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cheralith · 11 months

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the ghost of you | miguel o'hara

synopsis: you thought he was gone. what you didn't know was that he was waiting for you a universe away... or in other words... miguel is your gwen stacy and in another life, you're his.

word count: 2.5k (unedited as of 07/19 per usual)

a/n: a short (or at least in my terms is short) oneshot of sorts just to scratch that miguel angst itch

you never particularly believed in second chances.

you thought they were something foolish to believe in. often you think that second chances alternated the future that bewitched you with its cruelty towards you, despite knowing that this was what was to become the moment you put on that suit that gleamed to others of pride and glory.

fate as an embodiment is never, and will never, be kind towards you. you never believed in second chances because they were never offered to you because if they were, you could've prevented the entirety that was your life if you could've just chosen a different path.

you could've never gotten the job at alchemax.

you could've never been one of the star scientists that captured the attention of tyler stone.

you could've never met him—the love of your life.

because if you didn't, he would've been safe in the blissful ignorance that was your existence. but now, the haunting image of his face laying woefully in your lap—loving eyes now permanently close, the shallow river of crimson streaming from his nose with pale and dry lips that could no longer whisper sweet nothings slightly agape—is now permanently tattooed in the halls of your memory.

the failure to save the one person you kept to closely at heart served as a reminder that you had a duty to attend to and that you were to attend to it with nothing more than confidence, that you were to never repeat such a feat ever again.

because death offers no second chances to those who he greets. second chances are mere child's play, a figure of imagination that people choose to believe out of hope.

at least, that's what you've chosen to believe.

whenever jessica looks at you, you just barely manage to catch the glimpse of a particular look that you can't pinpoint the exact emotion of. you think it's a mixture of melancholy or apprehensiveness, but you're never able to quite accurately describe the look for it. but it goes away just as fast as it comes, her quickly shooing it away as if it was a pesky spider.

you've never inquired about it. you don't think you should, really, especially considering when she's in charge of possibility escorting you to what you've never known you could desire for.

"i've decided," jess states, a hand going to caress her prominent belly affectionately.

you let out a hum, your gaze not moving from the magnificent view you and her share of your universe's new york's skyline—you wonder how it differs from her own new york. "decided what?"

from her amber glasses, she offers you swift glance. "decided to perhaps let you visit hq once and for all."

it's no surprise that her statement makes your eyes go wide and jaw slack. jessica drew had found you alone in your own universe awhile ago, her being the first proven evidence that there were worlds beyond yours existing... meaning that there was existence of different variants of you. acquiring that knowledge had sparked an excitement in you that you hadn't felt in such a long time, that you didn't even know you could feel.

you wanted to see the other spider-people, a hunger caverning itself within you to know more, see more, to satisfy the loneliness you've felt since the dreaded day you lost miguel o'hara. to know that others likeminded to you actually existed was something you longed to confirm, leading to jessica constantly putting up with your begging to see what the headquarters of the so-called "spider society" was like.

you've met a few already—the rebellious, yet ambitious hobie brown from earth-138, the egotistic, yet grandiloquent ben reilly from earth-94, and the sarcastic, yet compassionate peter b. parker from earth-616. but it isn't enough. a yearn to see all of everyone alike to you grows stronger and stronger by the day, yet jessica is always quick to deny you from seeing hq and the rest of the spider-people, quick to excuse it with her needing to “evaluate you more.”

something about the excuse seemed rather loose to you, as if it was a cover-up for something... bigger? but again, you never questioned her actions because if you did, you could end up screwing yourself over and the possibility of you never joining them was perhaps a pit that welcomed you with open arms.

but now, after what seemed like ages (it was a given three weeks in reality) of consistent "no"'s and "soon"'s, your wish has been finally granted.

"do you mean it?" you whisper excitedly, leaning towards her with a gleeful smile. "like, really mean it?!"

"no, actually i was just joking," jess says with a suppressed grin. you whine aloud with furrowed brows, making her laugh aloud. "i'm kidding. yes, i mean it. i talked with my... my superior of sorts... and they granted me permission to let you into the spider-society."

jess watches with a soft grin as you giddily bounce about the twilight-cladded rooftop, the phrase of "thank you" endlessly on loop from your lips. with no time to waste on either ends, jessica opens up a portal leading to the universe that the spider-society was held in, jutting her head towards it for you to step foot in.

the tantalizing colors of a fiery sunset twirl about in your vision as the hum of the portal whispers itself in your ears. you've gone in portals before, but this particular one forces you to ground yourself and truly acknowledge what was to become of this present moment because the moment you enter this portal, your fate was sealed.

and fate gives no second chances regardless of any situation.

"nervous?" jess asks as she stands still besides you, examining your hypnotized state.

you swallow thickly, despite the smile still lifted atop your lips. "a little..."

"i see," she hums. she studies your features for a bit, admiring the way the sun halos your side profile before her gaze returns to the portal that you still stare at.

jessica suppresses a giggle, with her hand lifting slowly behind you without acknowledgement before it pushes you in with no warning. your screams of terror fall deaf on her ears, her being too busy with a soft fit of laughter at your bewilderment.

"jess!?" you shout from inside the portal.

"sorry, my hand slipped," she calls from the outside, mindlessly examining her fingernails.

"i'm gonna kill you!" you screech before your figure dissipates itself from her view.

jessica watches as the portal expands itself again like a blooming flower before she turns away from it once again, the smile of amusement fading ever so quickly. her wrist lifts itself up and quietly she murmurs into her device, "are you one hundred percent sure about this?"

there's a static that scuffs by before another voice stereos from it, one that jessica knows for a fact that you'll be much too accustomed to.

"there's no going back now."

jessica thinks she might have to put you on a leash. somehow, you've reverted back into a child at a playground from the way you're consistently getting out of her sight, too distracted by all the unique spider-people that pass you.

"i love your armor," you compliment with glowing cheeks to the spider-knight that gives you a salute. "wow, her hair is really cool... i love that guy's webbing! holy shit, is that a fucking t-rex?"

"yes yes," jess sighs and grabs you by your collar, "that's pter. he's one of us, now would you please behave?"

you smile sheepishly at her, "sorry... i can't help but get—a cat!"

jessica slaps a hand to her forehead, rubbing it with annoyance. you're not much younger than she is, but she thinks that there's too much of a resemblance between a five year old and the you that's much too preoccupied petting a content peter pawrker that purrs as you affectionately scratch behind his ears.

while rather a little irked, jessica can't help but feel a little at ease with the more time that gets eaten up as it passes by. she knows it's foolish, but to put off the one thing that you were supposed to come here for was perhaps ideal, knowing that the future truly remains unknown of what to come in the next few minutes.

her anticipation grows more weary by the second, especially as you and her approach the one location that is rarely ever allowed visitors.

she shoots a web and reels you back to her, not wanting to waste any more time than needed. your pleas of wanting to pet spider-cat more are ignored, being replaced with an urgency of, "there's someone i want you to meet."

jess walks you to a darkened and closed off area of the headquarters, one that you didn't know would've existed had she not lead you there. it's dark all around, the wide and vast space only illuminated by the golden glow of holographic computers atop a floating platform. there's no one around, just the hum of the technology filling the void until a voice echoes out from seemingly nowhere.

"you may leave, jess."

your companion offers you a final goodbye, a whisper of "you'll be okay, he doesn't bite." tickling your ear. there's not much time to react, as jessica stalks off faster than you can blink, and the thundering shut of the door bellows in the corridor.

you're left alone in the odd, dark room. it's a contrasted atmosphere to the interior of hq and rather, it unsettles you—especially considering the fact that despite it seeming like you're by yourself, you're not alone.

"are you the person that jess was talking about?" you ask quietly, hoping that despite the timidity and softness of your voice, that it's still heard.

the voice thunders out again hauntingly.

"you haven't changed."

the majority of your voice gets caught in your throat. something about that voice seems vaguely familiar, but seven words aren't enough for you to quite decipher its owner, despite the wisp of the ghost of the past whispering something unintelligible behind you.

"i-i'm sorry?" you state aloud with your voice caught between a question and a nervous laugh.

the owner of the voice stays quiet for a still moment before speaking once more.

"why are you still just as beautiful as the day i lost you?"

your brows furrow. are you supposed to know him? this person?

you're so focused on the platform of computers that it doesn't register to you that someone emerges from the shadows from behind you until the wind of something... someone grazing you. reflexes jumping into action, you gasp and jump back, your feet skidding themselves on the ground too painfully to the point where your balance is lost and your back stumbles first on the ground.

the shadow comes closer to you and fear strikes itself in your heart at last. something about this person is warning you with danger, that something bad is brewing. your hands dig into the ground and shuffle yourself backwards until you hit the wall. your heart is pounding painfully loud, with the rhythm of it pumping through your ears. a scream is begging to be let out of your throat, a certain type of terrified you haven't felt in years clawing at the edge of it, but the only thing that you can let out is a weakened whimper.

whoever the shadow is merely comes closer to you in the same pace he kept himself at, showing no signs of stopping.

the light of the moon that seeps into the rooftop windows suddenly let the light in and spotlights the person at last, making all the resolve in your body evaporate the moment you catch his face.

the face that's supposed to not exist anymore—the face of a dead lover who you watched with your own two eyes slip from your life—is currently plastered itself in front of you.

the face of miguel o'hara stares at you with the same daunting expression you wear.

the last time you saw this face was in the open casket funeral held for him two weeks after his death. you had stared at it for what seemed to be hours in the open rain, trying to come to terms that you will never see it again.

yet here you are, looking at it once more in the life that you thought would never show you any sort of mercy.

"miguel...?"

the person in front of you crouches down to your height and comes shyly closer to you, afraid that if he made the wrong move, you'd scamper away from him like a frightened doe.

unconsciously, you lift your hand up to truly see if what you were seeing right now was real—that your deceased lover was somehow alive right in front of you. the miguel that stands before you lets your hand cradle his cheek ever so gently, like he was made of the finest glass alive. the physical contact jolts you awake again and out of your trance, making you retract your hand as if you had just touched something hot.

miguel blinks. his chest heaves, mimicking your own that pools with longing. he goes to gently touch your hand again, bringing it back up to his face and shuffling his cheek to feel the warmth of it again.

the way his his face fits so nicely in your palm makes your chest burn.

"mi sol..." he murmurs, his lips wisping a soft kiss to your palm.

and suddenly, you're alive again. it's a different sort, the type of liveliness that only love could spark. so when you realize that the very flame you thought could never be lit again is once burning bright, you break into sobs.

your arms wrap around his neck tightly, like he'll be taken away from you all over again. his own go to hug your waist in the same manner, enveloping you in a warmth you could never seem to mimic with anyone else.

"i thought i lost you," you cry quietly, the image of miguel's face during that night flashing through your eyes.

his hand caresses your hair warmly. "i thought i lost you," he murmurs back, his throat evidently tight with a flood of yearning emotions.

you retract back and study him carefully this time, making sure he's here with you right now... alive.

and when his lips connect with yours for the first time in years, it doesn't take long for you to return the favor, knowing that the one thing you've longed for the most for the past years is finally back into your arms.

deep inside, you know he isn't your miguel, just in the same sense that you aren't his (y/n). you know that no matter how many miguels and (y/n)s are out there, no two could ever replicate each other in the manner that the latter wants.

but for now, you let yourself indulge in this second chance you thought could never come to life.

by the power of fate though... it somehow did. and you'd rather not waste any more time questioning it.

#spider man: across the spider verse #atsv #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x (y/n)#miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara angst #miguel o'hara smut #atsv fic #miles morales #hobie brown #gwen stacy

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orqheuss · 1 year

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In any version of reality

(Ominis Gaunt/F!Reader FLUFF)

Reincarnation!Soulmate AU

Summary:

In the world of soulmates, ties told through memories of past lives and reincarnation, Ominis was sure that he had to be a very new soul. *** Ominis Gaunt was more sure than anything in his life that he did not have a soulmate. He had heard tales from others about their experiences, how lovely it was to finally find the one you had been searching for through any timeline, and he had resigned himself to the fact that his soul was too new to have a past life. But, after hearing you sing in the deserted music room sends him on a journey back in time, could he have truly found the person he had been longing for since before the dawn of creation?

Story is based off of "Epic iii" from the Hadestown 2017 Original Cast Recording.

Word Count: 4.7k

In the world of soulmates, ties told through memories of past lives and reincarnation, Ominis was sure that he had to be a very new soul. He had heard stories told through grapevines, whispers in the night of people finding their loves at a young age; how their timeless histories came flooding back to them like a torrential downpour of emotion they couldn’t identify until they tasted their loves name on their lips— heard their voice flitter through their ears like a soft ocean breeze for the first time. Some said it happened suddenly, as soon as they brushed against each other or looked into each other's eyes for the first time. Those people said it was like being struck by a falling star, burning to the touch and gloriously wonderful all at the same time. Some said it happened gradually, after years and years of knowing each other, only to be triggered by an oddly familiar moment in time or a feeling, like a song murmured from an ancient gramophone in the corner of a room they’d long forgotten about. Those people said it was warm, like a blanket you’d just cast a drying charm on— like they were coming home after a long trip and the hearth was already lit for their arrival. No matter how much he longed to tell stories like this himself, how much he yearned to find that grand, timeless love that he could only read about in books, the universe did not have a past life to spare him.

For a while he blamed his parents, like they were the ones that ripped him into the world before one of the many ghosts floating around in the stratosphere could latch onto him and call him theirs, but he knew that they had no control over ethereal beings like that. Then, he blamed his disability for his woebegone-ness. Every story he had ever heard told tales of looking into their soulmate's eyes and seeing the world as it was for the first time— could it be that because he could not see he would never know the feeling of holding someone's gaze and seeing yourself as you truly were the day your ageless soul was born into the world like a bursting supernova? Not knowing anyone else that suffered the same blindness as him, he didn’t have anything else to go off of. And so, that was the only answer his feebly human mind could give him— the only thing that actually made sense in his brain.

Being born without sight had never really bothered Ominis much until he got to Hogwarts. His childhood home was dreadfully quiet, and very few members of his family were home at a time, so he didn’t have any sounds invading his sensitive ears very often. All of that changed as soon as he crossed the threshold of the grandiloquent school. The tall ceilings echoed all voices like a cathedral tower echoed the hymns of a choir— he knew everyone's business better than his own, sometimes before his peers even learned of it themselves. With that came the knowledge of everyone's soulmate encounters, each story different from the last but just as magical each time. Down the castle stairs, tucked away in the corner near the one-eyed witch, Ominis heard Adelaide Oakes recount her story of brushing against a muggle boy in her village and seeing a post-colonial British soldier standing at her doorstep, stretches of farmland spanning farther than her eyes can see over his shoulder. In potions, he heard Garreth Weasley whisper to his cauldron partner about how he had known his soulmate for years, only realizing that they were meant to be after seeing them lounging on the shore of the pond behind his house— one moment they were strewn across the damp, summer-green grass, and the next they were curled around his past in a bed made of purple silk, the Paris skyline just beyond his reach through their bay windowed apartment. He could distinctly recall all of the details of Sebastian’s revelation, having heard how he saw himself galloping through a field of flowers with a lovely princesses arms wrapped around his waist, pressing her delicate fingerprints into his shiny chain-mail armor as they laughed into the sun many a time before drifting off into a dreamless sleep in their common room. Even Leander Prewett found his one true match, spinning the tale to anyone who would hear in their herbology class about how he was a British king once, married to a beautiful woman dressed in green with a matching choker necklace of pearls and emeralds— how the large “B” charm caught the light just right during their private garden strolls to make her blue eyes sparkle (Ominis also remembered the next day when he stumbled upon the frazzled Gryffindor in the library annex, filled with dread as he poured quite anxiously through the books and reading about that particular necklace, as well as the pretty neck that went along with it. Poor sod).

