18th century men be like "I'm fine with cuddling and making out with you because Rome but the SECOND you get hard, I will tell everyone and call you slurs"

Voltaire.

miss americana and the heartbreak prince - chapter 1

overview

chapter 1

chapter 2

also available on ao3 and wattpad

༄

Ariel fluttered her eyelashes as she pulled down her sunglasses to stare at her surroundings. She sat on a blanket under a tree as she listened to Scuttle’s demo for their new songs. Was Scuttle their actual name? No. Did Ariel know their name? No. Even though, Ariel hated listening to herself, she thought the vocals and the instruments mixed well together.

She sent a text to the band’s group chat, praising the mix. Flounder was the first to respond because of course he was. He was always the first one to reply no matter how serious or how unimportant the conversation was. Unlike Flounder, Sebastian, told the group chat to stop texting because he was in class.

“Does he know he can silence his phone?”

Ariel took out one of her headphones as she looked up to see Scuttle, a short, Asian person, staring at their phone. She shrugged before she replied, “because Sebastian is the embodiment of an old man who doesn’t understand technology”.

She looked down at her phone to see the time, “Don’t you have Ancient Rome like right now?”  

Scuttle flecked their hand towards Ariel as they sat down on her blanket. “Yeah, but I hate that class”.

“You’re an archaeology major”.

“I don’t have to love all of archaeology, unlike you.” Scuttle stole Ariel’s sunglasses and put them on. “Speaking off, did you finish the homework for Grimsby’s class?”

Ariel sighed as she slid her journal over to Scuttle. Scuttle took their own journal and started to copy Ariel’s notes.

“Can you try to be more subtle about it?” Ariel searched around the area.

“Who cares?”

Ariel rolled her eyes. “I do. I don’t want Professor Grimsby-”

“Professor Grimsby, Professor Smishby.” Scuttle flipped through Ariel’s notebook. “He doesn’t even leave his office unless the chancellor asks him”.

Before Scuttle could copy down the next page, a big, sheepdog ran over, and grabbed Scuttle’s notebook by the mouth.

Scuttle screamed and stood up quickly, watching as the dog bolted away. They yelled as Ariel laughed. Scuttle chased after the dog but as they got closer, the dog kept moving around before Scuttle could catch.

“Max!”

Ariel looked up to see a black-haired white man, about twenty-one, dressed in a white shirt and a short dark navy sweater over it, chasing over to the dog. The dog, Ariel guessed Max, instantly dropped the journal, and ran over to his owner like nothing happened. Max jumped all over the man in excitement as he apologized to Scuttle about the dog and handed them back their journal.

“Sorry! I recently just brought him on campus, and he’s not used to-”

“Stealing people’s notebooks?”

Scuttle grumbled while they grabbed the journal back from the man and stomped back to Ariel. She watched as the man ruffled Max’s fur. He turned around and his sea blue eyes looked at Ariel. His smile was bright and genuine that made her blush. Suddenly, Ariel felt a slap on her shoulder. She turned to Scuttle.

“Is your aunt cool with our gig Friday night?”

“Oh, yeah, she is.”

“What’s the theme?”

“I think it’s like Victorian?”

Scuttle scoffed. “Wow, damn, she didn’t take my bird costume suggestion.”

Ariel crinkled her face in confusion, “Why birds?”

“I like birds”

༄

Eric sat outside Professor Grimsby’s classroom on a long bench. Grimsby didn’t tell him why he wanted to meet with him. Eric’s thoughts spiraled on what that could mean. Was it something good or something bad? Was he failing or was he going to recommend that he go to a higher-level class? No matter what, Eric’s knees shook.

His anxiety was oozing out so much that Max put his head on Eric’s lap. However, his worries eased as he moved his hands through Max’s fur. He leaned his head forward while Max’s long, pink tongue touched his face, causing him to give a small chuckle. Eric leaned back and patted against Max’s stomach.

“I know, I know, buddy,” Eric sighed, “It’s just this one meeting and then we can go back to the beach”.

Max barked in response and began wagging his tail. Max loved going near the water. He would run around splash around. However, he didn’t love the water as much as Eric.

Eric loved the water. He would spend his summers with his mom in their house in Brighton before she became the chancellor of the university. That’s where he first fell in love with the sea and water. He became fascinated by it. What lived and grew in those uncharted waters? At some times, he felt like he grew up there and felt connected to it. This obsession spanned into his adult life. That’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to study and help the water. Sadly, that is not what his mom envisioned for him.

The door opened to Professor Grimsby and short but muscly, blonde, white boy, Eric guessed probably a first year. Grimsby patted the boy on the back.

“Just focus on the study guide and you should be fine.” Grimsby said as the boy walked away. “Oh, Flounder?”

The boy, Flounder, turned around and stared at Grimsby. “Tell Scuttle if they miss another class, I’m taking away their participation points from their grade”.

Flounder chuckled before holding his backpack straps and walking away. Grimsby noticed Eric on the bench with Max and patted Max on the head.

“Well, hello there, Max.” Grimsby looked to Eric. “I’m guessing the paperwork went through”.

Eric nodded as him and Max stood up from the bench. “My mum said I didn’t need to, but I didn’t want special treatment”.

Grimsby nodded while he watched Eric and Max walked into the office.

The office was small but still packed with bookshelves surrounding the walls. A wooden desk sat in the middle with a leather chair behind it and a small, not as lavish chair in front. Eric sat in the front chair and Max laid down at his feet. Grimsby took a breath before moving his hands forward.

“Eric, you’re failing my class”.

Eric’s mouth went wide in shock. “I can’t be, I studied, and I do the homework-”

Grimsby sighed. “But you’re not really doing the homework and you’re not really studying. You’re memorizing the answers, not understanding the answers.”

“But I need this class, it’s a pre-req for the Secrets of the Ocean.”

“I know, Eric, I know.” Grimsby said. “But you’re treating my class as a throwaway class.”

“I’m not, I just have a lot of other intense classes-”

“I know you don’t mean to, but you are.”

Eric sighed. He was almost on the verge of tears. His anxiety picked up and Max sat up, putting his head on Eric’s knee to try to calm him down. But Eric wasn’t calming down. He needed to ace this class. It wasn’t just that this was his entrance into the major he wasn’t allowed to have but he was interested in the class. He wanted to learn as much as he could about the ocean.

Grimsby noticed Eric’s frustration. “But it’s only the first few weeks of the semester and that’s why I asked you to come so we could figure it out. I have an idea on how to help you.”

Eric sniffled as Grimsby lied back. “There is this first year, she has gone above and beyond, even advanced to classes that are only sophomore and juniors.”

Eric’s head perked up while Grimsby continued to speak, “She has agreed to tutor you.”

“A tutor? I don’t have time-”

“I think you should give her a chance and see what happens.”

Eric sighed as Max grumbled and Grimsby handed him a piece of paper with the contact information. He opened up the piece of paper to reveal the name.

 Ariel  Atlantica  – [email protected]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧; 𝐎𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧

        I have finished, at last, for now. Below you will find a more detailed description of the history and workings of the language spoken in Valyria, Vaedar’s mother tongue; High Valyrian. Most of this is canon so the only ‘headcanon’ part is the connection with Latin that I use to explain or give examples of what I am describing with what could be a real life equivalent for High Valyrian ( in historical terms ). I cover a bit of the history of it, the spread, the division, how it’s still used after the Doom, its grammatical genders ( yes, High Valyrian canonly has grammatical genders, read on if curious ), and examples of its written form. 

Be warned, it is a long post. It’s already been added to Vaedar’s Valyria world building doc found over here as well. 

It is important to remember that the details and descriptions given here apply only to interactions in this blog for RP purposes and references. Only those that I otherwise reference to canon are as such, canon and/or official. Also important to remark that some of the descriptions may not fit the laws of reality because this is fantasy, and GRRM himself has stated so when people try to give logical, realistic and scientific explanations to how the ASOIAF world works. I will be using real life references here and there, mostly in comparison to the Latin language, spoken by the ancient Romans, which have very similar historical characteristics to the history of the Valyrian Freehold. 

Let’s start off with a general background on the history of Latin. It was originally spoken by peoples who lived in a place called Old Latium, in what is today Italy. They were tribal people, living by the bank of the Tiber River, in a space of fertile, volcanic soil which would eventually be part of the land that housed the city of Rome. Latin was derived from Greek, Etruscan and Phoenician scripts, and it’s divided into classical and vulgar latin. Classical Latin is the one that survives in literature while Vulgar Latin was the one spoken, with Old Latin being the earliest form of the language. Following Rome’s conquests, Latin was widespread, being the language the conquerors spoke and used, subjecting the many colonies it possessed to it. With the years, and following the collapse of the Roman Empire, Vulgar Latin evolved into distinct languages of different regions of the roman expansion, into what are now the romance languages. 

High Valyrian was spoken by the peoples in the valyrian peninsula ( much like Italy is a peninsula ), which were originally said to be simple sheep-herding folk in the fertile, volcanic lands of the peninsula. We know close to nothing about how they grew to become the most powerful civilization in the ASOIAF world ( yes, with dragons, but how did they tame dragons? up for debate still ), but I believe it makes sense to think they were once clans or tribespeople in archaic times as those in Latium were, united by the same language; which could eventually become the ancestors of the forty noble dragonlord families. 

Throughout history, language has united people. For example, the Greeks, who were divided and spread out in their city-states with different individual styles of governance and variances in their customs. But still spoke the same language and revered the same gods. Like the Romans following their victory in the punic wars with Carthage, the valyrians defeated Ghis, enslaved their people, and imposed their language on them as a means of unity and control. Culture and language are what united the valyrians, not race, for slaves could be of any nationality or ethnic origin ( westerosi, ghiscari, rhoynar, yitish, even other slaveborn/lowborn and/or bastard valyrians captured or sold into slavery ). 

Like Latin after the collapse of the Roman Empire, even after the Doom of Valyria, the Valyrian tongues survived in its dialects and in those who keep with them the purer High Valyrian language ( Like Valyrian houses in Westeros, Targaryens, Velaryons, Celtigars, Baratheons, Qoherys ). Each of the Free Cities and those in Slaver’s Bay speak a form of what’s known as Bastard Valyrian, some so indistinctly from one another that they are on the verge of becoming separate languages with the years. This is just as it happened with Latin, being the common ancestor of the romance languages. The valyrian of the slave cities that once belonged to the Old Empire of Ghis is particularly different in its ‘growl-like’ ghiscari influence, which makes them close enough to be mutually intelligible ( Astapori Valyrian and Yunkai Valyrian ). An example of this can be used between Spanish, Portuguese and Italian. Spoken Spanish is often easier for Portuguese natives to understand while native Spanish speakers may find it more challenging to understand spoken Portuguese, and easier to understand spoken Italian with its spoken accent being more similar to Spanish. Yet, they might find written Portuguese easier to read than Italian.

Also like Latin, High Valyrian is still used as a clerical language by priests, septons, maesters, etc., who also may teach others. Children of westerosi nobility are taught High Valyrian as part of their studies, as a sign of that noble education their position grants them. We have Tyrion, Quentyn and Arya as examples of this, though most of the westerosi nobility can’t fluently understand or speak it, even if a great number of poems, scrolls and songs are written and sung in the language. This can be similar to how privileged Roman children were taught Greek as part of their studies, which can also be applied into Valyrian nobility being taught Common Tongue, since we know Valyria and Westeros engaged in business trade ( like valyrian steel swords ). 

Unlike Latin with its originally three grammatical genders ( Femenine, Masculine and Neuter ), High Valyrian’s grammatical genders are not based on male or female figures, like the English examples of Masculine = man, boy, actor; Feminine = woman, girl, actress; Common ( no gender specified ) = friend, parents, child; Neuter ( having no gender ) = table, rock, pencil. They are instead composed of four genders called Lunar, Solar, Aquatic and Terrestrial. 

The Lunar gender are those words used for humans ( man, woman, mother, father ), nocturnal animals ( wolf, owl, cat ) and military equipment ( helmet, sword ). 

The Solar gender are those words also used for humans ( human, guest ), diurnal animals ( dragon, goat ) names of occupations ( king, soldier, priest ) and body parts ( leg, mouth, foot ). 

The Terrestrial gender are those words used mostly for food aspects ( meat, bread ), plants and metals ( silver, gold, steel ). 

The Aquatic gender are those words used mostly for liquids and bodies of water ( water, sea, blood, river ). 

This is why the famous word ‘darilaros’ in the prophecy can mean both prince or princess, because it belongs to the Solar gender of High Valyrian, where prince, princess, heir terms mean the same. Therefore, High Valyrian is not a genderless language ( it has four grammatical genders, not to be confused with gender neutral ), but one that does not use male of female figures as grammatical equivalents, much like dragons biologically are not defined as either male or female, since they can be both as needed. 

High Valyrian is an inflected, head-final language. This means it’s a language in which a word is modified to express different grammatical categories, particularly declensions of nouns and adjectives for numbers, case and gender and verbs for person, number, tense, voice and moods. An example is: 

dārys = king ( in the nominative case ). Dārys ēdrusi = The king is asleep. dāri = king ( in objective case ). Dāri urnen = I see a king. 

I won’t go into details because I am no expert and I have not extensively studied all of what has been created of High Valyrian as a language ( Only done Duolingo stuff LOL ), but I think it’s simple enough to explain the base. There are also cultural aspects of the Valyrian people that influence the language, such as the High Valyrian word ‘gō’ is used for ‘before, underneath, below’. This is because in Valyrian culture, the aspect of ‘time’ passes as a ladder climb... ( with the future being synonym with what’s ‘above’ and the past with what’s ‘under’. 

Written High Valyrian is a mixed script system of alphabetical, iconic and paradigmatic components. It also employs the use of double dots and single dots as punctuation. Double dots separate sentences, whether they are questions, statements or exclamations. Single dots separate words, since spaces are not used. Below is a screenshot from conlang creator David Peterson’s instagram with the phrase we all know ‘Valar Morghūlis’ ( all men must die ). 

Going by this, Vaedar’s last name ‘Valarys’ could be written like this ( first two glyphs = valar and third = ys ). Another interpretation can be from the Valyrian zālarys, which is composed in itself from the word zālagon = to burn. But I do believe the more accurate written word would be from ‘valar = men’ and ‘ys’ from ‘perzys’ = fire. 

It’s also important to note there are Ghiscari words borrowed into the Valyrian language ( according to the conlang creator ). One of these words, for example, is ‘jazdan’ which means ‘harpy’. This of course, makes sense, given the fact that Old Ghis predated Valyria. 

This all being said for now, I will be updating the section the more I research/learn and/or are given more info in the show from the conlang creator. Remember this is always a work in progress.

