable and honest by the time she overlays her voice to the croons of where the chorus hits.

there’s a lack of harmonies in the entirety of the song — simple and direct, it’s all she wants out a song where lyrics speaks volumes for the pains of heartbreak. no special effects nor special additions of blaring instruments, minjung keeps steady to the sounds of the electric guitar and her voice that falls up then down, twists itself into the full revelation of basing herself in the heartbreak of it all.

it’s no longer a puzzle piece to mix and match each fine-tuned element to a full song. instead, it becomes almost a story written from one to the next — smooth sailing, she finds herself rolling with the tides. the force of whatever drives this process, she masters. renders with all the little flaws sprawled in and all. a song that breeds a certain rawness to her heart, she keeps because for what it holds the gravity she feels in this moment.  

[hejer-maomao]

Hewo ｡◕‿‿◕｡ So recently, @aikurone suggested this prompt to me, and I immediately fell in love with it! I couldn’t wait for them to send the request separately, so I decided to just write it myself as a self-indulgent work!

I chose the suitors according to my inspiration, so I’ll be happy if you enjoy this!

Trigger Warning: Heavy Angst.

Lancelot, Jonah, Sirius and Ray reacting to the death of their child HCs:

Lancelot:

"I’m sorry, my King, but your wife-- lost the baby...”

The Red soldier’s eyes were trembling with boundless pity and sorrow as he gazed upon the King of Hearts, the faint sounds of sobs echoing from the closed room behind him. Lancelot felt a dreary coldness rising up in his core, spreading further and further, until it clasped his throat and squeezed it harshly. He tried to breathe, but as if the air around him ceased to exist, he gasped in agony instead as his lungs burned with the effort to inhale. The soldier standing in front of him fidgeted in worry, and called his King’s name once again, but received no reply. Lance’s eyes were empty, looking right at his subordinate, but not really. He willed his lips to move, to dismiss the soldier, to ask how you were doing at the moment, to say anything at all, but the sobs were now louder, drowning all of his thoughts. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as Lancelot pushed past the soldier and opened the door to your room, unable to bear the grieving sounds any longer.

The first thing he noticed was your eyes, bloodshot and puffy as tears streamed down your face, a nurse standing by your side trying her best to get you to drink a glass of water, but to no avail. You were sobbing your heart out, mumbling broken words between “What did I do to deserve this?” and “How will I tell him this?”. Lancelot’s heart shattered inside his rib-cage and he felt warm tears coming up as he closed the rest of the distance to reach you, cradling you into the tightest embrace he could muster.

The moment his arms enveloped you, your body went limp, and your breath hitched, eyes wide in shock. Few heartbeats passed before fresh tears poured out of your eyes, raw from the inside, as you clutched at your husband’s shirt. Lancelot held you in silence, not even finding the right words to comfort you, because God, how could anyone ease such pain? Lance squeezed his eyes shut, rocking your body back and forth, but your howls of misery only worsened. The pain came in continuous, ferocious waves, hurling you both into the outstretched arms of his grief. Lance’s eyes were burning and his chest felt heavy as if it were filled with lead. No matter how hard he bit his lip, one small crystal bead escaped from his left eye, sliding down his cheek and dropping into your shoulder before disappearing. 

Lancelot added pressure until blood seeped from his lip, willing himself not to break down in front of you and let you go so the doctors could finish the rest of their examinations --he couldn't lose you too-- when few broken words, dipped in raw grief resounded near his ears. 

“I’m sorry I failed you...”

Lancelot ‘s eyes widened in shock at your words, a firm protest already forming at the tip of his tongue, when he was shoved away before he could utter a word. Before him sat the broken shadow of the woman you used to be, head hanging low, your life crumbling between your fingertips and there was nothing he could do to stop your fall.

As the doctors led him outside the room, he watched you close your eyes in defeat, and harshly clenched his fists.

‘I will not let her slip away from my fingers and crumble into pieces. I will challenge the fate who wishes her any woe and emerge as a victor...”

Lancelot looked up to the sky and swore to protect you from your own self, no matter what the price might be.

