#i can totally taste the wax but its still good
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Decarbed a gram of wax and made myself hot chocolate
#sailor emerald#mine#i can totally taste the wax but its still good#melted the wax into the whole milk and whipped cream first and then added the chocolate
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101 fluffy prompts
send me your prompt and the person you want it to be with.
prompt credits to : @otppromptlists
001 "You're really soft."
002 "You smell nice."
003 "I'm here for my daily fix of hugs and kisses."
004 "Is it possible to love too much?"
005 "I don't wanna get up-- you're comfy."
006 "I will always be there protect you."
007 "I'm cold. Come closer."
008 "I love you a lot, but please stop trying to cook me dinner, you suck.”
009 "The stars look especially lovely tonight."
010 "I've never seen such gorgeous eyes before."
011 "May I have this dance?"
012 "I can't stop thinking about you."
013 "You'll never feel alone with me by your side."
014 "Let's get to know each other over dinner."
015 "All I want is you."
016 "I could never leave you, I love you too much!"
017 "A fairytale with a happy ending always brings a smile to my face."
018 "I want to hear you sing."
019 "I don't think anyone could ever be as lovely as you."
020 "You look incredible in that."
021 "He/She's quite stunning, isn't he/she?"
022 "Sometimes I just can't control myself when around you."
023 "Do you believe in love at first sight?"
024 "I think I'm in love."
025 "I’d like it if you stayed.
026 "People are jerks, but not you."
027 "I'll share the blankets with you."
028 "I have never felt this way about anyone."
029 "I want this to never end..."
030 "Can I kiss you?"
LIVING TOGETHER
031 "I waxed the floors, grab your fluffy socks."
032 "Who changed the thermostat settings? I’m freezing to death."
033 "Can we just watch a movie and fall asleep on the couch?"
034 "You can put your cold feet on me."
035 "Your stray red item turned my whites pink."
036 "A thunderstorm is rolling through town and you’re scared of lightening/thunder so I’ll protect you."
037 "There was a power outage and now we have to have dinner by candlelight."
038 "Rock Paper Scissors to see who has to go talk to the neighbors upstairs for being too loud."
039 "I just came home to you crying while watching a movie, please tell me what’s going on."
040 "Our AC is out and it’s the middle of the summer."
041 "You found me crying on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night surrounded by a shattered jelly jar."
042 "My parents are coming over in 10 minutes so please put some clothes on"
043 "We’re repainting the apartment and going to the hardware store together to pick out color swatches."
044 "IF YOU USE UP ALL THE HOT WATER ONE MORE TIME IM GOING TO BAN YOU TO THE COUCH FOR A MONTH."
045 "We’re watching Toy Story 3 and we can’t stop crying."
WEDDINGS/PROPOSALS
046 "I caught the bouquet"
047 "My ex just invited me to their wedding and I need you to be my date so it doesn’t look like I’ve spent the last few years failing to get over them."
048 "We accidentally got married in Vegas oops"
049 "I’m really drunk, please help me get safely out of the way so I don’t ruin our friend’s wedding."
050 "I planned out this super romantic proposal and you just ruined it by beating me to whole proposing thing."
051 "I wasn’t planning on asking you, but it appeared to me that life is short. Will you marry me? "
052 "If you shove cake in my face this will be the worst wedding night of your life."
053 "Do you take this man/woman to be your lawfully wedded husband/wife? "
054 "May I have this dance, wife/husband? "
055 "You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m so happy I can finally call you my wife/husband."
056 "I jokingly told you that the only way I’d marry you was if you did this weird outlandish thing, and you actually did it, and I’m kind of charmed."
057 "This is probably a bad time, but marry me?"
MARRIED LIFE
058 "We’ve become the clingy newlyweds you always complained about. "
059 "Your ‘miracle hangover cure’ couldn’t possibly beat mine."
060 "I know you haven’t had the best experience with dogs in the past but look at its face please please can we keep it?"
061 "I wanted to surprise you for our anniversary, but everything that could go wrong, did go wrong."
062 "I beat you at Mario Kart and now you're banishing me to the couch for the night?”
063 "I surprised you with tickets to see our favorite band… WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU SURPRISED ME WITH TICKETS TO SEE THEM TOO?"
064 "I know we had a big fight but we still need to decorate the house for the holidays."
065 "Oh! Hey! Could you come and taste this to see if it's okay?"
066 "We’re arguing over book versus movie."
067 "I came home to a Nerf gun on the front porch and a note that says ‘Here is your weapon. I have one too. Loser cooks dinner. Good luck. xo’"
068 "We’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years."
069 "You had a business trip and I missed you so much that I kind of tore up the house in your absence like a dog with separation anxiety… sorry?"
070 "We both have nowhere else to be so we get to spend our rare day off at home."
PREGNANCY
071 "I bet it’s a girl/boy."
072 "Do you think it’s possible that I…might be… pregnant? "
073 "I thought I was pregnant but the test must have been wrong. I’m not. "
074 "You’re lucky I’m pregnant!"
075 "Can you help me up, your child is pretty heavy."
076 "I could really use a foot rub right now."
077 "Your dad is really excited to meet you soon, it’s driving me crazy."
078 "Do you wanna know the sex of the baby?"
079 "The baby’s kicks are keeping me up at night."
080 "Did you feel that?"
081 "I can’t fit into my favorite dress anymore. "
082 "OH MY GOD I’M GOING INTO LABOR. WHAT DO WE DO NOW?!
083 "I can’t be pregnant… or….OH MY GOD! "
084 "I think you might be pregnant.”
085 "It’s 2 am but you’re craving cake and we’re both up anyway so let’s bake in our underwear."
PARENTING
086 "I knew it was a mistake to get the twins matching clothes."
087 "Sh…they’re asleep."
088 "I think someone had a little accident with the finger paint."
089 "Mondays are your diaper days."
090 "Our kid is totally the one who wanted to build a pillow fort, not me."
091 "Ooh…someone’s got a tummy ache."
092 "Are you sure you don’t want me to drop them off myself? I don’t think you could handle seeing them off alone."
093 "I told you we should have just gotten that German Shepherd puppy."
094 "What do you think for their punishment? Grounding? No video games? No going out for a week?"
095 "Mm…your kid before five in the morning."
096 "Come on now, I think you’re being too harsh. He/she’s just a kid. Remember all of the stupid things we used to do when we were their age?"
097 "So, how should we break the news that they’re going to have a new baby brother or sister?"
098 "I think we should have another."
099 "Why wasn’t I invited to your wedding?"
100 "Okay fine, one more story, but then you really have to go to bed."
101 "…They just grow up so fast."
#natasha romanoff series#chris evans x reader fluff#steve rogers fluff#steve rogers smut#marvel smut#yelena belova smut#chris evans headcanon#daddy!sebastian#mommy!natasha#mommy wanda#marvel fluff#wanda maximoff smut#bucky imagine#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x reader
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TokoSyoMaru
-syo is a protector alter in their system
-both syo and toko date komaru
-obviously they are very different people and have different loving styles
**Toko**
-toko is very shy and not the kind of person to be very vocally affectionate her love languages are acts of service and quality time(giving) and words of affirmation (receiving) but it makes her so so blushy
-despite not vocally expressing her feelings often she writes beautiful love letters and leaves them for komaru (she keeps every one) being the ultimate writing prodigy they are like unbelievably gorgeous and romantic, very well written however she can’t even be in the same room as komaru when she reading it she finds it too embarrassing
-she isn’t one for pda but later into their relationship she likes to hold hands with komaru when they out together maybe small smooches
-she also isn’t one to use pet names but as she gets more comfortable she calls komaru a cutesy version of her name she will call her “komi” even beginning to refer to her as “my komi” when talking to friends which is huge for her
-as much as she thinks calling her pet names is embarrassing she loves being called them but stuff like sweetheart, darling,my dear because they are old romantic
-she is the small spoon
-she is always cold
-shows physical affection similar to a cat she has days where she is super cuddly but most of the time she prefers to just sit near and read near her girlfriend but she will always rest her head or put her feet on komaru
-toko acctually grows really close to makoto
-one year for her birthday the two of them ganged together to give her the best surprise party and birthday present
-they babysit and have kotoko over a lot
-komaru is the first person toko trusts to proof read her writings
-if she falls asleep writing which happens a lot komaru will carry her to bed
-she is addicted to black coffee and laughs at komaru’s taste as she loves the sweetest frappes but toko does love a psl which she hates to admit
-toko loves making fun of komaru for being “short” even though she is only an inch and a half talller
**Syo**
-syo is far more open in showing affection love language physical touch (giving) quality time (recieving)
-syo is big spoon and she like totally wraps herself around komaru like a proper koala bear hug
-she likes to try and bake and cook for komaru but is a total disaster
-komaru *is* good baker but a bad cook
-very protective if you look at her gf the wrong way be prepared to run
-loves pet names calls he bunny babe koko lamb cupcake sweetheart
-syo is so embarrassing in public and komaru loves it she loves PDA and telling everyone that komaru is her girlfriend
-syo loves her hair being played with
-she gives surprisingly good massages (it started as an excuse to be able to touch her gf all over but then komaru realised she was very good at it and asks for them all the time)
-komaru loves her big KYEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEH laugh she thinks it’s adorable which everyone else thinks she’s insane for
-she loves sweet stuff and especially anything really chocolatey
-chocolate lava cake is her all time favourite
NSFW
-switch Komaru gets best of both worlds with her gfs
-toko massive bottom sub
-syo sadistic dom
-when doming komaru is soft dom but bratty when subbing
NSFW
**Toko**
-she isn’t as masochistic as she though she was
-she still is into restraints
-impact play
-especially *wax play*
-but one time when they first started trying out this play komaru felt too mean degrading her and let out some “good girls” and “you are doing so well fo me” and that’s when toko realised praise is the good shit
-she also likes faux sympathy
-light hair pulling
-“you look so pretty taking my strap like that” she *melts*
-she doesn’t care for it to be too large just average length 5/6’ but wide it’s purple
-she also likes the bad dragon tenetcle ones
-neither of them are ones for fancy lingerie
-komaru litters her with kisses all over her body leaving light marks she likes that especially around her thighs
-she loves komarus squishy bits like her tummy thighs and big ass so she loves her sitting on her face
-“but i will crush you” “*exactly*”
-first time giving she was very shy and apprehensive but now she loves it
-serving her gf and seeing her cute face all blushy and lewd as she orgasm is such a turn on
-she loves tender stuff too she had this big idea of a romantic first time roses candles the works like in her books
-they do do that for like valentines but knowing the both of them they would set fire to the house so it is for special occasions
-bath stuff!!
-it all started with a depressive episode and her aversion to cleanliness komaru was like lets bathe together and i’ll wash you
-awoke something in her
-so bath time now always includes bubbles salts and her gf
-toko is at her softest after the fact so she needs lots of aftercare and komaru is more than happy to oblige and cuddle her maybe make them some tea
**Syo**
-sadistic dom
-primal play
-she loves the hunt seeing komaru’s big eyes look up at her as she pins her down in a mix of “fear” and arrousal biggest turn on
-she prefers fast rough and feral
-so she doesn’t overly enjoy using restraints she prefers to pin her down and loom over
-mild breath play
-loves overstimulating komaru
-biting!!!
