#best nine bucks i've ever spent

[fearofahumanplanet]

Jane's Odyssey: How I Just Found One of the Rarest Copies of Homer's Odyssey

So I have something of an interesting story...

Over the weekend, while I was out, I found a hardcover copy of Homer's Odyssey, the Harvard Classics edition, already pretty rare as far as I could tell! And yet, despite that, it was somewhere around $9? I gave it a cursory flipping through (this would prove my undoing), didn't notice anything at the time, so I was like "yeah, I have to get this if it's so cheap"

Then I decided to give it a read, as I quite enjoy the Butcher translation and I modeled a lot of Serpents off of the Odyssey thematically. And for a while, it was smooth sailing!

For a while.

Right when things were getting good on the island of the Cyclopes, I noticed something strange.

Forgive the blurry image, but take a look at the page numbers.

Yes. Missing pages.

Now, on one hand, that alone wouldn't be so odd. It was when I flipped further through the book that it got weirder.

To summarize the extent of the weirdness:

Page 124, as shown above, skips directly to page 177

It then proceeds as normal until page 208... AFTER WHICH, IT GOES BACK TO THE MISSING PAGE 157??

It then goes from page 157 all the way to the end of the intended text, which, I might add, means pages 177-208 appear twice in my copy

For those keeping score, that does indeed mean that, yes, pages 125 to 156 are nowhere to be found anywhere in this bizarre copy. Hence, you can't actually read the whole story, which I'd be very upset about if it wasn't in the public domain.

But yeah. Thoroughly strange, I don't know how you could mess up a printing of a book this poorly, but it's hysterical and, from my estimation, given this is already a very rare edition of the Odyssey to begin with (bc Harvard all posh and shite lol), I think I may now own one of the rarest copies of the Odyssey in the world - you know, if you care more about the rarity than the readability :P

Before anyone asks, yes obviously I'm keeping this thing

Tagging @cactusmotif, @painisntn33ded, @elijahrichardwrites, @afoolandathief, @impaledlotus because i know they'd get a kick out of this

[rhysismydaddy]

Prisoner's Game Pt. 1 (Rowaelin)

Synopsis: Aelin Galathynius never thought of herself as a vengeful woman. Until her boyfriend not only testifies, but leads a case against her that lands her in prison for the rest of her life. Post I-Love-You's. He didn't believe her, and she's about to show him that not only is she innocent, he made the worst mistake of his life betting against her. To a woman with nothing but time, life's just a game, after all.

The cinderblock wall dug into her back uncomfortably as she reclined against it, the air in the room was stale, and she hadn't showered in two days. By any measurement, Aelin Galathynius was far from her best.

And yet she somehow managed to look perfectly at ease--happy even--as she lounged in her cell, toying with the ends of her too-long hair.

It was a ruse, of course, just a little trick to piss off the man currently stomping into her space. By the flare of Rowan Whitehorn's eyes, it worked.

"Hello, Rowan," she greeted pleasantly, giving him a little smile and acting like it wasn't taking everything in her not to use the makeshift knife under her pillow to gut him like the spineless coward he was.

She could tell, even across her 8x12 cell, that he was gritting his teeth and fighting a similar action.

The heel of his expensive Italian loafers clicked as he walked across the space to the small table and took a seat at the steel chair in front of it. He tried to push it out further, but stopped when he realized it was bolted to the floor.

"Aelin," he said back, none of the so-obvious anger he was feeling present in his voice. "Been a long time."

Eight years, six months, three weeks, two days, and thirteen hours.

Not that she was counting or anything.

She nodded her agreement, reclining further on the bed and crossing her legs as if she was in the finest dress she owned, not a faded orange jumpsuit.

"What brings you to my side of town, Rowan? Here to finally switch sides and represent me?"

Dressed in a two-thousand dollar suit and tie, hair perfectly gelled back, he looked like he was successful a lawyer meeting with a wealthy client, but they both knew the last thing he'd ever do was work for her.

"You know why I'm here."

She did indeed, but she still said, "I must be exceptionally smart to know why you've come all the way here-"

"Cut the shit," he snapped, finally losing a bit of his cool. He regained it quickly, though, and continued, "I want to know how you did it."

She frowned at her split ends. "Did what?"

Rowan waited until she looked at him to respond. "You know what."

Sighing so deeply it should've rattled the walls, she said, "I can't believe I've spent the last eight years thinking you underestimated my intelligence. You clearly think I'm some sort of oracle genius."

Rowan mimicked her sigh, and she bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

Probably trying to stall, he spent a moment looking at her cell, at the completely bare walls and lack of photographs. All she had was the tally marks drawn in pencil on one wall and a dusty chess set sitting on the table.

When he'd taken inventory of those two things, he sat and just looked at her.

It was clear she wouldn't admit to knowing exactly why he sat in front of her, and he was simply putting off being the one to fold.

Predictable, proud little man.

Eventually, he took his loss and said, "I want to know how you managed to rob me from inside the most secure prison in Rifthold."

She smiled, a full, undulated smile she hadn't used in a long time.

She'd been planning this moment since the day the bars had locked behind her, and it felt damn good to finally see it come to fruition.

According to what she'd heard, definitely not what she knew from personal experience, the private vault in Rowan's apartment had been broken into. Apparently, only one thing was missing: an antique dagger that had been handed down in the family and was now worth over a million bucks.

"Why do you think it was me?" she asked, still smiling.

He gritted his teeth some more, and she internally snickered at the idea he'd have permanent tooth damage because of her. Something else to remember her by.

Green eyes spitting flames at her, he growled, "You left a goddamn business card."

Aelin forced her eyes up to the empty bed above her head, trying her hardest not to laugh. "Maybe I'm being framed?"

"Your fingerprints were on it."

