#like I’m that one night vale episode | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flowersforjude · 2 months

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𝐇𝐞̄𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐢̄

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Jacaerys Velaryon x Sister!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | During your shared grief, you and Jace find solace in each other.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3,880

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mature Content-Explicit Descriptions Of Sex | Twin incest, Emotional hurt/comfort, Grief, Smut: Piv, Oral(fem receiving), Multiple orgasms, Implied loss of virginity, One use of y/n.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Something I’ve been thinking about since the first episode. Sad sex is something I didn’t know I’d be into, but I’m not mad about it? This obviously isn’t connected to my other Jace fic, Dangerous Disposition, I just used the same name for the reader’s dragon.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞² | Reposting because...I can.

masterlist | read on ao3

Varaxs was restless. The closer you got to Dragonstone, the more ill-at-ease your mount grew. Your boy was a normally calm dragon, but something had him on edge. You were traveling home from The Vale, having secured Lady Arryn’s support for your mother. You would have expected him to be just as anxious as you were to be home after two weeks of treating with Jeyne Arryn.

You were gone longer than the week your mother had allotted, but you wanted to return only with the strongest alliance for her. You had sent word of when she could expect your arrival back, so she did not worry.

The waves crashed against the rocky edges of the island with relentless fury. Seemingly taking after your dragon’s nervous mood. You circled above the palace once, wanting to give him a chance to settle a bit before cooping him up in the pit.

Landing Varaxs on the grassland at the front of the palace, you took notice of how no one awaited you. A pit of dread dug its way into your stomach. Something was the matter.

Your footsteps upon the stairs did nothing to quiet the blood rushing through your ears. Rationality battled with your worry, trying to convince yourself that everything was as it should be.

But once you spotted your cousin Baela as the heavy doors swung open for you, your heart told you nothing short of a tragedy awaited you. The sound of your feet on stones echoed through the entry hall. Baela looked comforted to see you, but her eyes couldn’t hide their distress.

“Cousin,” you greeted with apprehension. “Where-”

“Come.” She simply said, taking your arm to link it with hers.

As she walked you through the halls, your hands shook with the weight of the unknown. “Who is it?” You urged her to tell you.

Baela said nothing. She just looked at you with sympathy before directing you to your mother’s rooms.

Jacaerys was the first person you saw as the doors opened.

“Jace!” You called out to him. He halted his nervous pacing, turning his eyes to you with a relieved gasp.

He met you on the threshold, hands shooting out to draw you to him. “Y/N.” He sighed into your hair as you clutched his shirtfront with trembling hands. His fingers dig into your waist, keeping you from pulling away.

“What has happened?” You whisper urgently into his shoulder.

You heard his breath hitch before he spoke. “Lucerys.”

He needed only to mutter your younger brother’s name for you to realize what was going on. Grief split your chest open as you wailed into the fabric of his shirt. Your lungs seized up in an attempt to draw air.

Another set of arms wrapped around you and Jace.

“My darlings.” Your mother said as she drew her two oldest children to her. No words about alliances were spoken. All thoughts on your shared grief and desperation for the comfort of each other. You stood there wounded around Jace, being held by both him and your mother for a century it felt like. Eventually, your limbs untangle from one another. Your tears stained your cheeks as your heart ached in a way you didn’t know was possible.

Lucerys was born just a year after you and Jace. With only that little time separating you, the three of you had been practically inseparable. Many nights were spent with each of you piled into one of your beds, refusing to sleep anywhere but together. Now you would have to learn to live with the space he left.

“You should go rest.” Your mother said gently, cradling your cheek. Her gaze flickered to Jace. “Both of you. I must attend to the Council before Daemon gets too far ahead of himself.”

“We’ve won The Vale, mother. Your Grace.” You corrected yourself.

She nodded proudly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before doing the same to Jace. You went to reach for your brother’s hand again to take your leave, but your mother stopped him for a moment.

“Watch over your sister.” She whispered to him. “We only have each other.”

He nodded, his face set with determination. He took your hand in his, your fingers linking together tightly. Drawing you closer to his side, as if even an inch of space between you was unthinkable, he began to lead you from the room.

You looked back at your mother one last time, seeing a small, pleased smile spread across her sorrowful expression.

Without a word spoken between you, you and Jace made the walk to his chambers. Your grip on his hand tightened as you crossed the doorway into his room. Your breath still hadn’t fully returned to you, and the same suffocating look mangled your twin’s handsome face.

“Jace.” You spoke with a broken voice before he pulled you to him once again. He took your face in his hands, his eyes roaming wildly over your features like he was attempting to discern if you were truly alright or not.

“I was afraid… I thought…” He couldn’t even give voice to his fears. That you had been slain as well. That he not only lost his brother but his sister too. The girl he loved.

You gripped at his shirt again, needing to touch some part of him with your own hands. “I cannot-” You were breathless, trying to regain control over your emotions. “I cannot breathe; cannot think, Jace.”

You were collapsing into yourself as he surged forward. His lips claimed yours in a way only someone who knew the very essence of your soul could. You whimpered as he slid his hands from your face to secure you against him. Wrapping around your waist like a coil.

You clung to any part of him. His chest, his shoulders, and finally resting your hands in the curls of his hair. His lips molded over yours in a messy display of your desperation to ease some of the hurt with something pleasurable.

Under all your overwhelming feelings, there was a strangeness to having Jace’s mouth on yours. You and your twin had shared a single kiss before. It was your last name day and you had found yourselves with only each other for company. In the darkness of the hall outside your chambers, he had kissed you. It was soft and quick. Nothing like your current hurried hunger.

It felt right in a way nothing else ever had, though. You didn’t know anything beyond that and frankly didn’t wish to.

Soon, the clothes separating you became too great of an annoyance. You let your hands fall from his curls to unfasten the constraints of his doublet. He caught on and went to work on the clasp of your riding gown. Bit by bit, your clothes fell away, bearing you to each other.

“My heart fell from my chest when I returned, and you had not.” Jace told you as he slid his hands up your sides. You sighed when he started to undo the laces of your shift. He pulled the fabric from your body pressing heavy kisses across your collarbone to your shoulder. He dropped to his knees to continue his path down your chest to your stomach.

Wanting to see him as well, you reached down to pull his shirt over his head. He helped you by yanking it off once you got it over his shoulders. He switched his focus from kissing your skin to the laces of your riding trousers. Pulling the strings undone before shuffling them down your legs. His eyes never leave yours. He stopped for a moment once they and your boots were off, taking you in bare before him. His gaze was drawn to the space between your legs. It was tinted with a pink blush. He just looked for a moment before standing in a rush. Kicking off his boots and then hurriedly working the laces of his pants open.

His lips devoured yours once more. Bringing your naked body flush with his. His cock rested against his stomach, rigid with want.

“I need you, Jace.” You pleaded into his mouth. Both knowing and not knowing what you were begging for. All you knew was the chasm of emptiness that grew larger every second. And the fact that Jace and only Jace could make you whole again.

Circling an arm snuggly about your waist, he picked you up. Lips still pressing into yours with a frantic need as he made his way over to the bed. Tipping you down and gently situating you atop the covers.

Opening your legs, you welcomed him as he settled between them. Hips flush with yours, and his hands going to thread through your hair. Pulling on the strands to tip your head back so he could gain access to your throat. He placed harsh, bruising kisses along the column of your neck, making you gasp when he grazed the flesh with his teeth.

You were dizzy with desire and desperation. “You can never abandon me. Swear, naejot issa. Kivio issa īlon jāhor va moriot sagon hēnkirī.” (Swear, to me. Promise me we will always be together.) His cock rocked against your bundle of nerves, making that abyss of hollowness grow larger with yearning.

“I swear it,” he vowed. “I will never part from you again.” He kissed a burning path down your body. From the pulse of your throat to the valley between your breasts to your stomach. And finally, nudging your legs further apart to continue his exploration to the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs.

You hadn’t noticed he’d gotten off the bed until he pulled your legs to dangle from the edge. You looked down and met his eyes as he kneeled before you. A question waited on your lips, but before you could voice it, Jace lowered his head to press the lightest of kisses to your center.

Any and all inquiries dissipated from thought as his tongue flicked against your pearl. His movement was hesitant, as if testing the waters of the newly discovered thirst for each other. He didn’t stop, though. His tongue returned to rake across your cunt. Licking a wide stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A gasp tore from your mouth. Your reaction seemed to encourage him as he took a second taste of you. He then wrapped his mouth around your bud, swiping his tongue over it as he gently sucked at it.

You whine at his touch, fists clutching the sheets at first, but then deciding that’s not enough. Your fingers find themselves in his hair once again. He switched from using his tongue to taking your clit in his mouth every few seconds. Not giving you time to grow used to anything he was doing. A particularly harsh tug on your pearl had your legs closing around his head.

Moving from your clit, Jace turned his attention to your entrance. Sliding his tongue between your folds, gathering your arousal with groans sounding from him. Your back arched to move closer to his face.

“Jace!” A shameless moan slipped from your mouth. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed of the sounds he was pulling from you. Every pull and tug of his mouth on your center filled that chasm inside of you just a little bit more.

His nose nudged against your clit as he dipped his tongue briefly inside your entrance. The sensation was quick, but it had a whimper slipping past your lips and your nails digging themselves into his scalp.

Jace felt the tiny pinpricks of your nails but made no indication of discomfort. No, instead, the pain aided in driving him farther away from the cliff he dangled from. Losing himself in you as opposed to losing himself to grief or anger. The breathy gasps and whines he took from you, he collected as glittering treasures. You were perfection in his eyes; you always had been. And now he was able to show you.