No, Ominis Gaunt had not found his soulmate yet, nor did he think he ever would, and he was perfectly fine with that, thank you very much.

At least, that’s what he told everyone when they asked.

What didn’t help his case, unfortunately, was that he was irrevocably and incandescently infatuated with the new fifth year. It had taken him some time to get used to their presence in his inner circle. All of his friends had a very distinct magical signature that he memorized after knowing them for some time— every magical being had one, really. Magic to Ominis felt like the fizz of cider against his skin, some slightly more carbonated than others and carrying a different taste in his mouth. Anne felt like the sparkling citrus water that the kitchens would bring out on particularly hot days before finals. Sebastian felt like the burn of firewhiskey on an autumn night, the bonfire in the center of the circle warming the tips of his nose and ears. Both were refreshing and lovely in their own right, but his newest friend was something he had never felt before. He was never able to feel someone else's soul under their skin and determine how old it was, but there was no way you were a young, or even new soul like he was. Even your magic felt old. Your signature was the most distinct one he had ever felt in his short life; it wasn’t a soft fizz like the others, or a pleasant warmth, it was a firework in his chest. You smelled like the smoke after a particularly rowdy Guy Fawkes Night and felt like tiny smoldering ashes falling against his skin, not too hot, but more of a pleasant kiss of heat. He got used to your voice quickly, no matter how your laugh made his knees want to buckle and cause his heart to race faster than a stampeding graphorn, but your magic took some time, even after he found out about your proclivity to ancient magic. There was something so distinctly familiar about it to him, like he had met you before coming to the castle. He didn’t recall ever doing so, but his family threw so many parties in his youth he wouldn’t really question it if he did. Once he started to get used to the feeling, maybe even crave it a little, he realized it was too late to stop the tumble his feelings were taking off your sweet, summer-side cliff.

Ominis knew that you hadn’t found your soulmate yet, but it was only a matter of time before your soft brushes and lingering stares disappeared into the air like everything else in his life. He was doomed to never have anyone by his side, but he knew deep in his heart that you were not destined for loneliness like he was. You were a flowering weeping willow at the edge of a monumental body of water, and he the lowly lake lapping at your petals as they fell, forever in the others orbit but never within arms reach.

That’s how Ominis found himself wandering that day, high up the many stairs of the magical castle and steadily walking towards the deserted music room, his favorite place as of late. Very few people knew where the room was, let alone that the school even had a music room to begin with. Here, he could wallow in his self pity with only the soft sound of his piano to keep him company. About a week ago a line of melody came to him in his dreams, soft and sweet but full of so much empty melancholy that he was on his feet at that very instant, quickly jotting down the notation on one of the many pieces of sheet music that he had lying around his desk. Ever since then, he had gone to the musical tower in the sky to sit by his lonesome and chart out chords like constellations. The song was ethereal to his ears, something that came from the universe itself as a gift that he was destined to write. Ominis was nearly done with it after hours of slaving over the parchment and quill, his fingertips surely staining the ivory keys of the baby grand piano to the point where the house elves despised his presence. He was like a man possessed whenever the melody came to mind, like something in the world was trying to tell him something very important but it couldn’t find the words to do so. The notes rose and fell like a bird flying south for the winter, wings stretched across the sky, swooping and diving only to rise again and kiss the sun. Some parts felt like a walk through a beautiful meadow, the sun on his shoulders and the wind blowing through his hair. Others were dark, like descending a staircase into the very center of the world with no light to guide you, just its ghostly melody to call you home. And some were both at the same time— a shady spot under a corkscrewed sycamore, tiny graves for the woodland creatures of the forest taken over by the wilds of nature, hidden off the beaten path in lamentable isolation. It told a story of everlasting, encompassing love that was ripped away too soon, found again after searching every possible and impossible place for their hand to hold, only to have to part ways once again until their effervescent hereafter. It reminded him of some of the muggle mythology he picked up last year for some light reading during one of his bouts of nightmares— how each tale began weaving together a love that would break the very fabric of the universe until it was taken from the pair by Fates' terrible string. The blond could tell that the song needed lyrics to be complete; Ominis was many things, but he was not a poet. So, much like his future to come, the song would forever remain unfinished. Even still, his forlorn melody kept him company, and he was perfectly fine with that.

Today was different; Ominis knew that as soon as he rounded the bend to the music room and felt a presence inside. The blond cursed to himself, resigned to find another corner of the castle to mope in his hopeless romanticism for the time being until the other person left. He turned on his heel and was about to leave when a sound stopped him in his tracks, his ears pricking up like a startled deer. From the crack in the door came a haunting voice, soothing through a melody that was vaguely familiar to the boy. He curiously took a few steps closer, pressing his ear to the tiny opening to hear better. The voice was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. Its tone was clear like the church bells outside his family home, soaring around the room up to the top of its spiraled ceilings and diving downwards towards the bordeaux patterned cherry floor. It caught the acoustics of the room like a wind chime in the beginnings of spring, and his entire body visibly softened at each lift and fall of its gentle ballad. Ominis listened intently to the lyrics as they made their way through his ears, swirling around his brain and kissing him just behind the eyes with winsome adoration.

Heavy and hard is the heart of the king King of iron, king of steel The heart of the king loves everything Like the hammer loves the nail.

The woman’s voice was like honey in his favorite tea, soothing and with just the right amount of sweetness. Her dulcet tones took Ominis into their arms and waltzed with his heartstrings like two ghosts lost to time. He couldn’t help but keep listening, diving deeper and deeper into her saccharine song.

But the heart of a man is a simple one Small and soft, flesh and blood And all that it loves is a woman A woman is all that it loves. And Hades is king of the scythe and the sword He covers the world in the color of rust He scrapes the sky and scars the earth And he comes down heavy and hard on us.

Hades. Something about the name shook the blond to his core, the word feeling strange at the tip of his tongue like a word he knew but couldn’t remember. Little flashes of light burst behind his closed eyes, bright but not painful, carrying the feeling of…grass under his feet? He wasn’t truly sure what he was feeling, but he knew it wasn’t the wooden floors of the hallway anymore. For a moment he could feel the luscious heat of the spring on his skin and hear the soft call of whippoorwills from the tree tops just beyond where he stood, even though it was a cold and stormy winter outside the stone fortress walls. He continued to listen to the song, careful to not let himself be known to the angel of music just out of his reach.

But even that hardest of hearts unhardened Suddenly, when he saw her there Persephone in her mother's garden Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair.

Persephone. Why was that name familiar too? Why could he suddenly feel the phantom of long, thick hair stream through his fingers like a waterfall, the tresses gently caressing his skin in a way that he only dreamed of? Ominis flexed his fingers, swaying his hand in the air to feel around for a sudden body in front of him; he found nothing there except dust and stale air. The scent of wildflowers invaded his nose harshly, leaving him twitching and fighting off a very unbecoming sneeze until the strong scent pittered away to a delicate gale of sugared anemone and aster flower. The taste of nectar and pollen were heavy on his tongue. He listened closer, eager to hear and experience more. There must be a charm on their voice, the boy reasoned. That had to be the reason he was experiencing all of these things so suddenly.

The smell of the flowers she held in her hand And the pollen that fell from her fingertips And suddenly Hades was only a man With a taste of nectar upon his lips, singing: La la la la la la la…

It was like suddenly being dropped into the icy waters of the black lake. That melody, no wonder it was so familiar to him; it was the piece of music he had been working on nonstop for the past week! Just as the realization dawned on him, the magical aura of the person behind the door struck him harder than anything he had ever felt before— harder than when he had first felt it outside the Undercroft what felt like years ago.

It was you. You were the one singing.

You were the missing piece to his lonely symphony.

Seeing flashes of your past self did not feel like how Ominis originally thought. It wasn’t quick like a speeding bullet into the brain, or loud like a confringo smacking into the pillars of the Undercroft. The flashback started soft and hazy— his vision blackening around his normal shadows and all sense but sight returning first. First came his smell, his hearing, his touch, and his taste while he listened to your silvery cadence fade away into the heavens. All of the feelings that had come one at a time earlier suddenly slammed into him in an influx of sensations, shocking his system into a more startling consciousness than before. Lastly came his sight, coloring his once grey and silhouetted world with a plethora of hues that he had never heard of before. If the boy was being honest, in all the moments where he had imagined finding his soulmate, he hadn’t pictured anything at all. He had never known the gift of sight, so how could he truly prepare himself for what it meant to see? Was that what green was, in the grass below his shined oxfords? Was that blue, in the sky above that stretched on forever? Was that yellow, in the little bumblebee that buzzed around his head searching for a flower to land on? There was so much that he wanted to see, so much that he wanted to know now that he could. His subconscious reminded him that this was not the time for that though, when he spotted a figure bent at the waist in the garden just over the hill from him.

Ominis gulped against the knot forming in his throat, the lump pounding with the beat of his heart just under his ribs as he stepped out of the trees and into the clearing. He had never seen a creature as beautiful as you before; it was like everything in his life had led up to this very moment of meeting. Watching the way your hair glimmered under the summer sun like the jewels adorning his home as you tended your mothers garden, he was nothing more than a man in the presence of a nymph of the forest— something otherworldly, something too beautiful to touch. The sun danced across your skin like the finest silk, creating star-kissed freckles at the apex of your shoulders and down your toned arms, and oh, how could he do anything but remove his hat from his head and gaze at you with awed, enraptured revelry? The air around you smelled like his future— like pomegranates and the promise of forever. He felt in his very being that you were his one love, far before he truly understood the meaning of the word. The emotion could not be named with words, only the feeling of coming home. All he knew is that he needed to know you more than he needed to breathe, more than he needed to eat and drink and sleep and live. Your souls sang in tandem with each other, calling your names into the void and waiting for the shout to come back to them— to sing with them forevermore. Ominis was useless under your charm, like a siren luring an unsuspecting but oh so willing sailor to his doom under the frothing sea waves. He had never spoken to you, but he knew in that moment he would happily die by your hand if you would just meet his gaze one time. He would build whole worlds for you if that was what you wished— tear down entire galaxies if it would make you smile his way.

All of his dreams came true seconds later when you stood from your hunched position, tossing your hair over your shoulder in the intricate braid you wore, each strand decorated with the honeysuckle that bloomed at your feet, before turning and staring at the man before you. You startled at first, unaware that you were being admired for so long by someone so breathtaking. The blond haired beauty under your maple tree was like winter incarnate. His hair was quiffed and slicked away from his face, allowing you to see his strong jaw and perfectly sculpted facial structure. Your eyes drank him in like a garden in a drought with his tasteful three-piece suit, black from the collar at his neck to the wing-tips of his shoes— an unusual color for somewhere so sunny. He was as pale as fresh fallen snow with tiny moles breaking up the color— birdseed trapped in a thin layer of ice. He would be called monochrome if not for his eyes. They reminded you of the Grecian sea, those eyes. Like two pools of seafoam, or two small bouquets of baby's breath and cornflower. Your heart called to him like a lighthouse across a stormy ocean. Fate rarely ruled your life, you’d decided that from a young age after listening to the warnings of your mother, but if the Fates brought you him, you would listen to their words from now on. With one glance it felt like you had known him for years, and yet you didn’t even know his name. He was your past, your present, maybe even your future if you allowed it. He was not one of the flowers like you, more like one of the dead, but you’d happily plant your gardens in his domain. You’d plant flowers that thrived in the dark and the cold, flowers that only bloomed under moonlight, if it meant the universe would be kind enough to let you keep him.

It was you that spoke first, breaking the spellbound trance you both were in from the first moment of contact. “Hi…”

Your voice was like the sweetest music ever played— sweeter than those of the muses, those of the deific. They were nothing, for it was you who was truly divine. He was the moon, and how he longed to know the sun.

His voice was little more than a breath as he murmured in return, still caught up in the sheer transcendence of your beauty. “Hello…”

Your soft laugh shook him from his stupor, softening the frozen heart in his chest as you warmed him in both body and soul. He cleared his throat, shifting his feet for a moment before taking a bold but respectful step forwards, his hand reaching out for yours like a sunflower reaching towards the brightest star in the sky. Around you, the mockingbirds began to sing a tune for your love. You couldn’t help but think it was familiar, like something from a dream you’d had long ago. Their soft song echoed through the trees, each new whistle bringing a new melodious harmony.

La la la la la la la~

“My name is Hades,” he said, the softest smile you had ever seen turning the corners of his mouth.

You return his gaze shyly. There was a smear of dirt across your face, painted across the turn of your nose and the rosy apple of your right cheek like a thick splattering of freckles. The man thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Persephone,” you whispered, smiling ruefully at the flustered pink that colored his face. “What took you so long?”

In a moment it was all over— Ominis’ world dyed grey once again and only the shadows of the things around him visible. Never had he mourned his sight before, but before he had not known the beauty of seeing the night sky in your eyes; he did not know the delightful turn of your lip when you grinned or the crinkle of your nose when you laughed. He knew now that you were not the thing that he could not have, you were the thing that the universe created just for him to hold. You and him were not just a weeping willow and a babbling brook; you were the water that breathed life into your roots and the tree that fed the fish under his waves. You were not simply the sun and the moon, passing constantly but never crossing paths for long; you were an eclipse, two celestial beings dancing together and showering the world with your lovely glow.

You both had done this dance before many a time— taken many a shape before. How could he have ever thought of you as anything other than his other half, his soulmate, his world? He revolved around you, and your benign gravity kept him steady.

That pull was why he had just enough courage to push open the door to the music room, stepping into the sunlit space and basking in the feeling of your seraph-like presence. Ominis knew exactly where you were when he spoke, his soul knowing the feeling of yours for longer than this earth had been breathing.

“Persephone.” It was a breath. A whisper. A prayer.

You looked at him like he hung the very stars you love so much in the sky. There was no one else in that moment, just the two of you and the soft echo of your past lingering in the lines of sheet music strewn across the piano bench.

“Hades,” you simpered, a smile glowing in your voice.

It was moments later that he was upon you, hugging you like your body needed to be a part of his, kissing you like you were the oxygen he needed to live. You met him with the same enthusiasm, finally whole after years of being apart. You pressed your face into his neck, soothing tiny kisses along any skin you can reach, stretching from his collarbones to the tip of his nose. He smiled down at you, his hands reaching up to cradle your face like he was holding starlight in his palms.

“I never thought I would find you again.”

You laugh, your own hands reaching up to cover his. His heart skips a beat when you nuzzle into his skin. “I knew we would find each other again, just as I knew the sun would rise again every morning.”

He was frowning now, a look that did not suit his face in the slightest. He couldn’t help but feel insecure after his years of festering in his terrible self worth. “But how?”

You flipped his world on its axis, removing his hands from your face and in turn placing your palms upon his, caressing your thumb along his jawbone. “Ominis, my darling Hades, did you think I ate those pomegranate seeds unwillingly? Did you think I did not wish to fall into your darkness with flowers in my hair?” You stood on your toes, bringing his face down further and raising yours to rest your temple against his. You found your happiness in his tiny smile. “My love, I chose you that day in the garden. I would find you in any lifetime, any version of reality that calls our name. I would never let you stay too far from me, that I promise to the gods themselves.”

He sealed your words with a kiss, accepting and agreeing with your terms proudly and eagerly. Never would you ever separate again.

And so there you stayed that day, curled in the far corner of the music room with your soft, no longer so lonely melody singing from the baby grand piano. You took turns feeding each other grapes from the vine, laughing like you were the world's sunlight and lounging under the tresses of your own created sky. Behind that, now closed, door was the real world, a terrible thing that brought torment and woe to even the happiest of souls, but in that little space at the top of the tower, you had found your own personal cosmos.