Jonah:

The door to your room soundlessly opened, revealing Jonah’s figure behind it, but you refused to lift your hands off your face. The Queen of Hearts hesitated at the threshold for a while, before finally taking small, unsteady steps towards your bed, pausing a few feet away.

“My darling--” Jonah’s voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper, broke as he called out your name. You felt his hands, ice cold, gently touching your own, lifting them off your face. Your gaze moved to meet his own, heart ripping itself to shreds at the broken sight of your beloved.

Raw pain, like an open wound, tainted his face. His hands were shaking as they tenderly cupped your cheeks, too fragile to even support himself. You could barely hear the stifled sobs at first as Jonah grit his teeth and attempted to hide his grief, but the minute he locked eyes with you, saw your blotchy face and pursed lips, Jonah finally broke down, overcome by the heavy wave of his emotions, all his defenses washing away in those salty tears. He crumbled to his knees, hands still tightly clasped in yours, a picture of grief, loss and devastation. He wore the face of one who had just suffered his greatest loss and didn’t know what do you with all of his broken pieces. Then, just as you two sat down in silence, falling apart in each other’s hands, Jonah’s shutters came down, and he wobbled back to his feet again, his emotions safely walled off behind a fake mask once again. He would just wear it until everything was right again, he didn't know any other way.

The door opened again, and Luka’s frantic voice echoed in the room, but you didn’t tear your eyes off your husband. Why did he feel the need to act so brave right now of all times?    

Anger, frustration, bitterness, anguish, hatred and guilt all welled up inside your chest until all you wanted to do was scream until your throat was sore. You weren’t aware you were actually screaming and crying until Jonah’s face was twisted in fear and Luka’s hands were tugging at your clothes, his gentle voice begging you to calm down. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were crying for more than one person now.

You were crying for yourself, for the mother you weren’t even allowed to become. You were crying for Jonah, who couldn’t allow himself to crumble just so he can hold you up through all of this grief. You were crying for Luka, crying for your unborn child and crying just for the sake of crying because you just didn’t know what to do apart from letting your tears fall down your cheeks and hope this is nothing but a horrible, horrible, nightmare that was going to end soon.

The three of you clung to each other, grief wracking your bodies in waves after waves, but you still refused to surrender. You were going to make it through this. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow or the day after, but you were going to, surely someday in the future.

Sirius:

Sirius’ hands were never this gentle, his eyes never looked so loving and affectionate and his smile never seemed so fake than the day where you lost your baby.

Your husband was with you all the time. Holding your hand, wiping sweat off your forehead and forcing food into your mouth. When your tears simply refused to stop, Sirius ditched the tray in his hands on your beside table, and silently held you. Sirius’ hugs were usually gentle arms that still gave you space to breathe, meant to comfort, to push you to forget, to convince you to forgive; but his embrace that day felt different. His embrace was too loose, as if he couldn’t muster up enough strength to tightly squeeze between his arms as he always does. Your face was pressed up against his sturdy chest, but his heartbeat was too quick, too disturbed to offer you solace. Sirius’ hug wasn’t meant to give out any needless pity or sympathy. It was unselfish, undemanding, raw hug and all you felt as you curled up around your beloved and let your tears flow freely, was deep sorry for this amazing man by your side.

Once the heavy grief and unbearable heartache put you to sleep, Sirius gently untangled himself from you, tucking you carefully under your soft blankets before heading out of the room. He kept his head low, face blank, only nodding in response to the soldiers’ salutes, until he reached the empty storage house in the lower level of the Black Army’s Headquarters. 

Minutes passed and Sirius slowly began to fall apart. He refused to shut his eyes, even as his lips trembled and his shoulders heaved with emotion, unwilling to deny the grim reality. His dark lashes brimmed heavy with tears; his hands clenched into shaking fists, in a desperate battle against the grief. A lone tear traced down his cheek, and just like that, the floodgates opened. He wept, tears streaming from his deep violet eyes, quiet, heaving sobs tearing from his throat. But the pain was too much for a single human to bear and soon the sobs drove Sirius to his knees, an animalistic scream lodged deep within his chest.