The light flickering of his tongue across your clit was driving you mad. The feeling was heavy, and it was accompanied by a pool of molten fire growing in the pit of your stomach. It spilled from you, only to be collected by Jace’s tongue. He couldn’t even think about letting a single drop go to waste. He hummed against your cunt as he drank from you, his grip on your thighs becoming impossibly tight. Still switching between lapping at your entrance, to teasing your clit with the lightest jolts of pleasure. You could do nothing but lay there and whine at his every movement. Your head turning from side to side restlessly, hips moving not but an inch in his hold.

The low groans sounding from him every time you tugged on his curls only fueled your desperation. There was a cord drawn taunt in your belly, begging to be snapped free. Each kiss and pull on your pearl wound the cord tighter and tighter.

You glanced down and caught his gaze from between your legs. His eyes were dark with lust and desire as he continued his sweet torture on your cunt. “Please, Jace. Just…oh gods.” You breathed out, noticing a satisfied glint in his dark eyes.

A smirk you’ve only seen on rare occasions made an appearance, your pleading appeasing him on some level. He pressed a worshiping kiss to your clit making you jerk away from his lips slightly. “Beg like that some more, and I’ll give you anything.” His voice was low and coaxing.

You wiggled your hips, growing more and more desperate for that cord to release. And Jace found no issue with teasing you with it. “Please.” You sighed, fingers digging farther in his curls, trying to move him closer to you. “I need it, Jace. Please.”

Who was he to deny such a saccharine request from you of all people? His sweet princess, who deserved nothing less than reverence.

The peak was just within your grasp. You just needed a little bit more.

A loud cry tore from your lips as Jace took your pearl back into his mouth. He scraped it with his teeth, whether on purpose or by accident, you did not know. But by the gods, it felt good. His lips pursed around it, suckling and running his tongue over the bundle of nerves at the same time.

There was an obsessive determination in his ministrations. That unquenchable hunger strengthened its hold on him. His tongue lapping over your clit then moving to tease your entrance. His teeth kept catching on your pearl. Your thighs closing around his head told you the release was coming upon you quickly.

“Jacaerys,” you whispered breathlessly. He buried his face into your cunt, impossibly closer. The fire spilled over, causing high-pitched whines to leave your lips. As roll after roll of pleasure went through you, he continued to drink you in. Helping the bliss to stretch out longer. It lingered for a few more moments, making your thighs twitch with Jace’s head still between them.

You looked down with hazy eyes, but you could still make out the sheen of your arousal upon his face. The almost drunk look in his eyes as he rested his cheek against your thigh.

He held your gaze for a time before standing. You moved to lay back on the pillows as he rounded to the side of the bed to join you.

Now that the blazing pleasure had subsided almost completely, that emptiness returned with vengeance. Jace had laid beside you, making no movement to continue onto other things. He only pulled the blankets up to cover you. But you couldn’t stop the ache from spreading.

Grief dug its claws into your heart again. Piercing you until the pain was unbearable. You didn’t allow yourself time to think before you pushed the blankets from you, reaching out for Jace.

You pulled him down for a kiss, your arms going around his neck. He returned your affection. His lips slotted over yours and his hands coming to rest on your waist tugging you to him. The second his mouth left yours to trail down your neck, a small sob broke free.

Jace’s head shot up at the sound, eyes filling with worry. “What is it?” He asked.

You shook your head, not able to give words to the grief.

Understanding replaced the concern as Jace nodded once. “I feel it too,” he confessed. “What can I do to help?”

What can I do to help?

It brought more tears to your eyes to hear Jace’s selflessness. No thought for his own sadness; just wanting to rid you of yours.

You kissed him again, slowly this time. “Just make it go away.” You pleaded, angling your hips to press against his.

He hitched one of your legs around his hips, aligning your bodies perfectly together. Your hands danced up his arms before settling around his shoulders. Your mouths molded together, igniting the hearth of your desire for each other.

The ridgid hardness of his cock pressed into you. His breathing quickened each time you shifted your hips, trying to find some kind of friction. Soft groans slipped from his mouth to yours. He braced his weight on his forearms by your head before guiding the tip of his length just slightly into your cunt.

He looked up at you from where your bodies were joining. A question he didn’t need to voice for you to hear in his eyes. Nodding your head to let him know it was alright, that you were alright, he pressed forward. He was sure to be careful with you; your desperation not enough reason to risk hurting you.

His cock pressed deeper and deeper into you, the feeling of being split apart burning through you. But there was an underlying pleasure that came with the stretch.

A sharp exhale escaped both of you as he finally seated himself fully inside you. His arms trembled with the work of holding himself still. The blissful feeling he had was overwhelming, but he had to think of you.

Something tore inside you as he shifted, drawing out and then back in slightly. The burn was still there, but the feeling of him filling you was all you could think about. Every corner and crevice of your being was nothing but Jace. You realized that even if tragedy had not driven you both to this, you would have found your way to it eventually. There wasn’t a world where you didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t belong to you.

After checking to be sure you were ready, he pulled back slowly and began to move in a languid rhythm. You sighed out his name as you wrapped your other leg around his waist. Hands in his hair tugged at the strands, drawing a hissed curse he spoke into the crook of your neck. Your lower back arched to meet his sluggish thrusts.

Your name fell from his mouth like a needy prayer, sending a shiver through you. Your body reacts to the feel of him by erupting goosebumps down your spine.

He pressed kisses to your throat, nipping at the skin here and there. He reached a place where your shoulder and neck met, drawing the skin between his teeth. You gasped a little as he settled there.

“Jace!” You keened as he picked up his pace. The sounds of your coupling bringing a blush to your cheeks. You let one hand fall from his hair to search for his. He tangled your fingers together before flattening your joined hands beside your head and pressing them into the mattress.

Your core clenched around him suddenly, causing his breath to be stolen momentarily. He moaned lowly, thrusting into you harder, hitting against some spot deep within you that had you crying out and clenching around him again.

He looked up from your neck, locking his eyes with yours. “Ao issi ñuhon. Ao’ve va moriot issare ñuhon, pār īlon drew īlva ēlī breaths hēnkirī.” (You are mine. You’ve always been mine, since we drew our first breaths together.)

He quickened his pace more, driving into you in a way that would surely leave you sore. But you didn’t dare tell him to slow down. Chasing his strokes, you rolled your hips up to meet his, sighing as he squeezed your hand with his.

Jace had always thought you to be beautiful, but there was something otherworldly about seeing you like this. Writhing and crying out beneath him. Breathless as you greedily took the pleasure he gave you. He meant what he had said too; you were his. You came into the world together; it was only right that you remained linked throughout your lives. When he reached his hand up to withdraw yours from his hair to press it into the mattress, he imagined a ring resting on your fourth finger. The thought had him shuddering as he steadily thrusted into you.

Time lost all meaning, and neither of you had any way of knowing how much had passed. But when Jace’s pace started to falter, you knew he was close. You could tell he was trying to compose himself, maintain what control he had left. But you wanted to see him unravel. He tensed his jaw, breathing harshly through his nose. His brows were drawn together, and he had little will to put up a fight when you pulled him down for a kiss.

“Hēnkirī.” (Together.) You whispered into his mouth. “I want to do it together.”

He nodded, trailing a hand down to rub at your clit. A few more moments of Jace rocking into you, combined with his fingers on you, drove you to the end. He followed with a broken moan muffled into your neck. You felt his cock throbbing within you, thrusting gently once, twice, three times before he pulled out.

You panted heavily, his breaths ghosting across your heated skin. You threaded your fingers through his hair as you both took some time to come down from your shared high.

A giggle came from you when he began to softly kiss on your collarbone. You could feel him smile a little as he pressed his lips to you a few more times before raising his head to look at you.

His expression was one of affection, but there was a question swimming in his gaze as well. “Do you feel better?” He asked, not really knowing how to broach the subject just yet.

“I don’t want to talk about it yet.” You answered, not wanting to risk dispelling this illusive moment. Simply wishing to lay here with Jace for as long as you could and not think about anything. Because you were sure that as soon as you left this room, reality would come rushing back in.

Jace nodded in understanding before resting his head on your chest. “It can wait until tomorrow,” he agreed.

You wish you could stop time completely or turn it back. But you couldn’t, and all you could do was cling to Jace’s comfort until the pain came knocking again.

I debated heavily on posting this or not, but I don't have anything else ready to post so enjoy!

#house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys x y/n #jacaerys targaryen #hotd jacaerys

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favcharacterpoll · 1 year

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ROUND 6 MATCH 3: CECIL VS. C!WILBUR

Cecil Palmer from Welcome to Night Vale faces c!Wilbur from the dsmp. @10piecechickenmcnugget get over here sage

Cecil Propaganda:

"Cecil is not only the Tumblr sexyman, he is the first gay protagonist of a podcast that most of us have ever heard. From the very first episode he was unashamedly queer and no one has ever called him out or given him shit for being gay. He is a gay Jewish fashion disaster who is the mouthpiece for an incredibly bizarre town and plays the whole “this horrifying thing is completely normal”thing so well. If Cecil wasn’t there, I think a lot of people wouldn’t have felt so accepted for just being who they were. Cecil is an inspiration and the queer podcast rep we all deserved as we were growing."

