#i am so homesick like i do yearn to be home and it would be so cruel if it didn’t end up happening….. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

draculasfavoritewife · 11 months

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Meleth Nín (My Love)

Summary: The very future of Middle Earth may hang in the balance, but a quiet night allows thoughts to stray toward questions of a more personal nature.

Pairing: Legolas Thranduilion x elf!Reader/OC

Warnings: Pining, female language used for reader.

I wrote this a couple summers ago during my brief but intense LOTR phase. "Enelya" is the Elvish name I got from a name generator as a kid so I used it here 😁. Apologies for the length, I got massively carried away. This IS supposed to be x reader, I just wrote it before I was comfortable writing in 2nd person.

(Translations of Elvish phrases at the end)

It is my turn for first watch tonight, an assignment that I do not mind even during normal times, and that I am almost bittersweetly grateful for on this night. I have much on my mind that needs settling, and somehow, I do not think that listening to the grating snores of the sons of Gloin and Denethor would give me more peace than the crisp night air.

The surrounding woods are still, nothing moving about in the underbrush that shouldn’t be, and I allow my guard a chance at rest, turning my attention to the stars instead of the trees. Crouched where I am on a wide branch, I have a perfect window through to the deep ebony expanse of the sky, and a strange blend of homesickness and excitement blazes briefly through my chest. The stars are strange here, arranged differently than they are back in the Greenwood, yet a few familiar individuals still flicker amongst foreign constellations.

It reminds me of the first time Legolas coaxed me into climbing his favorite tree back home so I could see the stars. I will never forget the wonder I felt as he pulled me through the last layer of obscuring leaves and the sky unfolded before me, rolling on forever. I’d seen the stars many times in Imladris, but they were different there, blessed with a sense of safety and serenity that everything beneath the watchful eyes of Elrond felt.

With Thranduilion, high in the crown of the wood, balanced on the very threshold of the sky, with nothing anchoring me except his steady hand holding mine, it suddenly seemed I could reach out and touch the Valar themselves. I remember laughing, simply because no other reaction could express what I felt. Thranduilion laughed beside me; it was late, we were the only two still out after a hunt, and I still am not entirely sure why he took me up there.

Whatever the reason, that instance changed many things for me. It sparked in me something older and fiercer than I knew, some desire for more than what I had there in the Greenwood, much as I loved it. Some yearning which prompted me to accompany my Prince along on this solemn venture, wherever it leads.

I’ve tried not to admit it, but that night started changing the way I saw him as well.

Someone approaches, passage no more than a whisper, only slightly less silent than one of my own people, and there is only one it could be. No guard is needed around one I’ve known since we were both children.

“Estel.”

“Mae govannen, Enelya.” He leans against my branch, supported on crossed arms. The others call him Strider, or Aragorn, but to me he will always be my Estel, the companion I spent a couple of decades with after my childhood, before my mother’s people sent for me to return to the Greenwood. Elrond looked after the both of us when our mothers died, and besides my Prince and hunting partner, Estel knows me better than any being in all of Arda.

Silence hangs between us, draped across the strange stars, until he brushes it aside like a curtain of cobwebs. “What troubles you, Gwathel nín?”

“Who said I was troubled, Gwador nín?”

“Your face does, for one,” he replies, voice wry.

“Manen?”

“Well, you won’t look at me, Mellon nín. That’s usually a telling sign I’m right and you don’t want to admit it.” He gives no sign of letting up with his persistence.

I sigh and glance down, taking in the familiar grizzled face and sharp gray eyes. “Mar bedithach, Estel?”

“I’ll leave when you unburden yourself. I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t already heard from anyone else on this journey. If you miss the Greenwood, or are having a difficult time restraining yourself from stabbing several members of this fine Fellowship, I assure you, you are not weak, nor are you alone.” White teeth flash in a crooked grin, and I can’t help returning it.

“Those are both excellent guesses, and I admit to you that such thoughts have passed through my mind on multiple occasions. However,” I cast my gaze back up to the heavens, “I highly doubt that anyone else in this…most distinguished company is suffering from the same unrest of the soul that I am.”

Oh Valar, don’t let my face be heating up….

Estel turns so his back rests against my branch, leaving his hands free to light his pipe. He does so and takes a few long draws without responding to my declaration.

I wrinkle my nose. “You’re inviting an early death with such bad practices, Gwador nín.”

“So Legolas has informed me several times over, but without such sisterly concern for my health.” He’s laughing at me on the inside, I can tell. “Speaking of, am I terribly far from the mark in assuming your fair Prince is the source of your ‘unrest of the soul’, Mellon nín?”

He knows me too well. Even decades apart have done nothing to weaken the bond we shared as children, nor have I mastered any technique of hiding my thoughts that can escape his piercing gaze, it seems.

“You don’t have to answer,” Estel murmurs. “Your silence speaks more clearly than anything you could say.”

“I didn’t think I would fall in love with him,” I offer.

A grunt is his disbelieving answer. “You spend every free minute together, and even the time that is required for patrolling, hunting, and so on and so forth. To be bluntly honest, I’m surprised it took you six decades. I owe my brothers some money, it would seem, if they still recall the wager we made upon your departure from Elrond’s house. Perhaps I won’t remind them.”

I can’t decide whether to be astonished or angry. “You and the twins made a wager on me?”

“Not on you,” Estel is quick to clarify. “On how long it would take you to develop an attraction towards Thranduilion.”

“So you all just assumed I would, hmm?”

“And rightly.” He sounds so insolent, as if all of a sudden he is once again the younger brother, and not the protective elder he made himself out to be as he reached maturity. “It was only a matter of time, Gwathel nín. You held out longer than I bet, of course, but Thranduilion is easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. My correspondence with you has been irregular, I will be the first to admit, but from the time I learned of your partnership on both the battlefield and hunting grounds, I thought you would find him a kindred spirit, and someone to admire.”

I shake my head as if to protest, but what is there to protest? Estel sees truth. Far from being pampered royalty, Legolas it was who took it upon himself to teach me the ways of his father’s kingdom. He reawakened the Silvan part of my heritage that had long since been denied its native wildness in Imladris, and instilled in me that ferocious love for the Greenwood that keeps the Silvan people rooted there even now, as we have to scrape our very livelihoods out of the Dark Lord’s overhanging shadow. We get along as well as if we have walked side by side for an Age, not the paltry decades I have been in the employ of King Thranduil’s guard. The Prince chooses me for the majority of his hunts and orc raids, and we have reached an understanding so fine that words need not be exchanged for us to always know where the other is in the thick of combat.

He is nearly as much a part of my identity as the Silvan and Noldor blood that runs mingled through my veins.

Is it any wonder, then, that I want more?

“Enelya.” Estel’s voice is soft as he blows smoke into the breeze. “You can talk to me, you know. I’ll die before I betray your trust.”

“I know.” I sink to a sitting position and let one leg dangle into space, resting an arm across my other knee. “I’m not entirely sure what else to say, aside from what I’ve already said. I love him, Estel.”

He nods thoughtfully and taps the end of his pipe against his teeth. “Your eyes betray you when we travel. Ever they seek him out, even as you watch the landscape for danger.”

Estel almost seems about to say something else, but even minutes of waiting do not draw it out of him, so I go back to the protest I would have made.

“He does not distract me. I am as deadly as ever.”

“I did not accuse you of distraction. I only observed that you watch him.” His eyes flit upwards, to my face, before darting away into the darkness again. “As he does you.”

I stare down into my sworn brother’s shadowed countenance, unsure of whether my ears are playing tricks on me. Estel wouldn’t lie about such things. Surely I heard wrong.

“He does what?”

A burst of smoke from between his lips could mean either amusement or irritation. With Estel, the two often travel hand in hand. “Thranduilion. His eyes follow where you go when we are on the move. Always his attention is on you, even as he stands watch over us. You mean a great deal to him, Mellon nín.”

Trying to tamp down the surge of emotion rising inside me, I shrug, letting the wind run its cool, long fingers through my hair. “I should hope I do. We’ve been through much together, and saved each other’s lives many times.”

Now I know he’s annoyed with me. “I meant more than that. I don’t have much with which to wager at the moment, but if I did, I might wager he feels similarly about you as you do him.”

I stare down at Estel, but he’s looking away again. “Well. Even if that were the case….” I trail off, pulling my knees back up to my chest. “There are too many problems standing in our way.”

“Such as…?”

“By the Valar, you’ve become so nosy in your old age, Little Brother.” Despite my ribbing, I can tell by the set of his jaw that this ridiculous matter has become of utmost importance to him for some reason, and I know Estel too well to believe he would give up before we have talked this through. I sigh, resigning myself to discussing my nonexistent romance with him.

“For one, he’s thousands of years older than I, Estel. I’m barely over a century old.”

“Oh no,” he mutters dryly. “How scandalous, an age difference.”

Realizing that he and Arwen are also thousands of years apart, I drop my forehead to my knees. “Well, maybe that wasn’t the best reason.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Another long draw of his pipe sends a misty cloud drifting about his face.

“His father would never approve of his son taking up with a Silvan and not a Sindar.” This is painfully true. Legolas told me of his father’s harsh objections to his interest in Tauriel quite some time ago.

“Are you in love with Thranduil?” Estel asks in a monotone.

I glare at him. “No! Mîbo orch, Estel.”

He ignores my insult. “Then worry less about what Thranduil thinks and more about what Legolas thinks. He’s as loyal as one could ever be to those he chooses, and more than stubborn enough to stand up to his father.”

There is wisdom in his words. However, the biggest reason that has kept me silent on this subject for so long still remains.

“You know Elves only love once,” he murmurs, tone fading to gentle. “And they seldom err in their choice of soulmate.”

“I know.” The words slip from my tongue, condensing in the cool air. “And he once thought he loved another.”

Estel says nothing to this revelation, merely sending smoke rings floating up into the night sky. I can’t tell if he’s pondering what I’ve said, or if he truly has no rebuttal for it.

“You never saw the way he looked at her, Estel. He talked about her many times when it was just he and I on a hunt. No one else was ever allowed to see how deeply he was hurt when she fell for the Dwarf. I can’t be sure, but I expect he’s never been the same since.” It feels freeing, to finally relate all of this to my sworn brother. I keep many secrets, probably the reason Legolas felt he could confide his heartbreak in me. Yet long has that particular burden hung heavy on my own heart, and I am relieved to bare it to the man beside me.

His hand rests comfortingly on my back, once again the protector he thought I needed when we were young. “None of us are ever the same as we once were, Mellon nín. Much as you resemble the elleth I once knew, even you have been changed by your time in the Greenwood. Your people may not change as swiftly nor as dramatically as mine, and yet not even the eternal can live so long in Arda without being shaped. Six decades certainly influence a lot of things.”

I nod, turning his argument over in my mind. “You say he watches for me?”

The small smile that crosses Estel’s weather-worn face is this time not sarcastic nor teasing. “Indeed he does. Whenever the two of you are parted for a time, even if it is just that I sent you off to scout ahead, he is as tightly drawn as his own bowstring until you return. Who knows, perhaps even he hasn’t entirely recognized it yet. But something will come of it, Enelya. Of this I am sure.”

“And if Elladan and Elrohir were along with us, am I to assume you would all place a wager on how soon?”

He nudges me with his elbow. “There’s that sense of humor I’ve been missing. Now, I suppose I had better leave you, because as unobtrusive as he thinks he is being, someone else is waiting for you. I’ll take next watch. Losto mae, Gwathel nín.”

“Nostad lín sui orch, Estel,” I snicker, referring both to the stench of his pipe and what I’ve been telling him since childhood. “And le hannon.”

He waves as he returns to the light of the fire. “Carnen an gwend, Enelya.”

I stare back at the stars above me, knowing that if who Estel implied is really waiting for me, he will approach at his own time and no amount of cajoling will bend him my way sooner.

So I wait as well.

No more than a sigh of the tree itself heralds his arrival beside me on the branch.

“Do you wish to be alone with your thoughts, Mellon nín?”

Gazing over my shoulder, I am met by Thranduilion’s piercing blue eyes as he leans against the trunk of my perch.

“If so, I will gladly leave you to them.” There is the slightest wistful note beneath his tone; for all his politeness, he wishes to speak to me.

Did he overhear my conversation with Estel?

Heart starting to flutter like a sparrow’s wings, I shake my head. “Avo ‘osto, Hîr nín. Baren bar lin, as they say.”

“What have I done to deserve such formal address, Mellon?” he asks lightly. Though he laughs, warm and cheerful, an undercurrent of hurt runs deep through the words.

Does it hurt him, truly, to call him so? “Goheno nin, Thranduilion,” I murmur, unable to look away from that intense gaze. “My mind was not in the present moment, I fear.”

“Ú-moe edaved, Enelya.” His reply is warm, and I cannot miss the affection that wreathes around my name as it falls from his lips. “I am only glad to learn I have not offended you.”

“Rest assured, I would have let you know in no uncertain terms if you had,” I inform him saucily.

His laughter at my cheek is bright now, all trace of concern gone. “This is true.” Nodding towards my view of the dark sky, he leans closer, bending so he can see what I am seeing. “Looking for old friends among the new?”

“Indeed.” I stretch out my spine, careful not to knock him away from my shoulder. “I miss some of our constellations that you pointed out to me in the Greenwood.”

Legolas stands upright again. “Aphado nin.” He reaches upward for a branch and swings to a higher level.

I rise to my feet and stare up at him between the leaves. “Am man theled?”

“To see the whole sky, of course. You’ll never gaze upon the greater picture if you do not climb higher, Mellon nín.” He holds out a hand.

I take it, allowing him to pull me up to his level before continuing the climb. “You said those very words when you made me climb that tree the first time back home.”

“I didn’t make you.” I can nearly hear the smirk in his voice. “You were given a choice.”

It is my turn to laugh now. “Not when you say such poetic and inspiring things, Legolas. Although I was terrified of climbing to the crown of that tree, your way of putting it made me feel I should never be complete until I had seen the whole sky. I consider myself bewitched.”

He shoves my shoulder as he easily passes me up. “No one is whole unless they have seen the entire sky. Estelio nin. It is truth.”

“I do trust you. That’s why I climbed the tree with you that night, even though I was still frightened of falling. I knew you would catch me.”

We remain in silence then until we break through the leaves, pushing through as if to the surface from underwater. I cannot count the amount of times I’ve done something similar with Thranduilion, those late nights after a hunt, but it still takes my breath away, to gaze upon the veil of stars and clouds that rolls ever on to the very edges of Arda. The sight makes the songs of my people flow through my veins, never failing to give me the gift of peace.

I should thank him for introducing me to the sky more often.

“I hope I never grow tired of this.” It takes me a moment to realize I’ve breathed the words aloud.

Legolas is gazing out in the opposite direction, handsome face serene. “You will not.”

I want to impertinently ask him how he would know, but I swallow the teasing words. He has walked these lands for nearly three millennia, and still finds such joy in it that he felt he needed to introduce me to that joy. He would know.

“Enelya.”

“Yes, Mellon nín?” I turn to face him.

He drops down to sit on a branch that is old enough to serve as a seat. “Will you help me?”

I know what he is asking for. He’s perfectly capable of doing it himself, but it has been a ritual of ours for years, and I enjoy it as much as he does. “Of course.” I make my way to his side and start to unwind his braids.

“I’ll do the same for you,” he promises, relaxing into my touch.

I weave my fingers through his silky hair as I release it to the mercies of the breeze, untangling any knots, minuscule as they are, and drawing out fronds of moss and bits of leaf that have found their way into his tresses. I can’t remember when we first started caring for each other’s hair at the end of the day, but it is always one of my favorite times spent with him. The few moments we have no responsibilities and can just talk about nothing, as friends are wont to.

“What do you think the others would say, if they knew the truth?” I ask teasingly, moving to the tiny braids over his ear.

His eyes flash to give me a sideways glance. “What do you mean?”

I smirk. “Do you not hear them speak of you, in wondering whispers? They all ask how Thranduilion manages to stay so neat, how his hair, long and beautiful as it is, remains free of forest debris and untroubled by tangles. They have begun to speculate that it is some gift from Elbereth, that he looks fresh as the day we set off while the rest of them grow ever more unkempt. What would they say, if they knew it is simply because I re-braid your hair every night?”

Wicked mischief flashes across his countenance for a brief instant. “They would all come running to you for your excellent services, I imagine. Do you want me to tell them, and so dispel the legends? I would prefer to keep your company in such matters to myself, but perhaps I shouldn’t be so selfish. After all,” he leans closer to whisper, “it might be worth it, to see you running your fingers through Aragorn’s oily mane.”

I can’t stop the choking noise that comes from my throat. “I love that man, but there are some things I will never do for him, Legolas.”

His quiet laughter floats into the night. “Nor should you have to.”

Something pricks my fingertip and I yank my hand away from his hair. “Ai! Is this a burr, Thranduilion? Where on Arda did you find that?”

He shrugs easily. “It could have been anywhere. Yet I assume it came from one of my solitary scouts. Had the halflings followed where I tread, surely they would have all come away full of them.”

I try not to laugh at the thought of our four smallest companions drowning in burrs. “It is fortunate you only picked up one.”

Once my Prince’s hair has been seen to, he turns so I can sit before him and begins the same process on mine. Much as I love the feeling of the wind running its fingers through my hair, it cannot compete with the gentle and nimble hands of Legolas. My eyes close as those hands begin their familiar path, and for some time all that I know is the warmth of his body next to mine and the soft melody of the well-loved song he hums next to my ear.

Is it any wonder, that I have come to care for him as I do?

“Mellon nín?” he murmurs suddenly.

“Yes?”

“What made you decide to accompany me on this quest? You know you could have returned to the Greenwood.”

“That I do.” I sigh and let my eyes flutter open again. How much do I say? “But if this quest fails, it will not matter if I had returned to the Greenwood, for even Thranduil Elvenking cannot keep the shadows at bay forever if the Dark Lord triumphs.”

He is silent for some time, and I let him remain so. I learned long ago that Legolas will not share what is on his mind except at a time of his own choosing.

“I suppose you are right,” he finally concedes. His fingertips brush my ear, and I shiver at the contact. “It was no doubt my own desire to know you would be safer at home that clouded such truth from my mind.” His voice grows somber. “You do know, Enelya, that we may never see the Greenwood again.”

“Of course, Mellon nín. Yet through all my time in my mother’s land I have been at your side, and the Valar themselves could not keep me from staying beside you. Even unto the Halls of Mandos, I would rather accompany you than be apart from you.” My breath catches on the last word. Have I said too much?

His hands pause in their combing to rest upon my shoulders. “I am blessed, then, to have found such a companion as you.”

“Le hannon, Legolas.”

When next he speaks, there is a layer of hesitation resting over his tone that I rarely hear from him. “Do you know, I was quite angry when you first insisted on traveling with me.”

“Oh, I remember. How could I not?” I sniff. “You didn’t speak to me the entire first day of our journey.”

“I am not proud of my conduct,” he admits penitently. “However, I do realize, since that time has passed, that some good came of it.”

I feel his long fingers trace my jawline, soft as a breath, turning my face slightly and prompting me to shift so I can meet his gaze.

His eyes are deep and thoughtful, turned mithril silver by the moon as it breaks from behind a cloud.

“Do you know, Enelya, how that one day without your company felt to me? Even the torture of seeing you walk at the perimeter of our Fellowship, yet kept from approaching you — by my own stubbornness — made my heart feel sundered from my chest. I realized that day that I could not have endured it if you had indeed returned home as I suggested. One day without your laugh, without your smile on me, was enough for a lifetime.” Legolas’s tone is raw with honesty, and a great many things seem to be making sense to me now.

It would seem Estel may have been correct, after all, though I won’t tell him so.

I remember how difficult that first day of the trek was, knowing all too well that Legolas was displeased with my choice. I have seen him angry, at his father, usually, and I knew all the signs too well. I can recall then how delighted and relieved I was when I awoke the following morning to the smell of my favorite fish baking over the fire; Legolas and I have had our fair share of tiffs over the long years, and that is his tried-and-true method of asking my forgiveness when he is at fault.

We ate our morning meal sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, no one else the wiser of our wordless play of apologies and affirmations.

Well, Estel probably was. But he doesn’t count.

“What do you wish to say to me, Mellon nín?” I murmur, lifting my own fingers to brush against his cheek.

He leans into my touch. “I have thought about you much during these uncertain days, even when we are not given much opportunity to talk. About how sorely I would have missed your presence, and grieved at not being able to feel you at my back whenever we face a threat. About how much I have missed times like this, when there is no one but you and I beneath the stars, sitting in the lap of the heavens.”

“And what would you have done, without me to braid your hair? Become as scruffy as dear Estel?” I tease.

He curls his lip in mock disgust. “Gerich faer vara, suggesting such a thing to me! I should certainly think not. I admire your Estel, Mellon nín, but I don’t believe the man has bathed once since we set out from Imladris. Yet he has had plenty of chances!”

I laugh, leaning back against his chest and settling into my new position, comfortable from countless times of sitting like this. “Estel and his questionable hygiene aside, what were you saying?”

His hands trail down my arms to my hands, where he weaves our fingers together. His hands are finer, more elegant than a mortal man’s, yet they are still wider than mine, surrounding my smaller ones with gentle fondness. This, too, is a much-practiced gesture between us, though there is a different flavor to it tonight. It feels more intimate, as if it means more than our mutual trust and respect this time.

He smiles; I can hear it in his singsong words, close to my ear. “What I am trying to say, Enelya, is le annon veleth nín.”

He gives his love to me?

“Gerich veleth nín,” I answer simply. “It already belonged to you.”

His lips brush my hair. “I used to wonder, when I was a much younger ellon, why I never felt the need to find a life partner when I came of age. Indeed, Ada certainly bothered me about it for several centuries, until other more pressing issues caught his attention.”

I’ve never heard Legolas refer to Thranduil as Ada, and certainly not with the echo of a sigh beneath the endearment. It makes my heart ache strangely, to wonder what long-forgotten love once flowed freely between adar and iôn before they let their rift widen so far.

But this moment is not to be sullied by mourning what has been lost.

“Do you believe one can wait thousands of years to find their soulmate?” he asks.

“I do. I know most can’t fathom such a wait, but for our people, it does not matter.”

“Truly. I think I never pursued anyone with much seriousness because my heart knew it was waiting for yours.” Legolas turns me slightly, so our eyes can meet again. “I would make up for my blindness, Meleth nín, if you wish it.”

I rest my forehead against his. “I wish it so, Meleth nín.”

Then his lips are pressing into mine, and this kiss that I have awaited many years is a summer thunderstorm, warm and wild, washing away everything that came before and paving the way for love to bloom.

Whatever our perilous path holds for us, I suddenly have all certainty that we can weather it.

Together.

Mae govannen = Well met

Gwathel/Gwador nín = Sworn sister/brother

Manen = How?

Mellon nín = My friend

Mar bedithach = When are you leaving?

Mîbo orch = Go kiss an orc

Losto mae = Sleep well

Nostad lín sui orch = You smell like an orc

Le hannon = Thank you

Carnen an gwend = For friendship

Avo ‘osto = Don't worry

Hîr nín = My Lord

Baren bar lin = My home is yours

Goheno nin = Forgive me

Ú-moe edaved = No need to forgive

Aphado nin = Follow me

Am man theled = Why?

Estelio nin = Trust me

Gerich faer vara = You have a fiery spirit

Le annon veleth nín = I give my love to you

Gerich veleth nín = You have my love

#legolas greenleaf #x reader #female reader #romance #mutual pining #first person perspective #legolas x reader #lotr x reader #lord of the rings #sweet #another one from a couple years ago ✌🏻#aragorn #good LORD this is fluffy I can't believe there's so little angst lol

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serena-hart-09 · 1 year

Note

Hii I saw your request and I was wondering if I could get a one shot for a Lucifer x mc fluff? Where they go ice skating in the human realm for a date, and end it cuddle by the fire...

Thank you so much!!! If you have any questions be free to ask I'm not picky!!

A/N: Hi I am sorry for reply to this late but I thought that this might be the right time to finally post it! ✨ Also thank you for requesting such a cute request! 🤗 It may be a bit small then the length I normally write but........ I hope you like it! (I really do since its been a while since I finally wrote the draft complete so it may not match my usual style-)[Plus this was meant to be posted on his birthday I am sorry-]

Anyways, I hope you like this!

TW: None. (Mistakes here and there.)

Extra: Fluff ; (Very Much) Unreliable Narrator ; Tsundere Lucifer (and I think he is-) ; Lucifer maybe OC in this ; Soft Lucifer ; Mostly Third-Person Narration ; Teasing ; GN!MC ; GN!Reader ; (No relation to Nightbringer).

Lucifer X MC (Reader)

Love On the Ice

[Ik it sappy but this the only thing that came to mind]

Lucifer, the Avatar of Pride was not someone who was easily attainable. He was not someone who was easily swooned for someone else. He always thought that no one could make him do anything that they want, let alone through their orders, or even their eyes….. no matter how shiny and hopeful….. and very beautiful they may seem…..

So when the local human of the House of Lamentation, became silent due to yearning for their old home….. Lucifer couldn’t stand their…… homesickness… sad eyes… Each and every day in RAD and even home felt empty without the usual chatter and chaos in the House. As much as the eldest loves silence…. He still was very much fond of having chaos in his life.

The eldest was very good at reading the atmosphere. The usual bickering and joking during dinner was suddenly replaced with an awkward silence. There were small tries to start a conversation among the residents but they were shut down as the human sat longing for something.

Lucifer wanted to comfort them and ask them what was wrong. He wanted help, as they had helped him so many times.

So, he did.

He went down the long hallways and entered their room, witnessing the same scene of longing and them being lost in their thoughts again.

He had asked them all the questions. At first came denial, the answers ranged from, “It’s alright!” ; “Everything is ok!”; “No! I love it here!”; to finally, “I miss the human world….. sometimes……”

To be honest, the eldest had seen this coming….

After all, who wouldn’t miss their home after being separated for so long? Even if he’d like to deny it, he would as well, miss the chaos, the food, everything else.

Even though his rational mind went against it, his emotions finally took over him, as he gazed upon the melancholy expression they had. He had asked, “Would you like to go back? For some time?”

It was as if fireworks lit up in their eyes, and their usual self, came back in an instant, “Oh? Would it be a date?” they asked.

Lucifer wasn’t someone to back off from the challenge, “maybe.” He smirked at them.

“Well, then I will be the one deciding the itinerary!”

Well, the eldest would have decided against it but…… how could he deny them for they had such a cute expression in that moment?

This was what led him to this situation…..