♚ // Face Claim Full name Face Claim: Seo Yea-ji Group/Band/Occupation: Actress Nationality: Korean Faceclaim age: 33 ♚ // Character ; Basic information Quote: Rome wasn’t built in a day – but it burned in one. Full name character: [literally translated from their native tongue] Babylon the Great Nickname: None. Realm of birth(if earth, nationality): demon realm named Niaxevar [translates to Skeletal Valley in human tongues] Age: Unknown/unrecorded Date of Birth: Unknown/unrecorded [during the inception of Niaxevar] Gender: Gender-fluid Preferred Pronouns: They, them Race: Demon Sexual Orientation: Pansexual/Aromantic What is the level of Korean and how did they learn to speak it (For non-Korean characters from other realms & other earth-countries): Niaxevarian (native), native-level of any human language ♚ // Character ; Appearance Skin Color: Fair Eye color: Green [brown in current vessel] Scars: None visible to the naked eye [a slit from the neck to the abdomen visible in their ‘true form’ to non-humans] Piercings: None Tattoos: None Hair color: [true form] Fiery ginger; [current vessel] Black Abnormalities: NoneHorns/ wings/ etc.: None Transformed form: None

♚ // Character ; Personality Six personality traits: Extroverted, ambitious, deceptive, manipulative, patient, hedonistic Likes: wine, wintertime, horseback riding, blue roses, accessories Dislikes: cheap dining places, extremely hot temperatures, hunters or priests or both (naturally), anything pumpkin-flavored, narrow spaces. Manias: Not really, if you exclude the tendency to find and drive absolutely mad at least one poet per century. Phobias: Not a fear, but they really, truly dislike narrow places. Animal: Crow. Religion: N/A Favorite song: Leonard Cohen – You want it darker Vice: Wrath Virtue: Diligence Personality description: Babylon has an oppressive and overwhelming energy: they are callous, yet, paradoxically, soothing.  Although they are Niaxevar’s ancient evil, Babylon is, however, nowhere near as fickle as, for instance, the realm’s highest and finest ranks.Mystery considers themselves a much worse fate. They leave the blood and gore to others, and resort to temptation and corruption. Interestingly, however, Babylon’s stance toward mortal creatures, human or not, has been much more forgiving. Blaming their ill-fate to unknown forces is often their forte, Babylon has noticed, and what philosophy would be more suitable for Babylon to agree with? ♚ // Character ; Powers Magical Powers:Soul Corruption – This ability affects the majority of creatures, wherein humans are unable to resist it, while non-humans can resist to varying levels (most with a great deal of success). This is a passive ability, which means Babylon technically doesn’t control it. It means that any human-mortal soul that spends time around Babylon ends up succumbing to their darkest desires, whereas other creatures feel similar effects (that typically translates to occasional unease, an itch you can’t seem to scratch, long-forgotten desires and wishes unsurfaced, etc.), though are able to keep their soul intact. In essence, humans tend to either go fully mad and perish, or they go to the darkest depths of their souls and succumb to a life of crime and wickedness (thus losing their soul). Non-humans are inconvenienced and tempted at best. Mimicry – This is another passive ability that allows Babylon to imitate any spoken language of the people they live around.Biokinesis – Babylon’s only 'active’ ability allows them to manipulate livings things like plants and animals around them on a molecular level. It can be thought of 'transfiguration’, meaning these things won’t be destroyed, just 'changed’. The ability does not affect humans or non-humans, much to Babylon’s dismay. Possession – (semi-active) – the ability to possess a body and use it as a vessel.Non-magical Powers:Aside from enhanced senses, Babylon is quite skilled at sword and/or knife fighting. Weaknesses:Holy Grounds – Babylon cannot enter consecrated grounds of any religion. Devil traps – While regular 'demon traps’ can’t hold them, more sophisticated ones can. Exorcism – As any demonic creature, Babylon can be exorcised ♚ // Character ; The Teacher / Staff Class they teach: Ancient Runes Teaching style: Laid back Previous teaching experience: Technically none, but Babylon has tutored humans and magical creatures alike in the past ♚ // Character ; The PastDate of Birth: UnknownDate of Death: N/ACrime Record: Too many to count.Has your character attended Insolitus Academy in the past?NoBackground:[The following is a collection of excerpts from texts—either translated or in the original language. The oldest of the scripts is as of yet undated and it was penned by an unknown author, whereas the rest have been taken from undated letters, diary entries and re-told stories, penned by other largely unknown writers, with the exception of an Italian monk by the initials of F.L in the 12th century, then in the 18th century an English-born sailor with the initial W.S, as well as by a young Turkish poetess who wrote under the name of Hatice, roughly in late 19th century] ooc warning: mis-gendering is present in the bio. One. Once upon a time, there was- That is at least how the stories of our forefathers and mothers used to begIn; once upon a time, far removed from the ones we exist in presently. Yes, it’s the most befitting opening for the creations of our imagination. But, this is no story - but a warning: warning to all those who choose to read this story which my grandmother told me. Perhaps, if you look away now - you won’t burn.At a time when mankind knew no concept of the divine there existed—in the wake of a marvellous explosion—another world. This world, where chaos reigned supreme, was not much different than ours. Its residents were fickle, fiery, charming, and conniving. Their rulers, unlike ours, were imperfect, much like their creation.It is said the these demonic rulers resided within the darkest corners of that world, shrouded in the original darkness that they’d spawned from. The demons, consisting of three brothers, two sisters, and a sixth of whom few dare to speak, were an ambitious bunch, and selfish in their allocation of power. The youngest assumed to be named Babylon, who’d been tasked with maintaining the balance of the Original Darkness, had been promised an equal share of their realm, and a seat at the table of her siblings. But to keep that seat, Babylon - who’d been rebellious by nature - had to dutifully perform this task, day after day, century after century.Yet, it wasn’t enough. For Babylon, whose hunger for power expanded eternally, it’d never suffice. And when she asked for what was promised, time and time again, she was denied. And so, Babylon came to an understanding: if she couldn’t have the world, no one could.What happened next was a series of catastrophic events leaving this unknown world in utter desolation. The demon rulers, who were unable to stop it, hurried to salvage what was possible. Fearing Babylon’s might, the eldest executed a most cruel punishment: severing the youngest in half, he separated Babylon’s spiritual darkness from the corporeal one. The demons then left, leaving with Babylon’s essence and locking it away where, it was hoped, she’d never find it again. Half-destroyed and severely weakened, Babylon was thus forced into a nomadic life, in search of her other half - of her spirit, haunting one world after another in her wretched quest. Two. Babylon was some of the most extraordinary creatures I’d ever had the opportunity to meet. And if it hadn’t been for my brother’s selfishness and my mother’s generosity, perhaps I never would have. Be as it may - truly, how spectacular they are. The stories they have told me have opened my eyes to the corruption within not just the walls of this house - but within the fabric of our declining community. I can see it all, more clearly when they are around, but I can see it: the decadence, the immorality, the utter absence of shame and the fear of God. Oh, how do these people not fear Him?Sometimes, when I go to bed at night, I can see Babylon. I can see their stunning green eyes and the shine of their fiery hair. I can hear their voice whispering the secrets of the world around me, showing it to me for what it really is: a wicked desolate place crawling with people that must be removed. Starting from my family. Ending with me. Three. My brother Mehmet has recently made a new friend. I can’t remember the friend’s name, though I am confident it may start with an I or a B. In any case, I’m not in any way impressed by this man. He is much too tall, nothing but skin and bones and just enough flesh to act as a cushion. I dislike his light eyes especially - and I’m not exactly sure why. Nevertheless. I wouldn’t be writing this if something out of the ordinary hadn’t happened. And I’m writing this so that I can look at it later, with a clearer mind. I had a dream about Mehmet’s friend. It was a bizarre dream in which I was in a different, darker world. A wasteland across which I walked for eternity, only to find, in the middle of this desert a throne - and upon the throne was Mehmet’s friend, adorned in a golden and purple attire, with a broken crown in his bloodied hands. [the rest of the diary entry lost] Four. Babylon was like a religious icon - someone you’d sacrifice yourself for. Lovely-eyed, with an unspeakable hunger that no one could satiate, they craved for what was theirs, for what was promised: The Universe. And so, as they turned to face those—myself included—who dared to inquire about their identity and who would soon regret asking, they showed a smile that could devour the world, and asked: Are you ready to burn with me? ♚ // Roleplayer[ optional ]Time zone: GMT+2OOC! Triggers: NoneThemes/genres you like writing the most?: Dark fantasy, horror, slice of life, occasional splatterpunk

Les Miserables Daily : 5.2.3, Bruneseau

Real excited to be starting this readalong! Going in chronological order should be an exciting experience for us all, I’m sure!  Thanks to @alicedrawslesmis for suggesting running this experience via the Tumblr queue; I can’t think of a website I trust more!  We’re starting our readalong in 1805 with everyone’s favorite character, Bruneseau!

The sewer of Paris in the Middle Ages was legendary. In the sixteenth century, Henri II. attempted a bore, which failed. Not a hundred years ago, the cess-pool, Mercier attests the fact, was abandoned to itself, and fared as best it might.

Such was this ancient Paris, delivered over to quarrels, to indecision, and to gropings. It was tolerably stupid for a long time. Later on, '89 showed how understanding comes to cities. But in the good, old times, the capital had not much head. It did not know how to manage its own affairs either morally or materially, and could not sweep out filth any better than it could abuses. Everything presented an obstacle, everything raised a question. The sewer, for example, was refractory to every itinerary. One could no more find one's bearings in the sewer than one could understand one's position in the city; above the unintelligible, below the inextricable; beneath the confusion of tongues there reigned the confusion of caverns; Daedalus backed up Babel.

Sometimes the Paris sewer took a notion to overflow, as though this misunderstood Nile were suddenly seized with a fit of rage. There occurred, infamous to relate, inundations of the sewer. At times, that stomach of civilization digested badly, the cess-pool flowed back into the throat of the city, and Paris got an after-taste of her own filth. These resemblances of the sewer to remorse had their good points; they were warnings; very badly accepted, however; the city waxed indignant at the audacity of its mire, and did not admit that the filth should return. Drive it out better.

The inundation of 1802 is one of the actual memories of Parisians of the age of eighty. The mud spread in cross-form over the Place des Victoires, where stands the statue of Louis XIV.; it entered the Rue Saint-Honore by the two mouths to the sewer in the Champs-Elysees, the Rue Saint-Florentin through the Saint-Florentin sewer, the Rue Pierre-a-Poisson through the sewer de la Sonnerie, the Rue Popincourt, through the sewer of the Chemin-Vert, the Rue de la Roquette, through the sewer of the Rue de Lappe; it covered the drain of the Rue des Champs-Elysees to the height of thirty-five centimetres; and, to the South, through the vent of the Seine, performing its functions in inverse sense, it penetrated the Rue Mazarine, the Rue de l'Echaude, and the Rue des Marais, where it stopped at a distance of one hundred and nine metres, a few paces distant from the house in which Racine had lived, respecting, in the seventeenth century, the poet more than the King. It attained its maximum depth in the Rue Saint-Pierre, where it rose to the height of three feet above the flag-stones of the water-spout, and its maximum length in the Rue Saint-Sabin, where it spread out over a stretch two hundred and thirty-eight metres in length.

At the beginning of this century, the sewer of Paris was still a mysterious place. Mud can never enjoy a good fame; but in this case its evil renown reached the verge of the terrible. Paris knew, in a confused way, that she had under her a terrible cavern. People talked of it as of that monstrous bed of Thebes in which swarmed centipedes fifteen long feet in length, and which might have served Behemoth for a bathtub. The great boots of the sewermen never ventured further than certain well-known points. We were then very near the epoch when the scavenger's carts, from the summit of which Sainte-Foix fraternized with the Marquis de Crequi, discharged their loads directly into the sewer. As for cleaning out,-- that function was entrusted to the pouring rains which encumbered rather than swept away. Rome left some poetry to her sewer, and called it the Gemoniae; Paris insulted hers, and entitled it the Polypus-Hole. Science and superstition were in accord, in horror. The Polypus hole was no less repugnant to hygiene than to legend. The goblin was developed under the fetid covering of the Mouffetard sewer; the corpses of the Marmousets had been cast into the sewer de la Barillerie; Fagon attributed the redoubtable malignant fever of 1685 to the great hiatus of the sewer of the Marais, which remained yawning until 1833 in the Rue Saint-Louis, almost opposite the sign of the Gallant Messenger. The mouth of the sewer of the Rue de la Mortellerie was celebrated for the pestilences which had their source there; with its grating of iron, with points simulating a row of teeth, it was like a dragon's maw in that fatal street, breathing forth hell upon men. The popular imagination seasoned the sombre Parisian sink with some indescribably hideous intermixture of the infinite. The sewer had no bottom. The sewer was the lower world. The idea of exploring these leprous regions did not even occur to the police. To try that unknown thing, to cast the plummet into that shadow, to set out on a voyage of discovery in that abyss--who would have dared? It was alarming. Nevertheless, some one did present himself. The cess-pool had its Christopher Columbus.

One day, in 1805, during one of the rare apparitions which the Emperor made in Paris, the Minister of the Interior, some Decres or Cretet or other, came to the master's intimate levee. In the Carrousel there was audible the clanking of swords of all those extraordinary soldiers of the great Republic, and of the great Empire; then Napoleon's door was blocked with heroes; men from the Rhine, from the Escaut, from the Adige, and from the Nile; companions of Joubert, of Desaix, of Marceau, of Hoche, of Kleber; the aerostiers of Fleurus, the grenadiers of Mayence, the pontoon-builders of Genoa, hussars whom the Pyramids had looked down upon, artillerists whom Junot's cannon-ball had spattered with mud, cuirassiers who had taken by assault the fleet lying at anchor in the Zuyderzee; some had followed Bonaparte upon the bridge of Lodi, others had accompanied Murat in the trenches of Mantua, others had preceded Lannes in the hollow road of Montebello. The whole army of that day was present there, in the court-yard of the Tuileries, represented by a squadron or a platoon, and guarding Napoleon in repose; and that was the splendid epoch when the grand army had Marengo behind it and Austerlitz before it.--"Sire," said the Minister of the Interior to Napoleon, "yesterday I saw the most intrepid man in your Empire."--"What man is that?" said the Emperor brusquely, "and what has he done?"--"He wants to do something, Sire."--"What is it?"--"To visit the sewers of Paris."

This man existed and his name was Bruneseau.

NAME. Kitra “Kit” Yohanan AGE & BIRTH DATE. 25  & November 5th, 1996 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Witch COVEN. Unaffiliated OCCUPATION. Museum Artifact Restoration Technician FACE CLAIM. Zoey Deutch

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: holocaust, death, blood ) Manhattan, 1996

She came into the world quiet, as all the infants in her family had. Until her grandmother (Bubbe) placed the shem in her mouth, let the sugar paper dissolve, and the start of her cries could be heard all the way down the block. This was how golem’s came to life, a paper with the name of God set upon their clay tongue. The Yohanan’s were not constructs, the birth ritual was simply that, a ritual. It is said that Adam himself was a golem, shaped from dust by the hand of God. Kissed to life, passion and love giving him the gift of flesh. The Yohanan’s did not believe in God per say, but they believed in passion and in ritual, in history and in love. 

Witchcraft ran in their family’s blood like ice water. Cold and strong and straight to the bone. Her mother led their coven on the Lower East Side with a strong, powerful fist. They were militant, intent on developing new magics and better secret keeping techniques. Her mother was less concerned with the history and tradition of the Yohanan magic, she wanted to move forward, forget their past. It was of little use to her. Ma rarely had time for her, in the rare moments she spent with her daughter, Ruth Yohanan tried to impart her future forward views upon Kit. But those moments were few and far between. It was Bubbe who homeschooled her, making sure Kit was equally as informed about regular school subjects as she was witchcraft. Hungry for knowledge, she ate up every piece of information given to her. The craft came intuitively to Kit. She became particularly adept in the restoration school of magic, learning to restore old spell books and ease the pain in her Bubbe’s joints. 

She had her books, she had friends in the pigeons that roosted on their balcony, but Kit’s childhood was lonely. Her mother rarely spoke to her, there were few children her age in the coven, and she had not quite learned how to make friends. Her grandmother was her only friend. When Kit was old enough her grandmother led her to the basement of their apartment building, ushered her into what appeared to be a broom closet, and showed Kit the research she had been collecting. 