The king of the dead had finally found his queen of the flowers once again.

like what you read? here's more!

#tina speaks #hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis gaunt x reader #ao3 #ao3 fic #ao3 writer #ominis gaunt x you #ominis gaunt #soulmate au #harry potter soulmate au #reincarnation au #fluff #romantic fluff #hades and persephone #hades #persephone #greeky mythology #masterlist

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call-sign-shark · 9 months

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Love Ritual

Summary: Among all the members of the Shelby clan who distrust Tommy's new wife, Y/N, Arthur is the one who suspects her the most. As the oldest brother, it is his mission to protect Tommy from his girl... Even if it means using the most awful methods.

Pairing: Arthur Shelby x Reader x fem!OC

Words: 3.5k

TW: horror theme, blood, allusions to murder, angst

Notes: This work was written for @zablife's 2k celebration "A Night at Arrow House". Congratulations honey, here to many more! Room chosen: Bathroom🖤

Y/N Shelby.

The first time you had heard someone call you so was the day of your marriage right after the infamous Thomas Shelby had put a golden wedding ring around your finger and the priest declared you wife and husband. You could still clearly remember the way his strong and calloused hands, damaged by years of excruciating work and one World War, rested proudly on your hips when his smooth lips crashed against yours. He had kissed you as if his life depended on it, the sensual press of his mouth sending shivers of pleasure through your body to the extent of weakening your legs. Admittedly, things had happened rather fast between you and him. Not that it bothered you though — you were more than satisfied about your love story, which had started the day you came in the Garrison asking for a job. The celebration of your wedding was barely over when Tommy asked you to pack your stuff for the magnificent and unforgettable honeymoon he had booked for the two of you. One thing no one could deny was when Thomas Shelby made a gift, it was always ridiculously expensive and sophisticated. After one full week of paradise in Paris, drinking champagne right from your husband’s mouth and only leaving the bedsheet to go shopping in the Champs Élysée, you came back between the mighty walls of Arrow House. In truth, your return to Small Heath had been inevitable and you already dreaded the absence of Tommy, swallowed by a shit ton of work that had piled up on his desk during his absence. Here was the price to pay to be Tommy’s wife, but that was fine with you. After all, you had it all: the money, the fame, the mansion, and even the heart of Birmingham’s most frightening gangster.

The last thing left was to conquer his family, which you thought would be easy. If the boss of the Peaky Blinders himself couldn’t resist your natural charm and your beaming smile, no one else could.

Never you could have imagined how wrong you were.

The idea to throw a party in Arrow House with all the Shelby clan seemed to be a wonderful way to meet the ones closest to your husband and start establishing cordial relationships. For the event, you hired the most talented cook in London, asked the servants to pamper the guests, and even wore the fanciest dress you found in Paris. Everything had to be perfect. What surprised you though was the worries in Tommy’s eyes when you had shared your plan with him, his turquoise iris turning one shade darker. Still, he agreed with you and let you organize the event as you wished. Honestly, it could have been, indeed, a wonderful idea if the family hadn’t decided that fate shouldn’t go easy on you. The cold and cruel truth, that you’d learn too late, was that no one in the family trusted you. Worst, they didn’t like you. Not at all. And because of their caustic hostility, they were more than decided to turn your charming party into a nightmare you wouldn’t forget.

The sound of your heel echoed in the dark hallways of the mansion, whose grandiloquent chandeliers remained turned off. Following a violent storm, all of Small Heath had been plunged into a blackout. What an awful way to start the evening, you had thought, unknowing of the fact the Shelby clan had planned to do everything in their power to make it worse. The only source of light that kept the mansion from total darkness were the flames of hundreds of candles Frances had lit all around.

An unpleasant feeling weighed on your shoulders and made the hairs of your neck raise as you walked through the silent corridors of Arrow House. What was usually a comforting haven had turned into a threatening place for reasons you could not explain. Call it instincts or sixth sense, but you were overtaken by an unexplainable dread now that you were all alone. Maybe the stress of the power cut and the roaring thunder outside was making you slightly paranoid? Or maybe it was the Shelby behavior towards you that had dulled your mood? No matter the source of your anxiety, the result was the same: you could not help but take quick glances above your shoulder, convinced that someone had been stalking you from the moment you had left the ballroom. Something was lurking in the shadow, closely monitoring your movements. At this very moment, you weren’t quite sure anymore about wandering in the vast mansion by yourself in almost complete blackness. However, the perspective of coming back to the ballroom stirred a feeling of utter anger within you. No, you definitely could not stay in the same room as Polly Gray anymore. From the moment you met her dark eyes to the one you left the room, the Romani queen had been nothing but a bane to you.

It had started with her shooting you some condescending glances and whispering things in Ada’s ear as you passed by them. By the end of the pre-dinner drink, the fearless Aunt had waited for Thomas to leave the room to bump into you on purpose and spill all the red wine of her glass on your overpriced dress. When the mischief was done and the fabric of your expensive garment saturated with the red and smelly alcohol, Polly only shrugged and said “Oh, sorry love.” You hadn’t been fooled by her apologies though, for the way her mouth stretched in a sadistic and disdainful grin had left no doubt of her intentions. To this, Ada and John snickered in the background.

For all these reasons you had run away from the ballroom, trying your best not to cry in front of her, and took the stairs two at times to lock yourself in the luxurious bathroom. You didn’t want them to see you weeping — you refused to give these hyenas the satisfaction of witnessing how deeply their behavior had hurt you. A little sigh escaped from your lips as you stood there with your eyes closed and your forehead leaning against the door you had just shut.

“Are you lost, love?” The hoarse voice that echoed in the silent bathroom made you jolt like a kitten caught in the midst of doing something stupid. You turned around in one vivid movement, your wide-open eyes falling on Arthur, who was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His sharp face, sprinkled with freckles, was floodlit by the orange glow of the dancing candle flames scattered all around him. Such an unexpected encounter made you take a few steps on the right side in order to extend the distance between him and you. It was only when your back hit the cold wall that you realized you might have taken more than a few steps. “Thought no one would bother me here but look at ya.” He growled, the gravel of his voice making his chest vibrate and, by extension, your legs shake like leaves in a raging wind. Of all the Shelby clan and Tommy’s acquaintances, Arthur Shelby was surely the one who frightened you the most. Since the first day you met, he barely acknowledged your existence, rather ignoring you. The rare moments he noticed your being, he simply gave you a death stare with his frozen steel-blue eyes and carried on with Tommy's orders. While you didn’t understand the source of his hatred, you did understand that he, as well as the rest of the clan, would never welcome you in the family whether you bore the name of Shelby or not. Moreover, the oldest sibling was dangerous. All he needed was a little push to snap and transform into a rabid dog, ready to maim and murder anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. And here you were, trapped with him in a dimly lit bathroom. The more you looked at him, the more you felt the immunity Tommy’s protection granted you slip through your fingers. You weren’t Mrs. Shelby anymore, but a prey freshly caught by a starving wolf.

“I’m— I’m sorry. I just wanted to clean the stains on my dress.” Pointing your finger to the said stain, you managed to offer him a trembling and faint smile in the hope of alleviating the palpable tension that had settled between you. After all, this was the only weapon you had left. “Red wine’s stains are hard to clean.”

Your attempt to render the mood lighter failed miserably: Arthur didn’t even bother to answer. Instead, his sinister eyes fell on the dark red smudge on your stomach, and, as they did, his gaze almost scorched you to the bones. As the fire of the candles reflected in his void pupils, his iris shone with a threatening gleam. You ended up sniffing, his silence making you uncomfortable, “Why— Why don’t you join the party in the ballroom?” You felt obliged to talk, or else his frightening quietness would have driven you crazy. Arthur finally looked away and shifted his focus on the bathtub, his long and bony fingers brushing the warm water it contained. Now that your eyes had adjusted to the ambient darkness, you noticed the red petals that were lazily floating on the surface.

Confused by the whole situation, you frowned and tilted your head to the side: why did he run himself a bath in the midst of the party? Not only it was disrespectful, but it didn’t make any sense. It was your house, not his and this intrusion in the bathroom felt like he had violated a private space.

“‘Spose it ain’t yer fookin’ business, love.” Arthur finally spoke, punctuating his sentence with a grunt. He didn’t even look at you — instead, his eyes left the bathtub’s content and fell on the floor. Instinctively, your gaze followed his.

“Fuck.” You mouthed, unable to keep your calm. Your smile faded from your lips at the sight of a knife laid on the tiled floor, in the middle of a pentagram traced with an odd crimson paint. At the end of each branch was a small candle.

Your chest tightened at the way the dancing flames reflected on the blade. All of sudden, a cold breeze coming from nowhere rushed into the bathroom and made your blood freeze in your veins. The first thought that crossed your mind was to storm out of this place and yell at your husband that his brother was in the midst of a fucking ritual in your bathroom, but when you tried to do so your body stood still, unresponsive. Just like a doe caught in the blinding headlights of a car, you were petrified and your fight or flight reflex was broken. The only part of you that was still working was your tongue. “Arthur, your… Your hands…” You thought you shouted but in truth, your quivering voice was merely a frightened whisper. Arthur raised a brow: with his sleeves rolled up, you could see how his hands and forearms were stained with that same thick paint.

“Hmm.” He replied, bringing one of his blood-stained hands closer to his face to observe it attentively, “Oh, is this the blood that disturbs you eh?” Arthur slowly moved his fingers, enjoying the sensation of the drying crimson liquid on his skin and the beautiful patterns it drew in his hands, bringing his palm lines out, “That’s okay. D’ye know that blood is a magical substance? Me wife taught me that.” He started, his thin lips curling in a wicked grin, “She told me the tale of Madame LaLaurie. Want me to tell you, Y/N?”

You slowly shook your head in reply, barely daring to show your refusal, and swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. It was enough for Arthur to stand up in a sudden movement and walk to you with the terrific gait of a predator. As he approached, your hand discreetly tried to reach the doorknob in your back but the slim gangster was too quick: he grabbed you by the wrist to keep you from opening the door and brought his face closer to yours. So close that his scorching whisky breath fanned over your cheeks.

“Well,” He started, allowing his free hand to graze your throat for the simple pleasure of feeling your erratic heartbeat against his palm. The blood from his fingers smeared your delicate flesh in the process, “I’ll still tell ya, love. Madame LaLaurie was obsessed with beauty. One of her deepest desires, besides torturing her slaves -because the crazy old lady owned poor slaves- was to find the secret of eternal youth. Hell, ain’t it every woman’s biggest dream ay?” His grin stretched in a Cheshire smile, which showcased all of his teeth and slightly lifted his mustache, “LaLaurie was a sick bitch hmm. But she had found a very interesting and efficient way to keep her skin fresh and young…” Arthur’s fingers suddenly left your throat to trap your chin. Then, he forced you to look at him right in the white of his eyes, “Can ye guess what it is, lass?”

“Arthur — Please I need to… To come back to the ballroom. Tommy’s gonna be worried.”

“Nah, yer going to stay with me a little longer alright? Going to keep company to your brother-in-law until he finishes his story, ay love?” His grip around your chin had become slightly painful by now, on top of his evil eyes roving over the details of your face, “So Madame LaLaurie found a way to plump the skin of her face. She slathered her misbehaving slaves and smeared their blood on her face. Ye heard me well, ah! She used their blood as a fookin’ beauty mask.” He let out a frightening chuckle as if the whole situation was amusing. It wasn’t. The gravel in his tone thickened the atmosphere, enhancing your fear so brutally that you almost suffocated. Silence fell in the room for what felt like an eternity as Arthur stared at your very own soul through his dark lashes, his round pupils reflecting nothing but a dizzying void. At this moment, you were convinced he was feeding on your fear, relishing the terror that animated your traits. He smelled it — how powerless you were. “Now, me wife felt tired today. Life’s been harsh with her lately, and the poor angel is slightly afraid of turning twenty-eight. See, I told her she was still young and beautiful, but the anguish is deep-rooted in her. So, I said “fuck this house party” and decided to run her a hot bath to soothe her soul,” The gangster tilted his head to the side — did he even blink during the whole conversation? You could not tell. “Before you came in that bathroom I was thinking about Madame LaLaurie… And was wondering if she would feel better if I’d bring her some fresh blood.”

“Arthur, I —“ You tried to say something after a few seconds of carefully thinking the next words that were about to come from your mouth, as if the slightest misinterpretation would lead you to an inevitable death, but you couldn’t finish your sentence: the bathroom door flung open at the moment you started speaking and it closed again in a loud bang.

“The hell you’re doing with my husband?” A chilling and enchanting voice, as mesmerizing and threatening as a siren’s chant in the midst of a foggy sea, echoed in the room. A voice you had only heard once but which was deeply engraved in your mind. Your heart missed a beat in your chest, first delighted at the perspective of someone walking in and saving you from the creepy conversation you had with the oldest Shelby brother. But when you turned around, your dawning smile withered as you caught sight of Arthur’s wife: the vitriol that was boiling in her eyes was so corrosive that you were pretty sure it could dissolve you right on the spot if you gawked at her for too long. The tiny hope you felt had already disappeared. Far too well you were aware that the young lass was probably more inclined towards breaking your nails one by one and maybe your bones too than she was towards saving you now that she saw you physically close to Arthur. Far too close to her liking. When you understood what was going on in her mind, you stepped back from him as if you had just been burned.

“No-Nothing! I swear we were just talking! I was about to leave.” You stuttered, trying your best to sound convincing but the weight of her accusing gaze made your confidence shrink — to the extent that you started to feel guilty even if you didn’t do anything. And if fear had already overtaken you because of the lanky gangster, it was an indescribable terror that was now coursing through your cold veins.

“Angel.” Arthur gruff voice said, softer as talked to her.

According to rumors, Heaven was nothing but an evil witch whose inhumane powers could kill someone without even touching them. The few times your husband talked about his sister-in-law, you had noticed faint tremors in his voice: he feared her. At first, it seemed exaggerated. Unreasonable. After all, Heaven was a short and frail woman, so petite that a gust of wind could have blown her away. Moreover, her facial features were incredibly soft. So soft and delicate that she looked like an innocent creature with her big aquamarine eyes and her plumped lips always adorned with gloss. But now that she was standing in front of you, dressed only in a long white silk robe, you realized that something uncanny was radiating off her. She looked too pure to be real and too pale to be alive with her snow-white mane and her iris made of frost. An unpleasant shiver ran down your spine: if Heaven Shelby looked like an angel fallen from the skies, her beauty could not hide the Devil that was hiding underneath. For sure, her physical appearance only compensated for the emptiness of her heart.

In this life, no one mattered to her except her husband and John.

“Talking.” She repeated with her strong French accent as she tilted her head to the side, her long white hair following the movement and hanging loosely. “Of course.” She scoffed. Each of her words made your stomach twisted.

With the elegance of a wildcat, Heaven walked to the pentagram traced on the floor and picked up the knife. As she did, your eyes followed her, fearing she would stab you at the tiniest opportunity. “And what were you talking about?” She inquired, looking at Arthur. The gangster was quick to come to her and, when he reached his young wife, he laid his blood-stained and possessive hands on her waist, not minding the red traces they left on her bathrobe. The way he looked at her, with mad and obsessive love, only added a layer of creepiness to the whole scene. Maybe Tommy wasn’t wrong when he told you she had probably bewitched his brother. At this point, Arthur would have probably thrown himself out of the window without any question if she'd asked him to do it.

When faced by your silence, Arthur’s mouth grazed her earlobe with utter desire before he whispered something in her ear. What the lanky man told his wife you could not tell. What you could tell though was how the sudden sparkle that ignited Heaven’s eyes had sent a surge of unreasonable panic in your being. The hellish couple was now staring at you, like two wolves waiting for the slightest sign of weakness to devour you. The oldest Shelby sibling’s face split with a threatening grin while Heaven’s full lips curled in a cold, sardonic smirk.