Lucifer was not someone to back away from a challenge. Yet now, he wished to be the one to plan the schedule instead…

“How in the nine hells do you stand in this…….thing?”

Note that, said “thing” being ice skates.

The beloved human and the grumbling demon were right now, at an ice- skating rink.

At first, when the human had presented the idea, Lucifer wasn’t sure but didn’t want to refuse them their happiness either, so he relented.

The original plan was to ice skate on a frozen pond, of course, Lucifer refused for safety reasons much to MC’s sulking (again) at his decision.

But now, Lucifer isn’t much sure about the whole idea at all.

This time it was nearly his 54th attempt at standing straight on the ice with the skating gear that the staff provided them.

MC looked at him with a fond smile and skated back to him, “Hey,” they reach out their hand to him, offering their hand to him, “Want some help?”

“……”

The demon tries yet again, only to fall once again. Heat rises on his cheeks and for a moment he looks away as he whispers a small, “yes”.

The human then holds Lucifer’s hand and helps him in standing straight on the ice first. Then, slowly, they help him glide without letting his hands go. As much they want to shout as the demon’s nails were painfully digging into their hands, MC could not help but smile fondly at the demon looking down at the ice under his feet, accusing it, probably.

“You look like a cat holding onto me for your dear life, like in the meme I saw-”

“No.”

The demon glares at them now, which makes MC laugh out at him, amused (and clearly enjoying the situation). The demon now red in the face tries to glide away from MC huffing…… but that made him trip and nearly fall again.

“Lucifer-”

“I am fine, I am alright. The damn ground did not hurt me.” He mutters angrily as he turns to them.

“…..”

“MC….? What happened?” the demon asks worriedly if had done something wrong as the human was now wearing a frown on their face.

“Ah….. maybe this was a bad decision.”

“…..What do you mean?”

“Lucifer…… It isn’t enjoyable if one of us was not having fun….”

“Just a minute ago you were having fun with my suffering….?”

A small smile blooms upon their face only for a moment, then, with an apologetic expression MC continues, “As much as I love to see that dorky, cute, and even the tsundere side of you…… I also want you to enjoy with me……” then they sigh, “Lucifer let’s get-”

“Ice skating seems to be something you dearly enjoy.”

“….”

“While coming down the road to the rink……. You were beaming excitedly….”

“Still-”

“We are here to lighten up, are we not? And-” still struggling the demon smiles at them, “even if I may find this…… difficult….. I would like you to take the lead and teach me.”

Now it was the human’s turn to blush whispering how ‘unfair of him to be so smooth’; Lucifer merely chuckles fondly at their reaction and (with some struggle) holds their hands and nods at them. They beam at him with a big fond smile that the demon loves to see so much.

After sometime, Lucifer sat down outside the ice quite tired, he grumbles under his breath a little until they hear the sound of skates crashing down. He gets up worried about MC (also due to the fact that luckily that day not many people were skating so most of the rink was a bit empty) only to see them attempting to jump a triple axel and then gaining speed for a quadruple Lutz. As they finally land the jumps successfully, they do a “YES” gesture excitedly.

The demon may not know the particulars, but looking at the MC and their child-like happy face, he too, smiles with pride. [Look, I had to- It was perfect here.]

After having a lot of fun and more jumps, MC comes back from the ice and kisses Lucifer's cheek conveying their thanks, he only looks away blushing and smiling.

******

The Avatar of Pride was always known to be ruthless and sadistic even by his brothers, the Royals, the whole Devildom, and even to himself…..

Yet, after the entrance of this human……. Things changed……

At first he…. Did not like these changes….. mostly due to the fact that he was doubtful of the human……. But now…..

“I don’t mind them, if anything I do enjoy it all myself.” He answers the question that MC had asked.

“Aww, I knew it! So, even though you act as if you hate the chaos of your brothers, you still love them and their shenanigans! You are such tsundere-” MC exclaims teasingly at Lucifer laughing at him. They are interrupted by the demon in question himself, “Those……. ‘shenanigans’ (?) that don’t make too much mess for me to handle…… Also isn’t being a ‘Tsundere’, Mammon’s job?” he brings them close to him as he looks the fireplace for a moment.

“Well, it is, but you…. Well…..you are like a ‘Tsundere that tries to be subtle but ends up failing to be so’ so there you go, and I find that incredibly cute and dorky. Also, you give some good cuddles but not as best as Belphie.”

“….. My brothers would never call me cute-”

“Asmo did once-”

“Only once.”

“But you are cute. Especially when you are drunk-”

“I will not further argue since I know that you will not give up.”

“So that means I won? That means you agree with my statement-”

Letting out a “hmph” Lucifer just nuzzles MC’s neck hiding his face. Thinking about today and of all the days before……. He lets out a smile and closes his eyes….. feeling….. happy…..

“You are blushing, aren’t you?”

“No.”

End Notes: I hope you like this! 😊

Please do not repost without permission! (Reblogs are welcome!)

All the characters mentioned above belong to Shall We Date?: Obey Me!, NTT Solmare

#lucifer x reader #lucifer x mc #obey me lucifer #shall we date obey me #obey me #omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me fluff #obey me fic #obey me drabble

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peggychecksitout · 1 year

Text

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

REVIEW: 5 STARS

“For those who feel homesick for a place they’ve never been to.”

Synopsis “When Zachary Ezra Rawlins borrows a strange book from his university library, it leads him on a quest unlike any other, for within its pages he finds a story containing a moment from his own childhood. Determined to track down the provenance of this mysterious book, Zachary encounters a dangerous secret society, a magical doorway to a subterranean labyrinthine library filled with stories, and makes some strange and enigmatic new friends. When this magical library is threatened, however, it falls to Zachary and his new friends to try and save it, all while he searches for the ending of his own story.”

“Those who seek even if they do not know what (or where) it is that they are seeking….”

I wanted to start my 2023 reading year off with a re-read of this book for two reasons. The first, because I wanted to start the year off reading a book I already knew I loved, and the second because the way this book talks about the transformative power of stories, and beginnings becoming endings but endings also becoming beginnings, feels very apropos to read while you are moving into a new calendar year.

So what do I love about this book?

The Starless Sea is a love letter to storytelling; it is about why stories and storytelling are important, as much as it is about those who love stories and why they do. As a person who is always thinking and daydreaming about her own make-believe stories (and trying to commit them to paper), this book went straight to the heart of who I am as a person, and made itself at home.

This book also shows off Morgenstern’s greatest strengths as a writer: her world-building and her prose. Morgenstern can write; her prose is simply gorgeous. It is in turns whimsical, magical, dreamlike and playful. The images she conjures on these pages are nothing short of being frankly, almost tangible—sort of like waking up with your last dream still dancing around in your head before it softly fades with the intrusion of the morning light. There’s a definite fairytale vibe to the entire book, that again, goes along with the greater themes about storytelling. I think anyone who is a lover of books has dreamed, at least once, of stumbling across a doorway that leads to a magical library, and reading this book certainly makes me daydream and yearn for such a place.

So what didn’t work for me?

If I had a quibble with anything, I would say the character work in this book isn’t the strongest, but I do think it’s still purposeful. The characters aren’t super fleshed out, instead, they have the same quality that characters in a fairytale do—they are there to serve the story, to supply metaphor and archetypes more than in-depth character studies, or to feel like real people. This is okay to a certain extent, but it does mean that if your entry point into a story is through character, this might not be the book for you. It’s not a deal breaker for me, because setting and plot are what suck me into a story, and I did still really like the characters, I just feel there were certain moments that would have hit harder, had the characters been more fleshed out.

“Those who seek will find. Their doors have been waiting for them.”

On the whole, my re-read of this book has cemented it as a forever favourite of mine. In fact, I have a quote from the book I would love to have a tattoo of, and there are ungodly things I would do for a ttrpg of The Starless Sea; there’s so much you could do with the Harbour alone—book themed dungeon crawls for daaaaaaays!!

So who is this book for?

I think if you like books about books, stories about stories, stories within stories, and stories that get a bit meta, this is the book for you. I also think if you like the dark academia / books + secrets = love kind of setting, are a lover of open world gaming, and play a few ttrpg’s, then this is the book for you. And if you like star-crossed lovers, soul mates, heroes journey and hero of another story tropes, then hey, this just might be the book for you.

“And no story every truly ends as long as it is told.”

(id in alt text)

#book review #the starless sea #erin morgenstern #booklr #book blog #bookworm

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jesuschristt-thatsaprettyface · 2 years

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i miss having a partner in the way that i miss cities i’ve never been to. in the way i feel nostalgic for sports i’ve never played and for people that i’ve never met. it feels like my soul is yearning for someone it once knew, someone it once loved, but all that’s left is the feeling that something is missing. and if i squint hard enough, i can make out the outline, it’s vague aura, but the rest is like reaching out to touch a ghost only to feel disappointment as my hand falls through nothingness. you were - there. i saw you. i felt you. for a moment. and the next you were gone. we were gone. and i can’t even be mad at you because you’re not here...

why are you still not here? did i do something? am i cursed to live a life half-knowing you. half-feeling you? fated to sense a life i desire without ever being able to touch it?

and i drive myself mad with hope. because if the former was true, why on earth would you reach out at all? no. i must believe. part of me believes - that you are a possibility. a reality that’s just waiting for the perfect moment to sweep me off my feet.

wouldn’t that be swell? if you did that for me?

today is my birthday - and baby i’m wishing for you. i’m wishing you’ll come true.

and maybe one day, you’ll knock on my bedroom window like peter pan and whisk me away somewhere magical. maybe we’ll learn how to fly and meet the stars. maybe you’re exactly what i’ve been looking for. what i’ve been feeling homesick over.

missing you, has been one of the greatest themes of my life, and sometimes i wonder - if you did show - would i then, miss missing you? perhaps, on days when you get called into work, or even dare to step into the next room, i’ll yearn for you all over again. and maybe then, the yearning will feel more like home. as it’s all i’ve known.

and so i guess we have our work cut out for us, huh darling? maybe you should hurry then love. so that i can unlearn missing you sooner.

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giftfromblythe · 7 months

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Homecoming

This earth doesn’t ground me like it used to. Did it ever? The moon shines still outside my bedroom window; The birds still wake me in the morning. It’s easier here, Where my blood once stained the gravel as I tripped and fell, But not easy. I thought I was homesick. I thought I was longing for a place that is no longer the same, For a time gilded in remembrance that never quite happened. I was wrong. I’m not looking for an ever-changing beauty that I thought lost. I’m not searching for a place to lay my bones. I’m yearning for a self that I’d forgotten, A person I had pretended I wasn’t. They’re closer to the surface here, In this place where my tears soaked the grass The first time I learned loss. They live in the corner of my mind, Summoned by joy and sorrow both; I gave them all the pieces I fought to hide So I could smile as I looked in the eyes of someone I despised— Or thought I did. These days the hate of a child seems so petty. There on that playground—look away! The ghost of me is on that swing. The ghost of me has no words yet for the truth of themself. The truth I could not name has risen up inside, And while I no longer fear it, I fear for my life. There’s a ballot cast, sealing doom Until the next voice calls out for justice; Are we with the tide or against it? It feels like fate. And here I am, returned to this place— Older, broken and remade— Watching the shade of myself wonder why I cannot change, Unknowing that my fate is to shift With the intent of my mind. Every time I return, I craft myself anew. This time, it’s not reaction. This time I do not wait for the wind to blow into my lungs— This time I breathe.

I wrote this poem two weeks ago to express a realization I had recently. For a long time, I considered my mental illness inevitable. I thought that it was something I would always have to deal with in some fashion. I thought that the seeds were sown in my childhood and what sprouted would continue to grow all my life, no matter how much I pruned it back. I thought I always had to be on my guard against it.

I don’t.

I don’t have to constantly assess and reassess my state of mind. I don’t have to always be wary of what my mind will wield against me.

The first step was coming home—initially that meant physically returning to the house where I grew up, to recover during all the many times I required healing. It helped to be in a familiar place where there were people to support me. For me, that meant going home. It might not be the same place for other people, but the principle is the same: returning to a place of comfort. I often needed to leave again as soon as I was well, to escape the baggage that lingered there, but those times gave me a needed sanctuary.

The next step was realizing that something was still missing. That baggage wasn’t going away, no matter how far I fled from it. Ultimately, I realized, I couldn’t get away from it because I was still carrying it with me. I was letting it keep its power over me.

The way we view our homes changes as we change. When I first left home, I was relieved to be away, but homesick for certain little things: the dogwoods and redbuds blooming in spring, the quiet in the woods, eating meals almost entirely homegrown. Then I would come home to visit and feel restless to leave—nothing was quite how I remembered, and that was as dissatisfying as it was a relief. When I became ill and had to return, it was a comfort and a prison—I could cling to the familiar even as I felt trapped by the limits my mind was imposing on me. Then I spent one of those times of illness unable to return home; Covid had begun, the isolation triggered my depression, and it wasn’t safe for an immunocompromised person to travel.

That’s when I became fiercely, desperately homesick. The little problems of living in an apartment that I had grown accustomed to over time suddenly grated on every nerve I had. I found myself longing even for the difficult parts of returning home; at least there, I would have someone to turn to when things were hardest.

Then I did return home. Something was still missing. I was happier, for sure, and working hard to maintain that, but I was still restless and unable to pinpoint why.

It has only been in the past month that I realized what was missing—and that’s because it’s not missing anymore. I wasn’t homesick for a place. I was homesick for myself.

When we live with mental illness, there’s a lot we do to protect ourselves that ends up hurting us in the long run. This is one of them: we hide away the parts of ourselves that we fear others will harm us over. We bury them so deep that they become ghosts to haunt us. We miss them and fear them in equal measure.

But we don’t have to fear ourselves. If we let those pieces we hid come back, we might initially feel more vulnerable…but we’re actually less so. We’re taking away one of the weapons our illness wields against us. When we’re fully ourselves, we have more of the tools we need to fight back against what hurts us.

When we’re ourselves, we can act instead of react. We can choose our own course instead of letting the current take us.

That’s what I’m learning to do. I hope you can learn it too.

Thanks for reading. As always, take care, listen well, and share your stories.

—Blythe

#mental illness #poetry #recovery #depression #covid 19

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this-daydream-is-dangerous-13 · 9 months

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All this time I thought that this:

https://twitter.com/iamnearlyhome/status/1689368895906316288?t=JGvx5Hs5UYlEcBoodgT1zA&s=19

Was referring to/ or related to something about a bridge and zvzc = zero voltage, zero current. But what would 'oh' mean then? It doesn't make much sense.

However now that you mentioned the greek word 'nostos' (νόστος) and its meaning (I speak Greek and I've studied Ancient Greek in school, how come I never realized it idk lol) it makes a lot more sense. Nost + oh = Nostoh, but the 'h' would be silent so the word ends up being 'Nosto'.

You were right about the meaning of the word. I Googled the origin of the word in Greek, so here's a bit more info about it: it comes from the verb 'νέομαι' (pronounced: neome) which means 《I return》, 《I'm returning to my homeland》. From the word 'νόστος' (nostos) also come the word 'νόστιμος' (pronounced: nostimos) (meaning: delicious) and the word 'νοσταλγία' (pronounced: nostalgia) (meaning: nostalgia, homesickness), which means the mental pain ('άλγος' (algos) = pain) that is birthed from expectations, the desire/yearning/ craving/ longing to return to your homeland. The one who was alienated dreams of the journey of his return home (this journey is called 'nostos' of course, and as you mentioned it's the theme in the Odyssey. Here it's explained a bit how the word ties in Ancient Greek: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nostos). And at last, at a certain moment comes the blessed day of that return home which is referred to as 'νόστιμον ήμαρ' (pronounced: nostimon imar).

A little observation: In evermore (the song) TS says: 'And when I was shipwrecked, I thought of you, in the cracks of light, I dreamed of you'. On Wikipedia nostos is also explained as: This journey is usually very extensive and includes being shipwrecked in an unknown location and going through certain trials that test the hero. Also in this tweet from two days ago: https://twitter.com/iamnearlyhome/status/1695929395733565893?t=WS5ZEw9EFCbJlJ51-ZlAiw&s=19 , probably a coincidence, but it mentions cracks. Evermore being tied with Exile and telling that the other person is not your homeland anymore is fitting with everything else.

It also reminds me of the Adore You music video where Harry sails off on a ship and there was supposed to be a part 2, but recently they got that scene in the end out of the music video for some reason.

Could zvzc actually mean zero voltage, zero current? (Something like, water current maybe? Travelling home by ship on water?) As far as I know, current doesn't exist without voltage and if you have 0 volts, then you don't have voltage and therefore no current. There's no flow, so there's no movement? I never liked Electricity, or really understood it, so it could mean anything really, I'm just guessing here.

Maybe the tweet means that he is not on his return home at this point in time lol. It also fits with the theme of the account, so it makes sense to be talking about nostos.

This is amazing, anon, and I didn’t want it to get lost in the craziness of today.

Here’s the tweet:

And our recent discussion:

Our intrepid duo DO use nautical imagery a lot, as you cited in evermore, and in Gold Rush (and in Fool’s Gold), and the whole Adore you video where what the “fish” taught him—to use all the stuff inside him to be the wind in his sails (a metaphor for *songwriting* aka “a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days”)—allows him to sail to other shores. That ship tattoo really set them on a particular course!

And the “I am returning to my homeland” yet being thwarted and the longing? And trials that test the hero? Oooof. Like: it is going to happen but not yet.

I have no idea about the last part, though. An acronym? Something with zeta? Shrouded in mystery, it remains.

I am so thankful for your Greek knowledge, anon, because my limited Koine for NT study did not help here, lol.

I really have the best anons. 😘

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unitcd · 10 months

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( might nap but also to break your heart. Belly to jeremiah) “do you not want me because - you see I’m not worthy of you?”

Did he not want her?

Jeremiah was too stunned to even form a sentence let alone a word in response to that question. Not worthy? God. . . If she only knew how many times a day he thought about holding her, kissing her or even being near her when they were apart. It was probably pretty sick, in all actuality. Jere was homesick for his home, the home that he'd found in Belly Conklin all of those years ago.

How many times had he stayed behind just to make sure that Belly was okay, instead of going out with Steven and Conrad and the boys? Too many to count. He cared for her, she was his best friend for as long as he could remember. Every fond memory that he had, ninety percent of them had Belly in them.

It was stupid that it had taken him until last summer to recognize that what he felt for her was something more than the deep friendship connection that they had. He loved her much more than he'd ever planned to and it scared him half to death.

Seeing her with Conrad, it had just made him feel this horrible sense of jealousy every single time that they'd touched. He had hated every second of having to witness that because if it would have been him instead? He would have never forgotten anything that made Belly happy, made her smile that breathtaking smile and giggle so hard that she snorted.

God. He was such an idiot, wasn't he?

"It's not that. Please never say that." Jeremiah began. "God, Bells. It kills me every damn day that I can't just give into you. You don't understand how much I want to just hold you and kiss you, I'd kiss the shit out of you. . ." There was a big BUT coming, and here it was. "But, you hurt me and I am not sure if I can let myself open back up in case something else happened and you changed your mind about me again." The saliva was thick in his throat as he swallowed, throat feeling an uncomfortable dryness. "You got with my brother after you kissed me, after I spilled my guts to you and it took me so long to gather up the strength to even be able to look at you without wanting to break down. Belly, I love you, I do. You're my best friend and I did forgive you, I do. I'm just. - - - not ready to jump back into anything like that." As much as his heart yearned for her? As much as he wanted to pull her in and kiss that look right off of her face, he had to FINALLY put himself first for once in his life and stop pretending that he was FINE, because he was just a seventeen year old boy with a massively broken heart right now.

He really missed his mom, the one person that knew him better than even Belly did. Shit. . . "I'm sorry, Bells. I just - - - Miss my mom right now. I miss her so much that it hurts to get up in the morning once I realize that she's not going to be in the kitchen with her morning cup of coffee. There's a lot going on and I don't want to ruin anything with anyone, things are bad enough."

#reply: jeremiah #long post tw #summersturned: belly #summersturned #u: tsitp

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freckleslikestars · 1 year

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Stars

Farscape, vaguely John/Aeryn fic, Terra Firma because I love Aeryn on earth fics.

conversations that go nowhere under an unfamiliar sky

1141 words, read here on AO3

Tonight, at the edge of the field,

I stood very still, and looked up, and tried to be empty of words.

What joy was it, that almost found me? What amiable peace?