Her Bubbe had fled Italy with her family when Germany came and occupied Rome during the second World War. She was thirteen years old. Her family came to New York City with the clothes on their back and the suitcases of spell books they’d managed to carry with them. Kit’s grandmother had been young then, but she remembered her life in Italy well. Remembered how the roots of her Jewish heritage, her Jewish magic, went deep down into the soil. Rome’s Jewish community is the oldest in Europe. 

Bubbe told Kit stories of the catacombs beneath the great city, where their ancestors buried their dead, of the great synagogue in the Jewish quarter, of community and magic and history. There were books in the broom closet. Stacks on stacks, scrolls placed neatly in piles. Bubbe told her this, “Your Ma is interested only in the new ways of spellcraft, a way to move forward quickly. I believe we must look to the past to do so. So much of our history, our power, is lost to us if we do not listen to those who came before us.” Kit’s grandmother meant to find a way to summon and learn ancient magic from the spirits of their ancestors.

Her grandmother was her whole world. She was the one who taught Kit how to summon her bird friends, how to ride a bike, how to make soup that would cure the flu, how to patch her jeans, how to, theoretically, summon a man from the dead. A larger than life woman, Keziah Yohanan was short and round, with sharp brown eyes and a mass of silver curls. Her accented voice filled every room, and her laughter reached God himself. Her death tore the world apart. Kit was eighteen when her Bubbe passed. It was sudden, a stroke. Strange that something as simple as a blood clot could end a soul so big and bright.

Grief is a funny thing. It makes you wild, stupid, angry, impulsive. Yet, in the moment, all Kit felt was calm. Alone in the broom cupboard, she stared down at her grandmother’s notes and connected the pieces. Two weeks after Bubbe’s death, Kit stood over her grave. Her grandmother’s body had been washed by Kit and her mother, shrouded in white, watched over, and finally laid to rest. After observing shiva, the mourning period, Kit went to the gravesite, spellbook in hand, and drew letters of the Hebrew alphabet in her own blood on the gravestone. Palms dripping red, she cried. Begged a God she didn’t quite believe in to let her see Bubbe’s face one last time. From the pools of crimson, a shimmering visage appeared. Short and round, sharp eyes and a mass of curls. The spirit said nothing. The shimmer of Keziah cupped Kit’s face gently, hands ice cold, and faded into the night. Kit screamed.

Her mother found out about what she had done, any competent witch could have sensed the aura of necromancy emmenating off Kit. Ma was furious. Their coven explicitly banned dealing with the dead in any sort of capacity. Kit was cast out, banned from the city, the only home she had ever known. 

Her grandmother still had connections in Italy, which was how she ended up spending two years at a bookshop in Venice, using her restoration skills to repair old books sought after by collectors. Kit continued her grandmother’s research, looking into ways to contact spirits of dead witches. She spent four years roaming Northern Italy, collecting research and gaining a reputation for her skill in historical art restoration. She made friends but never kept them, unpracticed in the art of friendship. She had relationships but never serious, too scared to commit to something real. She developed a hard exterior, so different from the fun loving kid she had been back home. She ended up in Rome eventually, drawn to it by the stories her grandmother had told, intrigued by the thought of speaking to other supernatural creatures with access to knowledge of the dead. She would secure her birthright, the knowledge of her ancestors, a new way forward, hand in hand with the past. Something real to believe in.

PERSONALITY

+ hardworking, idealistic, vivacious – abrasive, distracted, single-minded

PLAYED BY VIA. EST. They/Them.

If you could ask any of the Volturi leaders/guard a question, who and what would you ask? Personally, I would ask the leaders about Jesus. I just think it would be quite interesting to hear what they would have to say about that part of history 😆 Because when you really think about it… The Volturi’s ancient vampires really do have the answers to a lot of questions us mortals spend so much time thinking about 😳 I also wonder if Carlisle ever asked Aro about the history of his religion.

Oh dear Anonymous, that is quite the existential question. While I am not a follower of any religion the idea of getting the details of what happened so long ago in an 100% accurate manner is tempting. I would probably sit down with Aro and ask about... everything if I'm going to be honest. I adore history and I just would want him to describe these marvelous things that has been lost to time. I want to know about the library of Alexandria, who was Jesus really?, what did the world smell like before the pollution? Were the dodo birds just as funny as I think they were? How many languages do you speak? How much of history is true?

Funny enough, I personally believe that it was Marcus who had quite a... enlightening conversation with Carlisle about religion. I shall write you a little something about how it went down.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦

It was like any other day in Volterra, Carlisle was seeking out anyone who was willing to listen to him talk about his interest of the day. And when he had managed to snag the attention of Marcus and discuss the topic of religion Carlisle had felt positively giddy. Well, that was until Marcus made an offhand comment, or more precisely; it would have been an offhand comment had the context been of a lesser nature...

"Oh yes that Jesus, he was a delightful young man, a true shame what they did to him."

A silence fell between the two of them, Carlisle licking his lips and getting a taste of the air and its dust particles; exceptionally stale. "You..." Carlisle finally trailed off without finishing his sentence, for the first time in over forty two years did his mind feel sluggish; unable to comprehend what Marcus had just said.

The eldest king hummed, finally turning to look at the young vampire in front of him with a raised brow. "Yes? I saw him briefly before they nailed him to to that cross." A deep and tired sigh left the much older vampires, "To think that humans have grown so cruel, he only wanted to do some good." Marcus shrugged, fully intending to continue the discussion with Carlisle. The younger vampires state of being made him hold his tongue, for their guest seemed to have entered a state of shock... which was unheard of when it came to vampires.

And it was in that moment that Marcus realized he had made a terrible mistake.

𝟐𝟎 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

"Marcus, my dearest brother... I love you but—" Aro had to pause for a brief second, for this wonderful Sunday morning had gone down the drain; and his ire was not soothed by the presence of his second eldest brother. Caius looked like the cat that got the cream as he sat there in his favourite plush chair, taking immense glee at their current predicament. Marcus on the other hand looked slightly more remorseful, but there was still a trace of mirth in those eyes that was hard to miss. Out of old habit did Aro adjust his cuffs for the tenth time since the conversation had begun. "But Carlisle is only 65 years old... he cannot handle that sort of information yet." A loud snort to the right of him had him make a sharp turn, watching as a terrible smirk spread on Caius' lips before opening his mouth to speak. "Should I tell him how I helped along the fall of Rome?" The white haired king taunted as he leaned forward in his seat.

"Don't you dare."

Caius' infamous cackle had never sounded more crass and irritating to Aro's precious ears.

Kassandra x Fem!Reader - The Most Peculiar Wingman

Can be found on AO3 here.

Summary: You recently moved into a new flat and you’re hearing some rather unusual sounds from your next-door neighbour’s abode. You’re worried the mysterious woman next door is involved in something dangerous. Kassandra is worried that you’re the landlord about to bust her for her lease violation.

(Sorry if you don’t like coffee and/or you speak fluent Greek.)

Word count: 2568

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Damn, you’ve lucked out with your new flat. The area is pleasant, the décor is tasteful – the windowsills could use a bit more greenery, but you’ll get to that – and the letting agent wasn’t a dick. Zero hassle with bills, minimal scuffs on the walls…it’s bizarre how simple your moving process has been.

But nothing can be perfect, can it?

Over the few days you’ve lived in your new home, you noticed some rather disconcerting sounds coming from the apartment next door. Nothing that disrupts your sleep, thankfully, although your post-unpacking nap was interrupted by a very loud thud against the thin wall connecting the two flats. Thumps, crashes and very disgruntled cursing in a language you can’t quite place tend to crop up in quick succession once or twice a day. Today, though, the odd sounds seem to be omnipresent.

The strange symphony is starting to get alarming; you’re beginning to ponder if the seemingly perpetually angry woman next door is involved in violence…or, forbid, organised crime? That would certainly explain the forceful thuds and grumbling. God, what if she manages to rope you into her shenanigans? What if she is armed?

After a loud bang and an exasperated “oh, fuck you” reverberates into your apartment, you decide to investigate.

Anxiously, you pop on some slippers and step into the hall, locking the door behind you (‘I’m not about to get robbed less than a week after moving,’ you think to yourself, ‘Oh, shit, I need to get insurance…’). Stomach churning with speculation, you make the arduous four-metre trek to your neighbour’s door. Biting your lip, you rap your knuckles against the wood.

A chorus of panicked shuffling echoes through the door, causing your throat to tighten. Footsteps sprint from one side of the room to the other, the sound of shattering ceramic shrill against the heavy thudding. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” the woman hisses, muffled by the walls, followed by some shushing and the rattling of something metal. Who is this woman, what the fuck is she hiding, why am I doing this—

Suddenly, the door swings open, revealing…oh, wow.

Your neighbour is an amazon.

Flawless bronze skin, chocolate hair strewn into an unruly braid, tall and shredded with lean muscle. Her eyes are a gorgeous tawny brown, the split second of alarm disappearing from her gaze, replaced by a sparkle that makes your heart hammer against your chest. Very kissable lips upturn into a charming smile, bringing your attention to a small scar above her upper lip quirking adorably. A deeper scar sits on her nose, and the pang of anxiety returns, but your eyes need only flicker back to hers and it melts away.

“You’re not the landlord,” she says with a rich accent and curious lilt. Your cheeks feel warm.

“Uhm, hi.” You fiddle with your thumbs, mouth suddenly dry. “Sorry, I moved in a few days ago next door. I just heard some loud noises and was wondering if everything was alright?”

Lips curving furthermore, she braces her arms on the doorframe above and, fuck, are they nice arms. Sun-kissed, bulging against her white t-shirt, three gnarly rings cutting into her right bicep that just scream to be touched. Is this her distraction tactic?

“Oh, sorry about that. I hope I wasn’t too much of a disturbance?”

When you finally pry your eyes from her arms, a tiny smirk registers on her handsome face. Bashful, you stammer, “No, it’s fine. But, uh, what caused it, if I may ask?”

The woman cranes her neck to scan the hall. “Can you keep a secret?”

Mob boss? Arms dealer? Axe murderer?

Clearly, your nervous speculations are apparent, because her eyes widen slightly. “Don’t worry, lovely, it’s nothing dangerous. I just have a pet bird.”

Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, you run a hand through your hair. Just a bird. Just a bird. Her face relaxes back into a casual smile. A fresh wave of warmth caresses your cheeks at the name she gave you.

Chuckling, you joke, “Must be one big bird.”

“He’s…an eagle.”

You blink back your shock. “How on earth did you manage to get a pet eagle?”

She laughs, the melody warm and addictive. “Poor fucker followed me all the way from Kefalonia. I didn’t have it in me to say goodbye, even if it violates the lease.” Her tone is affectionate, despite her less-than-endearing name for the bird. Pushing back from the door frame – hands flexing wonderfully while she does so – she gestures for you to step in. “Come and meet him, if you’d like.”

Everything about this woman is so inviting, you can’t help but gravitate into her apartment.

“I don’t think I caught your name?” you ask shyly.

“Kassandra,” she replies, flipping the ‘r’ in her buttery accent. “And what can I call you?”

Anything you fucking want. “(Y/N) is fine,” you manage, debating whether her flat is hot or your face is akin to a beetroot.

“That’s a lovely name. Suits you perfectly,” she winks. She saunters over to a shelf with a blanket hastily thrown over it. You can’t help but observe her firm-looking behind through her jeans. Kassandra tugs away the blanket, revealing a large eagle sitting grumpily in a cage. It remains put when she unlocks the cage, standing almost defiantly.

“Don’t be like that, Ikaros,” she chastises. The eagle – Ikaros – begrudgingly flies out of his confines, perching atop the sofa in the middle of the open-plan room. “He’s gentle, I promise.” You’re doubtful, but he isn’t making any sudden moves.

“He just likes winding you up?”

“Loves it,” she grins. “He’s a little bitter I put him on a diet since he was getting a bit fat. That’s why he’s been throwing some tantrums lately.”

You smile as she scratches the top of his head before heading to the kitchen. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Kassandra asks, giving you another heart-melting beam. “I have coffee, orange juice, I might have some tea somewhere—”

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.” She asks your preference and you state it, taking in the layout of her apartment. The place gave off a very homely, Mediterranean vibe, with warm colours and white furnishings. A few hand-painted ceramic vases were dotted about – maybe she did pottery – alongside some family photographs. Atop the dining table was a woven basket brimming with ripe fruits, as well as a laptop with a pile of messy papers next to it.

“Have a seat, get comfy,” she calls over the whirring of an expensive looking coffee machine. Shyly you take the chair by the unoccupied end of the dining table. Feeling nosy, you scan the documents by her laptop, but the handwriting was all in Greek.

A minute later, Kassandra joins you with a steaming mug in her hand. “Your coffee, madame,” she announces with a pantomimic bow, evoking a laugh.

“Merci,” you thank her. “How would I say that in Greek?”

“Efharistó,” she replies. You test the word hesitantly, wincing on the second syllable, making her laugh. “Not bad,” she chuckles.

“I butchered it.”

“Try it a little softer,” she smiles, lowering her voice, giving it a sensual cadence that made your head spin. Oh, she knows she’s attractive.

“Efharistó,” you border on whisper, gay little brain surging with the overwhelming instinct to do whatever she tells you.

“There we go!” The proud quirk of her lips is all you need to see.

Feeling your cheeks flush, you bring the coffee mug to your lips, hoping the steam from the beverage will help mask your fluster. You blow on the liquid and take a sip, immediately regretting the decision as you scorch your tastebuds, repressing the urge to hiss in favour of looking cool for the hot Grecian.

“Do you, um,” you start, ignoring the numbness of your tongue, “work from home?” You wave your hand at the paperwork by her seat.

“As often as my job lets me.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a museum curator,” Kassandra beams, evidently proud of her job. “A glorified history nerd who couldn’t be fucked with the extra academia, basically.” You snort against the mug, nearly spluttering coffee over her. Smooth.

“What time in history?” Her eyes sparkle at the question, passion shining through her irises.

“Mostly the classics, ancient Greece and Rome and all that. But I did my thesis on the evolution of weaponry.” You prop your chin up on your hand as she talks, eyes lazily focused on her lips. If not for the conviction in her tone, you would have zoned out and chased some daydream about kissing those lips. Kassandra reclines back in her chair. “Enough about me, though. Tell me about yourself.”

“You sounded really passionate, though. I don’t mind if you keep talking about your job.” God, you sound like a dizzy schoolgirl who’s hot for teacher. You scald yourself with another sip of coffee in reprimanding.

Kassandra’s eyes twinkle. “I don’t usually invite beautiful women into my home to ramble about cool swords.” You blush and set down your coffee.

The two of you talk for quite some time, getting to know each other, peppering in the occasional flirtatious remark. In her company, you somehow simultaneously feel comfortable and skittish. She’s so relaxed and easy-going, but her physique and seductive demeanour fills your stomach with butterflies.

An irritated squawk cut your conversation short.

Kassandra shoots Ikaros a look before turning back to you. “Sorry about him.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine, really. Damn… What was I saying again?” you ask sheepishly.

Squawk.

“Nevermind, I was probably babbling anyway,” you dismiss, sipping on your now cold beverage.

Kassandra chuckles softly. “Don’t be silly, you have the voice of an angel. You could read me the dictionary and I’d still be interested.” She probably said this to every woman she took a liking to, but you can’t bring yourself to care, far too flustered and feeling, for once, special.

Squawk.

Her eye practically twitches in anger as Ikaros flies over to the windowsill, makes unwavering eye-contact with his owner, and shits on the wood.

Kassandra looks like she wants to be euthanised.