"he’s gay. he’s a dilf. he’s ageless. he has been since there’s was nothing and he’s still here after the world ended. he can summon music. his mother is a oracle his father is a tree. his cat is a man who got cursed and also has wings a stinger and poison??? he thinks a tutu and crocs is formal wear and has talked to god and she said ‘I love you. I’m sorry’. he’s definitely guilty of manslaughter from negligence"

"this is the website Night Vale built!"

c!Wilbur Propaganda:

"Accurate depiction of mental health and spiral, handled delicately and deliberately, every piece of his story was thought and planned and in the end he went home to Utah. Thank you lord."

"Please don’t let the name dream smp effect how you feel about this submission, this character is completely unrelated to dream and I’m pretty sure the person who played him has nothing to do with dream anymore. This man single handedly got me through a horrible patch filled with extreme paranoia by also being extremely paranoid. Genuinely really helped me feel seen and I coped a lot by getting invested in this character. I almost cried when he died :("

"He’s so fucking stupid. I could infodump for hours this man transed my gender. Everything has gone wrong in his life. He’s the definition of a bisexual disaster."

"I didn’t fail 10th grade math bc I was thinking about c!wilbur for him to lose round one"

"I mean look at him!! his Minecraft skin is adorable!!!"

"if you people vote for cwilbur i'll draw him in a bikini."

"A VOTE FOR C!WILBUR IS A VOTE FOR GIRLBOYS EVERYWHERE"

"i should not have underestimated minecraft fans they came together"

"Season 1 changed me. I didn’t know minecraft videos could have good acting, dramatic plots, etc. Wilbur was one of the best there. His plot was so interesting with the L’Manburg and the unfinished symphony arcs. He was funny, dramatic, sad… I fondly remember my dsmp days (though I only saw up to like part of Tommy’s exile)"

#polls #wtnv cecil #cecil gershwin palmer #cecil palmer #wtnv #welcome to night vale #c!wilbur #c wilbur #cwilbur #dsmp wilbur #wilbur soot #dsmp #wilbur dsmp

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w2nv · 9 months

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EVERY EPISODE SO FAR THAT DOESNT END WITH “GOODNIGHT, NIGHT VALE. GOODNIGHT”

SO I finished the list today! This list includes any variation of the phrase, episodes where he just doesn’t say it although present, and episode where he doesn’t say it because he’s not present. I decided to mark colour code them as a result!

• variation, • no goodnight, • no Cecil

Before I start:

I did not include extra episodes like snippets from the lives shows and such.

For the quotes here I only took the final phrase. So anything that breaks the usual scheme like a lack of “stay tuned next” or any lengthy monologue about anything relating to the goodnight phrase, I didn’t quote

I’m thinking about making a video compilation later on but for now I DONT have the space to dowload all these episodes so this will do for now!

If I missed any, lmk!

———————————————————————————

• 1 — Pilot

Good night, listeners. Good night.

• 2 — Glow Cloud

Good night, listeners. Good night.

• 3 — Station Management

Good night, Night Vale. And goodbye.

• 4 — PTA Meeting

Good night, listeners. Good night.

• 5 — The Shape in Grove Park

Good night, listeners. Good night.

• 6 — The Drawbridge

Buenas noches, Night Vale. Good night.

• 7 — History Week

And, from this moment in history, the one that’s happening right now, good night.

• 8 — The lights in Radon Canyon

It is a good night, listeners. Good night.

• 9 — “PYRAMID”

Speaking of the nighttime, I truly hope you have a good one, Night Vale. Goodnight.

• 10 — Feral Dogs

Get your sleep, Night Vale. And don’t forget to dream. Good Night.

• 14 — The Man in the Tan Jacket

Good night, Night Vale. Be alert, and write down everything you cannot comprehend. Until next time.

• 15 — Street Cleaning Day

Good night. Good night. Good night.

• 19B — The sandstorm

Kevin: Until next time, Desert Bluffs, Until next time.

• 46 — Parade day

And until next time, Good Night, Night Va- Hey. Hey. No. What are you-

• 47 — Company Picnic

Kevin: And, as always, until next time, Greater Desert Bluffs Metropolitan Area. Until next time.

• 49A — Old Oak Doors (Part A)

Listeners, there is someone knocking on my station door, which must mean…Carlos? Carlos, is that you? Come in, and welcome home, my sweet Car…

• 53 — The September Monologues

Well, that's it for the September Monologues. We've said so much. What more is there to say?

• 65 — Voicemails

Kevin: Until next time, Cecil. Until next time.

• 67 — [Best Of?]

Leonard Burton: And as always "See ya, Night Vale. See ya."

• 70A — Taking Off

Kevin: Until next time, new Desert Bluffs, until next time. Oh. Oh no. This is so sad. No. I don’t like this. I am sad. No. No.

• 85 — The April Monologues

And so we reach the end of the April Monologues. There is much that could be said. I will say none of it.

• 86 — Standing and Breathing

Good night, Night Vale. (Maybe lock those windows too.) Good night.

• 87 — The Trial of Hiram McDaniels

Good night. I guess.

• 88 — Things Fall Apart

Hello? [very faint breathing] Hello? [very faint breathing] Who is this? [distant dog bark]

• 89 — Who’s a good boy? (Part 1)

“I want nothing, Cecil. Nothing at all. And I will have it.” Huff huff huff. Huff huff Huff.

• 94 — All Right

All right Night Vale. Good night.

• 98 — Flight

Good night.

• 100 — Toast

Good night, Night Vale, and every person who can hear my voice. Good night.

• 101 — Guidelines for Retrieval

Happy purging, Night Vale. And goodnight.

• 104 — The Hierarchy of Angels

Good night, Night Vale. Josie was beautiful. And angels are real. Good night.

• 109 — A Story About Huntokar

Huntokar: Good night, my Night Vale. Good night.

• 111 — Summer 2017, Night Vale, USA

Good night, listeners. Good night.

• 113 — Niecelet

Any second now. Any second. Any... second.

• 120 — All Smiles’ Eve

Lauren: Good night, Kevin. And good night, Desert Bluffs Too.

Kevin: Good night.

• 128 — A Matter of Blood (Part 2)

Oh god, it’s here.

• 133 — Are You Sure?

Is this the first time you’ve heard me say this? Are you sure? Welcome to Night Vale.

• 135 — The Mudstone Abyss (Part 1)

Kevin: Until next time, Desert Bluffs, Until next time.

• 136 — The Mudstone Abyss (Part 2)

Charles: Kevin. I. Handlebar cereal, okay? Handlebar cereal.

VM: End of message.

• 137 — The Mudstone Abyss (Part 3)

Kevin: Until next time, Desert Bluffs, Until next time.

• 148 — The Broadcaster

Leonard Burton: And until tomorrow, "See ya, Night Vale. See ya."

• 156 — The Trouble with Time

Listeners. I must go. I must talk to my husband. We can be together forever, don’t you see? A new world awaits us in the future. I must talk to Carlos. I must.

• 157 — The Promise of Time

Kasper: Believe in a smiling god, buddy. Believe in a smiling god.

• 164 — The Faceless Old Woman (Live)

FOW: And I will be seeing you very, very… soon.

• 171 — Go To The Mirror?

Won’t you have a good night, Night Vale? Won’t you have a good night?

• 175 — The October Monologues

And as the leaves are done, so are the October Monologues. All that can be said has been said. And all that can be said will be said again.

• 177 — Bloody Laws, Bloody Claws: The Murder of Frank Chen

That about does it for me, Night Vale. That about does it for me.

• 195 — Silas the Thief (Part 1)

Silas: And my name is Silas. Not Khoshekh. Okay? Okay.

• 196 — Silas the Thief (Part 2)

And one I have to consider. Am I Khoshekh? I don’t know if I’m ready to admit that just yet.

• 199 — Guidelines for Retrieval

Happy hoarding, Night Vale. Goodnight.

• 200 — Susan Willman Comes Clean

Susan Willman: So let me begin. This is a story about Huntokar, said a voice on the radio. A voice you had never heard before, though she has been speaking to you your whole life.

• 203 — The Kareem Nazari Show

Kareem: Again, really sorry. Uh, so… Take care. I guess.

• 216 — The Ball Is Where The Win Is

Steve: You have already made me so proud

• 221 — The Glow Cloud, Explained

All Hail, Night Vale. All Hail.

• 227 — A Word With Dr. Jones

Lubelle: Show over, Night Vale. Show over.

• 230 — Carlos, Explained

Good night, my Night Vale restored. Good night.

• 237 — Frown Night

Kevin: Until next time, Desert Bluffs Too, Until next time.

• 239 — Sister Cities: Vermillion Falls

Frank Luna: Good evening, Vermillion Falls. Good evening.

• 240 — He Is Holding a Knife

He is holding a knife. He takes the knife, and sets it against the microphone cord. And with one smooth and easy motion, he cuts the co-

• 249 – Rifts

I would say good night, Night Vale…But if a tree falls in the forest, you know?

#in other news #welcome to night vale #welcome to nightvale #wtnv podcast

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arisingonmorningsinnocent · 1 year

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Years later, I still think “Poetry Week” was one of the cleverest things the WTNV writing team ever did. Like they took an episode concept that was literally just “Night Vale citizens write poetry and Cecil reads it on the radio! Cute, right? :)” and made it about people living in a dystopian surveillance state using one of their rare opportunities for self-expression to express the fear and paranoia and low grade trauma that shape their daily lives through absolutely horrifying poems.

Poems about censorship, about anger against the state, about being forcibly silenced (“The town criers have cross-stitched their mouths shut and stapled their eyes open.”), about being watched, being harmed, being turned against the people you love but are unable to fully trust. And all interspersed with Cecil’s cheery, meaningless compliments on writing that he clearly isn’t thinking about (or at least is pretending not to understand the subtext of, which is my personal headcanon).