-sometimes chomps too hard and draws blood
-leaves her covered in hickey’s (toko comes back to fronting and is affronted) she loves marking up komaru everyone knows she belongs to her
-(can lead family gatherings to be awkward makoto death stares his classmate lol)
-*knife play* with her scissors!!!
-komaru knows syo would never acctually hurt her its all part of the sense but the trust they have for each other adds to the arousal
-syo is about lingerie for her
-she just wants to rip her gf’s clothes off and see her fully exposed
-black lace , corsets , thigh garters
-not as methodical at giving as toko would be far more passionate quick and sloppy like a first time every time almost
-boobs and belly
-will just rest in having Face full of boobs as she fingers leaving hickeys on her breasts
-*that tounge*!!!
-she gives head from a position she can see all of komaru
-her face as she whimpers and moans, her heaving breasts and shaking thighs
-she grips the thighs hard enough to leave a mark
-tells her adorable and gorgeous she is constantly
-strap is about 8 in and upturned
-she missed aftercare once and ended up in the dog house
-now she’s suer careful and very cuddly and surprisingly very good at it
-she makes sure to look after her gf especially if she left any particularly bad marks
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Frozen: In the Details
Summary: Sometimes, the simplest of tasks can have a deeper meaning. Agnarr muses on what washing the car has meant to him in the past, and possibly the future. This was written for the “Summer Lovin’” issue of @frozines on Tumblr. Modern AU, Agduna and Kristanna.
This story can be found on @frozines and at Fanfiction.net and Archive of Our Own.
Enjoy!
--Pearson “Doc” Mui
Frozen: In the Details
by
Pearson “Doc” Mui
Agnarr awoke early on a Saturday. With some grumbling, Iduna released him from their bed as he prepared for the day. She understood that this task had to be done early in the morning, but she didn’t have to like it. If things worked out, however, it would have been worth waking up early for.
After a quick breakfast and some cleanup, Agnarr trotted to the garage. The spring in his step ran counter to the occasional crackling sound in his knees. Even the projected thirty percent chance of rain did nothing to dampen his spirits.
Eyeing one corner of the garage, he chose his tools for the day’s task. Buckets, wash mitts and car soap were laid out on the garage floor. After a moment, he opened up some folding chairs and a small table.
Opening the garage door, he smiled at the sight of his girls coming home, if only for today. They were adults now; Elsa was working on her PhD while Anna was a year into graduate school. The nest was never empty for too long, thankfully. They made time to visit, even if it was just for small talk.
Elsa eyed him ruefully before accepting a quick hug. She had a pretty good idea of what he had planned for their incoming guest. Anna, on the other hand, was pouting.
“Dad, are you really going to put Kristoff through this?” Clearly, his youngest wasn’t pleased at the prospect.
Agnarr raised an eyebrow. “The way you’re talking, you’d think that I was going to torture him. It’s just a car wash between men.” He sighed. “You used to love helping me wash the car.”
“I remember that you loved using the hose,” Elsa reminded Anna. There wasn’t any real bite to her words, though. “We used to help while wearing swimsuits.”
Anna’s pout faded as she sighed, briefly lost in nostalgia. “Those were good times, weren’t they?”
Iduna folded her arms and sighed. Both of her girls were wearing swimsuits underneath their shirts and shorts. Anna eagerly fingered the trigger to the hose while Elsa made sure the supplies were in order.
Elsa was having a good day. It hadn’t taken too much cajoling to get her outside. Anna’s puppy-dog eyes were a formidable weapon, especially at the tender age of eight.
Most men would have insisted on doing “man stuff” by themselves. Agnarr wanted to have as many family activities as possible. Everyone had a job: Agnarr would wash the car, Anna would rinse it off and Elsa would take care of the windows. Iduna was there for spot-checking and refreshments.
“Is everyone ready?” he asked enthusiastically.
“Ready!” Anna piped up.
“I’m ready, Papa,” Elsa said more demurely.
He nodded. “Well, let’s get this car clean, shall we?”
Iduna marveled at their coordination. Everyone worked their roles admirably. Of course, a family wash like this was more for fun than work. There wouldn’t be any intensely-detailed work like Agnarr had done before—
She suppressed a shudder. Agnarr’s father had been a cold taskmaster. He was more of a sire than an actual, warm father figure. While she took no pleasure in anyone’s passing, she had admit that the town had been the better for it.
The calm lasted almost the entire time the car was being washed. Then Anna got a little overzealous with the hose and sprayed into the air.
“Look, Elsa! Look Papa! I’m making rainbows—oops.” Anna laughed nervously as she realized that both Elsa and Agnarr were soaked.
Iduna sighed, safe in the garage. She knew that it was going to end up like this.
With calm, deliberate steps, she retreated further into the garage and grabbed a third, covered bucket from its hiding place. She and Agnarr had prepared this little surprise last night. With some effort, she hoisted the bucket to the driveway and uncovered it.
Iduna reached into the bucket and grabbed a water balloon. She gestured for everyone to do the same.
“On three,” she said firmly. “One, two—“
“THREE!” Anna squealed.
The battle was joined. When it was over, they were collapsed on the lawn, soaked through and basking in the summer sun. It had been a good day.
“Morning, girls,” Iduna greeted them. “Have you had breakfast yet? I could fix something up.”
“We’re fine, Mom,” Elsa reassured her. “We ate before we came here.”
Anna blinked and winced as she ran back to her car, an unassuming Honda Civic. Rummaging around, she extracted a bag and jogged back.
“We stopped by Hudson’s Hearth,” Anna said. “Destin and Halima say `hello.’” She opened it up and the three women sniffed deeply at the smell that wafted out.
“Hmm…chocolate,” they chorused. For a moment, they were lost in the smell of the pastries.
Agnarr tried not to chuckle. The apples didn’t fall far from the tree.
He turned away from them and tried not to look too anxious or expectant. In the brief encounters he’d had before, Kristoff had seemed like a nice enough young man. It was clear that he cared greatly for Anna.
Unfortunately, Anna hadn’t been so lucky the first time. At first glance, Hans had seemed like a good person, too. But the devil was always in the details—or, in this case, the detailing.
Hans had pulled into their driveway in a Ferrari. To Agnarr, this was the first clue that the young man might have been trying too hard.
“Good morning, Mr. Arendelle!” Hans greeted him enthusiastically. “So, who’s going to get the royal car wash treatment?”
“We’ll be taking care of Anna’s car,” Agnarr said. “I already waxed our cars last week. I figured that Anna’s car could use a cleanup.”
Hans’s smile froze. There was a dark shadow of disappointment in his eyes.
“Oh,” Hans said simply. Then he rallied. “Oh, of course,” he agreed. “Nothing but the best for Anna.”
“I’m glad that you agree,” Agnarr said. “I have all the supplies in the garage. Was there anything you needed?”
“Thank you sir, but I brought my own things,” Hans said smoothly. He almost strutted to the Ferrari and pulled out some high-end detailing supplies from the little trunk. They were all brand new and still in the package.
“Do you use all this on your own car?” Agnarr asked.
Hans paused. Then he smiled in an ingratiating manner. “I don’t compromise on quality, Mr. Arendelle. As I said before, I want only the best for Anna.”
As the time passed, Agnarr noticed several things he wasn’t sure that he liked. Hans insisted on doing it all himself, even though Agnarr had offered to help. Whenever Anna caught his eye, Hans flexed and winked.
It was clear to Agnarr that Hans had never washed a car in his life. He was washing randomly instead of methodically, “politely” refusing any suggestions. He was sloppy applying the wax, squirting a long line on the car and working from there. Furthermore, when Hans thought that neither Agnarr nor Anna was looking, he scowled.
Agnarr did not have a good feeling about Hans. He tried to voice his objections to Anna, but she was entirely captivated by how charming, selfless and helpful he was. Hans was, in her eyes, flawless. It was not a good sign.
“I’m not sure it’ll work out,” he admitted to Iduna later on. It pained him to see Anna clinging to Hans’s every word. It was obvious that Anna was utterly besotted with Hans.
“I didn’t know that a car wash was a personality test,” she joked. Her smile faded as she noted his grim expression. “You’re serious?”
He sighed heavily. “He doesn’t take any suggestions or criticism. He shows off when he knows that people are looking. When he thinks nobody’s looking, it’s obvious that he’s not really enjoying himself.” He paused. “And honestly, even Anna could see that he did a terrible job of it.”
“Elsa doesn’t like him, either,” she said. “Something about how he seems insincere to everyone except the person he’s focusing on.”
“Dad had that kind of charm,” Agnarr admitted. “He was better at it, though. Hardly anyone saw his dark side.”
She flinched. “We should warn her.”
“I’m not sure she’d listen. She has an incredibly forgiving heart and Hans will take full advantage of it. You saw how besotted she was with him. I could practically see the hearts floating from her.”
“So we do nothing?” Those words left a bad taste in her mouth.
“No.” He shook his head. “We hope for the best and prepare for the worst. If he tries to isolate her, we find ways to keep in contact. Elsa’s ready to intervene if she has to.”
She nodded. “And what if he goes too far?”
His expression darkened. “Then I will make certain that he never huts anyone again.”
“Just you?” she asked. “You never let me have any fun.”
“Fine, I can go after you,” he sighed. “Not that there would be much left.”
Anna’s enthusiastic greeting to Kristoff’s truck broke Agnarr out of his reverie. He chuckled as Kristoff parked his truck on the side of the road. It was a small gesture of consideration, one of many that he’d observed. Kristoff wasn’t rich and he hadn’t been able to afford the best education, but he was kind and sincere.
“Woof!”
Oh, and Kristoff had a big, friendly dog. The girls had taken to him almost immediately, with Anna babbling baby-talk as Elsa looked embarrassed. Iduna was not immune to Sven’s “puppy in a big body” charm. As for Agnarr, he was fond of the big dog as well—though he tried to be restrained about it.
“Mr. Arendelle,” Kristoff greeted Agnarr politely—and a bit nervously. “Um, I hope you don’t mind that I brought Sven. The big lug didn’t want to stay home.”
“That’s fine,” Agnarr said reasonably. “As long as he behaves himself, I don’t have any problem.”
“He’s a total sweetie, Dad,” Anna said from behind. “Want me to keep an eye on him?” She asked Kristoff.
“That’d be great, thanks,” he said. “If he gets fidgety, you know what to do.”
Opening the door, he grabbed Sven’s leash. The big dog jumped out and waited for Anna to accept the lead. After the obligatory scratch behind the ears and baby talk, she and Sven headed to the shelter of the garage.
“So, um, I brought some stuff with me,” Kristoff admitted. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture. “Of course, if there’s something you want to use, I’m okay with that.”
Agnarr scrutinized the equipment in the back of the truck. The microfiber towels had been neatly folded in their own, zip-locked bag. Two buckets with grates inside met with his approval. He did arch an eyebrow at the orbital polisher and pads, something that his late father would have taken issue with. There were spray bottles of wheel cleaner, “ceramic wax,” something for the upholstery and something called “instant detailer.” Everything was in good condition, but it was obvious that the equipment had seen some use.