But Sirius only allowed himself to break for a few minutes, before he wiped his tears away, stilled his heart and focused on one single thought in his mind. ‘I have to be strong for her’.

You were already crumbling, falling apart in front of his eyes, while he stood still watching you. He couldn’t do anything to help you. He couldn’t reach deep within you and rip out all the agonizing pain and misery you felt so he can carry it all instead of you. He couldn’t offer you some warmth when he felt all too cold himself. He couldn’t tell you that everything will be alright when it sounded like mere lies even to his own ears.

So Sirius stood tall and dusted off his pants. If he couldn’t do anything to ease your pain, then he will simply stay by your side and hold you hand until you feel like breathing again. He will not break apart. One of you has to stay firm so you can both face the storm. And one day, Sirius can faintly see it in the back of his mind as he steadily made his way back to your room, you are going to make it through safely, together.

Ray:

“GET OUT!” your voice, hoarse and raspy, echoed sharply in the Black Army’s Headquarters, followed closely by the distinct sound of glass shattering.

Your assigned nurse, carrying a tray with still-steaming food and your sleeping pills, hurriedly closed the door behind her, a shard of glass narrowly missing her leg. The young woman turned around, a troubled expression on her face, and shook her head at the King of Spades as she passed him the tray. Nodding in apology to the hired nurse, Ray took a deep breath, his emerald eyes trembling with raw emotions as he opened your door.

Once he entered the room, Ray calmly stepped to the side, dodging the broken glass scattered on the floor. He focused his gaze on your hunched form on the bed, head hanging low and chest heaving with exhaustion. You didn’t look up, choosing instead to bury your face into your hands, few droplets of tears slipping between the cracks of your fingers and silently dripping into your blanket. 

The room was silent, too silent. Only your faint sobs and Ray’s light footsteps as he moved around the room and picked up the shattered pieces off the ground, could be heard. The air was thick with grief, too bitter you could almost taste it. The heavy, gut wrenching scent of medicines overwhelmed the room, and Ray’s calm exterior finally crumbled as he took in the entire scene, his frustration finally reaching its boiling point. He took a few steps closer to you and extended his fingers, ready to touch your face and make you look at him in the eyes for the first time in weeks. He expected the flying pillow that you hurled at him, and he effortlessly evaded it, but when you yelled out again, ordering him out of the room as well, Ray’s frustration morphed into anger, and he clenched his teeth hard. 

Ray stepped forward again and ripped the blankets off your body, ignoring the sudden yelp you let out, and he sat down on the bed, pulling you into his arms. Your body froze for few seconds at the unexpected touch but then you were trashing and struggling to escape Ray’s hold, but your husband bit his lip and tightened his embrace further, focusing all of his strength and emotions into stabilizing you. Soon enough, all of the energy left your body and you were left sobbing, weakly hitting Ray’s chest with your fists as you mumbled some broken words under your breath.

Ray strained his ears to hear, but he could only catch fragments of your sentences, his eyes widening when his mind finally registered what you were saying.

“I don’t deserve-- you or any- I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry.”

Ray’s throat contracted on itself, his lips quivering, and he bit his tongue until he could taste iron in his mouth. A single tear slid down from his jade eyes, followed by another one, and another one, until a steady stream of tears flowed down his cheek, releasing the sadness and sorrow that he has been bottling up inside of him for all this time, without making a sound. Slow, desolate tears ran from his unblinking eyes and dripped steadily into your nightshirt, and the roles were suddenly reversed as you threw your arms around his neck, cradling him between your arms, as you both fell apart together.

“It’s not your fault,” Ray whispered with tear-stained cheeks, “none of this is anyone’s fault. So for now-- hold me and let me hold you, until the storm passes and we feel ready to face the world once again.”

[an-aura-about-you]

It’s @zerozeroren‘s birthday! I can’t send her anything due to pandemic, so I’m writing her a nice fluffy father-son moment with Logos and Autor that just so happens to relate to the fic I just posted.