She did laugh then, then laughed some more when his eyes narrowed. He looked like he was about to strangle her. "Rowan, in case you haven't noticed, I'm incarcerated."

She gestured around them to her cell to prove her point.

The bastard just smiled.

Of course he knows that, she thought bitterly, forcing her hand back to her lap and away from where it'd started to creep toward the pillow.

"So how would I rob you?" she asked, getting her mind back on track.

"That's what you're going to tell me," he demanded angrily. "I want to know how you got out of here, got all the way across Rifthold, broke into my apartment, and stole from me without any surveillance camera picking it up."

Aelin ran a hand through her hair, fluffing it just right. When she caught sight of the impatience on his face, she fluffed it some more and readjusted the thin jacket on her shoulders.

It was always too damn cold in this place. She hadn't been warm in almost nine years.

Because of him.

Just for that, she fluffed her hair some more.

Then she said simply, "I didn't."

"Stop lying!" he shouted at her, eyes flashing.

She wasn't, but that was besides the point.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes like he'd won. "I got my cousin to-"

"Aedion spent the night in Wendlyn. His travel is verified, and there are at least a hundred eye witnesses that witnessed him singing karaoke all night. Stop. Fucking. Lying."

Once again, she wasn't lying.

Aedion sure as hell hadn't been in Wendlyn last night. She'd just wanted to make sure his alibi was air-tight as planned.

Sighing again, she asked, "Rowan, even if I did do it, why the hell would I tell you about it?"

His jaw worked for a moment, and she could tell whatever he was about to say was difficult for him. "I'll get time off your sentence if you tell me what you've done with it."

She tried not to laugh, but she couldn't help it.

It burst out of her, full and uncontrollable, and she flopped over on the dirty mattress and howled for a good few minutes.

He glared at her, looking for all the world like he was experiencing a portion of the rage she was made of, but regardless of the threat in his eyes, she took her time composing herself.

"I'm serving ten consecutive life sentences, you idiot."

One for each and every one of her "victims."

"I'll make it nine," he offered generously.

"Even if I was a cat, that'd still leave me dying in a prison cell. Offer me something else."

He just glared at her, unwilling to give her anything she could actually use or want. Just like she'd expected.

"That's what I thought. So no, Rowan Whitehorn, I'm not accepting your little deal. You can think I robbed you all you want; hell, you can even know, in your famous gut, that I did it." She tilted her head, a cruel smile filling her lips. "But it isn't about what you believe, it's about what you can prove. Isn't that right?"

His eyes shuttered at the words, and just like that, they were sucked into the memory of all those years ago.

~Eight years ago~

~Rowan~

Rowan rolled over, edging away from the woman next to him carefully as to not wake her.

Her hair was spread out on his chest, her soft hand was on his stomach, and her leg was draped over his. By all accounts, she was all over him.

And it felt so fucking good.

He'd never met anyone like Aelin before. Anyone so full of life, so hilariously open.

It was like she was constantly on fire, flitting from one place to the next with endless energy and jabs about him being too old and slow.

"What are you going?" she murmured, nails digging in slightly to keep him where he was.

"To get some water. Go back to sleep."

He leaned down and kissed her brow, and she sighed happily and rolled over. Like a total cliché, he watched her sleep for a moment, trying to get his feelings under control.

They'd been seeing each other for less than a year, but he couldn't imagine his life without her. He was in love with her, and if the way she acted and smiled around him was any indication, she loved him, too.

He ran a thumb over her cheekbone, smiling when she tilted her face into his touch.

He was whipped, and he didn't even care.

Rowan shook his head at himself, pulled on a pair of boxers, padded to the kitchen, and held a glass under the faucet.

Then frowned as it sputtered.

He figured he'd at least make himself useful, knowing damn well she would never agree to call the plumber when she could "figure out how to fix it herself on Youtube."

So he knelt down in her kitchen and opened the cabinet door, trying to see what the problem with the pipe was.

Except he never got that far.

His eyes got stuck on the piece of paper sticking out under a false piece of wood covering the back panel.

Knowing it was wrong to pry but somehow unable to stop himself, he tugged the paper loose.

Then fell backwards to his ass, heart hammering and brain spinning as he read it over and over again.

The list of names wasn't long, but all ten of the people on it were highly distinguished members of society.

And they were all dead.

He wouldn't know that, since the death of the last person on the list wasn't even public record yet, but he was the attorney working with the police to find the killer.

Why did she have this list?

And what did the numbers next to the names mean?

One way or another, he knew he had to find out. He also knew he couldn't ask her. He was in too deep, too unbiased to know whether or not she was lying.

He didn't trust himself with her, so he'd have to go the traditional route.

He took a picture of the paper quickly, tucking it back where he'd found it. He snuck back in the room to get dressed, leaving her a note he had to go to work.

He thought he was going to be sick as he left her apartment, a feeling suspiciously similar to dread coiling in his stomach.

There was only one way she could know that last name, only one explanation that made sense.

But he had to know for sure. Had to know if he'd been an idiot this past year; an idiot who'd spent almost every night sleeping next to the killer he'd been searching for.

So he started investigating his girlfriend.

Six days later, he found the security deposit boxes and the murder weapons inside, still covered in dried blood that would be matched to the victims. All with Aelin's prints on them.

Two days after that, the woman he'd thought was the love of his life was arrested on ten counts of murder.

Despite the tears she shed, despite the promises she made to him, despite the love she claimed to have for him, Rowan told the cops everything.

Even though he couldn't imagine her killing anyone.

"It doesn't matter what I believe, it matters what I can prove."

That was the last thing he'd said to her, right as she was being dragged out of the court room and yelling at him to believe her.

The truth of the matter was that when it came down to it, he didn't trust her enough. The facts were against her, everyone on the jury had been against her, and in the end, Rowan was too.