“My god,” she mutters as you burst out laughing. She awkwardly rubs the back of her neck and grimaces, mouth parted as if trying to form some kind of apology for her eagle’s behaviour.

“I’m guessing you’re used to being the only one doing the flustering?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Her disgraced expression shifted back to a playful one. “If I say yes, do I sound like a whore?”

Grinning, you shake your head. “A little cocky, perhaps.”

“I’ll take cocky.” She winks and gets up. “Your coffee is probably cold, can I get you a fresh one?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.”

“The finest,” she smirks.

“Real smooth,” you roll your eyes, smiling regardless.

Ikaros caws from the windowsill, as if mocking Kassandra’s advances. Once again, her effortless charm dissolves into a look of frustration. She grabs kitchen towels and a bottle of disinfectant from by the sink and walks over to the window, nudging the eagle so he’d move out of the way. “Maláka,” she groans, cleaning up the mess from the surface. “Μη μου το χαλάς αυτό,” she mutters to Ikaros, earning a confused look. Kassandra sighs. “Usually I wait until after the first date before introducing a beautiful lady to this little shit. That way people don’t immediately think I’m just a weird bird lesbian.”

Testing the waters, you remark, “I happen to quite fancy women with an affinity for animals.” You bite your lip and add, “And, well, you’re…very attractive.”

Smugly, Kassandra finishes disinfecting the windowsill and walks to the kitchen with a little more vigour, your compliment proving to be an ego boost.

Once again deprived of attention, Ikaros decides to flap over and join you at the table. Instinctively, you flinch as the large bird flies in your direction, but all he does is stare at you, trying to analyse the stranger in his home.

“Does – does he bite?” you ask, hesitantly standing up.

Kassandra discards the kitchen towel in the bin, washing her hands. “No, he’s very kind to everyone who isn’t me.” She flashes you a wicked grin. “I only bite when asked.”

Stammering, you choke on air, struggling to find a response. Ikaros gives her a disappointed look.

“Shit, too forward?”

You shake your head. “Not at all,” you blush. “I’ve just…never met anyone quite like you before.” Ikaros seemingly gives you a judgemental leer, and you swiftly find yourself adding, “I-in a good way, that is!”

“Oh?” Her brow is upturned, her interest piqued.

“It’s…exciting.” The eagle shuffles towards you and nuzzles your hand, apparently deciding you’re worthy of his affections. The dark feathers atop his head are surprisingly soft to touch. Smiling, you give his head a few pats, inhibitions to the wind when cute little coos vibrate from his throat. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“I think it’s adorable,” Kassandra says softly.

You look up. “Really?”

“Really.” She joins the two of you and plucks a damson from the fruit bowl, feeding it to Ikaros while you pet him. “You’re the loveliest person to have ever set foot in this building, that’s for sure.”

Ikaros cocks his head in agreement. His beady eyes meet yours, damson juice dribbling from his beak. Do it, he’s silently telling you.

Screw it, let’s shoot our shot.

You clear your throat, mustering up some courage. “Are you free next weekend?”

Kassandra beams amorously. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” she grins. “How does dinner sound?”

Fuck yes. “Really good,” you blurt out excitedly.

“There’s this great Persian restaurant a couple streets over. I’ll book us a table?”

You gasp, having seen the building on the drive when you were moving in. “The place with the garden and the pretty lights, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sounds amazing.” Red in the face and heart pounding, your eyes dart about the apartment, fearing that you’ll combust if you look at Kassandra any longer. They settle on Ikaros, who gently butts his head against your hand, almost like a fist-bump. “Well, uh, I have a home insurance company to ring up, so I should probably get going,” you stutter.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Kassandra says, a tinge of disappointment in her tone. Ikaros squawks sadly.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for staying,” she winks. The eagle coos in agreement. You give him one last pat before walking to the front door.

“Oh, before you leave, there is something you should know…” Kassandra calls, moving over to you. She delicately takes your hand, frying your brain, and leans down to your ear. You feel faint. Lowly, she whispers, “…Our Hermes guy likes to drop-kick our parcels.”

Snorting, you look up at her in disbelief. I mean, what was I expecting? A kiss? Get a grip, woman. Kassandra laughs at your expression. “Use the amazon locker down the road instead.”

“You’re amazing,” you murmur, grinning. “I’ll probably see you before next weekend, but bye, I guess?”

“Chaire,” she bids softly, opening the door for you.

When the door closes behind you, you let out a ragged breath, excitement coursing through your veins.

You are so glad you moved here.

.

( The Greek clause is meant to say "Don't blow this for me" but I used 5 different translators and all 5 came back with slightly different things and I sort of ip-dip-doo'd it and chose one at random...sorry. )

Between Fifth and You

(cw in tags)

~

chapter one

“Olives or twist?”

Sirius had to watch the barkeep’s mouth to make out the words beneath the pounding music, which meant Sirius caught the way his eyes skittered across his face almost fearfully. The sheer amount of obsidian in this place probably did nothing to lighten his features. Not to mention, few people knew how to look him in the eye.

“Twist,” he said.

The man nodded and flipped the bottle of gin until it dipped into a shot glass, the glass into the ice. Sirius watched until he was stirring the bitters in and a hand appeared on his shoulder, lips to his neck.

“Burn this,” Saint said, and plucked at Sirius’ shirt sleeve, rubbing the black material between his fingers. Sirius raised an eyebrow as he turned. Saint’s own shirt was unbuttoned half way down his hard chest, light brown skin warm in the flashing club lights. “You’ve worn it too many times.”

“Hello to you, too,” Sirius said. “I like this shirt.”

“I liked it two months ago,” Saint replied. “It’s September now, your highness.”

Sirius scoffed as the bartender slid him his drink.

“You gonna tell everyone the sun did that?” Sirius took a clean sip of gin with one hand and stroked his other through Saint’s gold curls, only suddenly some of the slightly course strands were almost white.

Saint’s grin turned coy. “Isn’t it nice to have a mystery to think about?”

“Oh, yeah, do blonds have more fun?”

“You wouldn’t know.”

The music kicked up a beat that Sirius felt through his spine.

“Why do we always come here?” he leaned a hip against the bar. “We have an entire city.”

“Yeah, fuck the rest of the world, we have one whole city.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Saint shook his head. “Because that’s what we do. You see that guy over there? I’ve taken him out four times. Couldn’t tell you his name. They couldn’t tell you mine.”

“Everyone knows your name, Saint.”

Saint grinned. “Maybe. But why do we go back to each other? Because we’re creatures of fucking habit.” Saint cocked his head, stole Sirius’ drink. “And what is this city but a bad, bad habit?”

Sirius’ blood cooled and he looked away.

What am I, Sirius? said the familiar voice from his memory. Am I easy? Am I safe? Do you want me, or am I just familiar now?

He closed his eyes against the memory of his reply.

Bad habit indeed.

XOXO

Spotted—a familiar face from the past. What has this train brought in? Thanks to a tip from @magicinthemaking, I bring you this picture of none other than Remus Lupin (and a certain Southern bell we know and love) under Grand Central’s stars. We missed you, Re—how was England? Or was it Europe?

The rumors can never seem to decide, but why the sudden change in plans to take his Junior year abroad? Here we were thinking he wanted nothing more than to stay.

I wonder how another certain star will feel about this sudden homecoming. And just in time for senior year’s Fall semester, too.

XOXO.

Remus adjusted his suitcase, glad he’d mailed so many of his things home. He’d been on U.S. soil for all of three hours, and he already missed Rome. He wanted to walk down the tiny staircase from his billet family’s apartment and get a cappuccino. He wanted to stand on the drain of the Pantheon and soak up the sheer history in the air.

He already wanted a break.

But he also wanted to see Julian. Sometimes it felt like the only thing pulling him back home was seeing his baby brother’s grin in real life rather than across a Facetime call.

“All good?”

Remus looked up at Leo. His blond hair was still bleached a bright blond from the Roman sun. Their program had ended in May, but Remus was glad they had stayed together. He hadn’t been looking for Leo—for someone to kiss for the first time in the rose garden at the top of the Aventine Hill while Leo told him about its past as a cemetery.

It’s footpaths are laid out like a Minorah, see? Leo had pointed out. To remember. 300 different types of roses isn’t enough. But I like to come here.

Remus thought it had been Leo’s love for history, and his respect, too, that had drawn him in. They both came from a world where the biggest thing most people cared about was what they’d wear to the next party, and who was bringing their next drink.

Remus hadn’t been able to believe his luck, as fragile as his heart was still.

“Yeah,” Remus nodded. “All good.”

But he wasn’t sure. They hadn’t been friends here, in the city, or at Hogwarts. It had been Rome. Remus didn’t know what their old lives would do to them. But he took Leo’s hand and watched the way Leo fingered the star he wore around his neck, the way he shot Remus his dimpled smile.

“Come on,” Remus said. “I want you to meet Julian.”

XOXO

Good morning Upper East Siders—Gossip Girl here. All trends point to Fall’s Hogwartsers coming back in Black—in more ways than one. Sirius Black’s got a baby brother on campus now, and after another wild summer for the Hogwarts College elite, count me in with the rest of them on wondering what to expect. Rumor is he’s not much like our favorite star.

“You don’t have to talk to me, you know.”

Sirius kept his eyes on his eggs and toast. “Your missing your tie. Mom said—”

“What do you care?” Regulus replied. “I hear when she used to make you wear one it usually ended up around some other guy’s neck by ten in the morning.”

“If you’re going to believe everything you read on Gossip Girl about me, then maybe I won’t talk to you.”

Regulus smirked. “So, you read it, too.” 

“Boys.”

Both brothers went back to their breakfasts.

“Good morning, mom,” Sirius said.

Walburga Black smiled with her painted lips, resting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder and bending to kiss his cheek.

“Don’t you both look handsome for your first day. Although that leather jacket has seen better days, Sirius. Do what you want for dinner, ask Chef, I don’t care. I’ll be at the House.”

The House. The House of Black, his mother’s million dollar fashion industry.

“Fine,” Regulus nodded, and rose. “I’ll take the first car.”

Sirius rolled his eyes again. “Really?”

Regulus just snatched up his backpack.

Saint, James, and Thomas were waiting for him on one of the courtyard tables when Sirius got out of the Escalade. It certainly felt like a first day of a semester. Saint’s neck dripped in gold necklaces—a story behind each one. Thomas, who had replaced his short braids with a closely shaved head, wore a white t-shirt and ripped up jean shorts, gold nose-ring glinting in the sun. James had evidently been helped out by Lily, as usual, a green, tight-fitting Henley shirt bunched up at his elbows. The two flanked Saint, who basked on top of the stone table, head tilted back to bare his throat in a way that made Sirius think of last night, in the back of the bar. He could see a purplish mark he had left there.

“You’re looking surprisingly chipper,” James said when Sirius reached Hogwarts’ courtyard.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, knowing he didn’t. “I’m not failing any classes yet, James.”

His friends went oddly silent. Sirius looked around at them, spreading his hands in confusion. Saint wouldn’t look at him, expression going oddly stoney. Thomas, finally, offered him his phone, biting his lip. Sirius took it.

His heart leapt to his throat. He didn’t even bother reading the Instagram caption. Remus loomed out at him from the phone screen.

“Leo Knut,” Saint said. “Who would have thought.”

Sirius cleared his throat and turned away from the picture—from Remus and Leo’s clasped hands.

“Why wouldn’t I be chipper?” he said again, and ignored their unconvinced expressions. “I’ve got class.”

Under his desk while he waited for the rest of the class to show, Sirius pulled out his phone and opened Instagram.

XOXO

Remus approached campus slowly. He felt like he didn’t know anyone anymore, even if he knew that wasn’t true. He thought he saw James from afar, but Lily and Kasey didn’t have class today.

Really, Remus didn’t know if he had many friends that weren’t…shared. That didn’t feel too close to home. Manhattan wasn’t that big of an island.

He looked down at his schedule he’d written out on his phone.

The 19th Century Novel - Hogsmeade R#302.

He made his way to the Hogsmeade building and climbed the spiral staircase quickly. It all felt too industrial, too metallic. At least he’d woken up with Leo, who still had the ancient air about him. He didn’t want that bubble to pop.

“Mr. Lupin,” Professor McGonagall beamed when he walked in, and Remus smiled, too at her familiar Scottish drawl. “It’s so very nice to have you back.”

“Hi, Professor. It’s good to be—”

But the words died on Remus’ tongue. He looked out at the small class—just twenty at this high level—and his heart, out of habit it seemed, had leapt at the sight of familiar dark hair.

Uh-oh. Looks like Pyramus and Thisbe are actually wishing for a wall between them this time.

Sirius’ hair was shorter than it had been at the end of sophomore year, the last time Remus had seen him. He wore a touch of a beard, too, just scruff, really, but it framed his silver eyes like darkness to the stars—two stars, which were zeroed in on Remus.

“Back,” Remus tried to recover, mouth dry. He sent McGonagall a shaky smile, and turned to find a seat, trying not to find those stars again.

He resisted the urge to close his eyes in defeat when he realized that there was only one left. He walked towards Sirius looking ahead and with his heart pounding. Leo. Leo making pancakes for him and Julian this morning. Leo making his little brother laugh. But he could smell the worn leather of Sirius’ jacket. He remembered the feel of it around his own shoulders. Are you cold, baby?

“All righty, then,” McGonagall stood from her chair and leaned against the front of her desk, looking down her spectacles at the attendance sheet. “Looks like we’re all here.”

XOXO

“Well?” Saint asked as Sirius took the joint from between his fingers.

“Sat down next to me,” Sirius said. “Didn’t say a fucking word.”

“Did you say a fucking word?” Saint raised his eyebrows.

Sirius blew out smoke. “No.”

“Well, all right, you fucking hypocrite.”

Sirius looked over at him from where they lay side by side, stretched out in the fading sunshine of Central Park. “I’m keeping this now.”

“No, you’re not. Did you pay for that? I don’t think so.”

Sirius scoffed. “Yeah, like this made a dent in the Montague treasuries.”

Saint laughed, tucking a palm behind his head. Sirius let his eyes linger on the strip of skin where his shirt rode up. He’d kissed that last night, too. It was nice with Saint. He’d been friends with him for longer than he could remember. Saint never looked for more. If Sirius snapped at him, he snapped back and then they laughed about it. Saint wandered through the world loving people freely. He kissed them, or he made them dinner, or he took them for long walks along the river. He showed them his favorite jazz club, or gave them the orgasm of their life, or read to them from his favorite books. He was New York in human form, accepting and inviting, living and breathing.

Sirius wished he was so trusting, even if trust seemed a funny word to apply to Saint.

No one ever got too close to either of them, except the other.

“What are you wearing to your mom’s fashion show?” Saint asked with his eyes closed. “It’s the event of the season.”

“Are you joking? The fittings started in July.”

“Mm, I love that,” Saint grinned, stretching. “Want to come help me decide what I’m wearing? We’re at the Plaza right now, you know that. You know my mother. If it’s not broken, break it. We’re renovating again. We can order champagne to the room.”

“Is that code for make out?”

“Partly. But I will be showing you my outfit choices.”

“Deal.”

XOXO

Remus made it back home seeing no one, but one of the butlers had an envelope with his name on it waiting for him.

“Thanks, Moody,” Remus murmured, but thought briefly about handing it right back to him.

He knew this invitation. He knew its black boarders and heavy stock. It came ever year.

It used to be something they had looked forward to.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

invites you

TOUJOURS PUR

“Jesus,” Remus breathed, but took it up to his room, checking the time on the way. Julian would still be at school, his parents at work. This apartment was too big for the four of them, not to mention just Remus alone.