Catching Autor looking pensive is nothing new. Usually all anyone has to do to see it is check the office or the library. Today, however, he’s sitting at the upright, staring at the Gem in his hand. While he sits there and contemplates doing what he wishes, Logos happens to catch him.

“Ah, did Erina give you a gift?” he asks Autor.

Autor lets the Glory slip from his fingers, suspended on a delicate chain around his neck. The replica is quite small, only just big enough to hold the inscription, and attached to the chain at the two points where the serpents’ mouths meet each others’ tails. “You could say that,” he answers.

“May I see it?” Logos asks.

Autor undoes the chain and offers the jewelry to his father. “It’s a replica of AURYN.”

Logos takes the piece and whistles low in admiration as he inspects it. “Look at that detail. It even says, ‘Do What You Wish,’ on the back. Did you tell her you like that story or did she just guess?”

“She guessed I like the story.”

Logos gives the piece back, frowning a little at the way Autor shifts in place and the flatness of his response. “Everything all right between you two?”

Autor puts the replica back on and goes, “That... the relationship is okay.”

That’s an odd way to put it, but Logos can tell he’s stepping too far. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to press.”

“I know you didn’t,” Autor answers, hand going to the replica again. This time when he speaks, his brows furrow like he’s come to some decision. “I... It’s complicated, being in love.”

Isn’t that always the way of the teenager, something so simple on the surface being so complicated?  Logos grins and says, “So? You’re in love with Erina. What’s so complicated about being in love with your girlfriend?”

But Autor shakes his head and the truth comes out. “You don’t understand. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Logos goes back to frowning and leans a little closer, waiting for elaboration. He doesn’t remember Autor and Erina breaking up, so what’s going on?

He takes a shaky breath and scrubs at his eyes under his glasses. “She asked... she asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend. That’s all this is. And apparently- ” He holds up the Gem again. “ -I’m doing a good job of it since she’s given me my ‘payment.’”

“Oh Autor,” Logos says, aware that most of the other words he has have long since become useless.

“What do I do, Vati?” Autor quietly asks, unable to wipe away his tears fast enough to hide them anymore.

He’s so small in asking, like a little boy again, and Logos wants all the answers to give him but knows he can never have them all. So the father puts an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Oh Autor, we’ll figure that out. You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

Autor leans against his father’s shoulder like he did when he was a kid, a little surprised at how safe he feels. He can’t go through the reasons why, not when he’s so focused on hurting. But the longer he stays here, the smaller the hurt becomes. And while the pain doesn’t go away completely, knowing he doesn’t have to face, “What do I do?” by himself leaves a warm relief in his heart.

Eventually Logos says, “Here, I was just about to get dinner started. Why don’t you come with me to the kitchen so we can figure this out?”

He feels Autor nod against him. He lets go and takes a step back, his frown only growing deeper as he looks at the miserable young man before him. He sighs through his nose, wishing he could just take all of his child’s pain away. But that’s not how life works.

“Do you mind telling me how it all started?” Logos asks as he turns towards the kitchen, indicating that Autor follow. “Like how you met Erina in the first place?”

Autor takes his glasses off a moment and wipes his eyes. “She...” He sniffles again. “She and Fakir needed a pianist for their dance practice.” He follows his father into the kitchen as Logos gets the kettle and sets it on the stove. “She got sick of everyone trying to pair her up with Fakir, so she asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend.”

“Poor girl,” Logos says as he heads to the cabinets next, working on his mise en place. “It must have been bad if she thought she had to be in a relationship to get some peace. Could you get the vegetables, Autor?”

Autor dutifully fetches an onion and some peppers. “Are we having potatoes, too?”

“Yes, thank you,” he says, setting out a cutting board. “Would you like to help or would you rather sit?”

“I can help,” Autor answers, taking some potatoes as well and bringing them over.

The two get to work, Logos chopping vegetables and Autor peeling potatoes.

“So,” Logos continues. “I do know what it’s like, pretending to be in a relationship only for there to be actual chemistry. Sometimes I’m a little too good at my job and get the occasional love confession, even now.”

“Really? You tell them about Mutti, right?”