~Present~

~Aelin~

Rowan shook his head, almost like he needed to clear it from the memory they'd obviously both been immersed in, and she smiled.

She hoped what happened all those years ago still haunted him, hoped he went to sleep at night thinking about her and the betrayal he'd served to her on a silver platter.

The first year of her sentence, she was so lost in emotion--in the rage and confusion and deep, deep hurt--that she couldn't bring herself to do anything.

He hadn't even bothered to ask her first. That's what had hurt the worst.

He'd seen that stupid, stupid list and had jumped to the first conclusion possible.

She knew it had looked bad, had looked like she was guilty, but she'd thought that if the worst happened, he'd at least ask her to explain before slapping the cuffs on her.

But he hadn't. She'd gone to prison, and his career had exploded into stardom from the success of the case.

"See, Rowan, when you refused to accept any other explanation other than the easy one, you made a mistake. Because I didn't kill those people."

He rolled his eyes. "Aelin-"

"And I'm not only going to prove it," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "I'm going to ruin your precious little life while I do it. Just like you did mine."

She stood, put a hand on the steel table, and leaned over him.

"If you want it to stop, all you have to do is drop these bullshit murder charges and issue a public apology for locking me up in the first place."

He stood too, so close his loafers brushed the toe of her dusty, prison issued sneakers.

"That's never going to happen," he promised, voice uncompromising and angry.

Aelin smiled, having predicted his reaction down to the facial expression.

His pride, she'd decided, would be the first thing to go.

She reached around him to slide the pawn on the chess board forward, leaned in even further, and whispered, "Let the game begin, then."

~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2

@perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @live-the-fangirl-life @ireallyshouldsleeprn @highqueenofelfhame @gracie-rosee @rowaelinismyotp @nahthanks @ghostlyrose2 @lovemollywho @inardour @tillyrubes10 @claralady @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @thegoddessofyou @awesomelena555 @booksofthemoon @greerlunna @jlinez @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

[rebeccccccaaa]

ʙɪɢɢᴇsᴛ ғᴇᴀʀs

_________________________

ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: (ANON) Heyyya I saw that you were taking requests! I love your writing and could I maybe get a fic where the reader is slightly new to the avengers and they’re at one of Tony’s parties and someone tells the entire team how she’s always felt that no one could lover her and somehow Bucky reveals his feelings for her and it maybe ends in smut or fluff? Thank you 💗

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: Smut 18+, Bucky gets upset and it’s kinda hot ;), insecure!reader, fluff

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ’s ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Thank you for the request darling! I tweaked it a bit but i think i did alright… Anyhoo enjoy!!

_______________________

“Quite the party, Tones. Really one up yourself tonight didn’t you?” Nat said after everyone cleaned up. It was around one in the morning, Everyone that Tony invited to yet another extravagant party had finally left.  Leaving you and the rest of the team for a small little after party,  as per usual  according to Nat.

You joined the Avengers not long ago and you had yet to be invited to one of Tony's parties.  This was the first of many to come and boy, did those fantasies get fulfilled.  Guests dressed to the nines occupied every corner of the room, it was almost too crowded for your taste. 

But now here you were settled on the couch with the rest of your teammates laughing and giggling about stupid things that happened during the party. 

“Hey, you had fun,” Tony pointed sternly at Nat, who simply shrugged with a devilish smirk. 

“So what now? Because I don’t know about you guys but I am not tired at all,” Clint groaned.

“Truth or dare?” Nat said.

“What?” 

“Truth. Or. Dare,” she repeated.

“Dare,” he challenged.

“Lift Thor’s hammer,” she mocked, considering the last they all tried it no one succeed and a robot crashed their party.

“Alright,” he grunted, standing up.

“Tony, got any robots that wanna kill you this time?” He laughed.

“I don’t think so,” Tony looked around, making everyone laugh.

“What happened last time?” you whispered to Bucky. 

“I have no idea, I was in hiding after I almost killed my best friend,” he whispered back.

“I’m so sorry,” you had a shocked look on your face.

“It’s ok, doll. We’re all fine and dandy now,” he winked, making you feel flustered. 

Bucky had the one you felt most friendly with. Nat too but you usually spent most of your time with him. He was just so nice to you and not to mention how incredibly charming and handsome he is.

“Had enough?” Nat said.

“Bitch,” Clint grumbled before sitting down after having failed yet again to lift Thor’s hammer.

“Who’s next!”

You guys went back and forth giving dares to everyone, from making Steve and Bucky have a beer chugging contest, to asking Vision if he had a dick, you know being a robot at all, to you taking three shots of tequila with no chase, ultimately failing and almost dying.

“Ok, we’re doing too many dares; I’m running out of ideas,” Nat laughed.

“Y/n, truth or dare.”

“Truth, I guess,” you said.

“What’s… your biggest fear?” a collection of ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ah’s’ echoed.

“Oh, well uh… clowns,” you chuckled, not really wanting to reveal you real fear; you felt it was kinda stupid.

“Clowns? Bitch, please. What is it for real?” Nat scooted to you.

“Um… well, uh-”

You took a deep breath.

“Being unlovable,” you whispered.

“What? We love you, Y/n. You’re family now; we all love you,” Steve spoke up.

“Yeah we love you,” everyone chimed in. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you said, shaking it off.

“It’s not stupid if it’s your biggest fear,” Nat said rubbing your back.

“I guess what I mean is… You know that love where you just think about that person and your palms get sweaty, you start feeling hot, your stomach kind of erupts into butterflies. And it's just because you thought about them. You see their smile and you want to smile too. You see them laugh and it's music to your ears; and all you can think about for the rest of the day is how you can make that person laugh again. And when you touch them, your fingertips start to tingle. Your body turns cold and then they leave and then your body turns really hot and you get super sweaty. That kind of love is so intimate between you and that person. I've never had that and I'm terrified that I never will.”