“Listen, I’ll let the two of you have a romantic bath and—“

“You’re not going anywhere, silly girl.” The evil angel retorted, pointing you with the blade of her knife, “Go get her.” She had barely given the order when Arthur, hopelessly devoted to her, bounced on you and seized your shoulders with a grip so strong that you would have collapsed on the floor if his hands had not kept you on your feet. With that being done, the frightful gangster sneaked behind you and locked you in his arms while the ethereal but malevolent creature broke the distance. She only stopped when the sharp and pointy tip of her knife painfully pressed against your throat. Then, she observed your fragile flesh with great attention, moistening her tantalizing lips with her tongue as she thought how easy it would be to kill you now. “The human body is an amazing thing you know? One small cut here and you’ll bleed to death on the floor of this bathroom.” She paused. Running out of courage, tears beaded in the corner of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks, leaving long wet trails behind them. “Come on Y/N. Light the candles and chant with us, I’m pretty sure I could use that blood of yours…”

A rush of adrenaline suddenly struck you as the image of Arthur and his angel-looking wife making love in the bathtub filled with your own blood flashed in your mind. It wasn’t a romantic bath they had planned, but a human sacrifice. Blessed with a sudden strength only the desperate ones are granted, you overcame your catatonia and broke free from Arthur’s grip, yelling like an agonizing prey, “Leave me alone!” You screamed, a scream so loud it woke all the ghosts of Arrow House up. Without asking further questions, you threw yourself at the door and ran from the devilish couple with tears flooding your vision and anxiety keeping you from breathing properly.

Disappearing in the corridor, you let the darkness swallow you, unknowing that you wouldn't be safe anywhere in Arrow House anymore.

🩸 Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

🩸 Tag list: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @brummiereader @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @shelbydelrey @peakyswritings @helen06dreamer

#Tommy shelby #Arthur Shelby #Peaky blinders imagine #Arthur Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x you #Arthur Shelby x you #Peaky Blinders x Reader #Heaven Shelby #peaky blinders x you #Polly Gray #Peaky Blinders

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blondeboyfriend · 1 year

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𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Another repost from 2021. I'll always have a soft spot for this fic. [ SYNOPSIS ] You're a talented, hot mess of a screenwriter. Zeke is a beloved actor/writer/director that seemingly has his shit together. What better way to repair your reputation than by fake dating him at the behest of your agent? [ WORD COUNT ] 8.8k [ CONTENT ] Film industry AU, fake dating, tall!reader, y/n has a personality, drug use, alcohol, sexual harassment (Don't fret! Zeke is not the harasser!), misogyny, depression, cigarettes, y/n is neurotic and doesn't like eating in front of people, existential angst, swimming pools, Floch is your agent, hungover!Zeke. [ PLAYLIST ] Here's the link.

A car barreled down the street, a puff of dark exhaust spewing out like a specter. The wind carried it off, now nothing more than a grey stain in the air. Still, the noxious smell made its way over to you and buried itself in your nose, seemingly singeing every hair. You sneezed and wiped your nose with the back of your hand, hoping no one saw you. In any other moment, you wouldn’t care.

But unfortunately today was a day different from the rest. You had to present and composed. Dignified. The exact opposite of how you were two weeks ago…

You’d been dragged to one of those gaudy industry parties: a grandiloquent celebration for the cast and crew of a film you co-wrote.

You wore an understated, black sheath dress much too short for the occasion. On the model, the bottom hem rested gracefully above the knee, thighs mostly obscured by the cotton-polyester fabric. But you spent most of the night tugging on your dress and dissociating.

Your conversations were stilted. Your words tinged with uncertainty and distaste. Men licked their lips as they eyed your exposed thighs, occasionally winking if you caught them. The longer you stayed, the more your humiliation bloomed into an unspeakable rage.

Unable to contain yourself, you took to the stage and aired out your grievances. You pointed directly at a studio head, one that had been ogling you all night, and told him he probably had a “fucked-up looking, duck dick.”

It was no surprise the industry didn’t hold such high regard for your blatant disrespect.

Proverbial water filled your lungs with every attempt to mend the situation. You nearly ruined a press junket with an impromptu apology, your hand gripping the microphone like a lifebuoy. Writers and script doctors, people you once considered friends, retreated and left you in their wake. You weren’t worthy of the insurance the studios had to take out to employ you. They’d rather watch you drown.

But for whatever reason your agency believed your talent was worth going through hell for.

“You can’t fuck this up!” your agent shouted through the phone. “Act normal. Smile or something. That’s not outside of your skill set, is it? ‘Cause if it is, you can go fuck off right now and continue ruining your career on your own dime.” His tone changed to a calmer fury. “Act like you are sociable and reliable. Please. For me.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m a writer. Acting’s definitely outta my skill set.”

“I am going to wring your little neck on our therapeutic, nature walk tomorrow. I swear to fucking god.”

You struggled to stifle a laugh as he berated you about how to position yourself in your chair and what food to order. He even told you what clothes to wear: a gauzy, light pink sundress that barely covered your ass and a trendy pair of chunky sandals. But instead you showed up at the restaurant in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. You looked positively pedestrian.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll be cordial.”

“For the love of—Act like you’re interested in him! You’re lucky he agreed to this. Flirt, be coy. ‘Oh wow, you look soooooo good.’”

“Is that how you woo the boys and girls?”

“Do you ever want to have a job again? Do you want opportunities?”

“I mean… Duh.”

“Then make this believable. We need people to think you’re stable. And who knows? Maybe you’ll actually like him.”

You rolled your eyes. The idea of “dating” a man to make yourself seem even-keeled and hireable was laughable. Sure, he was rather popular with the masses and industry folk. A beloved actor. A clever screenwriter. A visionary director or some shit. And yeah, maybe he was one of the more dependable men to work with. He was seemingly the exact opposite of you.

He was the industry’s golden boy.

Floch seethed through the phone. “Listen. To. Me. You are going to act like you’re having the fucking time of your stupid life out there, got it? You’re going to ham it up for the paparazzi.”

“Why would they give a shit about this? We’re not A-listers.”

“I fucking hired them, that’s why. Also I’d argue Zeke’s pretty A-list; he’s just boring as fuck… Shit. My daughter’s teacher is telling me I’m making the other parents uncomfortable. I gotta go.”

“Wha—where are you?”

“A PTA meeting.”

And with that Floch hung up.

“Okay,” you muttered.

You stood outside the restaurant, waiting for this Zeke Yeager. Part of you considered running off and finding refuge in the cutlery store across the street. But no, that would make you even more unappealing. You were being watched after all. Suddenly you were suspicious of every person around. Every car, every pedestrian, could have been a paid pair of lingering eyes. In a panic you tried to call Floch only to get his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Floch Forster. I can’t answer the phone right now becau—Louisa quit biting your brother! Jesus fucking… Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I feel like it.”

You opted not to leave a voicemail.

As aggressive as Floch could be, he always was your biggest cheerleader. When he took you on as a client he made it clear you were his main focus. The only other person he represented was a surrealist director from Chile he had never spoken to directly.

You sighed and looked at your phone, hoping you’d find solace in your barrage of notifications. But none of them were particularly interesting. Still, you scrolled mindlessly, entering some sort of trance. The smell of cigarette smoke was what brought you back to the trappings of reality. You turned around to see Zeke.

“I thought you’d be shorter,” he quipped, taking a drag. “I don’t know why; don’t ask.”

“Is this how you say hello to people?” you asked, voice bristling with irritation.

“Yeah. You want one?” He held out his pack of expensive, imported cigarettes.

“Nah. I quit years ago. The taste makes me nauseous now.”

“How tragic.” He narrowed his eyes and took another drag. “You know I think I’ve met you before.”

“I don’t think so. I’d remember that.”

He wore a dark green flannel with a few buttons undone, his blonde chest hair peeking out. His beard wasn’t as neat as it was on camera; it was a tad longer, a little bushier. You preferred it over the perfectly manicured one. His long legs were clothed in dark blue denim, with a sizable hole in the knee. It was a relief that he hadn’t dressed up either.

“No, no. I definitely have. It was at—what’s her name—Yelena’s. You were with all those coked out girls. I tried to introduce myself, but you ignored me.” He laughed nervously. “But it’s fine. Do you still run around with them?”

You rolled your eyes and sighed. That gaggle of starlets hadn’t crossed your mind in a year.

“No. I got sick of babysitting adult children with perpetual nosebleeds.”

“It does get old after a while. I knew I was done with that whole scene after I gave a guy naloxone behind a Scientology Celebrity Centre.”

“Can’t say I ever had something like that happen.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

He took a few steps closer and wrapped his arms around you, cigarette precariously resting between his fingers. He smelled like fresh laundry and tobacco. You swallowed hard, unable to recall the last time you let someone hug you. The only downside of it all was the potential of your hair getting singed.

“What the fuck, dude?” You asked, trying to act like you weren’t enjoying this.

“I’m supposed to be your boyfriend, aren’t I?”

“This just seems like a lot.”

“This is nothing,” he said.

He kissed your forehead and ruffled your hair. You hated him for taking on the role of your love interest with such ease. For you it was like putting a cat in a sweater.

“Relax,” he said, dropping his arms. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

You stared out into the street, over his shoulder. Your eyes followed a crowded bus as it puttered by. Anything to not look directly at Zeke. His whole person was overwhelming. You had seen him on the screen a handful of times and found him to be unremarkable, but seeing him in person was, again, a lot.

“Wish it was over now,” you muttered, finally stepping away from him. You immediately missed the warmth radiating from his body.

“We can make it fun. I promise.”

“Doubt it. Like don’t take it personally, but yeah. No.”

He grinned and tossed his cigarette out into the street, nearly missing a meter maid.

“What? You don’t trust me?”

“You’re an actor. Of course I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, come on.”

He opened the door to the restaurant. The smell of garlic and basil wafted into your nose.

“After you,” he said.

The restaurant was small. The walls were paneled with Pepto Bismol pink painted wood and decorated with aging photos of what appeared to be a sizable Italian family. Vases of wildflowers were scattered about. It was a level of hominess and familiarity that left you a little unnerved.

“I hate it here,” you whispered.

Zeke lightly elbowed you. “We haven’t even sat down yet.”

“Sometimes you just kn—”

“Wheredyawannasit?” a lackadaisical host asked.

“What?”

“By a window,” Zeke said coolly.

You hated how easily he navigated social situations. Granted he was an actor; it was basically in the job description.

“A window, huh?” you said, cocking an eyebrow.

The bastard winked at you.

You both took a seat. The table was covered with a powder blue tablecloth and a pane of glass, and it was right by a large window. You felt on display. A waiter traipsed by and wordlessly dropped menus on the table. Everything felt unnatural.

“I hate how easy this is for you,” you said, opening a menu.

“That’s only because I’m at least making an attempt to have a decent time.”

“You don’t find this humiliating?”

“Why would this be humiliating?” he asked. “We’re having lunch.”

Why? Because it made you feel vulnerable, like you were tearing open a wound. You were sick of putting yourself out there. So many years you spent with a smile plastered on your face, eager to please, and for what?

“Because I’m over this shit, okay? I’m sick of appeasing people.”

“You’re in the wrong business then.”

The waiter came by and placed two glasses of water on the table.

“You think I don’t know that?” you groaned. “I just wanna write. That’s all.”

“What’s stopping you from doing that?”

“My reputation. Misogyny. Capitalism. That time I accidentally stepped on a service dog at a premiere,” you exasperated.

He laughed. “You’re too hung up on the past.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Don’t think about it then. That’s what I do.”

“You say that like it’s so fuckin’ easy,” you hissed.

The waiter returned and took your orders. You were surprised and mildly disturbed to see that Zeke only ordered a cappuccino and some amaretto. He noticed the face you made and shrugged. You found yourself intrigued and repulsed by him. He managed to be disarming and utterly intimidating at the same time. It was disorienting.

“So why did you have your little tantrum?”

“Which one?” you scoffed.

“The one that made a very drunk Floch call me at two in the morning, begging me to make you look ‘normal.’”

Floch’s fascination with you coming off as normal amused you to no end.

“Oh, right… Uh, like, I was just over it. Like doing all that dumb shit. Smiling even though I wanna die. Wearing uncomfortable clothes to uncomfortable events. Being friends with people I despise, like those fuckin’ girls I used to hang out with. Not being taken seriously unless I co-wrote with someone else. I don’t know.”

“It got old.”

“Yeah. I used to be fine with it, going with the flow or whatever. But recently, I don’t know. I can’t be bothered. Like I straight up do not care. I spent way too much time giving a shit about what people thought about me. I’m done with that.”

You found yourself clenching your fists and took a deep breath to dull your rage.

“Fair enough,” he said nervously.

Your voice softened, hoping to put him at ease if only a little.

“I’m not really sure where it leaves me but… Fuck it. I’m past the point of caring,” you said before quickly shoving a piece of bread in your mouth.

The rest of the lunch was awkward and unremarkable. You hated how together Zeke’s life was. He was working on a short film inspired by his salad days filming skate videos. He played in a celebrity baseball tournament for charity. He planned on spending a few months in Aotearoa because he hated wintering in California. And he footed the bill even though you wanted to go halfsies.

“Alright. Well, this was weird. I’ll see you around I guess.”

You started to walk off, but he grabbed your wrist. His calloused hands revealed his past in the minor leagues. You turned to look at him and immediately regretted your decision. He looked so dreamy. His eyes exuded kindness. You didn’t deserve it.

“When can I see you again?”

You glanced to the side and tried to concoct an answer.

“I don’t know. Have your guy call Floch and they can set something up.”

“I—I’d rather us do the planning.”

“Why?”

This was a business transaction; there was no reason to make it personal.

“I want to get to know you without that guy up our asses.”

Zeke pointed out a paparazzo in an inconspicuous silver Tesla. He hauled ass down the street once he realized that Zeke spotted him.

He continued. “If you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

It was strange to see him so bashful. You desperately tried to recall the night you apparently blew him off, but that part of your life was a blur. A haze of cigarette smoke, maxed out credit cards, and ketamine. Too many nights spent flanked by socialites with fake voices and wannabe Kerouacs. That period of your life was one long night. A party you desperately wanted to leave. Something as angelic as him would have stood out amongst the filth and depravity you waded through. You would have followed him out of all that muck.

“I’ll think about it. DM me on Insta or something.”

You went to give him a hug goodbye, but he brushed you off.

“Guy’s gone. You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said.

A sad, little smile had laid claim to his face.

“Oh, right. Anyway, I'll see ya.”

You turned away as he quietly said goodbye. You hated yourself for your vague cruelness, but this was humiliating. Here was this great guy who was willing to put his career on the line and be seen with you, and yet you were a total downer.

But you weren’t surprised. This was your modus operandi: torching bridges while they’re being built, you standing alone on the smoldering beams.

You were incredibly thankful for the “therapeutic, nature walk.” The morning was calm. The sun drifted through the window, painting your walls with a creamy orange. You sipped coffee, scrolled through your emails, and slowly prepared yourself for your jaunt in the woods. Floch picked you up at eight o’clock in the morning. The drive up was peaceful. You kept the window down and relished in the needley wind pricking your skin.

“He only ordered espresso and fucking booze?” Floch asked, helping you up a particularly steep hill.

“It was a cappuccino. But yeah. Not like I did much better though. I just slyly ate bread, didn’t even bother touching the tortellini I ordered.”

Once you crested the hill you were greeted by a sea of ponderosa pines. Nature had a way of calming your soul, quelling the disdain that seemed to permeate your being. You fantasized about leaving the city and losing yourself in the woods. The further you were removed from the industry the better you’d feel. Maybe you wouldn’t be so neurotic.