“Of course. And they understand nothing will come of it. But I won’t lie, before your mother and I got together, some stage relationships ended up becoming offstage relationships.” He cleans the seeds out of the peppers. “Erina’s probably familiar with that herself, probably had more fake relationships than real ones when it comes to romance.”

Autor thinks back to the conversation he and Erina had when the arrangement began and her insistence on a fake relationship. When his father puts it like that, it makes sense to ask for what she knows. Would she still do that now?

“Now, how have you and Erina been enjoying your time together? Does this seem like a chore to her, or are both of you enjoying yourselves?”

Autor goes quiet, focusing more on the potatoes. Is she? She seems to be, but she might just be good at acting. Or he might just be imagining what he wants. For that matter, they didn’t say him receiving payment would be the end of the relationship, just the point when it was earned. And come to think of it, she wouldn’t have to pretend if they were alone.

Logos hums and says, “Well, if you’re not sure, maybe you should find out. Maybe Erina’s enjoying your company just as much as you’re enjoying hers. It’s worth asking to see if there’s a chance your feelings are requited.”

“And then?” he asks. “If they aren’t?”

“That’s up to you, if you’d like to tell her. The truth probably will come out sooner or later. But while it’s possible she doesn’t feel the same way, why despair about it before you know?”

Autor sets down the potato in his hand and the peeler. “When you put it like that, it does seem silly to get all worked up about it without even knowing.”

“It’s okay,” Logos says, moving the chopped vegetables to the pan. “With this situation, it’s only natural to be in a little turmoil.” He pauses after he says that and smiles, the first smile he’s put on after this topic came up. “Or maybe there’s another word for it.”

Autor glances over at his father just as he was about to resume his task, the familiarity seeping in but not quite clear yet. “Oh?”

“Do you want to pine over Cinderella or Rapunzel?”

Meaning strikes, but Autor doesn’t answer.

“Come on, I know you prefer Lloyd Webber-” Logos begins.

“Used to prefer Lloyd Webber!” Autor interrupts.

“-but Sondheim!”

“But really? Right now?”

“It’s so ridiculous that it’s sure to help. Or get some of the feelings out. If it doesn’t, we can sing something else. But even like this, Agony is pretty fun.”

Autor picks up another potato, the last one he has to peel at this point, and gets the peeler once more. “....all right, but I’ll be Cinderella’s Prince. I don’t think I’m as good as Rapunzel’s Prince.”

“Then you start.”

“Okay, just let me get this weird curve,” Autor says, trying to work the peeler around the oddly shaped potato. And then, after clearing his throat and a bit of humming to find his pitch, he begins:

“Did I abuse her or show her disdain? Why does she run from me? If I should lose her, how shall I regain the heart she has won from me? Agony!”

It’s here that Autor reaches out, gesturing with the potato peeler.

“Beyond power of speech when the one thing you want is the only thing out of your reach.”

Logos manages not to laugh before it’s his turn:

“High in her tower, she sits by the hour maintaining her hair. Blithe and becoming, and frequently humming a lighthearted air.”

As Logos wordlessly sings the tune, his overly-operatic voice leaves Autor in silent stitches. Father fetches a pot for the potatoes and Son reaches up from being doubled over to take it.

“Agony! Far more painful than yours!”

Autor laughs out loud at this point.

Undeterred, Logos continues:

“When you know she would go with you if there only were doors.”

The two manage to make it to the next bit, singing together:

“Agony! Oh the torture they teach!”

“What’s as intriguing- “ Logos asks.

“Or half as fatiguing- “ Autor adds.

“As what’s out of reach?” they join again.

It’s Autor’s turn again, and on each word he continues part of his task, potatoes going in the pot one by one, the water going in to cover them, and finally finding their home on top of the stove:

“Am I not sensitive, clever, well-mannered, considerate, passionate, charming, as kind as I’m handsome, and heir to a throne?!”

Logos throws an arm out to Autor and sings, “You are everything maidens could wish for!”

“Then why no?” Autor asks.

“Do I know?” Logos sings with a shrug.

“The girl must be mad!” he sings back.