“Do you think I brought too much?” Kristoff asked nervously. “Maybe I overdid it.”
“I think this will be just fine,” Agnarr said. He turned towards Anna. “What are you in the mood for today?” he asked.
“Well, I really don’t need anything fancy,” she replied. “Why? What did you have in mind?”
“I could probably get rid of some of those swirl marks,” Kristoff suggested. “If you want, I mean. Think of it as kind of exfoliating your car.”
She lifted an eyebrow at the metaphor. “Well…maybe just the hood and the trunk,” she allowed. She quirked the corner of her mouth in amusement. “You just want to use your little toy, don’t you?”
“Well, I saved up for it,” he admitted. “So, smooth out the hood and trunk, got it.”
Agnarr tried not to chuckle. “You have a polisher, don’t you?”
“It’s nothing fancy,” Kristoff said. “I saved up for it, so I figured I might as well get some mileage out of it.”
“He waxes his truck every few weeks,” Anna said. “You know, I kind of feel bad that you’re doing all this for my car. Maybe I could take care of the upholstery or something?”
The two men shared a look. Anna was dressed practically for the warm weather. There was nothing objectionable about her jean shorts and t-shirt. However, crawling around to wipe down the seats would have been awkward, to say the least.
“How about I walk you through getting your trunk polished?” Kristoff suggested. “It’s not that hard.”
“You’re letting me touch your baby?” Anna asked dubiously.
“My polisher is not my baby,” Kristoff protested. Then there was a warmth in his smile that made her flush. “I trust you.”
“So…you’d let me wax your truck?” she teased.
“Why don’t we start with your car first?” Agnarr gently interrupted. “We don’t want to wait too long, after all.”
Elsa quietly smiled as the men worked on the car. They had been surprisingly efficient and coordinated well together. There were moments when one man had to offer feedback to the other, but neither of them took any offense. It was an unusual kind of camaraderie.
Kristoff was a vast improvement over Hans. What he lacked in funds, he more than made up for in heart. He may have been a little rough around the edges, but there was no doubt that Anna was the most important person in his life.
She heard one breathy sigh, then another. She noted the very contented looks on the faces to either side of her. Then she noted that even in the relatively cool summer weather, Kristoff and her father had worked up quite the sweat, their shirts clinging to them.
With a quiet, resigned sigh, she went into the house. Her sister and mother were oblivious to her absence.
A few moments later, she returned with a tray of drinks and two towels. She set the tray on a nearby work bench and took two tall glasses of lemonade with her.
Anna still had a dazed, dopey expression on her face. Iduna wasn’t much better.
Elsa took Anna’s free hand, the one that wasn’t holding Sven’s leash, and gently placed the glass in her palm. With a start, she blinked as if she were coming out of a spell.
Elsa did the same for their mother. Iduna’s reaction was much the same as Anna’s.
Elsa couldn’t resist a little smirk. “I thought you two might want something to drink,” she said. “You both looked…thirsty.”
Iduna and Anna rolled their eyes at the double-entendre. Behind the cool exterior that Elsa projected, she could be quite the joker—even if her humor tended to be on the dry side.
“Very funny,” Anna returned. “We’re just appreciating their hard work.”
“We certainly are,” Iduna agreed. “Both of them are very diligent.”
“Well, maybe we could reward their diligence with a towel and a sports drink?” Elsa suggested, gesturing to the tray. “I think they could use it.”
Agnarr wiped the sweat off of his forehead. While he still enjoyed washing cars, he was reminded that he wasn’t a young man anymore. Even though he and Kristoff were cutting the workload in half, he was still going to be sore tomorrow morning.
Still, it was gratifying to see how seriously Kristoff took things. He was methodical and, more importantly, he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself. He concentrated on the job at hand and accepted feedback.
“You’ve had some experience,” he observed. “With washing cars, I mean.”
Kristoff gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I worked part-time at the car wash one summer,” he replied. “I guess it kind of stuck.” He wiped at his brow. “I wouldn’t want to do it for a living, though.”
“I had to…earn things by washing cars,” Agnarr said. “My father was a big believer in hard work.”
Kristoff said nothing. He could tell by the older man’s tone that there were mixed emotions.
Agnarr wiped the sweat off his brow, if only to not drip on his father’s Cadillac. The “beast,” as he jokingly called it, was an ostentatious symbol of his father’s wealth and practicality. It was practical in that any repairs or maintenance could be easily obtained within the town.
As he wiped off a clear path in the baked-on wax, he saw his tired, sweaty reflection in the black depths of the “beast.” He had just spent the last four hours under the hot July sun. Every detail had been supervised by his father, who was resting in the shade with a beer. Every once in a while, his father would shout words of—
“Come on, boy!” Runeard exclaimed. “Put your back into it! In my day, we had to deal with Blue Coral. You’ve got it easy with that wax!”
Agnarr said nothing. His father often deducted from the anticipated payment if he talked back. It was one of the little ways that the family company kept people in line.
It took another half hour to clear off the last of the wax. His arms trembling, he stood up straight and awaited judgment—and hopefully, payment.
Runeard took one last draw of his beer and got up. He circled around the Cadillac and murmured in—well, it wasn’t quite approval. It was more like he acknowledged that the job had been done.
Agnarr tried to keep calm. He didn’t dare show how eager he was to get paid. He couldn’t ever let his feelings show, not in front of his father.
Runeard wiped his index finger down the hood and felt for any errant wax. There was one last murmur as he nodded.
“It’ll do,” Runeard declared. With exaggerated magnanimity, he took out a twenty and handed it to Agnarr. Then the scowl returned as his nostrils flared. “Get cleaned up before you go, boy. And you’d better stay away from those filthy people.”
Agnarr nodded once. The less his father knew about his outings with Iduna, the better.
With one last scowl, Runeard shooed him away from the car. It was the same dismissive gesture he might have used for a servant. It certainly reinforced Agnarr’s place in the world—at least in Runeard’s mind.
Agnarr trudged back into the house. He didn’t have to play up his muscle aches. He did have to remind himself not to smile in front of his father.
Those long, hot hours had been worth it. The aches had been worth it. Above all, Iduna was worth it.
Agnarr forced himself to take long, slow sips of the sports drink as he toweled off the sweat. The exterior had been cleaned and dried, including the wheels. All that was left was the interior and waxing the car.
“You’re in good shape for your age, but don’t overdo it,” Iduna warned him gently. “There’s no one to show off to.”
“I’m not showing off,” he replied. “I’m just…enjoying the moment.”
“What moment?” she asked.
He turned his gaze to where Kristoff was showing Anna the bottle of detailer spray and some sort of yellow clay. He sprayed the hood and wiped the clay across the surface. Then he took a microfiber towel and wiped off any residue.
“See these little dots and specks?” Kristoff pointed to the clay bar. “These are contaminants that stick on your paint. We want to get rid of those before we polish out the swirls. After that, we put on the wax and we’re all set.” He paused. “Here, feel where I just cleaned it up.”
Anna tentatively brushed a finger across the surface. Blue eyes widened in amazement.
“Whoa, that’s…really smooth,” she said. “So, you do this every time you wax your truck?”
He shook his head. “No, this is only once or twice a year. This used to be a big secret for the car shops until a few years ago.”
Iduna turned back to Agnarr and nodded in understanding. There wasn’t a hint of arrogance or condescension in Kristoff’s voice. He merely wanted to inform Anna about something he liked.
As the morning went on, Agnarr noted how patient Kristoff was with Anna. He was a good teacher, putting his polisher in Anna’s hands. It was obvious that Kristoff trusted her implicitly—and she felt the same about him.
By the time they were done, Anna’s Honda had never looked better. Anna and Kristoff took a moment to bask in their shared accomplishment. The car gleamed in the light, despite the clouds coming in.
“Good job, feisty pants,” Kristoff complimented her. “She looks great.”
“Oh, I didn’t do all that much,” she demurred. “You and Dad did all the hard work.”
“Oh, it’s not as hard as the old days,” Agnarr chimed in. “Believe me, I would have been a lot less sore if we had that ceramic wax back then. It’s a lot easier to take off than baked-on Turtle Wax.”
Any further comment was forestalled when Sven sniffed the air. The big dog made a dissatisfied, grumbling sound. Moments later, the sky darkened with an ominous rumble.
“Oh, no…” Agnarr groaned. “There wasn’t supposed to be any rain today!”
“That figures,” Kristoff sighed heavily. He eyed the back of his truck.
Elsa checked her phone. “Looks like there’ll be heavy showers for an hour or two.”
“But we just finished it!” Anna groaned.
Kristoff perked up a little. “Well, I’ve got a tarp in the back of my truck. I could cover up your car until the rain stops.”
Anna blinked. “You’re prepared.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes life is like that. You get little bumps in the road and do the best you can. Experience is the toughest teacher. C’mon, let’s get this done.”
Moments later, Anna’s car was safely covered just before the deluge hit. Everyone watched the rain from inside the garage. Kristoff and Agnarr were toweling off their hair. They were both soaked form the rain.
“Sorry it didn’t work out, sir,” Kristoff said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Agnarr replied. “I’d say that this was a very productive day.”
Kristoff looked at him quizzically. “How so?”
Behind him, Anna looked puzzled while Elsa looked satisfied. Clearly, something was going on.
“Do you have anywhere you need to go?” Agnarr asked casually.
“Not until the rain stops,” Kristoff replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, until then, I suppose that you and Sven are our guests. Do you have any requests for lunch?”
Kristoff held up his hands. “Sir, I really don’t want to impose. I’m sure you were looking forward to time with your family.”
“I am,” Agnarr acknowledged with a nod. “Of course, this can include prospective members of my family.”
“But Sven—“
“He’s covered,” Elsa said. She reached in her purse and held up a can of dog food.
Kristoff blinked as Sven leaned against Elsa. “Did you know about this?” he asked Anna.
She shook her head. “Nope. It’s news to me.”
“Relax,” Agnarr said calmly. “I’m not bringing out the shotgun for you two. I’m just asking if you’d like to stay for lunch.”
“I—sure, if it’s no trouble,” he agreed.
“No trouble at all,” Iduna reassured him. “There’s plenty in the Instant Pot to go around.” She opened the door to the house and the smell of hearty stew wafted outside.
“Useful, isn’t it?” Elsa remarked. She paused and dug out something else from her purse. She handed a large, folded square of cloth to Kristoff. “You’ll need this.”
He grimaced at the t-shirt he’d been handed. It wasn’t his, but it was definitely his size. The words “love expert” were boldly emblazoned on the front, complete with hearts.
“Elsa!” Anna exclaimed.
“Yes?” Elsa could not have pretended to be more innocent if she’d batted her eyes.
“You are a stinker. No, you are a scheming, plotting stinker. This was a conspiracy!” Anna declared.
Elsa and Agnarr had matching smirks. That was unsettling to both Anna and Kristoff.
“Well, I didn’t plan on the rain,” Agnarr admitted. “You are welcome in my house.” He paused. “While you are in my house, I do expect you two to…mind your manners.”