His suitcases still lay open and unpacked on his floor, and he kicked at one without looking up.

“So, did you just forget to mention that you were home?”

Remus spun towards his bed, only to find Lily sprawled across it and fiddling with an emerald on a chain.

“I had to find out from Gossip Girl?” Lily shook her head.

Remus slapped the invitation against his thigh. “Wow, wasn’t like that was a surprise present for you or anything.”

Lily smiled, red hair in a thick french braid. “I see green and I know it’s for me. What can I say?”

Remus huffed out a laugh, and she gave a small squeal and pushed off of the bed to wrap him in a hug.

“I’m so happy you’re home, Re.”

He let himself rest his chin in the crook of her neck for a moment. ‘Thanks, Lils.”

She pulled back, hands on his shoulders. “What, no, me too?”

“I am,” he said tentatively. “But I had fun in Rome.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Southern fun?”

“His name is Leo,” Remus said pointedly, then eyed the pile of garment bags piled high on the other side of his bed. “Are those…”

“Pour moi, et pour toi,” Lily patted his cheek. “We have a fashion show to go to, sweetheart.”

XOXO

What do we think, Courtiers? House of Black’s fashion show is the biggest event of the fall. But what on Earth does doe-eyed Remus Lupin have to do within that dark forest now?

Is he a Bambi, or still the wolf we knew?

You know you love me.

XOXO,

Gossip Girl

A rant against Karen Traviss' understanding of history and her FAQ answers

Did you base the Mandalorians on the Spartans?

<cite> No. I didn't. </cite> Fair enough.

<cite> I really wish history was taught properly - okay, taught at all - in schools these days, because history is the big storehouse that I plunder for fiction. It breaks my heart to hear from young readers who have no concept even of recent history - the last fifty years - and so can't see the parallels in my books. You don't have to be a historian to read my novels, but you'll get a lot more out of them if you explore history just a little more. Watch a history channel. Read a few books. Visit some museums. Because history is not "then" - it's "now." Everything we experience today is the product of what's happened before. </cite> Yeah, I do to. Please, Ms Traviss, go on, read some books. Might do you some good. And don't just trust the history channels. Their ideas about fact-checking differ wildly.

<cite> But back to Mandos. Not every military society is based on Sparta, strange as that may seem. In fact, the Mandos don't have much in common with the real Spartans at all. </cite> You mean apart from the absolute obsession with the military ["Agoge" by Stephen Hodkinson], fearsome reputation ["A Historical Commentary on Thucydides" by David Cartwright], their general-king ["Sparta" by Marcus Niebuhr Tod], the fact that they practically acted as mercenaries (like Clearch/Κλέαρχος), or the hyper-confidence ("the city is well-fortified that has a wall of men instead of brick" [Plutarch, Life of Lycurgus])...

<cite> A slightly anarchic, non-centralized, fightin' people? Sounded pretty Celtic to me. Since I went down that path, I've learned more about the Celts (especially the Picts), and the more I learn, the more I realise what a dead ringer for Mandos they are. But more of how that happened later... </cite>

The Celtic people are more than one people, more than one culture. Celtic is a language-family! In the last millennium BC nearly every European ethnic group was in some ways Celtic, and they were not one. Later, after the Germanic tribes (also not one people, or a singular group) moved westwards, the Celtic cultures were still counted in the hundreds. Not only Scotland was Celtic! Nearly all of Western Europe was (apart from the Greek and Phoenician settlers on the Mediterranean coasts). The word “Celts” was written down for the first time by Greek authors who later also used the word “Galatians”. The Romans called these people “Gauls”, and this word was used to describe a specific area, bordered by the Atlantic Ocean, the Cévennes and the Rhine: “Gaul”. So the Celts, the Galatians and the Gauls were all part of the same Celtic civilisation. "Celts, a name applied by ancient writers to a population group occupying lands mainly north of the Mediterranean region from Galicia in the west to Galatia in the east [] Their unity is recognizable by common speech and common artistic traditions" [Waldman & Mason 2006] Mirobrigenses qui Celtici cognominantur. Pliny the Elder, The Natural History; example: C(AIUS) PORCIUS SEVERUS MIROBRIGEN(SIS) CELT(ICUS) -> not just one culture "Their tribes and groups eventually ranged from the British Isles and northern Spain to as far east as Transylvania, the Black Sea coasts, and Galatia in Anatolia and were in part absorbed into the Roman Empire as Britons, Gauls, Boii, Galatians, and Celtiberians. Linguistically they survive in the modern Celtic speakers of Ireland, Highland Scotland, the Isle of Man, Wales, and Brittany." [Celtic Culture: a historical encyclopedia. by John Koch] "[] the individual CELTIC COUNTRIES and their languages, []" James, Simon (1999). The Atlantic Celts – Ancient People Or Modern Invention. University of Wisconsin Press. "All Gaul is divided into three parts, one of which the Belgae live, another in which the Aquitani live, and the third are those who in their own tongue are called Celtae, in our language Galli." [Julius Caesar, De Bello Gallico] <= I had to translate that in school. It's tedious political propaganda. Read also the Comentarii and maybe the paper "Caesar's perception of Gallic social structures" that can be found in "Celtic Chiefdom, Celtic State," Cambridge University Press. The Celtic tribes and nations were diverse. They were pretty organized, with an academic system, roads, trade, and laws. They were not anarchic in any way. They were not warriors - they were mostly farmers. The Celts were first and foremost farmers and livestock breeders

The basic economy of the Celts was mixed farming, and, except in times of unrest, single farmsteads were usual. Owing to the wide variations in terrain and climate, cattle raising was more important than cereal cultivation in some regions.

Suetonius addressing his legionaries said "They are not soldiers—they're not even properly equipped. We've beaten them before." [not entirely sure, but I think that was in Tacitus' Annals]

Regarding the Picts, in particular, which part of their history is "anarchic"? Dál Riata? the Kingdom of Alba? Or are you referring to the warriors that inspired the Hadrian's Wall? Because no one really knows in our days who the fuck they were. The Picts’ name first appears in 297 AD. That is later. <cite> Celts are a good fit with the kind of indomitable, you-can't-kill-'em-off vibe of the Mandos. Reviled by Rome as ignorant savages with no culture or science, and only fit for slaughter or conquest, the Celts were in fact much more civilized than Rome even by modern standards. </cite> That's how the Romans looked at pretty much every culture that wasn't Greek, Roman, Phoenician, Egyptian, or from Mesopotamia (read, if you want, anything Roman or Greek about the Skyths, the Huns, Vandals, Garamantes...).

<cite> They also kicked Roman arse on the battlefield, and were very hard to keep in line, so Rome did what all lying, greedy superpowers do when challenged: they demonized and dehumanized the enemy. (They still used them in their army, of course, but that's only to be expected.) </cite> They were hard to keep in line, but they most definitely did not kick Roman arse on the battlefield. Roman arse was kicked along the borders of the Roman Empire, such as the Rhine, the Danube, the Atlas mountains, etc. And mostly by actually badly organized, slightly anarchic groups, such as the Goths or the Huns (BTW the Huns were not a Germanic people, even though early 20th century British propaganda likes to say so). Though they were also decisively stopped by the Parthians. Who were very organized. Ah well. <cite> While Rome was still leaving its unwanted babies to die on rubbish dumps - a perfectly acceptable form of family planning to this "civilisation" - and keeping women as chattels devoid of rights, the barbarian Celts had a long-standing legal system that not only gave women what we would think of as equal rights, but also protected the rights of the elderly, children, and the disabled. They had a road network across Europe and worldwide trade long before the Romans ever got their act together. And their science - well, their astronomical calculations were so sophisticated that it takes computers to do the same stuff today. </cite> See? You even say yourself that they weren't actually anarchic. Also you're not completely right: 1. women (of most Celtic cultures, with one notable exception being the Irish) were not allowed to become druids, e.g. scientists, physicians, priests, or any other kind of academics, so they did not have equal rights. Also, as in other Indo-European systems, the family was patriarchal. 2. the roads they had were more like paths, and did not span the entirety of Europe; the old roads that are still in use are nearly all of them Roman. Had the Celtic inhabitants of Gallia or Britannia built comparable roads, why would the Romans have invested in building a new system on top? 3. world-wide? Yeah, right. They traded with those who traded with others and so were able to trade with most of southern Eurasia and northern Africa, as well as few northern parts (Balticum, Rus), but that's (surprise) not the whole world. 4. most people use computers for those calculations you mention because its easier. It's not necessary. I can do those calculations - give me some time to study astronomy (I'm a math major, not physics) and some pencils and paper. 5. and - I nearly forgot - the kids didn't die. That was a polite fiction. The harsh truth is that most Roman slaves were Romans... <cite> So - not barbarians. Just a threat to the empire, a culture that wouldn't let the Pax Romana roll over it without a fight. (Except the French tribes, who did roll over, and were regarded by the Germanic Celts [...]) </cite> WTF Germanic Celts? What are you smoking, woman? Isn't it enough that you put every culture speaking a language from the Celtic family in one pot and act as if they were one people, now you have to mix in a different language-family as well? Shall we continue that trend? What about the Mongolian Celts, are they, too, proof that the Celts were badass warriors? I think at this point I just lost all leftover trust in your so-called knowledge. <cite> [...] as being as bad as the Romans. Suck on that, Asterix... </cite> Asterix was definitely a Celt, and unlike the British Celts, he was not a citizen of the Roman Empire.

<cite> Broad brush-stroke time; Celts were not a centralized society but more a network of townships and tribes, a loose alliance of clans who had their own internal spats, but when faced with some uppity outsider would come together to drive off the common threat. </cite> They might have tried, but they didn't. The first and only time a Celtic people really managed to drive off some uppity outsider would be 1922 following the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921*. The fact that France, Spain, Portugal speak Romance languages and the British (or Irish) Isles nearly uniformly speak English should be proof enough.

*Unless you count Asterix. <cite> You couldn't defeat them by cutting off the head. There was no head to cut off. </cite> You mean unlike Boudica and Vercingetorix. Oh wait. Tacitus, in his Annals, said that Boudica's last fight cost 80,000 Britons and 400 Romans their lives. He was probably exaggerating. But it definitely stopped much of the British resistance in its tracks. <cite> To the centralized, formal, rather bureaucratic Romans, for whom the city of Rome was the focus of the whole empire, this was a big does-not-compute. The Celts were everything they didn't understand. And we fear what we don't understand, and we kill what we fear. </cite> While that is totally true, it's also completely off the mark. The Romans demonized the druids, not every Celt, and they were afraid of what was basically an academic network. That had nothing to do with war. <cite> Anyway, Mandos....once I took a single concept - in this case, the idea of clans that operated on a loose alliance system, like the Celts - the rest grew organically. I didn't plan it out in detail from the start. </cite> That's really obvious. Maybe looking at some numbers and remembering that you weren't planning a small, local, rural, medieval community would have helped, too. I mean lets have a look at, say, Scotland (since you specifically mentioned the Picts): they still have less than 6 mio. people all together, and that's today. Mandalore is a sector. A sector of Outer Space with at least 2000 inhabited planets. How do you think that translates? It doesn't. <cite> I just asked myself what a culture of nomadic warriors would value, how they would need to operate to survive, and it all grew inexorably by logical steps. The fact that Mandos ended up as very much like the Celts is proof that the technique of evolving a character or species - find the niche, then work out what fits it - works every time. It creates something very realistic, because that's how real people and real societies develop. </cite> Celtic people were usually not nomadic! And, once again, non of them were predominantly warriors! It's really hard to be a nomadic farmer. I believe the biggest mistake you made, Ms Traviss, is mixing up the Iron Age (and earlier) tribes that did indeed sack Rome and parts of Greece, and that one day would become the people the Romans conquered. And apart from the Picts they really were conquered. <cite> So all I can say about Mandos and Spartans is that the average Mando would probably tell a Spartan to go and put some clothes on, and stop looking like such a big jessie. </cite>

I'd really like to see a Mando – or anyone – wearing full plate without modern or Star Wars technology in Greece. Happy heatstroke. There is a reason they didn't wear a lot (look up the Battle of Hattîn, where crusaders who didn't wear full helmets and wore chainmail* still suffered badly from heat exhaustion). [Nicolle, David (1993), Hattin 1187: Saladin's Greatest Victory] *chainmail apparently can work like a heatsink CONCLUSION You're wrong. And I felt offended by your FAQ answers. QUESTION You're English. You're from England. A group - a nation - that was historically so warlike and so successful that by now we all speak English. A nation that definitely kicked arse against any Celtic nation trying to go against them (until 1921, and they really tried anyway). A nation that had arguably the largest Empire in history. A nation that still is barbaric and warlike enough that a lost football game has people honestly fearing for their lives.

Also, a Germanic group, since you seem to have trouble keeping language-families and cultures apart. If we were to talk about the family, we could add on the current most aggressively attacking nation (USA) plus the former most aggressively attacking nations (the second and third German Reich), also the people who killed off the Roman Empire for good (the Goths and Visigoth), the original berserkers (the Vikings) and claim at the very least the start of BOTH WORLD WARS. Why did you look further?

Some other sources:

Histoire de la vie privée by Georges Duby and Philippe Ariès, the first book  (about the antiquity) I read it translated, my French is ... bad to non-existent

The Day of the Barbarians: The Battle That Led to the Fall of the Roman Empire  (about the Huns) by Alessandro Barbero

If you speak Dutch or German, you might try

Helmut Birkhan: Kelten. Versuch einer Gesamtdarstellung ihrer Kultur, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien

Janssens, Ugo, De Oude Belgen. Geschiedenis, leefgewoontes, mythe en werkelijkheid van de Keltische stammen. Uitgeverij The House of Books

DISCLAIMER

I’m angry and I wrote this down in one session and thus probably made some mistakes. I’m sorry. Or maybe I’m not sorry. I’m still angry. She can’t know who reads her FAQ and at least two of her answers (on her professional website) were offensive to the reader.

i accidentally deleted your request anon😭 but i managed to take a pic before! so, here it is!

prompt 36: “fuck you scared me... don’t you do that ever again!”

prompt 37: “are you afraid to die?”

warnings: angst, talk about death, kinda grim, self indulgent (just a bit! y/n’s thought process) car accident, loss of memory, crying osamu

osamu miya x gn!reader (intended lower case)

in the comfort of the darkness, you sat on your sweater on a hill that overlooked your neighbourhood.

after a long day of school and work, you managed to squeeze some time of solitude for your thoughts.

with your knees pulled to your chest and your chin resting on your crossed arms, you inhaled the sweet scent of freedom.

out here, away from the busy streets and tall buildings, you were free. out here, with only the trees and stars to keep you company, you were content with life.

you heard rustling behind you and shut your eyes, inhaling a long breath before you heard a familiar voice quietly call out to you.

“here,” you whispered.

you didn’t turn, nor did you look up. osamu laid a jacket beside you before sitting down next to you. his arm brushing against yours.

“how’d you know it was me?”

you smiled. it was the same question he asked you every time he received a text from you and met you up on your hill. and every time, you gave him the same answer.

“just a hunch.”

osamu drifted his eyes away from your face to the stars. there wasn’t much of a difference, he thought. the stars were just as captivating as you, you more so. you were just as fascinating as the stars, shining brightly in solitude and the dark.

without making any unnecessary noises, osamu leaned back on his hands, kicking his legs out in front of him.

he needed this break just as much as you did.

in the silence of the night, you and osamu sat together, letting the stress and sorrows of the previous week slip away.

simultaneously, you both leaned back, your heads resting on the soft fresh grass.

you gently shut your eyes, reminiscing in the quiet atmosphere. no one was here to bother you. there were no looming assignments or demeaning parents.

out here, it was just you and the stars.

and osamu.