Logos holds his arms out in front of him and looks up with, “You know nothing of madness ‘til you’re climbing her hair, and you see her up there, as you’re nearing her all the while hearing her!”

He vocalizes again, just as operatic as before, and Autor holds up a hand while he tries to catch his breath from singing and laughing.

“Agony!” they both sing.

“Misery!” Autor chokes out, tears of a different kind in his eyes.

“Woe!” Logos adds, who goes it alone on, “Though it’s different for each,” due to Autor composing himself for his next line.

“Always ten steps behind- “ Autor somehow gets out.

“Always ten feet below- “ Logos sings, once again taking a line on his own, “And she’s just out of reach.” He pats his son on the back as they get to the last bit together.

“Agony that can cut like a knife! I must have her to wife!”

“What are you two doing?” A new voice asks.

Both men turn to find Lore has joined them in the kitchen, a bag of groceries in her arms.

“Ah, let me get that for you, Mutti,” Autor says instead of answering, going to take the groceries.

“We were just starting dinner,” Logos says, joining them to give Lore a kiss on the cheek. He looks to Autor a moment, trying to figure out if his son will give him permission to tell Lore about what they’ve discussed. But with the answer unclear for now, he’ll just have to wait.

Oh well. At least he got Autor to laugh.

[madlori]

Unveiled - Chapter 12

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10 || Chapter 11 || Chapter 12  || Chapter 13 + Epilogue

by MadLori Word Count: 1300 Fandom: Men’s Hockey RPF Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin Rating: NC-17 (like, heed this, please) Tags: Arranged Marriage, Modern Royalty AU, Mpreg, Not Omegaverse, No Consent Issues, Veiled Sex, Weird Traditions, Don’t Think Too Hard, Handwavey Biology

No sex in this one.

Sorry, this one is short. I am planning to post the final chapter PLUS epilogue on Sunday.

Read it on AO3

Later, Zhenya would have no idea how he got through that rehearsal dinner. He had returned to quizzical stares and cautious questions -- God knew what his face had looked like when he stormed out -- and had to dredge up a considerable measure of charm to talk his way out of it. Happily, he had pre-unveiling and impending-fatherhood jitters to take some of the blame, and he had pregnancy woes to excuse his consort’s (Sidney’s) absence. 

He took his seat at his father’s side, his brain running on parallel tracks. He avoided looking at the empty chair -- far across the room, to preserve the embargo -- where his consort would have been sitting, if the entire world hadn’t just been up-ended.

Sidney. Sidney is my consort. 

Sidney lied to me for months.

Sasha was eyeballing him and he knew that he’d be in for the inquisition later. He refocused himself on navigating the small talk and gossip being bandied about the table, and producing the correct platitudes about his excitement for the next day’s ceremony.

In his mind’s eye he kept seeing images of himself and his consort in bed, sharing their bodies, bringing each other pleasure -- had that been Sidney? Dr. Rjskov said that Sidney had conceived at their consummation. What if that had been the only time he’d been with his real consort? What if he’d only gotten Sidney pregnant and then spent the next weeks fucking a decoy? He thought that it had been the same man all those times in his bed after the consummation, but he couldn’t stop second-guessing himself, nor could he swear that the man at the consummation had been the man who’d later come to the Royal Bedchamber. Without the signals provided by hair and face, how much did one man of similar build look like another? His rational mind was sure that Sidney wouldn’t have done that to him -- or to a decoy, for that matter -- but his rational mind didn’t seem to be entirely in control at the moment.

These were not productive thoughts when he was trying to make conversation with his great-aunt, the octogenarian Countess of Murmansk. “You’re so fortunate, Zhenya, to be unveiling so quickly! My poor Bernard had to spend eight months veiled. It was hideous.”

“We got lucky quickly,” he said, then cursed his own phrasing, although the Countess didn’t seem to pick up on it.

“Your consort seems lovely.”

“He is,” he said, fighting to keep the misery from his voice.

He’d made it through, invoking those jitters again to make an early escape. His mother had kissed him goodnight and he’d seen her concern, but she let him be.

His relief lasted until he got to his quarters and Sasha was there. “Here,” he said, and handed Zhenya a vodka tonic.