Agnarr turned to go inside. He only briefly paused when he passed Elsa.
“They’re blushing, aren’t they?” he murmured.
“Oh, yes,” Elsa agreed.
“Good.”
Elsa lingered for a moment, a smug little smirk on her face. Then she tapped her thigh and Sven followed her inside.
“Your Dad really doesn’t have a shotgun, does he?”
“I…don’t think so. I think he likes you.”
“That’s…good,” Kristoff got out awkwardly. “I mean, it’s better than the alternative.”
Wordlessly, Anna reached out. He gently took her hand as her eyes shone.
“Come on, Mr. Love Expert,” she said. “Let’s have a family lunch.”
Kristoff’s expression softened. “Sounds good to me.”
The End
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This week on Passionate Reply: We all know “Don’t You Want Me,” but the early Human League is a totally different beast, featuring a different line-up, and songs about killer clowns and wanting to be a skyscraper, on their debut LP, 1979′s Reproduction. Transcript below the break!
Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums. In this installment, we’ll be investigating one of the most surprising debut LPs around: The Human League’s Reproduction, first released in 1979.
Pretty much anyone with a general understanding of Western pop will already know the name of the Human League, and associate them, rightfully, with their early 80s hits like “Don’t You Want Me.” For many, the Human League were the first genuine synth-pop that they had ever heard, and their work in the 1980s has been immeasurably influential in bringing the notion of electronic pop into the mainstream. But before they were hitmakers and game-changers, the Human League were a very different band.
Music: “Being Boiled”
“Being Boiled” was the first thing the Human League would ever press to wax, way back in 1978. In most respects, this track is everything that “Don’t You Want Me” is not: its pace is languid, its structure is shapeless and meandering, and rather than a simple and relatable love story, its lyrics offer us a strange and opaque condemnation of the tortures endured by silkworms during textile production. While fascinating, and endearing in its own morbid way, “Being Boiled” does not exactly scream “hit record.” The Human League were not only a different band in a stylistic sense, but also with respect to their personnel, driven by a creative core comprised of budding synthesists Martyn Ware and Ian Craig Marsh. Prior to the release of the breakthrough album Dare, Marsh and Ware would abandon the group over creative differences, and go on to form Heaven 17 instead. It was vocalist Phil Oakey, and producer Martin Rushent, who would create the sound that their name is now so strongly associated with, and this early incarnation of the group is probably best thought of as an entirely different entity. This album, Reproduction, was their first full-length release, and is perhaps the best introduction to their pioneering sound.
Music: “Circus of Death”
“Circus of Death” had appeared as the B-side to “Being Boiled,” and was included once more as the second track on *Reproduction.* It has a lot in common with the other track it accompanied: a plodding pace, a dark and obtuse lyrical theme, and a sparse, fully electronic instrumentation. The Human League were among the first British groups to utilize a totally electronic sound, devoid of any traditional instruments besides the voice, though in this underground and more experimental context, it doesn’t present a threat to the status quo of pop the way that Dare would a few years later. Alongside fellow proto-industrial acts associated with "the Sound of Sheffield," like Clock DVA and Cabaret Voltaire, they dwelt on the fringes of good taste, crafting subversive music for subversive people. “Circus of Death” introduces us to a demonic figure called “the Clown,” who controls, and torments, human beings by use of a drug called “Dominion,” in a scenario that sounds a bit like Huxley’s Brave New World. It’s worth remembering that while younger generations are quick to think of clowns as icons of evil and terror, clowns were unironically beloved as bringers of joy for most of the 20th Century, and these early portrayals of clowns as killers were indeed shocking at the time. Preceding “Circus of Death,” and opening the album, is “Almost Medieval,” a track with some similar themes, but a rather different composition.
Music: “Almost Medieval”
While “Circus of Death” is slow and dirgelike, “Almost Medieval” showcases the more aggressive side of *Reproduction.* It opens the album with a starkly simplistic tick-tocking beat, reminiscent of an unaccompanied metronome, before bursting into its punk-like sonic assault--a musical representation of how seemingly predictable and deterministic machines can also create something outrageous and unexpected. The lyrics of this track seem pointed towards the past, with the narrator exclaiming that they “feel so old,” and as if they’ve died many times before. Juxtaposed against the thoroughly modern setting of an airport with tarmacs and jet engines, it might be taken as an expression of the horror a person from the past might feel if they were shown the world of the future, created by capitalism and high technology. While it isn’t very accurate, we have a tendency to think of the “Medieval” world as a barbaric, unclean, and uncivilized era, full of witch hunts, chastity belts, and the deliberate erasure of “ancient wisdom.” “Almost Medieval” turns that idea on its head, suggesting that perhaps our world is the one that’s truly barbaric. The image of its narrator, “falling through a rotting ladder,” can be taken as a rejection of the notion of a “ladder” of progress. Similar themes of open-ended symbolism, and the sorrow of modernity, can be found on “Empire State Human.”
Music: “Empire State Human”
Like “Almost Medieval,” “Empire State Human” is lively and faster-paced, with driving percussion. With its straightforward rhymes and repetitive structure, it readily encourages the listener to sing along, almost as if joining in some sort of ritual chant. It’s an idea that Marsh and Ware would return to in their Heaven 17 days, with tracks like “We Don’t Need This Fascist Groove Thang.” “Empire State Human” was the album’s only single, and thanks to this exposure, and its (relative) palatability compared to the rest of their catalogue, it remains one of the best known tracks from the early Human League. “Empire State Human” makes its concept pretty clear, with less ambiguous lyrics and an easy to follow mix that brings Oakey’s voice to the fore: the narrator wishes to become a building, and a mighty skyscraper no less, which might rival the achievements of the Pyramids of the ancient Egyptians. While it is clear that that’s what the song’s about, what we do with this once again high-concept subject matter is up to us. I like to think that this is some kind of perverse commentary on the unnatural and alienating experience of urban living, which may come with the feeling that the concrete and rebar structures that surround us are more significant to our lives than the people who may live or work in them. City life is addressed more directly by the track “Blind Youth.”
Music: “Blind Youth”
“Blind Youth” is probably the most “grounded” track on the album, in terms of its theme, making pointed remarks about “dehumanization” and “high-rise living.” It’s tempting to think of it as a sort of parallel to “Empire State Human,” with a broadly similar musical backdrop, and a more literal expression of the theme hinted at more obliquely by “Empire State Human.” With its focus on the experiences of the titular “youth,” “Blind Youth” can also be contrasted with “Almost Medieval,” whose narrator keens about feeling old. Where “Almost Medieval” deals with the disgust an older person feels at the decrepit state of the human race, “Blind Youth” shows the demented, unthinking joy of the youth, who have grown up in an industrialized and urbanized world, and don’t know different--or better.
While there have been many classic underground albums whose covers aimed to shock and displease polite society, the cover of Reproduction is one of the few that I feel would still be seen as offensive, over 40 years later. It was allegedly the product of a miscommunication between the group and the illustrator commissioned to create it; the band requested a scene in which people are dancing above a ward of babies in glass-topped incubators, and the striking angle, which seems to show people crushing infants underfoot, is an unintentional aspect of the design. Unintentional or not, this crudely violent aspect dominates the final composition, and lends it vileness and immediacy. Like the lyrics of many of the songs, the combination of the cover and title can be interpreted a number of ways. Perhaps it’s a glib commentary on human reproduction as fun and games: we partake in the “dance” of courtship and sexuality, and babies drop beneath our feet. Or perhaps it suggests a contrast between life’s enjoyments, like dancing, and its stressors, like the responsibilities of parenthood. It’s hard not to see so many crying, seemingly distressed infants without becoming upset oneself, and I think the deep instinctual revulsion that this piece inspires is part of why it’s remained so resonant in its subversiveness.
As I mentioned in my introduction, the Human League have gone down in history chiefly for the music they made later, which has largely buried this early period as part of their legacy--at least in the public eye and outside of the dedicated diggings of motivated enthusiasts. If you’re a fan of what you’ve heard from this album, you’ll probably enjoy their 1980 follow-up Travelogue, as well as their EP, Holiday ‘80. Given the emphasis on long-form albums among music aficionados, EPs and their exclusive tracks are quite frequently missed, but Holiday ‘80 is a gem from this short-lived line-up, featuring the fragile “Marianne” as well as a cover of the stadium favourite “Rock ‘N’ Roll,” made famous by Gary Glitter. Thumbing its nose at everything the culture of “rock and roll” stands for, and transposing this hymn to its greatness into an abrasive and sterile lunar landscape of synths, this is one of my favourite covers of all time, and seems to prefigure how a very different Human League would later become the archnemesis of all that rock fans held holy. It was also one of very few tracks to be performed on Top of the Pops, and subsequently see not a rise, but a drop in the singles charts!
Music: “Rock ‘N’ Roll”
My favourite track on Reproduction is one that appears on its second side, unlike the other tracks I’ve talked about so far: “Austerity / Girl One.” Side Two of Reproduction is mainly focused on longer and more narrative-driven tracks, and this is no exception. Like the opener of the second side, “Austerity / Girl One” is a medley, albeit one of two pieces that are original compositions and not covers, as medleys usually are. This track’s story is both timeless and modern, a bit like a contemporary King Lear: the “Austerity” half deals with an aging father, incapable of understanding his children, dying alone and ignored, while the “Girl One” half puts us in the mindset of his daughter, a New Woman whose life is hectic, but also bleak. It’s a story that many of us will relate to, about people who try their best with what they’ve got, but still feel as though they’ve failed in life. Its simple, but effective musical backdrop of wan synth pulses allows the narrative, and Oakey’s evocative portrayal of it, to take center stage. That’s everything for today, thanks for listening.
