#i just cannot conjure those words myself

[pub-lius]

part something of research for @thereallvrb0y

I'm so productive today so here we go. Today, we got Ben Tallmadge, James McHenry, John and Abigail Adams. Love you, Richie

@thereallvrb0y

Oh, also, for my sources, I really just used Mount Vernon and the White House website because I am a capitalist piece of shit. (the white house has the best timeline, Mount Vernon has more specifics)

Benjamin Tallmadge

Benjamin Tallmadge was born on February 25, 1754 in Setauket, Long Island *insert Turn theme* as the second of five sons to Reverend Benjamin Tallmadge and Susannah Tallmadge. He was educated in the classics by his father, who didn't send him to Yale until 1769.

"President Dagge[t, at that University], on a visit to [his] father, examined and admitted [Tallboy] as qualified to enter college, when [he] was twelve or thirteen years old."

Tallmadge developed a "close friendship" with Nathan Hale as a student at Yale. I'll let someone more eloquent in Halemadge mythology tackle that information, but to me they seem kinda sus but slay.

He completed his studies in 1773 and took up a teaching post at a school in Wethersfield, Connecticut. However, after the disaster that was 1775, Tallmadge began seriously considering joining the Army. He was offered the position of lieutenant in one of the six month regiments in Connecticut by Captain Chester of Wethersfield in 1776. He first saw action in the Battle of Long Island in August 1776, which was a British victory. Meanwhile, his older brother, William, was taken prisoner at Long Island and "literally starved to death in one of [the British] prisons."

But all that bad stuff is okay because in December of that year, he was appointed to a captain in Colonel Elisha Sheldon's 2d Regiment of Light Dragoons, then rose to the rank of major in April 1777. They grow up so fast. Tallmadge was also present at Brandywine and Germantown, which would be slay queen pussy boss, if both those battles weren't losses lol.

In 1778, Tallmadge was appointed director of military intelligence by Washington, with a focus on getting information from New York City, so "[he] opened a private correspondence with some persons in New York (for Gen. Washington) which lasted through the war." This was, you guessed it, Abraham Woodhull, Caleb Brewster, Anna Strong (allegedly!), Robert Townsend, and Austin Roe (we don't know who tf that is).

Those people formed the Culper Spy Ring, named after the nickname given to Woodhull, "Samuel Culper." Tallmadge was given a similar nickname, "John Bolton".

A system was created for the spies in which numbers were substituted for common words, names, and places. A key was provided to Washington, Woodhull, and Townsend. Washington also provided them with invisible ink because apparently he's Dumbledore. A message would be written with it, sometimes on the back of a normal letter, for the recipient to treat the paper with a reagent to reveal the message. This, apparently, saw significant use.

"I have not any of the Ink, but I will endeavor to provide some of it as soon as possible," -Washington to Tallmadge on April 30, 1779

The Spy Ring prevented a British fleet from sailing for Rhode Island in July 1780. Woodhull passed the intelligence of the fleet to Tallmadge, who allerted Washington. A fake plan of attacking New York was made, which made the British recall their ships, and allowed Lafayette and Rochambeau to land 6,000 troops at Newport.

Tallmadge also played a significant role in the apprehension of John Andre. If you want the whole story of John Andre's arrest and Benedict Arnold's flee from West Point, I have that shit memorized and I love talking about it so send me an ask bc I don't feel like typing all that shit out rn lol.

After the war, Tallmadge returned to civilian life with his wife, Mary Floyd Tallmadge, and their seven children in Connecticut. He entered into several business and financial ventures, for example serving as president of the Phoenix Bank and joined the Ohio Company to purchase and resell land in the west.

During Washington's first presidential term, Tallmadge was given the position of postmaster for Litchfield, Connecticut. He was elected to Congress in 1800 as a Federalist (here in my notes I wrote "freaks who fuck together federal together" and I'm not sure why, but there you go) and remained in the House until 1817. He died at 81 in 1835.

James McHenry

James McHenry was born on November 16, 1753 in County Antrim, Ireland. He was classically educated in Dublin before immigrating to Philadelphia in 1771. He returned to Philadelphia from a term at Newark Academy in Delaware to study medicine under Dr. Benjamin Rush in the years leading up to the Revolutionary War.

He put his medical training to good use in the "American Continental Hospital" (idk why that's in quotes but I figured it's important) near Boston in the Autumn of 1775. He followed the Army to New York and was appointed surgeon for the 5th Pennsylvania Regiment on August 10, 1776. He was captured less than three months later with over 2,800 soldiers at the fall of Fort Washington on November 16, 1776. McHenry actively treated wounded comrades during captivity and informed Washington of the condition of prisoners of war in New York. He was exchanged in March 1778.

McHenry returned to his duty as a senior surgeon at Valley Forge. He accepted Washington's invitation to join his staff as an assistant secretary without a rank. He assisted in the duties of an aide-de-camp, and became particular friends with Alexander Hamilton, which is a job all within itself. He formed the opinion that Washington "is a singular exhibition of Human Excellence."

He proved himself "worthy to wield the sword as the pen" at Monmouth on June 28, 1778. He transferred to Lafayette's staff in August 1780 as an aide-de-camp and was given the rank of Major on October 30, 1780. McHenry "tempered the young Frenchman's ardor" during the 1781 Virginia campaign. He fought at the Battle of Green Spring and at Yorktown.

Oh, also, he was the only one on Hamilton's side at his wedding. Like literally everyone else there was in the Schuyler family or were family friends. Isn't that depressing. Anyway.

In December 1781, McHenry resigned military commission to sit in the Maryland senate. He began a correspondence with Washington in order to keep him aware of the political state of affairs that would continue for fourteen years. He held a number of local, state, and national government positions, including being a Maryland representative to the Constitutional Convention, where he reluctantly signed the document and voted for ratification.

Washington offered him the position of Secretary of War in early 1796 after three others declined. He remained in the cabinet of John Adams. During the Quasi war, in 1798, Washington expressed disappointment in Mchenry during the initial months of preparation for war. Despite this, he proved to be a capable Secretary, despite dealing with fucking John fucking Adams and "two domineering generals" aka Hamilton and Washington.

Adams forced McHenry's resignation in May of 1800 because he was loyal to Hamilton, and McHenry retired to his estate near Baltimore before his passing on May 3, 1816.

John Adams

John fucking Adams was born in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1735. His father was from Braintree, Massachusetts and was a farmer and a cobbler. Adams was educated at Harvard in 1751 and then decided to be a lawyer.

He married Abigail Smith in 1764. She was the daughter of a Weymouth, Congregationalist minister and granddaughter of pre-revolutionary era politician, John Quincy. They ended up having six kids and managing a farm together.

During the war, Adams served as a delegate to the First and Second Continental Congresses where he led the movement for Independence. He met George Washington for the first time in 1774. They dined together several times, and he respected Washington greatly. In 1775, he pushed Congress for him to be Commander in Chief of the Continental Army.

"This Appointment will have a great Effect, in cementing and securing the Union of these Colonies." -John Adams

Adams served in France and Holland in diplomatic roles during the war and helped negotiate the Treaty of Paris. However, he wasn't really a good diplomat. Everyone thought he was blunt, annoying, impatient, hypersensitive to criticism, and a fucking asshole. He would also convince himself that everyone else was evil and out to get him in some way. The most outrageous example of this, in my opinion, was the one time he accused the Marquis de Lafayette of attempting to colonize America... I'll let that sink in for a moment. Marquis de I'm-fucking-obsessed-with-America Lafayette. Mf literally had an America themed house and Adams thought "yep. he's plotting the downfall of this country." So that was fucking stupid.

Tl;dr Adams isn't as great as mainstream media thinks he is.

Adams also served as minister to the Court of St. James's from 1785-1788 but that was irrelevant apparently because I have no info on it lol.

Adams wanted to return when he got back to America but instead had to serve as Vice President and I don't feel bad for him. He didn't like being Vice President though, and I still don't feel bad for him.

"My country has in its wisdom contrived for me the most insignificant office that ever the invention of man contrived or his imagination conceived." -John Adams to Abigail Adams

He was a one term president after that and geez was that one term a mess. There was a war between France and Britain going on because the French are continually fucking up international affairs at this time, and that caused complication in American shipping and domestic affairs. Why domestic affairs, you ask? Take one guess. You're right, it's Hamilton.

Specifically Hamilton and Jefferson. Because of fucking course. The Federalist (Hamilton and Adams' party) wanted to support Britain because the French were too liberal, and the Democratic Republicans (Jefferson, Madison and Monroe's party/ies, it's complicated) wanted to support France because they were allies to the US once blah blah blah they were just liberal.

However, this all was different when um. France kind of. Fucked everything up. Again.

So basically Adams sent three commissioners to France to try to get them to stop fucking up everything so the US could mind their business. However, in the spring of 98, a little birdie tells Adams that French Foreign Minister Talleyrand (a fashion icon let me tell you /j) and the French Directory refused to negotiate unless the US gave them money.

Adams, a Federalist, was like FUCK THAT and snitched to COngress who was also like fuck that, and the Senate printed the correspondence, which only referred to the French commissioners or whatever they were as "X, Y, and Z" *roll credits*

The nation had "the X. Y. Z. fever" in the words of Tommy J which increased the popularity of the Federalist party because they realized the French were fucking everything up, and people even liked Adams for a little while.

So this caused some problems later, but I'll get to that in a sec. When the debate of France vs Britain was still largely 50/50, Adams approved this little thing you might have heard of called the Alien and Sedition Acts. These were acts made to "frighten foreign agents out of the country and stifle the attacks of Republican editors." To translate out of propaganda speak, Adams was trying to limit the rights of immigrants and stop people from printing negative things about him. So you know. Infringing on Constitutional Rights. (oh, btw, Hamilton agreed with these, which is why people say he was anti-immigrant)

Anyway back to the XYZ affair kind of. Basically, because of those proceedings, the US was like "...well we're fucked." And they were, because France started fighting America on the sea. And at this point in history, America was. detrimentally fucked when it came to anything military.

American shipping was basically defenseless since they disowned Daddy Britain who had big guns and big money, both of which were used to protect shipping. For example, (this comes up later with Jefferson), the Barbary states in North Africa had pirates that would attack European merchant vessels to steal their merchandise as well as the people on board to enslave. The European superpowers (Britain, Spain, France, etc.) would large sums of money for the Barbarian governments to keep their pirates from attacking their shipping. America didn't have that kind of money. And because they didn't have that kind of money to pay bribes, they didn't have that kind of money to buy guns. or ships. or gunpowder. or food. or like anything you need to run a navy.

So France was basically decimating American merchant ships. But they chilled out by 1800 because shit was going down. The Federalists called it a war since Daddy Hamilton was angry, but war was never officially declared, so we call it what the Democratic Republicans called it, the Quasi War.

Long negotiations ended the Quasi War and I don't care. However, someone special was a little bit kind of extremely PISSED that Adams sent a peace mission to France. Take one guess- you know what I'm not even going to let you finish, it's Hamilton.

By the time of the election of 1800, Republicans had their shit together. They knew Jefferson was the most obvious choice for president, with Burr being the kind of underdog that still had potential, however the Federalists were fucked, since the party was already dying. Now you're thinking, but wait, I thought Adams was Federalist. We'll not anymore because the sluttiness in the room is about to get ASTRONOMICAL.

Hamilton and Adams were on each other's shit list since the Revolutionary War. Hamilton hated Adams because Adams was in the Continental Congress and ignored how the army was struggling in order to make a point, and Adams hated Hamilton because Hamilton made him wake up at 3 am once (evacuation of Philadelphia).

Hamilton's political influence was so great, not because he was widely respected (he wasn't) but because he had people in nearly every position that he could influence to vote in the direction that benefited him most. It didn't always work, but it worked in Adams' case.

This was also another reason Hamilton didn't like Adams because, despite being in the same party as him, Adams was too stubborn to be manipulated by Hamilton. Also, when they were both in the cabinet, Adams was mostly, if not entirely, outcast from the proceedings, mainly because of how Hamilton and Jefferson overshadowed the other cabinet members with their big personalities, big opinions, and intense rivalry. To compound this even further, Hamilton held both second and first in command positions (the latter after Washington retired [again]). So for basically an entire decade, Hamilton unofficially outranked Adams, even though Adams held the more important position.

Their rivalry wasn't personal like Hamilton and Madison/Monroe, nor was it like Hamilton and Jefferson's rivalries where they were basically the antithesis of one another. It was really just political, but because they both expected the other to agree, being in the same party, and also because they were both so hypersensitive to criticism, it became very personal in their eyes.

Hamilton wanted Adams gone. And he handled this quite differently from how Jefferson handled it, even though they both wanted Adams out of the running.

Jefferson was basically the master of eliminating his political enemies from the competition. He, like many other statesmen of the time, including Hamilton, owned publishing companies where he would commission writers to publish slander against his political enemies in order to worsen public opinion of them, therefore losing them the majority of popular vote, and by extension, the electoral vote. This was the smart way to go about things, because it was anonymous, there was no risk of damage to Jefferson's public image most of the time. Emphasis on most of the time, because the newspaper wars of the earlier 1790s weren't as anonymous but whatever.

While Hamilton did utilize this strategy, when it was a case like Adams where he needed to deal the most about of damage as fast as possible, he needed to use more than one strategy at once. So in conjunction with the above, he also spread rumors, like he did with Burr at this exact same time, he made a direct publication(s). I put that s there because I haven't gotten to look into this era of Hamilton's life in excessive detail, so I don't know all the facts, but I do know how Hamilton works.

Essentially, Hamilton struck Adams' reputation on three fronts: word on the street, pamphlets circulating, and newspaper articles. Adding Jefferson's efforts, along with Hamilton's influence among the electoral voters, Adams was cast out of the running fairly quickly.

Adams gave up on politics after that, and retired to his farm in Quincy, and rebuilt his relationship with Jefferson, which had died sometime during the Washington administration, and they remained friends until July 4, 1826, when they both died.

"Thomas Jefferson survives" -John Adams' last words, not knowing Jefferson had died a few hours earlier. Dumbass.

Abigail Adams

Abigail Smith was born in 1744 at Weymouth, Massachusetts. She was descended from the Quincys on her mother's side. Every colony had Those Families that were pretty much their since the founding and made up the elite of that colony. New York had the Schuylers, Van Rensselaers, and Livingstons, Virginia had the Jeffersons, the Washingtons, and the other one, South Carolina had the Ramsays and the Pickneys, and Massachusetts had the Quincys and the Adamses.

Abigail lacked formal education, like most other women, but was known for her keen intelligence that she gained from reading whatever she could. This love of reading created a bond between her and John Adams, and they got married in 1764 when she was 19.

They lived together in John's farm at Braintree or in Boston when he had to do lawyer things. She had three sons and two daughters in ten years (ouch) and looked after the family and their home when John was running around the globe getting fired from every job he had.

"Alas! How many snow banks divide thee and me..." -Abigail Adams to John Adams in December 1773

They were apart for most of their relationship, and I think they're one of the best examples of the 18th century, mid-upper class relationship between husband and wife. In the American culture of this time, the wife was expected to remain home and raise the children, while also being involved in local politics and diplomacy to maintain the family name, while the husband was expected to have a similar role in state/national affairs. This is why you often see, in the upper class, women having prominent roles in their family and community.

Abigail joined John in Paris in 1784. Then, after 1785, she had to define and fill the role of wife of the first United States Minister to Great Britain, and she absolutely slayed. Then, they returned to Massachusetts in 1788.

Abigail had much a much more defined political ideology than other women at their time, even if they were equally involved in politics, because of how boldly she informed her husband, as well as the Massachusetts Colony General Court in 1775, of her beliefs. She was a humanitarian and an activist, with an unbiased opinion of the United States. She advocated for gender equality in public education and the need to pay attention to how women were affected by current events. When she was informed that the Declaration of Independence was to be written, she reminded her husband to, "Remember the Ladies..."

She also wrote a will that left the majority of her possessions to her female family members, which was surprising since her belongings would technically belong to her husband. As if he could argue with her. She was smarter than him.

Although Adams rarely listened to his wife, her opinions influenced him heavily. She had so much influence over him that she was nicknamed "Mrs. President" which I think is iconic.

She also believed in the necessity of emancipation, and firmly believed in independence, saying, "Let us separate, they are unworthy to be our Brethren. Let us renounce them..."

As the wife of the Vice President, she became good friends with Martha Washington, helping her with official entertaining, since she had experience in foreign courts. However, she became sick frequently after 1791, so she was in Massachusetts most of the time.

Funny story about when she met George Washington, she kind of didn't like him because he had slaves and was a member of the Virginia planter elite. But, after meeting him, she was "struck with General Washington" and said that he was marked by "Dignity with ease... the Gentleman and Soldier look agreeably blended in him."

When Adams became president, she continued a formal pattern of entertaining, even if the capital was kind of... not there. She fucking hated it.

She retired with her husband in 1801, and lived a happy life until 1818 when she died. She is buried beside her husband in United First Parish Church.

Okay geez that was a lot, I did this all in one day FHSKJHSKLJH (not the tallmadge and mchenry notes, i did those a while back, hence why i can't decipher "freaks who fuck together federal together). my wrist hurts so im going to go play minecraft and probably read fanfiction since ive got Hamilton on the brain (if you couldn't tell). hope this helps. love ya!!!!

[harmonictechnicality]

model!steve and voice actor!Eddie (part 3)

part 1 here | part 2 here | ao3 link here | the temp is up on this one so like... dni if under 18 pls

Eddie is a superstitious person, always has been. Avoids cracks in the sidewalk, refuses to walk under ladders. Says ‘bless you’ despite his lack of goddamn faith (well… scratch the god, keep the damn). That’s why, when Eddie wakes up at 11:11 that morning, he takes it as a sign. A good one too.

Okay yeah, it’s a little gross that he didn’t wake up until now. But he spent most of the night tossing and turning. A thirstfest visual loop of Steve Harrington jerking it to him. Or just his voice. Maybe both, but Eddie would be a conceited fuck if he were to ask for clarity on Steve’s preferred fantasies.

Look, he makes a lot of digs about his appearance because it’s harmless fun. In reality, Eddie is aware that he’s not an un-attractive person. Could he put a little more effort into his skincare routine so that it doesn’t peel off of him anytime he’s in direct sunlight? Sure. But his features are decent enough to get him matches on that dating app he used for exactly four days before deleting. 

Steve, though… Steve is something conjured up by a young adult novelist - creating the dreamiest boytoy for the angsty yet endearing protagonist. Steve is that. He’s something from a fictional world of hotness. And somehow, he exists beyond coffee-stained manuscripts and bestseller lists.

He’s real. And Eddie Munson has a fucking date with him in exactly eight hours.

Holy shit.

It takes two hours for Eddie to decide on an outfit. He facetimes his audio engineer/closest friend after the first hour, because his room is starting to look like an M. Night Shyamalan adaptation of Grey Gardens. 

“Show me the jean options again.” Chrissy’s tone is all business, staring intently on the other side of the phone screen. 

They met at an escape room right outside of the city. After setting a record-breaking time at that location, they got to chatting and quickly discovered they were both in the audio production business. 

Each of them lives the freelance lifestyle now. Highly ideal for their competitive escape room fixation.

Eddie holds up the three pairs of jeans. One pair is his favorite, well-worn and loose around his thighs, just how he likes them. The other two, are pairs that Chrissy bought for him last Christmas.

Lets just say… he only wears those when she’s offering to pay for dinner on their weekly hangouts. 

She hums for a while, twisting her mouth side to side before speaking again. “The dark blue with the gray crew neck. Final answer.”

“These?” Eddie holds the skinny jeans up to his hip bones. He tugs on the waistband to show how very little movement will be possible in these pants. “My dick cannot breathe in these, Chris. It’s like you want me to embarrass myself on this date.”

“I’m doing you a favor.” She shrugs, concealing a smirk behind her water bottle as she takes a sip. “Those pants are so snug, he’ll have no choice but to get you out of them as soon as possible.”

“Are you insinuating that I put out on the first date?

“Absolutely not.”

“Good.”

“I’m insinuating you put it in on the first date.”

“How dare you.” Eddie points at his phone screen. Sucks in his laughter because yeah. Props. That was a good one. He can’t admit that though because no part of him wants to wear these boa constrictor jeans.

“You were just telling me how you fucked him with your words last night.”

“Fair. But I also explained that I was clearly possessed by the spirit of Blanche Devereaux.” Eddie slips out of his lounge tee, pulls over the one Chrissy picked out for him instead. “I swear, that woman had quite the knack for dirty lingo.”

Chrissy rolls her eyes and gives Eddie a halfhearted salute. “And that’s my exit cue.”

“What? Why?”

“Because anytime you bring up Golden Girls, we start arguing over who would play them in the gender-swapped remake.”

Wrong. Totally false. There’s absolutely no argument to be had. Eddie knows exactly who he’d cast right off the top of his head. Joe Pesci, Michael Caine…

Chrissy must see the gears turning in Eddie’s head because she hangs up before he can launch into his well-rehearsed presentation. Which isn’t a joke, he has a PowerPoint on this particular topic (with cited sources and fancy transitions).

Eddie does one last glance in the mirror before heading out. The pants make his waist look slender, nice. His skin is being squeezed in too many areas, but that’s kind of the point. At least the shirt is loose, albeit a little short. Reveals a patch of his lower tattoos every time he lifts his shoulders.

Okay damn, Chrissy probably knew that too. Maybe she’s the one possessed by the horny spirit of Blanche Devereaux. 

Spiritual possession or not, Eddie ruffles out his bangs one last time. Heads out feeling much more confident than he did after his initial interaction with Steve Harrington.

Eddie agrees to pick Steve up at his last photoshoot of the day. It’s close to his side of town, which means he doesn’t have to fight his way through LA traffic. 

A good sign sent from his lucky wake-up time, no doubt.

He doesn’t expect the photoshoot to be at an amphitheater, but it is. A small one, probably only used for local productions. There’re cameras lining the outer rim of the stage, shuttering and flashing like headlights on a highway. Eddie can hear the director and photographers spewing directions from his car. There’s an audience of producers and crew members, seems like a big fucking deal by the looks of it.

The set is, well, breathtaking - way better than that knockoff fantasy shit from the cologne ad. It’s full of greenery. Trees swaying with the breeze and ivy carpeting the stage floor. A forest that’s almost too beautiful to be synthetic. Eddie wonders if any of the plants are real or if the props department was just that damn good at finding fake ones.

After a few minutes, he checks the time. The shoot is running long. No biggie - Eddie is enjoying the view anyways. Especially, when he finally spots Steve. The view is exceptionally priceless now.

Steve perched on top of a tree trunk, feeding some other model grapes. The dark and stupidly jealous part of Eddie hopes they choke on those grapes. 

His costume almost blends in with the backdrop, dark hues of green. Subtle shades of browns. Perfectly camouflaged by nature. There are vines wrapped around his bare arms, leaves tucked into his tousled hair. 

Honestly, he looks a lot like a wood nymph that Eddie would selfishly design for a DnD campaign. Better, actually. Eddie should take notes. Steal the designer's sketches when nobody's looking.