“Why?!” He exclaimed.

“I hate eating in public. Let alone in front of someone I don’t know and a guy with a camera. I did grab a bánh mì after.”

Floch sighed.

“I guess that makes sense, but it’s still fucking ridiculous. Think about the food waste.”

You rubbed your temples and took a deep breath. You weren’t in the mood for such a conversation. You were aware of how odd your behavior was and didn’t need to be reminded of its environmental ramifications.

“Are you going to see him again?” he asked, taking a seat on a stump.

“He mentioned wanting to meet up again but on our, like, own accord.”

“Oh, so fuck me then?”

“Exactly,” you laughed.

He rolled his eyes. “What’s the plan?”

You plopped down on the ground next to Floch.

“No idea. But probably something stupid and pretentious. He hasn’t reached out to me yet though. Maybe I scared him off.”

Floch flicked your temple with his thumb and middle finger.

“Stop overthinking it. Call him right now and make plans.”

You stuck your tongue out like a child. “Gross. I’ll just text him… Wait, do you have his number? I didn’t ask for it.”

“I thought you wanted to do this on your own accord,” he said, pulling out his phone.

“I’m adding a teeny addendum to that,” you snickered.

Getting a hold of Zeke ended up being more of a struggle than you anticipated. His voicemail was full and your texts were never read. The lack of response made a pit open up in your stomach. You tried to fill it with coffee and the occasional blunt, but nothing sufficed. He had no reason to get back to you anyway. You weren’t particularly friendly during your lunch.

That was always the worst part. The hangover from your behavior. You used to think nothing beat the shame of waking up after a night of binge drinking, cursed with only a vague recollection of the awful things you did. But when waking up stone cold sober there was nothing to hide behind.

It was a great relief when Zeke finally called you back. He apologized for being so busy, but his words felt rather hollow. You didn’t think he was lying, but you questioned how genuine he was being.

“Meet me at the skate park on 16th and Sequoia. I have some filming to take care of and I’m trying to work with natural lighting,” he rambled.

“Shots’ll look good,” you said, trying to sound knowledgeable even though you didn’t know much about filming.

You agreed to meet him on the grounds that he let you pay for coffee.

Once at the park you were greeted by a sea of teenagers and their cacophonous choir of expletives and shrieks. You waded through them until you found Zeke sitting on the floor, fiddling with a Sony Handycam.

“You seem a little old to be hangin’ with this crowd.”

“The whole point is that they’re young. Tell me, does that kid read late-2000s, maybe early 2010s?” he asked before standing up and grabbing a worn out board.

You stared at a boy dressed like an extra from an early Odd Future video.

“I guess. Please tell me you’re not gonna skate.”

“Of course I am! That’s how it’s done.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you do this?”

He sighed. “When you say it like that, it’s going to sound boring. It’ll just be an hour and then we can get coffee.”

A kid interrupted your conversation by kicking Zeke in the shin.

The kid barked, “Is Eren coming?”

Zeke shook his head to the kid’s disappointment. They dejectedly skated off without a word.

“You should have hit me up later. I could be at home right now and diving into the depths of Vine compilations.”

You pantomimed diving into a pool much to Zeke’s amusement.

Zeke skated off and exchanged pleasantries with the pack of hormone-addled youths. One of the girls set off and he trailed after her. It was a rather boring experience as a spectator. Zeke skated alongside her, crouching on his board, camera angled at her feet.

“Impressive,” you called out as Zeke reviewed what he filmed.

“Please, that was nothing.”

“Do something cool then. Do a trick.”

What happened next should have been expected, but somehow ended up being a complete surprise. Zeke attempted what you later learned was a heel flip. All you saw was him skate past you and then suddenly he was a mess of tangled limbs on the concrete, his board rolling off into a bowl. You ran to him while the kids keeled over with laughter.

“Shit,” was all he could say.

“Are you okay?” you asked, knowing damn well he was not okay.

“Help,” he coughed.

He looked so pathetic and small on the ground. You reached out and hoisted him up. Now that he was upright the extent of his injuries seemed to be reduced to a few raspberries and torn jeans.

“I keep bandaids in my kånken,” he winced.

“Knew you’d have one of these fuckin’ stupid ass, expensive backpacks,” you muttered.

You tended to his scraped knee, borrowing some bactine wipes one of the teens had on her person. Dabbing Zeke’s knee you looked up and found him gazing down at you, eyes teeming with longing. You instinctively glared at him like an asocial idiot.

“You look like you're proposing to him,” a boy slurred.

It didn’t take much to clean Zeke up, but his ripped jeans revealed his hubris. The walk to the coffee shop was spent with him slightly limping with his arm around your shoulder. You wondered if there were any paparazzi around to document this sad sight. Though maybe Floch decided he had better things to spend money on. You were left with only a wisp of paranoia.

“This is what I get for trying to show off,” he said, easing himself down onto a bench.

You took a seat next to him and couldn’t help but laugh as he iced his knee with his cold brew.

“Is that actually helping?”

“Kind of?” he replied with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, like you said, it’s what you get for showing off.”

“Come on. I’m injured. You should be nice to me.”

“I don’t have to be anything to you.”

He gulped and quickly let out a nervous laugh. You took a long sip of your drink and shifted your eyes to the side, staring into a rose bush.

Zeke sighed. “I hate to use an idiom, but you really are a tough nut to crack.”

You shut your eyes tight and fought the urge to spill all your secrets. Something about Zeke lent himself to it. Or rather you were looking for the opportunity to let it all out and projecting it on him out of sheer convenience.

He continued. “I’m not saying you need to bare your soul to me, but I’d like to get to know you. I want to get to know you.”

“I’m not worth knowing,” you droned.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I can and I am. Like not to be super fuckin’ dramatic, but getting to know people, letting them in and shit… It’s not worth the hassle.”

“Hassle? I’m not asking you to do hard labor,” he laughed.

“You don’t get it. I can’t just ‘get to know people.’ I—if you get to know me it’s like I’ve torn myself open.”

“What if I told you I just wanted to know your favorite color?”

You gritted your teeth and seethed, “You’re not getting it.”

He turned to look at you. You cut your staring contest with the rose bush short and gathered as much false bravado as you could. Gazing into his grey eyes would weaken you. You knew it for a fact and had to be prepared.

“You’re not really giving me a chance to.”

Damn. It. There was no preparing yourself for his patience, his kindness, even if it seemed a little phony. You held his gaze for a while before finally breaking the silence.

“It's like a piece of me is being ripped away… when I let people in... It feels like a weight. Or a void. Or both? I don’t know. I try to talk about it, but I fuck it up every time. 99% of the time I say something cruel or like dumb.” You took a deep breath. “And it’s… it’s not like I can actually be there for people, if I were to let them know me or whatever the fuck. Like what do I do? I gore myself for these people and leave them with… what? Viscera and trash?” Your thoughts were growing hazy, your anger obscuring your thoughts. “I don’t know. I’m a disease. My heart is a worn down mountain. I’m nothing more than the smoking, smoldering mine under that fucked up town that inspired, uh, Silent Hill.”

Saliva pooled in your mouth. Your inability to explain yourself was making you ill.

“Your heart is an eroded landform. And also, somehow, Centralia, Pennsylvania.”

“That is so reductive.”

“Listen. You’re not making much sense, but I think I want to underst—”

“I don’t need to fucking make sense! I… I’m just so sick of feeling like shit and not knowing what to do. Do I keep shutting myself off? Acting like a fuckin’ demon hermit that shrivels in the spotlight? Spitting and hissing at my contemporaries? Or do I go back to painting my face like a whore clown? Do I go back to making people feel vaguely at ease?! Or do I keep pushing against it?! How many hands are gonna crawl up my skirt if I go back to smiling and acting like I’m proud of the fuckin’ Kate Hudson vehicle I co-wrote with five other people? I can’t do that shit anymore. I’d rather throw myself down a flight of stairs.”

“Okay, Zelda Fitzgerald, take a breather,” he consoled or rather attempted to.

His arm hovered around your shoulder before finally patting it with his weighty hand. A small but welcome gesture. You snorted and wiped away the tears that had been collecting in the corners of your eyes.

You knew nothing you spewed made sense, but it needed to be said. It had been festering inside you. You still felt terrible, but lighter. You didn’t feel like Atlas carrying a bounty of self loathing and misanthropy on your back. For once you exhaled and there was relief.

“It’s green,” you said quietly.

“What?”

You spoke up. “My favorite color. It’s green.”

“You seem in good spirits,” Floch noted. “It’s weird. Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“What?! No! I just, I don’t know, I feel decent.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“Ugh. No. I legit feel okay… esque.”

The park was crowded for a Wednesday morning. Usually your weekly walk around the lake was a calmer affair. Granted the park was dotted with everchanging oak trees and it was fall.

“All because of some guy. Wow.”

“That’s not why. But you know, he is pretty fun.”

“Uh huh.”

“Though maybe I only think that because he’s hot.”

You happened to glance at Floch and the cat-like grin on his face. Being embarrassed and saying “just kidding” crossed your mind, but it was true. You did find Zeke amusing and attractive.

“You like hiiiiiiiim,” he teased.

“I said he’s hot. That’s hardly… Shit. Fuck. Okay, maybe I like him a little.”

“This is great! Now all you have to do is make him fall in love with you and hopefully have that convince every stupid fucking studio to suck your figurative dick,” he cheered.

You frowned. You had momentarily forgotten about the transactional nature of this relationship. Floch immediately caught onto your disappointment.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t pursue this seriously. You could probably be his girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever.”

You froze, wide-eyed, letting a rogue jogger bump into you.

“I—I never said anything about that.”

“Your reaction just did the talking for you,” Floch said, punctuating his sentence with a smirk.

“It’s not like I stand a chance anyway.”

You didn’t consider yourself desirable, let alone Zeke’s type even though you honestly had no idea what that was. Your self confidence had been in shambles for months; anything was possible.

“Hm. Now that I think about it I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him dating anyone.”

“Hopefully his type is whatever all this is,” you sighed, looking down at your body.

“People seem to think you two are cute together.”

“Great, but what do the people that matter think?”

“Well… They kind of think a little less of him now that you two are dating.”

“Nothing ‘bout me though?” you asked flatly.

“Nada.”

“I mean that’s not too bad.”

“When are you seeing him next?”

“He invited me to some party at some guy’s house. All I know is there’s a pool and Zeke intends on pushing his brother into it.”

“Oh wow, sounds super romantic,” he snarked.

You stomped on a crunchy leaf. The party could end up being romantic if you tried. So far you made little attempt to impress Zeke and he was still drawn to you. If you actually did something, who knows what you could accomplish?

That night the driver Zeke hired to pick you up plucked you from your home and dropped you off at a glass windowed monstrosity nestled in the hills. It was owned by the editor of a marginally popular skateboarding magazine.

You were irked that he decided to go to the party early and not extend the invite. You hated shit like this and even more when you were forced to do it on your own.

You exhaled and your fist hovered parallel to the door.

“Just knock, dumb ass.”

Before you could the door was ripped open by a tanned, green-eyed man. He was wearing a red cut-off shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and checkerboard slip-ons.

“You’re not the weed guy,” he said, frowning.

“No. I mean, I have weed. Bu—but I’m not, like, the designated weed guy. I wish I was though. Like that’d be dope.”

He looked you up and down, and hollered over his shoulder, “False alarm.”

You heard a choir of groans and sighs from behind him.

“Uh… so, can I come in? Zeke invited me.”

You introduced yourself and quickly found out the man you were talking to was Eren, a professional skater and Zeke’s brother. He slid out of the way, granting you permission to enter. You stepped inside and stared up at the enormous foyer. A twinkling chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the vacuous space. It was sterile and everything blindingly white.

He led you into a room filled to the brim with people. You found yourself wanting to cling to him even though he was as much a stranger as everyone else.

“So yeah, I don’t know where Zeke is but I’m sure you’ll find him. Let me know if you don’t!”

And with that Eren disappeared. You were happy to see no one looked particularly glamorous, but it did little to quell your nerves. A Yaeji song seemed to blare from every corner of the house; it was inescapable. Doing this shit sober was never your forte.

“Hey! Over here,” you heard a familiar voice emanate from the crowd.

You pushed through and found Zeke surrounded by actors. You plastered on a sickly grin and hoped no one could discern your disdain.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiii,” you sneered unintentionally.

Zeke slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you next to him. You wanted to puke.

“I’m glad you found your way here.”

“You had a dude come pick me up which, you know, made it pretty easy.”

He smiled at you like he didn’t even catch your snarkiness.

A guy you didn’t recognize asked, “You’ve always had a bit of a mouth on you, haven’t you?”

“I was literally born with one.”

“Do you know how to shut it?” he followed up.

“Nah, but I know how to shut yours.”

Zeke dug his fingers into your waist, his face still smiling. You held your tongue while the guy continued being an absolute asshole. This was the kind of nonsense you couldn’t stand. You zoned out, eyes looking outside at the pool. The voices around you melded into a singular drone you tuned out.

“Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “I asked you a question.”

You looked at Zeke for reassurance and saw that his attention was elsewhere. Your stomach dropped. He may have been standing next to you but he felt miles away.

“What?” you finally replied.

“Did you really fuck Magath to get a writing credit for that Jennifer Aniston movie?”

Your skin felt like it was on fire. Holding back wasn’t an option.

“It was a Kate Hudson movie. Why the actual fuck would I sleep with someone to say I helped write a Kate Hudson movie? Are you stupid or just trying to start shit? Because if your only way to make me feel bad is by implying I slept with someone to further my mediocre career, you need to try again because that ain’t gonna cut it.”

You freed yourself from Zeke’s grasp and got in the guy’s face, towering over him. He gave you nothing but stunned silence.

“Let’s get some air,” Zeke said a little too cheerfully.

Once outside you held your head in your hands, fighting the urge to scream. You should have acted unbothered, but weren’t good at faking. You kicked the air in frustration.

“What was that back there?”

“What was what?” you spat out. “You mean the dumb fuck inside?”

You dug through your bag for a joint and a lighter, sighing in relief when you found them with ease.

“You should have had my back,” you said, using the joint to point at Zeke.

“I didn’t even know what was going on,” he lied.

“You were right fucking there! You were literally right beside me,” you said, lighting the joint.

“What was I supposed to say?”

You took a hit and exhaled.

“Fucking anything,” you suggested. “Could’ve changed the subject. Could’ve said, like, ‘Go fuck yourself. Don’t talk to my fake girlfriend that way.’”

“Once that guy gets going there’s no stopping him.”

“You noncommittal piece of shit. You fucking Judas.”

“Don’t let something that inconsequential ruin your night.”

“Maybe it was inconsequential to you...” you said, taking another hit.

Zeke reached out for the joint, but you didn’t hand it over. He didn’t deserve it.

“But it wasn’t to me. Do you know how often I deal with shit like that?”

“You should be used to it then.”

You were rendered silent. You couldn’t even verbalize your rage. Words were incapable of capturing the essence of it.

So you opted to push him in the pool.

You stormed off back inside, lit joint hanging out of your mouth. The house felt like a maze, you could’ve sworn it got bigger, vaster. Everyone’s faces blended together. You felt like you were gradually traveling back in time, like you’d been here too many times before. This wasn’t the person you wanted to be. This wasn’t any better than the old you.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw a couple people tending to a soaking wet Zeke, briefly making eye contact with him. Instead of glaring at you he smiled. You were happy he didn’t seem to hate you but it was infuriating all the same. He never dropped his facade. For the longest time you admired this ability but now it was a glaring flaw.