Honestly I kind of want to do a full textual analysis of Katherine Ciel’s poem (under the cut) alone, because it’s a beautiful piece of writing where it’s so clear how hard the fictional poet is trying to veiledly describe what it’s like to live with Night Vale-typical level of fear and tension and random, unpredictable moments of surreal violence. The way people become numb to the horror (“Many find it difficult to breathe/without the atmosphere,/but we knew how;/we just stopped breathing”) but also the way that same numbness cuts them off from other people and makes intimacy with others into a terrifying, monstrous thing. And Cecil reads this as a traffic report. I am trying SO hard not to write a whole essay about this.

But my favorite thing about “Poetry Week” is that it’s no more disturbing than any other Night Vale episode. Same humor, same beautiful prose, like it’s not on a different level than the rest of the show and I can and often do listen to it as just one more soothing, funny WTNV episode. Which is fun because it’s a meta-parallel to how in-universe Poetry Week is a fun community event to bring the town together, but also a rare and precious opportunity for tacit protest against an oppressive regime.

And I just… this podcast is so good, you know? Man. It’s so good. I want to eat it.

On Sunday, a lambent crevice

opened up in the street outside my house.

By Tuesday, birds were flying into it.

“I probably won’t miss you,” my mother said.

“I’m only interested in the end of the world,” I replied.

Many find it difficult to breathe

without the atmosphere,

but we knew how;

we just stopped breathing.

We’re at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner,

and they’re serving up fruit

from the plants growing out of the waitress.

The closed sign whispers, “Please, don’t touch me.”

We watch bodies fall to the ground outside

like deep sea creatures surfacing.

You turn to me and ask,

“Do you ever think about suicide?”

I look away from you and close my eyes,

eat the raspberries to confuse the blood in my mouth.

Now you’re in the only car in the parking lot at midnight

and you’re watching me throw stones at the moon

which hangs low in the sky

so that he can look into your house.

Your sister tried to touch him

from her window once,

and he flinched.

Now he and the oceans watch her with a quiet concern.

The lilac sky is trying to rest her head on his shoulder,

all trees gradually growing through her.

A hummingbird whispers to you,

“Be careful. Under her dress is her skin,”

and then builds his nest in the middle of the highway.

I look back to you,

and you close your eyes.

#wtnv #welcome to night vale #op

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melrosing · 16 days

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MBO Robert's Rebellion: Season 2 Episode 4

what the fuck is this: it's me drafting a fake robert's rebellion tv show through a series of bullet points. there will be two seasons of ten episodes each

SEASON ONE: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5, Episode 6, Episode 7, Episode 8, Episode 9, Episode 10

SEASON TWO: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4

prev: 2.03

next: tbc

so I did fully try to see if I could get that fishing boat scene out of here but in the end I decided I couldn’t and also now I’ve decided I’ve found meaning in it after all. I’ve found meaning in Ned’s fishing boat adventure

also I am finding the Rhaegar/Elia and Rhaegar/Lyanna the most difficult to try and suss out but I’m feeling a lot clearer on them now at least in terms of how I personally want to interpret them so…. yeah this has been fun for that

title for this one: who else completely forgot gulltown existed

A raven flies to the Eyrie; inside Jon Arryn’s solar, we see Jon, Ned and Robert all assembled, apparently having slept there waiting for this missive. Jon reads aloud for the three of them, and so they learn of what has become of Rickard and Brandon Stark. Ned is frozen in the sudden onslaught of grief. Robert asks what news of Lyanna. Ned tells him without needing to hear it: she wasn’t even there. The missive ends as Aerys demands Jon’s fealty, and the heads of his wards. Robert and Ned look to Jon, suddenly aware of their vulnerability here. Jon asks if they truly doubt him - they are as good as sons to him, he says, and better than any he might have had. They are each the heads of their houses now, and must lead them for Lyanna. He goes then to Ned and comforts him as he falls apart

Lyanna awakens beside the embers of a campfire, Rhaegar’s cloak wrapped about her. She has been dreaming again, and senses something terrible has happened - but can’t think what. Rhaegar returns from between the trees from watering the horses. Lyanna asks him if it is strange that she’s hardly thought of her father since she left his camp? How frightened he must be. Suddenly frantic, she tells Rhaegar she needs to go back, and tell her father she’s alright. She’s meant to be at Brandon’s wedding. It will be any day now.Rhaegar looks at her sadly, and Lyanna realises she remembers the dream she’s been pushing to the back of her mind. She looks to Rhaegar. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Rhaegar looks back sadly. Lyanna collapses into his arms

Rip

Jaime walks into the throne room to relieve Lewyn Martell at the foot of Aerys’ throne. He looks up at the king with disgust and trepidation. Aerys sits at the top, gnawing at his fingernails - last night felt so good so right, yet now he’s more frightened than ever. He asks Merryweather if they’ve received word from Jon Arryn. Merryweather, uneasy, says there is still time

Maester at the Eyrie writes missives to the lords of the Vale, rallying them against the crown. The ravens fly out in different directions across the region

A call to arms lands in the hands of Lord Grafton, who reads it with a sullen look. His maester asks how he should like to reply. Grafton considers this a moment, before announcing that House Grafton remains loyal to the crown, and what the prince has done with some northern girl is no concern for men of the Vale

Lyanna riding through the woods, her eyes distant. Rain chucking it down. Rhaegar rides beside her in silence. After some time, he tells her that it wasn’t her fault what had happened to her father and brother. Lyanna wonders how it could be anyone’s fault but hers. Even now, she doesn’t know why she’s still running - she should’ve married Robert Baratheon as her father had wanted, and then perhaps Lord Rickard and Brandon would still be alive. Rhaegar reaches over to turn her face to his, and tells her that Robert Baratheon is not her fate. He never was. Lyanna, shocked at Rhaegar’s sudden intensity, asks again where it is that they are going

Lewyn Martell with Elia in Maegor’s Holdfast. Elia asks after the King; Lewyn says that the King is well. Elia says that’s not what she means. Lewyn pauses, then says he wouldn’t let anything happen to his sister’s daughter; it was the last thing he promised Loreza. Elia says that in life Loreza had thought marrying her to the Prince would be the best thing she could do for her daughter - though spiting Tywin Lannister was no small part of it. But this isn’t a safe place, and she isn’t happy; no-one laughs here, and her children have no idea where their father is. Neither does she, for that matter. Hesitating, Elia says she supposes the Prince is a friend of Lewyn’s, and asks his forgiveness for speaking ill. Lewyn says that he doesn’t think the Prince had friends, not even Arthur for all the time he spent by his side. Elia ponders that, then reveals that for the first year she’d thought she loved Rhaegar - he was hard to know but he said he’d seen her in his dreams. How could she not love that? Only now, she thinks perhaps he’d dreamt wrong. He thinks this northern girl is - she doesn’t know what he thinks she is. But she finds herself despising Lyanna - isn’t that foolish? That she hates this child, and yet still some part of her clings to Rhaegar. Lewyn says he doesn’t think it is foolish to have loved the Prince; many women have. Elia agrees, and says she knows now that she was just another

In Jon Arryn’s solar with Ned and Robert (are they ever getting out of there? stay tuned). Jon Arryn tells the boys he’s received messages of solidarity from many of his vassals - but not all. Lord Grafton has written back declaring his fealty to the crown, and though he has always esteemed Jon’s intelligence, he suspects it falters here. He recommends Jon send Aerys his wards’ heads before the King claims his. Robert says it’s a given then - they must march on Gulltown, and see who gets to keep their head. A rare smirk from Jon Arryn; they have enough men to take on Gulltown, but this will be only the first of their battles. He turns to Ned. He is Lord Stark now; what does he wish to do? Ned says he wants Lyanna back. Jon nods; then they’ll have need of his northmen - how fast can he rally them?

Robert and Ned say goodbye as Ned prepares to traverse the Mountains of the Moon; Robert will march to Gulltown with Jon in the meantime, gathering men as they go. Robert says that if they’re Jon’s sons, then Ned is his brother, and when they get Lyanna back they will make it law. Ned nods, slightly tearful, and the two go their separate ways

Rhaegar and Lyanna approach Summerhall. Lyanna’s eyes shine at the sight of the ruin: it is sad, beautiful, and altogether ethereal. She dismounts her horse, and wanders towards it on foot. There are flowers growing in between the wreckage, and amongst them her favourite, winter roses. Lyanna is confused, telling Rhaegar that she has only known them to grow in the North. Rhaegar tells her he’s come to these ruins since he was a boy; here, the music comes to him, and he sees things in waking dreams. For some time now, he reveals, he has seen her. That’s really it for Lyanna; they kiss

One week later. Robert marching through the Stormlands, Gulltown on the horizon. Bit of tooting from the war trumpets idk. Jon Arryn tells Robert that cannot hope to have caught Grafton unawares; Robert says he certainly hopes not

Ned meanwhile, wearing a Daemon hood: he’s about to cross the Bite. He boards a fisherman’s boat, paying handsomely for the man’s silence. The fisherman warns that there is a storm coming, and Ned pays him more - they have to depart now

Grafton’s men emerge from the walls of Gulltown. Jon reminds Robert that this is real war now, not a melee. Robert like ‘depends how you look at it’ and leads the charge, bellowing