He’s positively itching to get out of his car, get a closer look at Steve in all his botanical glory. But that might come across as too impatient. Or worse, too presumptuous. So Eddie picks one of his lengthier playlists and settles into his seat.

There’s a tap on Eddie’s window, startling him out of his nap. He must’ve dozed off about twenty minutes ago because the last song he remembers listening to was from the mid-90s section of the playlist. Now, they’ve moved into early 2000s territory.

Seriously, math is way easier when music is leading the equation.

Steve is right there, peering in, still tapping incessantly. His eyes are wide, concerned maybe. Which, yeah. Concern makes sense, considering his date is yawning before the date has even started. Fucking yikes.

Eddie rolls down the window, gives Steve a toothy grin as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Heya, FernGully.”

Steve doesn’t acknowledge Eddie’s costuming reference. Probably missed out on that era of cult classic cartoons. “Up late?” He leans against the car and smiles, far more dazzling than the sun setting behind him.

“You would know.”

Oh, and that earns Eddie a wink from Steve. The nun-converting wink he saw months ago and still thinks about.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Steve reaches into the empty space, pushes the latch down to unlock the front door. “Come on.”

“Uh-”

“I’ve gotta change before we head out.” Steve swings the door open before Eddie can protest.  “Unless you want to have dinner with me dressed like this.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

If there were a Renaissance Festival in town or a Medieval Dinner Show still in business, Eddie would definitely trick his way into getting Steve to go dressed like that. But he tucks the idea away for now, walks down the hill with Steve to the amphitheater. Does his best impression of a civilized human.

“So… what are you supposed to be exactly?”

Steve points to the body glitter on his cheeks. “A fairy.”

Yup. A new file of woodland fantasies starring Steve Fairyington have downloaded into Eddie’s mind. If voice acting didn’t pay so well, he could make an impressive career out of his whimsical porn concepts.

So he deflects. Humor is the only solution to keep the conversation PG-rated. “Just because you’re into guys doesn’t mean you’ve gotta use outdated terms like that.”

“You know what I mean.” Steve knocks an elbow into Eddie’s arm. “I’m a literal fairy.”

“Are you implying that literal fairies exist?” Eddie teases.

“No.”

“Seems like it.”

“Jesus, you’re a piece of work.”

“I can tone it down.”

Steve stops walking, places a hand in the center of Eddie’s chest to stop him too. His playful energy fucking warps into something new. Savory and seductive. Bewitching.

“Don’t even think about it.” He answers, slipping his hand down a little, almost between Eddie’s ribs. The motion sends static through Eddie’s core, up his spine. Raises the hairs on his arm and the back of his neck.

It shouldn’t be alarming that Steve’s touch is powerful. Look at him. 

Eddie has a hard time focusing on the conversation after that. Luckily, the timing works out for him to get his shit together, as Steve heads into the trailer that's parked next to the stage.

He tells Eddie he can take a closer look at the set that he suddenly can’t seem to shut up about. It really is stunning. The size, the details, the color choices. Eddie is fairly certain this is the closest he’ll ever be to experiencing Endor in real life.

Most of the crew members are gone, a few still packing up equipment while Eddie observes a variety of plants used for decorating the wooden platforms. Learns that some plants are real and some are fake, which is actually genius. The mixture of the two distract from the plastic-y finish on some of the vines.

“This is for a special-edition cover of some Shakespeare script.” Steve says, joining Eddie at his side. His outfit is rather colorful. It checks out that he's one of the few people that can pull off a purposeful athleisure aesthetic (Eddie hates that he knows what that style looks like, ugh). “Hence the fairies and forests and shit.”

“Wait.” A lightbulb goes off in Eddie’s head. “Is this for A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“That’s the one.”

Eddie does a sharp turn, starts shaking Steve by his shoulders. Absolutely bursting with excitement. “Steve literal fairy Harrington, this is ridiculously cool! Like… the history-making kind of cool!”

“If you say so.” Steve agrees calmly.

“How the hell are you not more jazzed about this?”

“You sound just like my manager.” Steve mumbles. “Truth be told, the only Shakespeare play I’ve ever read is Macbeth.”

Eddie gasps, sucks in enough air to fill an inflatable kiddie pool. “We’re on a stage, you can’t just blurt out the Scottish Play like that.”

This is not good. Horrible, even. Not a damn chance that Eddie can be mellow about this. Superstitious person, believer of traditions, blah blah blah. 

And while hiding that piece of his personality should be a simple task, he cannot blatantly ignore such a major fuckup on Steve’s part. No matter how accidental of a fuckup it might have been.

“Okay, what are you talking about?” Steve asks. Still calm. 

“It’s bad luck.” Eddie explains. “The closest thing to cursing a theatrical production.”

“Well, good thing this isn’t a theatrical production then.”

And as Steve laughs off the thoughtless joke, a loud thud is heard at the back of the stage. 

There it is. A warning of impending doom in the form of a loose stage light, hanging by a few loose wires. 

Almost everyone is gone, only two crew members remain on the sidelines. One of them gets on their walkie talkie, mumbles something about a safety hazard incident.

Pfft, not just an incident. A fucking threat from the ghost of theater, that’s what it is.

“See?” Eddie waves both arms at the light structure swinging upstage. “You’ve pissed off Thespis with your loose lips.”

“Who?”

“Oh my god, you’re so-” 

A high-pitched scream cries out from a nearby street. Both Steve and Eddie jump at the sound. It’s a long, frightening scream. Something straight out of a slasher film, which is a likely possibility, for sure. Things are filmed out on the streets of Los Angeles quite a bit.

But the fear ringing out from this particular scream sounds real. Gritty and hoarse.

Fucking terrifying. 

Once the screaming stops, no sign of returning, they share a look. It’s not an ‘I’m gonna jump your bones’ look either. It’s awkward. A fine line between guilt and ‘I told you so.’

“That was just a coincidence.” Steve waves off the scream like it’s just a daily occurrence. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Curses aren’t real.”

Eddie doesn’t want to shout ‘you’re wrong’ from his metaphorical megaphone. Not on a first date, at least. Outright dogmatic behavior shouldn’t come into play until like… the end of the third date.

All he can do is shrug, swallow back the urge to correct this beautiful person standing beside him.

He’s so rigid now, almost timid from the lingering anxiety that more freaky shit is about to happen. 

“Come here.” Steve motions his head to the side, peering softly at Eddie’s expression. His shoulders are relaxed, arms reaching out for Eddie to follow. Join him.

Which he does. Can’t help it. Fully dazed by Steve’s patience, legs moving without a chance to reconsider.

“Wanna get out of here?” Steve thumbs over Eddie’s cheek, skims his nail against the scratchy bits of stubble along Eddie’s jaw. His movements are slow, precise. Only a smidge of pity in his smile. 

Yup. That’s what this must be - Steve probably thinks Eddie is being dramatic. Must assume he can smooth over Eddie’s knotted nerves by just touching him. Tracing hypnotic patterns over his skin.

Eddie is mildly irritated that it’s working. If he can’t find the strength to look away from Steve’s sunny-tinted eyes soon, he’ll float away. Slip through the air as particles. Dust. Nothing but his slutty wishes will remain.

“Not yet.” Eddie gulps.

“No?”

He can’t in good conscience let this theater stay plagued by Steve’s words. This place is on verge of being the location for a Final Destination sequel.

So Eddie removes Steve's hand from his face, squeezes once before returning it back to Steve’s side. “Gotta reverse the fuck out this bad omen first.”

“There’s no such thing as-”

“Don’t.” He pleads. “Put my superstitious mind at ease. Can you do that for me?”

Steve at least has the decency to look away while he rolls his eyes. Pretty and considerate. “Fine. How do I break the curse?”

Eddie has spent enough time in theaters to know there’s a few variations on this process. Changes from director to director. The most common one is going outside and spinning in a circle three times, then knocking on the door till someone lets you back inside.

But that’s where the problem comes in. They’re already outside and there’s no door to knock on, while pleading for forgiveness.

Hmm…

It’s a good thing Eddie remembers a few adjustments to the protocol. It’s an even better thing that he was captain of his improv troupe for three years back in college. Thinking of solutions on the spur of the moment? Adapting for the sake of the scene? Eddie lives for that shit. Comedy fucking chameleon, that’s him.

And what’s better than all of that? His leftover luck from waking up at 11:11am.

Guess it pays off to be a superstitious person. Sometimes.

Eddie clears his throat, delivers the instructions with a southern drawl. Fucks around with it because he can. “So first, you have to walk around the theater three times.”

“Okay.”

“Backwards.” That’s definitely not part of the procedure, but oh well. Steve doesn’t have to know that.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, fuck that.”

“Sorry. I don’t make the rules, gorgeous.”

Except he does make the rules. Currently having way too much fun watching Steve squirm at the stupidity of it all. He’s quickly learning how easy it is to push Steve’s buttons. That shouldn’t be so thrilling for him but whoops. It is.

“Whatever.” Steve kicks a piece of gravel off the stage and sighs. “Then what?”

So he wants more? Eddie can do that. “You have spit on the ground to show your remorse.” 

“This is a bunch of shit.”

“I said spit, not shit.” Eddie leans into Steve’s ear, uses his studio voice, watches as Steve turns pink all over. He lowers the volume down to a whisper. “Try to keep up.”

“Asshole.” But there’s a grin plastered all over Steve’s face as he grumbles. Eddie’s chest is fizzing, total carbonated joy inside him knowing that Steve is a vicious little monster, just like him.

He shoos Steve off to complete the reversal process. Sits on the edge of the stage, legs dangling over the rim, fingers fidgeting with a thread on his jeans.

He’s so smug, watching the prettiest boy on the planet become the grumpiest goofball. Steve might look like an angel, but he has the aura of a full-bred Pomeranian left in the rain.

“I’m making a new rule!” Steve shouts from the back of the theater. 

“How ambitious of you!”

Eddie swears he can hear Steve growling in response, which fuck, that shouldn’t be such an adorably hot combo. But Eddie pictures the curve of Steve’s upper lip as he snarls and the zigzag of his arched eyebrows, and that’s exactly what it is. Hot. Adorable. Sensational.

Steve Harrington is a game of Mad Libs. Every adjective, every word that invokes head rushes and heart flutters, they’re all about him.

“As I was saying before you rudely mocked me,” Steve is in Eddie’s peripherals now, still stepping backwards. Toe to heel, hands loosely in his pants pockets. Not fair that he can make walking backwards look slick and cool. The nerve, the gall. “My new rule is that I get to ask you a question each time I get to the front.”

Eddie pulls one knee up to his chest, lets his chin rest over top of it. “Well then... ask away, o’ cursed one.”

Steve stops at the front of the stage. He doesn’t turn all the way around or start walking forward again. He turns just enough to look at Eddie. Focusing on him.

The sudden attention to Eddie’s face gets him all stuffy. He tries to hide the color that’s surely settled on his cheeks by digging one side of his face into his kneecap. It’s a dopey move. Too bashful, even for him.

“Alright.” Steve says. “How do you know so much about theater?”

An easy question with an easy answer. Relief surges through Eddie. “Most voice actors start out as stage actors. Not always, but a lot of us do. Gotta start somewhere, ya know?”

“Yeah. I know.” Steve nods, and continues with his second lap.

Once his footsteps are far away enough for Eddie to think properly, it dawns on him - they’re getting to know each other. Like authentic people would do.

Like… an actual date.

Shit, it’s been so long since someone in this artificial fucktown has wanted to know things about Eddie beyond hookups and screenames. A genuine moment was right in front of him, and he almost missed it.

That sobers him up. Eddie shoves away his need to Cause Chaos and accepts the sincerity. Gives it right back to Steve. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How did the modeling gig start?”

“Agents found my instagram again.” Steve replies. “Liked my pictures enough to offer me some shitty jobs to build up my resume. The usual story these days.”

“Right.” 

Eddie can’t fathom being that attractive. So attractive that people seek him out. 

Different worlds is an understatement. Different realms is more like it.

“Next question.” Steve says, arriving to the front again. “Would you rather visit the beach or the mountains?”

Eddie has to think about that one for a minute. He doesn’t take many vacations, can’t afford to on a single artist’s income.

But he remembers a trip to Colorado that he took as a teenager. Vaguely recalls not appreciating any of the landscapes because he was too busy texting his new girlfriend during the whole damn trip.

“The mountains.” Eddie answers, just as Steve begins to walk again. “The Rockies and I have some… unfinished business, if you will.”

Steve chuckles. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe I’ll get to hear it sometime.”

“If you want.” Eddie says, beaming at the implication. 

Steve’s footsteps stop. “Like I said on the phone, Eddie. Hearing you talk is...” The Earth feels silent. But the tension in Eddie’s ears is audible. “Well… I'm into it, I guess.”

Eddie has to switch knees to ease the thump in his dick. “And is Steve Harrington a mountain man or a beach bum?” 

“Depends on the season.”

“Such a diplomatic answer.” Such a vague answer too, Eddie thinks. 

“Okay. Last question.” Steve arrives at the front, shorter of breath than he was the first two laps. He hesitates for a second, then takes a couple of steps towards Eddie. “All those tattoos you have… did getting them done hurt?”

“Like a bitch.” Eddie bunches up his shirt to show off the sleeve of ink he has on his left arm. Took years for it to look this intricate. This complete. He’ll never get tired of staring at it. “Why? Itching to get one or something?”

“Nah. Never got the appeal of putting yourself through hours of pain or whatever.”

“It’s all about the art. The memories. The stories.” Eddie stretches out his bent knee. Lets it drop back down, relaxing into his explanation. “All of those things stitched into designs that I get to admire every damn day for the rest of my life.”

“Art, huh?” Steve takes a few steps closer, close enough to touch.

“What can I say?” Eddie is shamelessly studying the specks in Steve’s eyes. How all the colors blend and separate the closer he gets. Can hear himself grinning as he speaks. “I’m a big fan of gazing at pretty things.”

He’s so tempted to reach out, pull Steve in. Have him straddle his waist while they taste each other for hours.

But he’s still mooning over those eyes - the ones that deserve myths and legends to be told about them for ages. Centuries. Whichever is longer.

“Um.” Steve’s voice snaps Eddie out of his spell. “So… spit?”

“Sorry what?”

“The curse.” Steve says. “I’m supposed to spit on the ground, yeah?”

“Right, yeah. Uh huh.”  Eddie rambles, still internally choking on the fact that Steve just said spit to him. In public.

Steve backs away, puts some space between them. He begins making this nasty, gravelly side with his mouth. His jaw sags slightly as he does it, the lump in his throat bobbing the whole time. 

Eddie gawks, fully unable to look away while Steve swishes the spit around. Filling one cheek, then the other. He’s getting harder with every noise, every swish.

All at once, Steve forcefully hocks the stream of spit onto the ground. It goes diagonally, lands way closer to Eddie than he was expecting. Gets some goddamn distance, which makes Eddie’s eyes roll back. He’s pretty sure he lets out a wobbly ‘fuck’ at how obscene it all looks.

Steve wanders back over, avoids stepping in the wet mess he made on the ground. He places a hand on Eddie’s knee, works his way up the rough edges of denim.

Eddie’s vision is still spotty from what he just witnessed, so he decides to talk until everything clears up. Steve is into that right? The talking bullshit?

“There’s one more step to complete this.” Eddie watches the blurry outline of Steve’s hand rubbing his thigh, slowly blinking the image into full focus.

“And what’s that?” Steve’s voice is low, eyes fixed on Eddie’s mouth.

“You gotta…” Eddie licks his lip. Places a hand over top of Steve’s. Moving where it moves. Going where it goes. Buys himself some time to get the words straightened out. “You gotta kiss the nearest sewer rat loser.”

“And if I don’t do that?” Steve leans in till their noses touch. “Then what? The curse won’t be broken?”

Eddie nods. Only able to give a thin ‘mhmm’ in reply. He wraps two fingers around Steve’s wrist, the hand that's still trailing heat along his thigh. Needs to press against the pulse there, feel it jump. Spike.

Steve is so quiet. So controlled compared to his pulse. “Can’t have that then, can we?”

His lips part, hovering over Eddie’s mouth. The kiss starts out like that. Lips treading, only meeting between breaths. Neither of them pushing for more than seconds of warm contact, brief and sweet. 

That is until Steve’s free hand starts twisting into Eddie’s shirt, tugging him along by the soft fabric. Eddie sinks forward, dives fully into the kiss. He holds his breath or maybe it just gets caught in his lungs from how good it all feels. How Steve touches him like he's captured. How Steve kisses him like he’s dessert.

Eddie can't help but smush their lips together, forcing their faces closer than faces can scientifically be. He hears the wet smack of their tongues echoing underneath the amphitheater, waking his lungs the fuck up. Lets out the weakest sigh, hopes most of the sound gets trapped between Steve’s lips. 

Oh god, his lips. They’re fuller than Eddie’s, puffier now from kissing this hard. He wants to squish them around with his fingers, push them into pout so he can suck on them. Turn them nice and red. Eddie gets his hands tangled in Steve’s hair, knots them up enough to resist the lip-squishing temptation that’s burning him up inside.

“Here.” Steve exhales, hooks one of Eddie’s legs around his waist. 

That… okay, fuck. That’s so hot, so unexpectedly assertive and right. Eddie takes the hint, wraps his other leg around Steve. The heel of his scuffed boots is digging into Steve’s ass, not too hard, but enough to earn a dirty whine out of Steve. He pushes them together, clothes rubbing back and forth, scratching loudly. Muffles their mouth noises though.

“Can we…” Eddie wants to move this elsewhere, anywhere less public. He’s so fucking selfish for that. Needs to swallow every sound Steve makes, secure every expression with a lock. Nobody else should be allowed to see Steve like this besides Eddie.

He lets one hand unravel from Steve’s hair, glides down to the collar of Steve’s tank top. He yanks the material lower, presses his lips against the new area of exposed skin. Sips and sucks over that spot, claims it like he could extract a piece of Steve’s soul if he sucks hard enough.

“Yeah, fuck yeah.” Steve responds, whimpering into the top of Eddie’s hair. Not entirely clear if he’s saying that out of pleasure, or agreeing with Eddie that they should relocate, but whatever. It's all too good to overthink the meaning.

Eddie unhooks his legs and kisses the deep purple mark he just made. Too fucking proud how easily the color spreads into reddish tones around the edges. 

His vision goes fuzzy again as he stands upright, has to blink away all the white specks of dizzy lust. Eddie offers a hand to Steve, but there’s no damn point for that. Steve is already hopping up onto the stage, makes it look effortless. Cool as shit.

“Follow me.” Steve grabs the crook of Eddie’s forearm, pulling him into the forested scenery.

As if there were any need for Steve to request that. Eddie Munson would follow Steve into the sketchiest alleyway of Hell, if it meant they could kiss like that some more.

They duck underneath a few tree limbs, weave through the maze of green. A few leaves get into Eddie’s mouth, but he hardly notices anything besides the dent that Steve’s fingernail is leaving in his arm. It would make the sickest crescent moon tattoo, inked and perfectly shaped. 

Damnit, Eddie’s thoughts are getting more fucked the deeper they hide. Steve slams Eddie against the trunk of a large tree. He realizes with the thud on his back that it’s plywood, not tree bark. Doesn’t care one bit if his shirt tears from the nails jutting out. Cares even less if he gets splinters from the slow grinding of their hips, hitching his shirt up further with every thrust.

“These are sexy.” Steve tugs at Eddie’s empty belt loop. Didn’t need an actual belt with how suffocating they are. “But they’ve gotta go. If that’s cool.”

“Get them the hell out of here.” Eddie is subconsciously thanking Chrissy for suggesting these stupid pants. She’ll be insufferable when he tells her about the jean's success rate. But right now? Worth it.

Anything seems worth it to have Steve popping the button out, ripping the zipper down. He’s so focused on getting these pants off that his forehead wrinkles, little beads of sweat gathering on his temples. 

Eddie can’t resist any longer, not after seeing Steve equally covered in desperation. He palms the front of Steve’s pants, wants to give him some relief for this valiant jean-removing effort.

“Steve.” Eddie huffs, brushes his lips over Steve’s ear. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.” He bites over the skin, nibbling carefully with the tip of his teeth.

It must tickle because Steve laughs while shrugging the jeans lower, boxers going with them. 

“So tell me then.” He kisses Eddie. It’s harsh, mostly panting into his mouth. Steve sinks to the floor and looks up. “Keep talking.”

This. This goddamn view. Eddie wasn’t expecting to get a view of Steve on his knees tonight. Wasn’t expecting his head to go limp, looking up at Eddie the way he eyefucked the camera on the day they first met. 

Only difference is, Steve’s not acting - not pretending to be needy.

He just is. He’s all of those coy and sinful things, exclusively for Eddie this time.

“Spit in my hand.” Steve stretches his hand up towards Eddie’s chin - gives him those big, midnight eyes that could make dormant volcanoes erupt instantly. Defy physics, end climate change. 

Eddie doesn’t use brain cells anymore, just does what he’s told. He gathers enough spit in his mouth, then watches it trickle out. Pooling in the center of Steve’s hand. It’s gross, sure. But also, it’s the hottest thing he’s ever done. 

Gross and hot. Those sensations are fucking synonymous right now.

“Tell me, Eddie.” Steve gets his fingers around Eddie’s cock, the warm wetness makes it twitch in his hold. Apparently, no part of Eddie’s anatomy can believe this is really happening, not even his dick.

“Uh-”

“You said you’ve thought about it.”

“Lots.”

“So tell me while I get you off.”

“Oh.. god, okay.” And Eddie is good at that. Talking nonstop. Revealing all of his filthy secrets when asked so politely. He did it last night, slipped into his darker persona with ease so Steve could feel good.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Eddie would say a flurry of fuckery for Steve Harrington’s approval. Get him to come until he shakes because Eddie wants that. Wants Steve to feel like liquid gold dripping between his fingers. Wants Steve to bend and break under his words and touch.

Talking dirty to get himself off is new territory. Eddie is a perpetual giver, loves being that way most of the time. Especially for someone as spectacular as Steve.

“Go ahead, babe.” Steve urges, licks the muscle of Eddie’s inner thigh till it tightens.

Right, he can do this. Even if he is short of breath. Eddie can be as confident as he was last night while Steve strokes him. “Thought about you since the commercial production.”

It’s a start. He bites his lip and keeps going. “All I could think about was… fuck. Opening you up. Leaving my fingerprints on your hips.”

“What else?” Steve purrs, working Eddie roughly with his spit-slick fingers. Sounds just as ruined as Eddie does.

“Wanted to fuck you in my lap.” Eddie pauses to moan, chest falling hard. He gets another glimpse of Steve’s hand on him, picking up the pace. A tempo so delicious that it shuts off Eddie’s judgment skills. His mouth running wild. “Let you ride me just like that. Use me till your legs go weak.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. His grip gets a little firmer, loosening up between strokes. Makes a fucking pattern out of it, has Eddie craving it. Needs more.

“And what if I wanted to fuck you, huh?” Steve’s question hits his ears like a whip. Cracking every nerve in Eddie’s body.

“I’d let you.” And it’s true, so very true. Eddie’s mouth is still going rogue, uttering truths like he’s on trial. Ready to testify all his desires to Steve. Sign his name on the dotted fucking line. “You could wreck me any way you want, sweetheart.”