The relief that washed over you once outside was immense. You found yourself sitting on the curb, finishing off your joint. It was a clear night, colder than anticipated. The stars made your discomfort worth it even if most were drowned out by civilization.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have anything important in my pockets.”

Zeke stood behind you, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He was shivering.

“Bummer. I was kinda hoping I’d fuck up your phone at least.”

He laughed and sat next to you.

“I realize I could have probably been a bit more sympathetic.”

“I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted you to have my back. Toss out a witty retort that defended my honor or some shit,” you replied dejectedly.

“You held your own though.”

“That’s not the point,” you called out in exasperation. “I know I can hold my own. But… fuck, I don’t know. I needed you!”

He cleared his throat, his nerves revealing themselves.

“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll—”

“Ugh. Please. I’d rather fucking die than have a next time. I cannot keep doing this shit.”

You looked at Zeke and his pathetic form. You took off your jacket and put it over his shoulders.

“It gets so exhausting. Defending myself. It’s almost as bad as pretending everything is fine, like nothing is wrong,” you said sadly. “I feel like I’m talking in circles sometimes. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m going to mind. You pushed me into a pool about it.”

You groaned and stared up at the night sky.

“All of my self worth used to come from how fuckable I was because I thought that’s all I had to offer. I was made to believe that was the extent of my purpose. The writing was auxiliary. A nice surprise. And I cultivated that notion because I bought into it.” You felt yourself getting frustrated. “Do you know what that’s like?”

“No. I never had to concern myself with something like that.” He paused. “I suspect that was a rhetorical question.”

“It was, but I appreciate you being honest.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m too afraid to,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes. “I am not that scary.”

“That guy nearly shit his pants when you got in his face.”

“Oh my god! I hardly got in his face.”

“Just own up to it. You’re a little intense. It’s par for the course in this industry. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Fuck. Fine. Whatever. I’m a little intense.”

Both of you fell silent. You scooched closer to Zeke, hoping maybe your body would warm him. You wanted to make up for acting so childish.

“I could never be like that,” he muttered. “Though I'd like to be.”

“There’s nothing stopping you.”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s just not my nature.”

“Ah yes, I forgot you’re such a gentle boy,” you teased.

He grinned. “Exactly. I’m too delicate.”

You hated how cute he was when he smiled; you wanted to kiss his crow’s feet.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked smoothly.

“Yeah,” you mumbled.

Zeke drove you home in his black Polestar 2. He cranked the heater as he sped down the freeway, still shivering. He tried to keep the conversation light by asking if you had been working on anything.

“I can’t even remember the last time I wrote.”

The realization made you nauseous.

“Why haven’t you been writing?”

You hung your head and struggled to articulate your vague, creative block. “I don’t know. Like why bother if no one wants to work with me?”

“Don’t you enjoy doing it?”

“Yeah…”

“There’s a reason to bother.”

“... True. It’s not like I need permission from anyone.”

“Just yourself.”

He had a point. Whether you wrote or not was one of the things in your life you controlled. There was no reason to hold your ideas hostage. You had every right to free them and let them wander the page.

When you finally reached your home you hesitated to get out of the car. For whatever reason you wanted to remain around the damp man beside you. The hearty yawn he let out though helped you make your exit.

You took your seatbelt off and turned to face him.

“Thanks for the ride. I would not have been as kind to you had you pushed me into a… pool.”

“I know,” he said wistfully.

“Well, uh, get home safe.”

“I’ll try. I hope you feel better.”

“Me too,” you sighed, stepping out of his car.

“When can I see you next?” he asked dreamily, his rough hand latching onto your wrist.

“I don’t know.”

“Ballpark it for me.”

His grey eyes were trained on your lips.

“Soon I guess. Go home, sleepyhead. You look damp and miserable.”

Zeke bid you a weak farewell before driving off. You couldn’t figure out why he put up with you. Why did he want to see you again? You, who had dented his reputation with such ease. All you seemed to do was make his life worse. And yet he kept coming back.

Floch wanted to wring your neck for the pool incident. Someone managed to film it and the footage went viral. The narrative surrounding it all was that Zeke tried to dump you and you simply could not cope with it. You were painted as a hysterical, scorned lover that couldn’t take a hint.

You had to laugh. You wished it was that simple

“You ruined everything. It’s fine. I don’t care, but I need you to know that,” he said over the phone.

Hanging up on him crossed your mind but you wanted to be mature.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I fucked it all up. But it can’t get any worse.”

“Don’t! It absolutely can!”

“Fine. I don’t think I can feel any worse. I think I had a breakthrough honestly.”

“Oh, thank goodness! Will this breakthrough translate into people trusting you?”

“Nah. But it did make me realize, like, I don’t have to do studio shit. I can just write whatever I want. Fuck my reputation. I mean, I know I won’t make money, but I’ll figure that out later.”

“As your friend, I’m happy for you. That’s fabulous. But as your agent, are you kidding me?!”

“Nope!”

Floch groaned and muttered a few indecipherable expletives before saying, “If this is what you really want, I’m up for it.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. I think you got the talent to pull it off. I would have kicked your sorry ass to the curb if I thought otherwise.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to be so accepting,” you demurred.

“Listen I may be a fucking bastard, but I believe in you. I always have. If you don’t fuck around and get your head out of your ass, you can do it. I know you can.”

Elation couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt. All the unnecessary pressure you put on yourself dissipated. You were free, lighter than a feather. You looked out your window at the soft, warm light of the moon. The oak trees’ autumnal leaves ebbed as a cold wind swept through them.

“Th—that really means a lot to me.”

“Alright, alright. I gotta go. Louisa and Reed are running around like wild animals when they were supposed to be in bed at 9pm which was… Three fucking hours ago?!”

He hung up before you could say anything.

“Dude has no phone etiquette.”

Just as you went to set your phone down you received another call. This time from Zeke. You couldn’t imagine why he’d be calling you at such an hour.

“What’s good?” you asked.

“Can I come over?!” he bellowed through the phone.

“You don’t need to yell.”

“I’m sorry. Can I come over?” he slurred.

“It’s a little late. I was gonna crawl into bed.”

“Ah, fuck. Well, I’m already here.”

You peeked out your window and saw him swaying in front of your home. He was drunk, practically wasted.

“Yeah, I see you. Uh… Hold on,” you said before hanging up.

You threw on a robe and greeted him at the door.

“How did you get here?”

“Whoa, whoa. One question at a time,” he leaned against the door frame, “cutie pie.”

“... How did you get he—”

“Caaaaab. Old school. Called ‘em up. That’s how I’m doin’ shit now. New year, new me.”

“It’s… It’s November.”

“I’m pregaming. Can I come in? You owe me.”

“Yeah, c’mon in.”

You let him inside, stifling a laugh as he stumbled through the door.

“I meant to do that.”

“Sure you did,” you replied, patting him on the back.

You led him into your living room and gestured for him to sit on your couch. He happily collapsed face down on it. You winced and decided to get him a glass of water. When you returned he was sitting up, his forehead a little pink from where it made contact with the cushion.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked, now holding his head in his hands.

“Yeah, dude.”

“You hurt my feelings.”

“Is this about the pool? See, I knew you were fuckin’ mad at me!”

“What? No. I don’t care about that.” He stared up at you over his glasses. “That party. The one where I tried to introduce myself. And you blew me off.”

You held the glass of water out to him. He snatched it out of your hands like a little gremlin.

“I don’t even remember that. Are you sure it was even me?”

He took a sip of water. “You’re very hard to forget for better or worse.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you think I agreed to do any of this shit anyway? My agent’s been on me about dive bombing my career, which that’s him being a drama queen, but that’s not my point. I, fuck… I like you so much. And I want you to like me too, but I get that you don’t and that’s fine. I don’t like me either. I’m fake.”

“You’re not fake,” you said, taking a seat next to him. “You’re not like… the most genuine person, but I wouldn’t say you’re fake.”

“No. Don’t. I’m a phony.”

“Oh my god.”

He groaned and took another sip of water.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whined. “I just… I hate that I can’t find it in me to be like you. You refuse to take anyone’s shit and have no problem sticking up for yourself. A director literally told me to ‘get the stick out of my himbo ass’ when I said he should treat his cinematographer with more respect. And you know what I did? I fucking did it… Not… No, I didn’t pull a stick out of my ass.”

“I figured,” you snorted.

“But I smiled and said, ‘I guess it’s not my place.’ Not a hint of sarcasm. I rolled over, showed that man my belly, and begged him to slice me open as a way to repent.”

“Belly? What belly? You mean your abs? Come the fuck on. Belly? Ha.”

Zeke lifted his shirt and examined his abdominal muscles. He shrugged.

“You know what I mean,” he said, pathetically leaning over and resting his head on your shoulder. “You wouldn’t have done that. You would’ve been said, ‘I’m about to pull the stick out of my ass and beat you with it if you don’t start treating them better.’”

“You’re not allowed to do that good of an impersonation of me. Not this early in our fake relationship.”

It was hard to hear Zeke being so drunk and vulnerable. You didn’t know how to handle him. Jokes and asides seemed to be the only thing flowing from your mouth.

“You are on my mind a lot,” he lamented.

“Trust me. I’m not exactly someone to admire.”

“Stop. You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to decide if you’re worth knowing, or worth admiring, or worth loving. I get to. Not you.”

“Okay,” you mumbled.

Zeke exhaled deeply.

“I’m not saying I’m in love with you. I’m not that delusional, but… Fuck, just let me like you? Let me get to know you? I need to be close to you.”

His drunk ramblings were bathed in anguish with a tinge of hilarity. You felt bad for him, but it was an unexpected surprise for him to be so forthcoming about his pining. Never before had you considered anyone aching over your perceived indifference. You had to admit it boosted your ego a little bit.

“You’re practically sitting on me right now so we’ve crossed that bridge.”

He sniffled.

You kept speaking. “I’m gonna be real. I’m not exactly used to, uh, hearing shit like this so I don’t know how to—”

Zeke grabbed ahold of your face and kissed you; it was ripe with desperation. You momentarily reciprocated the kiss, leaning into him and his embrace. He tasted like tequila and cigarettes. His teeth clinking against yours pulled you out of the moment, letting you assess the situation. You pulled away and cleared your throat.

He was wasted and, as much as you wanted to kiss him, he was in no position to be doing anything of the sort.

“You’re drunk, Zeke.”

“I know. I should go. Do—don’t tell me about anything I said tonight.”

He tried to stand up before quickly resuming his previous position.

“Stay the night. We can get you home in the morning, alright?”

“Yeah?” he asked, taking off his glasses and rubbing his red rimmed eyes.

You nodded. “You can even sleep in my bed as long as you don’t act like a fuckin’ weird ass.”

“I assure you I will not be a fucking weird ass. I’m very anti-weird ass.”

“Good.”

“I’d—I would even say I’m bigoted towards them,” he slurred as you helped him up. “Weird asses have too many rights. We let them out in the world? They’re just skittering around, weird assing it up?!”

You started to crack up. He sounded so serious and intense. It was like he got possessed by Daniel Day-Lewis for a brief moment.

“Hush. Don’t get yourself all riled up.”

A faint smile crossed his face. It was markedly different from the ones he had worn before.

You couldn’t help but ask, “Are you smiling because you’re happy or are you compulsively masking your feelings again?”

“It’s a real one,” he said, his words all melting into one.

Regardless of their decipherability, you liked having verbal proof that Zeke genuinely smiled in front of you. The second you got him into bed he passed out. You crawled in on the other side, careful to keep some distance between your bodies.

When you woke up the next morning you found him cuddled up next to you. You slept on your back so you wouldn’t have felt compelled to curl up next to Zeke. But somehow in the middle of the night he managed to embrace you. His head rested on your shoulder and his arm was lazily draped across your chest.

You ruffled his hair and gently sang his name. He groaned and held you closer.

“Hungover?” you asked.

He yawned. “Just a tad.”

He rolled over onto his back and slowly sat up, his shoulders slumping forward. His eyes were barely open, protecting themselves from the harsh, autumn sun.

“Is your career really tanking because you traipse around with my dumb ass?”

His shoulders heaved as he gruffly chuckled.

“If I were a hyperbolic man, I’d say yes. Alas, I am but a normal guy so no.” He was interrupted by a hearty yawn. “People give me shit about it, but that’s hardly an issue. And, hypothetically, if chasing after you did take a massive shit on my career, I don’t think I’d care. Or I’d at least try really hard not to.”

“I guess that’s… admirable.”

“You know what would be admirable?” he asked flirtatiously.

He glanced over at you, clearly admiring your sprawled out limbs as the sunlight danced along your skin.

“What?”

Zeke’s face fell into despair. He froze and swallowed hard. His pallor took on a sickly greenish hue.

“I was going to say you should kiss me, but I don’t feel good at the moment.”

“Fuck. That’s so sexy,” you teased.

He gave you a wink before softly moaning as waves of nausea overtook him

“So, uh, now that you’re not wasted…”

Your words struggled to form sentences. You wanted to make sure Zeke meant the shit he said last night.

“Can I… Am I still worth loving? Wait! Or knowing or whatever you said? I can’t remember.”

You remembered everything. There was no use in pretending.

Zeke was quiet for a moment before a sly grin crept across his face. He fixed his gaze on you and simply said, “Absolutely.”

“Really?” you croaked out.

“Yes. I have one request though. I don’t want our agents involved or any industry people. We do this on our terms,” he orated.

You nodded and poked his cheek much to his chagrin. “Got it. We do it for us.”

He laid back down next to you, resting his head on your chest.

“Exactly. For us,” he replied softly.

#zeke yeager x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke yeager fics #zeke jaeger fics #aot fics #snk fics #attack on titan fics #shingeki no kyojin fics #.fics #.aot #.zeke #x reader #reader insert

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mehoymalloy · 13 days

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Alert: The Judicator AU now has plot-relevant KINK !

Gone are the days of an entire spin-off series for smut, folks, because through lots and lots of brainstorming, worldbuilding, and just generally going feral over the blorbos that are imotohan, @inomakani and I are creating a story that's 60% plot, 40% porn, and a whole lot of arcane fuckery (innuendo absolutely intended) with a sprinkling of good ole fashioned tension (of both the scary and the sexy kind).

But for now, have a cute and silly little backstory snippet we came up with when fleshing out how Imogen becomes the total kinkster she is in this AU.

Growing up with full access to the Aydinlan Seminary’s extensive library, Imogen had stumbled upon the book Mistress’ Magical Manual of Kink as an older teenager while curiously browsing the ‘personal health and hygiene’ section (the standard wizard sex ed class didn’t quite answer all of her questions). Hardbound in a royal purple fabric, with cursive lettering gilded with gold, the title on the spine had quickly caught Imogen’s eye. She had cautiously glanced around to ensure she was alone before she then pulled the book from the shelf, immediately intrigued by the illustration depicted on the front cover. A slightly plump woman, beautifully rendered in an abstract, stylized manner, was bound and suspended in elaborate ropework that wove through the words of the title above before finally curling to shape the first and last ‘S’ of the word ‘Mistress.’ Other items of interest were also subtly integrated throughout the rest of the title: a collar, a leash, a flogger, among others Imogen couldn’t quite identify yet. She had been pleasantly surprised to see a body much like her own. All soft curves, gentle swells, and rolling folds, slightly straining against the delicate embrace of the surrounding ropes. Imogen had discreetly checked the book out, then renewed it, and then renewed it again—until tiny conjured slips of parchment began appearing in the book, always between the pages she had last left off when reading, politely informing her of the impending due date that would not be extended again. Quietly mortified, Imogen resolved to purchase her own copy. Shrouded in a heavy cloak, she absconded to Yios’ one and only ‘adult entertainment’ shop, creatively called Amoryios. However, to her horror, the merchant had gently informed her that this particular book was only available by special order. With one moment of courage, a handful of gold, and hardly a day passing, Imogen then found a discreet package in her campus postbox. The title page of her own personal copy had even been signed by ‘the Mistress’ herself: ‘Dear Imogen, I am honored to offer my guidance on your journey into this wide, wondrous world of sensual possibilities. Much love, Mistress.’ The grandiloquence of the short note had admittedly pulled a genuine snort of laughter from Imogen; but despite the lofty turn of phrase, she somehow felt they were sincere nevertheless. Amusingly, the ‘i’ in the moniker resembled a flogger, much like it did on the cover title as well, with tendrils curling up to dot the letter with a tiny heart—perhaps even the author of a veritable encyclopedia of kink knowledge had their favorites? In keeping with the discreet packaging, the large book even conveniently came already enchanted: a helpful illusion spell that could be activated to alter the outer cover from its eye-catching rich purple and glittering gold to instead appear bland and brown, entitled Marie’s Manual of Household Management. While this enchantment worked wonders to help the book to blend into any bookcase, it crucially did not alter the book’s contents. Imogen would never forget the moment her mother, having popped in for a quick chat, abruptly plucked the book from its perch face-down at the end of the shelf. She had skimmed the blurb on the back, flipped it over to read the title, and then raised an eyebrow as she slowly dragged her pointed gaze around Imogen’s messy dormitory. Then, finally, she replaced the book on the shelf without bothering to open it. In the years following, Imogen was far more careful with where she left her beloved copy of Mistress’ Magical Manual of Kink.