From the fishing boat, Ned looks up at the rapidly darkening skies. The waves grow taller, and Ned tells the fisherman he’s sorry for ever forcing him to ride such a storm. Fisherman reveals he knows who Ned is, and he knows where he’s going. He himself used to be a Duskendale man, till Aerys did for good lord Denys, so fuck the king etc he’ll get Ned across the Bite if it’s the last thing he does. Anyway it literally is bc two seconds later he’s been thrown overboard and Ned’s knocked out as he collides with the side of the boat. I’m sparing my imaginary production crew the trouble of filming this basically

Robert amidst the chaos of battle at Gulltown. He spies Marq Grafton and charges at him. As Robert makes his first strike at Grafton…

We cut abruptly to Ned, waking up on the beached fisherman’s boat. The fisherman’s daughter is clearing the detritus from the deck. Ned asks where her father is, but the girl won’t look at him. She tells him she has gotten him to the Three Sisters, like they promised they would; if it’s to be worth her father’s life, he’d best do what he came to do

Aerys at his supper table alongside Rhaella; Varys leans in to whisper news of Gulltown. We don’t hear it ourselves, but we can tell what the news is as we slowly zoom on Aerys’ face, terror on Rhaella’s in the periphery

Robert at the seat of House Grafton, accepting the surrender of his opposition, and the fealty of one Lyn Corbray. He looks delighted with himself. Jon Arryn praises him quietly but reminds him that this battle was only the first - and the first of many, he fears. Robert like, so be it. He wants his bride back

Rhaegar and Lyanna stand beneath a heart tree. All about them are the charred remains of trees burnt decades ago, but this one survived. Rhaegar ties cloth about their hands himself as they look deep into each other’s eyes. Together they say the words, and it is done

#sparknotes Robert’s rebellion #asoiaf #rhaegar targaryen #elia martell #Ned stark #robert baratheon #lyanna stark #et al….#valyrianscrolls

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pluralcollector · 1 month

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it takes two to make a story: one to deliver it and one to receive it

a toh emperor acolyte au fanfic.

(emperor acolyte au by tumblr user pespillo.

warning for allusions to and discussions of child abuse, both physical and psychological / emotional. assuming you're familiar with the emperor acolyte au that this is set in, you can expect similar heavier themes.

king is humanoid in this story.)

“every story has a happy ending if you wait long enough. death is only the end if you assume the story's about you. wouldn't you prefer to escape stories and endings altogether?”

--paraphrased from an episode of “welcome to night vale” by joseph fink and jeffrey cranor (but then we added some inferences)

“i’m the hero of this story, don't need to be saved. (hey, open wide, here comes original sin.)”

--quoted from “hero” by regina spektor

“how does our story end?” king asks, his voice rippling through the previous quiet like the chiming of a bell that signals the termination of one thing while shepherding in the next -- a clear and clean distinction that hazards no space for ambiguous twilight.

king’s been watching the collector read for well over an hour, a habit he indulges in not infrequently (though he prefers to avoid describing it as frequently -- such convoluted employments of language help keep king’s paradoxical state of being just slightly more palatable, and he's never counted with much of that to begin with).

usually, the collector interrupts their reading swiftly anytime king makes his presence known within the same space (the same applies to some instances of the collector noticing king's presence without king intending to, but at other times the collector can prove remarkably adept at discerning when king, like a feral cat or a skittish rabbit, wishes to be in the collector's proximity without directly engaging them), greeting him amicably before inviting him to hear about whatever fabulous and fantastical adventures they're reading through this time around.

king, in turn, tends to promptly acquiesce, though he is usually more interested in just hearing the collector talk than in the content of books themselves. it works out for both of them this way: the collector gets to ramble enthusiastically about something they're really interested in, and king gets to be soothed by the continued production of the voice he's grown simultaneously most familiar with and in most need of hearing.

today, though, there is a slight modification to that routine: the collector has delved into a particularly engrossing escapade, and thus has refrained from immediately reacting to king’s presence. that's fine, king thinks: he'll wait; just being able to see the collector is almost as good as hearing them, and he's in no rush anyway.

king can discern the outward signs of the collector struggling between the gravitational pulls of king's presence and the book in their hands, their gaze periodically flickering towards king for an instant before scrambling back to locate whatever sentence they were in the middle of reading, reminding king of a compass that's been placed by a magnet and thus lost all sense of orientation, floundering in erratic pirouettes as if every direction could somehow be pointed at simultaneously (as if pointing at every direction simultaneously could communicate some secret, meaningful logic, and not merely an unhelpful paradox). this fortifies king's resolve to remain patient, but desires often clash unsettlingly within him, and, as time drags on, king starts feeling like a piece of furniture that has become so old and commonplace that it no longer elicits any reaction from whoever selected it as a suitable addition to their household, and this proves too disconcerting for king to not immediately attempt to dissolve.

hence king’s question: “how does a story like ours end?”

he phrases it differently the second time around, having become embarrassed -- as well as alarmed -- by the potential implications of the question he's rather carelessly blurted out in his haste to entice the collector to pay attention to him. both versions encapsulate feelings he's been mulling over for quite some time now, though he's unfortunately just now figured out how to parse them with deceptively effective concision -- unfortunate because he would have much preferred to have put that question to himself in the privacy of his own mind before alerting the collector to its existence.

at least the collector is paying attention to him now.

the collector sets down the heavy, leather bound tome they've been perusing and quirks a quizzical eyebrow, regarding king with surprise. this has the (presumably) unintended effect of making king feel like a bug that's unwittingly wandered into a glass jar and is now being scrutinized closely by the owner of said jar, which is hardly any improvement on the unnoticed furniture scenario.

king meets the collector’s gaze with steady solemnity, endeavoring to expose none of the loud, messy feelings presently thrashing within him like a shark hauled out of the water by a pair of inexperienced hands that hold on despite understanding viscerally that it will lead to getting bitten and the shark escaping back into the sea anyway (perhaps putting up the appearance of struggling, like refusing a gift before capitulating to the giver’s insistence purely as a pretense of politeness, is important in some interactions, but king does not think this is one of them -- now that he's dropped this load unexpectedly and unceremoniously onto the collector, he'd rather pretend that's always been his intention).

the collector stares at king silently for a handful of seconds, understanding dawning on his complexion with a steady slowness that reminds king of flipping through pages of stop motion illustrations, appreciating both how they must all play out in more rapid conjunction and how distinct and essential each individual snapshot is. king isn't sure if other people also experience this clarity while interacting with the collector or if it is yet another curious quirk of king's special closeness to them.

“i don't know, king,” the collector answers honestly, both eyebrows furrowed with obvious concern now, their pupils darting almost imperceptibly as they take full stock of king’s appearance. they vocalize with a seriousness that mirrors king’s, though king suspects theirs is more genuine. “i’ve never read a story like ours.”

there's a pause in the conversation, the collector raising a thumb and index finger to frame their chin and tilting their head sideways as if to examine a painting from another angle, their mind clearly churning with the effort to provide their best friend with a satisfactory or at least worthwhile answer. but, strive as they might, they have to admit when they're stumped, and they'd rather say so to him than pretend otherwise.

king waits a breath’s length longer for the collector to muster something further -- only once he realizes he's been holding his breath for an uncomfortably long period does he exhale -- another bell ringing to signal a transition.

“you really don't know then,” king remarks, trying not to sound disappointed while also feeling that concealing how he really feels might prove a dire mistake in this situation -- the conflict between not hurting the collector's feelings by exposing his own feelings and not hurting the collector's feelings by withholding his own feelings as present and alive as ever.

“i don't,” the collector confirms, apparently uninjured -- but not unbothered -- by king's disappointment. their eyes are swirling with growing worry, gray clouds gathering into each other’s embrace and steering steadily towards a downpour.

the last thing king wants is to make the collector cry, but perhaps he doesn't deserve to ask a question like this without being punished a little -- it is, he recognizes now, a bit cruel of him to even confront the collector with it.

what other answer could the collector possibly give king without lying? did king just need to hear directly from the collector what he already knew to be true? is this just another one of his petty, ill-mannered attempts at making someone else feel as bad as he does because he's so self-righteously indignant by being completely alone in his grief? or was some part of him -- some awful leech of a part of him -- actually hoping his best friend would lie to him?

if the collector had lied, king is now forced to wonder, would he have been relieved and pretended to believe them? or would that have been exactly the excuse that leech part of himself always seems to be seeking out like warm blood to stage a vicious and melodramatic upending of their entire relationship, claiming -- as he'd surely claim to have been certain of all along, even though he is presently not -- that the collector does not trust him enough to award him the truth, and, adding insult to injury, thinks king could ever fail to slice through such a shallow farce? (this hypothetical scenario somehow coexisting with the one where he is eager to be lied to and to internally gaslighting himself into believing he really does not know he is being lied to and what both of their behaviors suggest about their relationship).

“that's worrisome,” king states flatly, more to avoid saying nothing at all as he feels himself start floundering in his own internal ruminations and dissociating from the reality presently surrounding him, as if he really does believe he can just drop these potentially highly distressing things on the single most important person in his life with neither warning nor explanation, then silently retreat into himself without a care for its potential consequences.

king spent too much time alone with his own thoughts when he was younger, blurting things out aloud because there was no one around who could or would answer, slowly and effectively desensitizing himself to any and all severity that they might carry.

numb to his own feelings then, and, now, also numb to how his feelings make others feel. it's a hard habit to smother.