Eddie seems to have found the secret words to Steve’s wild side. He’s taking Eddie down his throat, almost too fast. So fast that drool forms at the corners of his stretched lips, mouth gurgling already.

Eddie is swearing, not even real words half the time - just moans that sound explicit enough to get bleeped out on public access television. One hand goes over his own mouth while the other keeps combing through Steve’s hair.

It’s so damp now, sticking out erratically at the sides. Eddie curls a few strands over his thumb, watches the color drain from his finger. So demented, so good.

Steve is taking his cock so damn well, so Eddie tells him. Truly, all that he’s capable of is sex-drunk praise. Letting Steve know how gorgeous he is, how bruised his throat will be from sucking this much cock, how swollen and sore his lips look at this angle.

Eddie can’t stop because every phrase makes Steve get messier. Whining and whimpering each time he pulls off. Looking up at Eddie before taking him in again. Getting louder. Loud enough that sidewalk pedestrians definitely could hear him if they linger nearby for too long.

Eddie's knees buckle as he gets close. Doesn't have the energy to straighten back out, let alone warn Steve that he’s about to come. None of that seems to matter though. Steve nods twice, still bobbing around Eddie, like he just knows. Knows Eddie is there and is fucking willing to work him through it.

“Holy fuck, Steve.” Which yeah, Eddie gets it. Uttering someone’s name while he comes in their mouth is a little tacky and cliche. But saying it is involuntary, totally out of his control. Truthfully, Eddie relinquished all control to Steve hours ago.

Steve swallows, cleans Eddie with a few swipes of his overworked tongue like it’s nothing. No problamo. Like that’s the only way to handle the aftermath of an orgasm. In the most delightful way, or whatever musical shit Mary Poppins sings about. 

He gives the laziest, dreamiest grin as Eddie collapses down to his level. Both of them heaving, kissing with aching lungs. 

“Fucking fantastic.” Eddie whispers, brushes his knuckles over Steve’s pink-stained cheeks. Hopes his rings don’t hurt too much, absently forgetting how chunky they are.

Steve leans into the small touch. “Glad to hear it.”

“You’re fantastic.” Eddie clarifies. Means it more than any superstition he’s ever heard in his life.

He’s more than ready to get his hands all over Steve, make him come until he faints. But Steve is adamant that he’s chills with waiting. Says he actually enjoys the buildup from staying horny for hours and hours. Mentions something about that being a new discovery that he wants to explore. 

With Eddie. 

Steve fucking Harrington wants to explore new sides of himself with Eddie. That sends him reeling. Smitten and spiraling.

“Are sure?” Eddie paws at Steve’s hard-on, ready to jump in and save the day via orgasm.

“Very sure.” He lifts Eddie's hand away, snickering as he lays a quick kiss on each finger.  “I like being around you. That’s not gonna change overnight.”

“Like being around you too, Steve.” He takes Steve’s face into his hands, smushes it back and forth until Steve smiles. “Crazy about it, actually.”

The sun is low, barely any light left in the sky. But as Eddie holds Steve’s face, watching him smile, he notices that Steve is glowing. Not beaming, actually glowing. Even through the dimness of sky and the shadows formed by tree limbs, Eddie can see all of Steve’s features.

How is that possible?

They each look up and see it. Taking it in, this mysterious glow.

“Wow.” They say in unison, almost matching pitch. Matching levels of disbelief too.

Between the branches and leaves, they are tiny lights. Floating, orb-like lights. The brightness shining off of them is warm, soft on the eyes. They’re scattered high over the forested backdrop, orange and yellow hues twinkling against rich greens. 

Enchanting is the only word to describe this new addition. Incredibly and unbelievably enchanting.

“Set designer really popped off with this cover shoot, I guess.” Steve throws the theory out there, barely sounds like he believes it himself.

Eddie rubs his eyes. His voice comes out hushed, doesn’t really mean for it to but it does anyways. “Steve… those aren’t attached to anything. No strings, no wires. They’re just-”

“Floating?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Be serious, dude.”

And Eddie is. Completely serious. No jokes or snarky replies in his system right now. He points to the nearest light, then back at Steve. “You broke the curse, right?”

“Apparently.” Steve shrugs.

“So maybe Thespis is showing his forgiveness.”

“Who the hell is Thespis?” Steve pinches the skin between his eyes and groans - acting like Eddie’s hypothesis is giving him a migraine. Honestly, it might be. Wouldn’t be the first time Eddie worked someone up to the point of desperately needing tylenol.

He switches tactics, nuzzles into Steve’s shoulder with his nose. Attempts to lighten the mood with at least one joke in these trying times of bad luck and headaches. “Or he’s giving us his blessing for copulating on his holy grounds.”

The lights answer, flaring out all around them. They pulsate for a minute, maybe two, before returning back to their normal glow. Eddie tucks in a grin because Steve’s gorgeous little head looks like it’s about to detonate off of his gorgeous little body. So if he smiles right now, Steve will undoubtedly explode on this very flammable set piece.

Which would be a wicked awesome way to die. Post-orgasm, then up in flames. But alas, they have dinner reservations. It would be rude not to show up.

Really, it’s no surprise to Eddie that the ghost of theater is into partial voyeurism, signaling his approval with twinkling lights. Semi-public sex probably classifies as its own unique strand of performing art in Ancient Greece.

Or the dead dude is just into taboo stuff. 

If so, good for him. You do you, Thespis.

“Look.” Steve says, standing up. “Maybe it’s… an optical illusion.”

“Or magic.”

Steve lets out a deep sigh and offers his hand to Eddie. Pulls him up in one swift motion. Doesn’t let go of his hand afterward either. “How about we drop it and go get some dinner?”

Typically, Eddie is all about a verbal bloodbath. But Steve laces their fingers together, connects them in a way that has Eddie forgetting all about his need to be right. 

“Consider it dropped.”

The lights flicker out as they walk further away from the stage. And as they get into Eddie’s car, they go out entirely. Steve flicks on the radio, defaults to the classic rock station, which is playing “Magic” by The Cars.

“It’s a sign.” Eddie sings to the tune, poking a finger at Steve.

“Just drive, you big dork.” Steve swats him away, placing a hand on Eddie’s thigh while he drives. He turns up the volume, surprisingly knows every lyric by heart. Belts them out. Full on screams the parts he likes best.

Which Eddie totally can relate to. He wants to scream about all the parts he likes best about Steve. About their date that’s not even finished yet.

On their way to dinner, Eddie avoids the cracks on the sidewalk. On the drive home, he taps the roof of his car whenever he makes it through a yellow light at an intersection.

And when he drops Steve off at his apartment precisely at 11:11pm, he doesn’t say a damn word. Keeps his mouth shut, only opens it to kiss Steve goodbye (with tongue, obviously).

Sure, it’s just a dumb superstition, Eddie can admit that to himself.

But tonight… it feels like more than that.

More than a coincidence.

More than a good omen.

He sends a ‘got home safely’ text to Steve as he pulls into his designated parking spot. Totally obsessed with how fast Steve texts him back, it’s too fucking cute.

Steve: glad :) had a great time btw

Eddie: really?

Steve: yes *really*

Eddie: i had a great time too

He quickly taps the voice-record button before Steve can respond:

“Actually,” Eddie sneers. Uses the voice that Steve goes crazy for. “I had a magical time.”

Steve: ugh

Eddie: ;)

[changbunnies]

After The Rain With You (18+)

♡ Pairing: Farm Boy!Changbin x Princess!Reader

♡ Genre: royal au, historical au, fluff, initially intended to be light angst but i got carried away with emotion like i did with the minho fic lol, forbidden love (i cannot help myself with this trope it seems), sad / bittersweet ending :') (i'm sorry !!)

♡ Word Count: 13.8k (this was intended to be under 10k but here we are lmao oops)

♡ Summary: Y/N, a princess bored and lonely, craved nothing more than to experience the world outside of the familiar 4 walls of her bedroom in the castle. Conjuring her bravery, she snuck out of the castle walls, eventually meeting a man that would change her life forever; Changbin, a local farmer who didn't realize she's the princess, formed a close relationship with her that ineveitably turned into a budding romance. But now, met with her last moments of freedom, she prepares herself to have one final sweet moment with him before they are torn apart.

♡ Warnings: references to a parent being deceased, discussions of feeling trapped and alone, strict toxic parenting

♡ Smut Warnings (contains spoilers): reader is not a virgin during the smut scene in this but it is implied changbin is the only person they've ever had sex with, petnames (sweetheart, darlin', good girl and other gendered language), lots of kissing, marking (including biting), loose dom/sub dynamics, nipple play, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, creampie, pretty self indulgent ngl lol

♡ Notes: i got the title from a short pokemon novel, iykyk. this was intended to be finished before the new year, but instead it's my first fic of 2024 and i hope you enjoy! as always you can read the story on my ao3 here, and if you're interested you can also check out my fic rec and feedback blog @stray-dreams

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

Freedom; something simple in definition, but not in practice, those in high positions of power always holding it out of the reach of those below them who yearn for it. It's intangible in concept, something you will never be able to see with your own eyes or grab with your own hands, but it was something you always yearned for, more than anything- and in the short time you had it, it was pure bliss.

You never considered yourself a rebellious girl, always dutifully listening to your elders, commiting manners and elegance to memory, never questioning the role you'd one day be made to accept. But in the past year, you'd found yourself having a bit of a rebellious streak- in secrecy, of course, because you knew very well that there'd be consequences to pay should she find out.

It's not that you ever hated being the princess, or that you dreaded the responsibility you held to your kingdom- you just wish you'd been given more freedoms. Freedom to speak your mind, freedom to feel the grass beneath your feet and the sun's rays on your skin whenever you wished, freedom to explore, to make mistakes, to learn and grow and love the way everyone else in the world but you seemed allowed to do. 

For years, there'd been a blindspot in the castle's defenses, a small patch of broken wall that guards were never ordered to defend or monitor closely, as the country had not seen war or received threat from neighboring countries in your entire lifetime. "We'll repair it someday," your father always said before his passing, though it never came to fruition. It was not because he passed that the wall never received construction, but simply because your parents always preferred to delegate funds to something more pressing than a relatively small breach in the outer walls of the castle.

Sure, the hole was unsightly when noticed, but it was outside line of sight for the townsfolk, and much too small to accommodate an army through- one person at a time, maybe two if you squeezed, could fit through at most. Apart from that, the fact that your father never used taxes to pay towards selfish things such as unnecessary castle repair gained your family high favor, with most commoners considering your father to be the kindest king the country had in centuries.

During the time your father was still alive, you often walked the streets as a family, talking to the commoners regularly and enjoying your time out on the town together, and you remember how it always felt like you were as normal a family as any other, too young to realize there was any difference between you and them. You can still remember how your mother smiled then, when she held your hand while your father held the other, the townsfolk always doting on you, and how cheerfully your every day had been spent.

Your mother was quite different now; she never smiled anymore, and when she did it felt so.. forced, sad. Like your father took a piece of her joy with him when he went, and she was unable to reclaim it. And it was at that time, when she took on all of the king's responsibilities by herself, that she'd begun to treat you differently. Stricter on your studies, never allowing you to step foot outside the castle, shutting down any talk of letting you out on the town or interacting with anyone outside the castle's walls.

And now the whole kingdom, who considered you to be the country's most beloved princess, could scarcely remember what you looked like; and even those who could remember would likely no longer recognize you. You were a child when you were last allowed outside, and now you were a grown woman, still confined by her mother's strict rules.

Despite the reclusive life you were forced into, many of the commoners still thought of you fondly- at least according to word of mouth from the castle's maids and knights. You were the daughter to a king and queen that were practically revered as saints, and many imagined that the reason you were always holed up within the castle was because you were studying dutifully, imagining that when you came to power someday, you'd be just as benevolent, kind, and intelligent of a ruler as your father was.

You certainly intended to live up to those expectations, because as stated, you don't hate being the princess by any means. You recognize that you have privilege, responsibility, and that people put their pride and faith in you even now, before you've ever even come close to touching the throne. But all that being said, it didn't stop your heart from wanting just a little bit more out of your life.

Simply put, you found it incredibly dull sitting inside the castle all day, the same lessons being reiterated day in and day out, as if you didn't already have them memorized by the age of 10. Eventually, your mother realized you had no further need for a tutor, and requested that the woman in charge of your education stop coming, but that didn't mean your afternoons suddenly became enjoyable; quite the opposite in fact. 

The joy you initially held over no longer having to spend your afternoon listening to the same drivel you'd heard countless times from a pedantic old woman evaporated with the realization that even without a tutor to occupy for time, you'd still be stuck in the castle all day long. Your mother never permitted you to leave, even if you promised you'd stay close to the knights that would accompany you, pleaded with her to let you do something other than sitting inside all day. 

But still, her stance on the matter never changed. You'd begun to resent her sentiments, to hate that you were stuck with nowhere to go and nothing to do. The country wasn't under any threat, your fathers death was an unfortunate accident, and as far as you knew you were well loved, so what did she need to be so protective for? Especially now, when you weren't even a child anymore; you just couldn't understand.

You’d spend your days staring out your window listlessly, wondering what the grass on the horizon would feel like beneath bare feet. It’s a shame that you don’t know; you were always scolded for taking your shoes off if you weren’t within your own room, and besides that, the ground is littered with dirt and cobblestone all the way up to the gates of the town, which you had never gone past. Shouldn’t your youth be full of experiencing things like this? Why couldn’t you explore now and then settle down in the castle later in life? It didn’t feel fair that you were so clueless about the basic truths of the world, and instead had your brain filled to the brim with knowledge of etiquette and politics.

It was with those thoughts in mind that you planned to find the answers to all your questions and sate your endless curiosities by sneaking through the hole in the castle walls that had gone unattended to. After the first time you successfully snuck out to experience all you’d been missing (which took months of diligent watch and preparation to ensure you wouldn’t be spotted from a distance by patrolling knights), you’d slowly made your way further and further away from the castle, testing the limits of how far you could make it each day, gauging how long it would take for someone to notice your absence. To your delight, because you spent most of your days alone in your room, no one seemed to notice you’d ever been gone as long as you made it back before dinner was to be served.

And so, you'd stay out until sunset, exploring the town you'd grown to only ever see from your window, making sure to wear the least expensive looking gown in your wardrobe, doing your best to blend in with the commoners. Thankfully, the task was easier than you'd expected given that none of the townsfolk had seen you up close since you were a small girl. You were perhaps strange in behavior as compared to them, given how much you questioned what was around you, but certainly not one person suspected you were the princess- just a sheltered, perhaps eccentric, young woman.  

As you became more comfortable, and got closer to the town gates with each passing day, your excitement would grow exponentially; the world beyond the gates was so foreign to you, even more so than the town itself had been. From your bedroom window, the fields that lied beyond the town gates appeared so miniscule, and you only knew what lied beyond because you’d been told about it, not because you’d seen it for yourself.

It was this determination to discover what lied beyond your limited world view that lead you to meet the man who'd come to hold your heart for the first time. You remember how your heart raced when you first approached the town gates, how your eyes darted to every corner to try to take in every minute detail.

The cobblestone became sparse, leaving nothing but dirt road to walk on, the wheels of countless carriages and horses hooves indented in the path, leading both to and away from town. You’d been told numerous times that beyond this point lies the farms that fueled the town with their food, and resources such as leather and wool to create clothing, blankets, and the upholstery on your furniture. And for the first time in your entire life, you were about to see it all up close with your own eyes, instead of vaguely from your bedroom window.

You knew their work was vital to the prosperous existence of your country, and you’d always found yourself wanting to know what it was like, to learn about how the world works not from a dull lecture or written text, but to experience it yourself, to truly understand the lives of the people you would one day govern beyond what you’d been told. To say you had a curious mind was perhaps an understatement; you were always full of curiosity about the world around you, but simply being told about the world wasn’t enough for you to be satisfied. 

To experience with your own eyes, to feel with your own hands- that was what being alive was truly about, wasn’t it? You didn’t feel your life was meant to be spent wasting away in your room until the day you became useful. If you spent your youth seeing the world, learning about it from your own lived experiences, wouldn’t that make you a better queen some day? To know the plight of the common man because you lived it for yourself? 

That’s what you wanted- the freedom to explore, to learn, to grow, and when the time was right, you’d accept your duty gracefully, and play the role you were meant to, but until then, there was nothing more you wanted than to feel the earth beneath your feet, to understand what a blessing it truly is to feel the warmth of the sun beaming down on your skin, to learn what it is that makes life beautiful to live. 

With a deep inhale to steady your racing heart, you took your first step outside the town gates, trying your best to not appear too nervous and draw undue attention to yourself. You conjured all the confidence you could muster into your steps, your short heels sinking into the pure dirt before you. It was a clear spring day, the sun welcoming you warmly, as if confirming that this was a decision you were meant to make, that following your heart and exploring the lush earth is what your true purpose was. 

You recall how different everything felt once you were fully outside the town- it was almost unbelievable how green, pretty and vibrant the outside looked when compared to the dull, monotonous grays and dirty browns you'd met with inside the town walls. And even the castle interior, while still pretty and not devoid of color like the town often seemed to be, still didn't compare to the nature that lied before you.

You saw children running through the grass without shoes, freely giggling as they play what you assume to be some sort of game, one you'd never had the chance to play. They were utterly carefree, and so full of life; how you wished you could be the same- just kick off your shoes and prance through the fields and the trees without a care in the world, with nothing to weigh you down. What a joy it must be, to live innocent and free, knowing nothing but laughter and love. 

You took time to admire naturally growing flowers, to lean down to carefully caress the petals, to feel the grass on your fingertips since you’re much too scared to actually take your shoes off despite how bad you’d have liked to. Following the road, past the sprawling fields where the children play, you eventually came to the occupied farm lands, and it was there, just before the fields turned into seemingly endless forest, that you met him for the first time.

His was the last farm for you to observe, and it held a surprise that made you positively gasp in delight; animals! You'd always thought the farm animals you’d seen in your books looked so cute, and you always wanted to feel their fur or feathers, wondering if they were truly as soft or as coarse as they were described to you. Was a sheep’s wool still soft before it was knit into a blanket, or woven into clothing? It was something you were endlessly curious about. 

However, you certainly knew better than to just waltz up to an animal that doesn't know you, and especially not one that is on someone else's land. So you settled for quietly observing them from outside the farm's sprawling gate, a huge smile on your face as you watched the animals graze. Even at your distance, it was still the closest you'd ever been to an animal other than a horse, and you simply couldn't get over how cute and soft they looked. Sheep, cows, chickens, ducks- all impossibly cute, and how you wished you could go and hug them.

You propped your arms up on the wooden fence, resting your head against them as you simply watched. It was almost funny how something so simple and normal to someone else's everyday life could instill such joy and wonder with you. And that's when you saw him; a single man walking out from his quaint cottage towards the back of the land, attending to the animals and filling up what you assumed to be their feed troughs.

His home, you noticed, was put together the same way most of the town was- with stone and clay, a simple but well constructed wooden door, and a decent sized chimney on the left that you were well aware was necessary to funnel out smoke from fireplaces in homes such as his. And it fascinated you how his home could look so different from yours when it was comprised of the same materials.

When put down simply to its parts, there was nothing that separated the castle from a commoner’s home other than the sheer size of it. Your mother would often tell you not to compare yourself, or the splendor of the castle to that of commoners or their homes, but you never saw any harm in doing so. 

You’re all human, and the only difference between you and them is that you were born into a royal family and they weren’t. You think she focuses too much on title, when to you title is worth nothing beyond a name. Still, while you recognize that while you aren’t different from anyone else in a biological sense, you are when it comes to status, and you wanted to use your privileged position for good when the time came, which is another reason you wanted to see the country for yourself, to put yourself in the shoes of the people and understand them. How can you be a good queen someday if you understand nothing of how the world truly works, or if every decision is fed to you from someone else? 

Really though you have to admit, apart from all the good reasons you had to sneak out, you equally had selfish ones. But was it so wrong to indulge your curiosity? You’ve tried many times to push aside your thoughts and to understand why you must stay solitary in the castle all day, but try as you might, this is all you want. To see, to experience, to feel; why was it only wrong for you to want that, and not for anyone else? Even if you’re the princess, you should still be allowed basic human freedoms- that’s what you believe, anyways.

You lost yourself in thought for a time, simply staring out at the scene of the man caring for his animals in front of you. You wondered if he was happy doing this everyday; was it monotonous, or did he take pride in it? Did he love his animals, or were they strictly the avenue he'd taken to provide for himself? You also wondered what you would be doing if you weren't the princess; would you be a farmer's daughter, spending all your days in the fields with the animals like he does? 

It was oddly fun to ponder on, to picture yourself leading a different life than one you'd led up to that point; maybe it was a form of escapism, and maybe you had more grievances with your upbringing than you'd let yourself believe at the time, but either way, a smile once again made its way to your lips as you pictured yourself feeling the fluffy wool of a sheep beneath your fingertips, as warm, soft, and comforting as a blanket in your imagination.

The man took notice of you after only a few moments, because realistically, how can he not notice a girl blatantly propped against his fence, staring at his land? He’s sure he doesn’t know you, doesn’t recognize you from any of the farming families that have homes adjacent to his, and he doesn’t go into town nearly enough to have made friends outside his small bubble. So who were you, and why are you staring at him like that?

"Do you need somethin', miss?" The burly man called out to you as he started to approach, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. "O-Oh, uh, no, I apologize," you stuttered out, feeling instantly intimidated as he came closer; not because he was an intimidating person per se, because while his eyes are sharp, they also have a unique softness to them. It was his size that made you shrink back and feel small; you didn’t realize just how large the man was until he was practically face to face with you, and even the knights you’re met with daily, who undergo strict, intensive physical training, pale in comparison to the muscular physique of the man you in time came to know well.

You remember how he looked at you curiously, head tilting to the side as he watched you straighten your posture and take a step back from his fence. “I was just.. curious, about the animals. They’re very cute,” you explained and the man chuckled a bit, wiping his dirty hands on his worn trousers before stepping up to his fence. “I take it you’re from the town then? Can’t imagine you bein’ that curious about my animals otherwise,” he replied pleasantly, a warm, sort of prideful smile on his face. It confirmed his suspicions as well- you were definitely not someone he’s met before.  

"Yes, I've only ever seen them in books," you explained further, a bit timid now as you suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you. You were sure a commoner of your age would never be as fascinated by the animals as you were; they see them every day, it's a normal part of life for them. And you recall scolding yourself, really feeling that you needed to do a better job of hiding your lack of worldly experience when meeting new people so you'd stop having interactions like this. “I apologize again, I must appear very strange..”

“No need for that, sweetheart. I think it’s nice- I’m so used to bein’ around ‘em, that I don’t really stop and take it all in anymore. Reminds me of what I got, so thank you for that,” he replied kindly, his smile spreading an unfamiliar warmth through you in that moment. He was very, very kind, and you appreciated that he didn't judge you or find you to be a fool for your innocent curiosity.

"I could show you around, if you'd like. Let you meet them," he offered, and you positively beamed, though you really should have shown some restraint in the matter. "Could I really?" you couldn't help but ask eagerly, eyes sparkling with pure wonder and excitement at the prospect of seeing so many things you'd never encountered before up close. “Course, just come ‘round to the front, and tell me your name.” 