“are ya afraid to die?”

your eyes flew open, and you turned your head, grass tickling your cheek.

osamu’s dark grey eyes twinkled as he stared into your eyes. you thought about his question. obscure thoughts tangled with apparent ones.

you turned your head, facing the dark sky.

“not really.”

osamu hummed. “why not?”

you lifted your hand, spreading your fingers so each nail connect with a stare.

“because it’s inevitable.”

osamu raised his eyebrow. shifting to his side to face you completely. “care to expand?”

“i’m not afraid to die because the second you’re welcomed into this world, you’re introduced to the concept of death. you know you’re going to die. so you live while you can.”

osamu’s eyes were set on you. you always sounded so old—mature—when you talked like this. like you knew things he couldn’t understand.

fate he couldn’t fathom.

“i’m not afraid to die because i’ve been preparing for it my whole life.”

you turned your head to meet osamu’s curious eyes.

“that’s a bit depressing,” osamu laughs.

you grin at him, your lips pulling into a breathtaking smile. “it is.”

after a few silent moments, you whispered,

“memento mori.”

“what?”

you pretended to squish the stars in between your thumb and index finger like grapes.

“it’s a latin phrase that originated from ancient rome.”

“what does it mean?”

osamu loved your knowledge of random things. he knew an abundance of phrases from different origins because of you.

“remember that you will die.”

“god, y/n,” osamu sighed. “you’re so grim.”

you smiled. “what? it keeps me grounded.” osamu let out a light chuckle.

“no matter what i do, how much money i make, who i marry, i’m not going to live forever. i won’t go down in history unless i do something monumental. i’ll live, i’ll aim for a good life, and then, inevitably, i’ll die. it helps remind me that stress and sadness does eventually come to and end.”

you licked your lips. “are you afraid to die?”

osamu shrugged. “yeah. i am.”

you shifted your weight to your side so you were completely facing him. with your arm bent under your head, you rested your head on your elbow.

“how come?”

osamu shifted his eyes to the ground before meeting yours again.

“i guess i’m afraid of not living my life to the fullest. i wanna be happy. do things that’ll make me smile. i wanna die knowing i lived the best i could.”

you gently smiled at him. “what’s stopping you?”

silence.

osamu stared at you like he didn’t know how to comprehend your question.

what was stopping him?

he was young, talented, and persistent.

a heavy realization fell upon osamu. there was nothing stopping him. he was stopping him.

the only person who stood between his happiness, was himself.

with a goofy smile, osamu turned to face the stars.

“nothing. nothing at all.”

you smiled at him, happy he understood. you gently pushed yourself up, letting out a small yawn. you stretched your arms, sighing when you heard your shoulders quietly crack.

“time to go home.”

osamu let out a whine. “do we have too?”

you stood up, brushing your jeans with your hands. you grabbed your sweater, slipping it on.

“yes, ‘samu.” you narrowed your eyes at his frown. “we have school tomorrow.”

osamu rolled his eyes, but got up anyways. he grabbed his jacket, throwing it over his shoulder.

“let’s go home then.”

you both walked down the hill and into the street, bickering and laughing.

your heart felt so full. this is what you were afraid of losing. this laughter and feeling of content. you weren’t afraid of dying, you were afraid of loosing the feeling of your heart being full forever.

so when you pushed osamu out of the way, and a car came blazing towards you, you didn’t have a moment to think about what was going to happen.

only that you really liked laughing and would miss it.

before the pain took over, you remembered hearing osamu’s loud and panicked voice yell your name. the last thing you saw were his tear-filled grey eyes.

***

the smell of antiseptic, stainless steel, and blood filled your senses and your eyes flew open.

as quickly as you opened your eyes, you squeezed them shut. the bright lights of the hospital room too strong for your weak eyes.

the machines around you buzzed and you groaned. pain had enveloped you completely and you licked your dry lips.

your head was pounding and your memory was hazy. you pulled yourself up, wincing in pain when the iv in your arm moved with you.

you gently opened your eyes, blinking to get used to the bright white light.

your eyes swept across the large hospital room and your frowned.

how did i get here?

your eyes fell on a mop of grey hair and you blinked a few times to clear your vision. your eyes took in the male sitting by your bed, his eyes closed and his lips pulled into a frown.

you tried putting a name to the far familiar face, but you came up empty, and at that thought, you started spluttering, trying to form words.

at the sound of your hoarse breath, the grey-haired man’s eyes flew open and locked on you.

your eyes were locked on the rheumy and heavy-lidded eyes, the taste of familiarity on your tongue but unidentifiable.

“y/n...”

the voice you had heard in your dreams whispered a name you knew was yours.

you licked your cracks lips. “water.”

immediately, the trance the man was in has broken and he sprang up, grabbing a water bottle and handing it to you. you hesitatingly grabbed it, staring at the lid before gently twisting it.

the man stared at you, his eyes burning holes into you. you kept your gaze on your bed, afraid of the pain you felt when you looked at him.

he quickly left the room, yelling an unfamiliar name loudly.

you drank half of the water bottle before twisting the cap back on. you leaned back, wincing. you gingerly brought your hand to your forehead, gasping at the feeling of bandage.

a tall, thin and pale man with light brown hair and round glasses walked into the room. he wore a long white coat and was holding a clipboard. the same man with grey hair and a women of much shorter height with tear-stained cheeks walked in behind him.

the man, whom you assumed was a doctor, walked up to you, keeping a distance. he smiled at you before motioning to the chair beside you.

you nodded, unable to use your words.

“y/n, i’m doctor kim.” he waited before you met his eyes. “do you know where you are?”

you stared at him. he waited patiently until you gently nodded. “the hospital.”

doctor kim smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“that’s right. can you tell me your full name?”

you stared at him, your eyebrows furrowed. you tried remembering, but your head began to hurt profoundly. it was like there was a wall that separated you from your memories.

“it’s okay,” doctor kim whispered. “you must feel disoriented.”

you didn’t nod, just fought the wall. you knew that you had a last name. it was right there, but unaccessible.

after a few painfully silent moments later, you let out a heavy sigh.

“l/n. y/n l/n.”

doctor kim smiled and the women in the corner of the room let out a sob, her hand coming to cover her mouth.

you stared at the women, a wave of familiarity hit you and you frowned. you knew her. so why couldn’t you remember?

“y/n,” you turned your head to face the calm eyes of the doctor. “you were in an accident.”

your frown deepened. “i don’t... remember.”

doctor kim nodded, his eyes glancing at the clipboard before he smiled a faux smile at you.

“you hit your head really hard. it’ll take you a few days to regain all your memories. you remember your name, that’s great process. over the week, your memories should all come back to you.”

you nodded. an accident? why didn’t you remember? and why was the man with grey hair staring at you like that?

doctor kim checked the machines before making his way to the door. he smiled at you and then looked at the women.

“ms. l/n, can you come with me to fill out a few pages?”

your breath hitched. your eyes were locked on familiar ones and you quietly whispered, “mom?”

your mother painfully smiled at you before running out the door behind the doctor. you watched her go with a frowned.

you turned your head to the man who stood in the corner. his posture was rigid and you were sure he hadn’t blinked since he walked in the room. his gaze unwavering.

you shifted your eyes from his, his gaze too intense.

“can i... can i sit?”

you nodded. his voice was intensely familiar. it was the voice you heard in your dreams. the one you had grew attached too.

osamu sat on the chair with hesitation. he was feeling so many things at once. you had been in a week long coma, and osamu hadn’t had a moment of rest since he sat with you in the ambulance.

osamu let out a heavy sigh, bringing his hands to cover his face. you watched him from the corner of your vision. he felt so familiar, so why couldn’t you recall his name?

osamu began to cry, his shoulders shaking.

you turned your head to face him, your lips set into a permanent frown. for some reason unknown to you, your heart hurt at the sight of his tears.

“fuck, y/n,” osamu lifted his head. his eyes brimmed with red. “you scared me.”

you stared at him, unsure of what to do. you didn’t know why you had scared him. but his shoulders shook and his lips trembled, so you stayed quiet.

“don’t you— don’t you do that ever again!”

you just silently watched as the grey-haired man cried and yelled at you. “don’t you ever push me away! don’t you ever try and save me again!”

the room was heavy with silence. the grey haired man sobbed into his hands and the machines buzzed in your head.

you don’t know what compelled you to say this, but you did anyways. it felt right. like the man crying in front of you deserved to hear these words.

“i won’t. i’m sorry.”

at the sound of your voice, his crying grew quieter and after a few moments, he wiped his tears, his bloodshot eyes staring at you.

“promise me.”

you saw the whirlpool of emotions in his grey eyes and although you couldn’t decipher them, you promised anyways.

when he smiled, his cheeks using muscles it hadn’t in a week, you suddenly felt guilty.

you had promised to a stranger.

a stranger who seemed to know you better than you knew yourself.

a stranger who seemed to think you knew him.

i didn’t know what kind of angst you wanted anon, so i kinda went with the flow! also, i was too lazy to add capitals. so. i think it adds to the theme. sure.

also yes. doctor kim from dr. romantic. sue me.

taglist: @h-grangerstudies @elektrosonix @snoozless @ackerpotato @asterroidd @rinrinniesstuff @bokuatsubro @literaleftist @howcanyoubreathewithnozaire @addicedtoeverythinganime @felixsamour @megumeee @aghashiii @fail-big @kailleis-sunshine

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hana’s author note.

"HOW MUCH TONGUE DID THEY USE IN ANCIENT ROME?" SNBXJSNDBDJWMDBFJEKB

18th century google search history

Chapter 1

The revelry from the bookstore leaves a heady buzz of la libertà flowing through their veins, and as the crescent moon climbs higher in a pin-pricked sky, Rome’s labyrinthine streets bear witness to the loss of their remaining inhibitions. Drunken kisses give way to drunken dancing - and unfortunate drunken vomiting - but the ancient cobbles are their compass on this ferragosto evening, steering them back to the complicit safety of their hotel. 

The stale scent of sex still lingers in the room, yet tempted as they are to add to it, the prospect of their imminent separation is a sobering force. Elio’s body is heavy with exhaustion. The oppressive tightness in his chest magnified by all that he’s trying to ignore. Their time is borrowed. Soon, all of this will be naught but memory. The man beside him nothing but a ghost. Haunting his every step with visions of a life denied. A future obfuscated by what-ifs and maybes.   

He refuses to sleep, however. Refuses to sacrifice a single minute to unconsciousness in spite of the grappa’s siren call. Absurd though it is, a part of him dreads waking up alone. That Oliver will disappear like a thief in the night - taking what’s left of his shattered heart with him. His guards are down - all his pretences stripped away - but here they are, stretched out on a too-small bed, solemn fingers caressing familiar skin. Worshipping each other by words, if not by the flesh. 

And it isn’t easy. Of course it isn’t. Elio’s an individuo reservato. A trait he’s uncomfortably aware of. But he can’t let that stop him from spilling his innermost thoughts. From divulging the things he wishes he’d done differently. Or not at all. In some aspects, he’s sure he’s repeating himself, but there’s just so much he needs Oliver to hear. Things he never dared tell him previously - never deemed vital - when the end of their summer idyll was a nebulous concept.  

Like how he’d leave the adjoining door open at night, hoping beyond hope that Oliver would walk through it. Or that afternoon at the tennis courts, when he’d recoiled from his massage for fear of leaning into the frisson of excitement. Needs him to understand his visceral reaction the morning after they first slept together. The crippling anxiety that twisted his intentions, necessitating a hasty - if short-lived - retreat. Wants to beg him not to forget. To remember everything. So that when next he tastes the salt-tang of the ocean upon his lips, the sweetness of apricot juice beneath a cloudless yonder, a piece of Elio - nevermind how fleeting - will slip into that parallel life, too.

All his secrets. 

All his worries. 

All he’s put off for later. 

A futile notion, admittedly, now that there is no later. 

No more chance for postponement. 

Thankfully, he isn’t the only one speaking, and Oliver lays his own regrets out like a hand of cards whenever he stumbles into a tongue-tied silence. His forearm is slung around his waist, their legs tangled at the knees, and Elio drowns in his eyes as he recalls the steely glares that once pierced him to the core, but which he now appreciates were a means of self-defence. An attempt to stave off the unavoidable.

“Did you mean it?” he whispers, twisting Oliver’s Star of David between his fingertips as he burrows into the sticky warmth of his neck. “When you said you’d been happy here?”

“How can you even ask me that?” 

“How can I not?” Elio replies, failing to control the tremor in his voice. “You tried to keep your distance when you arrived. It was me who sought you out. If I hadn’t pushed so hard -”

“I’d have probably spent ten more days kicking myself for my cowardice,” Oliver tells him, dropping kisses to his knuckles as though they’re something to be cherished. “Wearing holes in my espadrilles… trying to hide a semi each time you passed by in those swim trunks...”

Elio snorts. “The feeling’s mutual, mon ami.”

“So we’re both idiots, then?”

“Well… one of us was being purposefully difficult...”

“Goose,” Oliver growls, and Elio giggles despite himself when he’s tickled without mercy. “I’ll show you purposefully difficult.”

It soon devolves into a childish wrestling match, Elio’s wrists pinned above him as Oliver scrabbles along his sides, leaving him bow-taut and winded. “Tutto apposto! Enough!”

“You give?”

“I give,” he says, lungs heaving in his chest. “Dio… I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Nonsense.” Oliver rolls to the side, tipping his chin up to better meet his eyes. ”This is new to us both. It’s only natural to have doubts.”

Elio huffs. “Doubt is the father of inventions.”

“And may I ask what you’re inventing?”

An awkward shrug. “Nothing,” Elio says, afraid his misgivings will lead them down a destructive path. “And everything. You know how my brain works.”

“I do, yes.” Oliver brushes a thumb over his bottom lip. “Though for my sins, I’ve yet to find cause for complaint.”

“Déviant.” 

“Takes one to know one.”

Elio nips at the tormenting digit, not quite ready to let the subject go. “I want to hear it,” he murmurs, teeth scraping the nail. “I think I need to hear it.”

“Elio…”

“Just tell me,” he insists, and sighing, Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” 

Impatience flares at the return of his evasiveness, and the remorse in Oliver’s gaze is immediate. “We never talked much about my family, did we?” he asks, and Elio shakes his head, shuffling closer as Oliver draws a shuddering breath. “My parents, they’re.... well. To describe them as traditional would be a kindness,” he continues. “Our relationship has been strained for years, but they have certain... expectations, I suppose. For my future, specifically. You know how it is.”

“Do I?” Elio asks, stiffening as I'm sure I'll pay for it somehow echoed from the not so distant past. 

The implication is clear, and maybe there are razor blades in his expression, because Oliver’s own turns instantly apologetic. “I guess not,” he says, sliding a conciliatory hand to his hip. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

Elio frowns. “In what way?”

“With your folks,” Oliver explains. “My father would cart me off to a correctional facility.” A beat. “He still might.” 

“Only if he finds out,” his traitorous mouth blurts before his alleged genius can catch up, and Elio’s heart sinks. “But he won’t, will he?”

It’s less a question, more a statement, and Oliver’s jaw clenches as he stares at him in silent concession. “I wish things could be different.”

“I know,” Elio says, the words braver than the sentiment behind them. “Me too.”  

But the universe isn’t that lenient. Like Icarus, they’ve flown too near to the sun, and the consequences of such defiance will see their wings clipped once they crash back down to earth. He’d cautioned himself on the journey south to prepare for the blow. Peered out the grimy window of the direttissimo, knowing that when he next stands on the platform he’ll be alone. That he’ll hate it. Those rehearsals, it seems, have done little to dull the pain of what’s to come, and latent superstition has left him fumbling in the dark, regardless.