Everyone looked at you with their full attention. They never really thought about it because they’ve all loved someone. Steve felt that way about Peggy, Tony with Pepper, Nat and Bruce felt that way with each other, Thor had Jane, Clint was married and had a family, Wanda and Vision. It was just you Sam and Bucky and it was obvious you three had never been in love like that.

“How can you say that?” Bucky broke the silence.

“What?”

“How can you be afraid you’ll never be loved? Y/n, any man, woman, anybody would be the luckiest person alive to call you there’s. You are so special and unlike anybody I’ve ever met. I see you smile and it’s like a work of art. Your laugh is the most precious thing I’ve ever heard. Everytime you touch me I can’t help but wish…,” he paused, remembering there were other people around.

“You’re perfect and anyone who can’t see that is goddamn fucking idiot,” he huffed. Bucky didn’t give anyone time to process what he said before he left the room to his own.

“I think I’m done… for the night,” you whispered walking out. 

“Yeah good night guys,” Nat followed you out. 

Everyone scattered and went to their rooms, tension still in the air. You went to your room and thought about Bucky’s words. It felt like there was something between you two but it was exactly clarified. You changed into sleepwear and decided to talk to Bucky real quick before bed.

“Buck?” you softly knocked on his door.

“Hey,” he said, awkwardly opening the door.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course,” he opened the door wider and closed the door behind you.

“I thought about what you said, tonight.”

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to upset you or make you uncomfortable,” he scratched his neck.

“I’m not upset.”

There was a moment of silence between you.

“Y/n,” he spoke up.

“Yeah?” 

“I like you,” he said bluntly.

“So when I heard you say you didn’t know if you were unlovable I got kinda upset because well,” he trailed off.

 “Really?” you asked, smiling softly.

“Yeah, I get it if you don’t-”

“No! I do, I do. I like you,” you laughed. Bucky breathed out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He walked closer to you until he stood toe to toe with you. Your stomach fluttered like you wished it would for so long before . You felt hot and resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n,” he cupped your face.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” you responded.

You melted ainst Bucky when his lips touched yours. You felt unsteady and reached forward to holding his waist, smaller than you originally thought. He walked slowly forward until your knees buckled and you sat on the bed. 

You fell back and pulled on top of you making Bucky’s hips settle between your legs. His rough hands felt gentle moving slowly up your body under your shirt. His hands brushed the curve of your breasts making you gasped lightly. 

Bucky lips traced your jaw line and you moved your head back giving him room to nip at your neck. Your hands instinctively went to hair and you moaned softly at Bucky's lips on your neck. 

You slightly pushed him off of your body and lifted his shirt. Bucky lifted his arms not without a chuckled and discarded to the floor. You moaned at the sight of his muscular torso, your nails lightly scratching him make his abs tighten under your fingertips.

You practically tore your own shirt off before throwing yourself to him kissing him hard. He laughed wrapping his arms around your bare torso bracing himself from falling on the floor with his feet.

“You’re so handsome, Bucky,” you giggled.

“And you’re so gorgeous,” he responded.

You both rid of your bottoms and you laid back for Bucky to hover over you. His eyes were lustful, nearly black, as he stared hungrily into your own. Your skin raised, chills running down your spine. Bucky kissed you as he lined himself with your entrance. 

Up until this moment you hadn’t realized how wet you were, arousal practically oozing from you onto your thighs. You peeked in between your bodies and was taken back by his impressive size.

“Is it gonna fit?” you looked up at him.

“Of course. But if not, well there are plenty of ways to give my girl pleasure.”

“Your girl?” you smirked.

“Hell yeah, doll. I didn’t almost reveal that I’ve been waiting to get my hands on your delicious body for nothing.”

“You’re too funny,” you kissed his nose.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his face softening.

“Yeah.”

He pushed himself in sliding easily from your slick. You closed your eyes and moaned as did Bucky, throwing his head back slightly from pleasure.

“You feel fucking amazing, baby,” he groaned.

You just moaned feeling incredibly full. You squeezed his shoulders allowing him permission to move and he resisted thrusting animalistically because you felt so velvety. You felt so warm and perfect; like you made for him and him for you.

“Fuck, Bucky. Harder please. Fuck me hard.”

“You sure honey?” he questioned not wanting to hurt you.

“Yes, please!”

He grabbed your hands and brought them over your head thrusting into like a maniac. Your back arched causing Bucky to hit an entirely new angle making you moan louder. 

“God you sound so fucking pretty. Those precious little sounds from me fucking you stupid,” he whispered lowly in your ear. 

“Fuuck!” you drew out. Your legs wrapped around Bucky pulling him closer chasing your orgasm. 

“Look at that, baby. Look how your pussy’s taking me,” Bucky grunted. 

You looked down to see the lewd image of Bucky going  and out of you repeatedly. It was so eroctic however, and you moaned before finally feeling the tightened coil in the pit of your stomach burst. 

Your back arched once again and your arms wrapped around Bucky’s neck after he let go reaching his own high too. You both moaned before settling in silence; your body trembled under him and Bucky breathed heavily into your shoulder.

“Fuck, that was unbelievable, doll,” Bucky laughed.

“Yeah, man. You’ve got a good dick,” you smirked.

“If you let me, I want to take you out. On a real date,” Bucky said.

“I’d love that,” you smiled. 

You two fell asleep that night and woke up in each other's arms. Bucky took out to breakfast, then lunch, and then dinner. You guys didn’t like the food at the restaurant too much so you used Tony’s card that you snuck out and went to McDonald’s dressed highly inappropriately, better dressed for Tony’s party than this. 

Nonetheless, it was perfect and that fear you had long disappeared for everyday bucky made sure you knew he loved you. And of course you did the same.