“Bless you,” Zhenya said, taking the drink and downing it in two gulps. He handed the glass back to Sasha, who went to the tray he’d brought in to pour him another.

“The only thing I’m going to say is: what the fuck?” 

Zhenya took the second drink and stared at it. “Sidney is my consort, Sasha.”

Sasha stood there with his mouth hanging open, shocked into silence. “What.”

“It’s him. He’s the consort. He’s the one carrying my child.”

“But...he can’t be! We saw him guarding the consort!”

“If you did, the guy in the veils was someone else.”

“Ohhhh! Like a decoy? Oh...oh.” Sasha’s eyes widened as all the implications caught up to him. “Holy shit, Zhenya. I mean...holy shit!”

“You’ve just described the inside of my head for the last few hours. Well, that, and a persistent clanging sound which I can only presume is my sanity making a run for the hills.”

“I mean…” Sasha’s look of shock was melting into a broad, happy grin. “This is great!”

Zhenya gaped. “Great? How is this great?”

“What do you mean, how is it great? How is it not great?

“He’s been lying to me for months! He -- he tricked me into being friends with him -- into falling in love with him, for fuck’s sake -- and I have no idea why! What reason did he have for putting me through that? You know how much I’ve been flagellating myself over this!”

“Is that his fault? And how do you know he even meant for it to happen? Did you ask him?”

“No, I didn’t -- I couldn’t talk to him after I found out. I couldn’t look at him.”

“Zhenya -- you’ve been in the garment-rending agonies for months over the fact that you’d have to lose him when your consort was unveiled. You had feelings for them both, but knew you couldn’t have them both. Except you can! Because they’re the same person! Didn’t you just get your deepest wish granted? Something you never thought you’d have in your wildest dreams?”

“But how much of the consort was Sidney? How often was it him in the veils, and how many times was I with a decoy? Fucking hell, Sasha, did I fuck that decoy?”

“Are you seriously telling me you can’t tell between two different men’s bodies when you’re fucking them?”

“I would think so, but I can’t be sure of anything right now! I’m so confused! Just the possibility is making me a little crazy.”

Sasha flapped a hand. “Sidney wouldn’t let you do that. And he’d never ask a decoy to sleep with you in his place. You don’t seriously think he’d allow that, do you?”

“I don’t know what he’d allow! He had no problem allowing me to torture myself over him!” Zhenya sat down heavily, knocking back the rest of his second drink. “What if this all part of some plot? To get me to have an affair with him and then expose me?”

“Oh no, a prince cheating on an embargoed spouse, the world will never recover from the shock,” Sasha said, sarcasm dripping from his words.

“Well, what if the point was to get me to break embargo, and then he gets out of the marriage?”

“Would he have let himself get pregnant if that were the case? Zhenya, I can’t believe that there was some kind of nefarious plan here. You’re just looking for justification for the anger you’re feeling because you know you can’t really justify it otherwise.”

“I don’t need to justify my anger. I’ve been made a fool, deceived by someone who was supposed to be my partner.”

“I don’t see that he had much choice. Wait...that first night you met him, down in the kitchens, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He couldn’t have planned that. It must have been an accident.”

“And then he just couldn’t resist my charm and looks and decided to be friends with me?”

Sasha met his eyes. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Yes, Zhenya realized, it was. “So you think he...liked me?”

Sasha sat down next to him. “I think he more than liked you, my friend. I think he saw a chance to get to know the man he’d married in a way he couldn’t from under the veils. He couldn’t tell you who he was, because that would have broken embargo, and I don’t think he wanted that. I think he wanted to stay, and I think he wanted to be with you.”

Zhenya took a deep breath. Sasha was being much too rational for his current state of mind. He thought of Sidney, probably in his rooms, pacing, worried, wondering what was to become of their marriage. It’s him. Sidney is my consort. It’s literally what I fantasized about, of lifting the veils and seeing his face. It’s like Sasha said -- it’s beyond my wildest dreams. I get to have him, I don’t have to lose either of them, because they’re the same person.

So why does it hurt like this?

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