#tempted to tag this 'crack treated seriously'#but truthfully y'all know i'm far too much of a stickler for characterization to go all in on that trope lol #imogen temult #critical role #cr3 #judicator au #wip stuff

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beguines · 1 year

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John Donne was an infinity merchant; the word is everywhere in his work. More than infinity: super-infinity. A few years before his own death, Donne preached a funeral sermon for Magdalen Herbert, mother of the poet George Herbert, a woman who had been his patron and friend. Magdalen, he wrote, would 'dwell bodily with that righteousness, in these new heavens and new earth, for ever and ever and ever, and infinite and super-infinite forevers'. In a different sermon, he wrote of how we would one day be with God in 'an infinite, a super-infinite, an unimaginable space, millions of millions of unimaginable spaces in heaven'. He loved to coin formations with the super- prefix: super-edifications, super-exaltation, super-dying, super-universal, super-miraculous. It was part of his bid to invent a language that would reach beyond language, because infinite wasn't enough: both in heaven, but also here and now on earth, Donne wanted to know something larger than infinity. It was absurd, grandiloquent, courageous, hungry.

Katherine Rundell, Super-Infinite: The Transformations of John Donne

#katherine rundell #super-infinite #john donne

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fritzllang · 11 months

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a few days ago spanish newspaper el país published an article titled '25 songs that should be erased from rock or pop history' where they asked a bunch of music journalists to each pick a popular song that they dont like. and okay, this type of articles are obviously made to create controversy and i shouldnt fall for the provocation. BUT I DID. because yeah some of them were overplayed or overrated songs, i wouldnt mind not listening to lennon's imagine ever again, and everyone's entitled to their opinion. BUT. but. one of those so called journalists chose Bohemian Rhapsody.

HE PICKED BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY AS A SONG HE WOULD ERASE FROM ROCK'S HISTORY (translation under the picture)

"OK, Freddie Mercury was a great frontman and vocalist, that's beyond doubt; but musically, Queen's contributions to rock history have been more pernicious than positive. Bohemian Rhapsody, their most iconic song, is a pretentious, operatic rock hassle, and a demonstration that the path of excess does not always lead to the palace of wisdom. It is grotesque, camp and, at the same time, grandiloquent. Pure onanistic artifice without any content. But the worst is what came after: dozens of even heavier imitators (Muse, My Chemical Romance, etc.), tribute bands everywhere, musical theatre extravaganzas and legions of fans who, looking at you with a superior, quizzical look, identify Queen with the epitome of good music".

CONGRATULATIONS BUDDY EVERY WORD YOU JUST SAID IS WRONG

#pretentious? excessive? grotesque?#imgine having THIS MUCH BAD TASTE #also talking about pretentiousness while writing like THAT #'pure onanistic artifice'... honey im so sorry but no #also saying that queen is bad because it inspired mcr and muse... good for you for having incorrect opinions. lets move on #anyways #this has been bugging me for days and i had to share #music #queen #bohemian rhapsody #freddy mercury #my chemical romance #muse

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sunflowerabyss · 5 months

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The Phoenix Rises: Chapter 4

Pairing: Older!Remus Lupin x Professor!Fem!Reader

Series Masterlist

Plot Summary: Starting your third year at Hogwarts as the Charms professor proves to be difficult without having Remus by your side as you face new and irritating challenges at work, as well as joining a secret society.

____________________________________________________

The night before the official first day back at Hogwarts was filled with anticipation as students bustled into the Great Hall. Familiar faces mixed with new ones, and you couldn't help but smile as you thought back to your own days at Hogwarts, the countless memories created within these enchanted walls.

Your mind drifted to Remus, the image of him with his nose buried in a book, his hair falling over his eyes. A fond smile played on your lips as you remembered the day you offered him a barrette. His attempts to push his hair back were futile, but with a gentle touch, you slid the barrette in place, keeping his hair off to the side. He wore it ever since, a subtle reminder of your connection.

The chair beside you scraped against the floor, bringing you back to the present as Snape settled down. You offered a warm smile and a cheerful "Good evening," to which he responded with a gruff nod. Your relationship with Snape had improved over the past year, although it remained somewhat rocky. Still, the progress was something to be grateful for.

Your attention shifted as Dolores Umbridge waddled her way to the end of the table, her posture impeccable and hands neatly clasped in front of her. You rolled your eyes at the sight. The Sorting Ceremony began, and you clapped respectfully as each student was sorted into their respective houses. Dumbledore then commenced the welcoming feast, expressing his joy at seeing everyone again.

Introducing the new professors, Dumbledore announced Umbridge as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, sent by the Ministry. He encouraged the students to give her a warm welcome, but the applause was awkward and scattered.

Umbridge interrupted Dumbledore with a pointed "hem hem" before rising from her seat. You exchanged an incredulous glance with Snape, who shook his head before taking a sip from his goblet.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome. And how lovely to see all your bright happy faces smiling up at me," she began. You looked around the Great Hall to see not one student smiling. You snickered lightly, causing Snape to jab his elbow into your ribs, giving you a pointed look. "I'm sure we're all going to be very good friends," Dolores added, and you couldn't help but mutter under your breath, "That's likely." Snape looked sharply at you again. You smile sheepishly.

"The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards of vital importance," she continued, earning only soft applause. "Although each Headmaster has brought something new to this historic school…" She nodded at Dumbledore. "Progress for the sake of progress must be discouraged. Let us preserve what must be preserved, perfect what can be perfected, and prune practices that ought to be prohibited."

You snorted at her grandiloquence. Dumbledore, ever the diplomat, thanked Professor Umbridge for her enlightening words. She took her seat, looking smug, and it wasn't long before Dumbledore called for the feast to begin.

You loaded your plate with various dishes before turning to Snape. "What are your thoughts on her?" you asked quietly.

Snape, his expression darkening, drawled with his typical sardonic tone, "I despise her. But, for the sake of survival, it might be wise to stay on her good side. After all, she comes with the illustrious endorsement of the Ministry."

You nodded, realizing that Umbridge must be truly problematic if both Snape and McGonagall warned you to tread lightly around her. The two of you fell into small talk, discussing the summer and catching up on the events that had transpired during the break. Despite Snape's short and curt responses, the conversation felt surprisingly pleasant.

After dinner was over, Dumbledore released the students but reminded the staff to stay behind. As the students filed out of the Great Hall, a sense of dread settled in the pit of your stomach. Once the hall was cleared, Dolores wasted no time in calling out names, leading them just outside of the hall's doors. You tried to remain composed, knowing that soon it would be your turn to face Dolores Umbridge's scrutiny. As the other professors walked out of the Great Hall one by one, you waited patiently for your cue.

Finally, it was your turn--the last one. You walked over to Dolores, who sat with an air of authority. She wasted no time and delved into probing questions, her quill scratching on the parchment as she scrutinized your responses. "And your teaching methods, dear, are they effective? Any particular techniques you find yield better results?" she inquired with an unsettling sweetness.

"Well, I believe in a hands-on approach," you replied, carefully choosing your words. "Interactive spells, practical applications—students seem to grasp the concepts more readily when they're actively engaged."

Her scrutinizing gaze lingered on you. "Hmm, well, I suppose it might work for some. But we must always be mindful of Ministry guidelines, mustn't we?" she said, her smile never quite reaching her eyes.

"Yes..." you begin hesitantly, "Indeed."

"So, about that ex-colleague of yours, Remus Lu—"

Dumbledore's interruption provided a temporary reprieve. "It is rather late, Dolores, and everyone needs their rest. Perhaps we can continue this discussion another time," he suggested, his eyes twinkling with a knowing glint.

Umbridge, begrudgingly, agreed with an exaggerated nod. "Of course, Headmaster. Wouldn't want to keep anyone up past their bedtime," she spit out, her tone dripping with a forced civility.

As she reluctantly left, you bid her a goodnight, receiving no response, her kitten heels clicking against the stone floor. You couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and discomfort. Turning to Dumbledore, you expressed your gratitude.

Dumbledore turned to you with an apologetic smile. "I appreciate your patience, my dear. Dolores can be quite… thorough. How did you find the meeting?"

You offered a diplomatic smile, concealing the unease within. "It was enlightening, Headmaster. Always good to ensure we're aligned with the Ministry's standards."

He patted your shoulder gently and hummed. "Indeed. Now tell me, has Remus spoken to you yet?"

You look at him confused. "No, he hasn't. I haven't had the chance to see him in person since being at Hogwarts. I did write to him, but unfortunately, no response as of yet. I should see him next weekend."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with understanding, and he gave a simple nod. "Very well then. Now, off to bed. We have a long day ahead."

"Thank you, Headmaster. Goodnight," you replied, slightly puzzled by his interest in your communication with Remus.

Walking back to your room, you couldn't help but mull over Dumbledore's question. Why was he so curious about Remus reaching out? The corridors echoed with the clicking of your footsteps as you pondered the mystery, but with a shrug, you decided to let it go for the night. Perhaps there were more pressing matters on Dumbledore's mind, and you reassured yourself that you would find out in due time. With that, you entered your room.

You kicked off your heels, heading to the shower. After freshening up and changing into your pajamas, you noticed a letter on the kitchen table with Remus's owl perched beside it. Impeccable timing, babe.

You petted the owl and eagerly read the contents of the letter.

My Dearest Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I find myself sitting alone at night, longing for your presence. I miss you like crazy, more than words can aptly express.

First and foremost, I owe you an apology. I am sorry for the silence, for not reaching out sooner. I know I could have written shortly after your departure; however, I knew how extremely busy you had been and did not want to cause a distraction.

Your dedication to your work has never ceased to amaze me. You are, without a doubt, one of the hardest workers I know. I am immensely proud of all that you have accomplished, and your achievements do not go unnoticed. Your passion and commitment shine through, and I couldn't be prouder to have you by my side.

In your absence, I've been spending time with Sirius, and while his company is enjoyable, it is not the same without you here. Your absence is felt deeply, and I eagerly await the day when you'll grace me with your presence once more.

The prospect of seeing you next weekend fills my heart with anticipation. The days can't pass quickly enough, and I find myself counting down the hours until we are reunited. There's an undeniable joy that comes with the thought of being with you.

Now, my love, there are matters of urgency that weigh on my mind. Matters that I would rather discuss in person than through the limitations of a letter. I assure you; it is not a cause for worry, but rather a conversation that requires the depth and sincerity that only a face-to-face exchange can provide.

In the meantime, know that you are always in my thoughts, and my love for you grows with each passing day. Until we meet again, I remain faithfully yours.

Yours in eternal affection,

Remus

You smile at Remus's signature cheesiness before putting the letter down and begin composing your own response. You attached it to the owl and gave the creature a treat before watching it soar into the night.

Climbing into bed, your mind swirled with thoughts about what Remus had to talk to you about. The "what ifs" danced around your consciousness, but you pushed them aside, reasoning that it was best not to worry until you saw him, and he could explain himself. With that decision, you let the concerns fade away, and sleep claimed you.

#remus lupin #remus x reader #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x y/n #older!remus lupin #older!remus lupin x reader #older!remus lupin x y/n #older!remus lupin x you #order of the phoenix

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hrefna-the-raven · 6 months

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Lawmen

Masterlist - DBH masterlist

Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8

Words: 1991

Warnings: drunkenness, smut (18+)

Chapter 9 - (Don't) judge a book by its cover

An hour passed before you were ready to start the mission. You tried your best to check off the misgivings that were tearing your stomach apart, making you slightly nauseous. What was wrong with Gav, despite your weird situation, there normally were no issues while texting. Had he finished his reports by now? Where was he? At home? At Jimmy's? These thoughts plagued you, serving as a foreboding of what might await you when you arrived at his place after work. The sound of footsteps ceased, and David stood next to you, casting a concerned gaze at your pale face.

“Are you ok?”, he asked, his hand gently encircling your arm.

Feeling a wave of relief wash over you at his touch, you nodded and continued towards the entrance of the club, grateful that his hand remained on your arm. It felt comforting, and also added to the appearance of authenticity. As soon as you stepped foot inside the club, passing by the few androids trapped and dancing in glass enclosures, an overweight man approached you. He wore a stained purple shirt, a lanyard, and black slacks. Grease clung to his beard, and his receding hairline accentuated his pitiful existence. A sinister smile emerged from behind his beard, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

“Ah welcome, my friends, to the glorious Eden Club!”, the grandiloquent wave of his arms ridiculed his appearance even more, “this is where the magic happens. What can I do for you? Oh, no wait! Let me guess, you’re here to spice things up, ay?”

He playfully nudged David's elbow, who struggled to restrain himself from punching Floyd Mills right then and there. Instead, he mustered a grin.

“My, uh, girlfriend and I are looking for a third party to, uh, you know…”

“Ah don’t be ashamed, my friend, this is more common than you think”, he winked at David and beckoned for both of you to follow him, “come with me, I have the perfect spot for you two lovebirds. Male or female?”

“Male”, the answer escaped your lips faster as you planned it, earning you a curious glance from the captain, who tried to anticipate the play as fast and efficient as possible.

“I promised to spoil my love today, so we decided to add another man, or, in this case, a male android. I hate to share her with a real person.”

“Don’t worry I understand and good ol' Floyd won’t judge”, his leer revealed a golden tooth.

What a cliché, you thought to yourself. Mills presented you with four different male androids, playing along as you pretended to be selective, ultimately choosing the one you initially spotted. In the end, it didn't really matter. Mills claimed this particular model was unique and had just arrived the day before, ensuring that the two of you would have a memorable time together. As Mills opened the door to the room, which was supposed to be unoccupied, you completely froze in shock by what you saw inside.

“Hey, you should have left already!”, Mills shouted in anger as he stormed into the room.

The person in the room was obviously dead drunk and, totally unimpressed by the audience he just gained, continued to clumsily fuck the female android from behind.

“I told you to get out, you drunk idiot!”

Mills grabbed the man by his t-shirt collar and swiftly spun him around, causing him to trip over his sagging pants that he desperately tried to pull up. The man stumbled and ended up falling heavily at your feet.

“Iiiii’m da po-po-police!”, he slurred, his speech barely intelligible.