You yelled out your name as you eagerly turned and began to sprint (in quite unladylike fashion, you might add) to where you saw the gate to his property some time earlier. You could hear the man's laugh carry even as you ran (not advised in the shoes you were wearing, but you carried on nonetheless), stopping just in front of the small, modest gate. You waited for the kind man to catch up to you, not wanting to do anything rude or presumptuous by stepping onto his land without being specifically directed inside.

"You took off so fast, you didn't give me a chance to introduce myself," he laughed as he approached you again, and your face immediately flushed, embarrassed by your excitability over everything. "Name's Changbin," he introduced himself warmly after he opened the gate for you, and you smiled timidly, giving a polite bow after you crossed the border onto his property. “Pleasure to meet you, Changbin.”

"Likewise," he smiled as he closed the gate behind you, and it was then that your first true friendship began. In hindsight, it occurred to you that you should've given him a fake name, and while he did ponder on why your name seemed so familiar to him, he didn't ever appear to put together that you were the princess.

What was clear to him was that you were from a wealthy family; after all, that was the only explanation he could reach to decipher some of your "odd" behaviors. Your boundless curiosity, your utter excitement for the mundane, an unmatched passion for all the small things in life that he'd never seen before in anyone else. A light in your eyes as bright as the sun, filling him with warmth and adoration, your wonder and inquisitive nature both pure and infectious. 

He asked you once, what it is your family does, if being from the "high society" part of town near the castle is what made you live a sheltered life, why you seemed so (respectfully) clueless about things beyond the scope of inner-town workings and politics. You were surprised when he asked, and confirmed what he suspected, though you left out some of the very important details. After all, how could you tell him that the girl he's become friends with over the past few months, didn't just live near the castle- her home is the castle.

But you divulged what little you could, confided in him that your mother has high expectations of you, that she doesn't know you spend your days with him at his farm, that if she did know she certainly wouldn't approve, and he seemed to understand. While he may not be a high born man, he's no stranger to how haughty they can be, what with their superiority complexes and luxury goods, as if it's not working men like him that provide them with what they consume in the first place.

You weren't like that in the slightest- you were good, pure natured, with an infectious zest for life that he couldn't help but find his own joy in. Seeing you interact with the world, the happiness you gained from the simplicities in life, the wonder and curiosity you held for all things, both small and grand- it was a trait of yours he'd come to adore.

You learned from him just as much as he learned from you, and you truly reminded him how beautiful life is, how there is magic even in the mundane, what a gift it is to have, to be, and to feel. Changbin introduced you to so much, shared so many parts of his life, and you were truly the happiest you'd ever been, always looking forward to the next day you could go out and see him again.

"Have you ever ridden a horse?" he asked one summer afternoon when you were in stables together, you sat on a hay bale while you watched him care for Dolly, a beautiful, black and white dappled horse that belonged to his mother, whom she named such due to 'her mane being as beautiful as a porcelain dolls.' "Does being escorted in a carriage count?" you asked, and he laughed, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

"No, darlin', a carriage don't count," he said, smiling as you pouted ever so slightly. You were still a child the last time you were even in a carriage, given the fact that your mother never permits you to leave. You wondered what's more enjoyable; your memory of your last carriage ride is so faded, you wondered if you could even compare the experiences, were you to ever ride a horse.

As if sensing your thoughts, Changbin made an offer that once again made you beam, radiating joy and excitement. "I could teach you how. Or let you ride with me," he offered and you were eagerly nodding without a second thought, jumping straight to your feet. "I'd love that!" Changbin returned your smile, promising that once he got Dolly situated in a saddle, he'd take you for a ride while telling you everything he knows and answering any question you may have about it, no matter how small or seemingly silly and "common sense."

He helped you up onto her back, making sure you sat comfortably on the back of the saddle, both your legs dangling over one side of her body due to the fact that you were wearing a dress. Changbin got up onto the saddle with ease, carefully not to accidentally hit you with his leg while making his ascent. After he was settled in front of you, he instructed you to wrap your arms around his torso, as it takes time to become adjusted to the movement of the horse and naturally find your balance.

You wondered if he could feel your heart race when your chest was pressed against his back, how your palms grew sweaty from holding onto him, how your face flushed every time he called Dolly a "good girl", wondering what it'd be like if he said the same to you, if he praised you after he encouraged you or taught you something new.

But the more comfortable you got, the more he allowed Dolly to pick up speed, until she was going around the enclosed pen in a brisk trot, your arms squeezing Changbin as you giggle joyfully, feeling the wind brush by your ears and pull back your hair. It was so fun, so new, another experience Changbin granted you that you wouldn't otherwise have ever had the chance to have.

When you were finished, as the sun was beginning to set and it was time for you to get home, lest your mother send a maid to summon you for dinner and find you absent, he jumped off first, and then held out his hand to you, offering for you to take it, promising he'd make sure you got down safely.

And he did, letting you squeeze his hand as you made the unfamiliar leap off, his opposite hand coming to your back to ensure you were stable on your feet after you landed. His hand lingered even after it was apparent you were steady, and yours did as well, still holding onto his hand even though you no longer had need to. It felt as though there was a shift between you- both staring carefully at one another, a suggestion that you could be something more than this, that there was a connection beyond that of just friendship.

Slowly, with the same smile for you he always had, he pulled his hand away from your back, but didn't make you part from his hand, letting you hold it even as he walked you to his gate. And you felt a stutter in your heart, unlike any you'd ever felt before then, returning his smiles happily, your cheeks dusted pink even as you thanked him for the afternoon and bid him goodbye, every once in a while turning back just to him still watching you, offering a soft smile and wave each time your gazes met again.

Then, there was the time you were inside his chicken coops with him, Changbin having taught you much about how to properly care for the animals in your time near him. And after weeks of observation, you wanted to help, to really try your hand at it! You did well, for the most part- your error came when trying to get a hen away from a freshly laid egg.

You tried your best to follow Changbin's instructions carefully, but still, your inexperience was greatly apparent, and you ended up upsetting the poor thing. When she flew up in protest, it startled you, and you nearly fell backwards, but Changbin caught you, one of his strong arms wrapped around your back and holding you upright as if you weighed nothing at all.

You blinked up at him in surprise, face growing red as he asked if you were alright, your heart unexpectedly pounding. You muttered out an apology, voice much meeker than you wanted it to be, but he simply smiled, helping you steady yourself again to stand on your own, ensuring you that it wasn't your fault, and that he could tell you were genuinely trying your best.

"No one gets it right on their first try, don't be discouraged, you did good, sweetheart," he said, and the words somehow made your heart race faster, face growing even pinker. You were certain then- you liked him as much, much more than a friend. You wanted him to always praise you, to console you, to call you sweetheart in a way beyond platonic- to look at you romantically, to call you by such sweet names in a moment of love and passion.

When you returned home that day, lying in bed after finishing dinner and washing up, your thoughts were plagued by him- much more than they usually were, and in completely different contexts. How would his strong arms feel under your fingers while he held you up, supporting all of your weight as he took you in every way conceivable, across every surface of his home.

You'd had.. less than pure thoughts before of course, so it's not like this was new to you- what was new was having an explicit object of desire, someone you wanted to lie with, someone you imagined touching you everywhere, and you touching them and pleasuring them in equal measure.

There were many times you watched him work, sweat collecting on his forehead, dripping down his brow, his breath growing heavier with labor, his broad chest rising and falling quickly with exertion- would he look the same atop you? Body heavy between your legs, pressing you down, and God, you were driving yourself crazy thinking about it.

Changbin noticed, another summer day, sun high and hot, leaving him sweatier than usual, and your face hot and red (though for reasons beyond that of the sun beaming down on you.) "C'mon sweetheart, let's go inside. It's hot out here, ain't it?" he'd said, deciding it was time, for both your sakes, to take a well deserved break. You agreed, thankful beyond words he thought it was simply the sun making you a heated mess, and not how absolutely divine he looked chopping wood in preperation for when the weather would change in a month.

You sat on his sofa together, sipping on lemonade he made himself by hand, thankful to be out of the unforgiving sun (and to have something to focus on besides how attracted you were to him.) "You seem to be thinkin' a lot today. What's on your mind, sweetheart?" Changbin asked after it was quiet for a time, your cup of lemonade held in your lap as you stared off at unfixed location.

"I've.. come to like you quite a lot more than I expected. As more than a friend, I think," you answer honestly, though you don't expect him to do anything with your feelings. While he's your first real connection with someone, you're sure he's lived a full, experienced life. You feel there's no reason for him to like you as you like him, but still you told him, for you already hide enough about your life from him, and you don't want your thoughts and feelings to be one of those things you keep from him.

"I'm fond of you too. More than a friend, and more than you probably know," he replied with a soft smile, setting his empty cup to the side. You blinked, cheeks turning pink as you practically gaped at him. "Do you mean that? Sincerely?" you asked, heart thumping loudly as you too carefully set your cup aside. "I wouldn't lie to you darlin'. 'Specially not about matters of the heart," he responded earnestly, carefully moving closer to you.

You met him halfway, slowly, your eyes timidly meeting his as his hand comes towards you, resting heavy but soft on your cheek. "Tell me truly," he almost whispers, face coming close enough to yours to feel his breath tickle your skin, "Do you want to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss you?" "Yes," you breathed out, and not even a full second later, his lips were on yours, plush and soft, butterflies filling your stomach and truly, you couldn't ask for any greater joy than that moment.

You kissed a lot after that- in greeting and in parting, sweetly, slowly, carefully, sometimes even urgently, needily, passionately. You'd help him with as much of his daily work as you could manage, so he could finish faster and you could spend the rest of the afternoon holding one another close, hands exploring anywhere and everywhere, both eager, both seeking more and more and more, both indulging in the feeling of not just pleasure, but of closeness, intimacy beyond just the physical, the love and care you share for one another.

But as quickly as your happiness was obtained, it was taken away; unbeknownst to you, on an afternoon in early fall, shortly after breakfast, a knight had seen you squeezing through the hole in the castle's wall, eager to spend yet another day with Changbin. He didn't think you were sneaking out at first- he thought maybe he was just mistaken on what he saw, but when he stepped over, and it became clear that you were now nowhere to be seen, he had to inform your mother, as was his duty.

And there are truly no words to describe how devastated you felt when suddenly, as if from nowhere, countless knights were surrounding you, pleading with you to return to the castle, lest they have to drag you back by your mother's command. It became a spectacle in the street, commoners whispering amongst themselves as they tried to piece together what they were witnessing, and if the sweet, smiley girl they’d seen exiting and returning to town everyday for months was really the princess this entire time.

You felt as if your entire world was collapsing as they escorted you back home, your heart squeezing painfully in your chest, knowing your mother would be positively furious when your eyes next met. But no, she wasn’t just furious- she was livid, the angriest you’d ever seen her in all your years. You pleaded with her to understand, assured her that if you were truly going to run away from home and abandon your responsibility, then you wouldn’t have returned every single time you’d left. You didn’t want to be stuck here all day, every day, bored, alone, depressed, when there was an entire world out there to see, people to talk to, experiences to be had. You’d do everything expected of you as a princess, and later as queen, but please- just this one thing, allow me this one thing.

But no, your pleas fell on deaf ears, your mother completely dismissive of your feelings and unwilling to bend her iron rules. And so you once again became a prisoner inside your own room, tears streaming down your cheeks as you stared at the edge of town from your window, Changbin so near, yet impossibly far. Your mother didn’t know of Changbin, you didn’t tell her, nor would you ever, as things stand now- but how you wished you could tell her, “I’ve found love, and now I understand how truly a magical thing it is. I don’t want this to be the end of my joy.” 

Weeks passed, and while the pain never left you, you learned to manage it well enough, hopeful that you’d be reunited with Changbin someday soon. But then you saw them- carpenters, working diligently to fill the hole in the castle walls that you had repeatedly used for your daily escapes. The color drained from your face, your heart sinking into the very depths of your stomach. Your plan to simply be an obedient daughter long enough for your mother to lessen her watchful eyes on you, to one day again leave the castle once her constant vigil had relaxed, was being thwarted before it could ever truly begin. 

You anticipated to be in this act for the long haul, knowing very well it could take months, or even years, to rebuild your mother’s trust in you, but you’d never imagined she’d take away the very source of your hope mere weeks after confining you away to your room. To call a hole in the castle’s defenses your “hope” may seem foolish to most, but it was all you had- a symbol of escape, of life beyond these four walls that had become your permanent home. 

The day it was filled would be the day you’d lose everything; your freedom, your friendships, your joy, your hopes, your dreams, everything. Even as you are now, a canary trapped in her gilded cage, the promise that simple flaw in the walls gave you kept you going- the promise that someday, even if it was years and years from now, you’d be free again, doing what you loved most, being with who you loved most. 

You know your mother cares for you, she wants the best for you, and the loss of your father, the king, much too soon has deeply scarred her. She fears for you, she keeps you ever at arm’s length because she can’t bear for you to part from her, to leave her behind the way your father had, but surely this isn't the answer. Surely there was something better than this, something that didn’t necessitate you being a prisoner in your own home. 

Fear of loss and devastation ruled her life, made her trap you lest you decide to leave and never return, failing to realize that it was her very actions and treatment of you that gave those fears of hers room to become reality. But to know heartbreak is to know truest love, and even should loss plague your life, you will never regret having discovered love.

You had no desire to abandon your family, your kingdom, or run from your responsibilities, but if that was the only way to be free, if there was no other conceivable way to experience life’s joys and warmth, then.. What else was there for you to do? Ironic, how your mother had unwittingly created a self-fulfilling prophecy when she forbade you from living a life of your own, her own actions resulting in the very outcome she feared most of all.

You have to do something, anything, now, before it’s too late, and you are left with nothing but the fleeting memories of the man you hold so dear. You bide your time, waiting until nightfall when the carpenters have left for the night to make your move. Your mother has posted knights to the spot now, instructed to keep a watchful eye should you try again to leave the premises, but you think with the right timing, you can slip out unnoticed. 

There’s a small window of time where, when the knights standing guard rotate shifts, the hole in the castle’s walls will have no one standing in front of them. It’s risky, and if you’re too slow you’ll be spotted by the new knights taking over for the ones who departed, but it’s the only chance you have, so you need to take it. As soon as the knights previously keeping watch over the area get far enough away, you dart for the breach in the castle. The hole is definitely smaller than it was before, but you still manage to squeeze past just fine, with seconds to spare before you hear the sounds of the new knights approaching, luckily having not noticed anything amiss.

The streets are much different at night, the subtle illumination from the candles in the surrounding buildings hardly enough to point you in the right direction. You look to the horizon instead, hoping that the dark line of trees on the horizon will be enough to guide you to the gate leaving town. Some who notice your desperate run call out, concern evident in their voice, but you can’t stop for them, can’t stop until you’ve made it to Changbin’s side. And though it is not without struggle, you do, eventually, thankfully, find your way out of the town.

You’re panting, chest heaving as your heart pounds and your lungs desperately try to suck in air once you’ve made it completely outside the town gates- but still, you aren’t where you need to be, so you can’t stop yet. Pushing yourself to your very limits, even as your legs scream at you and harsh cold pricks your skin, you can finally make out Changbin’s land in the tree-lined horizon. Reaching the gate to his property, you push it open in haste, taking hardly any steps past the threshold before you collapse to your knees, the ache and exhaustion refusing to be ignored any further. 

You bring a hand to your heart, taking a few seconds to calm yourself and breathe before you attempt to rise back to your feet, but your legs refuse the action, much too weak to support you beyond what they’ve already done. It’s good enough, you suppose; they’ve carried far, with much more urgency than you’d ever thought possible, and now you’re right here, so close to where you need to be- and despite being a princess, you’re not above crawling your way over to Changbin’s door if you must.

Once more, you try- and though weak, and unsteady, you are able to rise once more. You can’t run, can hardly even walk as sore and as exhausted as your legs are, but they carry you as far as they can, recognizing the urgency you feel, aiding you as much as it can in your last, desperate effort. Your throat is dry, it hurts, but you call out Changbin’s name regardless, hoping he’s awake, hoping he hears you, hoping he’ll wrap his arms around you, kiss you, console you, even if it’s just this one last time.

It’s been over a month since the last time Changbin saw you, and there’s so many questions he can’t help but ask himself, that he wishes he could ask you, so he didn’t spend all his hours distracted with worry and self-doubt. There had been gaps in the time you spent together before, but never for this large of a duration of time- a week usually at most. Did he do something wrong the last time you were together? Or did your strict mother finally learn of your deceit, and now made you keep away, unable to return to his side though you may have wished to? 

He just wishes he knew for certain what it is, so that even if he was saddened, he did not have to have his mind consumed by what-if’s and uncertainties. There was a time, even, where he considered going into town and asking of you, but he was worried that doing so would only create more problems for you if the wrong person caught word of his inquiries. So all he could was wait- wait, and hope, that you would return again before year’s end, and that he would have the answers he so desperately craves to his questions.

Most of all, he just hopes you’re well; you’d expressed more than once that you loved your life and your family, you just didn’t want to feel trapped. You wanted to have choices, to feel like your thoughts and opinions matter, to be allowed to live as most other people do when you are not burdened with work. Whenever you spoke of home, he always found it unfair, and he felt for you- you loved your mother, dearly, but he could see how you struggled with her rules, how sadness lingered in your eyes and resent bubbled up within you despite how you tried to not feel such things. 

And though he understood why you could not, he wished at times that you could simply stay with him- to not have to depart the moment the sun began to sink, to lie in bed with him all night, to have breakfast and dinner together, to live without worry together. He’d work hard for you, even harder than he does now, and it’d be worth it to see you smile at him as you always do, so bright and full of light, keeping each other company on your loneliest days and nights. 

Changbin sighs, exhaustion plaguing him as he sits before the small fire he has going in his living room, head falling back against his sofa. He hasn’t slept well these past few nights- he just can’t help but think of you at all hours, and every time he closes his eyes to sleep, he’s met with the image of you. It keeps him up, though not all his thoughts of you are plagued by unpleasant worry- sometimes it’s simply just the image of you smiling or laughing, and he feels nothing but warmth, even as he is reminded how much he truly misses you. 

Should you never return again, for whatever reason that may be, he doesn’t think he would ever regret having known you and given his love to you. Short-lived though your romance may be in the grand scheme of his life, and all the years he may be blessed to live, it was of the utmost importance, and he’d be remiss to let those memories become tarnished or devalued. You reminded him of how much joy there is in life, how grateful he is to have what he does, how much beauty there is in even the smallest of things. 

Another sigh leaves his lips as he lifts his head, rubbing carefully at his weary eyes- he should probably try to rest soon, though he feels sleep will likely stay out his reach for some time after his head hits the pillows. He stands from the sofa, preparing himself to extinguish the fire and head to bed, when he hears a strange, unfamiliar sound from outside his door. A thud, almost- as if something with a not insubstantial amount of weight thumped to the ground. 

It couldn’t be his logs- he knew the sound of falling logs well enough to recognize the distinct sound made when one toppled, and often times when one fell, more followed. This was unlike that entirely, only one sound followed by silence, and the sound itself was still too dense to be one of his pieces of chopped wood. The sound felt more.. concentrated; an animal perhaps? And if it was an animal, he couldn’t let it go ignored- especially not if it was one of his own. 

As Changbin steps closer to his door to investigate the sound, he hears something else entirely unexpected- a frail voice.. your voice..? Rushing to his door now, he opens it in haste, eyes darting to find the source of what he heard. And there, he sees you, collapsed to the ground before him, looking up at him with a mix of relief, exhaustion, and anguish. “Y/N-” he gasps as he leans down to you, concern evident in his voice and expression, hands reaching out to touch you and shit, your body is freezing; you are woefully ill dressed for the fall chill, and who knows how long you’ve been out in it with nothing but your dress. 

Quickly, he picks you up, carrying you inside and using his foot to kick the door shut behind him. “Just sit here a minute,” he says as he sits you down on the sofa, rushing to his room to grab all the blankets and pillows he can carry. He prepares a sort of makeshift bed on the floor in front of the fireplace, laying down a couple blankets and pillows, with the intention to have you lay by the fire and spread some much needed warmth through your chilled body. 

Changbin scoops you back up when he’s satisfied with his work, very carefully laying you down a close (yet safe) distance to the fire, nestling beside you after and laying an additional blanket over your bodies. He has so many questions, his mind is racing, but they can wait- making sure you’re not going to suffer frostbite is of much more importance. He lets you use him for warmth, not complaining a bit when your cold limbs tangle with his, letting you sap his warmth and take it for your own. 

He brings his hands to your face, warming your cold cheeks in his palms, looking you over carefully. You looked unhurt, thankfully- he has no idea what you’ve gone through, but he’s glad you’re here now, and looking well, all things considered. “Do you want to tell me what’s happened?” he asks softly, pushing the fallen hair away from your eyes, letting him meet your gaze without obstruction. You swallow down your bubbling emotion, wanting to be clear and concise, to leave no room for confusion or error. 

“My mother is very strict, as you know.. She enforced her rules more harshly after she discovered how I’d been spending my time. I had to sneak out again just to be here,” you answer, and his brows furrow. “Again..? Have you been sneaking out to see me all this time?” he asks, and you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Changbin knew your mother had strict rules, he knew she didn’t approve of her daughter meeting with those of lower class, but that wasn’t the extent of it? 

This whole time, he thought your lie to your mother was simply that you exited town- not that you left home entirely. He was under the impression that you were still allowed out on the streets, at the very least; not that you were caged up inside all day like some sort of bird. But this.. This was outrageous, cruel. To not let your daughter out of the house at all? That’s what you’d been dealing with this entire time? 

Relationships with parents are complex, but he almost can’t even believe you still love her after all this, that you still want to uphold whatever ambitions it is that she has for you; if it were him, he doesn’t think he could stand it. He followed in his parents footsteps because he wanted to, not because he was forced to. And he doesn’t imagine you’d be much different from him in that regard; naive though you may be at times, you had a strong sense of responsibility, and were intelligent in matters he was clueless on, a completely different kind of intellect from his own. 

“You can stay with me,” he wants to say, “I’ll never make you do a single thing you don’t want to do, you’ll always be respected and happy.” But he knows you’d refuse, your sense of pride in yourself and responsibility simply too strong to abandon just because of one obstacle, harsh though that obstacle may be. In equal measure, you don’t think you could ever ask him to stay with you. How much would he have to give up to be with you? 

You don’t want to ask that of him- to make him give up his home and all he holds dear just to be stuck in the castle with you. He doesn’t even know you’re the princess in the first place. And though you love him, it’s painfully apparent that you’re in two separate worlds that may not be destined to converge though you wish them to. “I don’t want this to be the end,” you say, hot tears finally starting to fall as you the emotion unleashes itself from the depths of where you’d pushed them down, “I don’t want this to be the last time I see you.”

God, Changbin feels like his heart is shattering. It’s so painful to see you reduced to this, you who is always so bright and vibrant in her joy, brought low to tears and heartache. Why must you endure this? Does your mother truly not understand how much pain she causes you but not allowing you to simply live? “Don’t think like that. If you say it’s the end, then it will be,” he whispers, the pain in his own voice evident despite how he tries to hide it behind a mask of strength for your sake.