Music: “Austerity / Girl One”
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nsfw alphabet: jeff wittek
hiya everyone! so someone had asked if i could go in-depth on my bdsm breakdown of jeff but i had already gone through the acronym. SO! i remembered that the nsfw alphabet existed and thought it’d be put to great use on this blog. please reblog or like if you enjoyed! :)
a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
jeff is definitely very caring after sex. if he knew he pushed you and went a little too rough on you, i could 100% see him getting an ice pack for your welts or putting some cream on them just to make sure you’re okay. i also feel like after sex, he would check in to see if you enjoyed yourself because he believes he has to have a top performance. imagine he went to rough on you and you were having trouble walking, so he picks you up bridal style and carries you to the bathroom to make sure you pee (no uti’s in this bitch) and to make sure you’re cared for. then he’d carry you back to bed and tuck you in:,)
b = body part (their favorite body part of their partner’s)
i believe jeff is an ass guy. some may debate on this BUT even if you don’t have the thiccest of the thiccy, he would love it regardless. with or without the sex, he seems like the type to always have his hands on your ass no matter what. doing dishes? his hands smack your ass. y’all are kissing? his hands are on your ass. if you’re riding him, he would most definitely guide you with his hands on your probably already bright red cheeks. / if you wanna read a little bit more about this, read my bdsm breakdown!
c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
he’d def want to finish on your ass or all over your tits. if he’s fucking you doggystyle and is about to come, he’d pull out and release his cum all over your ass. if he was finishing while y’all were in missionary, he’d instruct you to sit up on your knees and push your tits together. you’d put your tongue out just to see if you’d get a little taste of his cum and he’d jack himself off and aim at your tits.
d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
sometimes he’d like to pick fights with you because he knew the makeup sex would be BOMB AF. or even if y’all didn’t make up, the angry sex would be so rough and fulfilling. he’d love to have the chance to wrap his hand around your throat or manhandle you but you didn’t mind it at all because it was CONSENSUAL and you knew he wouldn’t push the boundary.
e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
i’d say he’s very experienced. he lost his virginity at the age of 12 so he’s had about 18 years of practice. plus his last girlfriend is spicy as hell so i wouldn’t surprised if they fucked all the time or had $picy sex :)
f = favorite position (this goes without saying)
doggy.
g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
not really. not to say y’all would never be goofy but i’ve always thought that like if something went wrong during sex, you would laugh it off and he’d get embarrassed. imagine you and the vlog squad are taking a trip in an rv. so you and jeff are trying to get it on in the bunks, i could 100% see him fucking hit his head off the top bunk and you’re just laughing his ass off and he keeps on saying that it isn’t funny and to shut the fuck up lol
h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
he is 100% a ken doll down there. he cares a lot about his image so i’m sure he’s well maintained under there.
i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
“as far as making love, i can see him as extremely passionate but soft at the same time? like i feel like he would be soft in the way of talking to you. like i can imagine him gassing you up and just calling you beautiful and telling you how much he loves your certain features. like he’d just be a complete softie! his strokes would 100% send it home and he’d probably be gripping the headboard while thrusting into you passionately.“ (taken from one of my blurbs)
j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)
if you went on a business trip or a vacation, he is def relying on his hand. if you’re around, i can’t see him doing it often. maybe you had somewhere to be and he caught a glimpse of you and got horny. so while you’re gone, he decides to masturbate and you realize that you left something. so you walk back to the apartment and nerf comes tapping to you. hearing moans coming from the bedroom, you turn to nerf and say ”hey nerf, what is daddy doing?” you inch closer to the door and the moans become more prominent. slowly opening the door, you’re met with a naked jeff, abs well defined, and his hair sticking to his forehead due to all the sweat. “woah woah woah, y/n, what are ya doin’?” he’d panic. getting all shy, you’d tell him to continue and pretend you’re not even there as you search for the item you left behind lol
k = kink (one or more of their kinks)
“some kinks that i see jeff would have are: double penetration, dirty talk/degradation, and candle wax play. when it comes to double penetration, i don’t mean in the typical way of two people filling both holes. i don’t think jeff would want to share his partner so i envision more of his partner (who has a vagina) wearing a butt plug while he fucks his partner’s vagina. another kink we can explore is dirty talk with degradation. just like david, i can see him saying stuff like ‘can you take daddy’s cock like a good girl?’ (hehe daddy kink) and ‘do you like it when daddy fills your holes like the slut you are?’ dirty stuff like that ya kno?“ (taken from one of my blurbs)
l = location (favorite places to do the do)
it depends. if y’all are at a hotel for example (like the one in miami), it’s the balcony. i could see him fucking you from behind while pulling your hair and nipping at your neck. if it’s a casual day in the life; the bed, the couch, or maybe even the barber chair? when i think about having sex in the chair, i think of his partner first giving him head while he’s sitting in the chair, then transitioning to riding him in the chair, and maybe you’re holding onto the arms of the check and fucks you from the back. :,)
m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
what turns jeff on? every part of your being. as corny as it sounds, he seems like you could just make a funny joke and everyone laughing would turn him on????? that maybe sounds weird but he’d be so into you that something as simple as that could get him going. also when he catches you dancing at a party and just exuding confidence all over the place!
n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
probably roleplay and every that’s too taboo. i could see him not enjoying roleplay because he’d think it’s “too cheesy”
o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
i believe he prefers to receive other than give. and no one come for my neck for saying that. it doesn’t make him selfish because his stroke games seems a1.
p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
it depends. if y’all are making love, it’s slow and sensual. if it’s a hookup or just fucking, y’all are going fast and rough. (here’s a blurb where i talk about both of these)
q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
they wouldn’t happen often but if you did it, it was in a public place. i can totally see jeff and his partner hooking up really quick in david’s bathroom during a party because y’all literally couldn’t wait till y’all got home. other than that, i feel like he really wouldn’t like to rushed so quickies didn’t happy as often as with someone like david.
r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
i think he’s down to experiment but it depends. i don’t see him as OUTRAGEOUSLY kinky but say one night you’re like “hey wanna try anal?” he might be hesitant at first but try it after you beg him. i feel like if it’s what his partner wants, he’ll do it because he’s a sucker for them.
s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
he’s a pretty healthy guy so i’d say three rounds TOPS. and as far as how long does he last? i’d say 30-45 minutes!
t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
the only toy i could envision him wanting to try on you is a butt plug. due to the fact i’ve stated that i think he’s an ass guy, i think he would go nuts to see his princess with a pink and glitter butt plug in all its glory. :,)
u = unfair (how much they like to tease)
i don’t think he’s into teasing that much during sex. i think he’s clear, concise and to the point. however, i believe he’d be the biggest tease before sex. like imagine sitting on his lap in david’s tesla after leaving the club. and his hands are just stroking the inner part of thighs and he’d lean into your ear and say something like “can’t wait till we get home mmmm-” and then kiss your neck
v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
he’s definitely loud. matt king said he was loud when he masturbates and i believe it. i feel like he has more breathy moans and low moans???? definitely a grunter as well
w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
he’s definitely against threesomes with a male partner. he may be willing to share you with a female friend but i could see him still getting jealous over sharing you. if there was a threesome with you and another woman, he would be the one to dictate the situation. like telling you two to kiss and or feel each other’s tits or get the other woman off.
x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
this has been a topic of discussion many of times on my blog but i’ve come to the conclusion; he may not be thick but he’s long.
y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
he definitely has a high sex drive. y’all remember that jeff’s barbershop episode when matt said he could hear jeff masturbate a lot? joke or not, i believe it. due to his flirty nature as well, i could see him definitely down to fuck 24/7.
z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
i feel like he would knock tf out. this guy gets up early in the morning and powers throughout the day so if y’all have sex late at night, he’s knocked. but if it’s early in the mornings, that’s just one way for him to start the day. he would probably lay in bed for like 30 minutes then take a shower and start his day.
#jeff wittek smut#jeff wittex imagines#jeff wittek blurbs#jeff wittek x reader#vlog squad smut#vlog squad imagines#vlog squad blurbs
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What Kind of Music Slashers Would Vibe to Headcanons♪
This little thing popped into my head. Fyi, the canon timelines are thrown out the window for this so... Yeah.
Bring forth the bop~
RZ Michael Myers
"Let my weapons be your children, let my armies be your damned. Try to suffer on in silence, try to stop me if you can." --- This Cold Black by Slipknot
I think he'd really enjoy metal in general. I can totally see him unknowingly stomping to some Marilyn Manson and Meshuggah, though the lyrics and message probably will just fly over his head.
He listens to some heavy shit, but probably all the more mainstream bands/artists.
The loudness and organized chaos of the genre fills the void in his soul and reflects the state of his mind, despite his stoic and non-verbal outer demeanor.
Someone please do everyone a favor and introduce Michael to some death metal. Admit it, it really fits his aesthetic.
This is just based on speculation, but I suspect a 70% possibility of RZ Michael resonating with Cannibal Corpse. Fight me.
He hates classical music with a burning passion. Back in Smith's Grove, they played Bach's Air Sul G on tap. (its canon in the first movie lmao) He hates it. Mikey no likey.
Freddy Krueger
"No stop signs, speed limit, nobody's gonna slow me down. Like a wheel, gonna spin it, nobody's gonna mess me around." --- Highway to Hell, by AC/DC
Freddy listens to classic rock, period.
This guy is ngl a supporter of music taste discrimination. You listen to pop? Disgusting. You listen to Jazz? Disgusting. Classic rock is the epitome of all music.
He'll call you music-related slurs you never knew existed.
As stubborn adamant as Freddy is, he does harbor some guilty pleasures, including 70's hair metal and glam rock. Pshh. What a heckin hypocrite.
Some of his all time favorites are Guns N' Roses, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, and AC/DC.
(Basic bitch)
*Hip thrust movements to go with his 'The Sprinkler' dance moves, Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N' Roses blasting in the background*
OG Michael Myers
He doesn't listen to music, but if he did, he would probably enjoy Jazz.
Michael only listens to Miles Davis because he enjoys his music and can't be bothered to discover more artists.
Oml Michael I know Miles Davis is amazing but don't neglect other iconic artists plzzz. Someone please make him listen to some Teddy Wilson and/or Dave Brubeck.
I imagine him sitting stiff-straight on a rocking chair (he just likes how it moves), knife in his lap, rocking and zoning-out relaxing to 'Blue in Green'. (I love that piece)
#AfterHeFinallyKillsLaurie
#RetirementGoals
He also hates classical music because of the same reason as RZ Myers. Seriously, if either of them so much as hears the opening chord of Air Sul G, expect the speaker to be stomped to a pulp in a split second.
Bubba Sawyer
Alright let's all be honest with ourselves... 70's pop and country is Bubba's shit.
Look me in the face and tell me he wouldn't adore ABBA, The Jackson 5, and Dolly Parton. Thats right you can't
Everytime 'Dancing Queen' starts playing on the radio, Bubba will drop everything and start busting down.
Ain't nothing and nobody stoppin him. Drayton is powerless against the supreme sovereignty that is ABBA.
But let's also appreciate the fact that our Bubster can motherfuckin get down. *wipes sweat from forehead + heart eyes*
He would also do passionate lip sync with his heart and soul, to Dolly Parton's 'I Will Always Love You'.
50% chance of him starting to cry right after he finishes his earnest performance.
*Holding Bubba in your arms, rubbing comforting circles on his back as he bawls hysterically, incoherently babbling on about how much he loves you*
I also feel for some reason he'd really like Joan Jett & The Blackhearts.
Thomas Hewitt
"For one moment, I wish you'd hold your stage, with no feelings at all. Open minded, I'm sure I used to be so free." --- Citizen Erased by Muse
Y'know what I have a hard time imagining the type of music Tommy listens to. Kutos, Mr. Hewitt, you have defeated me.
siKE
(This is where I yeet the timeline out of the window y'all)
Thomas enjoys Muse, Evanescence, and Radiohead. (Fight me)
He just loves how emotional their songs are. He'd have one earbud in as he works away at his projects for hours. The music helps him concentrate, it is also a source of emotional support to him.
Hearing the heart-wretching lyrical content of 'Lost in Paradise' performed so beautifully by Amy Lee's angellic voice is really comforting to him. It's like hearing about another person's experiences. It makes him feel less alone in dealing with his emotional and mental turmoils and burdens.
The first time Thomas heard 'Creep' by Radiohead, he almost cried.