His gaze drifted upwards, locking with yours, as the weight of his realisation hit him like a ton of bricks. Gavin laying there, sprawled out before you, completely intoxicated, his pants shamelessly lowered in the sex club where you were undercover on a crucial mission. Your mind spun, overwhelmed by a torrent of questions, desperately trying not to succumb to the wave of sadness that consumed you in that very moment. You had endured and tolerated so much from that insufferable jerk, but this was the final straw. Just as the expression of sorrow and disappointment threatened to etch itself onto your face, the captain swiftly guided you out of the room, pulling you into a tight embrace and whispering almost inaudibly into your ear.

“Focus, I’m here, we can still do this.”

Gavin opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could escape, Floyd Mills stepped over him, making his way towards you.

“Please forgive this unfortunate sight. As compensation for this incident, we will gladly offer you a discounted rate for your reserved time. Please proceed to this room, and an android will be with you shortly.”

You entered the adjacent room where Gavin was still lying, shutting the door behind you and collapsing onto the bed, tears streaming down your face. The captain sat beside you, gently stroking your leg.

“I apologise that you had to witness that”, his compassion sounded honest, even though, in your opinion, he had no reason to empathise.

“You’re not the one who needs to apologise”, you replied, rising from the bed and straddling him, “you’re right though, let’s focus on the mission, it’s too important.”

The door opened quietly, and the male android entered.

“Hello, I am an HR400”, its voice was soft, but the static monotony stripped it of any human touch, “let me know how I can assist you.”

As soon as the android reached you, you took out the hacking prototype, hold it to its face and its head dropped instantly as you activated the device. Grateful that the android didn’t completely collapse at the force shutdown, you stepped back and opened a small panel above the liquor cabinet in the room. Frantically typing a few codes on the keyboard, a holographic display appeared.

“We’re in, cap”, a small amount of joy found its way back to your shaken voice.

Allen took his position on your left and inserted a small chip into the keyboard.

“Let’s hurry and retrieve as much data as possible. That android will be back in two minutes. And don't forget about the hidden files”, said, rubbing his neck as he glanced at the display and then at you, “I can’t wait to see what’s hiding in the system here.”

You managed to finish and close the panel just in time before the HR400 was back online.

“Hello, I am an HR400. Let me know how I can assist you.”

“Sit on the chair and watch the ceiling”, you commanded it harshly, observing as it immediately obeyed.

You pushed the bewildered captain onto the bed and straddled him once again.

“Uh, are you sure? I mean, you and Reed, uh, I don't want to intrude ”

You seemed to have completely startled to usually so confident captain and you couldn't help but find him even more endearing in this vulnerable state. You leaned your face closer to his until the tip of your nose grazed his.

“Less talking, more kissing”, you pecked his lips, “Captain Allen”

"You might regret this", he whispered, his hands caressing your face as he held it firmly to admire your beauty.

"I already have many regrets, so adding this won't make much of a difference at this point", you chuckled, "and it's up to you if I need to regret this later on or not."

Allen leaned in, pressing his lips against yours, deepening the kiss as his tongue explored the depths of your mouth. He groaned at the sound of your soft moans, feeling the bulge in his pants grow. His fingers traced along your body, tearing open your blouse and gently squeezing your breasts. Breathless, you broke the kiss, admiring his radiant face. With his striking features and captivating emerald eyes, which held the power to consume you entirely.

"Tell me, what does my girlfriend desire?", his tantalisingly husky voice wrapped around your mind.

"She desires", you slowly unbuttoned his fly and lowered his pants and briefs, "you to be deep inside her."

The way you moved and spoke sent chills through his spine. From the moment he laid eyes on you, he knew there was something special about you. Your beauty was just one of the many qualities that captivated him; your wit and charm were equally enticing. Despite his attempts to resist, he couldn't deny that he was falling in love with you. But until tonight, you were with the detective, and even if you were to reconcile with that douche, he had you now and he would be foolish to let this opportunity slip away. He swallowed back a groan as he moved your panties aside and felt your wet cunt. It seemed you desired him as much as he desired you at this very moment. His hands dug into your hips and pressed you on his erection, grinding your wet swollen sex up and down it. You felt his cock twitching underneath and the heat rising to your cheeks. You needed him inside you, now, the was no way this could be delayed any longer, you wanted the captain to fuck you here and now, screw your brains out that you were unable to even waste any more thoughts on that douche detective. David threw you off him, on your back and positioned himself above you, pulling on of your legs up and nudged his tip at your entrance.

"Don't keep me waiting, Dave", you moaned with a mix of desire and impatience.

"As you command agent", he grinned and pushed inside.

The bed gave a suffering groan as he thrust his cock inside you. Your walls clenched at the exquisite feeling and he moaned your name repeatedly.

"Tell me, Dave", you asked as you bucked your hips to get him deeper, "how long did you long to do this?", you moved your hips back again, blocking him from entering you again with your free leg.

Allen hungrily pushed your leg away and gave you a fierce thrust.

"Since the first moment I saw your beautiful face", a gentle smile spread across his features, melting your heart instantly.

Your breaths grew more ragged as he increased the speed and depth of his movements, becoming more desperate as both of you approached your climax. You writhed against him, unable to suppress the pleasurable moans that escaped your lips. He reached around to grip your hips, lifting you slightly to ensure his cock hit the perfect spot with each thrust.

"I'm close, I want to cum together with you"

His seductive voice drew you closer to the brink of ecstasy, causing your fingers to tighten around his firm butt, pulling him deeper with each passionate thrust until you finally came, sending your mind and vision into a hazy maze of almost unbearable pleasure and happiness. Allen groaned, overcome by the tightness surrounding his cock, pumping his seed into as he came, moaning your name. He collapsed onto your body, relieved and content, burying his face in the crook of your neck, showering you with tender kisses. Your heart was beating rapidly, almost tearing your chest apart. You haven't felt this good for a long time, not even after you and Reed managed to get that weird relationship somewhat working. Reed....you expected a lot as you knew him for quite some time and yet nothing could have prepared you for the heart-wrenching scene you witnessed earlier. Despite your love for him and your willingness to forgive, your mind struggled to rationalise his decision to get reeling drunk, fucking an android at the very same club where you were supposed to meet for a crucial assignment, instead of finishing his reports and spending his time with you, the woman he was supposed to love. What on earth did he think planning this through, considering the possibility that he actually did think or plan anything.

Chapter 10

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caltropspress · 2 months

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RAPS + CRAFTS #21: Andrew Mbaruk

1. Introduce yourself. Past projects? Current projects?

I’m Andrew Mbaruk, a Black poet living in Vancouver, Canada. I make "literary lo-fi rock rap," drawing from my diverse reading of poetry and classic literature for the "literary" aspect; – it’s "lo-fi" due to the imperfect sound quality, "rock" as the music predominantly features electric guitars, and "rap" because, if I had to use just one genre to categorize it, it’d be rap–I’m obviously rapping in the songs.

On one of my songs I describe my style as “assistant-professorial and janitorial”--it’s a blend of literary, academic, and philosophical elements with a touch of real-life experiences, viewed through my postmodern/modernist collage aesthetic.

Some of my recent albums are Why I Am Not a Painter (a 2023 song anthology), Black Squirrel: A Memoir (an autobiographical album through Extraordinary Rap), and Oiseau=textual: the flying rap album (centered around birds). Collaborations include Affect Theory and the Text-to-Speech Grandiloquence with Rhys Langston, Papier-Mache Chalet with Th’ Mole, Ultraviolet Flamingo with Vellum Bristol or Jouquin Fox, and Hip-Hop, With a Twist of Lemon with Mantis the Miasma.

Currently, I’m working on a series of lo-fi rock rap albums, each titled Abolish Canada. Abolish Canada [1] and Abolish Canada [2] are already available on my Bandcamp page.

2. Where do you write? Do you have a routine time you write? Do you discipline yourself, or just let the words come when they will? Do you typically write on a daily basis?

I write whenever I’m awake and in the mood, which is often at home. This could be in the middle of the night or just as frequently in the afternoon. Currently, I find myself in the writing room...surrounded by books... On my desk are three old dictionaries and a book of selected poems by Wallace Stevens, alongside an energy drink can and crumpled papers... Scattered throughout the room are various poetry books, and books on theory and philosophy, from Marx and Hegel to Frank B. Wilderson III and David Marriott... These books are mostly on a couch doubling as a larger desk, and atop an old synthesizer from the 1980s... On the floor stand an electric guitar and amp, alongside pedals and tangled cords at my feet... Two walls are giant windows, one of which is usually open even in winter (I’m often smoking). I’m undisciplined, though I still write almost daily – though there’s the occasional lapse, like these past few days...

3. What’s your medium—pen and paper, laptop, on your phone? Or do you compose a verse in your head and keep it there until it’s time to record?

During 2017-2018, I primarily used pen and paper for my writing. But, since then, I’ve transitioned to typing most of my raps on a computer. Occasionally I’ll compose a verse while walking, relying on my Android. The inconvenience of keeping verses in my head until I can write them down...that’s a problem I face during work shifts – cleaning Vancouver’s streets, e.g....and one song I crafted mentally while washing dishes at a burger bar. Using a recording medium like paper or a word processor is best though – it allows me to carefully consider connections between different parts of a verse, because I have the entire composition visible on a page or on a screen.

4. Do you write in bars, or is it more disorganized than that?

I used to have a more disorganized writing style, especially in the first few years of this rapping project... Initially, I didn't even see my work as a part of rap. It was only when I started collaborating with other rappers and producers that I began to structure my writing in bars.

While there are still moments when I write in a more formless manner, I stick to a more regular form these days, lines that last four beats. Typically, I'll create four lines that rhyme (using slant rhymes) entirely parallel to each other:

(e.g., “abnegating dactylic hexameter his vacation, a trip with dead passengers the Latin pages of literate Sapphic verse as the painting's acrylic red flags ablur”),

followed by another set of four, or maybe a couplet or two

(in this case, “as heroin mixed with the China White terror, his literary dynamite exposing the Pindaric champion; explosions, the thin shards of glass in him”),

and then another quatrain or couplet, or sometimes a set of six or eight rhyming lines, or sometimes more...and so on.

I never thought I'd become so formal or strict in my approach. I've always been inclined towards poetry that adheres to (for example) Charles Olson’s "projective verse", but surprisingly, weirdly, this structured approach is working for me now.

5. How long into writing a verse or a song do you know it’s not working out the way you had in mind? Do you trash the material forever, or do you keep the discarded material to be reworked later?

It’s different with every verse and song. Sometimes I’ll finish the entire thing and throw it out/delete it. Usually some part of the aborted material returns in a new form. I work in a "collage" style and see my rhymes as Deleuzian rhizomes, so I can easily connect my rhymes like Lego... It’s totally acceptable within my project to incorporate disparate fragments – unless the lyrics are focused by a constraint, as on my album about birds (Oiseau=textual: the flying rap album) or the one about the Iran-Contra scandal (The Iran-Contra Project).

6. Have you engaged with any other type of writing, whether presently or in the past? Fiction? Poetry? Playwriting? If so, how has that mode influenced your songwriting?

I’ve written poetry, fiction, a screenplay... The rapping basically grew out of my experiments with print poetry – I started making poems called "phonotexts," recorded poems, in 2014... I made a spoken word album called Phono=textual: a novel in mono... It took about three years for these "phonotexts" to become rap songs.

7. How much editing do you do after initially writing a verse/song? Do you labor over verses, working on them over a long period of time, or do you start and finish a piece in a quick burst?

I try to edit as I write, then I'll record the thing, sometimes using some instrumental that I'm not actually going to use – just to hear it, so I can edit it some more. Then I record the song immediately. It usually takes a few hours or an evening.

Sometimes I work on a song for a few days.

8. Do you write to a beat, or do you adjust and tweak lyrics to fit a beat?

I begin with the words and a rhythm usually... I write lyrics, then I make the drums, then I record the verse or verses, then finally I'll add guitars and synthesizer and whatnot.

9. What dictates the direction of your lyrics? Are you led by an idea or topic you have in mind beforehand? Is it stream-of-consciousness? Is what you come up with determined by the constraint of the rhymes?

I usually begin with one small idea, just a line or a few words, and I grow a verse or verses from the one idea through free association, playing with meaning and rhyme. I’m often propelled by chance, but just as often propelled by a thematic goal, and this can change midway through writing.

10. Do you like to experiment with different forms and rhyme schemes, or do you keep your bars free and flexible?

I’ve sneaked sonnets into my raps, and I’ve invented something called “rhyme chiasmus” (a rhyme scheme where two rhyming sounds are repeated in a chiastic pattern for many bars) but I’m usually freer.

11. What’s a verse you’re particularly proud of, one where you met the vision for what you desire to do with your lyrics?

The song "Electrons," track 01 of Abolish Canada [1]...though it goes on a bit too long I think, the bit right at the beginning is very good maybe. That song, and in fact the entirety of Abolish Canada [1]... That’s where I’ve most closely achieved much of what I intend with my words.

12. Can you pick a favorite bar of yours and describe the genesis of it?

My lines make their meaning through the relation to other lines. So, my favourite passage in my writing – "the human soul stuck in your body / fluent in post-structural ornithology” – is shaped by what surrounds it.

The song is called "Under the Oiseau=text." It’s about reading and about birds. And about reading birds as signs, an ancient practice.

I thought of these words because a bird, a pigeon, rose flapping before me as I walked along Commercial Drive in Vancouver. I decided to make an album about birds in that moment, and began writing "Under the Oiseau=text" as soon as I got home. Here’s the lyric in its context:

sans serif, these words upon my gravestone bearing the withered flower tossed - the Baudelairean inner albatross, the human soul stuck in your body fluent in post-structural ornithology . . . . . .his words draw you a map of the geographer perched upon a branch in the binoculars, this scholar of math as it pertains to flight, the neurographer mapping the brain with light

13. Do you feel strongly one way or another about punch-ins? Will you whittle a bar down in order to account for breath control, or are you comfortable punching-in so you don’t have to sacrifice any words?

I shorten lines and always try to do verses in a single take.

14. What non-hiphop material do you turn to for inspiration? What non-music has influenced your work recently?

Afropessimism, John Ashbery’s poetry, nature, the congressional report on the Iran-Contra scandal, and the letter N. Also, I collect and read dictionaries.

15. Writers are often saddled with self-doubt. Do you struggle to like your own shit, or does it all sound dope to you?

Some of my stuff I dig especially, other stuff I’m okay with, most of the stuff I don’t like no one can hear anywhere. Grand Lunatic I’m not crazy about, Andra Mbalimbali I’m not crazy about, Neuro=textual: a novel of ideas is not my favourite of my albums. From late in 2022 and throughout 2023, that stuff I like – though I’m on the fence about some projects like Black Squirrel and The Iran-Contra Project. The earlier stuff evinces potential realized by Oiseau=textual: the flying rap album and Abolish Canada [1]... That’s how I see things.

16. Who’s a rapper you listen to with such a distinguishable style that you need to resist the urge to imitate them?

Rappers who depend less on rhyme and just say really interesting shit, like AKAI SOLO or my friend Jouquin Fox, I can’t do that. I tried using a little less rhyme on The Iran-Contra Project, my concept album about Iran-Contra, and I’m sure I can’t do that. The constraint of rhyme is essential to my style.

17. Do you have an agenda as an artist? Are there overarching concerns you want to communicate to the listener?

Yes, I am trying to communicate many things to the listener. I am saying nothing specifically, and consequently saying many different things. (Any one of these different things I could write about at length, but it has been recommended to me that I just leave it at “I am saying nothing specifically, and consequently saying many different things” – nice and succinct.)

RAPS + CRAFTS is a series of questions posed to rappers about their craft and process. It is designed to give respect and credit to their engagement with the art of songwriting. The format is inspired, in part, by Rob McLennan’s 12 or 20 interview series.

Photo credit: unknown (hit me up)

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