The tears flow from your eyes and you let him rub them away with his thumb, letting him fill your head with impossible, sweet promises. Your whole life was clouded in dreadful, dreary rain, and there’s nowhere you wanted to be more after the rain than with Changbin. What a ray of sunshine he was, even without intending to be- the light that illuminated your otherwise dark existence. And how painful it was to know that come morning, it would all become nothing but a memory from your youth. 

You lean forward to kiss him, tears continuing to leak from the corners despite having your eyes closed now. You want to tell him “I love you” but you fear that saying so will only make the act of parting that much harder and painful. You fear that no matter how much time passes, the name of your first love will forever be written in your heart, that you will never stop loving him even should you lead lives separate from one another. And still, you have no regrets, because for a time you felt truest joy and love, and what a gift it was to share with him. 

Taking his hands from your face, he pulls you closer, your entangled limbs being woven together more complexly, your torsos now completely flushed to one another, his arms wrapped around and holding you tight, as if lessening his hold on you would cause you to dissipate. And perhaps you will disappear, but not now- not while he has you like this, not when you are where you long to be most. Your tears slow, eventually receding completely as your lips touch. 

If this is truly your last moment together, you have decided you will not spend it wallowing in sorrow- you will enjoy all you can, you will memorize every detail, you will etch it in your very soul. “Are you warm enough?” Changbin asks after he separates from you, but still close enough that his breath lingers on your lips. “Could be warmer,” you answer and he chuckles softly, kissing you again, his hands roaming down the expanse of your body, to your hips. 

“Want me to add more to the fire?” he asks, a playful lilt in his voice as he knows that’s not what you’re insinuating. While you normally speak quite openly and honestly, you become.. meek within intimate moments. Changbin always finds it incredibly cute, how you dance around what you mean, waiting for him to get the hint and give you what you want. He always gets the hint, but it’s fun to see your blush grow hotter, to see you stumble with your words when he plays dumb about what you mean, or purposely misunderstands just to make you state what you want clearly. 

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt, but..” you trail off, chewing on your lip nervously as you meet his eyes again. He raises his brow but says nothing, smiling patiently as he waits for you to speak your mind. What a menace, you think, he always does this when he realizes you want to be intimate with him. However, he doesn’t intend to waste too much time making you flustered and teasing; it’s just.. if this is the last time like you seem to believe, then he wanted to see it again now, before the opportunity was lost to him. 

“I’ve missed you a lot, you know. I want you to touch me,” you finally answer and he coos, furthering the embarrassment you feel as heat rushes to your face. But better than being cold like you were earlier, you suppose; maybe you should welcome his teasing, since it never fails to make your face and body hot. “You missed me, darlin’? I missed you too,” he smiles, kissing your face, your lips, your jaw, your neck, “thought about you every damn day.” 

His low voice near your ear makes you shudder, his soft kisses down your neck, to your shoulder, furthering the feeling. You never let him mark your skin, afraid of what consequences would come from your mother finding out what you’d been doing, but you’re tempted to let him tonight- if you’re going to be punished regardless, why not be selfish, go out with a display? “Binnie, leave a mark on me, please,” you shamelessly plead, using the nickname you know he loves to hear you speak. 

Changbin lifts his head from your shoulder, meeting your gaze with uncertain excitement. God, he’d love to, but.. “Are you certain? What of your mother?” he asks carefully, pushing your hair behind your neck to expose more of your skin. He may be apprehensive out of concern, but the minute you make it clear you have no reservations, he’s obliging without restraint, giving you everything you ask- anything you want, you’ll have it. 

“I don’t care what she thinks anymore, I want her to know that I.. have someone I love,” you answer sincerely, and he smiles, his heart feeling like it’s expanding in size. “You love me?” he asks, and you return his smile as you nod, because though you were scared to tell him, you are glad you did. His reaction to the information was completely worth it, his eyes sparkling with deep emotion and fondness for you. 

“I love you too. More than you probably know,” he says, mirroring what he said when he confessed that he liked you too, and he lets you pull him into a kiss, your affection radiating. There’s a soft giggle that escapes him, not being able to help how giddy your love makes him feel, how you love him despite what people in your life expect from you. If he could, he’d assure them all how well he’d take care of you, how he’d make sure you never suffered a day in your life because of him. He suspects your mother doesn’t care much about your happiness, but if she did, if she gave him the chance to prove it, he wouldn’t rest until he gave you the entire world, until she could see your love as true. 

You lay your head back to the pillows, tilting it comfortably so that Changbin has more access to your skin. His breath warms you, and you all but tremble with anticipation when you feel his lips on you again, knowing your skin will finally bear his mark after all this time. You’ve seen such a mark briefly on your maids that you know to have lovers, how they try to hide them with their hair or makeup, the sort of shame and embarrassment they feel when they realize you’ve noticed it.

You will have no such shame; you will wear them proudly, in a show that is simultaneously of love and rebellion. I have and I know love, and that is all that matters. People will certainly have opinions, but you’ve sacrificed enough to them. If there is only one day you can live selfishly, you want it to be this day; and even as the marks fade, they will serve as a reminder of what you once had. 

He plants open mouthed kisses to your neck, the feeling of his tongue and teeth grazing you adding to the anticipation you feel. Your fingers tangle in his dark, unruly curls, as he carefully, almost gently, sucks and bites at your supple skin, leaving behind a string of beautiful, red, blue, and purple bruises. There’s a tinge of pain, yes, but the excitement grows beyond the subtle sting, transforming it almost entirely into pleasure. 

When Changbin’s finished with one side, he lies you on your back and does the same to the other, your eyes fluttering closed as you tilt your head for him to have more room to work. You unintentionally tug on his hair when his teeth meet a particularly sensitive spot, and you would’ve apologized had he not groaned in delight from the feeling. You learned something new about him every time you were intimate, and this discovery in particular had your stomach flipping.

“Want you to take it off,” he mumbles in reference to your dress, pulling at the fabric that had begun to bunch up at your thighs. You hum, detangling your hand from his hair and letting him sit up, watching as he lifts his own shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside. In all the times you’ve seen Changbin’s skin bare, you never stopped being amazed at how divine he looked. He was so big and strong, it always left you breathless, his cute, soft stomach a direct contrast from the bulk in his arms and chest. And then there was the small patch of hair that led from his belly button to the waistband of his trousers that always left you hungry to see the rest of him. 

Still feeling a bit weak from your exertion prior, you ask Changbin to help you remove your dress, which he is more than happy to do. He’s careful with the fabric, though you’ve decided you don’t care about it at this particular moment, and he sets it aside with much more care than he did his own clothing. What a gentleman he is, you think, taking the extra time to care for your clothes even when he’s met with you bare before him.

Well, not entirely bare- you still have your undergarments on, and after deciding you’d see Changbin today no matter what, you purposely wore your prettiest pair. A beautiful, intricate and delicate white lace, one you might aspire to wear on your wedding night. He looks you over in awe, taking in all your details. You were always beautiful, but your choice in clothing somehow enhances it, drives his excitement even further. 

“Fuck, you’re stunning. How did I get so lucky?” Changbin questions aloud and you smile, a soft giggle escaping you as he leans back down to kiss you. “Take your pants off too, otherwise it isn’t fair,” you playfully complain and he grins, letting out a chuckle of his own as lifts himself back up. “Maybe I spoil you too much, giving you everything you want so easily,” he responds to your complaint with one of his own, trying not to smile so that he appears serious- though you are easily able to read that he’s playing around, just as you were. 

“You give me everything I want because I’m a good girl for you though, right?” you ask and he groans audibly; you admitted early on in your sexual relationship that you were curious about being called such things, and when he tried it out, it was discovered that he liked saying it just as much as you liked being called it. It’s not just saying it to you that he likes either- hearing you call yourself one, saying it’s just for him.. that’s what really gets him going. 

He doesn’t want to be presumptuous and say you belong to him, especially not after all you’ve suffered through, but he definitely belongs to you. You don’t anticipate Changbin pulling his underwear down with his trousers, but the sight of his cock is never unwelcome. It’s already hard and leaking, and when he leans down to you once again, you can feel it pressing against your bare thigh, smearing its fluid on your skin. It always excites you, how hard he gets from your body, and while you are normally much more timid, you’re enjoying getting him riled up quickly. 

“You’re dangerous,” he says with a small huff, and before you can come back with more words to make his cock throb, he’s kissing you again, this time wasting no time with softness and shoving his tongue past your lips. You welcome it, opening your mouth for him, letting his tongue tangle with yours. The feeling always makes you light-headed in the most delicious way possible- it’s intoxicating to put it simply, and you would kiss him for hours and hours if given the chance. 

His hands come to your bra, unhooking it easily after all the practice he’s had, and though he could easily toss it aside, he breaks away long enough to set it down gently. You giggle at how he’s still treating your clothes with care even while this hard and eager, but that’s what makes you love him so much. Returning to your mouth, he nips and sucks at your bottom lip, and you mewl at the sting, which Changbin always gladly soothes with his tongue before repeating. 

His fingers roll, pinch, and tug your nipples, not too hard, but enough to have you whining and squeezing your legs together. They were always so sensitive in Changbin’s rough, calloused hands, and there were times you felt you could cum simply from the stimulation of them alone, especially when he used his mouth. And he did just that when he pulled away to stop kissing you, though not right away.

He kissed all over your chest, leaving love bites and sucking small, almost delicate bruises onto the sensitive skin of your breasts, not yet touching your nipples with his tongue and teeth. You told him to mark you, and it seems he was determined to do it everywhere- not that you had any objections. It was a bit strange, seeing your chest bitten and the color of your flesh changed, but you equally enjoyed it, loved the physical proof that Changbin was on you. 

When his tongue finally swirled around one of your nipples, you let out a breathy moan that quickly turned into a drawn out whimper when he used his teeth to carefully tug. He made sure not to hurt you too overtly, to just give you enough of that sweet sting you found so enticing and pleasurable, and in return you gave him that same delicious feeling by tugging on his hair every time you felt good. 

Your panties were soaked by the time he stopped giving your breasts attention, and though you hadn’t reached your peak from the stimulation, you felt so close. Resuming his path down your body, Changbin’s cock throbs and twitches when he’s met with evidence of your excitement, your white panties darkened by how damp they’ve become. He doesn’t pull them down right away- he kisses your legs first, and then your thighs, leaving behind the same kisses and marks he gave to your chest and neck. 

Your inner thighs are especially sensitive, and it causes you to jolt and whine when he sinks his teeth into the meat of them. He’s got you so impossibly worked up, you feel like you could cry when he finally gives your neglected heat the attention it craves. He praises you before he slides your panties down your legs, and there’s a relieved sort of noise coming from your throat that makes Changbin chuckle. 

You keen when his tongue finally slips between your folds, licking and sucking up everything you have to offer him. There’s an enthusiastic hum that leaves his lips when your fingers tangle in his hair again, followed by a groan when you pull and tug. Your legs are trembling and twitching so much, constantly threatening to lose around his head, that he has to push them down to keep you how he wants you.  

It’s when his tongue meets your clit that you really start to lose yourself, your hips jolting up and back arching, legs quivering when he wraps his lips around it and sucks. You’re panting, begging him, incoherently mumbling and babbling about how close you are, and within seconds you’re seeing white, eyes rolling back as further wetness gushes on his face. He licks your release up with another eager hum, dragging out the feeling until you’re a quivering, overstimulated mess beneath him. 

You release your hold on his curls when you finally come down from your high and your body relaxes, opening your eyes to see Changbin grinning at you, evidently proud of the fact that he got you to cum in record time. He kisses you softly, quick and chaste, not trying to hinder you from taking any of the breaths you need, just wanting to show his affection. “What do you want next, darlin’? Since I’m givin’ you everything you want,” he asks, rubbing soothing circles on your skin as he awaits your answer.

“W-Want to be on top but.. I’m still feeling pretty weak. Especially after that,” you reply with a slight blush, and he chuckles again, cooing at you as if you’re just so sweet and cute (and to be fair, you are. At least to him.) “S’okay sweetheart, I can help you,” Changbin says sweetly, giving you one more kiss before he’s lying down on the makeshift bed and pulling you on top of him. Your legs are on either side of them, his hands on your hips, looking up at you with pure affection. 

“This good? Comfortable?” he asks, and you hum with a nod, smiling just a bit as you lean down to kiss him again. Normally, given how thick he is, Changbin would prep you before having you take his cock, but given how wet and excited you are, he doesn’t think the prep is as necessary (and you might not be patient enough for it after all the build up to this point regardless.) He helps you line yourself up with his cock, both of you letting out your own shaky noises as you sink down on him. 

“Atta girl, keep goin’, just like that, sit on me all the way,” he encourages you, and you do just as he asks, your hands tightly gripping his biceps to ground and support yourself as you sit flush with his body, the back of your thighs meeting the top of his. He rubs your thighs and legs, trying to show soothing affection as you adjust and settle, listening attentively to all the trembling exhales and noises you make. 

You look so beautiful atop him, illuminated in the gentle, warm glow of the fireplace, your hair having fallen in a way that messily, yet somehow perfectly, frames your face. He can see everything- your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, beautifully painted with all the marks he left behind. You can feel him twitching and throbbing inside you, but he doesn’t rush you along, lets you take all the time you need. 

You feel him twitch again when you lean down to kiss him, and it’d make you giggle if it also didn’t make a wave of pleasure shoot through your body. You move your hands to his chest to support your own weight better, experimentally rolling your hips as you coax your tongue into his mouth. He lets out a groan from deep in his chest as you move, his tongue wasting no time in meeting and dancing with yours, his fingers squeezing at the already tender meat of your thighs. 

You lift yourself back up to begin moving in earnest, your hands still planted firmly on his chest for support as you slide yourself up and down his length. The slow pace, while it still feels good, isn’t enough for either of you, and soon enough you find yourself practically bouncing on his cock, the sound of your thighs repeatedly slapping down on his echoing into the room. Changbin curses, biting his lip as he watches you, using his hands to help guide you up and down, trying to ease some of the ache in your legs. 

He thrusts upward into you when your pace starts to stutter and lose rhythm, and you gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the perfect spot again and again. It reaches a point where his hands simply hold you in the right place while he exerts all his effort, feet planted firmly on the ground while he does all the work from below. Your nails dig into his skin, head falling back as you feel your release building up again. 

Changbin effortlessly flips your positions, though he is careful not to hurt you in his haste- he just wants to make you fall apart again, and it’s easier to do that if he doesn’t have to control your movements- just his own. He resumes the pace he held from below, bringing two of his fingers to your clit and rubbing in quick circles, unable to help the way he groans when he feels you clench around him even tighter in response. 

“B-Bin, please, Binnie, so close,” you babble and whine, your hands twisting the blankets beneath you. “I know sweetheart, let go, be a good girl and give it to me,” he grunts out, and again, you feel white hot pleasure coursing through your veins, your vision blurring and mind growing fuzzy as you let go. “Good girl, just a little more, just need you to hang on for a little more,” he both instructs and praises, pulling out just long enough to flip you to your stomach, pushing back into your heat just as quickly as he left it. 

You whimper loudly, fingers clutching desperately at the pillow your head rests on, Changbin bringing a hand around your body to lift your hips ever so slightly. He was hitting your spot deliciously from this angle, the pleasure so great that tears once again pricked the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall with each gasp and whimper you released. You turn your head back as much as you can, delighted in the visage of Changbin’s head thrown back in pleasure, 

He always got rougher when he started to get close, his hands always tightening their grip, his thrusts, while growing less rhythmic, became harsher and faster, almost desperate, and it was always a treat to experience. You loved watching him lose himself to the pleasure, loved that it was you and your body that brought him there, loved how his grunts and groans transformed into higher pitched whimpers and whines. 

You bring your own fingers to your clit, wanting to let him enjoy and focus on his release since he already spent so much time on your pleasure. He leans forward, his chest pressed into your back, his hot breath hitting your ear, his whines and praises pouring directly into it. “Fuck, sweetheart, feel so good, ‘m gonna- fuck, gonna fill you up,” he stammers out, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your stomach erupting in countless butterflies, driving you to speed up the motion of your fingers. 

You release again with a strangled cry, gushing around his length and on your fingers. Changbin follows closely behind, the feeling of you clenching and squeezing around him as you cum for the third time sending him over his peak. He releases in long, drawn out spurts, both of you breathless and exhausted when he collapses next to you. You both know you should get cleaned up, but you’re both too tired to care, and he can always clean up his messes in the morning. For now, he just wants to stay close, here in front of the fire, with you. 

This very well could be your last night together, but he doesn’t want to believe it is. He wants to believe that the two of you can find a solution somehow, that after all the hardship, you’ll be smiling at him in the end. There’s a part of you that doesn’t even want to fall asleep at all- you want to stay up all night, to not waste a single moment you have left, to stare and feel and love until the very last second, so that he’ll remember him clearly always. 

You do your best to not become teary eyed again, having promised yourself you wouldn’t spend your night with him wrapped up in your sorrow and dread. But oh, how you wish there was more time, how you wish that your mother would understand you, that you could have just this one thing. But you suppose for a girl with immense responsibility, happiness is too much to ask for. You sacrifice your happiness so that others may have it instead- as noble an act as any, but you selfishly wish you could have both; the people’s happiness and your own. 

The idea of running away still leaves you torn, even after all this time. You don’t want to let anyone down.. but still, you have to ask yourself, is doing what’s right for your family and future worth all this heartache? If it’s what is right, why does it make your heart feel as if it’s been shattered like glass? You’ve been told in life that the right thing to do is never the easiest, but you can’t imagine that in this case, walking away from either side is right. 

You want both. Is that truly so wrong? You want to be a ruler worthy of her name and title, and you want Changbin. Why must you choose one over the other? As far as you’re aware, even now, Changbin doesn’t know you’re the princess. He’ll likely find out soon, when every knight in the town is floundering to find you come morning, when they realize you’re gone. You should slip away before then, lest your lover be met with undue scrutiny and unfair treatment from your mother and other nobles. 

But looking at him now, even still.. you don’t want to leave. You’ll never want to leave. “Sweetheart,” Changbin calls softly, his hand reaching up to leave comforting, lingering touches to your head. “I can tell what you’re thinkin’. But don’t be sad yet, not ‘til we’ve said goodbye.” You blink away the accumulating tears with a nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat the best you can and burying your face into Changbin’s welcoming body. 

You’re so, so tired, and you know he is too, but he’s trying his best for you. And he’s being the strong one despite how much his heart aches with yours. He rubs your head, kisses your temple, tells you he loves you. Your heart breaks and mends all at once; how bittersweet this moment is.. If you’re lucky, you have about 7 hours until anyone realizes you’re gone. Maybe you can sleep for just a few, just enough to get some of this ache out of your body, and then you can spend the rest with Changbin. 

You’ll cry, you know, as soon as you depart back home. You’ll cry when the hole in the castle’s defenses is completely sealed. You’ll cry when you look to the fields his home sits on from the bedroom window. Still.. you do your best to uphold your promise to yourself, and now to Changbin. You won’t cry, and you won’t be upset- not yet, anyways. Not until you’ve actually parted ways. For now, you’ll continue to lie in his arms, continue to express your love for him, continue to smile and laugh as if this isn’t the end, until morning comes and reminds you painfully that it is. 

How beautiful it was to love Seo Changbin, to learn and to grow and to really live with his help, patience, and care. How fondly you’ll miss him in every moment, how lovingly you’ll always hold his memory. Brief though your love together is, much shorter than it should have been, it has changed you for the better, and you’ll never regret it, even should your heart ache. And maybe Changbin is right; maybe there is room for hope, and maybe you’ll see each other again much sooner than you allow yourself to think. No matter what lies before you, there is one thing for certain; Changbin is your first love, and he’ll forever be etched in your heart- your lover, your deepest connection, your closest confidant. And how grateful you are to have known him.

[pewpewkachuuboo]

So I had a thought about what if Lucifer is full of shit and is actually the one Alastor made a deal with because Alastor is the big bad because isn’t Luci chilling with the Overlords during extermination in the pilot? Like…. There’s no way he doesn’t know Alastor at all.

So I wrote how I thought their original meeting went - if y’all like the idea I would love to write how the interactions during the season would look if this were the case. That could be fun, actually - I may do that regardless.

I don’t really think I believe it, but I do love the idea that Alastor is in debt to Lucifer and the deal was protecting Charlie’s dream which means he can’t actually do harm to those that don’t deserve it period.

—-

The throne room of hell was vast and empty. The room consisted of a pair of large ornate doors that led to a red-carpeted walkway straight to the throne of hell that sat upon eight large steps that represented the eight rings of hell.

Lucifer sat comfortably on his throne, leaning against his staff as Alastor considered his options.

“So… I will be all powerful after a seven year sabbatical.”

“You will have access to powers beyond your means after I send you to train with my brother for the seven years that it takes for completion - on the condition that when you return, you protect my daughter and her dreams at all cost.”

Alastor chuckled deeply, his voice crackling in interest, “I will not sacrifice myself for another person - especially not blue blood scum. I think I can find how to conjure power on my own, thank you.”

Lucifer’s eyes glowed red in irritation. He stood from his red throne and slammed down his staff. The sound echoed as golden chains restrained Alastor from leaving as he had intended, “I seem to recall that it was you, radio demon, that came to me seeking power. Not the other way around.”

Alastor gave a light sigh, “No need for the restraints, sir, let’s come to another agreement.”

Lucifer did not move to remove the chains, “You’re much more charming in this position- maybe I should put you on your knees and make you beg for that power you crave instead.”

With a tut of his tongue Alastor retorted carefully, “I want power. I will agree to do whatever it takes when I return to see that your daughters hopes and dreams are not crushed. I will protect her but I will not die for her.”

Lucifer hummed thoughtfully at the offer and snapped his fingers to release Alastor from the golden chains before reaching out a hand, “You also cannot let her know of this deal or that we know one another at all.”

Alastor stood still for a moment before finally nodding and closing the distance between them, his hand slipping into the king’s, “Deal.”

Lucifer flashed his devilish grin, a golden glow and dark shadows blending into each other around them, “Good luck and I’ll see you in seven years.”

With that the light and shadows engulfed Alastor and when the colors faded, the radio demon was nowhere to be found.

Lucifer chuckled, “He should have been more careful with his wording - I thought he’d make it harder than that.” He clicked his tongue before sitting back atop his throne, eyes darkening as his wife entered.

Lilith looked calm, “It’s done?”

“Yes. What is Charlie going to say when she figures out that you decided to go to heaven to live and left behind a radio demon to protect her but don’t intend to say goodbye yourself?”

Lilith smiled sadly, “She won’t because you love her too much to tell her and break her heart. Adam promised the exorcists would leave you and Charlie without harm no matter what comes.”

“Just the exorcists?” Lucifer snorted, the grip on his staff tightening, “If Adam kills your daughter himself what do you intend to do?”

Lilith shook her head, “I don’t have time for what ifs, Luci.”

Lucifer spit on the ground at his feet angrily, voice coming out in a harsh and gravely whisper, “You have lost the right to call me by nicknames or pet names. Get out. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you myself.”