Mary Oliver

~~~

It was oppressive, this little backwater planet. And that was saying something, coming from someone who had grown up on a command carrier. But it was oppressive in a different way. The atmosphere was thick, and the weather was hot and wet – muggy, John had said. Everyone watched their every move, waiting for them to slip up, do something alien. There was an artifice in their domiciles, prisons dressed up as palaces, with great lawns and windows to suggest an open freedom, when all they were doing was hemming them in. At least the cell-like rooms of peacekeeper ships didn’t deny what they were.

John was different here, too: even more distant than he had been since she’d returned, and all the while slipping back into his old life, old job, old girlfriend. She felt trapped, no way to leave without...without what? Without destroying Moya’s patchwork crew? Without leaving her heart behind? But staying hurt just as much, and where would she go anyway? So she watched the others experience Crichton’s Earth in all its garish glory, and she watched John slip from her grasp even more, and she glared up at the empty sky, and there were no stars here, and she yearned to be up on Moya’s terrace, with the rumble of Moya’s drives below her feet and an entire sky of stars before her.

‘You’ll catch a chill out here like that,’ his voice jolted her out of the sun lounger she had curled herself into, and it took an alarming amount of concentration not to let her surprise show on her face as she stared at him in the warbling glow of the pool lights.

‘Hardly. I’m more likely to suffer heat delirium.’

‘It’s under 60° out here, and you’re in my sister’s old daisy dukes.’

She looked down at herself, mouthing daisy dukes with a frown, trying to parse what he could mean.

‘The cut-offs. Shorts. They’re named after a character who always wore them on this 80s TV show. Though, the tank top’s not going to keep you much warmer.’

‘You forget, I’m more sensitive to the heat than you. The daytime is nearing intolerable on this godforsaken planet.’

He ducked his head and winced, guilt lining his brow and the corners of his mouth, ‘I’ll come up with a solution – something to help cool you down during the day.’ He nodded towards the pool, ‘swimming will help – you can ask Livvy for a suit if you want.’

‘I think I’d prefer to just stay inside during the day, avoid the sun.’

‘Good idea,’ he nodded, swallowing thickly. Under closer inspection, he was fidgety, nervous: clearly uncomfortable as he refused to make eye contact. ‘So, uh, whatcha doing out here.’

‘I wanted to see the stars, but...’ she nodded to the orange-tinged sky.

‘Ah. Yeah. That’s a problem, even out here on the cape.’

‘I am feeling... a very unfamiliar combination of emotions right now. Lost and alone and...I miss...Moya.’

His fidgeting halted, and he cast her a tender smile, ‘that ache in your chest? it’s called homesickness. I, uh...’ he turned his head over his shoulder, away from her, working his jaw. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Oh, great. A Crichton idea. Because those only lead to certain death every other time.’

He chuckled and nodded, ‘this one’s harmless, I promise. Come on.’

‘Where?’

‘It’s a surprise.’

She held her ground, not shifting a muscle as he turned and started sauntering away, all false bravado, a little glimpse of her John. ‘In the cycles you’ve known me, have I ever once enjoyed a surprise?’

With a laugh tossed over his shoulder, he turned, a wolfish grin on his face, ‘well, I can think of a couple of times you enjoyed my surprises.’

She rolled her eyes but relented, following behind him at a few paces, unwilling to get too close. It wasn’t just Moya she was homesick for. He led her out to his car, unlocked it with a chirping beep and retrieved a hoodie for himself from the trunk before clambering into the driver’s seat and nodding over for her to get in the other side.

‘Tell me if you get too cold,’ he murmured, twizzling the aircon knob to its coldest setting and highest power. As he pulled away from the curb, he started fiddling with the settings on the radio, muttering to himself as they scanned through stations, ‘sorry, I took Chiana out to the mall again today – God, she loves that place more than a teenage girl – and she messed with all my settings.’

‘There’s a reason I never fly with her as copilot.’

‘Oh? And I thought it was because she doesn’t know how to fly.’

‘Well, there’s that, too.’

He hummed and continued to scroll from staticky station to staticky station until he landed on one playing oldies, and started humming along. ‘You know, I didn’t realise how much I missed having music onboard Moya – music I recognised, at least – until we got back here. If I’m ever to get lost in space again, I’m definitely going to need to make sure I pack a couple of road trip mixtapes.’

‘So you’ve made up your mind? You’re staying here?’

There was an uncomfortable pause, filled with tinny crooning from the speakers, before he cleared his throat, ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘This is my home, Aeryn. I’ve spent my last four years fighting my way back here, and...’ he sighed, ‘it’s home. You-‘ he cleared his throat, ‘you could stay, you know. If you wanted. When the others go back up to Moya, there’s always the option for you to stay. You look human, and we can work on your English, and-‘

‘John,’ she gave him a pained, bittersweet smile, ‘I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. This is your home, and I’m yet to find mine.’

They lapsed into silence after that, letting the crackling radio fill the air for the rest of the duration of the drive, the roads steadily decreasing in size until he pulled off onto a dirt track, drove for another ten minutes before pulling over.

‘Where are we?’

‘The middle of nowhere. Away from all the light pollution. Get out and look.’

She did as he said, slipping out of the car and tilting her face up. Pinpricks of light scattered the deep velvet, unfamiliar constellations, further away than she was used to seeing them. And, for a few moments, she felt just a little less homesick as she took deep breaths of the sweet fresh air, her eyes filling with the stars of John’s world.

#my writing #farscape fic #farscape fanfic #john crichton #aeryn sun #john x aeryn #terra firma

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caltropspress · 2 years

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A Manual of Exorcism: ELUCID’s I Told Bessie

I used to watch my grandmother catch the Holy Ghost in church— for her soul she would search.

—Pharaohe Monch, “Black Sunday” (1994)

The weight of the world is heavy on my mind.

—Guru, “Who’s Gonna Take the Weight?” (1990)

I am challenged to speak, to bring my all to that altar of continued black liberation struggle…

—bell hooks, Yearning

Arise! Spirit of the true and living God!

—Labtekwon, “Séance” (1998)

DOCUMENT i 1.

The first voice we hear on I Told Bessie is that of Joy James, and she asks, What’s the exit plan? When Black people sense stability, she explains, white people orchestrate another form of theft. In a special 1976 episode of Bill Moyers Journal titled “Rosedale: The Way It Is,” a Black family, the Spencers, have an exit plan. The Spencers move into a home in the Rosedale neighborhood of Queens. They’re met by the white community with chants of “Nxggxrs go to hell,” an arson attack, and a pipe-bomb explosion on their front porch. In one scene, after activists from South Jamaica arrive to show support for the Spencers, a counter-protest of Rosedale residents materializes. In their fury, a mob of white children shouting “white power” accost and assault a few Black girls on bikes. In an interview with the Black girls immediately following the incident, one tells the camera crew, through tears, “I hate their goddamn guts!” One of the older girls, still straddling her bike, gently says, “I can’t say that I hate them…it’s just the system.”

The music video for ELUCID’s “Spellling” (directed by Nelson Bandela) presents a sort of reciprocal to this historic scene. ELUCID rides his bike in circles, in figure-8s—an unknown infinite in an empty city park, unmolested and unfettered. The teal frame of his bike matches the “opal in [his] teeth,” and the wheels spin like two ensōs inkily and egolessly applied to washi paper. On the track intro, ELUCID’s voice is interspliced with Joy James’s. They have made this star unsafe, he says, reciting lines from Amiri Baraka’s “Jitterbugs.” And this age, primitive, though yr mind / is somewhere else, your ass ain’t. Wherever you go, there you are type-shit. “The imperfection of the world / is a burden,” Baraka preached. ELUCID must feel it; he screams as release—not quite a Woo-Hah!!, though he appears to have got himself in check; not exactly the satirical screams De La do at the start of “Ego Trippin’ (Part Two)”; not the scream of ecstasy we hear before Mase delivers the first bars of “Feel So Good.” But a primal scream—followed by a cackle. “To keep from crying / I opens ma mouth an’ laughs,” Langston Hughes explains on “Homesick Blues.”

Those opening hard-r’s: (a)part / heart / arc / park / start / dark / mark / are / starved: meaningful in their harshness, hard-r’s always are. Though I Told Bessie, at turns, soothes like a salve, it can also be harsh art. Like Aesop Rock (who hard-rs just the same), ELUCID utilizes a “jabberwocky superfly,” though with more of a socio-political valence than Bavitz ever musters. ELUCID cleanses the space and “palo scent[s] the heart.” Never mind the long arc of the moral universe bending toward justice—he’s focused on “following [his] arc,” first and foremost. He’s a dancer in the dark—more Björk with her back to birch bark than Fred Astaire. Don’t be disoriented by the steps; he’s “running tangents off the mark.” Don’t follow the leader as Rakim implored: “Follow me into a solo—get in the flow.” What could you say as the earth gets further and further away? (That’s that aforementioned “wet earth,” no doubt.) Watch your footwork, and listen: “If you’re seeking understanding, you should jam this where you are”—not where you were, or where you plan to be, but where you are. Here. Here. Draw plans for today, not tomorrow. Presence. (’Cause on the mic, ELUCID’s got more presence than….)

I’m carrying…

ELUCID carries the weight of the whole world in his hands: hear how he draws out the word (caaaarrryin’) to help us feel its heft. He’s carrying the “needings and wantings,” the “secrets and hauntings,” all the amassed “seasons of harvest.” He which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully (2 Corinthians 9:6 KJV). One’s gotta be doomsday-prepped for the “Iscariots [who] litter the valley.” Judases like gutter trash clogging the storm drains on their way to committing Straight Up Sewasides. (Tough not to hear sweet chariots in those Iscariots, swinging low, coming for to carry them home.) ELUCID “fear[s] not the shadow.” He’s comforted by a rod and staff, by “peppermint and aloe poured upon the crown,” those same metallic medicinals mixed with herbs, science, and minerals that Bigg Jus big-upped on the Indelibles’ “Weight” in ’98. ELUCID is plannin’ to be rammin’ what he wrote straight on a plate down your throat—so digest, like Guru said on “Who’s Gonna Take the Weight?” His uzi weighs a ton, too. Words nurture and/or hurt: feast and/or famine. Yeah, boy-eee, that’s how you’re gonna carry that weight.

On “Bazooka Tooth,” Aesop Rock dealt with “bugs in the beard,” while ELUCID, on “Spellling,” competes with bugs “in the bed.” He “crack[s] a couple eggs” (no doubt they’re double-yolked) and finds enchantment in the quotidian. ELUCID’s “waking to sounds of gnawing teeth and ecstatic squeals” (“Colony”), acknowledging “love sucks but [is] ill in other ways.” “Space is to be taken,” not given. Colonize the stars for your family’s sustainable living before some galaxy-brain startup puts down stakes. Breathe easy, but that’s Eazy-er Said Than Dunn, especially when, like Aesop, you’ve got “ebony in the lung-piece.” But, for ELUCID, maybe that ebony is a boon—an ebony chess-piece on the move: “All the places I’ve been,” locations like “South Jamaica, Queens to Strong Island, JFK, Sonic Boom,” each an impetus for ELUCID’s art. In White Man, Listen!, Richard Wright argued “expression springs out of an environment.” Ornette Coleman warned, “You can’t transcribe an environment,” but you can undoubtedly bring it into being.

Just got to heaven and I can’t sit down.

Talking Heads told us since about ’78, ’79 that heaven is a place where nothing ever happens. ELUCID hints at an unsettled feeling—one can’t get too comfortable with the successes earned. The impulse is always onto the next. Child Actor’s panning of the sonics speaks to that ambivalence—the signal shifts channels like the difference between laurel-resting and no rest for the weary.

Heaven’s never really been heaven. On “Sweet Mickey,” ELUCID saw “pearly gates and dystopic visions.” Black liberation theologist James H. Cone explored notions of an “eschatological reality” that promised gold-paved streets and pearly gates, a home to lay down that heavy load. More often than not, though, the load just shifts to the opposite shoulder. Heaven and its requisite pleasures are always postponed. Speaking to the Federal Writers’ Project for the WPA in 1937, ex-slave John Collins pined for his wife Maggie, eager for their reunion in the afterlife: “us’ll see the sunrise, down here, from de far hebben above.” The fantasy vision of heaven is difficult to resist, especially when it’s spoken of as fondly as it is in “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” a land of milk and honey where the cops have wooden legs and the dogs, rubber teeth.

But as far back as 2Pac, Black minds have wondered if heaven’s got a ghetto. If Joy James is to be trusted, it sure as hell does. Quelle Chris reasons that “if heaven’s got a ghetto, hell’s got a resort.” If you hear Harry Belafonte sing the old hymn “O, Won’t You Sit Down?,” God requests the dearly departed to do just what the title invites, but they can’t: “Lord, I can’t sit down. / ’Cause I just got to heaven, gotta look around.” That look around is vigilance. Even heaven offers no reprieve.

“Spellling” is so much, multifarious. The title could be fundamental, a reference to the recognition of patterns in words; it could reflect the act of casting spells, which ELUCID has copped to; or it could be a verb form of dizziness, our inner ears vertigoed. The obvious irony is the title’s [mis-]spelling with the three l’s, but that additional letter also drags the word out (the noise is love…I drag my tongue…), visually mimicking ELUCID’s cadence tendency to elongate sounds. Forces us to stay with certain words longer, cultivating patience. We’re under his spell.

DOCUMENT ii 7.

It’s too loud in here, ELUCID says on “Bunny Chow”—he can’t give full attention; he’s “got rocks in his head, / [he] didn’t listen right.” It’s too loud—too much static like wool fabric. His whole cabbage feels cracked. Rhymes do to his brain what bullets do to flesh, to pinch one from Thirstin Howl III. Ego and conscience refuse to share the same space. Yeah, it’s a Brooklyn hard rock—feeling Ripped Open by Metal Explosions with each horn stab (as arranged by Galt MacDermot). Sebb Bash’s squeaky-screamy voices do the lacerating here. Rocks in ELUCID’s head, like shrapnel “rattlin’ ’round, fuck what they said.” Stars circle our heads when we hear it. ELUCID is hard as hell—I don’t care who you tell. No delayin’ what I’m sayin’—he rocks the bells.

The meanings of these rocks are manifold. So much more than some ridiculoid mineraloid. Ivie Anderson, singing for Duke Ellington’s orchestra in 1941, complained about rocks in her bed—not head: “My heart is heavy as lead / Because the blues has spread / Rocks in my bed.” Her “man’s gone, [and] so instead” of his warm body beside her, she cozies up to stones. Or maybe the rocks aren’t in his head but in place of his heart, like Bessie Smith sings from the floorboards in Dudley Murphy’s 1929 short film St. Louis Blues. “My man’s got a heart that’s a rock cast in the sea,” she moans, singing of the pain caused by a philandering man. ELUCID doesn’t sound love-stricken, though.

In the “Rock Box” music video, Rev. Run and DMC’s heads become digitally dislodged and transplanted in a Frankensteinian experiment. They must be seeing stars. ELUCID is liable to “bang his face on the wall” in frustration, lose his head, too. Instead, he drops Hermetic axioms (“as above, so below”) linking his heady mental to THE ALL, as Swedenborg puts it. He refuses to play “safe and settled” and will instead “stray forever,” a tangential bindlestiff. The rocks in his head will keep rattling. And kids want to know what they mean? Do they spark? Do they gather moss? “They say pick one” answer, but I concur with ELUCID, and “grab three just to lose ’em on purpose.” He opts out of slinging crack rock and must have a wicked jump-shot as he’s “pump fakin’ when they [get] too earnest.” He’s hard-headed as long as he gets his shit[/shot] off.

“Who feelin’ bad for me?” he asks, bewildered at the notion. The promissory note’s been defaulted on, indeed, but ELUCID “didn’t ask to dream.” Hush that fuss, he says while “slumped” in the “back of the bus.” He’s the “last to leave,” outkasted, leaving it up for you to decide whether you wanna bump and slump with him.

“Mastery’s a winding labyrinth,” confusing at times, but ELUCID guides us on a Borgesian journey along forking paths, with hypertext and infinitudes at every turn. You’ve gotta just let the “patterns rearrange.” Disassociate if need be, have yourself asking: What happened yesterday? Likely, you’ve been warpin’.

DOCUMENT iii 8.

On 2016’s Save Yourself, ELUCID refers to himself as “Black Herman in a fugue state.” In Secrets of Magic-mystery & Legerdemain, Herman (born Benjamin Rucker) details his travels to Cairo as a young man. There, Herman writes, is “where all the secrets of the ages are held.” On “Old Magic,” ELUCID speaks of “cracked teeth gabbin’ in the pyramid,” and they may as well be Black Herman’s, seeing as how he had a proclivity for burying himself alive only to be exhumed three days later. Black Herman’s message to ELUCID: keep it cagey. “They wanna skin me alive,” ELUCID pleads. Don’t forget, the showboating satyr Marsyas was served in a rap battle by Apollo, kids. Got his hide flayed! Nat Turner too, lest we forget, was lynched and flayed by his captors. They sold his skin as souvenirs in storefronts. So, certainly, ELUCID is keenly aware of any and all “predatory denizens.”

He will keep the feet of his saints, and the wicked shall be silent in darkness; for by strength shall no man prevail. —1 Samuel 2:9 KJV

I spoke silent. None shall prevail. ELUCID watches his words: “Hush harbor—who’s asking?” On Small Bills—a project with a title that directly states Don’t Play It Straight—ELUCID’s version of “Hush Harbor” mentions a “silent moon” on a silent night. Quiet as kept. Put ear to earth and hear the quiet storm hissing on the ham radio. Nat Turner read both the skies and the scriptures for answers and stratagems. Witnessing a solar eclipse set his plans in motion. He was too wise to make his route while the sun’s out, like Prodigy, or unload ten in broad daylight. He worked those hush harbors—slave gatherings in the plantation woods. Gather, etymologically, implies both the uniting of rebel slaves and the cache of muskets they compiled. They were prepping for the “riot fire moon,” which was more about zealous insurrection than zodiac.

Despite losing his religion, ELUCID believes in much. He told us so on “Scaffolds”: “Don’t ask me no question, / I believe in Black secrecy.” Professor X of the X Clan knew the value of secrecy. “The FBI’s on me,” he says with his the red, the black, and the green lilt on his 1993 solo track “Confidentiality.” He recognized the need to keep it on the hush, on the down-low. Hush that fuss. Sit tight until you receive the signal. On “Hush Harbor,” ELUCID sensed it: “Finna catch a bad one, / I’m a thunderclap, son.” And that sonic shock wave reverberates, stretching backwards in time to Latyrx’s “Storm Warning” where Lyrics Born whispers: “Crashin’ and clappin’, the master craftsman / Passionately expressing his anger and his angst / With flashes and rains.” Such secrecy necessitates a sotto voce delivery, which—if you’re so so def—will make the dispatch impossible to hear. But ELUCID “be listening mostly,” and he’ll “keep it close.” According to historian Eugene D. Genovese’s research, authorities often believed voodoo priests were “stirring up hatred for whites, although this fear may have arisen more from the secretiveness of the ceremonies.” Peep the power in that. Sometimes a revolution sounds like a whisper—spin some Tracy Chapman for that truth.

10.

ELUCID stays appropriately guarded, understanding that “short fuses” equal “no future.” No future is a safety pin-through-the-skin sentiment, a punk gesture. “God Save the Queen” was originally “No Future.” Johnny Rotten joined forces with Afrika Bambaataa in 1984 to forewarn of World Destruction. Samuel R. Delaney has said that Black people find themselves “impoverished in terms of future images” because they were “systematically forbidden any images of [their] past.” Not so fast, not so bleak: bell hooks saw in Blackfolk a hunger for the promise of the future—what she called “yearning.” She writes of staying future-focused while still keeping an eye on the presence of past oppressions. Time is on my side, ELUCID repeated on “Flavor Flav,” but the Last Poets cautioned otherwise on “Run, Nigger”: “I understand that time is running out…(tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock). Running out as hastily as niggas run from the man…Time is running out of talks, marches, tunes, chants, and all kinds of prayers.” That being the case, one’s got to stay protected.

11.

ELUCID offers an incantation: “A double portion of protection for me and my niggas.” The refrain is instantly familiar—it doesn’t have to be repeated but is. Another line xeroxed: You ain’t gotta be here if you don’t wanna. We’ve heard this one before (on “Roaches Don’t Fly”), but what ELUCID says bears repeating. And if you’re opposed to rote learning? If you don’t believe in it? Double-up. The line’s meaning doubles, too. What sounded like the white cry of “go-back-to-Africa!” on the Armand Hammer track sounds like an acceptance of self-death on “Old Magic.” And who could blame a suicidal impulse, what with “Babylon all on us”?

Give me that old time double-consciousness as an example. “One feels his two-ness,” Du Bois wrote, “two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body.” A double portion of protection is needed to keep from being “cursed and spit upon.” Even though she had been “pitched headforemost into the world [and] landed in the crib of negroism,” it was only in college that Zora Neale Hurston began to “see [her]self like somebody else.” ELUCID’s demand for a double portion suggests a double helping—nourishment to feed on. Doubling abounds in Toni Morrison’s literature: twins, split personalities, mirrored reflections. A severing of self-representation. We’re seeing doubles everywhere, feeling dizzied and dope-sick. ELUCID is no one-dimensional man; his texts are heteroglossic (glôssa = “tongue”). He speaks in many.

12.

Child Actor adds the twittering of birds behind the chorus. We’ve heard this chatter of budgies before—think Preemo on “Nas Is Like,” a song rife with dualisms (“Freedom or jail…Heaven or hell…”). Might find yourself tempted to “assassinate two birds with one stone” like Vast Aire on “Pigeon.” On “Old Magic,” the birds are aflutter as ELUCID stands behind the acoustic foam of his isolation shield—his chair of augury—like the blind prophet Tiresias:

I heard A strange note in their jangling, a scream, a Whirring fury; I knew that they were fighting, Tearing each other, dying In a whirlwind of wings clashing. And I was afraid. I began the rites of burnt-offering at the altar…

The altar functions as a site of protection. A fortified live fortification. But ELUCID has told us, repeatedly (twice again), that we don’t really need altars. On I Told Bessie, we hear the claim on “Betamax.” On Small Bills, he said the same. Who needs an altar when you’ve got “hair braid maps, patterns, swamps, and pastures”? Time to be self-sufficient, dig our own ditches, and harmonize with hip-hop [perma-]culture.

ELUCID is protected by his words—words that can gank the noose out the mob’s chalky hands and use it for double-dutch. Stir up some Double Trouble like Rodney Cee and KK Rockwell on the stoop, raise a lot of hell. Get splashed with the “Double Dare green slime,” like ELUCID menaced on “Bitter Cassava.” That green slime no doubt a concoction of Macbeth’s three Weird Sisters, in an alleyway with a 55-gallon steel drum subbing for a cauldron, mere steps from the stoop:

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Purchase what you need from Paul’s Boutique and throw all of that shit in: poison’d entrails, fenny snake, wool of bat, owlet’s wing, baboon’s blood, root of hemlock digg'd i’ the dark—that’ll make the hell-broth boil. That’ll make for “a charm of powerful trouble,” a charm that is “firm and good.”

13.

In Look Out, Whitey! Black Power’s Gon’ Get Your Mama!, Julius Lester describes how “language serves to insulate a group and protect it from outsiders.” Words, see, can bulldoze walls or build them. Words are an S1W security force on stage, stalking, walking in their big black boots (like X Clan’s Grand Verbalizer said, like Ice Cube endorsed— ’cause you never know when they’re gonna shoot.) On “Jumanji,” ELUCID claims he has the ability to “will weapons when [he] wants ’em.” He’d already established that fact on Valley of Grace: “No matter what you do, don’t call me an artist. / My bars more like an arms race.”

Protection could be maximized if you worship Rammellzee’s Garbage Gods—Gasholeer, perhaps, whose exoskeleton looks like an electronics wasteland, like a “junkyard Transformer doing samurai cosplay,” in Hua Hsu’s estimation. Rammellzee’s own description of Gasholeer’s armor dazzles:

From both wrists, I can shoot seven flames, nine flames from each sneaker’s heel, and colored flames from the throat…. The sound system consists of a Computator, which is a system of screws with wires. These screws can be depressed when the keyboard gun is locked into it. The sound travels through the Computator, then the belt, and on up to the four mid-range speakers (with tweeters)…. A 100-watt amp and batteries give me power.

When those systems failed, Ramm could resort to his ikonoklastik philosophy, which “abolish[ed] age-old standards of language and meaning.”

14.

Gasholeer’s protective armor anticipated Hardware’s, a Black superhero created by Dwayne McDuffie and Denys Cowan for Milestone Comics in 1993. Hardware (Curt Metcalf) is a brainiac working in the laboratory of Alva Industries. Disgruntled, Metcalf hides the company’s high-tech gadgets—gadgets of his own creation, mind you—in the bomb shelter of his exploitative employer’s building, like an ungovernable slave burying hoes and pickaxes in the dirt behind the plantation barn, just waiting for the right moment. Metcalf becomes Hardware as he outfits himself in an arsenal formidable enough to take on tanks. He rocks plasticized metal alloy skin, stays layered in nano-robots (“antimatter nano-nigga—shit, I had to hit him”), and comes strapped with an array of weapons. I mean, damn…Hardware might as well author Negroes with Omnicannons. He brandishes an expandable plasma whip, avenging Whipped Peter like Django unleashing on Little Raj.

ELUCID’s “double portion of protection” opens up a new continuity of safety and security, a panoply of revolutionary self-care and nickel-plated pockets in the spirit of Rammellzee and Curt Metcalf. Even still, when the system fails after hackers emerge from the darknets and the language of spells don’t work as desired, make a swift pivot to charms.

DOCUMENT iv 15.

I got a black cat bone, I got a mojo tooth, I got John the Conqueroo, I’m gonna mess with you.

—Willie Dixon, “I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man” (1957)

On Armand Hammer’s “Charms” from Shrines, ELUCID invokes the codices of the Nag Hammadi and mysteries evoked by “smudge stick fragrances.” Sage wonderings. In the second verse of “Old Magic,” we arrive at a sandy and silty inlet “steps from the ocean.” He brings us places. This time to a ritualistic burial at the seaside where maybe, just maybe, he can “raise the dead with the brain-poem,” as Hell Razah might say. Look skyward to the “celestial motion” of the universe where “recorded research [is] often repeated”—a triad of re- prefixes—again and again, doubling and re-doubling. The same can be said for “who holds the one who holds the secret”—a circularity to these processes, knowledge of self within a multiplicity of selves. Gotta keep at it like a tongue touching a cankersore on the “cheek of the godhead.” Understand the high cost of living and dying, how it siphons spirituality from a skull: “5K to put a body in the earth, / Twenty bucks to wear your face on a shirt.” Morgue slabs like conveyor belts as lives are proven cheap and deaths are commodified.

ELUCID fills the role of ritual leader, carving ground-signs with a debarked twig: “spiritual notations, miniature cosmograms, the numbers of certain Psalms, and ciphers received in trance,” according to art historian Robert Farris Thompson in Flash of the Spirit. ELUCID pulls out all the stops to salvage a soul: “Washed you in the surf, burning pyres, / Tossed the gold in purifying fires.”

“Get thee behind us,” he demands, omitting Satan from his sentence, but we know who the devil is, the “hogtied swine.” (Sooey!) The devil’s a master of magic, too—infamous for his disappearing acts, for making Black bodies vanish. Like Danez Smith says, “now he’s breathing, now he don’t. Abra-cadaver.” So ELUCID is incisive with his critique, “harpoon-sharp from out the wave cap,” nautically punning on his accoutrement even as his voice nearly gives out. The formula is simple: spell the words and the words make spells (I’ve been spellling…). On “Old Magic,” ELUCID counters with a “doom gospel spell” and calls himself a “revelator, armed and dangerous.”

Not the only time we hear it. “I’ve been revelatin’,” he informs us on “Smile Lines,” and “there’s information and information only.” Fifty people at a rap show—one’s an informant, but we’re working with better info here. This be the Info Kill. On “Ghoulie,” he lets us know that “since the face got revealed, game got real,” tipping his flap cap at Ghostface. I Told Bessie is equal parts spellling and telling. Credit Son House: Tell me who’s that writin’—John the Revelator—wrote the book of the seven seals. The MC seer has shown and proven his prophesying skills, but the truth of what’s to come is ever-unfolding. “Be advised they’ll come, / From a pure black whirlwind,” Myka 9 sings on “7th Seal.” Myka, like ELUCID, is on the lookout, watching “the entrance [for] when they fled from the living dead, / [With] smoke burning magical, sparkling exuberance.” We’re being told where to look: X mark the spot. Everyday equations. Tally up the x’s—the solution is redacted. The solution is xxxxxxxx.

16.

“When she inspected us once a week, you better not have no charm around your neck, neither.” —Prince Johnson, ex-slave, Yazoo, Mississippi

On “Ghoulie,” ELUCID doesn’t merely lift the veil, he “split[s] the veil”—leaves the temple curtain torn, entryway open: NOTAFLOF. Split the veil and break the boundaries between the living and the dead, the black and the white, the rich and the poor. “If somewhere in this whirl and chaos of things there dwells Eternal Good,” Du Bois wrote in The Souls of Black Folk, “then anon in His good time America shall rend the Veil and the prisoned shall go free.” But what of other forces keeping the Klan hoods stitched and sewn up?