[hvitserkmarcosource]

The Arrangement

Chapter Nine: Early Morning

Warnings: Smut Smutty Smut Smut lol

Chapter Nine Summary: You and Hvitserk have a wonderful morning and an eye opening afternoon.

Word Count: 2,362

Oh my god I haven’t updated in sooo long!! I’m so sorry guys! I thought I’d spoil you all with some Hvitserk goodness 😉 hope you enjoy!

*Tag list is OPEN

Chapter Eight

Chapter Ten - Coming Soon

................................................

That night you fell asleep and your head wasn’t filled with nightmares or the fear of what tomorrow would bring. It was content and filled with love. The beginning of your arrangement was terrifying and the fear of the unknown was crippling, you almost jumped out of a window for heaven's sake, and your first impression of Hvitserk did little to help the growing doubt in your mind that he would ever love you. How could he? A girl he had never met? Someone that could never replace the woman that his heart was still mourning…

But now as you wake up wrapped in his arms you realize that somewhere along the way his heart started to open to you. He started to let you in little by little. And for that you are forever grateful. May it be Christ or the Gods, you are not so sure anymore who to give credit to, either way you are thankful that they allowed Hvitserk to love you and be kind. A gentle soul to match your own. Someone in your life to help snuff out the fear of living.

As the sun rises so does the man laying behind you. his arms protectively tighten around your middle while he buries his face in the crook of your neck. When he starts to place kisses there you smile “Good morning” you say yawning.

“Morning princess” he mumbles, his voice gravelly from sleep. “Go back to sleep, I just couldn’t resist.”

His kisses become more and more and when they start to tickle you turn over and gently grab his face. Kissing him quickly on the lips.

“That tickled” you giggle “how can I continue to sleep when you tickle me so?”

He laughs and pulls you closer “That does sound difficult, but don’t make me stop.”

His head dips down and he starts kissing your neck again. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. Enjoying this moment between you. A moment of calm you both need.

You rake your nails through his messy unbraided hair and he lets out a soft moan “Do that again princess and I’ll never be able to stop.”

A smile graces your face as you proceed to do it again and another moan escapes him. “Princess” he says your nickname as a warning but it just makes you want more.

“I don’t want you to stop.” You say breathless. Not believing your own words or the current reaction you're having to simple kisses.

Hvitserk pulls away and you whine, needing him to stay close, fearing that you’ve upset him. He says your name and kisses your forehead. “Are you sure? I will not be angry if you want to wait for our wedding night.”

You nod “I’m sure… I love you.”

Suddenly his lips are on yours and the kisses aren’t so simple anymore. They're hot and passionate. Desperate and everything a kiss should be. He softly places you onto your back and says “I promise to be gentle, I would never hurt you. Please know that.”

You place your arms around his neck and say “I know, I trust you.”

He smiles, but you can tell there is a sadness behind it. “How can you trust a man like me?”

You frown and place another kiss to his lips “How could I not trust a man like you… Hvitserk you’ve only ever been kind to me and gentle. You’ve shown me how to smile and laugh when there is so much to be fearful of. So much that is unknown. The threat of what Ivar will do is looming over us at all times and somehow you make me forget about everything and feel like a child again. You are the only man I trust because you are the only man that has my heart.”

He returns your kiss and sighs “I never intended to fall for you, you make me feel again and that’s something I never thought would happen. I thought the Gods fated me to be numb forever, then I look at you and feel alive.” He takes your hand and places it over his heart. “My heart races when I’m with you Princess, it beats fast and hard… I don’t think that will ever go away.”

“Good,” you say “because I will never want you or your feelings for me to go away.”

he chuckles “I keep trying to stall, thinking you might change your mind, but you are making it more and more difficult.”

You don’t know what possesses you to do what you do next, may it be love or lust you aren’t certain. Slowly you spread your legs for him, inviting him in. Once he settles between them you let a moan slip past your lips. Heat pulling between his body and your own.

He rocks his hips into yours and you whisper his name. Over and over. Until he grows impatient and starts to undress you. You feel yourself begin to get dizzy. Dizzy in the feeling of complete ecstasy.

He moves sensually, slowly, taking his time as he thrusts into you. You're thankful for that. Not wanting either of you to lose control just yet. You're lost in the feeling of him, a pleasure you didn’t know could exist. One you never thought you would get to experience. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he begins to pick up the pace.

He growls as you begin to chant his name. Your walls clenching around him and your toes curling. He knows you’re getting close and he takes this moment to capture your lips in a scorching kiss. One that leaves you even more breathless.

One of his hands trails down to where you’re connected and he teasingly starts to toy with the most sensitive part of you. Making your hips buck up involuntarily. You throw your head back and Hvitserk takes this moment to place another kiss to your neck, only this time his kisses are accompanied with bites.

You can’t believe the sounds escaping your mouth and you can’t control them. Your body is no longer yours to control and you wouldn’t have it any other way. A sharp thrust causes you to cry out and Hvitserk growls like a man gone crazy.

“Let go princess, come on. I've got you”

Your head is spinning, overcome with pleasure as the dam inside of you starts to burst. As you succumb to the fire that’s burning inside of you. “I-I’m going to-“

His lips silence you “Me too, let it go my love”

You cum with a scream of his name, your vision going white and your heart all but pounding out of your chest. Hvitserk follows only seconds after, spilling inside of you. You almost cum again from the feeling.

Once you both catch your breaths he looks at you, placing the hair that has fallen onto your face behind your ear. “Was that… was that okay? I didn’t hurt you did I?” He asks

“You did not hurt me, and yes that was perfect.”

He sighs happily, rolling onto his back and bringing you with him to lay in his chest. “I could stay like this forever” he says quietly “Let us worry about Kattegat and England later. Sleep my love.”

You nuzzle into his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. Eventually you do allow your eyes to close and sleep consumes you.