“more worrisome than feeling yoked to a predetermined destiny?” the collector inquires, smiling slightly in a fashion that clearly conveys that he intends the question in a lighthearted, theoretical, thought experiment sort of way -- not in relation to any specific real world situation.

yoked, king thinks, finding it, for a moment, exceedingly amusing that anyone would use that word in a conversation not about cattle or some other beast of burden type -- an effect of just how much the collector reads, this aspiring literati tendency to season their otherwise perfectly ordinary statements with the occasional poetic lingo.

but then king considers the actual implications of being described as yoked, even in a metaphorical sense, and gets the dreadful sense that maybe he is a beast of burden type -- he's certainly a beast, and he was certainly raised to shoulder burdens, so what really sets him apart from an ox physically yoked to the plough they will someday collapse next to, dead from the exhaustion of doing nothing throughout their life except dragging it along for someone else's benefit?

king tries to muster some compassion for the collector's careless misstep by focusing on how profoundly apologetic they look after quickly realizing the potential implications for him, but, alas, it does not succeed in softening his tone when he next speaks.

“at least back then i knew what to expect, and i could prepare myself,” king snaps sulkily, seeming to shrink into himself as he wrinkles up his dirt smudged nose, but with the careful calculation of a snake that only withdraws to aim better upon lunging. “but a story that doesn't adhere to a formula is sure to be filled with unexpected plot twists, and how am i ever supposed to get comfortable with how things are when i’m always expecting them to change?”

despite the tension boiling between them like a cauldron of soup that's seconds away from spilling over if the heat isn't quickly and dramatically toned down, the collector smiles with pleasure (and a dab of pride) at king’s reference to literary tropes -- proof he's been paying attention during their rambles.

the collector decides to try continuing the conversation through this lens -- perhaps it can help king feel less antagonized if he is not so obviously

being discussed.

“surprises are good in a story! they can lead to something entirely new, which has never been experienced before!” the collector proclaims, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically to be entirely credible, but king does find the ease with which they deflect his animosity without anything like an equally acerbic retort quite the relief (as well as a target of envy).

at times like this, king gets the intoxicating sense that there is no insult, argument, or otherwise hurtful remark either of them could make that their relationship could not somehow survive -- intoxicating because it occasionally tempts him to recklessly test the collector with an egotistical need to prove to himself just how valuable he is to them (too valuable, he hopes, to be permitted to push them away so easily), but also because it might someday actually lull king into a false sense of security.

“besides,” the collector adds, waving one hand in the air with such fluidity that a cornucopia of tiny, prismic stars burst like confetti from the tips of their fingers -- an entirely unconscious and -- to king -- entirely endearing use of magic. “a story with no surprises isn't much fun to read!”

king’s mouth twists sideways to land somewhere on the spectrum of smile to snarl, his upper lip curling back in that characteristically animalistic fashion that he is simultaneously proud of and disturbed by, without quite reaching the point of exposing his fangs any more than they normally protrude from his mouth -- a compromise between the desire to backtrack to explicitly addressing himself and following his best friend into this detached anonymity, as if either of them could ever mistake this conversation for anything other than what it has been from the beginning: king’s -- and now, as king has so selfishly dragged them in, also the collector’s -- anxiety over the future of their relationship.

“it can be… reassuring,” king tries, as cautiously as a hiker that is as noisy as possible in hopes of scaring away any nearby predators, king’s halting words and darting gaze an implicit plea for the collector to gently steer him away if he wanders too close to territory that might prove too treacherous for even the two of them to navigate at this stage in their shared and individual development.

the collector waits quietly for king to continue, patient and expectant as a hound plopped down at the foot of their human companion in anticipation of the occasional, much relished head scratch -- a comparison king instantly detests and chastises himself internally for even conceiving of, certain it's just him who keeps projecting his weird hierarchical complex onto the collector, and any mention of any of this to them would leave them utterly baffled (and serving as further proof of how out of touch with reality king has become that he can not even be friends with another person without constant anxiety over either being exploited or him doing the exploiting).

“to not have to be guessing all of the time. to not have to struggle to understand what is happening and why,” king offers by way of explanation, gripping both of his hips so he can tap his fingers nervously against them, his tail swishing just as restlessly as a dog that thinks there might be a reason to wag happily but isn't quite convinced they won't be disappointed by the complete withdrawal of the hoped for reward. king hates exposing uncertainty, but this, naturally, only heightens the outward signs of it.

“to be able to just go along for the ride, without doing any additional work,” king huffs, sounding -- to himself, at least -- exactly like a child that knows he'll be told he's correct if he's just petulant enough about it, because no one else wants to deal with arguing with him anymore.

sometimes, it feels simply impossible to turn off the urgent sense -- which instilled in him years ago -- that he has only ever earned anything through coercion and domination, through the bullying of people that would rather give him his way than deal with the wrath and cruelty that they're certain -- that eveb king is certain at times -- would follow any failure to do so. in king’s mind, he is always only ever a tiny emotional flare away from reverting back to his most bestial qualities, a monster whose vision turns red with fury and can no longer distinguish between an acceptable and drastically disproportionate response to any perceived slight. even in a casual conversation between best friends, king does not feel safe to be around.

“as a reader,” king clarifies quickly. “a reader doesn't always want to deal with the emotional whiplash of surprises. it can be pleasant to not be surprised.”

the collector watches king pensively and he can tell that they agree with him, both in a literary sense and, more pressingly, in regards to life itself: there is comfort to be distilled from mundanity, from the repetition of routines and the fulfillment of expectations, from a seed planted in the ground and watered regularly growing into a sprout and following the steps laid out in a manual building a functional radio and eating lunch together with a best friend being filled with fun chatter and laughter and the same sense of revival and renewal that the rare good night’s sleep provides but by far more easily and more reliably.

“besides, king blurts out, continuing with an urgency that suggests if he does not share it now he might quickly forget it forever and then no one will ever know about it, “nothing is ever really new. even the unexpected relies on expectations, which means it also follows a formula, albeit a more hidden one. but it can still be cracked.”

the collector raises their eyes from the spine of a book they had been idly tracing, affixing king with the excited glimmer that he recognizes from invitations to go exploring and play grudgby and dance together. even if the collector’s lips have not moved, king can see that their eyes are already smiling.

“what's your strategy then?” the collector asks eagerly. “do you try reverse predicting outcomes? figure out what the obvious cliché would be and expect the opposite?”

“i’m afraid i may already be doing that.”

there it is: king once again making explicit that he is still thinking -- still talking -- about himself, that this entire conversation, to him, revolves around him (even as he knows an equally critical part of it is entirely about how the collector fits -- and will fit -- into king’s life, choices, future). does it make king seem honest and vulnerable, in that peculiar manner others sometimes find compelling, or is he just coming off as hugely egotistical?

perhaps all deliberate vulnerability is, to a degree, an egotistical act: to expose -- to offer -- one's vulnerability is to assert it is of value, that one’s struggle matters not just to oneself but to someone else, too.

what if this doesn't matter to the collector like it does to king? what if the collector doesn't care about king’s anxiety regarding the future, doesn't deem it worth attention, or -- worst of all -- finds it laughable? has king just lost respect in the mind of the collector, has he been diagnosed as weak, ridiculous, neurotic?

while king is agonizing over the potential disaster he may have deliberately staged, the collector is doing their own calculations, peering at their best friend as if through the wall of a cell, wondering if enough pressure has swelled around them to permit the process of osmosis that might lead the collector straight through the barrier and into the shell of an abode that king has sequestered himself within. too much pressure, and the collector may well be forced back out -- but it might be worth the journey if they can reach king through that distorting blockage for even a brief moment.

the collector decides to try.

“would you prefer to still have everything laid out for you by someone else?” the collector asks at point blank, eliciting such a choking gasp from their best friend that they feel the impulse to take it all back, apologize, and promise to never bring such things up again, but they muscle through their own defensive barrier and determine to endure the stabbing discomfort exuding from both of them. “it might seem like it was easier when you thought you didn't have any options, when you thought no decision you made was your own, but…”

the collector trails off, biting their tongue from the embarrassment of having lost their nerve at the most crucial moment. king, however, has heard enough to draw his own conclusion.

“i’m a coward, then.”

king spits out the words like a bullet he hubristically thought he could catch between his teeth but instead let jam into his tongue, resentful yet matter-of-fact, accepting of something else he has failed to hate into nonexistence.

astonished, the collector’s eyes go wide as he shakes his head, trying and failing to muster any verbal opposition.

as for king, his eyes roll towards the back of his head, an arc as smooth and graceful as it is dismissive. the collector cringes reflexively.

“to miss being controlled, to want to go back to it, to think it's the only way i can be -- i’m a coward for that,” king continues, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting his best friend a defiant glare -- a misdirection of the contempt he feels for himself.

the collector, to king’s surprise, does not answer with any trace whatsoever of anger, instead reaching for king’s hand -- which, upon registering the familiar and coveted warmth of the collector’s skin, immediately releases its grip on his arm and capitulates to being cradled by the collector’s like a wild animal that knows there is no point even trying to swim against the river’s tide, that, wherever it might lead them, they are better off submitting passively to its will.

there can be great comfort in such a giving in, but king is not quite ready for it yet.

“being afraid isn't the same as being a coward,” the collector says softly, taking a step towards king so they can stand closer, so their fingers can thread freely through king’s claws while their equally warm breath sprinkles his face like the misty spray from a waterfall -- gentle, refreshing, and agonizingly ephemeral.

it doesn't have to feel ephemeral, king thinks, then nearly laughs aloud at the notion: like he'd ever have the courage to tell his best friend how intensely he longs to feel that warm breath on his face, those warm fingers cradling his hand, this warm proximity between their bodies -- without having the entire experience dampened by the certainty of its brevity, by not being able to simply say -- with words or otherwise -- please just stay this close to me for a while longer. king really is a coward.