“Black cat is bad luck,” MC Serch rapped on 3rd Bass’s “The Gas Face.” ELUCID fought off such portents, even in the safety of Bessie’s house. “She had cats that attacked me—always black cats,” he told KEXP’s Martin Douglas. (Hear the cry of “Black cat on the landing!” on “Smile Lines.”) He’s previously called himself a Negromancer (“My Blank Verse”), and on “Ghoulie” he navigates “two worlds” but with the “same spirit.”

In his Africadabra sequence of poems, upfromsumdirt writes: “…don’t worry, you sad / sad-sack, this poem is summons, is conjury, is chimurenga.” He goes on:

you’re too young to feel this un-undoing, but I have a country houngan’s perfectly

symmetric hips thrusting high-resolution juju for this brand new era.

ELUCID’s high-res juju is evident as he gets hectic with the syncretic beliefs—heltah skeltah with a welter of gris-gris made easy. “Blood, fat, and sinew congeal,” he recites, his hands no doubt gesturing madly. He’s up against a lot—all tools in the shed sharpened on the grindstone. In “Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes,” Paul Laurence Dunbar demonstrates just how daunting shit gets:

How all the griefs and heartaches we have known Come up like pois’nous vapors that arise From some base witch’s caldron, when the crone, To work some potent spell, her magic plies.

Sometimes you just gotta Tituba your troubles away.

ELUCID recited the magic words of Zim Zala Bim on “Solarium,” a trick based on [supreme] mathematics with no sleight-of-hand required—just words and numbers in a potent mix, like coding. He puts the rhythm in algo-. Builds and destroys with each opening salvo. “I practice many practices, you asking for the secret?” Holy polyptoton!

17.

In a section of Black Herman’s text entitled “To Cross or Hex a Person: Cast a Spell—No Matter Where,” Herman personally recommends Confusion Dust. ELUCID keeps fistfuls of grave dust gathered into a palm and blows goofer in the eyes of his opps. Make something out of nada: “I pulled it out the sky—nothing short of awe, / I willed it out the earth—true grit.” Charles Portis knows such canniness is too legit to quietly ignore.

ELUCID’s words should be interpreted cosmogrammatically—each phoneme a “point” between the living and the dead; each verse a charm in a crimson cloth container; his bars the crisscrossing cords enclosing the spirits. He speaks with “phrases forceful, / old magic spooned by the morsel.”

He’s been on the Root Farm, a hex-breaker for hire, with the “gnarled and twisted” High John the Conqueror root (Ipomoea purga) in his pocket. “[T]here are anti-hex roots galore throughout black America today,” Robert Farris Thompson writes, “usually wrapped in red flannel, ‘so that nobody can put evil on you—if they do it will turn on them.’” ELUCID’s got the goods; check the “mud under the nails, / [the] smell of swamp moss and dead things.”

18.

“This is a liberation séance,” ELUCID declared on “Dettol.” The Lasso narrates the séance with noise. His water torture drip on “Ghoulie” manifests what Jeru and DJ Premiere only hinted at on “Come Clean.” Charms are analog, which is well and good since ELUCID’s “magnetic field fuck[s] up electronics.” Be it VHS or Betamax, all it takes is a bipolar horseshoe magnet to erase the tape, delete the evidence in a “scatterbrained, spatter wave” of jagged lines along the grayscale. Outmoded technology can’t compete with these spells. This old magic fails to stale, stagnate, or corrode like battery acid at the terminals. We hear the breakdown:

Go inside. Close your eyes. Close your mind.

The Lasso creates a cousin composition to Radiohead’s “Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors”—apt, because we’re sucked through dimension portals, for certain. Colin Greenwood, speaking to Kodwo Eshun, described how the band collected “found loops” and “disabled the erase heads” on tape recorders to allow the loop to record “over and over on top of itself.” They added some keyboard notes “to create this ghost repetition melody.” The Lasso brews a ghoulie repetition melody, syncing with Rakim’s formula from “My Melody”:

My melody’s in a code, the very next episode has the mic often distorting, ready to explode.

ELUCID’s voice and entire being becomes washed over in reverb and swelling distortion (“rushing power washing over”), drowned in baptismal waveforms (“born-again in the living waters”), smothered in a “static blanket,” but he still feels “more splashy than splashy is.”

19.

All pigs of ill repute. —“Bleachwater”

“One [conjurer] put a spell on the master to keep him from noticing that the slaves were stealing hogs for weekly barbecues,” writes Genovese in Roll, Jordan, Roll: The World the Slaves Made. The spell worked until the master, feeling big and bad (in the sardonic words of Quelle Chris), started to count the hogs. (Sooey!) The slaves “got caught with the pork,” as billy woods says on “Chicharrones.” The anecdote shows the limits of spiritualism. Some slaves questioned the power of conjurers, seeing as how they “couldn’t make ole master stop whipping…but they could make Negroes crawl to them.” Where honkies appeared impervious, fellow slaves appeared susceptible, rendered so by unshakeable belief. In a world of such organized konfusion, ELUCID is ordering chaos through rap, he told KEXP. “I don’t get the star talk,” he confesses on “Nostrand” (and “My fist refused to have its palm read” on “Old Magic”), demonstrating a mighty healthy skepticism—vibing with Voltaire in that respect—circumspect of astrology shop owners who hawk amethyst rocks and peddle Obama incense. If the old rumor is Blacks become immune, it’s worth interrogating. (Ghostface whispers, Psst! We never did.) Eating dead birds? Trust the pharmacy over herbs? So what does ELUCID believe in? “I believe in Black people believing,” he chants on “Betamax.” I believe, I believe in Black people believing. Speak it aloud to yourself: you can feel the balm of the bl- consonant blend in the repeated “Black” and “believe,” feel the yearning in the long-e assonance of “believe” and “people.” The epanalepsis of the line proves the hardiest belief is one which bolsters Black people keeping faith—hope begins and ends with them believing in whatever they choose to.

DOCUMENT v

20.

“I have twenty girlfriend, man, you want some?… I will give it to you…. Girl like big dick!” —Animal Cub, “Animal Thug Interlude” (1998)

ELUCID shares his freaky tales in Telex type on “Sardonyx.” Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, he says at the outset—a plea to please slow your roll, or feigned shock at what’s about to be said? “He’s from the era of the Animal Thug,” so we should doubt he’d be fazed. Stare into the sardonyx stones and see Jupiter’s chemical clouds swirling—that shit looks sexy. “Sniff pussy,” ELUCID raps, “she suck my thumb before me member.” Too $hort might shudder. Even his “freak” named Betty whose “pussy got wet and it smelled like death” feels mortified.

“Wet enough to enter, / Blue movie gal—no censor.” ELUCID masquerading as the world-renowned Dr. Octagonecologyst? Sniffing all the Blue Flowers in the garden? (He notes “fresh flowers in the lab” on “Split Tongue,” and on “Betamax” he eyes flowers and “chose the blue ones.”) At the very least, he’s Kool Keith stuck on pussy drive from 1997’s Sex Style. The pleasure and death drive mingle blood. The drive-shaft trembles; a vibration is cumming from the chassis. The phallic condenser mic throbs as ELUCID “snap[s] necks like fine bones from the mackerel,” the crack of successive k’s fit for an S&M experience. In 1970, Lloyd Addison described how his lover’s “neck is an umbral stem mooring nude euphoria.” Mercy! [Roy Orbison growl, but with the ecstasy of 2 Live Crew being acquitted of both obscenity and copyright infringement charges.]

Don’t act shocked. On “Spellling,” ELUCID hinted at the rendezvous to come: “When I fucked you, it was worth the wait, the rhyme and reason.” The affair is poetry, the Petrarchan sonnet variety. This is Enter the Poon-Tang (36 Bloody Chambers), and Sebb Bash’s pornocore production on “Sardonyx” includes enough moans and heavy breathing to set the mood.

ELUCID humpty humps his way to the front of the stage like a Catholic priest desecrating the church altar with two dominatrices. From the lectern: “Black pussy is the world’s first religion!” We heard it on the scandalous “Fuhrman Tapes,” but on “Ghoulie” we hear ELUCID’s “base desires overflowing.” “Baby, please pop that pussy for breakfast,” he begs, desperate to up jump da boogie-woogie. Jelly Roll Morton at his raunchiest still blushes at the sound of this. ELUCID romps with an Akua’ba fertility figure shaking on the dresser. He’s a hoochie-coochie mannish boy armed with minkisi. He can’t contain himself. Turn me loose; I’m too juiced; …the jazz is free, he said viciously on “Scrapes” with a high viscosity. “The word ‘jazz’ is probably creolized Ki-Kongo,” Robert Farris Thompson wrote, tracing its etymological roots, “it is similar in sound and original meaning to ‘jizz,’ the American vernacular for semen. And ‘jizz,’ suggestive of vitality, appears to derive from the Ki-Kongo verb dinza, ‘to discharge one’s semen, to come.”

On “Sardonyx,” billy woods comes through, too, getting in on the aksion. woods opens his verse with a line of iambic trimeter: “Muff-diving, no snorkel.” Six simple and seductive syllables separated by a caesura (an exhausted exhale in this case). woods frames sex as sport with oodles of encouraging and homoerotic ass-slapping. Sex is sloppy here, a statistical mess. Scorekeeping Wilt Chamberlain’s 20,000 concubines with analytics. Record-setting frolics across the gridiron with Blake Bortles and Gale Sayers. In Robert Coover 1987 novella What Ever Happened to Gloomy Gus of the Chicago Bears?, Gloomy Gus is a man who makes sport of sex and sex of sport. As he nears his downfall, Gus’s sculpter-friend Meyer describes him so:

“He even turned his meals into practice sessions for testimonial dinners, pickups, biting in pileups, and muff-diving, so as not to lose time. He—” “What diving?” “You know, with the mouth—” “Oh! I thought you said muff-diving…” “I did, Golda. A muff’s, you know, for keeping your hands warm—” “Ah!” she says, blushing, and puts my hand between her legs.

In Caliban and the Witch, Silvia Federici notes the repressive regimes of the mid-16th century, forces that ensured “nakedness was penalized, as were many other ‘unproductive’ forms of sexuality and sociality.” ELUCID’s claim that “ass taste better in the summertime” on “Bitter Cassava” certainly wouldn’t be welcomed. To “split her thigh” would be a risqué and risky act of rebellion. ELUCID doesn’t just spit filth at the Vagina Diner, though; his sex raps express the amor profano and pussy-pedestaling of a Renaissance painting—he puts the tit in Titian. Sex raps like Christ’s mandorla-shaped wound in the pages of Medieval manuscripts—a heavenly-level of Holiness (hole-iness). ELUCID’s sex raps are erotic symphonic. His opening yo’s are yonic as fuck, friends.

DOCUMENT vi 21.

Folks feel at ease when you smile. —“Touch & Agree”

Theologian Thomas Müntzer wrote, All the world must suffer a big jolt. August Fanon’s raucous production on “Smile Lines” achieves that. He summons the blackest Sabbath on record. The fuzz-and-chug electric guitar sample jostles us and causes us suffering (dukkha) in the Buddhist sense—a samsāra cycle that keeps on keeping on like the Winstons’ Amen break: an eternal loop. Grit your teeth and bear it. Grin through the pain. Force the smile. Stand mesmerized by the cry of the sun-burst Stratocaster. Smile lines might be the result of joy, but they only emerge through ages of pain, stages of grief, pages of books read and forgotten. Contrary to what Son House sings and stomps, you definitely should mind people grinnin’ in your face, as they will try to crush you down. Easy A.D. of the Cold Crush Brothers boasted, “All I got to do is smile, and I get screams” on 1984’s “Fresh, Wild, Fly and Bold.” Were they screams of joy or screams of horror? ELUCID smiles big for the camera; he’s also “smiling in a cloud of jerk smoke” on “Jumanji.” I Told Bessie is fulla joy, but it would be misguided to say that’s all there is. Think of Scarface’s “Smile.” “I often wish that I could save everyone,” he growls. Study the guttural gut-check in his pronunciation of smile at the end of his verse, a lower octave blurt.

ELUCID’s got locational awareness—he knows where he’s from, where he’s at. He conceived what he calls these “mutant blues” after reflecting on the bloodshed of his block in Bed-Stuy: do or die. In 1964, fifteen-year-old James Powell got murdered by NYPD, and the subsequent truncheon-to-skull scenario up and down Nostrand Avenue still reverberates. (In the words of Swans’ Michael Gira: “Nothing hurts them like a cop with a club.”) Same historical tremor as how they build it on Indian graves. Omens everywhere: “fear of plague,” “hoof-and-mouth to pox,” “broken bone.” The crime scene’ll have you seeing red. “The deceased requested you all wear red,” ELUCID raps. Whether it’s the dress code of Bloods, or blood, or Redman’s red-saturated Dare Iz A Darkside album cover—ELUCID listens to the “voice from cold earth,” Reggie Noble’s scream of agony buried alive in dirt, pilloried, with transmission towers pillared on either side of him. Those towers transmit volts back in time to Funkadelic’s “Maggot Brain”—another screaming head in the soil. ELUCID appeals to “blank souls from [a] generation not [his] own.” George Clinton comes through the wire; he and Eddie Hazel tripping on acid and pondering the most recent State-sponsored assassinations. I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe, Clinton says. Eddie Hazel’s guitar is the “Smile Lines” guitar: echoplexing for the “black motorcade” to hear. On “Nostrand” (that addled avenue in Bed-Stuy), ELUCID gave the instructions: “Exit mothership.” But Funkadelic insisted on the mothership connection—stay in tune. “I told him to play like his mother had died,” is what George Clinton told Hazel. “Smile Lines” and “Maggot Brain” prove the same postulate: there is no life or death.

22.

ELUCID divulges that “she been open since her moon dropped,” hyped and prepped to “turn the bass up, [and] straddle her boombox.” Like some perversion of Black Moon’s “I Got Cha Opin”—I know, kid. May I opine: some mating dance correlation between moon and menses. Recall the “moon blood [that] ran red forwards and backwards” on “We Don’t Really Need Altars.” Recall Hecate, that “mistress of charms” and “contriver of all harms” posted up on the heath in Macbeth:

Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that distill’d by magic sleights Shall raise such artificial sprites As by the strength of their illusion Shall draw him on to his confusion

That slow drip of a “vaporous drop” from the “corner of the moon” guarantees witchy ways. But ELUCID “came back with [his] word intact” anyway—flashing a “smile line like Valley of Death.”

On “Aubergine,” ELUCID pauses “in the valley.” He “take[s] [his] time for a spell being strengthened”—he double-entendres the spell: reprieve and incantation. So necessary. Valleys are depressions, low-points, but ELUCID sounds like he’s peaking when he wanders them. The aforementioned Iscariots who littered the valley are still present. In Ezekiel’s vision, God instructs him to return life to the scattered bones in the valley, a mass zombification:

So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone.

And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered them above. (Ezekiel 37:7-8 KJV)

Dem bones, dem bones, dem dryyyy bones—the lyrics James Weldon Johnson left us to sing. Give “the liquid to the dry bones,” like Hell Razah says on Sunz of Man’s “Cold.” Hell Razah and Shabazz the Disciple stalking around Red Hook, traversing the valley. ELUCID sees them from his grandmother’s window.

DOCUMENT vii 23.

We reach an impasse. Relationships expire; love lingers like smoke. What was supposed to be everlasting is reduced to last licks. Last good kiss. Last call. Bessie Jones sings, “This may be the last time we sing together”—I don’t know.

ELUCID functions as a living breathing griot most times—god of the uprising. Storyteller, yowler, and yeller. His inner city blues make him wanna holler. But on “Impasse” he feels “a stranger to [him]self”: There’d be no blues if I was blameless. Inner turmoil. He approaches the Park Bench People with cornbread in hand. Maybe they’ll listen. He raps as if he fucked up. He can “feel the certainty slip around [his] neck,” certainly a bad sign—hopefully not a noose; possibly an albatross. He’s going through it. Longing for a “familiar deep groove,” but he lost it in the flood.

In Black Talk: How the Music of Black America Created a Radical Alternative to the Values of Western Literary Tradition, jazz critic Ben Sidran explains how “blue notes” are “areas in the scale where tones [are] smeared together through melisma.” The cries and moans slaves introduced to Western songs, Sidran contends, were dismissed by white listeners as “overemotional.” But what those flat thirds and flat seventh steps actually presented was a new tonality, a fresh matrix of meaning. If you missed it or ignorantly blissed it, your loss. Leadbelly said the blues is “a feeling and when it hits you, it’s the real news.” To paraphrase Saidiya Hartman, Is it real son, is it really real, son? Let me know it’s real, son, if it’s really real.

How does he manage? How is he “pushing out and through”? He cozies up with cultural past—artifacts full of “sound and fury” that presently signify nothing. “I sing a simple song,” he says, but there ain’t no riot going on. Everything is “quieted and calm.” Too quiet. Elsewhere, he wasn’t scared to turn a phrase—make its skull snap like a b-boy headspin in a hazard zone: “Signed, sealed, sympathizing in real time.” But now he’s empty of sympathy and full of regret. Stevie Wonder couldn’t cheer him.

DOCUMENT viii 24.

“Of all the spirit manifestations, the simplest and most frequent are noises and raps…. [S]pirit noises have peculiar characteristics, with variable intensity and tone, and which makes them easy to recognize and not to be confused with creaking wood, crackling fire or the dull tick-tock of a clock. The raps are dry, sometimes muffled, weak and light; sometimes, loud and distinct, even noisy, and they change places and repeat themselves without any mechanical regularity.”

—Allan Kardec, The Book of Mediums (1861) | Chapter 5: Noises, Rackets and Disturbances

Bessie Hall, who passed in 2017, hovers over the album—a benign spirit visiting to see if everything is going according to plan, man. ELUCID’s conversations with his grandmother persist. “I feel her every day with me since she’s left this plane,” he has said. Years earlier, in an intergenerational home in Crown Heights, she heard him through the walls. Tendrils of chocolate thai smoke penetrating the plaster and floorboards. Like a gentle eavesdropper, an aureoled elder guarding his process. “She’s hearing those formulations,” ELUCID told KEXP. “I’m upstairs on the third floor; she’s on the first floor. And she’s hearing me rap, she’s hearing these spells anytime of day or night.” This album is an in memoriam work, a gesture of Tennysonian “immortal Love.” Each song pulsates and flickers like “orbs of light and shade.”

At the time, I frequently met with an excellent writing medium, so the next day I questioned the spirit who normally communicated through him as to what had caused the raps. The spirit answered me: “It was your familiar spirit wanting to speak with you.” “And what did he want to say to me?” “You can ask him yourself because he is right here.” […] He pointed out errors in my work, indicating the exact lines where I could find them. He gave me useful and wise advice and added that he would always be with me and would answer me whenever I wanted to question him. Since then, this spirit has, in fact, never left me. (Kardec, ibid.)

The album, of course, is a testament to the woman whose name graces the title. The work praises her role as educator, [holy] comforter, and radicalizer. Bessie Hall’s presence looms far beyond her individual self though, extending to a multiplicity of shadow Bessies. We can squint and see a semblance of what else is spelled out and told.

25.

Well, dey lef’ po’ Bessie dyin’ wid de blood (Lawd) a-streamin’ down.

—Myron O’Higgins, “Blues for Bessie” (1945)

The Death of Bessie Smith, Edward Albee’s one-act from 1959, tells the apocryphal story of a whites-only hospital’s refusal to treat Bessie Smith when she arrives at the ER after her car wreck. The tone of the play is set by “The Father,” a belligerent southern racist who tells his daughter (one of the ER nurses and a racist herself) how injurious her music choices are: “I said, I got a headache; you play those goddam records all the time; blast my head off; you play those goddam nxggxr records full blast…me with a headache…. Damn noise! That’s all it is; damn noise.”

There’s no shortage of telling in the play—“tell” in the sense of unintentionally revealing one’s truth, and “tell” in the sense of communicating a message. “I got an injured woman outside in my car,” Jack tells a nurse. (Jack is Bessie’s driver who brags of his shrewdness and business acumen in managing Bessie’s affairs: “Look, you don’t have no exclusive rights on Bessie.”) “Yeah? Is that so? Well, you sit down and wait,” the nurse tells Jack. Invoking Bessie Smith’s famous name doesn’t gain Jack any favors: “I DON’T CARE WHO YOU GOT OUT THERE, NXGGXR. YOU COOL YOUR HEELS!”

“I told him to go on into Memphis,” an orderly tells an intern of what he told Jack. “You been told to move on,” the nurse tells Jack. “You don’t have sense enough to do what you’re told.” Jack is insistent: “I told them…I told them it was an emergency…I said…this woman is badly hurt.”

26.

They sat silent, looking at each other, waiting. He saw Bessie’s shoulders jerking in rhythm to the music. Would she help him? —Richard Wright, Native Son (1940)

What nigga don’t got a little Bigger Thomas in his brain-box? —billy woods, “Native Sun”

In Native Son, the notorious Bigger Thomas toys with telling his girlfriend Bessie what he’s done. “Bigger, where you get this money from?” she asks. “Maybe I’ll tell you some day,” he teases. Later, Bessie longs to know what Bigger’s thinking: “Tell me. What is it?” She insists on knowing, seeing their candor as transactional: “I told you what was on my mind, but you won’t tell me what’s on yours. That ain’t fair.” But Bigger sees Bessie as a double: “there were two Bessies: one a body that he had just had and wanted badly again; the other was in Bessie’s face; it asked questions; it bargained and sold the other Bessie to advantage.” Bigger wants to exploit the former Bessie and kill the latter, “sweep[ing] away the Bessie on Bessie’s face.” Eventually, Bigger discloses some of the details of what he’s done, only to browbeat Bessie when she expresses concern. “You wanted me to tell you; well, I told you,” he snaps spitefully. When Bessie ultimately discovers what Bigger’s done, she’s stunned: “You told me you was never going to kill.” Bigger’s rejoinder: “They white folks. They done killed plenty of us.” From that point on, Bigger sees Bessie as nothing more than “a dangerous burden.” He rapes and murders her, disposes of her body down an air-shaft, “down into blackness.” Native Son presents an entirely different form of telling—of snitching, of conspiracy, of subterfuge. Adrienne Rich might say Bigger Thomas destroys Bessie through lies, secrets, and silence.

DOCUMENT ix 27.

“Mangosteen” joins stonefruit, black garlic, cassava, and artichoke in the cornucopia of nourishment that ELUCID and woods offer up to the audience. woods hears like we do: attentively, atmospherically, with pin-drop precision—a bodhisattva of the blaring. “My sleep app is Negroes arguing and wailing sirens,” he raps, noting the cacophony. But it’s followed by “sudden silence.” It’s in this silent space that ELUCID’s sorcery can enter and penetrate our bony labyrinth.

ELUCID’s signifying is slippery—not a step-on-the-banana-peel slapstick slip, but a [CL] smooth transition into satori. “I can’t keep the same style, so you can’t hold it either,” says everything. He shows the verbal versatility of Volume 10 who counseled it’s “too late for slipping.” Each sentence ELUCID spews is a sigil beyond your immediate understanding: so sit with it, goddamnit. Listen to his “voice like ten thousand wind chimes,” as he puts it on “Nostrand.” But don’t be lulled into a false sense; he keeps the pistolgrip-pump on his lap at all times. He will “bust your shit,” and he “don’t mean to sound facetious” (emphasis on sound). “Nostrand” should’ve left you on high-alert. Be “careful where you step” is what he said—because he’s “Flexi with da Tech.” Rest assured (nah, nah—rest absurd): not a TEC-9, but the Artifacts’ tech(nique) you heard about in ’94. Tame One and El Da Sensei in Newark, New Jeruzalem promising to “kick your ass with [their] apparatus.” ELUCID “can’t keep the same style,” and the Artifacts?—“never could you copy ’cause [their] style’s quite odd.” Word weapons and large-caliber linguistics. “I can’t get off unless I warp it,” ELUCID raps on “Betamax,” proving it’s a matter of taste and preference. He “divorced a wildstyle and got a new one,” free to shift affection from PHASE 2 to TRACY 168—he’ll “never force it.” He’s malleable from out the mouth.

28. The exorcist is not only a minister of the Church, but he is also a doctor of souls.

As you check the technique, also scan the parallelism:

You talk out your neck— I curse from my core.

You versus I. The verb talk versus the verb curse: one connotes drivel; the other, datura-like speech-substance extracted from earth. The weak preposition out compared with the girded from. The neck an encasement of sinews, ligaments, and nerves; meanwhile, the core is the churning hearth, the diaphragm, the nucleus. And it’s “ladders stacked from [this] center.” And it’s “turtles all the way down.” And if you don’t know, now you know (you know)…

On Armand Hammer’s “Flavor Flav,” ELUCID asked whether you could find the level of difficulty in this? Difficult, yes, but also joyful. His shockadooming is ludic—he delights in play. That’s why he “pop[s] a wheelie” on his Dyno on “Jumanji.” The chopping is improvisatory; his enunciation, nimble. The timbre and pitch of his voice is always in flux. Sometimes the larynx and lungs are billy goats gruff—rough and stuff, loud puffs. He thrashes the vocal cords and threshes the plain. His cadence, meanwhile, is flagrant—modulating his voice like Linda Blair with a throat ache: exorcizing the rising of red tides and the lowering of caskets. The blues were long considered “devil music,” and Buddy Bolden, a transitional jazz figure and psychotic, off wayward from the parade route, would play in Tin Type Hall, “a room used as a morgue by day and a dance hall by night.” ELUCID channels Bolden’s ghost—his phonal-tonal productions occupy both club and crypt. He confronts Loosifa and also takes cues from Greg Nice and Smooth B: Sometimes he rhymes slow, and sometimes he rhymes quick. Even ELUCID’s introductory yo’s demonstrate the point: they aren’t simply yo’s, they’re artful yaw’s and yuh’s—glasscutter musical greetings.

29.

Harmolodics allows a person to use a multiplicity of elements to express more than one direction. The greatest freedom in Harmolodics is human instinct.

—Ornette Coleman

ELUCID’s been rehearsing with Ornette for what seems like ages, nonstop, and so he harnesses the Harmolodics with his voice like Coleman did on his saxophone. His sound grammar commutes from country to cosmopolitan, from concrete to cosmos. The tonality is intuitive. When he opts for the rasp, he rakes us over the coals only to tend considerately to our raspberry fields. An architect when he writes these poems, writes these poems, writes these poems…. A choked-up Chaucer; there’s no rules to this spellling. (The notion of a single correct spelling is a relatively new idea.) Child Actor’s production pans again—wildly, vertiginously. Years ago, Samuel R. Delaney said “our technology is becoming more and more like magic—with a class of people who know the incredibly complex spells and incantations.” Fair to assume he was foreseeing figures like Willie Green.

DOCUMENT x 30.

O, let no false nor spiteful word Be found upon your tongue; Roll, Jordan, roll!

—“Roll, Jordan, Roll,” Traditional (Roud 6697)

Say less on “Split Tongue,” for we’re in the thick of the séance smoke now: feel privileged. Slowly drowning in piano keys and bass tones; lifted up by a horn, a salpinx without question. The verse opens the doors to conjuration: “Tongues untied…lungs wide…deep in power.” The tongue is a signifier equally equipped to spit venom or spew spells. “Release your spells for a weary tongue,” he advised on “Impasse.” “The split tongue thrills women, kills demons,” he alerted on “Nostrand.” Countee Cullen recounts the venom-spit on “Incident” when a Baltimorean calls his eight-year-old self a “Nigger” after “he poked out / His tongue.” In “Afro-American Fragment,” Langston Hughes detailed the threat posed by “words sad-sung / In strange un-Negro tongue.” The tongue Jordan-wags throughout I Told Bessie—tantalizing and teasing at times, but torturous at others. Take it on “Jumanji,” for example, where ELUCID raps that his “tongue burn hot metallic on the hole where dagger poke.” On “Bunny Chow,” he “bit [his] tongue in spite.” He clarified on “dutch wax”: “I speak in one tongue but like most of y’all I got five.”

Feel the possession, the possession, on “Split Tongue.” Feel “so full up with feeling”—it swells to the size of the sun. ELUCID swears “no dull axes”; he’s the “owner of all heads.” Been at it since when “the sounds were the strangest,” back “before word was formed in the beginning, / Vibrating between flesh and teeth, air escapes.” And thus, in an Adamic-styled Genesis jam, ELUCID creates language. From then on, “talking to [him]self and not listening.” He’ll jibber-jabber until the “worm still fed.” The birth of words and the death of languages.

A split tongue is a forked tongue, fraudulent and fearsome. But ELUCID doubles down on being the true and living. Christ instructed his followers: each one, teach one. “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations,” he said (Matthew 28:19 KJV). Like Biggie on “Victory,” in the commission you ask for permission to hit ’em. On “Sweet Mickey,” ELUCID decreed similarly: “Call my niggas, it’s the great commission. / Forever, for the true and living.”

Can split tongues make meaning or is it godforsaken glossolalia? Words mean things but don’t have to, ELUCID says in a bear-hug embrace of polysemous notions of art. “Sometimes the reason never mattered,” he raps on “Betamax,” unwilling to lie to us. He’ll “show [his] work,” like any assiduous student, provide “a definitive answer”—“there’s only one,” after all, “but many portals.” Why close yourself off? Lloyd Addison queried, “Where Do Words Go From Here?” And Shock G brazenly asserted, “I use a word that don’t mean nothin’, like loopted,” essentially paraphrasing Jesus Christ:

How is it then, brethren? when ye come together, every one of you hath a psalm, hath a doctrine, hath a tongue, hath a revelation, hath an interpretation. Let all things be done unto edifying.

If any man speak in an unknown tongue, let it be by two, or at the most by three, and that by course; and let one interpret. (1 Corinthians 14:26-27 KJV)

ELUCID speaks with arm outstretched and with mighty acts of judgments, and torrents flow. We listeners accept the covenant he offers up. At times, he’ll utilize circumlocution rather than direct statement, as the former is more imaginative—razzle and dazzle in the Clyde Frazier modality.

DOCUMENT xi 31.

There is no law beyond Do what thou wilt. This means that each of us stars is to move on our true orbit, as marked out by the nature of our position, the law of our growth, the impulse of our past experiences…. Each action or motion is an act of love.