................................................

Sunlight filled the sky completely, when you woke again. Pure ethereal light, its hue illuminating each crevice of the land. It must be midday. How long have you slept? From the sounds of Hvitserk’s snoring you guess it’s been a while. You look up at him and he does look so peaceful. It would be cruel to wake him, especially with the news you’re going to have to tell him.

So you decide to venture outside alone. Find your favorite spot on the hill that overlooks the sea. If this is going to be your last trip to England, it would be best to make it memorable.

With breath paused in your lungs, you wish time would halt. That morning would be still and leave the man inside asleep. For you are dreading the conversation you have to have with Hvitserk. You do not want to ruin the lovely morning you shared.

So you continue to look out onto the world, onto the vast sea that was not able to absorb the bright sparks of the sun.The tides racing among each other to reach the horizon from where the mighty sun appeared. And though time continued. And you could hear Hvitserk calling out for you. You felt her warmth. And you knew the sun was giving you all of the strength you needed to get through one more day.

“Hvitserk!” You yell for him

It doesn’t take long for him to find you and be by your side.

“I woke up and you weren’t there, I was worried.” He admits, placing a kiss to the top of your head before he sits on the ground beside you.

“I am sorry that I worried you.”

He wraps one of his arms around you and pulls you close, making you rest your head on his shoulder. “I wish you would have brought me with you. This is beautiful.”

You smile “This is my favorite spot in the entire Kingdom. I always come here when I need a moment of peace.”

“Tell me, what’s bothering you Princess?”

You sigh and pull away from his embrace “I need to talk to you about something very important and I did not want to ruin the morning we had…”

He chuckles “Nothing could ruin that”

You roll your eyes and say what you’ve been dreading to say “My father spent all of the gold Ivar gave him. He is a stupid man.”

Hvitserk furrows his brows “All of it? That was three years worth of raiding-“

“I know, I know…” You shake your head and try to keep a level head. “A man came to him and sold him dragon eggs. Obviously they weren’t real, my father was just too stupid to realize that before he spent everything the Kingdom has on lies.”

Hvitserk’s face turns pale and your heart drops “What is it? Hvitserk what’s wrong?”

“You said the man was selling dragon eggs?” He asks

”Yes, but why-“

Hvitserk stands up abruptly and starts cursing in his language. Even in anger the Norse language is beautiful. You make a mental note to have him teach you that too.

When he calms down he returns to your side “I hate him,” he says out of breath and red in the face “this was all Ivar. All of it, Princess”

“What do you mean? How could this be Ivar’s doing?” You reach up your hand, silently asking him to take it. You’re hoping to calm him down before he explains.

“Your father wrote to Ivar, telling him of you and that you were not yet married. He said, because you are his only child, he feared you would not produce children in time to save the bloodline. He offered your hand in return for Ivar’s Gold. Of course Ivar accepted and here we are.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and ask “I know all of this, what does any of it have to do with dragons?”

He sits down and holds your hand tighter “Before I left for my raid, I went to speak with Ivar. He was already talking to a man. The man was holding a crate, what was inside I did not know… until now. After the man left I asked Ivar what that was about and he said “Did you really think that I didn’t have a plan?” I was confused, I brushed him off, and went raiding. I just thought he was being Ivar… crazy Ivar.”

He looks into your eyes and wipes the tear that has fallen onto your face. “I did not know he was planning all of this… to keep you and not help your kingdom. I am so sorry Princess.”

You laugh sadly, not being able to contain your emotions any longer. Yes Ivar stole from your father and basically kidnapped you, but if he hadn’t done all of that you would have never met Hvitserk. You’re not sure how to feel. not to mention your just as bad.

You shake your head. It’s time to admit what you’ve done. “When you were chained up, I made a deal with Ivar-“

Hvitserk cuts you off “I know, I know you did. You do not have to talk about it.”

“You do not know everything Hvitserk. After he sentenced you I knew what kind of a man Ivar was. I knew he was cruel and selfish. And I only saw one way to set you free. I made a deal with him”

Hvitserk groans and asks “You offered yourself to him?”

“No! No no no… I offered something much worse than myself. I told him how to get into the castle undetected, I told him exactly what he needed to know to steal everything.”

Hvitserk nods “Okay, but that doesn’t make sense. Why would Ivar need to know how to get into the castle to steal the gold back, if he already has the gold?”

It hits the both of you simultaneously. Ivar isn’t interested in gold. He wants to rule. Ivar wants to rule England.

................................................

Everything happened in a flash. The two of you ran back to the castle and into your father's throne room, you begged your father to double his guards and make sure the gates were shut and boarded. You told your father of your betrayal and how Ivar would get into the castle. You told him this was Ivars plan all along.

He did not listen.

And you were banished from England. The only home you’ve ever known…

Now you are on the boat, back to Kattegat. Back to the man that has taken almost everything from you.

Ivar. Ivar has taken your freedom, your innocence, and now your kingdom.

@alexhogh7137 @ivarthebloodyking @sfyri @curlyhairedhoseok @mavalenovaninagavi @lol-haha-joke @joebob15274 @itsharleyalb @motherofkattegat @kaitieskidmore1

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

Switching Lanes With St. Vincent

By Molly Young

January 22, 2019

Jacket (men’s), $4,900, pants (men’s), $2,300, by Dior / Men shoes, by Christian Louboutin / Rings (throughout) by Cartier

On a cold recent night in Brooklyn, St. Vincent appeared onstage in a Saint Laurent smoking jacket to much clapping and hooting, gave the crowd a deadpan look, and said, “Without being reductive, I'd like to say that we haven't actually done anything yet.” Pause. “So let's do something.”