With a sigh, Lilith left the room leaving Lucifer on his own once more.

Lucifer took in a ragged breath, tears falling down his cheeks as he sobbed in loss - they had separated years ago because Lilith had left him to wallow in his misery and instead of being understanding, she took his daughter and left to take charge of hell on her own because he wasn’t motivated or loved like she was.

Something about this moment felt more final, however, and so he allowed himself to transport to his working quarters so he could mourn the loss of his family a final time before distracting himself fully. Charlie, after growing up with her mother, was never close to him despite how desperately he craved that relationship, and she hardly reached out at this point in her life so she clearly didn’t need him - so when Lilith approached him explaining the deal she had made with Adam and asking him to seek out the most powerful overlord to make a deal with him so that Charlie would be protected he hesitated, but ultimately was able to manipulate word of mouth to convince Alastor to seek him out for more power. Sinners were always hungry for more power.

And so Lucifer kept to himself, willing his phone to ring with Charlie’s profile picture so he could try to mend their relationship. He missed her desperately, but felt in the depths of his heart that any attempts he made to reach out first would lead to rejection from the only person he had left.

He wouldn’t survive if Charlie rejected him like the rest of heaven and hell had.

[flusteredtuna]

On Your Knees // Ch.1

Loki x !fem! sorcerous

Words: 1800

Warnings: Drinking, forced proximity, ( not a lot yet )

Summary: You have to make a deal with Loki, King of Asgard. One where you’re forced to be with him. It doesn’t go according to plan. Which may or may not be unfortunate. ( I probably messed up lore really badly, but just ignore it. )

this was made with the help of Character AI Loki made by @ Skullbright. The opening dialogue from Loki is provided by them.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

“I am Loki of Asgard. Kneel before me, poor soul” He stamps his staff on the ground.

You reach for the hood on your long cloak and lift it back to say “I kneel for no man” your voice deep and growling low.

“Do not dare challenge me, human,” He slams his staff again conjuring a storm of thunder and lightning in the chamber. But it does not intimidate you one bit. “I will show you true fear and chaos.” He snarls.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you”. You lift your hand in the air and snap your fingers.

The room shifts and it’s suddenly dark. A foggy abyss room of nothing.

Loki, trying his best to hide his surprise, whips his head around trying to find anything, “What manner of trickery is this?! You can trick me into teleporting? I will find you, wherever you may hide. Just as I did those other gods before you.” You watch as he starts to look around as though he can sense your presence in the room, like a hunting hound.

“I’m behindddd youuuu” you taunt.

Loki freezes, he’s ready to pounce like a cat. He whips around and freezes, not finding you. But finding that the location has changed again. He’s sat at a bar, drink in hand, dressed in a tux facing you sitting right next to him. It seems to be some sort of rich hotel bar on earth. As his eyes meet yours, you smirk raising a glass of whisky to your nose as you swirl it, gathering the scent.

“How in the nine realms did you manage that?” He’s startled by your appearance now that it’s not hidden under a cloak and hood. “That’s a magician’s secret” You wink as you finally take a sip of your drink.

He looks you up and down. Your hair is up in a fantastical hairstyle, almost an effortlessly elegant messy bun with the perfect side strands of locks that frame your face. Your figure wears a dress that is long and dazzling and red, while the side of your face features sparkly earrings.

His pause is noticeable as he takes you in, “How can this be?! No one had gotten the best of me, the great Loki! The trickster god.” He sounds like a whiney child. You scoff at him, “Well I’m happy to be the first”.

His expression suddenly changes into a wide smile, mesmerized by your beauty, “you look…” Clearing his throat he catches himself mid-sentence, “I mean, how did you manage that disappearing act? I have not been so fooled since the time I tricked the great All-Father!” Reaching for the drink in front of him, he takes a sip with more ease than his tone. “Why should I tell you?” You say.

“Oh, you are a cruel mistress, playing your tricks on me.” You lean in to whisper to him “I just didn’t want to get on my knees.” Your words are slick and sly, as you lean back and take another sip of your drink.

“Well, I don’t imagine a woman of your nature could get on her knees.” He chuckles almost mockingly.

Then it was his turn to lean in, “But I’m an agent of the chaos of the universe, the Lord of lies, and even I may be susceptible to…certain charms.” He smiles widely.

Charms? This is going exactly how you thought it would. Which makes this all the more unfortunate.

You roll your eyes at him once again and try to change the subject in your favor, “You must wonder why I’ve actually brought you so… out of your element.” Loki raises his brows at you and tilts his head a bit “Why is that, my dear? What could a mortal like you have that I, a god, cannot acquire myself?”

Mortal? Is he that much of an idiot?

You laugh at him, for he has seen you all wrong. “I’m not mortal. No no, I’m a witch. Haven’t you been paying any attention?” you smile and stir your drink with a wave of your finger. This makes him choke on his drink, and laughs, “Ha! A witch. Oh how amusing. Let me guess, you have a coven of sisters? An evil stepmother perhaps? Maybe a black cat and a broomstick too?”.

You interrupt him with a snap of your fingers he music in the room stops.

The room was utterly devoid of sound: dead air so thick it might be heard like a roaring waterfall. Everyone in the room turns their heads to look at him with an ominous stare. He stops laughing as he notices the faces in the room are blank and mute. The whole room feels extremely offputting. “I don’t think you’re going to find the reason I’ve brought you here amusing,” you say this in a very intimidating voice that puts him on edge.

“You are… full of surprises.” The tricker god is mesmerized by your beauty and presence. “What else can you do, witch?”

Prick.

Ignoring the name he calls you and snap your fingers again, and almost like pressing the play button on reality, the bar goes back to its regular ambiance.

You let out a sigh and look down at your glass tracing circles on the rim “Listen, I’m going to make this easy for you. You have something I need.” He chuckles “Well it better not be my heart. What exactly do I have that you need, my pretty witch?”. He’s still not taking it very seriously. “You”. With a sly grin, you refill your glass and take a sip of your drink.

“Me? Why would I be something you need?” He tilts his head back slightly as he looks at you, “Please, do go on.” He waves his hand for you to continue.

“I need you to pretend to be my lover, to get some attention off my back.” Loki takes a spit take of his drink, making a fool and a mess of himself, “Oh please, I could have put you under a spell but that wouldn’t have been as fun now would it?” you tease.

He’s still coughing from spitting his drink. “You. need me. to be your lover?” He says as he cleans up a bit. “Yes, just pretend, only for a little while. And then I’ll be out of your greasy hair,” you smirk at him.

“Pretend to be your lover” He slowly nods in approval “Well I must say, that is a rather attractive proposition” Loki smiles. It’s quite possible he’s agreeing to get you in bed, but you’ve come this far already it might be worth that annoying risk.

“Very well, I will be your pretend lover.” He crosses his arms confidently “What will this…arrangement…entail?” He smirks.

A wave of relief washes over you. “Well, that was easier than I thought this was going to be, Ha!” You throw back your freshly refilled drink just to get that buzz, “I’ll just stay with you until the heat on me dies off and in return”. You pull a locket with a stone, but not an infinity stone. A fragment of one.

It glimmers in his eyes but he has no expression of interest. “Oh, I’ll have you know, I am quite the charmer,” he seems to be more focused on how he’ll earn your favor, “Once, I seduced a frost giant with a wink and a smirk.” He holds his drink up and winks at you. “But please, this stone. Explain its properties, and what it represents, oh witch.” he leans in closer for a moment and then leans back.

“First off, stop calling me ‘witch’, you can call me Y/N. And secondly, maybe you’ll earn the right to know once you start taking this seriously.” He nods at you. “I shall treasure our agreement, Y/N.” Loki leans in, staring at you “And this arrangement shall have perks on my behalf, of course” he nudges you playfully. You roll your eyes.

This is going to be hell.

“Glad we are in agreement” You snap your fingers and your back to the location where you started, yet closer to the throne he is seated in this time, “Shall we shake on it?”. He nods and stands up from his throne to extend a hand. “Yes, I believe we shall.” he grips your hand a bit longer and yanks on the grasp a little, “You are a very cunning witch, Y/N”. Loki looks at you again slowly admiring the change in attire.

“Don’t call me witch” you snatch back your hand. He scoffs and walks down the steps of the throne, guiding you slowly toward the hall.

“So, shall I ask?” he chuckles, “What exactly got you into this predicament, to need to find a pretend lover?”.

Why does he care?

You look out the arches of the throne room across the greenery and land, “I don’t care to go into detail at the moment since it’s a bit sensitive. But also it’s not any of your business.“ He scoffs, “I disagree, if I’m to keep you here I need to know what kind of dangers I’m getting into. Besides, I am not one to share secrets.” His mouth curves into a smile, like a cat.

You decide to open up to him, for the pure sake of protecting yourself. “It’s an angry ex. One from another planet,” you cross your arms, “All you have to know is that he’ll leave me alone once he finds out I’ve settled here.” The way he scoffs is so irritating. It’s become a pet peeve at this point. And you haven’t even been around him for very long.

“You’re exactly how I thought you were, Loki of mischief” you snap at him a bit. “You’d be surprised, most fall under my spell rather quickly. I wonder…” he puts an inquisitive hand to his chin “will I be able to charm you, my dear Y/N, as easily as I charm the others?” leaning in on his last words.

“I guess we’ll have to see,” You stop and turn to him, “for now I believe a tour is in order, correct?”. He smirks again, that punchable smirk.

“A tour. I like the sound of that” he takes your arm and spins you closer to him, right under his nose. Holding you tight. “And indeed, we shall see what fate has in store for us”

You push him off and dust off your clothes as if he were a dirty creature covered in soot. Starting to walk off you turn to look back at him, and give him his famous smirk back

“Let’s see the place, shall we?” He flicks his hair back and follows hands behind his back.

[babylovepresley]

thinkin’ about you — elvis presley x reader

summary: you are elvis presley’s former lover… at least you think you are. the year is 1960, and he is finally returning home from the service… but you haven’t heard from him since the day he left memphis and got on that plane nearly two years ago. what is left of you both?

word count: 2k

content warnings: 18+ sexuality mentioned, ANGST, possibly an unhealthy relationship, references to religion and god

read & listen along: https://open.spotify.com/track/1fDFHXcykq4iw8Gg7s5hG9?si=c2I7yoRJQMOSZEIrxLHCsg

writer’s note: hiya lovebugs! this is just a little something i conjured up when i was supposed to be doing homework (hehe), and i thought perhaps you’d all like to suffer with me. it’s not my best work, as i have had quite an overwhelming day and this is the best i could produce. this is my first fic posted, and i truly hope you all enjoy! remember requests are always open, and i am forever sending you all plenty of love and light!

dedicated to: my darling friends that promote my obsession with writing angst, though it hurts them in the end <3 (@eliseinmemphis my sincerest apologies lover)

It’s a cold day in March when he comes home; his hair wispy and long, touching the tip of his forehead beneath the large issued cap. When he first went away, the cap seemed to swallow his sleepy head and make him seem like the boy I first met all those years ago— when life was kind and he smiled with his tongue between his teeth. A patron moves to turn the television up, standing on the counter and nearly knocking over a young man’s grits that sat untouched on his plate. The soldier huffs and puffs as the camera follows him; his lean figure cutting through the tv and leaving an ache in me heart. Did the scars from our childhood playing wear off? Did the inside of his left pinky still glow red and raw from the movement of his ring? Does he still think of me?

He swallows, and my own throat constricts watching him. Life had become so difficult after he left— the beginning of us did not matter, I only wanted to get through to the end. And now we’re here, or rather he is. All I can do is stand and watch in our hometown diner, as he glows for the entire world. My coworker comes up beside me, placing her tray down on the crowded counter and side eyeing me.

“Yes Minny?”

“Sugar, I hate to do this… ‘specially today of all days… but—“ always walking on eggshells, Minny was. In fact, I’ve noticed that every other waitress today has been side-eyeing me with pity; wondering what I must have done to him to be here instead of greeting him with open arms, perpetually on my knees for him. The truth is I never did anything to him… and I guess that’s why he never found it important to write to me.

“You need me to close… don’t you?” I smile. I didn’t have it in me to be cruel right now, though I wanted to scream and cry can’t you see I’m busy lamenting a man I don’t know anymore?

“I’m sorry y/n, it’s just that my daughter wanted to stop by the Graceland gates tonight to.. well.. you know…” she trails off, itching an imaginary scratch behind her neck. It isn’t her fault that her daughter looks at him the same way I did, or still do. It’s been a long time since I’ve laid my eyes on him, and I wonder if they still fill with the warmth and affection I once saw him have for me.

“It’s okay Min, I don’t mind at all! I’ll probably just make a cup of tea for myself and clean the jukebox tonight… have a feeling I finally wanna clear out a certain someone’s records….” I giggle, though I’m laced with a bitter agony in my throat; I never wanted to hear his voice again, but I know one sound falling from his pouty lips would cause me to stare in adoration and declare my god, where have you been?

I turn my head back to the television, because I simply cannot bear not looking at him… not after three years of staring out the window and praying to God that he’d somehow be sitting outside my door, waiting for me all the while. He has changed so much; poised and gifted with the confidence that can only affect a young boy who dreamt of the strength and masculinity he exudes. He left me a scared boy, with heavy shoulders that I ached to massage into a restful stature, and came home a man; broad and unashamed. I simply can’t wrap my head around it as the camera pans to his face, spotted with the cold sting of snowflakes as he nods his head in thanks. It’s ridiculous.. I feel jealous of a force of nature simply because they get to live and die on him; when I have faced far more triumphs and little deaths as a result of his person.

Still, he looks afraid as he shuffles through the crowd of women waiting to grab at him. I feel nauseous just looking at it, and I find myself tugging at my uniform in an attempt to deflect from the obvious want situated in each woman's eyes. Many years ago, I would’ve moved through the sweaty crowd gathered by the gates of that airport, and used my handkerchief to wipe the nervous sweat on his eyebrow; my hands ever-so delicate on his cold cheeks. And he’d look up at me and smile, the apples of his cheeks pressing his eyes into a squint; “you miss me lil?”

But now I stand here, as unknown to the world as the words he said to me the first night he pulled me by bare chest to his and mouthed a sonnet only he could tell. Memphis has changed, he has changed, but I haven’t. Maybe that’s why he didn’t write. Maybe that’s why I’m living in the in between; Elvis’ girl or not? Lover or former flame?

The hours pass by with the creaking stools signaling the end and beginning of each meal, my nails making a dull clack against the cracking counter. Before I knew it, the street lights flickered to life, and my coworkers' cars pulled out of the lot, blowing kisses out their windows in a silly “goodnight!” gesture. The diner is lonely without the murmuring of the town, but I find it to be deeply comforting while I clean. The TV has been turned off, and the jukebox unplugged, leaving me with nothing but my pitiful thoughts and slight hiccups as I cry and clean the corner booth.

In the midst of my cry, for him, for me, for his Mother, and for any semblance of a future I had once dreamt of, I failed to notice the front door being pulled open and the slight ting of the bell. The wind from outside climbed my bare legs as I wiped, shouting out a quick “We’re closed honey, I’m sorry!”. Why look up when I always know who it’ll be— whether it be a neighbor, the town drunk or a church choir member.

“Oh… ‘m.. ‘m sorry” the stranger stumbles out, and I can physically feel the soft tapping of his loafers on the sticky linoleum floor. I’d know that voice in death, when the grim reaper kisses me goodnight, I’d be begging him “please.. let me hear his breath one last time”.

With all of my strength I turn to him, staring down my old hero. My spray bottle has long been abandoned, spilling on the floor beneath me and wetting the tips of my white shoe. I couldn’t care less. Nothing could’ve stopped me from following his voice— nothing could have prepared my heart for the sight of him in front of me. I feel the ache of my brows pulling down on my face, and the cold air drifts through my parted lips to remind me that this is real… he’s here. After all this time, he’s here. I’m silent as I watch him distribute his weight; left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

“Ya see me on TV today lil?” His thick voice cuts through the air; still gravelly from the cold morning air he sucked in earlier that day. A part of me wanted to coddle him; coo “oh poor baby” for the pain in his throat. But the other part of me wanted to laugh in his face at the incredulous question. In the end, that’s just what I did.

“Did I- Did I see you on TV Elvis?” I barely manage to get out, as my throat begins to constrict with sobs. Bastard. At least we both are in pain from the words we can’t say, I think to myself.

“W-well I noticed the TV ain’t on.. so I thought I’d ask…”

“You thought you’d ask me if the TV was off because you wanted me to watch you come home today?”

“Baby I know it ain’t been that long,” he chuckles, his hands digging deep into the pocket of his black slacks. I once sewed a hole he tore in those slacks, and I remember the way he kissed my cheek in thanks— I still feel the burn of his lips. “know my girl hasn’t gone all dumb on me”.

My girl. As if he had any right to call me that anymore. My anger bubbles to the surface, as the chemicals I dropped sting my nose. We stand polar opposites of one another. On one end of the diner, we have a lowly waitress who dreamt of a family and a small life but now spends her days covered in bacon grease for the creepy men in town to ogle at. On the other end, with hair still blown back from the influx of winter wind coming through the corner window, stands a god amongst men. He has the world in his hands, and it dawns on me that he could have any family or anyone’s life that he could ever want— small or large it wouldn’t matter, it’s all small to his strong flesh.

Unchanged in my agonizing swirl, I threaten, though no matter how hard I try I could never be crossed with him in tone, “You don’t get to call me that no more Elvis”.

He shuffles uncomfortably, and his lips curl inward with a tremble. He has taken an interest in the floor, and I wonder if he remembers the time he stayed here until 4 am with me scrubbing them down. He looks at the tiles just as intently as he did then, though now it seems like he feels just as dirty as them.

“I ain’t… I m-meant to write you y/n honest—“

“Oh you MEANT to write me, huh?”

“Yes! Yes I-I-I did I just got caught up ‘s all…”

“Caught up?”

‘Yes Lil! Caught up!” he extends his arms out to his sides; desperate for a positive response.

I can’t hold back the building sobs anymore, it hurts too much— makes me want to reach my arms out to him like a child and cry for help. I’ve bared my soul to him in far too many ways, and he deserves to see the mess he’s made of me.

“For two years E?” the tears sting my cheeks, as I hiccup in a breath.

For a moment, I see him take a step toward me. Ever the holder, Elvis always showed love through his touch. There would be nights I’d wake up sobbing and afraid at the idea of never getting to feel the velvety touch of his fingertips in or against me ever again. Those nights still haunt me, and the idea of him touching me is almost too much. No man has touched me since him, and I’ll never want anyone else to ever again. I move from his reach, and walk beside him with a wipe of my nose as he panics.

“B-Baby I tried! T- The Colonel”

“The colonel,” I stop in my tracks and smile spitefully with a small shake of my head “It’s always the Colonel E, isn’t it?”

“Oh c’mon y/n whas’ that supposed to mean?'' he follows behind me as I stomp past him and behind the counter, desperately grabbing at anything to appear unaffected; but he knows me. Elvis knows me more intimately than I know myself, and I’ve come to resent him for it. I can’t bear his cluelessness, and I can’t live with all of this hurt inside of me for any longer.

“ELVIS! He has taken EVERYTHING FROM YOU. Money, your Mother, your life, me! You’ll just let him take and take and take,” I throw the bulk of napkins across the counter and into his chest in anger, though I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt him. Strange how he seemed fine all the while I was dying for a single word from him. “until there’s nothing left of you— of us!”

I move around the counter, and it feels as if I don’t keep moving I’ll collapse in a heap of tears. My finger jabs into his chest, and he flinches with the intrusion. For the first time tonight, I see tears forming in his eyes, yet his stained cheeks indicate they have been falling for a long time as he struggles to inhale from his own pitiful, silent sobs.

“One word from you Elvis, that’s all I wanted.” I sob, barely coherent as I lay my hands on his chest. He grabs them, and the shift in my stomach nearly makes me lurch in pain. I feel him now, so real and warm and so mine. I could never forget his touch, and now that I have it again I doubt I’ll be able to breathe without it. We cry quietly for a moment, holding one another as if we were foreign to each other; like he hasn’t consumed by body and soul whole and left it to rot in his chest.

It’s silent save for his uneven breathing and the gentle scuff of my feet; unable to stay still as my body betrays itself. I pull away, and he mumbles a “no, no honey stay” as I wipe my eyes and regain my strength. He paws at my apron, trying to pluck me closer before I scold him for his mistakes.

“Elvis, please just go. I-I’ve lived without you, I’ve cried each time I saw your house, or-or heard your records. I’ve grieved you before you were even gone, and I know I can do it again. So please baby, please just go” I whimper out, smoothing down my skirt and pinching my thighs beneath the frilly mess. I can’t look at him, though my eyes thirsted for the pinch of his brow for so long.

There are very few women who can say Elvis Presley laid himself in front of her and wept. I’ve seen him cry before, in fear and anger, and each time I have taken him into my arms and quelled him into relief. But nothing could prepare me for the sight laid out before me.

My man, a god, falls to his knees in front of me and cries with outstretched palms, “Do ya think I’ve forgotten ‘bout you?”

His eyes appear to burn as they flutter closed with a gulp, his large hands gripping onto the bottom of my skirt, “Oh God baby, ‘ve messed up somethin’ awful, I know.” he cries out, wiping his nose with his sleeve like a boy. A chuckle builds in my chest at the antic, as it reminds me of the boy I’ve cried for all along. He licks his lips, panicking at the thought of rejection. “ ‘ve always tried to be so good for ya and look what I’ve done now… look what your satnin’s done now…” He chokes out, ever the fallen angel.

His arms wrap around me, and I stumble forward with the force of his pull. It’s no use in fighting, I think to myself, I can never purge myself from the feeling he gives me. I don’t think I’ll ever want to— I can never shed the feel of him. The feel of Elvis; an irrevocable heartbreak. My upper body falls on top of him, my breasts pressed against his strong shoulder as my hands slide flat down his back; the wool of his jacket slightly burning my wrists. I feel his cries against my hips, as his arms lock around the backs of my legs; hands clasped in fear that I’ll soon pull away. His shoulders shake as I lean over him, and chills run down my flesh as his thumbs soothe the backs of my thighs.

Against my skirt he wails, “Kiss me. Please God, kiss my sins away. ‘ve done so bad by you baby— let me know I ain’t the devil incarnate..” his nails dig into the thickness of my thighs in desperation.

Who am I to deny him?

[pikapeppa]

Hi! I absolutely love all your fanfiction that I've read so far. I don't know if this has ever been asked so feel free to ignore or point me toward the answer if it already exists. The thing that I admire the most about your fanfiction is how clearly you capture the character's voices. I can literally hear them in my head whenever I read the dialogue you write. I can't think of a single piece of dialogue that you've written where I've thought "Hmmm no... I'm not sure that character would say that". And though you are writing in third person, your narration is so clearly conveying the thoughts of the character whose perspective you are writing from. I feel like I'm in their heads! I'm wondering HOW you are able to do that so clearly! Do you have some kind of method to observing canon dialogue and then conjuring what the characters would say? How do you match their natural speaking styles, inflections, mannerisms, etc? Or maybe you just have a natural gift for it? I'm in the process of writing a fanfiction and it's so important to me that I capture their voices well, particularly because the two characters are extremely different and I want to capture those differences as I switch perspectives. If you have any insight, tips or suggestions, I'd welcome them!