—Aleister Crowley, “The Law of Thelema” (1909)

ELUCID and woods complete their triptych of duets on “Jumanji,” the title clawing back to Chris Van Allsburg’s 1981 children’s book. According to Van Allsburg, jumanji was a Zulu word meaning “many effects.” Whether that whitesplanation proves true or not, the essence of it wrecks shop like rhino stampedes (“chased the white rhino”). Kenny Segal’s gulping bass tones and cymbals crashing insistent: many effects, verily. ELUCID flashes, too—not just the “opal and gold in [his] teeth,” but the heat lightning intensity of “holy is as holy does,” the “moss and fuzz,” and the “rolling tension.” ELUCID is an exhorter, and his “words are electric,” cutting through “a babbling hacking connection.” Phone-phreaking the beat as it transforms into dissonant horns (“My connection looking spotty…”).

“Do what thou wilt,” ELUCID raps in the magick words of Aleister Crowley. Follow the true path: “What’s the law? I’m self-regulated. / Three-quarters water, halfway to destination.” He’s “losing focus” at the start of the verse, but his incantation regains it. He’s on his nomadic quest, “trying not to crease up [his] sneak”—noble pursuit. Such things matter; hear out woods from “Artichoke”: I used to use a toothbrush to keep my kicks white. Maintain focus: “I prioritize my week.” ELUCID’s planner is a grimoire. He doesn’t need to drape himself in a leopard pelt to prove the occult like Crowley did. While other rappers are trying to test but they’re weak like seven days (thanks, Canibus), ELUCID’s week is set and structured around intention—he’s got seven days and he’s looking to deliver 7 L’s to various devils, and he’s esoteric while doing so.

DOCUMENT xii 32.

P.U.D.G.E. brings the nostalgic noise on “Betamax” for a climactic conjuration. We’re in the spell, “spiraling on [a] square, pushing air” alongside ELUCID, “getting higher” and feeling woozy. “There’s always something to do even when I’m doing nothing,” he raps, sounding like El-P on immolation mode: Even when I say nothing it’s a beautiful use of negative space. Those “mass choirs singing [a] Gospel of Doom” have us thinking DOOM. And with our ears attuned, we get giddy at the mention of “greenbacks.” These details are significant, just as each element of ELUCID’s spells are, and it’s funny how significance make a difference. You’ll start noticing parables of three in every other inference. Armand Hammer did the money math; noted what makes a difference. ELUCID, on “Spellling” at the outset, said he’d “let the dollar circulate,” though he “never vowed allegiance.” Greenbacks? Mean stacks? He seems to be more about small bills and big communal offerings.

ELUCID’s cadence is full of color as verse one of “Betamax” nearly collapses in on itself only to be rebuilt in an instant. His voice modulates through several registers before the verse’s stunning close—he’s stunting. The colors are “a little more glorious, bleeding through the edges.” And we don’t really need no altars because his voice alone is lifting us higher up, higher up, higher up. He’s “done leveled-up.” Up to “nigger heaven.” He brings us back to the hard-r we heard on “Spellling.” Invoking and taking down Carl Van Vechten in one breath. Friend or foe to Black folk? Harlem wasn’t Mecca, no “nigger heaven”—there’s something beyond. Something beyond the NAACP suit-and-tie men. “Nigger heaven” was the segregated church balconies—something beyond that, too. So burn them to the ground, at least in your mental. ELUCID announces himself as “the blackest metal.” He’s been nasty; he’s been decent. Now he’s declaring: This a dead church. All he believes in is Black people believing, believing. He believes in Black people believing. And he’s “still smiling,” and “Betamax” was spit through grins, and we can hear those smile lines sinking in.

33.

Spontaneous manifestations are not always limited to noises and raps. They sometimes degenerate into veritable racket and disturbances. […] This disorder is quite often very real, though at times it is only apparent. A racket may be heard in an adjoining room… [t]hen, when one runs to investigate, everything is found to be peaceful and in order; however, leave the room and the tumult starts all over again.

—Allan Kardec, ibid.

De debbil am a liah an’ a conjurer too. Ef you doan look out, he’ll conjure you.

—“You Must Be Pure and Holy,” spiritual

…the heaven was black…

—1 Kings 18:45 KJV

Disturbances everywhere: ELUCID can hear the racket in the adjoining rooms. The “blackest metal” doesn’t merely wink at the Norwegian church burnings of the ’90s, but summons the spirits of the four Black girls killed by the KKK in the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in 1963. His references trace rackets from Vindafjord to Birmingham. In 1842, Reverend C.C. Jones wrote that “Negroes of the South” had maintained their African “paganism” and believed in “a kind of irresistible Satanic influence.” Jones was performing his racist fury. ELUCID emphasizes the performativity of any faith or anti-faith practice, terrific shouts or terror attacks: congregants speaking in tongues or spiked-and-studded lungs. Corpse paint is near-blackface. Mayhem can ensue. Even black metal shines under a funeral moon.

A racket in an adjoining room. “Blood in, blood out, / Are we not men?” ELUCID inquiries rhetorically on “Nostrand.” Sure, we’re tempted to answer: WE ARE DEVO! But the phrase also jives with Memphis sanitation strikers sloganeering in sandwich boards in 1968: I AM A MAN. And don’t disremember Sojourner Truth asking, Ain’t I a woman?

A tumult from the study. When we hear ELUCID is “blowing kisses at [his] opps in the metaverse” and listening to “Gorilla Biscuits till [his] head’ll burst” on “Sardonyx,” we can’t help but think of the hardcore band’s “Degradation” from 1989’s Start Today where they bring the motherfucking ruckus to racists: “You know you can kiss my ass before I read your zine, / There’s no good side to this white power scene.” But we should also think of the LAPD car radio transcripts during the Rodney King riots, which read, in part, “It was straight out of Gorillas in the Mist.” We should think of how Ice Cube countered with Da Lench Mob’s “Guerrillas in tha Mist”: “Fuck Grape Ape and Magilla—I’m a killa, / Magilla Gorilla ain’t a killa, / White boys swiped Godzilla from my super-nigga named King Kong.” We should think of Google’s image recognition algorithm classifying Black men as gorillas.

These rackets, these noises, these disturbances are symphonic. All culture is Black culture, ELUCID knows—inseparable, unsevered: all history, Black history—history bouncing back and forth like Schoolly D plate reverb. When you leave the room, the tumult starts all over again.

DOCUMENT xiii 34.

He was coming back into possession of himself; for the past three minutes it seemed he had been under a strange spell, possessed by a force which he hated, but which he had to obey. —Richard Wright, Native Son

ELUCID, like Bigger, is done with playing the idiot. He is of the church but not the church. I Told Bessie is a cathedral—built from the dirt up, the steeple extending from the man’s trachea. He is—as he so often reminds us—the true and living. Have no misgivings. Trust the structure. Stiffen the joists. On “Guy R. Brewer,” I Told Bessie’s denouement, he tells of an occasion where the church nearly got him—nearly merked him by means of a mint.

Bethel Gospel Tabernacle is located on Guy R. Brewer Boulevard in Jamaica Queens, which gives the song its name. The song is more like a nursery rhyme, though—a hypnotic roundelay:

Doublemint and leather. I was choking on a church mint. Starlight, starlight. In a circle outside, in a circle outside. Some hands together, some in the sky.

The circularity of the refrain rings out like the routine of 8am, 11am, and 5:30pm services: Sundays on a loop; a restless Sabbath. “Endless loops induce reflection,” ELUCID once insighted on Furtive Movements.

In Native Son, Bigger Thomas overhears gospel music emanating from a “dim-lit church,” music that “[sings] of surrender, resignation.” He has to resist the urge to give himself over to it—the music could neutralize him, leave him complacent, susceptible to untrustworthy outside influence:

Would it not have been better for him had he lived in that world the music sang of? It would have been easy to have lived in it, for it was his mother’s world, humble, contrite, believing. It had a center, a core, an axis, a heart which he needed but could never have unless he laid his head upon a pillow of humility and gave up his hope of living in the world. And he would never do that.

ELUCID’s narrative of a near-death experience is a similar repudiation of faith. He sees the light (starlight, starlight), and almost goes to it. He smells gum (Doublemint) and his mother’s leather purse. The true believers pull him back from the brink, but one would think they’d encourage his entrance into the heavens above by the grace of God. They stand “in a circle outside,” a phrase that evokes a century-old hymn. The 1927 Carter Family version, “Can the Circle Be Unbroken (By and By),” offers “a bitter home awaiting in the sky.” ELUCID won’t go to the light; he wants to plumb the depths of gritty reality. Are the “hands [that are held] together” and “in the sky” bringing him in or casting him out? Is this a celebration or a lament?

“Let the circle be unbroken,” ELUCID said on Valley of Grace. He channels Buckshot to ostensibly call the believers out on their deceptions: “Don’t front, you know I got you open.” In the moment of choking, ELUCID enters an oxygen-deprived trance. Like Bigger’s dream visions, he might hear “a distant church bell, thin, faint, but clear,” which gradually intensifies until it “clang[s] so loud that he [can] hear the iron tongue clapping against the metal sides.” When ELUCID comes to, he has the refrain in his mind, rattling around with the rocks in his head. He didn’t listen, right? Of that earlier claim, I’m unconvinced.

In his post-choke stupor, ELUCID woke up (that is, awakened and ascendant), disillusioned—free from Eldridge Cleaver’s notion of an “atmosphere of Novocain.” That might’ve been the atmosphere—be it death cult or delusional—in Bethel Gospel Tabernacle that day. Hear it in Messiah Musik’s narcotized and incomplete vocal sample, a yawning gospel leaving words unsaid. ELUCID didn’t give in, though. He saved himself.

35.

A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.

—James 1:8 KJV

Meet me at the crossroads [Bone Thugs harmonizing voice], so you won’t be lonely. Chart the difference between loneliness and being lonely. While Robert Frost frets about a road not taken, Robert Johnson strikes a deal with the devil at the crossroads near Dockery Plantation. Faust in the Delta. The devil, that trickster, touches down in a cemetery where Johnson gained his fingerstyle. Or perhaps the devil reaches up—Night of the Living Dead style—from a grave plot, and contrives to have the Black heroics of Ben (played by Duane Jones) snuffed out (mistakenly?) by a white mob. These are the grounds on which ELUCID treads. Where things can go this way or that. Where the tongues are all forked. Where the consciousness is double. Where ELUCID lives on the third floor and Bessie lives on the first, listening to each take. With ELUCID on the mic, we’re in constant flux—breezes and rivers evahflowin’—but we’re always present at the crossroads of his conceits and conjurations.

Images:

Ponto Eshu Vira-Mundo, Vira-Mundo, and Tranca-Gira, from Robert Farris Thompson's Flash of the Spirit: African and Afro-American Art and Philosophy (1983) | Bill Moyers Journal, “Rosedale: The Way It Is,” 1976 (screenshot) | St. Louis Blues, dir. Dudley Murphy, 1929 (screenshot) | Run-DMC “Rock Box” music video, dir. Steve Kahn, 1984 (screenshot) | Black Herman's Secrets of Magic-mystery & Legerdemain (1925) | ”Nat Turner profesies [sic] the rebellion which will take place with the eclipse of the moon, or, ‘Nat Turner's rebellion,’” Bernarda Bryson (1934-5) | Afrika Bambaataa Presents Time Zone: Thy Will "B" Funk album cover (detail), artwork by Eric Orr (1992) | Rammellzee’s Gash-O-Lear, Mixed-media sculpture with wireless sound system, keyboard gun, pyrotechnic jawbreaker, and missile launcher. The Suzanne Geiss Company, NY (1989-98) | Hardware, Dwayne McDuffie and Denys Cowan, Milestone Media (1993) | Hardware Paraphernalia: Expandable Whip and Omni-cannon, Milestone Media (1992) | Trinidad ground-drawing, appears in Robert Farris Thompson's Flash of the Spirit (1983) | High John the Conqueror, Franz Eugen Köhler, Köhler's Medizinal-Pflanzen (1897) | Dante, Sim Sala Bim poster (date unknown) | Armand Hammer press photograph (detail), Alexander Richter | Obama Incense, Walmart Ad content | 2 Live Crew, As Clean As They Wanna Be album cover, 1989 (detail) | Female Fertility Figure (Akua'ba) 20th century - The Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY | Wound of Christ, Psalter and prayer book of Bonne of Luxembourg, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters Collection, MS 69.86, fol. 331r. | 'It really takes guts to stick.' This scene occurred at Fulton St. and Nostrand Ave., in Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant section today,” World Telegram & The Sun photo by Stanley Wolfson (1964) | Redman, Dare Iz A Darkside album cover, 1994 (detail) | Gustave Doré engraving "The Vision of The Valley of The Dry Bones" (1866) | Francisco Goya, “St. Francis Borgia Helping a Dying Impenitent” (1788) | “Adam naming the animals.” Etching by G. Scotin and J. Cole after H. Gravelot and J.B. Chatelain (1743) | Aleister Crowley, publicity material for The Rites of Eleusis (1910 ) | E. McKnight Kauffer, dust jacket for Nigger Heaven, Illustration from Carl van Vechten's novel (1931) | FBI document excerpt (FOIA), Birmingham, Alabama, Sixteenth Street Baptist Church (BAPBOMB) | Bethel Gospel Tabernacle, historic photograph (source unknown) | Mande-influenced Akan cotton multistrip cloths of the nineteenth century, from Robert Farris Thompson's Flash of the Spirit (1983)

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eponymousfics · 1 year

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Just some personal anecdotal rambling while I take a break from cleaning about homesickness and writing:

(Under a cut bc it’s basically a personal essay lol)

I started writing Alola Again back in late 2021 (I think?) because the pandemic meant that my yearly visits back home had been on hold, and the yearning to go home was even stronger because of the general fear and anxiety of the whole situation.

I mean, it actually started because I decided to finally 100% my Alola ‘dex, since I’d sunk 1000+ hours into Animal Crossing: New Horizons at that point and needed a different game. Then Guzma suddenly hit a blorbo sweet spot in my head that had previously not existed (or had been entirely occupied by Nanu. I am a ‘cynical old man with a heart of gold he does his best to hide’ enjoyer).

I haven’t done a full reread of AA since fully uploading it, but I’ve gone back to some of the earlier chapters and listened back to a lot of my writing process voice memos, where I rambled to myself for collective hours trying to hash out plot details or pacing and character development etc.

I think looking back on it, I can safely say that fic would not have happened without the pandemic. That type of deep, concentrated homesickness that was the root and driving force behind its inception and execution was uniquely a result of quarantine isolation and the fact that I knew it wasn’t safe to travel home, and possibly wouldn’t be for a long time.

I already kind of knew this, because I wound up with the chance to go home in spring of 2022, when I had almost finished the fic but had a few more chapters left of the final draft to work out.

The INSTANT I was home, the tensed up spring of energy and need that had been pushing me along to make NaNoWriMo numbers every month for six months just…evaporated. And it was hard picking the fic back up again afterward. I couldn’t work on it much at all while I was home, which you’d think would be the opposite, since I could do ‘on location’ research, so to speak.

But AA is honestly so much more of the romanticized and idealized memory of my childhood and what I wish it could have been (much in the same way Alola itself is a very clean and idealized version of Hawaii, honestly almost pure tourist vision. Backed by real elements and actual research in places, yes, but also so carefully not mentioning/keeping out of frame the colonization and genocide of native culture while still presenting the polished version of the current state, which is entirely the result of those historical atrocities. Which, I can see why and how that happened, but I still have complicated mixed feelings over it and how much I enjoy the game despite that, and frankly in some ways because of it) that it became almost impossible to hold onto the dream that it was when sitting squarely in the middle of the reality it was based on.

As messy as things got because narratives need conflict, Mahina’s homecoming to Alola was everything I desperately wished my own could be. It’s simpler and easier because I have control over every element of it. All the emotional conflict happens on my terms because I’m the writer, I get to choose which emotional complications I want to examine and which I want to quietly pretend don’t exist.

And I get to see them all resolved, and have love and joy and humor thrown in to make it all palatable and worth it. It is baked with my baggage, it’s possibly more revealing than I should let anything put on the Internet be.

But I think a lot of fanfic is like that, and while there are a lotttt of technical flaws that I see now even just skimming over it in passing, the core of the story and the characters, the core of what it became, is still something I’m proud of.

And the fact that it’s finished, of course. Whatever else, it’s the first piece of long form writing that I’ve stuck to through multiple drafts to bring to completion. Is it perfect? No. Is it popular? No. Is it finished? Yes, and that’s important. For me, anyway.

Anyway, I’ve just had a lot of this on my mind because I’m home again, and slowly warming up to the idea of finally getting started on a sequel, which was always in the drafts but I needed space from it to even consider making a start. And because that deep down, bottom-of-the-soul homesickness is no longer gnawing at my every fiber. Whatever fuels the sequel, it won’t be that. I’ll have to attach a new anxiety onto it, I guess.

I think it did help me understand how to make these visits back home, though. Every time before had been fraught with tension between family members and an unnamed dissatisfaction because the reality of home couldn’t live up to the idealized yearning in my heart, but this trip…it’s been much easier.

I think the impromptu nature of it is helping. Originally, I wasn’t supposed to be here for three more weeks, but Circumstances(tm) dictated otherwise and I last-minute moved up my flight. Maybe I just didn’t have time to build up unrealistic expectations for it. Maybe I was just so depressed that the change of scenery has boosted me enough so I can just chill.

I don’t know what it is, probably a combination. But considering how I use fic as a big bandaid solution to not being able to afford therapy, well, I’ll probably wind up exploring it more in future writing. Whether that’ll be in the sequel to Alola Again or something else, we’ll see.

#epon rambles #eponbehindthescenes #alola again #sorry for the deeply personal philosophizing but this IS a blog so not sorry lol

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faeriefolklores · 1 year

Text

a baguio postcard:

on place revisits, familiarity, culture and its changes, memories, and the timespan before being back.

what's in places and how do they have a heart? it's a soul alive and breathing that cradles mine. an eye for an eye, and here i witness some beauty that had survived the weathering of ages, stones carved on a moutain edge, and as i stretch my hand out the car window, it is the familiar chill i felt when i was little. or so i thought. it was nature enduring the tragedies of itself, and upon its fragile shell lies my seven-year old yearning heart who thought that out here, the sky is a little nearer and i could almost reach for it.

i find myself in a city so foreign while dwelling in its familiarity. like my dainty hands had known the waters of that lake when we paddled. like my feet had already traversed these same streets, a muscle memory of childhood's sanctity. i find myself walking down the streets by the road, knowing where it leads us because after multiple times of back and forth, i had already known where is where. where the tip of mountain touches the cloud just barely. where the secret bamboo sanctuary resides, and how come the steepness of the road resembles life. where the tall pine trees scatter by the sidewalk. where is the transient house we have lodged before. i am not a stranger here; i am not a tourist. i am visiting an old friend and embracing its familiar face. i am hearing the familiar rhythm of its beating heart, an echo of the past and present and the folktales it holds within. i am sitting under the shade of a tree and identifying that the grass had turned greener.

in its architecture, i wonder about the rocks that stay steady in its potential force, that amid the tiny earthquakes under the ground and the weight of cars and the people's dreams, they withstand. how come the residents trust the fact that they live in a tilted earth, and that any minute a slight roll of rock would alter their course of life? yet aren't we all living in one? we balance ourselves where the plates converge the other, humbling our feet to the ground. god. this city and the cold it carries, of jampacked streets and the session road where all the life intersects. this city and its secrets away from the noise. this city and its ghosts on abandoned hotels. the city and its culture, challenged by the constant modernization, the traces of history, and what had become of the motherland. the city and its local and ancient stories. this city and what we take from it. this city and what i cannot claim from it; i only borrow a sliver of its sunlight to take with me. this city and how its avenues become memory lanes of what was, and what will be, that revisiting feels like a time travel. it holds a fragment of me when i was seven, ever so vivid that i remember the cold more than the being. when i turned nine and i learned how to bike. then when i was thirteen and homesick and my family was miles away and for two nights i cried myself to sleep and for three days i had to win. and fourteen when it felt like decades ago and the only thing that remained was constancy in change. when i was fifteen and i had never felt so alive at midnight. and twice a fragment of me when i was sixteen when it was 7 am and we have no sense of direction and all we did was walk.

hence, this city—where we celebrate love and age and a christmas and two new years and a holy thursday and one win and two losses. this, where i commemorate time in which i am forever seven looking out the window and on the way home i tucked in my sweater all the good things and i did not cry.

what's really held in our souveneirs? those ube jams, strawberries, flowers that only survive in cold (and how courageous we are to take them home where the sun burns the petals), bonnets, and keychains? do we take so much because it is our way of staying, of remembering, of storing the city in something tangible like a memoir? but maybe, just maybe, in leaving, we do not carry the memories as we go down the mountain. they become like ghosts in the park, and once revisited, they are resurrected alive in the spirit of familiarity. they are never buried even in thousands of tourists, because in one way or another, we have our footprints forever embarked in pavements, names forever carved on trees. we say goodbye to a place covered in fog, knowing there will be a next. knowing that we will be welcomed again, and when we come back, we can linger again in the light it shares; it teaches us how one can nurture warmth between the spaces of intertwined gloved hands and feel the skin underneath, something so humane. it teachers us how to store summer inside a tiny pocket and how to tend to a soil where love was thought impossible to grow.

forever seven,

yen.

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kazuharem · 3 years

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"Hiraeth" ↠ Childe [ANGST]

"Can you be homesick for something that is not a home?"

Characters: Childe x GN!Reader (You)

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 3,592 I’m sorry, I got carried away

Warnings: Archon quest spoilers, Childe's story quest spoilers

A/N: This is my first ever Genshin fic, so please look after it kindly! Inspired by Childe's pinkie rings and brought to you by my panic over having to fight him 🤡 AKA help I love this man so much

Special thanks to @seerie and @tartagilicious for carrying my butt; this is all for you, please enjoy~ ♡

Part II: Quatervois

HIRAETH: (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return to; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

But everything is shattering and it's my mistake

━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━

“If you were Fatui, I imagine that you would be entitled to a generous reward from the Tsaritsa herself.”

You freeze at the voice, dread settling in your stomach like dead weight. No, it can’t be.

But the figure approaching you slowly is unmistakable.

No, please.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” You stutter, panic making your lips unable to form proper words.

Childe smiles, but you notice it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a deadened look in his azure pupils. “Oh come on now, what do you think I’m doing here?” He gestures grandly at the Exuvia, and you shake your head wildly, scrambling backward to move in front of Rex Lapis’ body.

No.

Memories of everything the two of you shared comes rushing at you like a whirlwind and hurt floods your system. Your mind goes blank save for the panicked chants of no, no, no.

Our lives don't collide, I'm aware of this

“You-you were playing me to get close to the Exuvia,” you spit the words out at him. You feel like an utter idiot, completely betrayed and blindsided. How stupid. You knew he was Fatui. You knew he was one of the eleventh Harbingers.

He smirks, the expression now maddening to you instead of endearing. “Don’t act so surprised. You’ve seen this world, you of all people should know that this should have been expected.”

He was right. You had been the one who had let him in, had let him get close. And now you were going to pay for it.

You draw your sword as he approaches slowly, the tip of the weapon sickeningly close to his throat. Archons, please let this be a nightmare. You desperately hope that this was all a prank, someone popping out of the corner to say “Gotcha!” But he is close enough that you can feel the heat emanating from his body and you know it is no joke indeed.

“I won’t allow you to get near the Exuvia,” you say bravely.

Childe grins and there is a tangible excitement in the air. “Oh? So you do intend to fight me?” His glee is disturbing, making you instinctively step back.

Was this really the same man who had whispered sweet promises about his wintry homeland? Was the man before you the same as the one who had pretended to be a toy-seller to protect the innocence of a childhood dream?

“We’ve now come to my favorite part. A simple pleasure, and one that I am oh-so-delighted to be sharing with you,” Childe continues, and suddenly the bow that was slung over his shoulder appears in his hands. “The battle.”

Your gaze wavers ever so slightly as you consider your opponent.

You of all people knew how much Childe loves to fight, the thrill of the battle is what drives him. He chases after it like a drug. But on the other hand, you knew the consequences of what would happen if Childe got his hands on Rex Lapis’ Gnosis. You’ve seen it happen firsthand to Venti, after all.

“I won’t kill you,” Childe proclaims, “I’ll just play along, to feel the thrill of the battle. Besides,” he smirks again, and it makes your skin crawl. “You can never defeat me anyway!”

You grit your teeth as you glare at him, “I can never defeat you?” You can’t help but feel the dangerous edge of white-hot anger run through you, like a hot knife through butter. “You’re completely delusional!”

The laugh that comes out of his chest tells you he is pleased with your answer, “Fighting talk, I love it! Now, let’s see if you live up to it!”

You barely had time to react before arrows start flying in your direction, pure muscle memory is what keeps you out of harm’s way. Your body goes on autopilot, instincts taking over as you do all you could to defend yourself against the onslaught of his attacks. But you refuse to go on the offensive, something Childe quickly notices, and he presses you. The attacks get more ferocious, but you do your best to parry them.

A blade, forged out of water, appears out of nowhere and knocks your sword out of your hands. When you move to follow after it, Childe is standing in front of the Exuvia. ”Not bad, your swordsmanship is quite impressive. But that’s as far as you’ll get.” He sounds triumphant. “I’ll be taking Morax’s Gnosis now!”

“NO-”

There is a blinding light and then nothing. You raise your head to look at Childe, who is staring at his hand. The gloved palm remains empty.

A shocked gasp leaves your mouth as Paimon and you exchange confused looks.

“Well…” Childe begins. The look in his eyes is foreign to you, a brief flash of confusion burns away to reveal fury. You instinctively lick your dry lips, feet unconsciously moving backwards. The Childe who stands before you is not the same Childe you’ve known.

“I see, this is most unexpected,” his voice is much too calm, and you shiver involuntarily. He turns to you. You notice that he clearly looks different now. A purple aura glows around his entire body as he stalks towards you. You’re not sure if it was your imagination, but he looks bigger, more threatening. “You beat me to it, didn’t you?”

Mute, you shake your head, but Childe doesn’t seem to notice. He turns slowly, his manner imposing.

“Where is it? Where is the Gnosis?” His voice is akin to that of a growl, and you gulp.

“I don’t know, I don’t have it!” Your words emerge as a frightened yelp when he jumps down from Rex Lapis’ corpse, causing you to stagger from the sheer force. Lightning crackles all around you and you’re forced to scramble.

“This is going to cost you!” A brilliant streak of violet electricity and suddenly, the ground disappears under your feet. You freefall, wind whistling in your ears, and you make an effort to protect your head from the fast-approaching surface.

Pain blossoms in your body and you can’t help the whimper that comes out before everything goes dark.

Your sword clatters next to you. Childe lands on the ground, his boots creating craters. Everything is far too quiet. He makes his way over to you, brow creasing as he assesses your surroundings. You do not move.

“Hey-” he calls your name, but you give no response. Paimon gives him a dirty look as she keeps trying to revive you, shaking your lifeless form frantically. Worry overrides the anger and panic sets in.

Get up, Childe pleads silently, watching your limp body. GET. UP. Panic rises in his chest when Paimon tugs desperately at your arm.

The tiniest groan of pain, so small, that he nearly misses it, and you begin to move feebly. Relief engulfs him like a tidal wave coursing over his entire body and Childe staggers, trying to keep his Foul Legacy under control. Bile rises in the back of his throat as he watches you lean heavily against your sword, using the weapon as a means to prop yourself up.