He also listens to My Chemical Romance sometimes. He only knows the Black Parade album, but he loves it. If 'Creep' didn't make him cry, listening to that entire album from top to bottom sure did. He started sobbing half-way through 'Famous Last Words'.
Tommy is emotional boi 🥺
Brahms Heelshire
C l a s s i c a l
No matter how stinky Brahms is, you can't tell me that he's not classy.
Schubert is his bitch. Schubert's style tends to be quite majestic and/or dreamy, (generally) and can change color/sound very abruptly yet appropriately. (This is just my opinion based on experience with Schubert's pieces, but then I only know his piano pieces soo) (let's still cue that maestoso to scherzando transition)
But of course, Schubert isn't the only thing he listens to. He prefers the romantic period, so Mendelssohn, Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Shostakovich, Brahms, Schumann, you get the gist, all the staples. Oh yeah Elgar too. To be a proud English lad.
*Brahms swaying in the living room with the grace of a baby giraffe, engrossed in the beautiful melodies in Schumann's Kinderszenen.*
(Oml please check out 'Von fremden Landern und Manschen' and 'Kind im Einschlummern') (For those who play piano, they aren't that difficult too totally recommend) (Ok sorry I'm done now)
Brahms would totally waltz around alone to Chopin's waltzes and nocturnes.
Oh yeah apart from that classy shit, he likes to jam to meme songs.
"Hey now, you're an all star, get your game on, go play---"
*cut to Brahms passionately fortnite dancing*
Listens to The Strange Man Who Sings About Dead Animals for a good laugh. (Please, all of his songs are gold)
Vincent Sinclair
He'll have 'emo' and 'classical' with a side of metal, thanks.
I headcanon that Vinny McWaxy is an INFJ, so the boy is likely prone to crippling existentialism. It would make sense for some aspects of his music taste to reflect that.
*cut to Vincent sitting rock-still on his workbench/stool, hands hover in mid-air, staring straight ahead, some John Cage piece playing*
You'll never hear this from Vincent but he enjoys sexy-time music. He has this whole erotic playlist he listens to while working. (Boy likes to feel sexy on the job, I respect that.)
I think its pretty much canon that Vinny loves MCR. (Hello fellow emo piece of shit 👋) His favorites are everything by them really. A hardcore fan. He used to have MCR, P!ATD, and 30 Seconds to Mars posters plastered everywhere in his workshop until he had to remove them all to add to the intimidation factor of his waxy hell for passer-bys. For the record, he is very gay for Frank Iero.
On the metal part of his spectrum is mostly classic metal, groove metal, and thrash/heavy metal.
Rammstein, Pantera, Vildhjarta, new and old Metallica, Dream Theatre, Coheed and Cambria. His bitches.
He also uses music to scare victims when bringing them down to his workshop. *cue horror movie soundtracks*
*KI KI KI MA MA MA*
Is a whore for the dramatics when in a good mood.
*Lacrimosa by Mozart plays as he makes a point to bring the wax painfully slowly down toward a drowsy and petrified victim*
A lament for your upcoming death, pitiful human.
Bo Sinclair
"The day has come for all us sinners, if you're not a servant you'll be struck to the ground." -- Beast and The Harlot by Avenged Sevenfold
Bastard boy is into dad-music™. (same)
Dad rock, classic rock, pop punk, punk rock, old school pop, his shit.
He listens to a lot of the same bands as Freddy, but Bo (generally) doesn't discriminate and explores a more diverse variety of music.
Its a fandom canon that Bo loves Avenged Sevenfold. I totally agree.
A7x is the perfect amount of cynical, political, and shred for Beauregard, (I hc that ge hates his full name so plz don't ever call him Beauregard)
He listens to the radio whenever he's at work. Whatever that might be.
Will NEVER admit it, but he thinks Vinny's music taste is dope as hell.
He'll turn off the radio just to strain his ears to listen to Vincent's music downstairs. No one will ever know that though. You don't.
Actually likes classical music too. Its not one of his main genres but there's one piece he really likes, Second Movement of Shostakovich Piano Concerto No. 2 in F Major.
He never thought he'd enjoy this type of music. Its so.... Calm. He discovered that piece from Vinny's playlist. When he first heard it on his brother's speaker, he fell in love. It was one of the extremely rare cases in which he'd be committed enough to ask Vinny the name of the music.
Tiny shuffle for man-kind, huge fuckin step for Bo. Good job Bo, we're proud of you.
Also pleeeeeaaase message me or request stuff, I'm bored and have little inspiration 🦊
I might do a pt2 of this, since I didn't write many of the boys and gals🤷♀️
Also sorry if I've neglected some genres/artists (Like i've neglected non-piano classical pieces.... Bc ya girl is just a pianist), a person can't know everything😗
---Zali 🖤
#i dont fucking know how to tumblr y'all#there ya go#slasher#slashers#slasher fluff#slasher headcanons#rz michael myers#michael myers#freddy krüger#freddy krueger#bubba sawyer#the texas chainsaw massacre#tcm#thomas hewitt#leatherface#tcm 2006#tcm 2003#tcm 1974#brahms heelshire#brahms the boy#the boy#Halloween#vincent sinclair#bo sinclair#house of wax#house of wax 2005
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bill and tiger around christmas and she decides to spoil him big time. he even buys her a lingerie set that is more risqué than normal, leaving very little to the imagination, and he’s even blushing about it because this set was BOLD for our good dude. but she rewards him, definitely rewards him.
ohhhhhh god how I love this.
But like, sweet nani, how is it risqué? Like what’s different about it? Wait, don’t tell me. I think I know.
Alright so we know about Bill and his little Merida thing, and we also kind of know that maybe Bill’s tastes in lingerie kind of err more on the side of dainty, feminine, maybe a little innocent. And I don’t know what I prefer more--like, did Bill just suddenly get daring and see a set that was far more courageous, and decide to get it?
Possibly, but also, please bear with me for another thought.
Maybe tiger is feeling herself lately. Maybe she got a big promotion. Maybe she’s been working out more. Maybe its neither of those things but she’s just having a total me moment and homegirl is feeling so good. And maybe one weekend morning at breakfast, Bill is talking about what he feels like cooking for dinner tonight and he’s waxing poetic about the most perfect artichokes he saw at the market last weekend and tiger gives a non-committal shrug.
“Whatever you want bud, I won’t be here,” she says. Bill looks at her quizzically.
“You won’t?”
She stabs a potato, nudges her feet (which are in his lap) into his hand because they’re cold.
“Nope,” she says, “Three’s a crowd.”
“Three?” Bill is still confused. Tiger takes a sip of her coffee and looks at him over the rim of her mug.
“Scarlet’s in town tonight,” she says. Bill’s eyes widen in realization.
“Oh,” he stammers, and the pink hue rushing to his cheeks is unmistakable. “Oh. Oh, god. Oh god that’s--”
he’s stammering like an idiot, smirking to himself like a dork, and tiger can’t help the little taunting smile on her own face. Bill goes quiet but that dopey grin is still on his face for the entire day.
And tiger’s tastes border on feminine and girly too, but Scarlet? That bitch is cray. Ain’t nothing she won’t do. So tiger picks out something that is definitely a little more bold and risqué than something she would ever choose to wear. Maybe instead of lace and frills and pinks and whites this one is black. Just black. And in the place of lace, there’s....nothing. It’s more harsh, it’s more bold, it’s far more erotic. There’s a few buckles--nothing too hardcore, but definitely racy. There’s no corset, no frills--everything is cut at harsh angles and there ain’t much to it. Tiger had to initially conceal the blush on her own cheeks when she saw the crotchless panties, but to hell with it. Bill was hers, and damn if she didn’t want to own his ass sometimes.
And listen, Bill is fucking adorable that day. He keeps watching her with flitting eyes, waiting for it, wondering if she’ll just suddenly morph into Scarlet or if there’s like....a cue, or something, that he needs to pay attention to. Tiger thinks it’s hilarious. He blushes the whole day, only steals fleeting, shy glances at her, and it’s a real power trip for our girl.
But eventually, sometime before dinner but after she’s made him a drink, she stands up and stretches.
“Well,” she says, “Better get going.”
Bill shoots to his feet.
“Oh god,” he stutters, “Oh god it’s happening. Okay. Okay okay okay...”
And he turns suddenly, but then he realizes he’s not the one leaving so he’s just kind of...turning in circles, trying to figure out what to do. Tiger laughs.
“Bye bud,” she kisses him, “Have fun.”
And then she disappears into the bedroom. And about 20 minutes later--20 minutes of Bill pacing anxiously, wiping his hands on his jeans--she emerges. And holy fuck, Bill’s jaw hits the floor. She’s done up to the nines, deep crimson lipstick, in a get up that makes his throat run dry. She looks incredible, but she also just looks so...naughty.
“Hey there,” she purrs. Bill actually squeaks. Rooted to the spot, unblinking, he squeaks.
“H-H-...” he stutters, “Hello. Scarlet. Hi.”
Bill’s never quite seen anything like it. She looks fantastic, but he’s just...stunned. In the best way. This set is far more skimpy, far more daring, far more outrageous than anything she’s ever worn for him before, and anything he’s ever bought her. And it flares a side of him that he didn’t even know he had--he always just kind of gravitated towards more dainty, understated lingerie--but this? Oh, oh he really likes this.
And maybe that night, how daring she is with him, how incredible she looks--maybe it kind of piques his interest and has him discovering some new little pleasures of his own. So maybe one day out on a limb (ie: he’s totally shopping online for new lingerie sets for her), maybe he sees one that’s a bit more akin to what she wore for him that night. A bit more bold, more explicit. And his throat runs dry, his breath hitches at just the thought of her in it--so he buys it. Wraps it up real nice for her. And it takes him a solid few weeks to get up the courage--and hell maybe he doesn’t quite get the courage. Maybe on his way out to a boy’s night at the bar, he places the neatly wrapped gift on his bed where he knows she’ll find it, gives her a rushed kiss goodbye, and off he goes.
But I mean, the idiot. Because tiger waits up for him. She always waits up for him when he goes out for the night (and vice versa), because that’s just what they do. Both of them will camp out on the couch until the other one comes home, so that they can go to bed together (oh god, my heart). So when Bill stumbles in a tad buzzed, tiger rubs sleepily at her eyes and goes to greet him with a kiss.
“You’re a tad mischievous, aren’t you?” she mumbles against his lips with a smile. Bill blushes a little.
“Maybe,” he smirks, “I know it’s a little....bold.”
“It’s beautiful Billy, thank you,” she says, “Scarlet will love it.”
“Actually,” he clears his throat, fiddles a little with the hem of her (his) shirt, “I was kind of hoping that...my girl would wear it for me.”
His honesty, his vulnerability still knocks her socks off. He shifts his eyes timidly to hers, and god her whole heart could explode.
“Don’t get me wrong, Scarlet is great,” he stammers, “But she doesn’t hold a candle to you. It’s always you, kid.”
Bill’s a big dude, but the velocity with which tiger launches herself into his arms is enough to throw him off balance.