“but it leads to the same,” king contends gruffly, like he's refusing some medicine he knows will help him feel better because he's determined to just weather the symptoms until the illness resolves itself (while also knowing this particular illness can not resolve itself on its own).

“i can't imagine ever thinking of you as a coward, king,” the collector counters, correctly ascertaining that king’s anxiety balances precariously on the collector's perception of him but managing, unknowingly, to set off a different source of said anxiety. “not after everything we've been thr --”

“so you don't have any expectations for me, then?” king challenges with blatant hostility, his upper lip successfully retreating into that dastardly snarl that makes him look and feel like an old and battered beast that just doesn't know how to stop picking fights with everyone and everything. “i’ve already fulfilled my role as poor, sacrificial lamb -- suffered enough to earn eternal adoration, regardless of everything i do after!”

king is shouting and he knows it's alarming the collector, tightening their muscles and quickening that normally pleasant breeze of a breath of theirs, but king has moved squarely into wanting to see the same despair that consumes him reflected in someone else -- it suddenly feels like the only way he can ever come even close to being understood.

the collector, king knows, is highly empathetic, and with none more than king himself. king really is a monster for doing this to them.

“i could do nothing for the rest of my life and you'd keep on loving me just the same, no more and no less than if i’d done any number of other things instead!” king yells. he knows he's gone too far, burdened them both with this terrible experience, but he can't stop, not when every despicable feeling he's ever harbored for himself is suddenly bubbling up his throat and no one but him seems willing to state aloud the veracity of it all -- if his best friend won't condemn him, he can do the work for both of them.

“it's all the same to you, even if i were to - were to - to -!”

king is sharply cut off in the same instant he realizes he is entirely out of breath, his eyes widening with a trickle of panic as his unoccupied hand clutches the area across his chest that guards his heart. he wheezes for a smattering of seconds, gaze lowering to the library floor with a melangé of shame and despair.

the collector remains silent for a spell, which feels as eternal and bewitching as actual magic, their eyebrows furrowing with the agonized consternation that only encountering king’s pain can elicit in them. the collector sucks on their inner cheek, eyes darting across the covers and titles of the various books scattered across the table, as if their recollections of how the stories contained within them were resolved could provide the collector with some answer, with some formula to carry the two of them safely through the trials before and between them.

king stiffens as he feels the collector lean closer, but otherwise restrains himself from reacting. slowly and gently, the collector cups their palm around king’s cheek, and nudges him towards meeting eyes with them.

king’s breath catches in his throat like vomit he refuses to expel, striving with feverish impotence to reverse the process and fill his lungs with enough carbon dioxide to force him to pass out and thus escape this situation altogether.

unfortunately for king, life has honed him into far sturdier material, and he's disappointed by the sharp inhale that parts his lips like a knife prying open the shell of a still living oyster. he's still panting slightly, trying to recover from momentarily depriving himself of oxygen, when the collector speaks.

“i love you, king,” the collector begins simply yet intensely, hitting king quite like he has never heard such words from his best friend or really anyone else before and thus proportionally deluging his nervous system with both ecstasy and terror, the sort of whirlwind thrill that he imagines must keep recreational skydivers hooked to periodically flinging their lives in death’s direction. he wants terribly to hide his face behind his hands and run away, find some niche he can crawl into and expire without ever being found again, but he is even more intensely transfixed by the delectable sound of his best friend’s profession and, like with the echoes of a bell that continue to ring in his ears long after the bell itself has stilled, he can do nothing to rid himself of it.

“loving you doesn't mean i don't expect anything from you,” the collector continues gently. “but it does mean i won't stop loving you just because you diverge from those expectations. you're full of surprises, king, and that's a big part of why i love you!”

the collector’s words taste so sweet to king that he is reminded of those excessively elaborate confections that the collector is so fond of indulging in: whipped cream and meringue and sugar cubes that melt on his tongue the instant they touch it -- so ephemeral he can only continue to enjoy them by eating copious amounts of them, and even then they eventually run out and he is left with a yearning for their return.

it's that kind of yearning that king feels for the collector, a need for company and conversation and closeness and comprehension that is never fully satisfied, that always begs for more. king is like a child that failed to develop object permanence, but with his relationships: anytime the collector isn't actively paying attention to him, the strength and certainty of their friendship might as well never have existed.

“besides,” the collector adds, a suspiciously mischievous sentiment tugging one corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile, like they've just orchestrated a marvelous heist or other such plan to get the two of them into a lot of fun and a lot of trouble. king envies their ability to find such carefree joy in the midst of this situation.

“it's not like there's a limit to loving someone. there's no set amount of love you can either gain or lose forever. i’m constantly finding new reasons to love you. and if there's ever trouble between us, well, we can work it out -- and then maybe our love will be even stronger because we got through that together!” the collector says, seeming quite convinced by this theory.

king wants so profoundly to also believe it that, for a moment, he allows himself to imagine a future where he does -- it's a fleeting vision, like reading an especially fanciful science fiction story, but even implausible stories reveal something of what is plausible.

“love evolves as relationships do,” the collector concludes with an air of satisfaction, as if they have indeed reached the conclusion of a particularly stressful story, one in which, despite the greatest of odds, everyone ends up happy. “it's not quantifiable. it's qualitative.”

king is so shaken by what the collector has said to do much besides stand there, rigid as a mouse that knows moving in any way will give its position away to a nearby predator and thus seal their demise -- though he does manage to lift his gaze when he feels his best friend’s fingers brush against his forehead, watching utterly transfixed as the collector guides a lock of dark, curly hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ear.

“you really are cute when your hair gets all over your face,” the collector murmurs, with such naked tenderness that king thinks they must certainly mean those words only for themself, having only accidentally -- and, judging by the unperturbed serenity that frames their facial features, unconsciously -- uttered them aloud. “you have such gorgeous hair…”

and there it is, king thinks: the possibility of a different kind of love -- a love that makes room for the sort of physical and emotional intimacies that king daydreams of but dares not make known with any sort of declaration or request; a love that can encompass and account for the fervent intensity of king’s feelings for the collector; a love that requires no secrets from either of them and instead demands a radically transformative honesty in all matters; a love that might entail king finally placing his own hand on the collector’s cheek and feel comfortable in the certainty that this gesture can only ever be a welcome and pleasant caress, and not the dangerous proximity of his claws to his best friend's throat. but whether the collector is thinking -- or, indeed, has ever even considered -- this sort of love, king has no way of judging for certain. and so, with a regretful resignation that has become entirely too familiar to him, he lets the moment -- the opportunity -- pass them both by, offering his best friend nothing beyond a steady and attentive gaze.

even if king can not express his true appreciation for the collector’s proclamations, he will, at the very least, ensure they know he's paying attention to each and every word.

the collector smiles with a serenity that king finds himself perplexed to be the target of, fiddling with the strand of his hair and managing to wrap it around their finger -- a sight that elicits a soft chuckle from deep within the collector’s throat and a ricocheting heartbeat from king. it all looks to king like nothing more and nothing less than an excuse to remain this physically close to king, and king, despite his outward guardedness, hopes against hope that the pleading within him for the collector to just continue this way indefinitely somehow permeates through his petrified expression and reaches his best friend.

despite his yearning -- or, perhaps, perversely, because of his yearning -- king can not bring himself to say anything back to the collector, so the moment, once again, goes no further.

king tried not to visualize punching the petulant muscle that is his heart.

“here, why don't i tell you a story?” the collector offers, breaking a spell king is now fairly certain both of them are pretending to not be aware of.

the collector performs a small jump to propel them into the air, pirouetting on their way up until they're hovering next to one of the shelves in the bookcase that are too high to be reached by king. he watches anxiously as his best friend runs their index finger across various spines, considering each title for a moment before moving onto the next.

“i’ve read some pretty fun ones lately!” the collector exclaims, shooting king an amicable grin before seeming to decide none of the books presently within reach will do for their best friend and instead churning up something from memory -- king always prefers when the collector gives stories their own personalized spin, after all.

when king doesn't respond, the collector adds hopefully, “it might help get your mind off what's bothering you. and, if not, well… at least we'll spend some time together, and that's always nice, right?”

the question feels, to king, entirely rhetorical, but he nods his assent anyway, which -- mercifully -- broadens the collector’s smile to the point that the dimples in his cheeks become visible, like beautiful islets that only rise above the water when the tide is at its lowest.

“is it an allegory?” king asks, more to force himself to start using his vocal cords than anything else, though it's also true that he's hoping to dispel the residual anxiety that buzzes around him like a flock of gnats that just won't give up on their quarry.

“every story is an allegory if you're willing to put yourself in it!” the collector answers breezily, sweeping aside the various books scattered across the table with magic so they can take a seat right at the center of it, legs crossed and hand beckoning at their best friend.

king finds himself unsettled by this response, but climbs onto the table anyway, plopping down in front of the collector with a pair of eyebrows that remain stubbornly -- and frustratedly -- scrunched.

“okay,” king concedes. “let's find out what allegory we can find in this story then.”

the collector beams, then reaches for king’s hand again, meeting no more resistance than the first time around. king swallows with noticable difficulty.

“i’m glad you said we,” the collector says, drawing attention to something king had neither consciously intended nor noticed until then.

king thinks, but doesn't say: i’m glad there's a we to speak of, and i keep having to say we aloud just to remind myself we are a real thing.

king stares blankly for a moment, then nods. the collector squeezes king’s hand.