The differences and impulses and your obsession with The little things you like stick, and I like aerosol

He shouldn’t be worrying about whether or not you get up. He shouldn’t care. He was a Harbinger after all. The Harbingers prided themselves for being the Tsaritsa’s weapons of war, without being susceptible to useless things such as emotions.

And yet, Childe feels his insides twist unpleasantly as you force yourself into a fighting stance, breathing labored and sword arm trembling.

“I’m not going to let you get away with this,” you say, but your voice has no force, no life. Childe sees the exhaustion settling in and guilt gnaws at him.

But failure is not an option for him. It’s better to end this now.

He grips his staff as he sneers, “You never had any chance of beating me to the Gnosis. In fact, you had no connection to the Gnosis, no matter where it had been taken.” It’s easier for him to be the bad guy if it means he didn’t have to see your tears. It’s better if you were angry, instead of being hurt by the likes of him.

“Unfortunately, it’s time that our battle ends. My quest still beckons.” Despite every fiber in his being protesting, Childe raises his staff. Currents of electricity sizzle in the air.

Just before you throw your arm up to block the blow, you see him hesitate. The hesitation lasts only a split second, but it is enough. You knew. For someone who loves the thrill of the fight as much as Childe did, he never hesitates in battle. Hesitating means the difference between life and death. Hesitating means you lose. As the purple beam of lightning hurls towards you, a small smile appears on your face.

The bolt lands mere inches from you, making your eyes squeeze shut from the stifling air, but the smile remains on your face.

He missed.

When you open your eyes again, Childe is nowhere to be seen.

━━━━━━━☆━━━━━━━

The days following the battle with Childe and Osial have you attempting to help others. It wasn’t until Zhongli had suggested that you rest and Paimon threatening to tie you to your bed, that you relented.

And on one sunny afternoon, you watch the bustling streets of Liyue from the window, confined to your bed, lest Paimon unleashes her wrath.

A quiet knock breaks you out of your thoughts and you murmur a soft “Come in,” expecting to see Zhongli for tea or Baizhu with your daily medicine. The battles had taken quite a toll on you.

You were not expecting, however, the ever-familiar figure in gray with a somber expression.

“Have you come back to finish killing me?” The words that you utter are flat.

Childe winces slightly at your frigid tone and starts slowly towards you.

“Stop.” You throw out a hand and Childe obeys, watching you cautiously. “Before you say anything, tell me this.”

He cocks his head as he waits. And suddenly, you feel the urge to cry, but you shove the feeling down.

“Tell me,” you say, voice hoarse from unuse or unshed tears, Childe does not know. “Who are you? Who is the person who stands before me?” You were trying to put up a front, but he can see the cracks beginning to form. Your voice wavers. “Are you Childe, the pride of the Tsaritsa, the person who went on all these adventures with me, my cheerful comrade in arms? Or are you Tartaglia, the eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, bloodthirsty and power-hungry, the one who tried to kill me the other day?” There is a hitch in your throat as you continue, “Or…are you…Ajax,” your voice is trembling, the name pushed through your lips as if difficult to say, “Defender of Childhood Dreams, the person willing to give up his reputation to save the hero-like image Teucer has, warm-hearted and kind, the one named after the hero. Ajax, the one who made those promises to me?” You press your lips together as you look away, gaze landing on the window, where it stays.

Childe is silent, for he does not know the answer to your questions either.

And my hopes, they are high, I must keep them small Though I try to resist I still want it all

Minutes pass and the silence is overwhelmingly stifling.

“Does it matter which version of me is before you?” He finally breaks the silence. You squeeze your eyes shut at that, not wanting to see, to hear him.

He sees you grit your jaw, tension running a clear line, the same place where he had loved to press soft kisses against. “Yes, because I’m trying to figure out if all the memories we shared were real or not.”

“And if they were?” Childe breaths out, the ghost of his words hovers in the air between the two of you, “What if I told you that they were, every last one of them, as real as the sunlight filtering through the window right now?”

“You expect me to believe that?” You laughed dryly, sound grating and harsh. The laughter continues as you pull off the silver ring on your pinkie and flick it at him. Silver circle catches the light, a tiny streak glinting in a wide arc, and the two of you watch as it sails towards its original owner. Childe catches it by instinct, swallowing hard when he did so.

“And what about this promise?” You challenge, raising your brow. “You sounded so sure when you made this promise.”

“You’ll love the rest of my siblings,” Childe murmurs. He grabs your hand and holds it up for his inspection under the moonlight. “I’m very proud of them. They’re great kids.”

You laugh as you lean back into his arms with a satisfied sigh. “You’ve been saying that so many times, but we haven’t gone to Snezhnaya yet. I’m starting to think you’re a hoax.”

“I promise,” he turns to you, gaze earnest, “I promise I’ll take you there.”

“Pinkie promise,” you offer and waggle your pinkie playfully, “Or else, I’ll throw you on the ice.”

Childe smiles, cerulean eyes disappearing into cheerful slits, as he hooks his pinkie around yours, “The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend, the frost will freeze your tongue off, so you never lie again,” he recites the ever-familiar nursery rhyme. “Close your eyes, I have a surprise for you.”

You look at him questioningly but obey regardless. You feel Childe take the hand that he had been holding and something cold glides up your pinkie.

“Ajax-”

“Shh, don’t want to ruin the surprise now, do we?” Warm fingers grasp yours and you feel his breath ghost over your knuckles. Lips, albeit chapped, press against the unfamiliar coolness, as if branding some sort of unspoken vow.

You give in to the urge to open your eyes and you do, just in time to see Childe sit back with a relaxed smile. “Wha-“ you begin and that’s when you notice a silver ring around your pinkie. “What’s this?”

Childe smirks, a self-satisfied upturn of his lips as he grasps your hand again. “A pinkie promise,” he proclaims proudly. He curls his pinkie around yours but this time, there was a gentle clink. You see a similar ring glinting on his finger. “I promise I will take you to Snezhnaya and you will get to meet my siblings. That is a promise I fully intend to keep.”

Your pinkie tightens around his and there is the distinct clink of your rings knocking together. You decide you rather like the sound of it.

“What about the promise?” You ask again.

Childe does not speak, but you notice his hand tighten around the ring ever so slightly. You can’t read the look in his eyes.

“If you make a promise, you keep it. If you make a mistake, you apologize…” You softly repeat the words he had said to you long ago. “The nursery rhyme Teucer taught me… You make a pinkie promise, you keep it all your life. You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice. The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend, the frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again,” you recite the words, each one hammering a nail that would seal your fate. “Looks like you’re going to have to break the promise,” you settle back against your pillows with finality.

He swallows then, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. As much as you hate to admit it, you feel hope rising inside of you at the sight.

Was any of it real? Were his feelings genuine?

But the fact remains still, was that he had betrayed you.

“We’re going on two different paths. You, on the path to power. Me, to find my brother. Our paths should never have converged,” you are surprised to hear that your voice is steady, not betraying the turmoil you currently feel raging inside of you.

Only fools fall for you, only fools fall

Childe closes his eyes, sighing softly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, so faint you barely catch it, “Truly.”

You feel disappointment settle in and you berate yourself mentally. What did you expect?

“You’re full of contradictions,” You breathe out, drawing the covers closer to you as if they could block out the hurt. “You refuse to let Teucer know about your real job because you wanted to protect his childhood, yet you do everything in the name of the Tsaritsa. Who even are you?” You laugh, but there is a little catch in your voice. “You make all these promises with honeyed words, yet you tried to kill me when you believed I stole the Gnosis from you, just because I happened to be in your way.”

“As one of the Eleventh Fatui Harbingers, it’s my duty to see the will of the Tsaritsa fulfilled,” Childe reminds you. It was a reminder you didn’t need. You can’t help but notice the loneliness in his tone.

You snort derisively, “The will of the Tsaritsa. Does it include nearly destroying entire cities, putting thousands of innocent lives at risk?” Does it include getting close to me to gain my trust only to betray it in the end? Was I part of this plan? You want to ask, but you were afraid of the answer.

“She will get that which she desires,” Childe is firm, and you have to bite down the disappointment.

“So where does that leave us?” The question comes hurling out before you can even begin to process it. You bite back a curse.

Childe exhales. “You should know…Anyone who strives as I do to grow stronger shall be called a friend, even if our friendship can only be shown in battle against one another,” he says softly. The expression on his face is forlorn. “The next time we meet, it will be on the battlefield.”

You laugh in disbelief, “Friends,” you scoff, “Friends don’t cross blades with one another.” Friends don’t betray one another, you wanted to add, but you held your tongue. “It would be more fitting to call us enemies.

“I harbor no ill will towards you,” Childe’s admission is nearly silent, “In fact, most of my happier memories were those shared with you.”

“It’s too late,” you grit out and there is venom in your words.

Childe studies you as if trying to commit all of your features to memory. You think to yourself that you have never once seen this expression cross his face, lost and melancholic. “Farewell, comrade,” he finally says quietly, “I hope you find all the answers to the questions you’re searching for.” He turns to go.

“Ajax…” you call his name, his real name. It comes out of your mouth before you can stop yourself and it hovers nervously in the air. He stops at the sound of his name, and he turns back to you, expression unsure. “You hesitated,” you say simply. “Inside of the Golden House. You hesitated to kill me. And you missed on purpose, didn’t you? That means you lost.”

Childe does not say anything. He offers you a slight smile as he pulls the door open. And just like that, Childe is gone from your life, leaving the same way he had entered.

Only fools do what I do, only fools fall

━━━━━━━☆━━━━━━━

Nighttime finds Childe under the tree where he had made the promise to you. It overlooks the ocean, Liyue lights blinking in the distance, a would-be pretty sight if he had better company save for himself. It’s a moonless night and Childe thinks to himself that it is fitting for a night like this.

“You seem quiet, what’s going on?” Childe asks as he plops next to you, jostling your arm.

You huff at him, moving your sketchbook out of the way, “Careful,” you warn.

Childe pushes himself onto his elbows, curious, as he peers down at the paper. “Your brother?” He asks, voice gentle. “Are you thinking of him again?”

You nod, filling in the details of your brother’s face. “I wish I had more information,” you sigh.

He watches you work, your expression was forlorn, lost and Childe wishes he could do something to alleviate your pain.

“You’ll find the answers, I know you will,” Childe offers, draping himself over you. His body presses against yours and the familiar warmth calms you. “Don’t forget I’m assisting you as well.”

“I’m just…homesick I guess,” you admit as you shade the contour of your brother’s jaw. “Have you ever heard of this word?”

“Hiraeth,” Childe mumbles. He remembers what you said to him.

“Homesickness for a home you cannot return to. The nostalgia, the yearning for the lost places of the past.”

It makes him think of warm arms and cheerful laughter. Of quiet nights under the stars and dreams uttered against lips. Of playful fights and adrenaline-fueled battles. Of forgotten duties in lieu of lazy mornings in bed, surrounded by the mere essence of one another.

It makes him think of you.

Home is not a place, it’s a feeling. It’s a person.

It’s you.

He presses a kiss to the smaller of the silver rings, his whisper lost to the wind. Nothing but the sky and the trees bearing witness.

“You were my home.”

Fin.

For more of my works: 📖

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boldlyvoid · 3 years

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Amoreena | chapter one

summary: Heaven is a real place and it's located exactly 14.6 miles away from the FBI, Quantico Headquarters. Off behind a small park, under a fantastical willow tree surrounded by wildflowers, in every colour young minds can imagine.

Don't forget, heaven also comes with angels.

Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, depressed spencer, reader has a daughter, falling in love, strangers to lovers

word count: 3,147

Read on Ao3

There’s this small, tiny part, of Spencer that wants to run away.

He’s always felt like he’s never truly been home, a never-ending and long yearning, a homesickness for a place he didn't even know, eating him alive day by day. It made him want to drop everything and buy a cottage in the woods, to fill it with books and coffee and never see another person again.

It got worse after prison and after his mom asked to go back into a care facility, it hurt the most when Penelope left the FBI and things with Max fizzled out. Then he was really, truly alone again. His apartment felt cold and uninviting, the BAU felt like a chore, using his brain for anything other than taking care of himself was extremely hard.

He needed a break.

So when he walked out of work and straight to his favourite park for an escape, he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t stop walking. Going further and further down the trail, following the dirt path towards a pond, covered by a beautiful willow tree and surrounded by pink, purple, yellow and white flowers. The contrast of the green grass with the colourful flowers, the blue sky and the light green willow tree reflection dancing on the surface of the pond. It was like he walked into Eden, taking a seat by the tree and picking a book from his satchel.

For the rest of the week, it’s his own little sanctuary, escaping desk work and home cases as fast as he could. Even then it wasn't enough and he started going every afternoon, he’d sneak out for an hour and just relax. Reading his book, feeling the breeze on his face, the sound of ducks and frogs competing with the crickets for loudest being in the area. Eventually bringing his bike on the subway to work so he could get there faster.

It was beautiful.

Almost as beautiful as what he walked in on when he arrived Saturday afternoon. Parking his bike by the tree, looking at them carefully as he took his satchel off his shoulders and placed it by the trunk. Craning his neck so he could look at who it was, seeing the purest display of human affection known to man.

A mother and her daughter were having a picnic, dressed up like Miss Honey and Matilda as they had lemonade and snacks, spread out on a blanket as the mother handed her a sandwich wrapped in checkered red wax paper.

Spencer was in awe, sitting on the other side of the pond by a second tree, pretending to read when really he was glancing at them. Their laugher filling the field, bouncing around the trees and filling his chest with warmth.

It reminded him of all the afternoons with his own mother. His head in her lap, the sound of her voice as she shared worlds wisdom with him. He missed childhood, freedom, hope. The will to continue…

When the little girl finally notices that they’re not alone in this little world she’s creating, he sees her tug on her moms shirt, asking her a question before cheering. She picks something out of the basket and comes running towards Spencer.

“Excuse me, sir?” Her sweet little voice asks. “Are you an archeologist or a palaeontologist?”

It makes him laugh slightly, a large smile erupting on his face as he pushes his glasses up and puts the book down. “No sorry, I’m not, what made you think I was?”

“You have a satchel and glasses like Milo from Atlantis, but you have a dinosaur on your tie, you look like you work at a museum,” she rambled all her thoughts out, much like he did as a child.

“I’m actually an FBI agent,” he whispered.

“Wow,” she whispered back in amazement, “are you like a knight? Do you save princesses?”

“I do," he nodded enthusiastically, "do you know any in need?”

“Her,” she pointed. “I’m Lady Amoreena, the Princess over there says I was a gift to the kingdom but that she’ll never need a prince or king to take care of us, but I think a knight would work!”

He laughed lightly, seeing her mom shake her head as she overheard it, covering her face with her hand, she looked embarrassed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lady Amoreena,” he put his hand out to shake her’s as soft as possible, noticing the cookie in her hand. “My name is Dr. Spencer Reid,” he added softly.

“Would you like a cookie?”

He smiled as she placed it in his hand, “thank you.”

“Do you like Matilda?”

“It’s one of my favourite books,” he smiles.

“Do you want to have some lemonade and read with us?” Her face lit up, turning back to where her mother was watching from the pond.

“It’s okay, thank you for offering,” not wanting to intrude on their moment.

“We need a voice for Matilda’s father, please?” She begged, overly sweet and incredibly convincing.

“Alright, but I’m warning you if I upstage the princess with my awesome voices, it’s not my fault,” he smiled as he stood up, grabbing his things and starting to follow her over to the blanket.

She took his hand and tugged him along the edge of the pond, dragging him right to were her mother was sitting on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized softly as he sat down. “She’s very persistent about making new friends. We don’t see many people on this side of the park.”

“It’s fine, honestly, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, by the way,” he introduced himself. “I work with the FBI, normally I’d advice women and their children to avoid strange men they don’t know when they’re alone in the woods like this.”

She laughed slightly, “Y/N Y/L/N, I’m the head librarian at the DC library, and you don’t seem that strange.”

“Neither did Bundy,” he tried to joke, knowing she got it and trusted him when she bit back a smile, eyes twinkling at him in the sunlight.

“My name is Amoreena, like the Elton John song,” her daughter cut in, noticing how they were staring at each other and trying to get the attention instead.

“It’s a beautiful song, no wonder you love it here,” Spencer smiled at her, “do you come here often?”

She nodded, a blush flowing through her freckled cheeks, “have you ever read Tuck Everlasting? The pond here can make you young forever,” her whisper was the cutest thing. She was so full of life, personality and joy.

“I have, you’re right this feels a lot like the field from the book, what other books do you like?”

“I love books,” she lays back against the blanket ever so dramatically. “Matilda, Anne of Green Gables, Beauty and the Beast, I love every story that ends with true love and happiness, and cats.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her explanation, knowing that feeling all too well. “I have read almost every book ever, more than the entire DC library probably."

“We dress up every week for what ever book we are reading, next week is Peter Pan if you’d like to join us? We’re here every Saturday at 11,” Y/N offered.

“You haven’t even heard me read Matilda from memory and you’re already asking me to come back?” Spencer smirked as their faces lit up.

“No way, prove it!” Amoreena shouted, shoving him lightly to encourage him to start.

“The Reader of Books,” he began, seeing the pages in his mind as he repeated the words. “It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.”

“Okay so you know the beginning,” Y/N teased, opening the book to a random page, “what's on page 32?”

"My name is Jennifer Honey," Miss Honey said. "How do you do, Mrs. Wormwood." Mrs. Wormwood glared at her and said, "What's the trouble then?" Nobody invited Miss Honey to sit down so she chose a chair and sat down anyway. "This", she said, "was your daughter's first day at school." "We know that," Mrs Wormwood said, ratty about missing her programme. "Is that all you came to tell us?" Miss Honey stared hard into the other woman's wet grey eyes, and she allowed the silence to hang in the air until Mrs. Wormwood became uncomfortable. "Do you wish me to explain why I came?" she said.

Amoreena thought it was the coolest thing ever, reading the page and jumping up and down when he was correct, “how did you do that?”

“I can remember every word I’ve ever read, I have a pretty interesting brain,” he explained it as overdramatic as he could, knowing she would find it magical.

“You’re so cool!” She swooned, dropping back against the blanket just as dramatically.

Y/N was all smiles, running her fingers through Amoreena’s hair and giggling slightly at the sight of her silly child. “Spencer, would you like to do the honours today?”

She handed him the book, knowing he didn’t need it. He gently opened it, starting on the first page and starting to read it the way his mother would. Bringing out voices, hand gestures, all the bells and whistles.

They were in the field together until the sun started to set, casting a purple and orange glow over the pond. Amoreena was resting in Y/N’s arms, legs extended over Spencer’s lap as they sat close. It was the most perfect Saturday he has had in a long time. Probably the best day of his life, actually.

“Matilda leapt into Miss Honey's arms and hugged her, and Miss Honey hugged her back, and then the mother and father and brother were inside the car and the car was pulling away with the tyres screaming. The brother gave a wave through the rear window, but the other two didn't even look back. Miss Honey was still hugging the tiny girl in her arms and neither of them said a word as they stood there watching the big black car tearing round the corner at the end of the road and disappearing for ever into the distance. The end.”

He closed the book softly, setting it down on the blanket and looking at them softly, “am I still invited next week?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N smiled, “I’m dressing as Tinker Bell, Amoreena will be Peter Pan, and you can be anyone else of your choosing.”

“I’ll keep it a surprise until next week,” Spencer smiled right back.

Amoreena crawled out of Y/N’s lap and leapt into Spencer’s arms, hugging him tightly in her small arms. “That was the best story ever, thank you!”

Everything in the world felt right then, hugging her back while he smiled at her mother. Y/N had a hand over her heart as she swooned, watching her daughter bond with the man who just happened to wander into their picnic.

“Can I get your number?” Y/N asked softly, “you know, so we can arrange outfits and stories as the week's pass.” She shrugged, licking her lips slightly as she blushed.

“Of course, I’m not on duty for the rest of the month, so if you wanted to go to a museum or anything, I’m free? Since I look so much like I should work there,” he teased Amoreena.

“I’m sure lovey would like that?” Y/N leaned over Amoreena’s shoulder, holding her around her waist and tickling her softly.

Lovey

It was a nickname that made perfect sense in his mind. Amoreena, the keyword being Amore, to love. She was very loveable, incredibly vibrant and full of innocence, a life that was full of possibilities, wonderful like her mother.

“We’re going to the Smithsonian tomorrow to see the Dino’s,” Amoreena’s face lit up. “Do you know anything about them?”

“Surprisingly enough, while I’m not a paleontologist, I know a lot about dinosaurs, and I might have some connections there to see the rare ones,” he exaggerated his voice again, watching her get so excited she started to run around with her arms in the air.

“You don’t have to if you’re busy,” she says softly when Amoreena is far enough away, picking flowers as she ran around.

“I’d love to, actually, thank you,” he whispers towards Y/N. “I haven’t been having the greatest week.”

“Is it okay for me to ask what you do?” She asked, just as softly as Amoreena kept running around the field.

“I’m a profiler, I consult on intense cases.”

“The strange man comment makes more sense now,” she smiled. “we’re looking for a literary historian at the library right now, I’m sure remembering every word in every book would get you hired, you know if you wanted to switch careers for something easier on your soul?”

“I have been thinking of leaving, in all honesty, I’ve actually been having more of a rough 15 years,” he tries to laugh but he just feels frustrated. “It’s been really hard.”

“For everything you see, you’re still a very sweet man, not many people would sit down and occupy his time with an autistic 7-year-old,” she complimented him with a smile, sharing something personal in a way that would fit right into the conversation and not make a big deal. “We really did enjoy your company today.”

He handed her a business card from his pocket, feeling a bit overwhelmed and emotional as he handed it to her, “I've had a wonderful time. I'm also autistic, I know what it's like to want to share the world while no one wants to listen, thank you for letting me join you. Let me know what time you’re going to the museum tomorrow and I will be there.”

Y/N’s face lit up once more, reading the card over before sliding it into her bag. “Do you want a PB&J or a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch tomorrow?”

“PB&J is a great museum lunch,” he bit his lip so he’d stop smiling, it was beginning to feel embarrassing with how much he liked her already. Not used to random kindness from smart and beautiful women.

Amoreena came running back then, handing Spencer a handful of flowers upon her arrival. “For you, Sir Knight,” she bowed as he took them.

“I bid you a good day, my fair ladies,” Spencer plaid along, standing to curtsy back.

“We’ll see you tomorrow then?” Y/N asked from the blanket as Amoreena dove into her arms.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Spencer smiled one last time.

“Bye Spencer!!” Amoreena cheered as he waved, walking back down the path towards the main park entrance.

With his satchel draped over his shoulder, he pushed his sleeves up as he walked towards his bike, overwhelmed by the feeling of joy still swirling in his blood. Peddling his way down the path with a smile on his face, excited to get home and plan for the Smithsonian tomorrow, he was an excellent tour guide.

And he did actually have some connections.

Calling the museum curator, an old friend from years ago who owed him a favour. Asking if there was any way he could show his friend and her kid around the un-displayed dinosaurs and fossils, of course she said yes. People seemed to do anything for Dr. Reid of the FBI.

He thought about her job offer then as he hung up, reaching the train station finally and making his way back to his sad apartment. It would be nice to change things up for a bit, it’s not like he couldn’t go back to the FBI in 20 years like Rossi did.

15 years in the field and a metric fuck ton of trauma later, he was officially fed up. Opening his computer the second he got home, writing his 2 weeks notice to be forwarded to Mateo Cruz.

—

He woke up with excitement, for the first time in years.

Well, at first he was happy, then he thought about it too long. Despair creeping in, it was truly sad to think that he’s been sad for so long, desperately needing the happiness Y/N and Amoreena brought to his life.

Like when he spent time around Henry or Hank, there was something so rewarding about witnessing a child see something for the first time. Explaining the world to them, seeing their eyes widen as they enjoyed the world around them.

It was the best thing someone could do, spending the day living with the happiness of a child.

Y/N had texted him right as he woke up, the chime of a new message actually making him smile instead of panic.

Y/N: hey smartie pants, we’re thinking 11 am today. Can we meet you out front?”

Spencer: sure! You should start preparing to hear me ramble all day long. Also my I suggest bringing proper shoes for lots of walking and a backpack for the things Amoreena will get to bring home!

Y/N: oh you weren’t kidding about those connections huh?

Spencer: nope!

Y/N: well, can’t wait to see what you have in store for us! (And to hear your voice all day ♥︎)

It made his heart swell, he could swear it grew three sizes as it pushed against his ribs. Trying to break free from him and run to her, he hadn’t felt this strongly about another person in a very long time.

It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t greed, it wasn’t desperation. He didn’t just want to sleep with her or use her to fill his time, she wasn’t just another friend to occupy his days and talk to when he had to, she was special. She was interesting, she was kind, she was beautiful, she reminded him of his own mother in a strange way that made him fear Fraud was right.

He found a comfort in her that felt a little like home, like all his running led him to her. She was the end of the finish line, the cold glass of water, the euphoric pride of a job well done. She was everything good wrapped up in a beautiful bow and he was gone.

Feeling like he did when he met Ethan, Derek, or Elle for the first time, even Maeve when they were just talking on the phone, that butterfly feeling that excited him to try something new.

Y/N made him believe in possibilities again.

It felt nice to look ahead, to dream and wish of the future and not see death and destruction. Instead, dreaming of them running through the fields, flowers dancing everywhere as they hear Amoreena’s laughter. It’s how life is supposed to be.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #amoreena #fluff

368 notes · View notes

anxiousstark · 3 years

Text

The Aura Painter | DOB

Painter! Dylan x Princess!Reader

Word Count: 12K (12.057)

Warnings: Mentions of sexism, masturbation (mutual or solo), unprotected sex (this is a fic, be safe), cum play, breeding kink, filthy tbh, some cliché romance scenes. This is my second time writing ‘smut’. But this is the first time writing something so long and so filthy, bear with me.

A/N: This is an idea that I’ve had in mind for so long. Hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed imagining it. And of course, writing it. If you do, please give it some love and share it. The biggest solo piece I’ve ever written!

BIG MASTERLIST | KO-FI

Words you must know for the fic:

Onism (n.) the awarness of how little of the world you will experience.

Heriaeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you canot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning. the grief of lost places of your past.

Elysian (adj.) beautiful or creative; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.