She launched into a cover of Lou Reed's “Perfect Day”: an arty torch-song version that made you really wonder whom she was thinking about when she sang it. This was the elusive chanteuse version of St. Vincent, at least 80 percent leg, with slicked-back hair and pale, pale skin. She belted, sipped from a tumbler of tequila (“Oh, Christ on a cracker, that's strong”), executed little feints and pounces, flung the mic cord away from herself like a filthy sock, and spat on the stage a bunch of times. Nine parts Judy Garland, one part GG Allin.

If the Garland-Allin combination suggests that St. Vincent is an acquired taste, she's one that has been acquired by a wide range of fans. The crowd in Brooklyn included young women with Haircuts in pastel fur and guys with beards of widely varying intentionality. There was a woman of at least 90 years and a Hasidic guy in a tall hat, which was too bad for whoever sat behind him. There were models, full nuclear families, and even a solitary frat bro. St. Vincent brings people together.

If you chart the career of Annie Clark, which is St. Vincent's civilian name, you will see what start-up founders and venture capitalists call “hockey-stick growth.” That is, a line that moves steadily in a northeast direction until it hits an “inflection point” and shoots steeply upward. It's called hockey-stick growth because…it looks like a hockey stick.

Dress, by Balmain

The toe of the stick starts with Marry Me, Clark's debut solo album, which came out a decade ago and established a few things that would become essential St. Vincent traits: her ability to play a zillion instruments (she's credited on the album with everything from dulcimer to vibraphone), her highbrow streak (Shakespeare citations), her goofy streak (“Marry me!” is an Arrested Development bit), and her oceanic library of musical references (Kate Bush, Steve Reich, uh…D'Angelo!). The blade of the stick is her next four albums, one of them a collaboration with David Byrne, all of them confirming her presence as an enigma of indie pop and a guitar genius. The stick of the stick took a non-musical detour in 2016, when Clark was photographed canoodling with (now ex-) girlfriend Cara Delevingne at Taylor Swift's mansion, followed a few months later by pictures of Clark holding hands with Kristen Stewart. That brought her to the realm of mainstream paparazzi-pictures-in-the-Daily-Mail celebrity. Finally, the top of the stick is Masseduction, the 2017 album she co-produced with Jack Antonoff, which revealed St. Vincent to be not only experimental and beguiling but capable of turning out incorrigible bangers.

Masseduction made the case that Clark could be as much a pop star as someone like Sia or Nicki Minaj—a performer whose idiosyncrasies didn't have to be tamped down for mainstream success but could actually be amplified. The artist Bruce Nauman once said he made work that was like “going up the stairs in the dark and either having an extra stair that you didn't expect or not having one that you thought was going to be there.” The idea applies to Masseduction: Into the familiar form of a pop song Clark introduces surprising missteps, unexpected additions and subtractions. The album reached No. 10 on the Billboard 200. The David Bowie comparisons got louder.

This past fall, she released MassEducation (not quite the same title; note the addition of the letter a), which turned a dozen of the tracks into stripped-down piano songs. Although technically off duty after being on tour for nearly all of 2018, Clark has been performing the reduced songs here and there in small venues with her collaborator, the composer and pianist Thomas Bartlett. Whereas the Masseduction tour involved a lot of latex, neon, choreographed sex-robot dance moves, and LED screens, these recent shows have been comparatively austere. When she performed in Brooklyn, the stage was empty, aside from a piano and a side table. There were blue lights, a little piped-in fog for atmosphere, and that was it. It looked like an early-'90s magazine ad for premium liquor: art-directed, yes, but not to the degree that it Pinterested itself.

Coat, (men’s) $8,475, by Versace / Shoes, by Christian Louboutin / Tights, by Wolford

The performance was similarly informal. Midway through one song, Clark forgot the lyrics and halted. “It takes a different energy to be performing [than] to sit in your sweatpants watching Babylon Berlin,” she said. “Wherever I am, I completely forget the past, and I'm like. ‘This is now.’ And sometimes this means forgetting song lyrics. So, if you will…tell me what the second fucking verse is.”

Clark has only a decade in the public eye behind her, but she's accomplished a good amount of shape-shifting. An openness to the full range of human expression, in fact, is kind of a requirement for being a St. Vincent fan. This is a person who has appeared in the front row at Chanel and also a person who played a gig dressed as a toilet, a person profiled in Vogue and on the cover of Guitar World.

The day before her Brooklyn show, I sat with Clark to find out what it's like to be utterly unstructured, time-wise, after a long stretch of knowing a year in advance that she had to be in, like, Denmark on July 4 and couldn't make plans with friends.

“I've been off tour now for three weeks,” she said. “When I say ‘off,’ I mean I didn't have to travel.”

This doesn't mean she hasn't traveled—she went to L.A. to get in the studio with Sleater-Kinney and also hopped down to Texas, where she grew up—just that she hasn't been contractually obligated to travel. What else did she do on her mini-vacation?

“I had the best weekend last weekend. I woke up and did hot Pilates, and then I got a bunch of new modular synths, and I set 'em up, and I spent ten hours with modular synths. Plugging things in. What happens when I do this? I'm unburdened by a full understanding of what's going on, so I'm very willing to experiment.”

Coat, by Boss

Jacket, and coat, by Boss / Necklace, by Cartier

Like a child?

“Exactly. Did you ever get those electronics kits as a kid for like 20 bucks from RadioShack? Where you connect this wire to that one and a light bulb turns on? It's very much like that.”

There's an element of chaos, she said, that makes synth noodling a neat way to stumble on melodies that she might not have consciously assembled. She played with the synths by herself all day. “I don't stop, necessarily,” she said, reflecting on what the idea of “vacation” means to someone for whom “job” and “things I love to do” happen to overlap more or less exactly. “I just get to do other things that are really fun. I'm in control of my time.” She had plans to see a show at the New Museum, read books, play music and see movies alone, always sitting on the aisle so she could make a quick escape if necessary. But she will probably keep working. St. Vincent doesn't have hobbies.