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hello! can i request something romantic with either ahk or snafu or really any rami character where y/n has round dark brown doe eyes? like so dark brown they look black if you’re not looking at them in sunlight? and he’s just flirting with them and he says something nice about their eyes? i have round dark brown eyes and i’m kinda insecure about them cuz they’re so common, and it’s been one shit-show if a week for me and i really just need to feel good about myself
notes: damn, i can totally do that for you. hope your weekend is much better than your week :) thank u for requesting and i hope you enjoy it !
WC: 2k
+
Life never worked naturally to your advantage. You were born average looking – nothing special on either side of the spectrum, with average hands and common dark brown eyes. You grew up poor and worked your ass off to get into a good college on a scholarship, eventually getting kicked out for something you didn't even do. You auditioned to be part of an orchestra, but there were too many violinists already, and you just 'didn't fit the profile'. You tried to be an artist, but no one liked your creations. You tried to pick up another instrument, but you couldn't afford a good one, and the last time you tried to buy a cheap guitar, the neck broke on the third use.
Because of these many happenstances (and the many more, less mentionable ones), you considered yourself unlucky. It was a fact of life for you as much as the sun's existence in other peoples lives, or that the superbowl was too long. Or guacamole wasn't good. Fortunately, the years of nothing ever coming naturally had made you into a fantastic worker, and by some rare stroke of luck, you found you were rather good at physical labor jobs. You weren't strong by any standards – in fact rather weak – but your attention to detail made you the janitor of a prestigious museum you visited twice as a child.
It wasn't a fantastic job, and the poor pay led to having five roommates, but you enjoyed yourself. You tried to do that in every aspect of life; finding the joy in menial tasks, or solace in duty. After all, you got to see wonderful recreations of history in the still wax figures, and learn heaps of knowledge from the many information panels you came across when making your way through the museum. The only truly unfortunate part of your job was the time – right after closing, but you had to finish quickly, as you weren't allowed inside at night. A stupid rule, but the night guard and Dr. McPhee were insistent on it.
They thought you didn't know about the exhibits.
They were, obviously, wrong. You knew, and you adored the magic behind it all. While you hadn't actually ever seen any of the exhibits come to life, you watched the news on an evening where the exhibits broke out, and with your knowledge of the Tablet curse, you pieced the mystery together.
You hadn't meant to take this long. McPhee was already pissed at you for 'accidentally' skipping over the men's restroom yesterday, and taking too long at your job would land you on thin ice, something you couldn't afford. With a hurried pace you finished sweeping the floors in the last room, storing the broom away and moving on to mopping. Checking your watch once more, you noted the time, mentally checking if you would be able to finish before closing hours.
Mopping the Egyptian room usually takes five to ten minutes, and closing is in two, you thought, despair settling in your stomach. What would you do if you 'found out' about the tablet? What would McPhee do if he found out you knew? He wouldn't fire you, would he?
You truly didn't know. He was a bit of a loose cannon when it came to those things.
As fast as you tried to move, the hours of night came faster than you could mop, and the tablet began to glow behind you. Bewildered you turned, watching with your mouth slightly parted as the glow grew to the radiance of the sun. You knew the tablet brought the magic, but you didn't know about the glow – now that you were witnessing it yourself, the only thing you could feel in your pounding heart was fear. A fear that only grew worse when the Pharaoh's sarcophagus began to rattle.
You'd thought about the wax figures coming to life. You thought about the dinosaur. You, however, did not think about the 4,000 year old mummy.
Needless to say, you bolted. Leaving behind your supplies, you ran as fast as you could, wind pounding past your ears as the sound of a lion's roar came from the neighboring hall. You grit your teeth and made for the main entrance, but by the time you got there many of the exhibits had adjoined in the main room. Pressing yourself against the locked door, you watched with wide eyes as the Teddy Roosevelt statue began to talk to Attila, and in that moment you realized that perhaps magic was not always good. Not when you were spiralling into a panic at least.
It took a couple hours of you staring into space before anyone actually noticed you. To your surprise, it wasn't the night guard, or even McPhee – it was a Pharaoh, skin and everything intact. His crown remained polished upon his head, a stark difference from the crowns on exhibit, whose colors and carvings had faded long ago.
"Hello," he said with a pleasant, polite smile as he knelt, matching the height of your seated position on the floor. "Are you a new exhibit?"
You looked down at your clothes. Janitor clothes.
"No," you said, and instantly his demeanor changed.
"Oh dear," he said, and though you agreed with that statement, you certainly did not agree with him grabbing your wrist and dragging you into the crowd.
"I don't really want to be doing this," you said in a shaky voice, but he did not answer.
As he dragged you through the crowd you kept your eyes closed, wary of overstimulation of both ears and eyes. He eventually stopped at the top of the stairs, where you opened your eyes to find the night guard, Larry.
"What are you still doing here?" Larry asked almost frantically, looking between the dancers below and you.
"In my defense I didn't want to be here, I knew about the magic and I don't – I didn't ever want to actually see it," you half-lied.
"How the hell did you know?!"
"You don't do a very good job of covering it up, Larry," you said flatly, your voice still cracking from nerves.
You didn't have very many friends. Your roommates didn't talk to you much, and the life you had outside of work consisted mostly of quiet, indoor hobbies you could do just about anywhere. So, once the whole of the situation was sorted out (with input from McPhee), you took your drawing pads and notebooks to the museum with you, working for the first few hours and drawing into the hours of night while watching history come to life.
Despite your original discomfort of being in the presence of a 100% authentic, come-to-life mummy, you became rather good friends with him. Not fantastic, and he didn't know very much about you, but he was kind and handsome. You hated to admit it, but he held your avid interest. Another one of those unlucky things in your life – of course you had to fall in love with an immortal, reanimated mummy who only came to life at night.
"Why don't you ever come dance with us?" Ahkmenrah (his name, apparently) said as he sat down beside you on the loft, the only barrier between you and a fifteen-foot fall being a stone rail.
"I'm afraid I'm not all that good of a dancer," you said, not bothering to look up from your sketchbook. You couldn't ever bear to look at him that long anyway.
"Neither am I," he laughed. "That's the point."
Instinctively you looked up at him, holding eye contact with his grey eyes for only a second before you looked away, a blush already making its way to your cheeks. He had the opposite of your life – lucky beyond belief. The favorite of his parents, completely immortal, completely beautiful, almost too wealthy, and many, many friends, including yourself.
What got you the most however was his eyes. Cold eyes were already praised in modern society – people loved grey, they loved blue and green. But in Ahkmenrah's society, the one that existed thousands of years ago, blue eyes hardly existed. The mutation for the new color was one in a billion back then, making him one of the (probably) three people on the planet with blue eyes. And now that lucky mutation stood before you in its purest, oldest form, and you couldn't bear to look at them for any longer than a solitary moment.
For some reason, it hurt you. Maybe because you were boring. Dull. Brown in a brown society. Sure, they looked beautiful in sunlight – you knew that. They turned into swirling gold and the taste of chocolate, but Ahk couldn't see them in the sunlight. That made you dull.
Now, Ahkmenrah was not a man to point things out about people. If they were being a dickhead, yes, but most of the time he noted things and dismissed them. But you'd been doing this for so long that he grew weary of the dance.
"Why don't you ever look at me?" He asked, a question that had your eyes widening and your back straightening, alarm bells ringing all over your brain.
"I look at you plenty," you said while avoiding his gaze like a 15th century doctor avoids respecting women.
"No, you don't," he said softly. "Not even now. I wish you would – you've got such beautiful eyes."
Your sketching stopped at his words. At your silence he placed his hand on your jaw, tilting so you looked at him. Instead of meeting his gaze you looked to the floor.
"They're very common," you got out weakly, still unable to make eye contact, but he kept you where you were, in the easy sight of him. "They only look good in the sun."
He shifted closer, keeping his hand on your jaw in hopes of you changing your mind and meeting his eye.
"Even in darkness they're beautiful, voids as empty and long as night," he hummed, drawing closer yet till you could feel the heat off his body on your still fingers. "I've noted them quite a lot. Eyes are a beautiful thing, aren't they?"
"Yours are," you mumbled, barely catching the meaning and insinuation of your words before they came out.
"As are yours. Remember when we snuck into McPhee's office? The lamplight bounced off of them and they practically glittered like the embers and smoke of a fire," he said with a small smile. "And the bright lights in the hallways –"
Florescent, you thought.
"– and the candle lights that Nick brought, those flicker with that same spark within you. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
You couldn't move, stuck in place and stuck in your own head.
"The golden fireplace, Christmas lights – and the light of the moon, a dim, faraway light that can only be admired from a distance... like you," he murmured.
Sometimes you forgot his people were poets and admirers of nature.
"You have blue eyes," you whispered through the knot in your throat. He listened carefully. "And... I can see reflections in them. They're soft, like velvet. Despite everything, they.. you seem... happy. You always seem happy, and your eyes give it away."
"Have you ever kissed anyone?" He asked quietly, and in that moment you realized his nose was almost touching yours.
"No," you answered honestly. Another unlucky aspect of you.
"Neither have I," he said before he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a tender embrace you weren't at all expecting.
From both the view of the first kiss and of a Pharaoh's kiss, you weren't prepared, but the plush of his pink lips against yours sent sparks of delight into your heart. He moved slow, taking his time to map out your aspects just as you began to trail your hands over his open palm, memorizing the creases. You were reluctant to part, but he ran his hand through your hair and your brain short-circuited into placitude.
"You have the softest lips," he murmured, hand coming to cup your cheek once more.
You never applied aquaphor or did anything to make your lips soft.
Maybe it was luck.
Didn't really matter to you, because he kissed you again, and your eyes fluttered shut as everything in the world but him faded away.
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her Nebraska (1982)
In July I flew to Massachusetts with a plague on, and I felt that it was wrong, but my mother had begged and I’d been out of work for months. Mornings there I ran in long, uneven ovals on the same roads I’d memorized in high school. There’s no sidewalks, but the few feet of dirt between the craggy pavement and the open mouths of the fields serve all right for a single body in motion. When a truck comes up close from behind, the ground shakes, and I step away bouncingly from the street toward thigh-high yellow weeds and grass, and keep going. I was slowly picking my way back in that dirt, sweat-slick from only a plodding couple of miles in peak summer heat, and sucking the wet cotton of my mask in between my teeth on every inhale, when Taylor Swift announced she was releasing a surprise album produced by the guy from The National. Not the guy from The National, like, the voice, but the guy from The National whose photo was circulated on Twitter earlier this year as some kind of antifa super soldier, which isn’t the case, but would’ve been rad. First, I stopped dead to send some outraged, misspelled text messages, and then I ran home faster than I’d moved in years.