The droplets of rain fell against the glass, leaving a trail which I followed with my gaze. The glistening tear of water disappeared before I could place my finger against the window and imitate that I could command its movement.

The sky seemed to cry, turning a darker shade. Perhaps the sky had lost a lover or perhaps, the one they loved was far from its reach. I could not tell as I never experienced one of those stories.

The books I had to read as a child were those who would teach me how to act and think. But those I read on the confines of my room when everyone was sleeping were different. Those told the story of a beautiful lady who wished to be rescued by a gentleman. I would try not to squeal under my blanket, as that was something, a lady of a high position should not do.

I glanced at the sky again as it screamed, lightly swaying the trees outside while his droplets of tears wetted everything under itself.

"M'lady," I corrected my form, trying to look as straight as possible. Turning around, I glimpsed directly into a pair of green eyes that seemed to lose their brightness as the seasons passed. Those eyes used to be the brightest ones in this palace, but now they were almost colourless, decorated by a couple of wrinkles. "Your mother is asking for your presence at her table."

That was unusual. My mother was a sophisticated distant woman who liked to spend time on her own. Hence, she tried to escape from her responsibilities as a Queen while having breakfast by herself. She would relax outside in the gardens. A small white table filled with her preferred meals, and even if she sought to convince herself, and lie to me about her drink being just a mere juice, everyone knew it wasn't.

"Tell me, Harold," While walking through the corridors of the palace, I noticed once again the monotony. The clicking of my heels appeared to be the only sound, except the melody of the rain falling against hard surfaces. "Did the Queen seem mad?"

Harold tried not to chuckle, knowing that if my parents or any of my siblings were near, he would end up getting struck by executing such a natural gesture. "I must say that the Queen did not ask for the cello man to accompany her this morning with some music."

I gasped, glancing at him to discern if he was teasing me. Harold had been in our family for so many years. I dare to say that he was in this palace before anyone else.

"She must be quite mad, then." I bit my lower lip, trying to think what of the things I have done could have gotten her mad, and how she had discovered them. "Perhaps she found the romance novels hidden in my room?" I muttered to myself.

"M'lady," Harold opened the door to the great hall. "She preferred to eat her breakfast in here as it is raining cats and dogs outside." He whispered, letting me walk in first. I silently nodded my head, wandering closer to my mother, who was sitting on the farthest place even though she was on her own. "My Queen. The young Lady has arrived. If my services are required, I will be waiting outside to escort the young Lady back to her room."

I shivered as soon as Harold left the room, wishing he could have stayed with me. But of course, he did not deserve the wrath of my mother. While walking closer to her, my clicking heels seemed to resemble the countdown of a bomb that would explode shortly.

"Take a seat, my darling," She demanded as soon as I was close to her. I swallowed, swiftly grabbing the skirts of my dress. I sat down on the white chair in front of her. She coughed. "Someone quite similar to the young Lady of the palace has been seen on the street market." A newspaper was placed on top of the table, facing me.

I swallowed one more time. "Must be someone who resembles me." I attempted to sound confident. "I am afraid that happened on Friday, and I take piano, courtesy and manner classes that day."

"Tell me, darling," She faked a smile. Her dark brown eyes, studying my position and expressions. "May I ask how you knew this happened on Friday as the article does not say something like that?"

"I-." Her stare became even more intimidating. "Guessed?" I squinted my eyes, perceiving that she would raise her voice to inhuman levels.

"Nor did you only skip your classes, you also lied and went outside on your own." Her tone was sharp. "Hideous things could have happened to you. Do you know what this could mean to your brother's throne?" Of course, this was about my dear brother. "The sister of the future King of Onism does not follow the rules of the palace. Then, what should they expect from their new King?"

"I did not do anything inappropriate, mother." I sighed, shifting my gaze to look at her directly. "I did not get in trouble, and as you can perceive, I am all right."

She rolled her eyes, which surprised me as she always claimed for that gesture not being refined. "And books," She pointed to one of the chairs, where I noticed all my favourite romance novels resting upon it. She had found them.

"May at least have some privacy in the confines of my bedroom?" I was mad, but raising my voice to her would get me in even more trouble. "Those," I referred to the pile of books that were my most precious property. "Those are mine."

"Not anymore," She got up, grabbing one of them and examining the title. "Romance novels? When will you understand that nothing like this happens in real life?"

I felt a little strength going through my body. "That book, in particular, describes the love story of the author! It is a romance that happened to her in real life. It is not fiction."

"But that woman was not a princess, was she?" I shook my head as she waited for my answer. "However, you are one. Even if you do not have anything to do with the future throne of Onism, your brother does, and you must behave like a princess." She walked closer to the fireplace. My eyes widened, and I gasped loudly. "You are a woman and a princess. The only thing you must worry about is making your future husband happy while following his rules, even if you do not love him." She opened the book, her skinny finger ripping some of the pages, and in the process, shattering my heart. "You will get married to someone you do not love, just to unite two countries." She let the book slip from her fingers. Falling to the fire, and burning as much as my eyes were burning due to the tears. "Stop filling your head with stories that will never happen to you. You are dismissed."

I got up from the chair, slightly glancing at the pile of books. I knew they would end up in the fireplace, slowly burning. I bowed my head. "I apologize, mother." She made a gesture with her hand, instructing me to leave the great hall.

My head was down as I walked to the door, wishing to exit the room and rant to Harold. "Wait," The voice of my mother interrupted my walk. "Get prepared as in two hours a man will come to paint a portrait of you. We will send the portraits to different future Kings of other countries that have shown interest in courting you."

"Yes, mother." I could not argue.

As I came out of the room, I noticed Harold's gaze fixed on me. I shook my head, letting him accompany me to my chambers. While walking through the long corridors, I glanced outside the windows. I reminded myself that I would never dance under the rain with someone while we laugh and kiss. I will never be caressed with love. I will only be touched with the purpose of bringing an heir to someone. An heir that would have to live the same dull life as me.

Going inside my bedroom, Harold bowed his head while he walked away. However, three ladies that worked in the palace entered my room, ready to assist me. I could not even take a bath on my own, nor could I dress by myself as the three of them did it for me.

"The painter will be here soon, ma'am," Rosetta informed, deciding to stay in the room as a lady should not be alone in a room with a man who is not her beloved husband. "He is a painter from town, said to have a gift."

"Is he quite known?" I asked to continue the conversation as I did not want to be rude. Nonetheless, the image of my books burning was the only thing in my mind.

"He is known in town for doing amazing portraits in exchange for food and a place to live." My curiosity peaked at the comment. "Royals are quite interested in getting their portraits done by him. Though, he had denied their offers." I looked at her with confusion. "He does not want to be related to any royalty member." I nodded my head, understanding why he did not want that.

There were two knocks on the door, indicating that the painter was here. I was quite surprised as my mother wanted the portrait to be painted in my private chambers. "Please, come inside."

When the door opened, a tall man came inside. He was probably around 5' 10". Wide shoulders that were covered by dark brown clothes. It seemed to be his best attire. Even though you could see the cheap fabric, and how he had tried to cover some holes and get rid of some stains. He had tried to gel his hair back. At first, I thought his hair was black until a streak of light fell on him, and I discerned it was a little lighter than that.

His light brown eyes fell on me, and studying them in-depth, I noticed that they resembled to be hazel. He bowed his head. "Uhm, it is a pleasure to meet you, Princess. I am here to-."

I offered him a smile. "Welcome to the palace," I bowed my head a little, which seemed to surprise him. "Please, do not call me Princess. It is fine to call me Lady." I gestured to one of the chairs in my room. "Please take a seat. It must have been a bumpy ride to the palace."

While sitting down, he nodded his head. There was a big black binder between his hands. Noticing my gaze on it, he quickly opened it, showing different canvas. "I can make different types of portraits. I thought I should bring some examples for the Pri-, Lady to choose the one she fancies the most." He stretched his arm, providing his drawings for me to look at them.

"May I ask for your name, sir?" My eyes focused on his drawings, understanding why everyone wanted to get their portrait done by the young man.

"My family name is O'Brien, while my name is Dylan, my Lady."

I nodded my head while still focused on his magnificent paintings. However, one in particular seemed to grab my full attention. It was the portrait of an elder, who appeared to be looking deep into me. He was skinny, and by his clothes, I could tell he was poor. He was sitting on a chair, and I almost gasped when I discerned that he had a missing leg. His expression was warm, a gorgeous smile decorating his face. Though, you could see that he had missing teeth.

"Did you find any equivalent style to what you desire?" His soft voice snapped me from my thoughts.

"May I ask?" I turned the portrait around, giving it back. His eyes examined the elder he had drawn. "Why is he smiling, but there are shadows around him?" I had noticed that the elder was smiling. However, black and grey adumbrations were around his figure. Some resembled horrible monsters. Especially a grey shadow that resembled a demon, resting upon his head.

He chuckled. "Those are the ones people in town ask the most." He glanced at me. "I draw their exterior as they want other people to see them. But then, around them, I draw what I can perceive or what I learnt about them." I furrowed my eyebrows. "Sadly, this man passed away a couple of weeks ago due to a cold." He licked his bottom lip. "He had offered me a home for a couple of days, and of course, he had proposed food in exchange for a portrait. Those days, I learnt many things while listening to his stories. I noticed that the man was attempting to look happy for his sick wife, whom he loved with his entire soul."

I fidgeted on my seat. "What happened, then?" I curiously asked, making him grin.

"He was not happy. He was afraid of losing the love of his life because death had knocked a couple of times on their door." He glanced at the painting. "Their children had married to people in higher positions, ignoring the elderly couple and not helping them with medicines. He was 87 years old, working in the town market. He was selling vegetables that he was cultivating by himself." He decided to continue as he saw that I was expectant of knowing more. "He never lost the smile for anyone, even if people did not treat him right. And of course, when arriving at his house, he would maintain the smile for his wife."

"Then," I tried to hide my teary eyes. "Those dark shadows..."

"Those are the monsters he tried to hide, but that I got to meet. The fear of losing his wife, the frightening feeling of wanting to end his own life, the fear of not having money to pay for his wife medicines, and so much more."

"And what happened to them?" Rosetta coughed, indicating me to fix my posture, and I quickly did, which made him furrow his eyebrows.

"As I said, one of his biggest fears was that they did not have enough money to pay for his wife's medicines." He peeped at the ground for mere seconds. "She died in her sleep. Her body could not hold the pain anymore, and she faded away."

"What about the old man?"

He nodded his head, his gaze shifting to the portrait. "He passed away in his sleep too. There was a smile in his face."

I blinked, affected by the grievous story of those who had to fight to survive. "I want one of those!" Both Rosetta and Dylan looked at me with surprised expressions decorating their faces. "I would like one of those portraits."

"My Lady, I'm sorry to intervene on matters that I should not. But I do not think the Queen will like such a portrait to be sent to those who are interested in courting you." She was right.

"She will not look at the portrait. Harold will be the one sending them." I affirmed, knowing that my mother would not dirty her hands for anything.

"It could get the young man in trouble, my Lady."

I glance at the man, who was looking at Rosetta until his eyes met mine. "Yes," I smiled, even though I was upset. "You are right. Then," I studied a portrait, a simple one. "I would like this one." Dylan nodded his head.

"It would take a couple of days to finish it. But I will be staying in the palace for the time being." He informed. "Is there any time of the day where you prefer to spend your time just standing in front of me?" He blushed a little. "Just for the portrait, of course."

"Tuesdays and Fridays I must spend receiving 'Lady classes'. The rest of the days and hours, I will be in here." I sighed, offering him another smile. "Did they give you directions for the room where you will stay?" Nodding his head, he showed me a piece of paper with some important directions to places of the palace that he could visit. "Your bedroom is at the end of this corridor. You are lucky as it is empty, except for me and Harold's room." Of course, he had met Harold already. "I must warn you not to leave your room after 11 pm as there are guards everywhere." I got up from my chair. "Rosetta," I pointed at her. "She will bring every meal to your room. Do not hesitate if you need to ask them something. There are a bathroom and a study in your chambers."

Before he could answer, the door of my chambers opened. A broad man stumbled in with decisive steps, and fury adorning his face. I gulped, stepping back before I could hold myself.

The man threw a newspaper at me, hitting my chest. Glancing at the floor, I witnessed the same newspaper my mother had been holding a couple of minutes ago. "Again?" His voice was sharp. "Did you escape again to buy those stupid books?" I shook my head. "Oh, yes, you did. Mother told me." His boots sounded like thunders as he walked closer. "I do not desire to hear any rumour of how my sister is not acting like a lady." My brother Evans glared at me. "If my future in the throne is affected by your stupid imagination and ambitions, I swear I will do whatever I must do for you to learn your lesson."

"I am s-."

"Do not you dare speak back to me!" He screamed. His gaze shifted to Dylan, who was standing too, eyes widened and what seemed anger decorating his face. "Are you the painter?" He nodded his head. "Try to make her attractive in the portrait. Hopefully, some rich soon-to-be King from another country will want to marry her." He peered at me. "Luckily, he will know when a woman needs a genuine beating to act like a lady or a wife." Those were his final words as he left the room. I finally could breathe.

"Uhm," My legs shook, and I attempted to hide it. "As I said before if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, my Lady." He got up from his chair, clutching his paintings. "Is it all right to start with the portrait tomorrow morning?" I nodded my head, wishing him goodnight as he left my bedroom.

"Rosetta," Her hands were behind her back, respectfully. "Tell Harold that I demanded not to be disturbed tonight. Not even for dinner." She nodded her head, bowing and leaving me on my own.

I sighed, wandering closer to a full-body mirror that decorated one of my walls. The moment I feared the most was getting closer. I would marry someone whom I do not love. I would marry someone whose eyes would not hold back from gawking at other women. And with those thoughts in mind, I went to sleep.

The following day, I decided to have breakfast and lunch in my chambers, not wanting to face my mother or my older brother. I had convinced Harold to stay outside my room, wanting to be on my own with Dylan. I thought that I would feel more comfortable if I didn't have someone constantly checking my posture or warning me of what should not say. Moreover, I also believed that a painter needed his privacy to reflect his art on a canvas.

I was stunned toward the bright day outside. Looking out of the window, I saw my little siblings running around the garden as some servants followed them. They were probably making their job even more complicated. Alexander and Victoria were quite the troublemakers. However, I was thrilled for them as they would not have to follow such strict indications, as to the ones I had to obey.

"Are those your siblings, my Lady?" Scared by the prompt presence, I turned around. Dylan was standing there, holding a big canvas and a briefcase, which I assumed held his painting materials. "I apologize if I alarmed you. Harold permitted me to come inside."

I nodded my head. "Yes, they are twins." I offered him a smile as he grabbed a chair, placing it in front of me. I discerned that my back was resting against the wall, and I quickly moved to stand straight. "Oh, please, no." He extended his arm. "Would it be okay for you to go back to that position? The light was caressing the right side of your face. There was a beautiful contrast." I swallowed, nodding my head while resting my back against the wall. I heard him chuckle. "Please, do not worry. It is okay for you to blink, breathe or swallow. It is also okay for you to do light movements."

"May I talk?"

"I am not great at holding conversations, but I will try my best, my Lady." He placed the blank canvas on the easel. His hands worked fast while taking out his painting material from the briefcase. "If it is not rude," He swallowed, probably questioning himself if it was okay to continue speaking. "I have noticed some books lying under the bed," I glance at my bed. Noticing that some books could be seen, which meant he was good at observing and that I did not hide my books correctly. "What books do you read?"

"Well," I gulped. "I read books about manners a lady should have in front of males and for the table. I study geography too as I must know the rest of countries for future alliances, and-."

"I apologize, my Lady." He wetted his brush. "Perhaps I formed the question wrongly. I wanted to know which books you enjoy."

My mouth opened as no one has ever asked me such a question. "You will think I am a typical young girl."

"Cannot think like that, my Lady." He mixed some colours. His painting brush, caressing the canvas delicately. "You are not a typical young girl. You are the Princess of Onism." Though those words shattered my heart, he was right. I would never be a 'normal' girl as my life was nothing like the one of an ordinary lady. "However," He continued. "When you paint someone, you get to comprehend them deeply. I believe I might discover that you are an ordinary human at heart. Something beautiful that would separate you from cold-hearted royalty." I was surprised by his words as people would not dare to talk of royalty like that.

I offered him a smile. "You might." He got distracted for a couple of seconds. His eyes navigated from the canvas to me, trying to retain my features and the folds of my clothes. "Romance." I was flustered. "I do truly enjoy romance."

"I presume something you will experience as soon as these portraits are sent."

I shook my head. "Something I presume I will never experience." His eyebrows furrowed once again. "Royalty men have the right to choose whom they will marry, even if they do not love them. Women will have to accept whomever their parents choose for her." My gaze shifted to the window for a couple of seconds. "It is my destiny."

He stopped painting for mere seconds, staring at me while slowly blinking. "Destiny can be changed." I shook my head. "It can," He nodded his head. "It might be scary or go against the rules. But destiny can be changed by the decisions you make. Only you are the sailor of the ship." He grinned. "That is something my father used to say."

"Used?"

"He passed away." He gritted his teeth. "He was a great painter too. Better than me." To my curious gaze, he decided to continue. "My mother left when I was a baby. She fell in love with a younger man, leaving my dad and me." He gulped. "Therefore, I would not dare to say that I have seen love as my mother left without looking back."

"H-Have you experience love, sir?"

"Please, call me Dylan, my Lady." There was a comfortable silence between us as he seemed to be concentrating on the portrait. "Not sure I did. Love is not what is shown in books. Nonetheless, I would like it to be like that."

"I cannot agree or disagree." I offered a sad smile, trying to hide my tears. "May we take a rest?"

He glanced at the clock hanging on my wall, nodding his head. "I apologize, time went by so fast." He cleaned and placed his paints inside his briefcase. "Good night, my Lady." I bowed back to him as he closed the door.

I waited for a couple of minutes, opening the door and seeing Rosetta waiting there. "Where is Harold?" I glance around, hoping to see the grey-haired man.

"He had to take care of some issues." She replied, looking nervous. "Do you need anything, my Lady?"

I quickly nodded my head. "I expect no dinner today, and I demand to be left alone." She furrowed her eyebrows, and before she could speak back, I stopped her. "I would like to take my nightly bath on my own, please." She nodded her head, walking away after wishing me a good night.

I closed the door of my chambers, quickly locking it as I rapidly walked into my bathroom, doing the same thing to the door. Walking closer to the bath, I turned on the faucet. I checked the temperature of the water until it was lukewarm.

I sighed as my hands went to my back, untying my dress. As the clothes fell to the ground in a surprisingly elegant manner, I appreciated not being forced to wear a corset. My legs shook as I placed one inside the water until I was sitting down.

I have read in books how a woman and a man would fall in love. A passion that they could not resist. An absolute passion that would make their hands wander through their bodies, wanting to feel each other as close as possible. I have read it so many times that I could lie to my head, making it think that I have experienced something like that.

I have read the way hands seem to burn on the skin, and how breathing becomes more arduous. And how after being pleasured, you need it over, and over again.

I sighed, feeling my nipples hardening, and I learnt they could do so even if the temperature was not cold. My left hand gripped the edge of the bathtub as the right hand rested on my chest. I decided it was time to move it, and closing my eyes, I left it to wander down while grazing my nipples.

When my fingers caressed my tummy, they seemed to become shy. Not used to the places they were descending. I have read books, but I have never experienced the feeling, which made me feel curious.

I tried to remember all the books. My fingers ended up placed on top of my bundle of nerves, and just the mere touch made me shiver from excitement. I slowly moved them in circles, adding more pressure, little by little. The temperature down there seemed to get warmer to the point where it burned. I could not avoid the need to move my fingers faster.

My left hand continued to grip the edge of the bathtub, but this time harder as my mouth opened and my vision became blurry. I felt this strange sensation. I felt like I was going to urinate inside the warm water, and even though I felt quite disgusted by the thought, I could not stop my fingers. They moved in circles, faster and adding much more pressure.

And it came. A rush of pleasure came over my body, and I could not hold back the moans escaping my mouth as I peeped down between my legs. My intimate parts turned red due to temperature and agitation. Then, I regarded the water near it, looking less transparent. So that was it. That is what a woman felt after pleasuring herself.

Curiosity invaded me even more, and I wanted to experience more further.

A couple of days had gone by, and the portrait was already looking amazingly good. I did not have any doubt of Dylan's talent as I have seen some of his works.

"Has anyone shown you around?" We had got a little closer as we spent many hours together for the portrait. He shook his head, taking off his dark green beret, and resting it on a nearer seat as he proceeded to mix some colours. "Would you like to see the gardens and the horses?"

His eyes widened. "Horses, my Lady?" I chuckled at his expression, nodding my head.

"Eight to be exact." His eyes widened even more. I remembered everything he had told me about himself, especially his love for horses. "We could take a rest. I feel dizzy from the smell of paint." He promptly nodded his head, halting and resting his brush on top of an antique plate stuffed with remains of paint.

Strolling through the gardens, I peered at him. He seemed content, having the chance to smell the fresh air mingled with the scent of the white roses that decorated our gardens. "White roses are your favourites." He had surprised me while retrieving such a simple, but a unique fact about me.

I nodded my head. "I prefer them over red roses. Those are overrated." He laughed, making my heart beat loudly. Dylan was an attractive man, and these past days I could not stop my body and my heart from reacting as soon as my gaze met his. "The stables are over there." I pointed to a couple of meters away from us. I extracted my arm as I felt something falling on it. "Oh, it seems like it will start drizzling." We walked faster to the stables, almost running as the rain appeared to fall swiftly upon our clothes. "You will adore Arden. He is my hor-." I was interrupted as I saw two bodies stirring frantically against each other. Their moans, invading the stables. "Wh-." A hand covered my mouth while another dragged me off the stables. Dylan and I ran under the rain, getting as far as possible from the horses' house.

Both of us gawked at each other in astonishment. "Maybe my eyes deceived me. However, I believe that was Harold?" He seemed as shocked as me.

"They did not trick you." I gulped. "May I add that woman was my mother?"

His eyes widened even more. "T-The Queen?" I nodded my head. "I am so sorry, my Lady."

"I am not angered by the fact she was committing adultery! I know my father is no saint." I gritted my teeth. "I am mad by the fact she lives a miserable life. In which she had to marry a man she does not love, and she wants to impose the same duty on me!" My hands reached my hair, fingers clutching it. "It is not fair for her to desire the same dull and cruel life for me!" Dylan kept quiet, allowing me to rant. "Why must not I experience falling in love with someone? I crave to be touched by adoring hands, not dirty ones that will not care about my desires and will expect for an heir to be conceived." I sighed. "I ache to live that romance until the day I die." I let my posture fall, whining. "Why cannot I be kissed by someone truly interested in me? Why cannot I be touched by someone who desi-."

My speech was interrupted as Dylan's hands rested on my cheeks. His lips were tightly pressed against mine. I have read how a kiss was mostly controlled by the fight of tongues, aspiring to be the dominant one. But this was just a simplistic kiss.

"Oh my-." His eyes widened as my mouth fell open. "I apologize for my behaviour. I do not know what came over my mind for me to-." My hands were now covering his cheeks as I bought him closer. My lips were awkwardly pressed against his. He separated from me, blinking dumbfoundedly. "Close your eyes." I did. "Open your mouth a little, my Lady." His thumb drew my lower lip downwards. As he got closer, I felt his tongue stroking my bottom lip.

My hands were pushed against his chest as I gripped his white shirt between my fingers. One of his hands had to wander to my lower back as my legs shook. His tongue was now grinding against mine, and not knowing what to do, I mimicked his actions. My mouth instinctively melted against his.

"You will be the death of me, my Lady." He held me closer. His right hand, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Literally."

The following day, I walked to the great hall, confident enough not to knock on the door before stepping inside. My mother seemed shocked to be interrupted by my presence, as she gripped the teacup tighter.

Harold wandered behind me, fear written all over his features as he had never seen me disrespecting my mother in such a way.

I gestured for the cello man to leave the room, which he quickly did, not even daring to glance at my mother. "How dare you to come inside in such a-."

"I will not get married." I interrupted her, something I have never done before. I had been informed by my brother that there was a powerful candidate for me to marry. A 52-year-old man. "I will not marry someone I do not love, and even less a 52-year-old King just for our countries to be at peace."

"You have no say on it."

"Mother, do you want me to live the same life as you?" I ventured to ask. "Do you want me to marry a man who will sleep with every servant or woman that crosses his way while my future children will have to suffer the consequences too? A boy that ought to follow the rules of a King until he becomes a tyrant. And a girl who ought to have to act as demanded. Merely for the young male of the family to be even more respected?"

"As I sai-."

"Will I be like you then, mother?" My lower lip trembled. "Will I be cold-hearted towards my children, towards my daughter? Will I have to submit her to the same shameful life as me?" I did not let Harold intervene. "Will I have to close my eyes to true love and consume my infatuation with the person I truly love in some dirty stable?" Both of them were shocked by my words. "You are preparing and forcing me to the life you both have. I do not want to hide from the public eye and keep the person I cherish a secret."

"If this is about that paint-."

"He has nothing to do with this." I did not appreciate the way she spoke about Dylan. "I have openly expressed my discomfort about marrying someone I do not love since I recollect. I understand romance books do not happen in real life. But love does, and marrying someone for my brother's throne is not love." I sighed. "It is not fair for us, women, to be treated like this while men are approached like that!"

She surprisingly glanced at me for a couple of seconds before her sober expression appeared once again. "Every King marries the women they choose. We cannot decide. Every King has bastard children." I had to remind myself that Alexander and Victoria were the children of one of our servants. "Even your brother is going to have a bastard child." I furrowed my eyebrows as it was the first time hearing that news. "Rosetta." A disgusted expression decorated my face.