“E’ la vita,” Elio says, resorting to self-preservation as he dredges up a smile - the over-bright, false one he’s perfected through years of dinner drudgery. “Why risk it all for a bit of fun, right?”

“Don’t do that.” Apparently Elio’s not the only one who can see through a facade. “You mean more to me than some fling, and you know it.”

“But -” 

“No. Hear me out.” Earnest, Oliver smooths the hair from Elio’s temple. “These past six weeks… I don’t know how to describe how important they were to me. The freedom. The acceptance.” His throat bobs in the grey strokes of dawn. “You.”

“Me?” 

“Us.” Oliver fidgets with a loose thread on Elio’s shirt. “I meant it,” he mutters at last, winding an errant curl around the index finger of his other hand. “I have been happy here. I’ve been happy with you.” He hesitates. A quick flash of indecision. “I’m not sure I was ever really happy before you.” 

“Please don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Per carità! That only makes it worse,” Elio says, whirling away to hide in Oliver’s collar. The sour musk of sweat is soaked into the material, and he inhales deeply, hoarding every piece of him while he still can. “You are the very best parts of me,” he confesses, lifting his head. “I don’t know what I’ll do when -”

“Hey…” Oliver’s grip tightens. “Didn’t we go over this? You’ll be -”

“Fine. You said.”

“Clearly it bears repeating.” 

Elio touches his face. Watches the ripples of emotion spread out like a pebble cast into the lake. “And you?” he returns, recollecting that night on the rock. His naivety in presuming Oliver’s ghost wouldn’t always be staring out at the horizon. Rodin’s Thinker clad in billowy cotton. “You’ll be okay?”

A breath. “I’ll be okay.”

Elio’s not sure which of them he’s trying to convince, so he kisses him gently in lieu of examining it further, his stomach flipping when Oliver pulls back with an air of exquisite softness. “What time do we need to be at the airport?” he asks, seeking sanctuary in distraction. “You have your passport, sì?”

“I do,” Oliver says, studying him carefully. “The plane leaves at noon. But don’t feel you have to -” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “You don’t have to see me off. Not if you don’t want -”

“I want.”

“Elio -”

“Non essere ridicolo. I’m coming,” he tells him, fighting a shiver as the cool breeze from the window brings goosebumps to his skin. “Of course I’m coming.” 

The relentless tick of the clock rings loud in the sudden silence, and Elio raises up on his elbow, only for Oliver to cup his cheek before he can turn towards the wall. 

“Don’t look,” he whispers, sounding choked as he double checks the time on his watch. “It’s ten minutes fast at any rate.”

“Ten minutes?” Elio laughs. Slightly unhinged. “What difference does that make? Ten? Twenty? You still have to leave.”

He detests the unspoken word that hovers between them. The entire phrase a sullen admission of weakness: you still have to leave me.

“Don’t think of it like that,” Oliver murmurs, one hand stroking the base of his spine. ”We have a few hours yet.” 

Elio sniffs. “Not like they’ll matter tomorrow.”

“Maybe not. But they matter right now.” Oliver nudges their foreheads together. “Every second, Elio.” 

“Every second, Elio,” he echoes numbly, if only to call him by his name one last time.

He’s shaking, he realises, though in all honesty he doesn’t care that his vulnerabilities are on display. That Oliver can see how lost in him he really is. That the situation is gutting him, and he’s unable to stop the bleeding. His chest feels concave. The space below his ribs too small to contain the sheer need and protectiveness that washes through him. He wants to shelter Oliver from the storm that lies ahead. To house him beneath his breast where the burdens of this world cannot touch him. Encapsulate everything Oliver is within the confines of himself, meagre as those confines might be.

But what can he do? Implore him to stay? Ask him to give up his doctorate? His career? His responsibilities? And for what? A life in the shadows? Always looking over their shoulders. Always that sense of shame.

He thinks of the pink and yellow lilies that bloom in the giardino back in B. The delicate petals that unfurl for such a brief period of time. There’s something recherché, he knows, in such transitory beauty, yet Elio’s never lacked for stubbornness. Oliver may believe his story is already written - that their destiny is forged in stone - but no one’s ever survived a freefall by continuing to spiral. 

For something so tragically temporary, their bond has left a permanent mark. And Elio? He wants to beat his fists against this odious ending until they’re bloodied and raw.

Monsignor | Camerlengo Patrick McKenna x Reader

You meet il camerlengo for the first time at Mass, and he soon becomes captivated by you.

My first full-length oneshot! Sort of a slow burn but with some delicious fluff at the end. Please let me know if you have any requests or ideas for future works! 1.8k words

You had recently moved to Rome, your next diplomatic assignment being the US Embassy to the Holy See. The new challenges of your position were taxing, but you were proud of the work you did for your fellow citizens.

Being the good Catholic you were, you went to Mass as often as you could. And when in Rome—which boasted more than 900 churches—it was your goal to visit as many as you could. Although you had been living in the city for only a week or two, you had visited several parishes closer to your apartment to see if one appealed to you.

Today you decided to go to St. Peter’s Basilica for early morning service, hoping the crowds wouldn’t be as large. Aware of the Vatican’s strict dress code, you decided on a lovely vintage chiffon dress you had recently scored at a chic consignment shop. Its light coral color brought out the Y/E/C hues in your eyes, and it elegantly graced your figure while still leaving much up to the imagination. You paired it with sensible pumps and a loose white cardigan. You were feeling springlike today, it being a warm Sunday in April.

While you had visited the Vatican several times already on official diplomatic visits, you hadn’t yet as one of the faithful. As you silently made your way to the chapel, you marveled at the beautiful art surrounding you—the work of masters.

You chose to sit near the center aisle a few rows from the altar. The chapel quickly began to fill up; in a matter of minutes, you were surrounded by a trio of devout Italian nonne, clad in all-black, and a gaggle of starry-eyed Korean tourists.

As the processional music began, you felt your body ease into a state of peace. The ancient rituals of the Church always soothed you; they had not changed since you were a child and so provided a sense of comfort amidst an unpredictable world. You sang along, losing yourself in the beautiful melody.

When the hymnal ended, you lifted your gaze from your songbook to the altar. Your heart stopped as your eyes fell upon him—quite possibly the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes on.

He was young, no more than 40 years of age. His hair was a rich auburn color, swept neatly into a well-groomed combover; you couldn’t help but admire how perfectly it framed his handsome face. His eyes, a lovely shade of blue, were mesmerizing. They reminded you of cerulean pools, clear and bright. His brows were furrowed in concentration, making him appear serious. His jawline was set in a strong, dignified way, sloping attractively down to his chin; there you could just make out a slight cleft. For all you knew, he was one of the marble statues carved by the same masters who had designed the basilica you were standing in.

Who was this man? That’s Father to you! you scolded yourself. You were in Church. And not just any Church—the Church! You tried to suppress your nascent infatuation, but you quickly succumbed to it, your eyes selfishly dragging down the rest of the priest’s body. He wore a white surplice over his black robes, highlighting the alluring musculature of his shoulders. His collar was a burst of white at the base of the column of his throat. His hands were clasped together in prayer in front of his chest, and you watched his eyes squeeze in concentration as he prayed along silently with the cardinal who stood beside him. His whole demeanor radiated safety, comfort, and protection.

You couldn’t help but stare, the chants of the prayer fading into the background. You couldn’t even look away. Even when he turned to look at you. You observed his eyes widening ever so slightly, his brow arching in curiosity. Regrettably, he seemed to catch himself after a few seconds, quickly averting his eyes away from you and back to his superior. The moment was so brief, you seriously doubted its authenticity. But there he was.

Mass passed by in a haze, your attempts at concentration all but shot. You tried to restrain yourself, but somehow your gaze always settled on him. It wasn’t until the pews ahead of you began to slowly shuffle toward for Communion that you momentarily became sensible again. As you stood and made your way toward the altar, your hands began to perspire. You ran through the expected response over and over again, worried you might choke on your own heart, which had invariably lodged itself in your throat.

Just as you had expected, he was even more beautiful up close. Like an angel. You were so taken by his handsomeness, his kind smile, his spellbinding eyes that you felt your chest tighten. Your eyes suddenly found the marble floor inexplicably fascinating.

He held up the thin wafer. “Il corpo di Cristo.”

You peered up at him from beneath your lashes and met his kind cerulean eyes again. They beamed down at you, joy and curiosity radiating from them. You quickly lost your ability to speak, momentarily dumbstruck. He must have sensed this, as a smile quirked the corner of his lips; you thought you were imagining things when the faintest chuckle reached your ears. If only you knew what he was thinking!

“Amen,” you whispered hurriedly, accepting the wafer in your trembling hands. You bowed to him and quickly stepped aside to genuflect before the altar. As you made your way to back to your pew, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance over your shoulder at him. As you expected, he was dutifully administering communion to the remaining parishioners. You sighed softly as you retook your place and knelt down.

Of course that’s what he’s doing! you scolded yourself. For the love of God, he’s a priest—why would he have feelings for you? Silly, foolish girl.

Your thoughts consumed you for the rest of Mass, even during the last processional hymnal. If only you had noticed the young priest’s longing glance at you as he walked past.

After the processional ended, you prepared to leave, but your shame got the best of you. As a penance you knelt and said five Hail Mary’s to atone for your distraction.

As you left your pew, you noticed how quiet the church had become. A few people remained, some finishing their prayers, others snapping pictures of the ornate altar. As you walked to the back of the chapel, you observed a small group of parishioners clustered near the back, no doubt socializing among themselves. You had planned to walk around them, but the group suddenly parted, putting you directly on course for him. The priest who had awoken in you a reaction so powerful, so complete, you couldn’t even think clearly.

The two parishioners he was speaking with said their farewells; then, he turned and noticed you. As your eyes met for the third time that morning, his face broke into a radiant smile. You approached him slowly, a blush creeping up your cheeks. You did your best to hold his gaze and maintain an air of confidence after your embarrassing conduct during the liturgy of the Eucharist. You stopped just short of a foot away from him, subconsciously holding your breath.

“Buongiorno, signorina,” he said. His voice was so velvety, so delightful, it practically overwhelmed your senses. Being so close allowed you to better study his chin’s adorable cleft, making you swoon. “Non ti ho mai visto prima a San Pietro. Stai visitando la nostra bellissima basilica mentre sei in vacanza?” His presence was oh so alluring—you couldn’t help but relax as air suddenly filled your lungs.

“Buongiorno, monsignor,” you replied carefully. “ No, ma sono nuovo a Roma. Vedi, mi sono trasferito qui due settimane fa. Lavoro per l'ambasciata degli Stati Uniti.”

He smiled knowingly, his eyes alight with intrigue. “So, you are an American?” The soft, gentle lilt of his accent sent a shiver up your spine. How was it possible that this man’s normal pleasantries were enough to provoke such a response in you?

“Yes, I am.”

“In that case, may I be the first to welcome you to Vatican City.” He bowed his head slightly in deference to you. “I am Father Patrick McKenna, il camerlengo to his Holiness. May I ask your name?”

“Y/F/N, Y/F/N Y/L/N.”

The camerlengo’s smile widened, and you momentarily glimpsed his dazzling white teeth. “Y/N…” he repeated thoughtfully. You cherished the way your name rolled off his tongue. “How lovely. Named after Saint Y/N if I am not mistaken?”

“Yes, Father,” you shyly responded. “I was raised in a very devout home.” You quickly averted your gaze to the floor, worrying that you had revealed too much about yourself. You certainly weren’t prepared for the camerlengo’s next remark:

“I…I hope to see you next weekend.” He spoke softly, tenderly.

Your eyes shot up to his face, eagerly finding his own. The camerlengo’s eyebrows were raised expectantly; a gentle smile graced his handsome features.

“Of course, Father. It was such a lovely Mass.” You tried to convey as much sincerity as you could with your voice.

He took your hand in his and cradled it, making your heart flutter even more rapidly in your chest. “I’m glad you thought so. In the meantime, do not make yourself a stranger.” For a moment, his eyes were expectant, and he nodded solemnly—as if holding you to a serious pledge—but his fervent expression quickly melted back into one of compassion again. “You are welcome anytime.”

Your cheeks took on a lovely pink color at his words as you beamed at him.“Grazie, Padre.” Reluctantly you added, “I believe I should be going now...” Your eyes flashed over your shoulder, subtly indicating a group of nonne eager to speak with him. “I would not want to keep you all to myself.” You shyly lifted your gaze to the camerlengo again.

He chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with mirth at your remark. “May God bless you, Miss Y/L/N. Arrivederci.” As he said this, he traced the sign of the cross on your forehead, the scent of him filling your nostrils briefly. He smelled clean and masculine with a delightful hint of spiciness, which you immediately recognized to be frankincense. You savored the warmth of his skin on yours.

“Addio, monsignor,” you whispered breathlessly.

You found the courage to look into the camerlengo's spellbinding eyes once more before you turned to leave. As you exited the sacred space, you smiled to yourself, his words reverberating within you: do not be a stranger.

"Never, Father," you whispered. ¤

Translations

nonne = "grandmothers"

Il corpo di Cristo = "the body of Christ"

Non ti ho mai visto prima a San Pietro. Stai visitando la nostra bella chiesa durante le vacanze? = "I haven’t seen you before at St. Peter’s. Are you visiting our beautiful basilica while on holiday?"

No, ma sono nuovo a Roma. Vedi, mi sono appena trasferito qui due settimane fa. Lavoro con l'ambasciata degli Stati Uniti. = "No, but I am new to Rome. You see, I recently moved here a few weeks ago. I work for the US Embassy."