First of all: THANK YOU SO MUCH OMG 😭❤❤🙏 this is such incredibly high praise!! Trying to make sure the characters sound like themselves (both in speech and thought) is so important to me, so this whole ask is like, the nicest thing you could ever have said HAHA!! Thank you so so much!!!

I’m sorry my reply was delayed — I was actually think about how to answer! I don’t think of myself as being a very systematic writer in that I don’t use any formal tools or have any formal training, so what I’ve done here is verbalized my own process in the hopes that it’ll give some insights. You asking this question has helped me think about my own process in a way I never really have before, so thanks for this fun mental exercise lmao!

My usual caveat when answering these wonderful writing-process asks: I have no formal training, as mentioned above, and this is entirely based on my own experience, and thus should be taken with a grain of salt! 😂🙏

I’m not sure what fandom you’re writing for, so I’ll be as general as possible, but if you want to know more about a specific fandom or character(s), let me know! 😂

We’re thinking about two things here: 

How the person says stuff (speech patterns, inflections)

What the person is saying (thoughts/what’s going on in their head)

(see below the cut for the rest!) 

How the person says stuff: capturing the “voice”

The main thing I do when trying to capture someone’s voice is, quite literally, just listen to it a lot LOL. Whenever I get obsessed with interested in writing a new character, I typically save video clips of all of their dialogues so I can pull them up on my computer at will to listen to. When it comes to what exactly I’m listening for, there are several things to consider:

Formality: do they speak casually or formally? Are there contexts when they might speak more or less formally/casually (e.g. with certain people, in certain social settings)? Do they use a lot of contractions when they’re talking (e.g. don’t/can’t vs. do not/cannot)? Do they drop the ‘g’ at the ends of words ending in ‘ing’ e.g. “I’m gettin’ out of here”?

Vocabulary: do they use basic everyday vocabulary, or do they tend to use more rare/unusual words? Do they have training of some kind that would make them more prone to using special words in a specific context (e.g. mages in Dragon Age using magical jargon)? 

Cursing (a special and VERY IMPORTANT case of vocabulary): Do they curse? If they do curse, how often/in what circumstances? What is the “worst” word they use in canon, and that you can imagine them using based on what you know about them? Sometimes you have to use your imagination a little here depending on the rating of the game/show etc., and that’s okay; e.g. they never use the word “fuck” in Horizon Zero Dawn/Horizon Forbidden West but I can’t imagine that world existing without it LOL.

Cadence/lyricality: I don’t even know if these are the right words to explain this. But some characters have a distinctive rhythm or “musicality” to their speech that can make all the difference to whether they sound like themselves or not when you’re writing them. Some good examples of this are Solas from Dragon Age (whenever he’s talking about the ancient past), Nil from Horizon, even Geralt in the Witcher 3 (the game specifically, not the books or the show). Also important, for these characters with a special “rhythm” to their speech, do they always talk like that, or is it only in certain contexts (see re: Solas)? 

Accent: a character’s accent doesn’t “look” any different when written on the page, but it’s a obviously a huge part of whether they sound like themselves when you're reading their words in your head. Different accents use the above features in different ways, too, so the idea of an “accent” ties back to the elements mentioned above. This is especially relevant when writing someone where the “standard language/lingua franca” may not be their first language, so they may have more hesitations in their speech, their sentence structure may be simpler, their curse words may be in their first language, etc. 

This probably all sounds like a lot to juggle. But in practice, basically what I do is just imagine the character’s voice in my head, then just write the dialogue to sound as much like them as possible, while holding the memory of their voice in my mind. If I start to feel like the memory of their voice is getting a little blurred in my mind, I pull up video clips of them talking and listen to them again until their voice is clear in my mind so I can continue writing. If the character is a tricky biscuit, I might listen to clips of them talking before every writing session just to refresh  their voice in my mind. 

You mentioned mannerisms in your ask, and I’ll talk about this separately! Some characters have mannerisms/body language that is very characteristic to them (e.g. Alva and Drakka in Horizon Forbidden West), but for other fandoms, you might not have much in terms of canon body language to go on — for example, the Dragon Age games (everyone does the “Bioware Lean” LOL. You know what I’m talking about. It is not very character-specific). I usually invent little physical quirks/fidgets that seem in keeping with each character, and the context in which they might do those things. E.g. does the character run their hands through their hair when they’re anxious? Do they do a little hop when they’re excited? Do they have their arms folded most of the time?

What the person is saying: getting into their head

This is the topic where I might be less helpful (even less helpful HAHA) because I don’t do anything particularly systematic or formal to keep important information straight about a character. But there are a few important things that have their own sections within my outlines, which I’ll expand on below. 

Stuff I made up

One important thing to keep in mind with fanfic is that no matter how much canon info we know about a character, canon does not give us everything. Canon might not even give you a character’s age! Every version of a character I write is partly headcanon/stuff that I made up, which means it may not match other people’s headcanons. What matters is that you keep it consistent within your own understanding and fleshing-out of the character. For instance, a lot of the time I’m inventing a sexual history for a character since that stuff isn’t explicitly mentioned in most fandoms LOL. The key here is that whenever I’m writing that character moving forward, even if their sexual history is made up by me, I’m sticking to it and staying consistent with what I’ve invented for them. 

Core motivations, core conflicts, and formative relationships

This gets at the big, underlying foundations of the character — what made them who they are, and why they react to the world in the way they do. Who do they love, and why? Who hurt them badly? What personal traits do they have (e.g. are they a “lawful good” sort of person) that play a big role in how they see the world? For instance, in the Horizon games, Aloy’s relationship with Rost and her sense of connection with Elisabet Sobeck are huge influences on everything she does. In the Witcher (games and books), Geralt has a core conflict between “witchers don’t get involved in politics/world affairs” and his own sense of morality, which combines in fascinating ways with his overriding need to make sure the people he loves are safe. Knowing these very broad, core traits/relationships will be central for helping you decide how your character reacts to various events and people in your story. You might have some canon information about these important core traits/relationships, but you also might be making a lot of this stuff up, and that's okay; as mentioned above, it's just important to keep consistent with what you came up with for that person. 

For romances: why them? 

Since I’m always writing a romantic and/or sexual relationship, I always have a section about why those characters are together. Why them? Why those people specifically? What’s so compelling about the two (or more!) of them together that makes them worth writing about? What is it about those people that makes them good for each other or bad for each other, and that makes us want to follow their relationship? For me, this can be a pretty meaty part of the outline, since it’s so central to what I love to write. Having a clear picture of why you are writing these people together, and why they’re interesting together, will help you shape their interactions and how they react to each other as your fic goes on, and how they react together to external events. 

Knowing the information outlined above then forms a foundation for everything you write about that character moving forward. If you know those things about the character, then getting into their headspace is just a matter of using those foundations to predict how they would react whenever new situations arise.

I hope this is helpful!! I'll also pop in a link here to my other tutorial posts I've written, in case any of them are helpful. And if you want more examples tailored to a specific fandom, feel free to ask or send me a DM! 🥰

-- love from your friendly neighbourhood Pika! xoxo

[rubywraith]

Hallo ruby!

Got any metal recommendations?

I always recommend all 3 of Seven Spires albums - Emerald Seas is my baby and I love it, Gods of Debauchery is objectively extremely well written, and while Solveig can be a bit hit and miss with the sound, I still think it’s very good.

All 3 share a contiguous story (chronologically emerald seas comes first) following an adventurer turned Davy Jones-esque immortal shepherd of souls lost at sea that goes through love, loss, and broken dreams while learning what it truly means to live.

I would describe it as “Disney pirate theater metal” so if any or all of those words sound interesting you should definitely give it a go.

Some personal stand out songs for me:

Every Crest

Silvery Moon

Choices

Burn

Shadow on an Endless Sea

This God is Dead

Through Lifetimes

Another set of Story having albums I love are Apex and Abyss by Unleash the Archers

These follow Immortal, a powerful ancient spirit forced to obey whoever awakes him, and his struggles with both coming to terms with his actions and attaining his freedom

These are more standard power metal, but Brittney Hayes sounds absolutely amazing

Personal song recs:

Cleanse the Bloodlines

Ten Thousand Against One

Apex

Abyss

Soulbound

If you want a more 80s/90s sounding band, Battle Beast is a lot of fun

Their first few albums are awesome, and I think their most recent album Circus of Doom is worth a listen as well - it’s headbanging, big hair, and high energy all the way

Personal song recs:

Kingdom

Bringer of Pain

Justice and metal

Russian Roulette

Let it Roar

A personal treasure of mine, and probably not for everyone, is Empress

Im not even sure what it is about them specifically, but I just find myself gravitating towards Fateweaver and every song on it. It’s more operatic, and the production could use some work, but I love the writing to pieces. Monarch in particular I cannot stress enough is one of my favorite songs

Personal song recs:

Everything Legion

Chimera

Fall of Kingdoms

Monarch

Eventide

Finally before this gets too out of hand I want to briefly list some other albums I like:

Starkill - Gravity - Idk what those two words conjure in your head but it’s probably a good representation of how awesome this is

Beyond the Black - Lost in Forever - said a friend, “Serves so much cunt”

Brothers of Metal - Prophecy of Ragnarok - grab your bearded axes, equip your strength potions, and go punch a god in the face

Phantom Elite - Blue Blood - for when you want to cry and scream claw at the very walls of reality itself

Ad Infinitum - Monarchy / Legacy / Downfall - is it fantasy? Is it history? Who cares! It’s awesome!

Ignea - Dreams of Lands Unseen - white sands, rolling seas, and glowing horizons

Eluveitie - Ategnatos - performing blood sacrifices under full moons to resurrect pagan gods (tm)

Cold Kingdom - The Moon and the Fool - the singer’s accent is a bit noticeable but it’s still very worth the listen

Helion Prime - Helion Prime - Sci-Fi and Metal go perfectly together and more people need to do it like this

[pantherasox]

I find myself in what I call emotional constipation. I am at the middle of a spectrum of emotions, and it’s all stuck in my esophagus. I have no ability to speak when it comes to my own pain. The weight of systems on my back crush me for I believe I’m in a good enough place that I never actually face my hubris nor my shadow. It all seems so distant. I cannot access even the simplest of things that hurt me. I don’t like voicing my feelings. It feels like black sludge tar I must push through, else I drown. It feels wrong. Why should I be the one to break free from the systems that I did not choose to live under? All this trauma, and for what? Harm was done to me and I cannot fathom how to deal with it on my own.

It enrages me so.

Aha! Finally, something makes me mad. I was sitting here thinking I was a lone planet in the icy cool void of emotion. I shove all these feelings inside me, take my deep breaths, quell the rumble in my stomach, and move on. Is that not what I’m supposed to do? Breathe and move on? I talk to my mother who uses that same methodology, and it fills me with rage. At least I recognize when I’m wrong. How is one supposed to create change if you just breathe and move on? How are you supposed to create inertia if you decide that all your feelings are worthless?

For so long, I’ve been scared to even act.

I am no longer my father’s daughter, clenching my jaw as I stare into holes in the drywall. I am no longer my mother’s son, told to stop crying because there is no use for tears. Yes, I can get angry. I am angry that empires will continue to conquer my people. It makes me furious that my kind continue to perish at the hands of the state. How many of my blood will be lost before I can do something about it?

I am small. I am weak. But I am no longer scared. My fury makes it so. I am frustrated that I am told I can’t do anything to help. And I am angry at myself for not being able to feel this heat I am so yearning for.

Today is last full moon of the year, the longest of the year. The full moon transforms people into monsters, lunatics if you will. At the same time, this moon is in the sign of Gemini, meaning power is brought to intuition and keenness. The longest full moon is surely a powerful one able to conjure the change inside all of us. What a perfect time to harness the pain of systems. What a perfect time to lie in suffering of what is needed to be felt.

No matter how many people I have supporting me now, I must support myself at my roots, otherwise I cannot create the community that deserves peace from all that imperialism and militarism and bigotry. I shall embody that rage, that wrath, that grief. I invoke Sekhmet, Kemetic goddess of tumult and anger and bloodshed. Only after feeling these emotions that some might view as negative, may I party and drink and engorge myself with laughter and joy like she.

I am Sekhmet, bringer of destruction. My words are silk and aim to topple empires, those who neglect personhood, those that destroy the very foundation of diverse culture. Though in a small body, the voice can do wonders. Charisma is only necessary to convince people who aren’t already on your side, and frankly so many people are suffering. All they need is a similar voice. A rallying cry. A roar.

Speak out, for many are listening. As. We. Speak.

As I write this statement, I know now what I make. It is the feeling of my ears burning and my hands typing. I become something more than how my pain manifests. I become whole.

-12/7/22

A writing and art ritual in which I summoned Sekhmet to release hidden rage within me.

[baeddel]

suicide cw. personal.

my girlfriend Fall killed herself this weekend. i don’t know how to grieve; all i do is write. writing is, in some sense, thinking. Larry McEnerney (2014) says that you have to write to think at a certain level of complexity, and if you aren’t writing, you’re not thinking at that level. writing is, therefore, not a way to record my thoughts, or to express my thoughts, my writing is my thoughts. but thoughts are not feelings, and writing is not feeling, so writing cannot be grieving. that feeling can only indirectly condition my writing; subject selection, tone, word choice and so on. a lot of mostly uninteresting variables, and the writing will survive that feeling though i may no longer feel it. then why write when i’m grieving? it’s not just me—almost everyone, even people who don’t normally write, will start writing when they grieve. writing is with you throughout every step. the suicide note, the memorial, the eulogy, the epitaph. the tearful letters to your loved ones breaking the news. you see, writing is a desire, and grieving is a desire. and one only desires within a landscape of desire. Deleuze (1996) uses the example of a woman looking at a dress in a shop window. what she desires, he says, isn’t the dress, it’s to wear the dress on a beach, on a sunny day, and so on. when i grieve, i don’t ‘grieve’ abstractly. i cry. i shake, beg, plead, wail, storm off to my room to hide under the covers, wrap myself up with my own arms and breathe too fast. i shake myself out of it. i think about my breathing. i say ‘get it together.’ i resign to that feeling in my stomach and i lie very still. i won’t eat, i won’t move, i won’t get up. but i need to eat. i should eat, so i go down and make breakfast. then i write. and on the other side, when i write, i always feel; i conjure feelings or exorcise them while writing. these two desires are not the same, but neither are they always separable.

“Do you realize how simple a desire is?” (ibid). that became one of our favourite quotes. the last few weeks she has been saying it to herself as a maxim, which was something we liked to do. she had also been saying “not awakey, can’t mistakey.” why say that one? we didn’t get the opportunity to have a conversation about it. i think it’s because the next line of that quote is “sleeping is a desire.” she enjoyed things like that; the wandering of the intellect through rhymes and puns. she kept a numogram on her desk. she was not, in her mind, ever a writer, yet she wrote all the time. she dutifully kept a dream journal all her life. the day she was found her roommate was looking through her room and they told me they found some journals full of writing. they didn’t seem to make much sense, they said, so we decided they must have been more dream journals, because dreams don’t make much sense either. but i realized today what they were—they were zuihitsu. she told me she was writing it. but we didn’t get to have a conversation about it, either. that’s the way it is with us. we used to say we had so much to talk about we couldn’t fit it all in. and we were so impulsive, we’d always start something new, and probably never finish it. so everything i know about her is an unfinished story; i don’t know how it ends because we always got distracted talking about Marx or Laozi, class society in Louisiana or the cosmology of the Neiye, the next episode of Azumanga Daioh or the last time we played Rance. we never finished either of those. when we last hung out i was showing her Ridge Racer 4, which was ‘our game’, which i finally beat on the hardest difficulty when Bryn was here. i was showing her how much better i got, and she translated the hard mode story (she could translate on the fly like that; it was incredible). but we got distracted because she was talking about willpower, and i started telling her about how German Wille meant something different to Schopenhauer and Nietzsche than what ModE will conveys. her reflections on that conversation led to this post on her blog, which i didn’t see until today. what was i talking about? sorry, i got distracted.

when we first started dating she had this idea she wanted to do. you see, in 9th century Japan there was a tradition of courtly poetry with elaborate formal rules. there was a bit of a courtship game at that time using these poems. you wouldn’t exchange romantic poems as such; the poems were about nature and things like that, but it was a romantic gesture to write and send it. we sat down and learned all the rules—the style of poetry is called waka—and we wrote our poems for each other. but we didn’t quite follow all the rules the way we found them. they’re intesively erotic poems, intimate and romantic, stuffed full of our fetishes. i can’t really show them to anyone. those poems examine our own personal mythology, the semi-fictionalized relationship roles we’d keep up all the way to the end. even though by then we’d been dating for, i don’t know, two weeks? but we both tried to include the nature theme. you can’t really ‘think’ in Japanese poetry if you aren’t thinking about those things; the passage of seasons and their pantomime. the sakura tree that blooms and dies in one week, the geese that depart and the geese that fly back, the rivers which freeze and thaw. the first waka of Fall’s poem (we cheated a bit again, and used multiple waka as multiple verses) contrasts the natural enviornment outside—the sun and trees—with the synthetic indoor enviornment of her bedroom—LCD screens and water-cooling tubes—described in the same way.

that’s what i was talking about; her writing. i was listening to Stewart Lee on Alexei Sayle’s podcast (2021) talking about how the music hall, which was the British equivalent of vaudeville, was or had room for a lot of avant-garde acts with absurd premises. there was a performer, he said, named J. H. Stead who’s performance was to jump up and down on the spot as fast as possible while singing. another act was the Man who Sings Danny Boy, where the performer would stand up and sing Danny Boy except that his arms were prop arms, which would be set up to grow imperceptibly longer over the course of the performance, until his knuckles reached the floor at the end of the song. Lee says those music hall performances were a sort of proletarian surrealism, and no one’s really analysed them using the right conceptual tools. it reminds me of エロ・グロ・ナンセンス, ero guro nansensu, ‘ero-guro nonsense’, the first wave of guro in Japan which developed after the first world war in the 1920s. this time around it was mostly literature, rather than visual art or cinema. it was published alongside socialist papers on small presses, with a small distribution and circulation. when they were censored the law didn’t always distinguish between socialist pamphlets and ero-guro literature. there’s a book by a guy called Aratsuki Hiroshi called Proletarian Literature is Incredible which i’m desperate to read, but i can’t find it anywhere (wiki). since i was talking about it, Fall wanted to try and find and translate some of that stuff and share it with me; another project we never got around to finishing. anyway, that’s how i’ve been thinking about Fall’s writing. in all the photos that i have of her, every surface in her room is covered with index cards with writing on them. some are to-do lists, some are reminders, and some are mental maps and monologues. she devised this game played with cards which represented all of us in her circle, where we all had different cards representing different relationships she had with us. she had some rules for the game which she’d play, and she’d let it organize how she interacted with us. she kept those dream journals, filling scores and scores of notebooks, recto verso and scribbling in the margins, with dream-memories. and as i said in the last few weeks she took to making zuihitsu, a 14th-century Japanese technique for writing stream-of-consciousness prose about the impressions and sensations of immediate experience.

none of this she ever shared with anyone. why write like that? why record your dreams, play games of chance with your psyche, and pursue unbundled impressions? why keep such an immense and secret library? we’re reminded of the “Twentieth Century exercises in willed subjectivity” that Frére talks about (2020), “fold-downs, jump cuts, tape loops, automatic writing, oneiric or compulsive reference, detournment or collage” which he calls “the basic manoeuvres in the performative arms race of self-alienating consciousness.” for the surrealists the point was to let the creative process gainsay conscious experience and leave all the organizing power for the unconscious. that’s because they believed in psychoanalysis, hypnosis and spiritualism and the occult powers of the deep psyche. while Fall was interested in psychoanalysis—she had been reading Heinz Kohut’s Analysis of the Self—she wasn’t especially credulous towards it. her closest intellectual companion was Laozi. she kept the Feng & English translation on her desk and read it every day. recently, because we were learning Mandarin, she was reciting it out loud in the original language. that was something she had an incredible knack for. she taught me how to read IPA in about thirty minutes, and she seemed to be able to pronounce any unfamilliar word first try. the first week we began learning Old English she read our favourite verse from Maxims.

wel mon sceal wine healdan on wega gehwylcum oft mon fereð feor bi tune þær him wat freond unwiotodne wineleas, wonsælig mon genimeð him wulfas to geferan felafæcne deor

Maxims I, lines 144-147, Exeter Book, fol.88b-92b (read on sacred-texts). we love that verse. we went back and forth glossing and translating it until Fall penned this translation,

a man must hold tight to his partners on whatever road often a man travels far by town where friends are uncertain the unfortunate, unpartnered man takes wolves for companions crafty animals

and i settled on this one,

a man should hold well to his friends on all roads; often a man travels to distant cities where he is not certain to have friends. a man without friends or fortune gets wolves for his companions, very crafty animals.

i didn’t know much about translation then, nor do i now. and remember these are translations we produced to learn the material, and we planned to revisit it and revise it as we went. but it’s interesting to reflect on the different drafts we settled on. some things are artefacts of our infancy in the language; we weren’t sure if ‘gets’ or ‘takes’ was the right translation of genimeð in line 6 (Fall had the right of it; it’s a form of niman, to take—i didn’t understand the prefixal function of ge-). but our translations of wega gehwylcum have an interesting disagreement. wega is the plural of weg, ‘road’. gehwylcum (dative form of hwylc with the ge- prefix) is our word ‘which’. a genetic translation would be ‘which ways’, but it has the sense of every road individually, as in the phrase ‘each of which’. i interpret it as ‘all roads’, which is idiomatic but loses specificity. Fall translates it as ‘whatever road’, which is to say, any given road. i think this is a great translation because it preserves the ‘gnomic’ quality of the Maxims, which are all little declarations in a continuous mood, implicitly constant or reoccuring.

that’s something else about Fall. she didn’t just keep dream journals and play the tarot. she translated. that was her job—desperate work, with constant deadlines, stress and exhaustion, the weight of which she mentioned in her final email to me—but it was also something she loved. if she loved you she would translate your favourite song, from Japanese or Spanish. here’s one she translated for me recently, called Crazy Love For You by Marina Saito (portions which are English in the original are rendered in capital letters, because the medium of exchange was a plain .txt file with no other stylization options):

you open the car window and let the wind blow through your hair i want to ask if something's been on your mind but i can't find the words the whole way round the city loop

in the place fading into the background what did you leave behind? you were telling me about someone you knew and for a moment, you seemed sad

i want you to finally open up to me and then distract me with a cunning kiss i can't help but have these sweet little fantasies i must have lost my mind

CRAZY LOVE FOR YOU OH OH OH

i want to be closer to you, MY DESTINY OH OH OH my heart will never stop pounding now i want you to know I SING FOR YOU so bad i can hardly contain it before this summer is over

before i know it the high tide's roaring in my ear i can smell the sun when we take off our shirts

we bound for the beach and embrace the sun and when you let your hair down and look back at me