"Well," I breathed deeply. "Destiny can be changed." I recited the same words Dylan had told me once. "It might be scary or go against the rules. But destiny can be changed by the decisions you make. Only you are the sailor of the ship." I glimpse at Harold. "I am tired of not being the sailor of my ship." I softened my voice. "Think about it, mother. I will do everything in my power to get out of here, even if it means dying in the process." For the first time in my life, my teary eyes were met with the glistening tears that invaded my mother's eyes. "I will be in my chambers. Please do not bother me at all."

When arriving to my bedroom, I did not expect to see Dylan waiting inside. I locked the door behind me as my eyes examined his entire body.

"Are you all right, my Lady?" He showed the briefcase he was squeezing between his fingers. "Rosetta told me to wait here for you. Since we could not continue with the portrait this morning, I assumed that perhaps, we could tonight."

"Let's escape together." My mouth seemed to move on its own. However, Dylan stared at me with complete confusion decorating his features.

"My Lady, I do not think I understand what you are trying to imply." He knew.

"I have told you before I do not plan on marrying someone whom I do not love." I walked to my bed, sitting down on the mattress. "It has been decided without letting me know that I will get married to the King of Hiraeth."

He glanced down at the floor for a couple of seconds to later shift his gaze on my direction. "Perhaps he is not only a noble because of his blood. Perhaps he is also noble at heart."

"It does not matter if he is noble at heart or not," I answered decisively. "He is a 52 year-old-man! And as I said before, someone I do not love!"

He sighed. "My Lady," Resting his briefcase on the floor, he pulled a chair to sit in front of me. Though, he maintained the distance. "If I am not wrong, you have never met this man before. You might end up fallin-."

"Do not dare to say that!" I got up from the bed, eyes flickering. "Please, do not be like the rest of those who live in this palace! The first time you came here, you told me I could change my fate." He swallowed, nodding his head. "That is what I am trying to do." My hands were squeezing the skirts of my dress. "Please."

"I cannot take you anywhere, my Lady. You are the Princess of Onism. Everyone in town knows the beauty you behold." He coughed while deeply looking into my eyes. "I do not know anyone that will keep the secret of you being in to-."

"You are not understanding me, Dylan." I tried to ignore the way his body shivered every time my tongue and lips worked together to create his name. "I know I told you that I have never experienced love." I bit my lower lip, taking a breath. "I only know what I have read in books." He nodded his head, waiting for me to continue. "But I understand my feelings. Even before the day we kissed under the rain, I was already attracted to you."

"Attraction is something that can be felt many-."

I stepped closer, making him glance up. "It was attraction, I admit." Both of my hands navigated towards my back. "But my heart beats madly, whenever you are near me, whenever I glance at you or when I think about you." He got up from his chair, slightly stepping back. "I am utterly sure that I am in love with a man who worries about me and my feelings. Someone who has been encouraging me and that has seen my fears."

"My Lady," He gulped. "I truly feel honoured to be inside your mind and heart. I will not lie as I do also feel the same towards you." When I moved closer, he prevented me. "But you are a Princess, and I am just a simple man who paints in exchange for food and a roof." He blinked fastly. "I cannot give you the life you might expect." He offered me a side-smile. "And of course, our relationship would not be approved by the King and Queen." His voice turned softer. "Neither by the soon-to-be King of Onism."

"I do not care!"

"But I do, my Lady." He breathed deeply. "I do not want you to live a life where people will insult and degrade you plainly because you married a penniless man, or because you did not obey the established rules of the members of the royalty."

"I already have that life, where I am discredited just because I am a woman." This time when I stepped closer, he did not back away. "I already have to follow settled rules for the sake of my brother." My hands were still behind my back, and I finally decided to let them untie. He did not notice yet. "But now I have found someone who makes me feel something I have never experienced before." I sighed. "What did you do to me, Dylan?" He opened his mouth. "My mind and heart are full of you, and they constantly demand my body to be filled by you too."

His neck and cheeks turned red as he seemed to have difficulties while swallowing his spit. His eyes shifted around the room, trying to decide what to do. "My Lady," He sighed in desperation. His hands travelling through his body while he clenched it and gritted his teeth. "I truly have been trying to hold back." His hands now grazed his face. "I have been trying to hide how in love I am with you as I am just someone who does not deserve you."

"You are the man who deserves me the most." The shoulders of my dress fell, displaying my bare skin. His eyes widened even more. "And you do not have to hold back anymore." Finally, the cloth fell onto the ground. "I have read so many things, but I have never thought of experiencing them." I felt embarrassed by revealing such a matter. "I could not hold my hands from exploring my body for the first time as your image was in my mind."

"You did?" I nodded my head. His eyes had never left mine, not even to peer at my underwear. A rush of confidence seemed to hasten through him as he walked to the door, securing it. "Show me." My expression must have confused him. "Show me how you did it."

It was my turn to gulp as I got on my mattress, lying down on my back. I was slightly sitting thanks to the pillow, which granted me to discern Dylan as he shuffled closer to the end of the bed.

My bralette was already off, but his eyes still fixed on mine. "You can look." As soon as those words came out of my mouth, his eyes glanced down at my chest. It seemed like he had complications breathing.

My hands gently travelled down, gripping the sides of my underwear and slowly bringing them down my legs. The chilly air was a contrast of temperature to my entire body. I shifted my legs to completely discard my panties, which ended up someplace on the ground.

I permitted my fingers to touch the bundle of nerves, suffering a chill through my body that reminded me of that time in the bathtub, or the following times where I could not restrain my needs. Rubbing on circles, my other hand went to my mouth, biting on it not to make any sound.

"That is how you did it?" I nodded my head. "Until you exploded?" Again, I acknowledged with my head. "My Lady. Has any man touch you in such a way?" Shaking my head, he offered me a smile. "May I be the first one to do so?" I nodded my head, which he did not seem to like. "Please, use your words."

"I do," I did not hesitate. "I do want to be touched by you, Dylan."

"I might die right now, my Lady." He wandered closer. His hands slowly discarded his dark blue beret. Then, his fingers rapidly unbuttoned his white shirt, which had some dark little stains due to his paintings. His body was fit, enough to make a woman drool. I must say, he seemed broader than what I have imagined. "Have you ever introduced your fingers inside?"

I shook my head.

I hear the sound of his shoes falling to the ground as he kneeled on the end of the bed. His right hand moved my left hand from my clit, leading it to his hair. "Hold on tight, my Lady." Not sure of his next actions, I shivered as his breath hit my heated core. His tongue peeked out from his mouth, gently grazing my centre.

I gripped his soft hair between my fingers, making his gaze shift to look deep into my eyes. His tongue lapped, adding pressure on my clit. I whined as his tender tongue left my core to slid down and up a couple of times, extending my wetness all over my intimate part.

I was utterly surprised when the tip of his tongue ended up inside me, and he seemed to noticed as he grounded it against my walls. His right hand slowly left my thigh, where his grip had been tough. "I will be gentle." His whispers were almost unnoticeable as my moans were louder, feeling one of his warm fingers getting coated by my juices as he introduced it, inside my vagina. "Does it feel good?" Without waiting for an answer, he started thrusting it. His lapping tongue and his thrusting finger, producing a drooling combination.

"Oh my god," The candles that were lit, and resting on the table next to my bed seemed to flatter by a scene hotter than their flames. "Faster, please." I must not lie. Introducing his second finger on me had provided a slight pain. But seconds later, it had been replaced by an unbelievable pleasure. "Please do not make me beg."

"I would like to see you beg, my Lady." His mouth had left my clit, chin dripping with my fluids. "I would love to see you beg under the light of the candles while no one else knows that you are getting the love and passion you deserve." His fingers made a wet sound when they left my insides. I could not help but whine as he got farther from my body but became expectant when his fingers played with his belt.

As soon as he slid his pants down his legs, I could not help but moan again. There was a bulge between his legs, and I could not help but get flustered thinking about having him inside me. However, I was quite worried about his size as he already seemed thick through his pants.

I remembered a scene from a book where this girl had her first experience with her childhood friend. They had become lovers and decided to consume their love on top of the counter of the protagonist's kitchen. Her description of the scene was incredibly detailed. And even though my body had become more heated while reading it, I could not help but be worried when she described the experience as feeling as if she was getting 'ripped', which was quite vulgar but exciting in an unusual way.

I had been distracted by my thoughts, as to when I realized my rounds, Dylan's member was finally free. It stood tall and thick against his stomach. He could not help but contain his grin as I gasped.

"I never-."

"I know, my Lady." His hands grabbed my ankles, calmly making their way to my thighs, which he squeezed while separating my legs even more. "I am utterly happy to be the first and only man to make love to you." Uh? "I will take care of you for the rest of my life." His eyes looked deep into mine, asking for permission for his next movements and actions. Of course, I nodded.

He grabbed his shaft, his hand circling it while he thrust into his clenched fist a couple of times. He left if free, spitting on his hand to later grab his member again, lubricating it.

"I am a little scared," I confessed, shifting my gaze to his face. "You are so thick and long. H-How is that supposed to fit inside-."

"We can stop if you want, my Lady." One of his thumbs caressed one of my thighs. "There is no rush and enough time to do this whenever you feel ready."

"I do want to do it! I am just a little scared." I gulped, glancing down at his member. "Could you maybe go slowly?"

He nodded his head, getting closer and placing a peck on my lips. "Whatever you wish for, my Lady." Asking for permission again, he waited until it was granted, for the tip of his member to graze the lips of my vagina. "Here I go." He started adding pressure. Until the entire tip was inside, making me gasp. "Sh, breathe." His right hand went to my tummy, caressing it. "We can go slower."

I nodded my head as I took deep breaths, ignoring the tears that were falling from the corner of my eyes. A couple of minutes went by when I decided that the pain had become a pleasure. I shifted my hips toward Dylan. I was right as there was only pleasure. "Dylan, please," I whined. "Please move."

His entire member was inside me, and Dylan's thrusts had become steady and swift. His mouth was travelling from my jaw to my lips, sometimes stopping to ask for my well-being.

One of his hands left my hips, going between our bodies as he started circling my clit, adding more pleasure. "Oh my gosh," I raised my voice, not being able to hold back the incredible feeling. "Lord, please go faster." I circled my legs around his hips, bringing him closer if it was possible. His member, hitting places that it could not reach before. Wails of satisfaction came out of my mouth. "Please, fuck me harder."

He seemed quite shocked by my choice of words as his eyes widened. But he had seemed to enjoy them too, as his thrusts became even faster and sloppier. "I will not last long." He groaned, not afraid of expressing his pleasure while his lips grazed my ear. "I have been dreaming of this for so long." His moans made my entire body shiver. His right hand, circling my clit even faster. "Please, my Lady. Tell me you are close. Please."

"I am!" I drowned my screams while biting his shoulder. "I am so close." His left hand travelled to my left nipple, toying with it. The different stimulations, getting me dizzy while my vision became blurry. And I came undone under Dylan's body.

Reading was nothing like experiencing it.

My breath was laborious. Dylan stayed inside, thrusting a couple of times more until he quickly came out, thrusting in his clenched fist. He was going to finish soon. His eyes, questioning where to explode. My hands went to my breasts, holding them together.

Dylan's eyes widened as he understood what I was implying. He moved, his hips getting closer as his dick ended up being embraced by my breasts. I held them in place while he thrust, moaning at the contact. His tip, hitting my chin and lower lip. He did not last much longer, exploding and cumming all over my chin and lower lip.

He gasped, our bodies full of sweat. "I made a mess. I am so sorry, my L-." My tongue peeked out of my mouth, licking some of the cum that was resting on my lower lip. "I-. Oh, gosh." His lips settled up against mine. His tongue, parting my lips so his tongue could slowly dance against mine. "Did it feel good?"

"It felt amazing." I was still trying to breathe at a regular pace.

He kissed my forehead, leaving the bed and wandering to the bathroom. His member was still lightly hard. But he quickly gave me the view of his butt.

When he came back, he was gripping a towel. Sitting on the side of the bed, he slowly cleaned his release from my chin and chest. Then, folding it, he cleaned between my legs. He was cautious, trying not to hurt me as my entire body was sensitive. Next, he discarded the towel.

His body fell on the bed next to mine. We both gazed into each other's eyes with foolish smiles decorating our faces. "I do not want to leave. But night curfew will be soon."

"I do not care." I wrapped my sore body against him, breathing in. "Stay here. Nobody will know. You can leave early in the morning." I did not notice I was pouting until his lips pecked mine. Then, the rest of the night was a cuddling blur as exhaustion took over our bodies.

Another couple of days had gone by, and it was nearly impossible to keep our hands for ourselves. Dylan had been sleeping in my chambers, which was difficult to hide. I had been ignoring my mother and Harold as much as possible. And thankfully, my brother was away in a political meeting with my father. We had also continued the portrait sessions, which sometimes ended with our bodies full of paint as we could not hold back for holding each other.

I must confess that there had been sexual escapes around the palace, which was a surprise, as we did not get caught yet. Momentarily, Dylan's boxers were around his ankles like his pants as I was grabbing the skirts of my dress.

My face and chest were pressed against the wall of a tiny room while he thrust in me from behind. "Ah, we will get caught." He whispered but did not stop his movements. "You are going to be the death of me, my Lady."

We had been walking around the castle until I could not hold back myself anymore. I took Dylan's hand, going inside a tiny room that, it is used, for cleaning materials. Therefore, we were fucking as fast as we could, aiming for a release. "Please, go deeper!"

"I believe I am as immersed as I can, my Lady." The sound of our skin slapping against each other turned both of us on even more.

We both were close to our release. But we were rudely interrupted by the door of the room opening, showing Rosetta and Harold, who stared at us with surprise written all over their faces.

Dylan quickly came out of me, pulling his boxers and pants up while I let the skirts of my dress fall.

"Harold," I started. "Please, do not say anything." My eyes begged. "Could you please give us five minutes and wait in my chambers?" Without saying anything, they closed the door. "Oh my god."

"It is okay, my Lady." Fear was visible in his face and voice.

I was baffled as when entering my chambers, my mother was there, next to Harold. He ignored my gaze, staring deep into Dylan's eyes.

"Mother-."

"I told you!" She did not hesitate to raise her voice. "I know you did not choose to be a princess, but this is what we have to deal with." I could not protest. "I am not trying to make you miserable. I was trying to avoid a situation like this where this young man," Surprisingly, she did not glare at the young man next to me, who was squeezing my hand. "And you will be in danger!" She sighed. "Imagine if it was your father or brother finding you two! They arrived early this morning!" I did not know about their arrival. "He would have killed him and make you watch." I gasped, getting teary. "I did not want you guys to end as I did."

"What?" I asked while being overwhelmed by confusion.

"Your mother," Harold decided to spoke as my mother had to seat on the end of my bed, trying to calm herself. "She fell in love with a servant of this palace, way before you were born." Dylan and I were pretty interested in the story. "You do not choose who you love, my Lady." He shifted his gaze between the two of us. "However, keeping such a secret was complicated. And eventually, someone found out." His hand rested on my mother's back. "Unfortunately, the one that discovered them passionately kissing in the gardens was your father." I gulped while swaying closer to Dylan, searching for his warmth. "He executed him right there, in front of your mother."

"Those white roses used to be red." My mother's voice shook while she referred to those planted in our garden. "It was so repulsive to see that his blood mattered nothing when for me mattered the world. He was my world." She offered us a sad smile. "No one mourned for his loss except me. His body was taken away by other servants in uncaring behaviour. His blood could not be seen, because it had splattered on the flowers that had the same tone." She wept, trying to breathe and calm herself to continue. "It was as if he had never existed. I thought I had gone crazy, and I had imagined the love and the man that I desired to have."

"Mother," My eyes were teary. "I am so sorry that happened to you, and now, I understand you tried to protect me." I glimpsed at Harold for a couple of seconds. "But this is just throwing me into a deeper hole. I will end up in a similar situation to yours, and my children will be doomed, to the same cruel fate." I was desperate. "Mother, destiny can be changed." Dylan was looking at me, a tiny smile on his face while he rubbed one of my freezing hands.

"I have seen you grow up," Harold intervened. "I have learnt every one of your moves, understanding when you wanted to cry or laugh." He grinned, crossing his arms. "Deep inside, I knew one day you would want to fight from the established and dull life you are supposed to live."

"He spoke to me." My mother continued. "Harold opened my eyes, and he taught me to perceive that you were falling in love with this young man." She bowed at Dylan, and he returned the same gesture. "And I perceived that this young man was falling in love with you too."

"Your father and brother lied of their whereabouts." Harold stepped closer. "They bought with them a visitor."

My mother shifted closer to us. "It is the King of Hiraeth." She gulped. "The 52 year-old-man that they expect to marry you with."

"No," I shook my head. "Please, mother." I could not stop the tears from falling down my cheeks. "Please, mother. Do not let them do that. Please. Please." Before I could fall to my knees, my mother held her hand up, offering me a brown bag.

"It is yours now." My mother replied, sliding the bag into my hands. "This will help both of you." Money, there was a lot of gold inside the bag. Dylan was looking inside the container with wide eyes as I did. "If I had stolen money from your father, he would have noticed. Therefore, I bargained my jewellery." Her hand unconsciously went to her neck, and I noticed her diamond necklace missing.

"Here," Harold extended his arm, offering us a piece of paper. Dylan clutched it. It was a map. "That black circle is your shared property. It is a near kingdom, not too far from here but enough for you two to be safe and not be recognized, as the Princess of Onism."

"What?" My mouth was agape.

"It is Elysian. It is a small town full of life, and it is secure." Harold explained with a smile. "It is your new home. The money will help you guys for a couple of years, but of course, my Lady, you will have to get used to a life without servants and luxuries. However, I do not have any doubt that you will be able to adapt to such a life."

"Then," I glanced at my mother. "You are helping me escape?"

"I am helping both of you leave." She cried. "I am helping you get out of the life you did not choose and the one you do not desire." I turned around to stare at Dylan, who had tears running down his cheeks while smiling at me. He shyly pecked my forehead. He wiped his tears while bowing again, staying in that position for a couple of seconds. "No, no, please stand up." He did. "We are family now. Please take care of my little girl."

"I will, your highness." His words sounded so confident that it made my heart beat violently.

"W-What about you two?" I glanced between them. "Are you coming with us?" I was expectant to hear their answer.

My mother shook her head. "We did change our destiny." She referred to the present situation. "Do not worry about us."

"But-."

"My Lady," Harold took me into his arms, embracing me. "Escaping is more complex for us. But do not worry, because we will end up getting away from here. One day, we will." He smiled at me. "For now, Arden is prepared to take you both far from Onism tonight."

I nodded my head. "Take care of my mother, and thank you for being like a father to me." After squeezing him, I quickly hugged my mother. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Before they left my room, my mum turned around. "Dylan is your name, right?" He nodded his head. "I viewed the portrait. It looks marvellous. Take it with you." He was perplexed. "The portrait was for the man that will marry her. That man is you, so that portrait belongs to you."

"I bought gifts!" I overheard two squeals, rolling my eyes with a foolish smile, adorning my features. Two tiny figures ran to the owner of the voice. "Perhaps you both only love me when I bring presents."

"Perhaps they do." I walked closer to the man, whose beautiful smile was aimed, at me. My right hand gripped his arm, a signal for him to lower his head so I could peck his lips. "Welcome home. I made your favourite dish." My lips had trapped his bottom one between mines for a couple of seconds, making him whine lowly.

He seemed to be dumbfounded while pecking my lips a couple of times until our children interrupted the moment with their excitement to know what their father had brought them. "Well," He chuckled. "I bought my little princess this!" He took a stuffed animal from his coffee-coloured bag. Charlotte squealed and giggled while running around the room with her new plaything. "And I bought my not-so-little prince," He remembered how our little boy did not want to be named as a child anymore. "This." He showed him a new brand book, which cover was of a dark blue with golden touches.

Thomas could not help but grin. "This book was printed a couple of days ago! Thank you so much, father!" He tightly hugged his dad. "Perhaps I could bring it with me to the Addington's home?" He could not help but jump around due to his excitement. "I believe Newt will love it too!"

Dylan nodded his head. "Take care fo your sister, please."

The Addington's were a young family of five that lived next door. We were constantly inviting each other over to our homes, wanting the kids to play together. We, the adults, were also mates. A couple of times, we babysit each other's kids to have privacy with our respective partners.

As soon as the kids were out of the door, Dylan's briefcase had fallen to the ground. He had been away for an entire week due to a commission of a portrait where he would earn a lot of money.

His hands were caressing my entire body as we both tried to make our way to our shared chamber, in hopes of continuing the passion there. "I have missed you so much, my Princess."

My fingers moved quickly, trying to untie the dress I was wearing. My hands were sweaty, and Dylan must have noticed as he ended up unlacing my attire. "I am not a Princess anymore."

He swallowed, eyes focused on my breasts as I was not wearing a bralette. Both of his warm hands slid up, cupping my bosom. His fingers grazed my nipples while his entire hands squeezed the rest. "You are right." His gaze shifted to my lips. "You are the queen of my heart now, my Lady." That name had stayed since the very beginning, and every time it came rolling gently out of his lips, my undergarments got drenched.

"I will explode right here, Dylan." I moaned as my hands were busy sliding down his pants while he worked on his jacket and shirt. "I have missed having you around. And being around you."

He groaned, slipping one of his hands behind my back as he squeezed my buttocks. I whined when he pinched it. "You seem to be so desperate for me."

"That smirk," I grinned while kissing his bottom lip. "Perhaps you are as desperate as me." I glanced down as I spotted his hard bulge against my front.

"I am not as needy as you are, my Lady." The last word was said sensually, making my legs shake.

"I am sure you are as needy as me, Sir." It was that word for him. I could feel the temperature of his body rising.

"What does my queen require from such a humble servant?" He acted while sprawling my body down on the bed. His hands, gripping the sides of my panties, bringing the down and discarding them. "Maybe she needs help down here?" One of his fingers ran up and down, collecting my fluids. He did not hesitate to bring that finger into his mouth, savouring it. "My Lady, perhaps I should confess that you taste like Heaven, itself."

His face leaned closer to my core, but I immediately stopped him. He glimpsed at me, confused. "I want to be the one giving you as much pleasure as possible." Sitting down on the bed, my hands pushed against his chest until he was the one lying on his back.

I questioned myself when he had taken his boxers off as his member sprang free, hitting his tummy. Pre-cum was decorating his pink tip while sometimes, you could see it palpitating as the veins were tightening.

My right hand started working immediately, grabbing his shaft while going up and down. I softly squeezed it as his arm rested on top of his forehead, blissfully. My thumb stayed on the tip, playing with the tiny drops of pre-cum.

"Gosh, are you an angel?" His words wavered as my left hand cupped his balls, lightly tugging on them. "My Lady, I need your mouth, please." I attended his demands, my left hand still playing with his balls.

However, my mouth was also sucking on the lowest part of his member. Licking my way up, my mouth embraced the tip of his dick. His hands went through my hair, settling on grasping it forcefully and guiding me down until his entire thick member was inside my mouth.

His moans got louder as his hips could not hold back, shifting upwards, choking me as his tip scraped the back of my throat. "My Lady." Glancing upwards, I could see the sweat falling down his forehead. His entire body was sweating, especially the part of his chest with a spot of hair.

I sucked harder, preventing my teeth from grazing his delicate member. "May I come inside your mouth, my Lady?" Humming against his dick, he seemed to understand my permission. A couple of hard thrusts that chocked me and he was cumming down my throat, spilling a big load. His breath was laborious as his hands caressed my hair back. "Please, ride me."

He whined when his member lost the warmth of my mouth as I shifted my body to position myself on top of him. My left hand was resting against his chest. My other hand, grabbing his still firm member. "May I?" He nodded his head. As soon as he was filling me up, both of us became a moaning mess. "Ah, I felt so empty without your dick inside me."

His hands instantly clutched my hips as he encouraged me to bounce on top him. "You look so ravishing while you bounce on my dick." I moaned, loving his dirty talk. "I could do this every day. I love how your breasts bounce while you are getting stretched by my dick." He gulped. "They have got even bigger after you had our beautiful children." His right hand slapped my ass. "Listen," I ceased my moans as I heard the slapping sounds of our skins. "You are so wet for me, my Lady. Your pussy demands to hold my dick."

Both of my hands were now resting against his chest. "I am going to explode." The hand that was on my ass moved to the front, flicking my clitoris. "You fill me up so good, Sir!"

"I will fill you even more soon." He groaned, sitting down so he could move me closer to my body. Our mouths, touching in an open kiss. "I am going to release my entire load inside you. I am going to impregnate you, my Lady." I moaned. "You want that, right?" His thrusts became sloppier and harder. "You want to get filled and carry another gorgeous baby." I nodded my head. "You are as irresistible while pregnant. The way you cannot keep your hands to yourself. The way your bosom gets even bigger."

"Please, fill me."

No more words needed to be said as our teeth clattered against each other, riding our highs together. My vision got blurry, and my moans louder as I felt all of his huge load filling me up. "Oh, fuck me, my Lady. You take my load so good." The rest was full of kisses and warm under the sheets. His member had softened inside me.

On one of the walls of our chambers, there was a portrait of my younger self. She resembled grave and upset. Her composture seemed forced, but around her body, there were flames. Sparks that represented the passion she badly wanted to share. The adventures she wanted to live. There was a yellow light, which seemed, to be connected to her heart.

Dylan had described a young lady who aspired to live a passionate life. A young woman whose heart and mind were full of hope.

There was a lovely detail on the portrait. On the wall behind the young girl, there was a mirror, where you could perceive a young Dylan, examining the woman before him with a peculiar shining light on his eyes. The identical light young Y/N had while looking at Dylan O'Brien, the humble painter who shared the 'fictional' love she always wanted to experience.The love they both found and fancied.

Yes, destiny could be changed.

Those who asked to be tagged. Thank you for showing interest:

@og-baby-ob14 - @sweetest-serpent01 - @tovvaa - @jazminebrightxx - @sonnydoesrandomshit - @badgyal-barbie - @trustfundparker - @blueraindrops

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