@seraferna @lemairepstuff

{chay suede, 29, cis man, he/him/his} || rômulo cardoso is a mutant with the ability of bogeyman physiology. they’ve been in new york for twenty-nine years where they spend most of their time as a bartender at the honey trap & drug dealer. when i think of them, i think of waking up before the sun has risen, tied up shoes hanging from a power line, laughter echoing across an empty parking lot. they are affiliated with the brotherhood. [eli, 24, she/her/hers, gmt-3] 

@c23intros

full name: rômulo cardoso nicknames: rome, romy gender: cis male, he/him sexuality: bisexual birthdate: april 15th languages: (brazilian) portuguese as a first language, english as second, dabbles in spanish species: mutant abilities: makes mean drinks, can cook, good at sports affiliation: brotherhood

alignment: chaotic neutral zodiac: aries positive traits: caring, loyal, humorous, a good addition to your haunted house next year negative traits: unforgiving, impulsive, self-centred, shit stirrer, gym rat physical traits: always has facial hair, usually seen with floppy curly brown hair but sometimes shaves it down, pretty buff, handful of tattoos, short king at 5'8 in his human form, though in his bogeyman form he's probably a little over 7 feet i'm sorry

BACKSTORY

TW: parental neglect.

rômulo's parents were never supposed to be more than a fling. he was born kicking and screaming into the arms of immigrant parents who were just trying to make the best of the american dream, and did not have the energy to care for a baby. still, they tried their best, at first. the couple split up when he was still just a baby, mom remarried, and they carried on co-parenting until he was about two years old.

at two, rômulo's father mysteriously disappears. not much is said and not much is done about this, rome's mother assumes he just ran away. by three years old, the first incident happens. his stepdad is playing with him in the living room, and rome shifts. later, a shaken up, mortified stepdad will explain to rômulo's mom that he swears he's seen their child turn into a seven-foot-tall monstrosity for a minute.

it keeps happening after that. whenever rômulo felt any grand emotion -- which was a lot of the time, considering he was a three-year-old --, he would shift and release the bogeyman creature inside of him. even if his mom and stepdad wanted to get used to the image of the flappy-skinned creature their son turned into, that only lasted a week before he learned how to shift into their worst nightmares. he thought it was kind of fun at first, to see his mother scream her lungs out after meeting with a monster around the corner. but it didn't feel like a good joke anymore when she was crying and cowering away, when he just wanted to hug her. at three, he didn't understand why his parents were so scared -- it was just him. to him, it was just a silly thing, no different than sticking his tongue out or clapping his hands.

his father was a mutant, as well as all of that side of the family. rômulo's mom was a human and knew this, but never paid that world any mind; since rome's dad had an invisible mutation, it was pretty easy to ignore. when living with her own son became unbearable, she turned to his father's family. the only person left from that side was tia esperança, a great-aunt, a recluse old lady who gracefully accepted to take in and raise rômulo herself.

tia esperança is rome's entire world. she was already old by the time she took him in when he was three, and she's now ancient, though she will never reveal her age if you ask. she is a hardcore anti-humans mutant, after growing up in a world unaccepting of her own abilities. she decided to raise rômulo to be the most unapologetic, chaotic thing the world has ever seen. she always believed in his powers' potential, and she always treated the bogeyman as his real form -- the human face was just a shell, a charade to trick others. it's still very common, to this day, for her to get mad at him if he shows up in her house with his human face on. funnily enough, he has never been able to find out what her biggest fear is, she has always been greeted with his default bogeyman shape.

so this is how he grew up. thinking so highly of himself-- abandoned by his parents, but at the same time, adored by tia esperança for the same thing that made others turn their back. it got beaten into him, how to love himself, how to put himself up on a pedestal. he grew up and into his powers, and he learned about how the world won't accept him because he is better than them. 

from the kid who learned he could get all the toys to himself by terrorising the other kids in the playground, to the man who doesn't take anything seriously anymore. rômulo, much like you would expect from a bogeyman, is a shit stirrer just for the sake of it. he doesn't go around scaring people often, if only because he's protective these days, but he takes great joy in freaking people out when he does. 

he never had many goals for an actual career in mind, and drug dealing just sort of happened to him, after hanging out with the right (or wrong) crew in high school. he's been dealing ever since, because it gives him good money. for the sake of doing something else with his time and for networking new clients, he also took up a job at the strip club, and he's been bartending for a while there. it's just dark enough in there that he can get away with excusing his slip-ups out of his human form, by the end of the nights. if someone starts blabbering about how they saw a monster, well -- that's enough vodka for you, terry!

CONNECTION IDEAS

tba ! 

You Saved Me - Derek Hale x fem!reader part 23

--------

2000

We were ten years old, Derek and I. Playing a game of hide and seek with his sister Laura. It felt like it was more a game of “let the kids run around and not bother me”. We were deep in the woods outside of their home, laughing and squealing delight as we ran and ran. That is until lightning flashed through the sky and thunder boomed immediately after. Spooked, we ran further from the thunder and lightning, finding a small improvised shelter that we had made a few years before when we would play cops and robbers. Derek’s uncle Peter had helped us build it, occasionally playing the sheriff when he deemed us “less annoying than usual”. 

Once inside the little hut, we sat and decided to wait out the storm or at least until someone came to get us. It was mostly dry with only or two leaks in the roof. We waited a while in silence, only the rain and wind howling filled the air. It was almost peaceful. I had been sitting there, literally twiddling my thumbs when I noticed the anxious movements Derek was making. He was tapping his foot against the soft earth and he was repeatedly cracking his knuckles. 

“What is it?” I asked. He seemed to snap out of his trance and looked at him, then looking away with a slight blush on his cheeks. 

“I was just thinking about what my mom said last year... About us being arranged in a marriage.” 

“What about it?” I turned my body so that I could face him. 

Derek rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, “I dunno... I guess that I wouldn’t want to be forced into a marriage with you. It doesn’t seem fair.” 

“You’re right.” I glanced out towards the woods, smiling fondly, “I want to fall in love. I want someone like Dimitri in Anastasia.” I sighed dreamily. 

“Wasn’t he a con-artist?” Derek raised an eyebrow. I shoved him playfully. 

“No...Well, yes. But he doesn’t take the money the Duchess offered him as a reward because he wants Anastasia to be happy.” 

“He’s a cartoon.” 

“And you’re a dork.” I shook my head, “What about you? Who would you wanna marry someday?” 

Derek thought for a moment, “I guess... I would want someone like Anastasia. She’s super badass and defeats the villain all by herself. She also went through a lot and did a lot even when she didn’t remember who she was, she fought for her future.” 

As sweet as that was...

“She’s a cartoon.” I mocked his voice. He grinned and shoved me, starting a wrestling match that ended with Talia and Peter finding us. They brought us home and made us hot chocolate. 

-

After landing, Michael and I had taken a ferry to the Shetland islands to Sumburgh, the village on the island where the Lunar Circle was settled. We actually were brought to a castle, which was already insane enough. The next insane thing was a statue just inside the massive doors into the main room of the castle. It was a humanoid with the head of a wolf, wearing a kilt and armor. The creature also carried a sword. 

“What is that?” I whispered to Michael. 

“The Wulver. A werewolf that had come to peace with his wolf and human sides. He was friendly to locals and they seemed fine with him. That’s when hunters came and tried to kill him. He was the reason for founding the Lunar Circle - coexistence. 

“Can I do that?” I whispered under my breath. 

“Unfortunately, no.” Our attention was brought to a man with a thick Scottish accent walking into the room, “Our world has lost touch with the old magic. But maybe someday we can bring it back.” He was average height, with salt and pepper hair that was on the longer side and a bit shaggy. His eyes were a kind blue color. He held out his hand to me. 

“Praetor Lachlan McLeod.” The stranger introduced himself, “It’s so good to finally meet you, (Y/N).” So this was the man who wrote the letter, it was nice to have a face to a name. I shook his hand and smiled politely. 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Praetor.” From my googling, Praetor was a Roman term for an official, which was an interesting concept since Rome had completely invaded all of England, Ireland, and Scotland and almost wiped out their culture. But whatever. 

“Please, call me Lachlan.” 

I nodded, “Okay, Lachlan.” He held both of my hands in his smiling sympathetically. 

“I want to extend my condolences, again, for your loss. Your mother and father did so much for the Lunar Circle.” 

Slowly, I slipped my hands from his, “Thank you... I just have a lot of questions about them.” 

“All in due time, my dear. You’ve had a long flight and I’m sure that you’re exhausted.” 

Michael sighed, “Oh, we sure are-”

 “I’m not tired. I want answers.” I said sternly. Michael looked incredibly nervous which made me wonder how high up this Lachlan guy was, “I appreciate your concern, sir, but I am coming from a place where I am just now remembering my parents were a part of a secret werewolf society that gave them the tools to take all of my memories away and said society wouldn’t allow me to be accompanied by my partner. It took a lot for him to let me come by myself, especially since he had never trusted the Lunar Circle in the first place.” 

“Ah, yes, Derek Hale.” He said, almost amused, “I remember his mother’s rejection letter. It was somehow very personal. I think she referred to me as ‘a spineless coward who would rather fraternize with the enemy than fight them.” 

I clicked my tongue, “Sounds like Talia.” Michael nudged my side, signally for me to chill. 

“And another thing-”

“Oh no.” Michael hid his face in his hands.

“This guy.” I pointed to Michael, “He killed my parents, isn’t there some kind of punishment for that?”

Michael ripped his hands from his face, “Hey, that wasn’t my fault.”

“Mr. Keaton’s unfortunate affliction caused by Peter Hale has been reviewed.” Lachlan put his arms behind his back, “I assure you. It was all the Hale’s doing.”

I jerked forward, Michael had to grab my arms to hold me back, “Derek is not his uncle.” My eyes flashing red. 

Lachlan raised his eyebrows and smiled, leaning down and flashing his alpha red eyes at me in return, “I’m sure he’s not.” The red left his eyes and he stood up straight, “Take her to the infirmary and then straight to bed.” He said to Michael, his eyes never leaving mine. I kept my eyes on him, even as he started to walk away, this kilt swaying with each step.

“The infirmary? Why?” Michael asked. 

“I believe Miss (Y/L/N) is carrying something.” He grinned, “Something that may calm her temper.” 

-

After a blood test in the infirmary, we were escorted to two rooms in the castle. Of course, this left me alone with my thoughts that I really didn’t want to think about. Knowing that Derek and everyone else was back home fighting against the alpha pack while I was in this ancient castle where I haven’t gotten the answers I wanted. Why was I even here? To take up my parents’ mantle? Whatever it was, I didn’t want it. I just wanted to go back home and help. I looked out the window of the castle, seeing the moon high in the sky. 

I mean, what could they tell that I didn’t already know? My parents took my memories to keep me safe and look where it got them? Burned to ashes. And what else? I was only stalked by a psychopath and had to watch my friend struggle to not hurt anyone. I mean, hell, I was still struggling with the change. Uncle Noah was still processing what I was. Yes, he’s supportive but to what end? And Stiles? I wasn’t there to protect him when he was kidnapped and beaten by the Argents and now I was millions of miles away and if he was in trouble there was nothing that I could do. And if anything happened to Derek and I wasn’t there to save him? What was the point of even being alive? I would be without them, helpless and guilty, all because of some stupid secret society. 

My chest got tighter and tighter as my emotions ran high. My thoughts and feelings were moving so quickly that it felt like I didn’t have control of my own mind. My hands clenched tight, I could feel all of my features shift. Coarse hair growing down the sides of my face, the bridge of my nose tightening. I screamed loudly, the high pitch lowering into a loud roar. 

“This is your fault!” She shouted, standing up, “Take me home!” She lunged forward. Michael lunged forward, using the shield to knock her back across the room and into the window. Surprisingly, it didn’t break. She fell to the ground, looking up quickly. 

MICHAEL

From the loud roar that just came from the next to his, Michael had a feeling that the Sheriff had been right. She was a time bomb and she just exploded. Michael quickly grabbed a shield from one of the suits of armor that for some reason always decorated castles and made his way into (Y/N)’s room. (Y/N) was on the bed, tearing at pillows. There were feathers and fluff flying all over the room. She was in full shift, her eyes fiery red, her canines sharp. Her eyes took him in, snarling loudly. She jumped off the bed, landing in front of him on all fours. Michael jumped back, shield held tight in his hand. 

“Come on, (Y/N)!” He tried to put on a brave face, “You just need to calm down and get some rest.” 

“SCREW YOU!” She shouted, lunging again. This time, Michael moved on the way, letting her slam into the door, which also didn’t break. 

“That’s a good door.” He said to himself. Michael looked from the door and back to the angry werewolf. She was seething with rage and one step closer to killing him. 

“Think about this.  You don’t want to kill me!” 

“Yes, I do! I hate you!”

“Hate is such a strong word...” He said nervously. (Y/N) lunged again and was met by a door to the face. Lachlan had opened the door and they both looked down at (Y/N) on the floor. She was on her behind, rubbing her forehead. Lachlan sighed, reaching down to help (Y/N) up. 

“I seem to have underestimated your anger. Please, walk with me.” 

(Y/N)

Lachlan led me out of the castle and down to the grounds. In the back of the stone walls, there was a large garden. The Praetor hadn’t said anything since we had been out here, but I think that’s what he wanted. The moon and the atmosphere around us was calming, must be the magic here. 

“I apologize for dismissing your concerns earlier.” Lachlan said finally, leading us to the cliff side where we could see the waves crashing against the rocks, “You have been through a lot lately. More than any new werewolf is expected to handle as well as you have.” When I looked at him, I could tell he was being genuine. 

���I just...” I sighed, leaning against a nearby oak, “I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to leave my partner behind. And... I didn’t want to meet the people who told my parents to take my life from me.” 

Lachlan looked up at the moon, the wind flowing through his hair, “Your concerns are near and dear to my heart. My own parents used the Wolf Eclipse spell on me after I mated with a she-wolf from a rival clan. The look in her eyes when I told her I didn’t know who she was... I see it every time I close my eyes. And then I lost her.” His voice shook a bit, “I never forgave them after that.” He looked back at me, “When your parents told us that they had done the spell after the Hale fire, we told them it was a bad idea. You needed to be stronger than ever, maybe even leave Beacon Hills, but they became too attached to the community, to the sheriff and his son.” They stayed for them... I have no idea what my life would have been like without Stiles in it. It was so different. That was a life I didn’t want to think about because it was a life without my best friend and his insane antics. It was a life without Uncle Noah who loved me no matter what. It would be a life without Derek, or at least a life where I wouldn’t be there to meet him again. 

“I remember now that my father thought we were safe.” I wrapped my arms around myself, “Chris Argent is loyal to his word and the code his family is supposed to follow. Unfortunately, he is the only one who follows that code. Even his own daughter was corrupted by his father and his sister and she was dating a werewolf.” 

“Unfortunately, not every hunter can be Chris Argent. From our understanding, he is the only one fighting with his head while the others see us as inhuman.” He chuckled, “You might even say that we are more human than they are.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. 

“Lachlan?” 

“Hmm?” 

“What am I doing here? Why bring me all this way?” 

Lachlan looked back up at the moon and smiled, “Well, it was originally to restore your memories. Thankfully, that resolved itself. Now, since you are the only member left of your clan - an alpha was two sparks - we were hoping that you could spend some time with us to relearn the basics. And I also want you to relax, experience your culture, your legacy.” 

“That sounds great and all. But I don’t have time to do that. I need to get back to Derek.” 

“(Y/N), you know that it is too dangerous for the both of you to be there. I don’t want you to experience what it’s like to lose a mate. It’s... It’s soul crushing. Losing who you love most - that is the worst pain anyone can feel.” Lachlan turned to go back to the castle, “Think about it. You aren’t a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you like. But I think you could do great things with just a little help.” With that, his footsteps faded into the darkness; leaving me with only my thoughts, the moonlight, and the ocean below. I had to make a decision, one that would ultimately decide my future as an alpha. I just wish someone I knew was here to help me make this decision. If only Uncle Noah were here. He was so level headed and wanted the best for me, but the werewolf drama was probably too much for him already. And Derek would want me to hone in on my skills, even if that meant going into battles alone and possibly losing them. 

I just wish it wasn’t this hard. 

-

After pressing Derek’s contact, I pressed the phone to my ear and listened to it ring. I had no idea what time it was back home, I just needed to at least pretend I was talking to him. 

“Hey Der.” I smiled, “I know it’s late or early. Honestly, I’m not sure. But I wanted to call you and tell you how today went. The flight was long, the food was okay. Uh they made me get a blood test for whatever reason. Oh, and there’s this thing called the Wulver and he was a werewolf that came to peace with his human and animal side. Lachlan’s really nice and doesn’t want to take me from you so the coast is clear on that one. And uh I remembered something today. When we were kids, we got lost in the woods in a storm and we talked about crushes. Funny how you had a crush on a girl who lost her memories.” I laughed, “Anyway... I miss you. And I love you. And I’ll be back as soon-”

I was cut off by a beep and a message telling me that the allotted time of this  message was over. Sighing, I set my phone down and flopped back on the extravagant bed that seemed to form to my body in just the right way. All the fluff and feathers had been cleaned by the time I came back so I should probably thank whoever the cleaning staff were. All I can do is sleep and hope that tomorrow will give me better answers. 

-------------------

Read part 24 here!

I watched Inside today so I am no feeling good. 

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