“once upon a time,” the collector begins, swirling their unoccupied hand around to conjure a small bubble of iridescent magic, which projects objects from the scene they describe. “there was a sea, and on that sea there was an island, and within that island there was a jungle, and inside of the jungle there was a temple, and at the heart of the temple there was an egg.”

the collector pauses -- clearly for dramatic effect -- the magic bubble swelling to accommodate a rendition of what this mysterious scene might look like, each couple of words uttered by the collector compelling it to zoom closer and closer, until king can see the white marbled walls and platinum statues and obsidian pedestal where a single egg balances precariously.

king squints at the image, wondering how much of it is due to the collector’s imaginative creative license and how much faithfully adheres to the descriptions they read in whatever book they are now paraphrasing for him.

then the hair on the back of king’s neck starts to stand up and he swats at it reflexively, like it's some kind of bug he can just scare away. unsettled, king turns away from the magic bubble.

the collector, mistaking king’s behavior for disinterest or -- worse -- displeasure with them, tries making the narration more interesting.

“the egg was the last of its kind, and it had waited, for a very long time and all on its lonesome, to be ready to hatch,” the collector continues, nudging the magic bubble towards their best friend so it's once more within his line of sight. king realizes with a start how he's made them feel and opens his mouth to muster something like an apology -- or, at least, a plausible explanation -- but nothing comes out. he briefly considers just fleeing the scene.

“the egg might have well hatched with no one around to witness it,” the collector says solemnly, before adjusting to a far cheerier timbre: “were it not for a young witch that happened upon the mysterious temple and its egg at precisely the right moment!”

watching the peculiar egg in the illusion start to crack, king feels his stomach contract painfully, like he's being warned about having just ingested something poisonous.

“the witch decided to take the egg back with her to her home, where it was able to hatch in her company. and the name of the creature that emerged from that egg was --”

“stop,” king says, the word almost too quiet to be heard by even himself, but with all the telltale alarm of someone trying to stop another person from stepping right in the middle of ongoing traffic.

the collector feels that alarm constrict around their chest like a rubber band snapping back into its smallest size, but their mouth is already open and words are continuing to spill out of it, until --

“stop!” king yells, fury nestled like a cuckoo's egg amidst his every effort to have a nice, normal time with the collector, to not burst with a pyroclastic flow of emotions that suffocate everything before even becoming aware of its approach.

the collector, apprehending the intensity of king’s command, slices through the word they were in the middle of uttering and adds no more from the story, but they can not help sputtering out puzzledly, “what? why?”

“this story could never happen,” king states, firm but with a pleading that he hopes the collector can discern just well enough to heed.

“stories aren't only about what could happen,” the collector counters, still struggling to understand why their best friend’s demeanor has shifted so drastically, what has upset him so clearly and profoundly.

king lowers his gaze in lieu of offering an answer, so the collector also stares down at the ground, as if this could somehow lead them to perceive whatever is troubling king.

after a tense pause, the collector offers hopefully, “it's an allegory, remember? what happens isn't what's import --”

“i don't care about the allegory in this story,” king mumbles. the implication -- that king himself doesn't want to become part of the story -- goes unaddressed, but king has spoken with a finality that the collector knows well enough to respect.

the collector nods in comprehension and contracts the fingers of their hand into a fist to make the magic bubble burst. king expects to only feel relief at its disappearance, yet discovers a strange yearning alongside it, like nostalgia for something he can't be certain he ever experienced.

“where did you even find a story like that?” king huffs angrily, more an admonishment than an inquiry, which he immediately realizes is cruel of him and wishes he had the magic to make disappear like his best friend did with the bubble.

the collector, however, seems less perturbed by king’s acerbity than intrigued by the prospect of answering. their lips twist into a pensive frown as they scratch the back of their head, seemingly genuinely stumped by the task.

shrugging their shoulders, the collector states casually, “somewhere in the restricted section of the library probably! it's a pretty big place, and there are so many old journals from long dead witches and demons in there. i tend to forget what happened in which.”

this information does nothing to assuage king’s unease, but the possibility that everything the collector just told him was an entirely fictional composite of multiple different sources does, on an intellectual level, relieve him: it is truly a story that could never happen, that never has happened.

there's another uncomfortable pause, king trying half-heartedly to come up with an excuse to leave that won't further injure his best friend, the collector fidgeting by running a hand across their forearm while chewing on their lower lip.

then the collector has an idea, and blurts out brightly, “hey, i know! why don't you tell me a story? that way, you can decide what kind of story it is!”

king stares at his best friend perplexedly for a few seconds, as if this has never even crossed his mind as an option -- which, he's equally baffled to realize, it hasn't.

“i,” king stammers, feeling like he's just been pulled onto a stage and told to dance in a style he knows nothing about (a real scenario he has ample experience with, also thanks to the collector). “i don't know any stories… besides the ones you've told me, i mean. and you already know all of those better than me, so…”

king deliberately trails off, hoping that will be the end of it -- but also, mysteriously, delightfully, relieved when it isn't.

the collector can be quite insistent, and, despite the chagrin at being dragged out of his comfort zone, king is glad the collector deems him worth dragging along.

“really?” the collector asks, with a surprise that bears no judgment, only curiosity. “you didn't hear any when you were little?”

a bout of sweat breaks out across king’s temples as he's forced to -- however briefly -- consider a truthful answer to this question -- he arrives at nothing so concrete as images or even words, but there are a lot of feelings that he instantly realizes he can not allow to proliferate for even a nanosecond.

“i don't remember anything from when i was little,” king states decisively, as much for his own ears to hear as the collector’s. he starts repeating it in his mind, like some kind of warding spell (knowledge of what he needs to ward away at all costs being part of what he is warding away), even as he utters different words aloud: “if i ever did hear any stories, they're gone now.”

like everything else from when i was little, king could add, but doesn't. it's not true, anyway: nothing’s gone, not entirely -- he just prefers to believe every recollection he ever has from his childhood, whether merely a vague yet arresting emotional aura or a full-blown, multi sensory hallucination, is some fantastical fabrication, the manic misfirings of his twisted, knotted, broken neurons, and not in any way reflective of any real past experiences.

to the collector, it's like the sound of a door slamming shut in their face before they ever even tried to open it. they sigh wearily, but elect to push no further.

both friends descend into a silence that feels like a scab that's been scraped all over again and bleeding anew, and king thinks maybe the time has finally arrived for this entire interaction to come to an end.

but king just sits there, making no attempt, either verbal or physical, to leave. he's stuck remembering something the collector once said to him, not long enough after the day of unity for him to not feel like it was somehow part of the same, uninterrupted event.

this can be a new beginning, the collector told king. you can start over -- with me!

king wants to believe in that vision more than he can recall ever wanting anything else in his life, to feel that this -- where he is sitting right this moment -- is part of a new beginning, with none of his past attached to it: no preface, epitaph, or prologue -- just the first chapter in what will certainly sprawl into a vast and exciting epic.

with the collector. a new beginning for king’s story, with the collector by his side this time.

the question that keeps tormenting king is whether a new beginning, even with the collector as part of king’s story, is enough for a new ending as well -- it's always possible they are merely rehearsing for the same grand finale that marked the end of his past, violently aborted and still aching life.

king is so deep in the labyrinth of his own ruminations that he doesn't notice the collector’s face brighten.

“so invent one!” the collector exclaims, looking proud to have come up with what seems to them the perfect solution. “make up your own story, one you want to tell!”

king isn't sure about that. the things he comes up with that make it onto his tongue and through his lips are rarely things he wants to tell. and so he can only imagine that any story he could come up with would amount to much of the same, like being betrayed by the inadvertent flushing of his face or poisoned by a beverage he brewed himself.

the collector says every story is an allegory if you are willing to put yourself in it, and king can only hope he would be positively unwilling to put himself in any story he concocted.

yet the collector is staring at king expectantly, full of a love-laced conviction that he is capable and willing to step up to this task, and he feels he has reached the limit of times he can disappoint his best friend in one afternoon.

so, worn down by fatigue and a desperate desire to prove his best friend’s faith in him is not ill-founded, king sucks in a deep breath, and begins.

“there was once… there once was,” king mumbles, uncertain how to even open a story he has not thought out ahead of time, a story he is now determined to somehow improvise in its entirety -- and all it takes is the slight widening of the collector’s smile to muster the foolishness to continue.

“in the beginning… that was not the beginning,” king starts over, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. “there was… a child from the stars… and there was also… a titan.”

king pauses to swallow anxiously, a disruption probably only noticeable to himself.

“they were both very young when they met... and they were both very old when they were still friends… at the end… that was not the end…”

king stops, feeling that the story has reached its natural conclusion after only those couple of lines (isn't it the collector who once said, brevity is the soul of wit?), but the collector is still watching king expectantly, eyes wide and sparkling, lips arched into an enchanted grin, like a child that's being given a special treat for behaving so well all day long -- and, king knows (oh, how he knows), the collector has been very, very good to him, and not just today. it'd feel cruel to withdraw such a prize at this point, and king is willing to believe many things about himself, but cruel… well, cruel is one he certainly doesn't need to be collecting more evidence for, so best to avoid it whenever possible.

so king tells the kind of story he thinks the collector would enjoy -- full of silly characters, ridiculous problems, and absolutely chaotic adventures -- because, as it turns out, the kind of story king wants to tell is one that the collector wants to hear.

#emperor acolyte au #pespillo

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