CRAZY LOVE FOR YOU OH OH OH

i won't give up, MY DESTINY OH OH OH i want us to keep having moments like this one i want you to feel this love that no words can express without fear of new beginnings

so so strong (the sun's rays) the waves wash away (our unmatching footprints) let time just stop here WOO CRAZY LOVE FOR YOU

i want to be closer to you, MY DESTINY OH OH OH my heart will never stop pounding now i want you to know I SING FOR YOU so bad i can hardly contain it before this summer is over let this MELODY reach you, only you

something which was difficult to convey, which she settled for explaining to me, was that Marina is singing from the boy’s perspective, who is fantasizing about her. she translated this in about ten minutes after i showed her the song. she was just like that. of course anyone can love translation, but now that i reflect—i didn’t put it together until now—on her translation next to her lifelong tradition of experimental writing, i can’t help but see them as a related project. earlier we asked: why record your dreams, why play games of chance? let’s add: why translate a song? why speak or think in another language? why move everything you love from one to the other? there’s this book i’ve got called Alchemy and Amalgam: Translation in the Works of Charles Baudelaire by Emily Salines. i haven’t read too much of it, but she talks about how much Baudelaire translated. he translated Edgar Allen Poe, Thomas de Quincy and some other contemporary English-language authors. yet these translations have never recieved much critical attention from Baudelaire scholars. her book is about trying to operationalize translation as a kind of creative activity, the analysis of which is worth doing on a literary level, and which forms an important component of the overall analysis of an author-translator. i hope she does a good job, because when i get around to it, i’d like to find a framework like that; it would help me learn about Fall and appreciate the things she did, for me, for our circle and for herself, even more.

i’ve been writing this post on and off all day. thismorning i could barely suffer to eat. i wrote a little, then i went and lay in bed for four hours and couldn’t be moved. then i came down to eat again and wrote a little more. my girlfriends took care of me, and as word got around i had some conversations with our friends about Fall. we shared memories and cried. we’re all grieving. then i sat down to write some more, and now i’m writing into the wee hours. and right now i’m a little excited; about the journals (which i hope i’ll get my hands on), about the translations, about working on those projects she and i started together. soon i’ll sleep, and tomorrow i’ll probably feel horrible again. perhaps intellectualization is just my defense mechanism of choice. but. well, Fall was struggling a lot with her psyche these last few weeks, and she got this awful sensation that there were multiple versions of me, and that she never knew which one she was talking to. so one day she asked me if there were multiple of me, and i gave her this ridiculous, unhelpful reply (not knowing that she meant it very literally), where i talked about how Marx distinguished between the Darstellungsweise and Forschungsweise in the writing of Capital—that’s the ‘method of presentation’ and the ‘method of research’, that while his method of presentation might have the ‘a priori’ appearance of Hegelian philosophy, the method used to uncover the theory is an empirical method which starts with matters of fact. but he was not, i think, dismissing the method of presentation; rather the gap between these methods is productive. so i told her that maybe it is appropriate to talk about an identifiable ‘me’ as a locus of thoughts and ideas, that is, a method of me, but that i am governed by a method of presentation particular to every kind of encounter (’whatever kind of encounter’, to borrow Fall’s phrase from earlier), so that in any objective acitivity—talking, playing, writing—you are encountering someone meaningfully different. i gave an example about how when i write on google docs i tend to unconsciously make short paragraphs, meanwhile when i write in notepad i tend to make long ones, and that’s because google docs imposes margins which make the paragraphs look larger. well, all of that was not quite what she wanted to hear. but i talked myself into it. and so what i am trying to do now is cultivate some habits—around my writing, research, and in my lonely moments—through which i can keep being a Jackie who can say that Fall is my girlfriend and i love her. because Fall is my girlfriend, and i love her.

[hyunjinspark]

my phone ran out of battery in the middle of my ramble (sweaty reader who delayed her shower to finish the chapter) BUT IM HERE AGAIN TO TYPE IT OUT! (still… haven’t showered)

spoilers ahead WARNING! ❎ ❎

jade… how did you write this. how did you. are you a literature major? it seems like your writing gets better every time I come back to it. you have a otherworldly talent, is all I can say. you’re able to convey the emotions so clearly, so vividly, as if I’m living through this story myself.

firstly, can we talk about the parallels between hyun and y/n? “i love painting in the dark— the lights are too bright.” I had to put my phone down and contemplate my life decisions for a couple of minutes there. seriously. the parallels between them are INSANE i cant even

for me, this chapter highlighted the harsh truth behind both the art and the music industry (specifically: idol). it makes my heart ache knowing damn well that this might be a story where these situations are fiction, conjured up from your (fantastic, amazing, show-stopping) imagination, but this is someone else’s reality. idols barely having time to take a breather, the micromanagement, it just felt awfully real, scarily so. the fact that companies care more about capitalising off of hyun’s art—- it felt real. chan’s sacrifices, him barely sleeping? felt real. and so did mr kim jieong (would swear but… new year new me so this is as far as I will go) or should I say: MR SKUNK FACE PEDOPHILE DOUBLE DMMING UNLOYAL AUTHORITY ABUSER ok I’m done sorry. i know damn well that what happened to y/n is real. it happens, it definitely does. people in positions of power trying to use people’s desperation to their advantage and ABUSING it. it felt like i was the one living through that scene. i could feel his advances, i could see him in front of me, gripping my own jaw. amazing, amazing writing.

okay, secondly: THE SYMBOLISM THROUGH THE FLOWERS? god. the seasons and the flowers. hits every single time. the moment you mentioned flowers I knew where this was going. i knew where it was. i feel like the flowers represented both hyun & y/n. not necessarily their love for each other (no definitely not), but how the r/s between them became sour due to their… unfortunate circumstances. i think I’m wrong though! I’ll reread the chapter a couple more times and revisit by statement, but that is my first impression after reading ch18 for the first time!

THIRDLY, i love jeongin sm omg.

last but not least, here is my take on what will happen:

mr k- PEDOPHILE threatens hyun & y/n, hyun comes to warn y/n

i cant think of any rn I’m still in my shocked state (because this was so good)

personally, i think this is one of your best chapters by far. jade, words cannot explain HOW much i love your writing. thank you so, so much. happy early new year jade! much love from asia 🫶🏻

omg. im not a literature major but that’s SO sweet haha 😭 its good to hear that you think it gets better, i hope i improve each day.

yes ofc its not a hyunyn soulmate moment without the parallels. they’re so like each other 🤭 and yeah its sad that these things are so common and happen often in those industries, especially with people in positions of power. i obviously don’t know what goes on behind the scenes in the industry so most of it is my imagination, but i can believe some of the micromanagement might be too real :(

thank you for loving the flower symbolism ! i dedicated a lot of the chapter to it so im happy you liked and noticed it 🥺

thank you for thinking its my best chapter, wow ! i hope each one can be better than the previous.

[umbralaether]

❛ do you remember when we first met? ❜

For the various sentence prompts.

She remembered the day she made the tree very clearly. A giant, twisting beast with bark that shifted through rainbow shades and leaves that hung in long tendrils that almost hit the ground. It had all but conjured itself, her own aether channeled and her mind an empty vessel as the magic flowed forward.

It had been her biggest creation yet, the one her parents had always knew she was capable of, and yet the victory felt hollow. With her parents gone now, she had long been drifting and watching the world around her just as they had before. She was lost and uncertain, feelings that were foreign to her, and when she placed her hand on the smooth bark a flood of light crossed her vision and—

—a memory. Her parents, sitting upon a hill overlooking a sunset. A bundle in her mother’s arms, her father’s hand brushing along the baby’s face, not just a baby…that’s me. She could feel their joy as if it were her own. A perfect reincarnation of what she assumed was the day she was born. The vision dimmed as she pulled her hand away.

The first memory of what would be hundreds.

She was amazed to see it still standing tall after all the years she’d been gone. Self-preserving, restoring bits of aether lost with the memories given to it, but she had always worried it would cease to be in her absence. Instead, the word had spread to the villages nearby as she had hoped. Trinkets and offerings litter the base of the trunk, wildflowers sprout from those left behind and long decayed and now reborn. The place has flourished after all.

She watches the colors drift across Hades’ face as he gazes up at the canopy of leaves, “This is it, what the council was talking about. This is what landed their attention.”

“You created this, before any proper training?” he murmurs, before turning around to meet her gaze, “What did they want with it?”

“It replays your memories. Like you’re re-living them, emotions and all.”

“Show me.”

“You just place it on the bark, like this,” she reaches for his hand, placing it against the tee and letting go before it makes contact and he is pulled into the dream-like trance.

She tries not to think of the number of times she’d thought of how it would feel to have her hand in his, whether it’d be soft or calloused. Warm or cold. She thanks the Star that he cannot see the way her hair oscillates from its usual purple to a bright orchid.

Time ticks on, and Hades blinks twice before reality returns. He takes a step back and faces her, expression curious, "It's no wonder what Athena wanted with you."

She cocks her head to the side, confused.

"Do you remember when we first met?" He asks, "She was attempting to recruit you into Pandaemonium."

"Ah, right. Her." She shivers as she remembers how cold that woman seemed, how she was more similar to a machine than a person.

"No one has ever said 'no' to Athena before, and I daresay I thought she'd implode right then."

"And you came along and whisked me away, claiming I was needed elsewhere," A hint of bravery in her next words, "was that to gather her attention, or mine?"

His golden gaze pierces through her, "I have watched others fail to get your attention, and I would not see myself counted among them," he closes the distance, thumb brushing against her cheekbone.

It takes every effort not to blush. Had she been as unobservant as he claims? "You flatter me."

"You discredit yourself. Do you not see how remarkable you are?"

This time she does blush, and she pulls her hood down further, "Hades, what are you saying?"

His answer doesn't come in words. Instead, he lifts her chin with one hand and kisses her.

Thanks for helping me break through my writer's block @raynshyu & thanks @lunaria-de-borel for letting me bounce ideas off you!

[s-talking]

What scares you the most? And if it really happened... how would you deal with it?

⌘ 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑. || ( not accepting. )

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 - 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐄. flashes of copper sparkle on the sleek surfaces of cars. he leans against one of them gently, keeping both pale hands sunk in pockets & dark eyes wondering amid the shadows dancing at their feet, so seemingly lost in thought; the very conflict takumi's question just conjured. ❝ i..... ❞ envy struggles to find the words, unable to look up from the ground. ❝ i am scared of.... myself, ❞ he eventually mutters, ❝ of the things i do.... of the things i am willing to do.... whenever my heart starts to beat... ❞

a moment of silence passes as envy shifts in place & slowly, with hesitation, mutters in a low, quiet tone, ❝ i.... feel like i'm becoming worse.... takumi.... like i am.... not really me.... ❞ glancing back up, the young serial killer stares at the other with those dark, empty eyes. ❝ i.... cannot remember my mother's face, my dreams are stuck in a endless loop & i've killed people on a mere whim. people who once knew & loved me, people i thought i genuinely liked... but.... why? why would i? how could i.... possibly.... ? ❞ he pauses, slowing down. ❝ i am scared of what will happen if i lose myself again.... becoming overwhelmed by.... these.... thoughts.... these.... fleeting.... disgusting emotions.... & you happen to be the first thing i see. ❞ but i just can't let you go.

[xxblackballoonxx]

The Heart Underneath: J&M Letters 3 (Ch. 20)

***This fic is being posted simultaneously on FanFiction.net and Ao3. I originally began it in 2016, and then life was life, and now I’m bringing it back because it deserves to be finished! Rating M as of Chapter 10 ***

Chapter 19: August 1915 Chapter 21: December 1915

Full story here

The Heart Underneath

Chapter 20: J&M Letters 3 (19 and 20)

29 September 1915

Dear Mar,

I'm sending this letter with Arthur, it will get to you faster and now it won't go through the censors. There's so much I want to write every time, but I know our letters are being read and I don't want a random person somewhere reading my most personal thoughts, especially about you.

I miss you. I miss your eyes and the way you look at me, how your hand feels in mine. I miss the way your hair falls down around me, the way you smell, the way you taste. I dream about sleeping next to you, nothing between us, just your skin against mine. I think about the last morning we were together, you nursing Will, how it felt to hold you while you held him. 

Any time I close my eyes, I see us in the kitchen, you on top of me. I see us in the cottage, that morning at the table, the nights we were alone there. You sitting in my lap, reading to me. The night we were at the fair, by the fire, I would give anything to be back there. To touch you. To hold you. To be inside you. To just be with you.

I find myself thinking a lot about our firsts together, and how lucky we are. How different my life would be if you hadn't moved to Watery Lane. I am thankful for every second we have together, love. And I am so grateful that I have you to think of while I'm here, seeing things I don't want to see and doing things I don't want to do. 

I look forward to my next leave so I can see you and Will, and perhaps a little one inside you? Tell Will (and baby two, if there is one) that I love them and I'll see them soon. I know Will must have grown so much already, I hate that I've missed all those moments so far. 

And you, my love. God I cannot wait to see you and hold you. To kiss you. To hold your hand. To hear your laugh and see your smile. To hear you say my name.

I love you forever.

Yours always,

Johnny/Daddy

Martha sat in bed, just after dawn, reading John’s letter again and smiling to herself. He always had expressed to her how he felt when they were in person together, but she knew that he struggled a bit with the fact that all letters being sent home were censored by the army. She could hear his voice while reading his words. She could feel his hands on her.  

Arthur had handed her the letter the second he saw her, back in Small Heath. She had sprinted up the stairs to read it in private, and good thing, too. John's words made her face flush red, with the images conjured up from past escapades. She’d been having very lucid dreams lately, waking up to the feel of John’s hand on her hip, his mouth against her neck, his presence in bed next to her. 

************************************************************************

Arthur arrived back to their unit, looking well rested and well fed. He carried the last of a package of sausage rolls and two small packets of letters, one for Tommy and one for John. 

“John boy, these are from your lovely wife, and I’ve been given strict orders to make sure you read her letter first.” Arthur said as he slung an arm around his younger brother, smiling.

John grinned and untied the string around the letters, putting aside the others to read for later. He carefully opened the envelope from Martha, running his finger over her writing. He even missed watching her hold a pen. 

10 October 1915

Dear John,

I've read your letter fifty times already, your words are everything I need. I have been waiting to be sure, and had intended to send back this news with Arthur anyway. We are expecting again, love, so there is indeed another baby on the way. Perhaps a girl? I'm feeling a little more tired than usual, but otherwise we both seem to be in good health.

Will is growing and babbling in his little baby way, he's getting more mobile and once he starts walking I think he'll be a bit of a terror. A lovable one though. He wants to see your picture every day, I know he misses you. I tell him that you'll be home soon for a visit and that you are anxious to see him, too. I feel like when I'm taking care of him, I'm taking care of you as well. It's calming.

We've slept in the same bed for so many years now, it's still strange to be without you. I think about you all day, every day. I think about you every night before I fall asleep, and you are in my dreams. Usually we are back at the cottage. Sometimes I dream we're just taking a walk, my hand in yours, and sometimes I dream that we're together in our bed. Those are the dreams that haunt me the next day until I do something about it. I'd give anything for you to touch me. I miss your hands and the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I miss every single part of you.

I wouldn't want to go through life with anyone else but you, my dearest love. I'm counting the days until your leave and we can't wait to see you. Please be safe. 

Love always,

Mar, Will, and Baby #2

PS: I love you. I love you. I love you.  

Arthur and Tommy watched as John read the letter and the smile that lit up his face made them smile as well.

“So it’s good news, then? I thought so, but didn't want to say anything," Arthur commented.

“Martha’s pregnant. She hadn’t mentioned it yet, so I wasn’t sure, but we’d talked about it on my last leave.” John said, unable to stop smiling.

“Congratulations, brother. You’ll be home soon enough to see her and Will, yeah?” Tommy responded, clapping his John’s shoulder in congratulations.

John reread the letter, head down as he focused. Arthur and Tommy looked at each other, and though unspoken, there was now another reason for their brother to get back safely. 

[craycraybluejay]

Thoughts on What Dreamwalking and Dreams in General Mean To Me

To me, dreamwalking is less a thing of intention to people in this world and more a thing of chance and sensitivity to certain inexplicable phenomena. When I can feel myself submerged into a different reality, it doesn't feel as if it comes from a "person," at least not one like you or me. It feels like it comes from strings of reality that float about. I have similar thoughts on some of 'my' artistic ideas and whatnot. Sometimes, often in fact, it doesn't really feel like my mind conjures these things of its own accord. It doesn't really seem to be the one to conjure them at all, actually. It feels like something just floats in and demands to be seen, heard, felt; sensed. And I believe it deserves to be told and shared. I believe it's my job to give word and place to things bigger than me when I'm lucky enough to have one catch me as I catch it. I've had some random theories on what exactly these things are. One recent theory is connected to dark matter; to what little we really know about it. What exactly does dark matter do? Does it carry information? Does it contain something from some other dimension or universe, or faraway galaxies in our own universe? I've theorized about dark matter many a time, it's a concept my mind has latched onto. The idea that there's a form of matter that we now know exists but have absolutely no concrete knowledge on the function or abilities of, or even the place of origin. I mean; the matter we are familiar with can do many a thing. It can carry information, engage with our basic human senses, nourish our bodies or minds, hurt us, and interact within itself. Would it be so odd to believe dark matter has similar functions, and that we simply can't understand exactly how those functions manifest because the rules of this other kind of matter are so different to the rules of the kind we are familiar with? That brings me to the point where the idea of dark matter and "floating thoughts" (not sure if this is the official term I'm coining for it, it's a work in progress, as are many things) tie in together. My theory here is that dark matter may be able to carry information in a way that isn't as familiar to us as hearing something, reading something, and using our other senses in a similar way to gain information from the world around us. That dark matter may have an ability to transfer information that is technically invisible to our external senses into our minds, which we all know are still not entirely understood organs. In the mind you can "see" and "feel" things which you may not be able to in this reality. You can imagine the burn of lava, you can see colours even that may not exist here. And maybe dark matter can't interact with us in a way that's visible to anything but the mind exactly because it is simply not comprehendible by the capabilities of our senses. So my theory is basically that dark matter can transfer to us little glimpses of information from other places; art, landscapes, conversations, and many more fantastical things that we currently consider to be absolutely fictional. Quantum multiverse theory and all that; is it really possible that there could be an impossible outcome; an impossible place or time or being? Is it really impossible that we are not the only world with such complexities? I'm sure everyone feels it sometime or other. A random occurrence or thought that seems out of place and foreign; not because there's anything particularly wrong with it but simply the feeling that it does not come from you or anything you know. Human instinct for familiarity. We fear the unknown, I think it makes sense we can detect it pretty well. Obviously I'm not saying here that *all* my ideas are influenced by these "floating thoughts," but sometimes they are. I feel lucky and honestly a little afraid to get these. They're like little eldritch gifts that I cannot comprehend but still appreciate. Probably how a cat feels if you give it a smart device it can bat electronic fish on. The cat could never understand what this is or why it does as it does, but [continued in rb]

[howtopretendtobeawriter]

What Awaits on the Other Side

I stand now at a precipice, uneasy feet reluctant to peel away from that final inch of familiar ground as I stare over the edge. That last little bit of once-was, comfortable only in its familiarity. I had been standing here in one spot for so long that it almost began to feel safe, that this is where I was meant to be. But it was not the warmth of home that I felt, it was the pull of quicksand at my ankles, slowly dragging me down into the ease of stagnation. I know, as much as I am loathe to admit it, that things must change. That I cannot remain the way that I am forever, because I am so very tired of the way that I am.

I had been rotting for the better part of a decade now, quietly allowing the image of the man I had hoped to become wash away, picture perfect reduced into a murky, poorly defined mess. Entire days were eroding before me as I lay helplessly in my bed. Covers pulled up nearly to my ears, not because I was cold, but because they felt too heavy to peel away. This was not living, if anything it was the opposite. It was a slow way to die, sure, but it was a death all the same.

I knew that things needed to change, I wanted them to change more than I possibly put into words. But then, why was this so hard? Why did I feel that all too familiar swell of anxiety in the pit of my stomach? I was in no danger, still the urge to turn tail and run was almost overwhelming.

 It was just a door. It was just a handle, like so many others. Burnished steel covered with the fingerprints of all those people who had been far braver than I. Small reminders of their accomplishment, the very same one I had yet to make. I put my hand to it countless times, sucking in that same deep anticipatory breath, only to pull away in defeat. I’d be doing this ridiculous little song and dance for nearly fifteen minutes now, somehow managing to conjure up a new reason not to step past this seemingly insurmountable threshold.

Why bother? You know it won’t help.

It isn’t worth it.

YOU aren’t worth it.

But I was. I knew I was. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be so afraid. They always say nothing worth doing is easy, which I had always believed to be a trite little platitude to pat yourself on the back with when you needed a little pick me up. But I had come to know that it was true.

“This is getting absurd, just open the goddamn door.” I whispered to myself, hushed under my breath, too worried about what some imagined reflection of myself on the other side of the door might think about me. There was no turning back now, I was tired of coming up with excuses for myself.

 One last moment of hesitation. Once more steeling my resolve, preparing myself for whatever manifestation of hell might await me. I grab the handle, and twist, fighting to keep my eyes from screwing shut. Whatever it may be, it surely can’t be any worse than what awaits me back in my bedroom.

Much to my shock, it was just a waiting room, like any other. Slightly-too-bright fluorescent bulbs bathing the sparsely decorated space in anti-septic lighting, a row of hard plastic chairs lining three of the four walls, faded carpeting, and a middle-aged woman with a kind face seated behind a chest high desk, idly tapping a pen against her chin in contemplation. She turned her head from the computer screen as I step in, offering me a smile. “Hello, how can I help you today?” Some nondescript pop song played on a radio I couldn’t see, just barely loud enough to drown out the electric hum of the building.

Maybe it was the timbre of her voice, soothing and kind, or maybe it was just the sudden realization that all my obsessive worrying had been, in fact, totally for nothing. I felt a great sense of relief wash over me. A weight lifted from my shoulders, allowing my posture to relax, my lungs finally able fully draw in air. “Y-Yes.” I said meekly, hands clumsily fumbling through my front pockets. “I have an appointment, with uh—” I stopped, casting my gaze downwards as I was able to extricate a folded piece of paper.

The woman didn’t say anything, made no room to interrupt or finish my sentence. I can only imagine she’d seen this, and so much worse, a million times before. She simply smiled, waiting patiently.

“I uh, I have an appointment with… Greg? Greg, I think.” I tried to smooth out the surface of the paper, edges frayed and torn, before placing it in front of her on the desk. My own lips curling into an awkward facsimile of a smile. I was trying to fake it and failing miserably.

This too, did not seem to phase the woman. With practiced ease she pulls the paper toward herself, quickly scanning it over the rim of her glasses. “Of course, Mr…?”

“Kouzoukas, Steven is fine though.”

“Steven, okay. Greg will be ready in just a few minutes. Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Sure, thank you.” I felt a shift of perspective as she said this, a profound change occurring within my own psyche in real time. A lifting of the veil, a liberation from that all-consuming fear that had tried so hard to convince me to leave.

This was not the personal apocalypse I had been so sure it would be. This was not an end of days or some terrifying beast to overcome. This was just my first time going to therapy.

I’d be fine.