When it manifests in a person, this synergy between life and work is an almost physically perceptible quality, like having brown eyes or one leg or being beautiful. Like beauty, it's a result of luck, and a quality that can invoke total despair in people who aren't themselves allotted it. This isn't to say that Clark's career is a stroke of unearned fortune but that her skills and character and era and influences have collided into a perfect storm of realized talent. And to have talent and realize that talent and then be beloved by thousands for exactly the thing that is most special about you: Is there anything a person could possibly want more? Is this why Annie Clark glows? Or is it because she's super pale? Or was it because there was a sound coming through the window where we sat that sounded thrillingly familiar?

“Is Amy Sedaris running by?” Clark asked, her spine straightening. A man with a boom mic was visible on the sidewalk outside. Another guy in a baseball cap issued instructions to someone beyond the window. Someone said “Action!” and a figure in vampire makeup and a clown wig streaked across the sidewalk. Someone said “Cut!” and Clark zipped over for a look. It was, in fact, Amy Sedaris, her clown wig bobbing in the 44-degree breeze. The mic operator was gagging with laughter. It seemed like a good omen, this sighting, like the New York City version of Groundhog Day: If an Amy Sedaris streaks across your sight line in vampire makeup, spring will arrive early.

Blazer (men’s) $1,125, by Paul Smith

Another thing Clark does when off tour is absorb all the input that she misses when she's locked into performance mode. On a Monday afternoon, she met artist Lisa Yuskavage at an exhibition of her paintings at the David Zwirner gallery in Chelsea. Yuskavage was part of a mini-boom of figurative painting in the '90s, turning out portraits of Penthouse centerfolds and giant-jugged babes with Rembrandt-esque skill. It made sense that Clark wanted to meet her: Both women make art about the inner lives of female figures, both are sorcerers of technique, both are theatrical but introspective, both have incendiary style. The gallery was a white cube, skylit, with paintings around the perimeter. Yuskavage and Clark wandered through at a pace exclusive to walking tours of cultural spaces, which is to say a few steps every 10 to 15 seconds with pauses between for the proper amount of motionless appreciation.

The paintings were small, all about the size of a human head, and featured a lot of nipples, tufted pudenda, tan lines, majestic asses, and protruding tongues. “I like the idea of possessing something by painting it,” Yuskavage said. “That's the way I understand the world. Like a dog licking something.”

Clark looked at the works with the expression people make when they're meditating. She was wearing elfin boots, black pants, and a shirt with a print that I can only describe as “funky”—“funky” being an adjective that looks good on very few people, St. Vincent being one of them—and sipped from a cup of espresso furnished by a gallery minion. After she finished the drink, there was a moment when she looked blankly at the saucer, unsure what to do with it, and then stuck it in the breast pocket of her funky shirt for the rest of the tour.

A painting called Sweetpuss featured a bubble-butted blonde in beaded panties with nipples so upwardly erect they actually resembled little boners. Yuskavage based the underwear on a pair of real underwear that she'd constructed herself from colored balls and string. “I've got the beaded panties if you ever need 'em,” she said to Clark. “They might fit you. They're tiny.”

Earrings, by Erickson Beamon

“I'm picturing you going to the Garment District,” Clark said.

“There was a lot of going to the Garment District.”

As they completed their lap around the white cube, Clark interjected with questions—what year was this? were you considering getting into film? how long did these sittings take? what does “mise-en-scène” mean?—but mainly listened. And she is a good listener: an inquisitive head tilter, an encouraging nodder, a non-fidgeter, a maker of eye contact. She found analogues between painting and music. When Yuskavage mourned the death of lead white paint (due to its poisonous qualities, although, as the artist pointed out, “It's not that big a deal to not get lead poisoning; just don't eat the paint”), Clark compared it to recording's transition from tape to digital.

“Back in the day, if you wanted to hear something really reverberant”—she clapped; it reverberated—“you'd have to be in a room like this and record it, or make a reverb chamber,” Clark said. “Now we have digital plug-ins where you can say, ‘Oh, I want the acoustic resonance of the Sistine Chapel.’ Great. Somebody's gone and sampled that and created an algorithm that sounds like you're in the Sistine Chapel.”

Lately, she said, she's been way more into devices that betray their imperfections. That are slightly out of tune, or capable of messing up, or less forgiving of human intervention. “Air moving through a room,” Clark said. “That's what's interesting to me.”

They kept pacing. The paintings on the wall evolved. Conversation turned to what happens when you grow as an artist and people respond by flipping out.

“I always find it interesting when someone wants you to go back to ‘when you were good,’ ” Yuskavage said. “This is why we liked you.”

“I can't think of anybody where I go, ‘What's great about that artist is their consistency, ” Clark said. “Anything that stays the same for too long dies. It fails to capture people's imagination.”

Coat (mens), $1,150, by Acne Studios

They were identifying a problem with fans, of course, not with themselves. It was an implicit identification, because performers aren't permitted to critique their audiences, and it was definitely the artistic equivalent of a First World problem—an issue that arises only when you're so resplendent with talent that you not only nail something enough to attract adoration but nail it hard enough to get personally bored and move on—but it was still valid. They were talking about the kind of fan who clings to a specific tree when he or she could be roaming through a whole forest. In St. Vincent's case, a forest of prog-rock thickets and jazzy roots and orchestral brambles and mournful-ballad underlayers, all of it sprouting and molting under a prodigious pop canopy. They were talking about the strange phenomenon of people getting mad at you for surprising them. Even if the surprise is great.

Molly Young is a writer living in New York City. She wrote about Donatella Versace in the April 2018 issue of GQ.

A version of this story originally appeared in the February 2019 issue with the title "Switching Lanes With St. Vincent."