Tall, blonde, patrician pop star Taylor Swift is to me something like a cross-between a wife and a boogeyman. Bound we’ve been since we were really children. Time and its changes haven’t rid me of her, and what’s worse is I have never quite been able to wish they would, though I claim as much all the time. Countless hours of my one wild and precious life have been spent on endlessly analyzing the minutiae of Taylor Swift’s music, the mind that made it, the real world events which influenced it. And though all the while I have known she is only a person, and that people, while each strange and lovely in their own ways, are, in the end, mostly dull, needful in just the regular manner, the fantasy is better, the sick dream of a megalomaniac songstress, curious, thrilling, probably evil, and I choose that. I don’t know Taylor Alison Swift, born to this world in, I presume, the usual way. But my Taylor Swift? I’m a renowned expert. I’ve always eaten up stories—movies, music, celebrity news, the one my grandfather tells about falling off his bike once in Ireland as a boy and his face “cracking open like an egg”—like a starved dog. I’m obsessive about my interests, but not inclined to intense fandom, and certainly not fandom in the mode of the stan. For one, I’m too self-absorbed. But caring intensely for a famous person is falling in love with a ghost, and that’s all right—I mean, what the hell? We’re here together just dying... Let’s enjoy—but is an affair best undertaken with the knowledge that everyone alive has their own complex interiority, as unruly as your own, and that you, a stranger, are not in any real way connected to the lawless, blurry middle of that celebrity, and will never be. It’s freeing and fun to know this. I mean, these people are basically in your employ. Glamorous dollhouse dwellers. Acknowledging that uncrossable distance allows for a different, healthier closeness of pure imagination. My feelings, then, can comfortably be at once both fiercely intense and entirely silly. I am a foremost scholar in the art of the Taylor Swift who exists in my head. The real person raised in Pennsylvania I don’t know at all. I have some conjectures on the matter, and, as with all my conjectures, every hackneyed theory, each picky little opinion, I’m sure they’re perfect, brilliant, just absolutely right, but that’s still all they are. Taylor Swift, figure of the cultural imagination, is the Jodie Comer to my Sandra Oh in Killing Eve, annoying and pretty in frills, taunting me endlessly and holding us trapped together in a dance of most enchanting death. But the real Taylor Swift has favorite bed sheets and a social security number and a British boyfriend, none of which I have any desire to know about, and if I saw her at a restaurant I’d politely avert my eyes before, yes, dive-bombing the group text. There’s nobody on Earth I’d stand in line to speak to, but then I’ve been speaking to a certain figment of Taylor Swift for nearly half my life.
I went to a Taylor Swift concert the night before I moved into college in 2009. My father’s work friend, firefighter by day, near professional gambler by night, got comped tickets to the Fearless Tour stop taking place at the nearby casino, and he let me have them as a reward, mainly, for happening to be seventeen. Live in-person and performed acoustically, “Fifteen” made me cry. A few years after that, in the thick, sticky part of my first post-college summer, I wrote approximately twenty-three million words about her in these very pages. (”Pages”) At that point, Taylor’s most recent release was 2012’s Red, and the work I produced that long ago July about Taylor and her career, writing I was fairly pleased with at the time, feels now, besides just being extremely clearly written by a twenty-one year old, strange to me for the way it favors the sweet over the sour almost uniformly. There is a wholesome kind of ardor in that writing which maybe I’ve outgrown the ability to hold. Or maybe Taylor just proceeded to spend the next half a decade plus releasing one bad single after another, and it was taste—and trespasses against taste—and not some shift in my nature which altered the tenor of our bond. I have real love for my particular image, gleaned from public statements and published art, of smart, bizarre famous woman Taylor Swift, and I admire the bulk of her output very much. I’m just no longer so inclined to fawn. This is not to say I am here to offer a Taylor Swift hate screed. I couldn’t swing it, and, anyway, I’m not a pop feminist-for-hire circa 2010. But we’re older now. Things are different. At twenty-eight, twenty-nine this month—Taylor will, also this December, turn thirty-one—I regard Taylor Swift warily, like an ex with whom you have a tentative friendship, perpetually on the brink of falling one way or the other into hatred or delight, only to wobble back the opposite direction again at the slightest provocation, but still, despite best efforts, even, I regard her all the time.
folklore was released at midnight on July 24th 2020, but I was at a cabin in rural Vermont without Internet or cell service. I drank Bud Light seltzers with my mother while watching the eerie pandemic return of Major League Baseball, and when I got into a strange bed there I stewed, knowing there were people out in the world all over who were hearing Taylor Swift songs I never had, and that this was a fundamental wrong, a disruption in the balance of the universe. I listened to it the next morning in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot.
And folklore is great. That’s the terrible thing. Slightly less great, maybe, than some people have insisted, tricked, I think, by just the pronounced shift in sound. But it’s great. A little gift I asked for a thousand times and was still surprised to get, like a wife who didn’t expect her henpecked husband to ever follow through and buy the paraffin wax hand bath as-see-on-TV. For years, I’ve been halfheartedly insisting that Taylor had a great album in her. I’d say it even, perhaps especially, while she stubbornly fed me gruel. Or worse, gruel with the occasional whiff of something better. With a ripe, little raspberry dropped into the slop. The bright, villainous thrill of “Getaway Car” made me believe Taylor, my Taylor, was in there somewhere under the lacquer of sequins and synth, which, while not objectionable by default, seemed a costume, and an ill-fitting one. The lived-in world of “Cornelia Street” made those old scars sting. That gay “Delicate” video. When she did “Call It What You Want” on SNL and played guitar while wearing an ugly sweater. If the abominable “ME!”, lead single off Lover, was the stick, 1989’s “Clean” was the carrot. I was Charlie Brown, and Taylor my Lucy, yanking the football back again and again. Over drinks I still yelled that Taylor Swift’s next album would be, “her Nebraska”, referring to my favorite Bruce Springsteen record, and learned to live with that egg on my face for good. I suppose I even came to like it. There was something inherently funny in taking up, like, “blind faith in the as of yet untapped greater artistic potential of massively wealthy and popular singer Taylor Swift” as my totally inane personal cause du jour, and eventually it was a bit, a gag I performed to be obstinate and didactic, but way down somewhere awful near my kidneys I meant it the whole while. And then she did it. A pandemic befell the world and amid a sea of human suffering Taylor Swift remembered she can write. She wrote, and with a massive, crucial assist from Aaron Dessner, whose music on this record is sometimes so beautiful it actually angers me, as the last thing I needed in already perilous times was to be made to try and marry my uniquely perverse emotional responses to beloved divorced dad band The National and fucking Taylor Swift, she made an album which, if not her Nebraska, per se (I’ve come to realize that a major part of believing Taylor Swift will one day make an album I find as quietly devastating and gorgeous as Nebraska is knowing that no album will ever actually be Her Nebraska... That each will, rather, to me, be more and more evidence that it’s coming still, more proof that the limit is untouched, on and on ad infinitum, or at least until the seas take us into a place of salty peace.) is a shocking credit to all my hard-fought and deluded confidence. folklore is great. This fact has made me feel almost equally as disoriented from my understanding of the world as the time-melting COVID-19 lockdowns have, and it turned my Spotify year in review annual collective AI humiliation kink thing into a glaring indictment of my mental state, but still, I mean... It’s great.
In talking about folklore a bit this week, there are a number of specific topics I intend to cover—what a thrill it is to hear Taylor say “fuck”; Taylor’s terrifying birth chart; the astoundingly perfect bridge of “the last great american dynasty”; “because my ass is located at the back of my body”; the bit in last year’s “Lover” where deranged WASP Taylor Swift implies that to “leave the Christmas lights up til January” is some signifier of being a love-struck bohemian, when actually everyone who doesn’t employ domestic staff to take their lights down does this; how reputation is the best of the Taylor Swift records released in the latter half of the 2010s, actually, and the people who can’t see that are cowards—but intend mostly to let the muse move me where she will. Against the advice of my better angels, she—that tie-in marketing eldritch terror—always does.
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“Lesson Learned”-Part 2 of ?
Wow! Your support is amazing!
And, I’m still not sure when this will end, but it’s possibly...4?
Anyway, enjoy this next part.
Summary: Sometimes Katniss asks too much of Peeta. This time she’s gone too far. College Everlark. Katniss and Peeta POV’s. Rated M.
If you’re catching up, you’ll find Part One here.
_____
This is it.
Peeta steps in into the living room, his eyes on me in my robe.
I spent the day getting ready—waxing, showering, exfoliating places on my body that I had no idea existed. Johanna has already left for the weekend, before going she wished me luck and told me to remember to pee…after.
“Why?” I had asked.
“Nothing is worst than getting a UTI after your first time,” Johanna informed. “Trust me, I know.”
“Duly noted.”
So that’s all I know so far about intercourse, you must urinate after.
“Katniss?” My eyes go to the man standing in front of me. “You okay?”
I smile, trying to shake myself from my stupor. “Uh, yeah why?”
“Since I’ve been here, you’ve just been staring into space,” Peeta replies, his eyes full of concern. “We don’t have to do this.”
That brings me back to reality quickly.
“No.” I look to him, stomping my foot firmly. “We are doing this…now clothes off.”
Peeta raises his hands up. “Slow down.” He peers at me. “Why are you in such a rush?”
“Because…” I sit down on the couch. Peeta follows sitting next to me. “…I don’t like dealing with pain.”
And I just don’t mean the physical pain of when he’ll break my hymen.
Last night, I thought of what this could mean for Peeta and I.
Would it be weird after? Would it change how he sees me? Or the way I see him?
I just don’t want us to fall apart, because the thought of that is what hurts the most.
His hand reaches to cup my cheek. “Pain happens, sweetheart, but its momentary.”
“Where did you hear that from?” I ask him, a smile gracing my lips.
“Finnick keeps one of those Five-Minute Journals in the apartment to impress his girlfriend, Annie; there’s always a quote at the top of each day, I think that was one of them,” Peeta says. “Or I made it up.”
I punch him in the arm. “You idiot!”
The tension has broken, and we are laughing as we usually do.
We sit back on my sofa, heads together and feet up on the coffee table.
“Promise me something,” I start. “Promise me that—throughout all of this—you tell me everything good and bad about anything I do.”
“I promise,” he replies. “You do the same.”
“Promise,” I whisper. “Now…can I try to kiss you?”
Peeta swallows nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does. “Okay.”
I shift, sitting up and look down at him. His blue eyes stare up at me fascinated, and my hand reaches to run through his golden hair. It’s a little matted by the pomade he used, but the scent is nice, juniper and sage.
Leaning down, I line my mouth to his and pillow his bottom lip between mine—it’s surprisingly smooth. Peeta opens up slightly and my tongue moves in, tasting and enjoying the mint of his mouthwash.
So far it’s…okay. He tastes good, but his kiss is…muted. Like he’s just following along with my enthusiasm.
I pull away abruptly. “What the hell was that?”
He’s breathless, his chest heaving as he sits up. “What do you mean?”
“The lackluster kissing!” I reply crossly. “You’re not really this bad, are you?”
“I am not! Call any one of my exes and ask!” he protests.
“No way am I calling 1 of your 2 girlfriends. I’m sure Delly Cartwright wouldn’t give me any conducive commentary on your kissing technique, anyway.”
“You want commentary?” he bristles. “Stop with the tongue jabbing! My whole jaw is painted with your saliva. I mean I enjoy enthusiasm, but not that much!”
Taking a deep breath, I take in his words. I wanted honesty—and I’m getting it.
Then again, at least I’m getting it from someone I trust.
“Fair enough,” I reply. “But you’re a bit of a dry kisser if we’re trading notes.”
Peeta nods. “Alright. Point taken.” He moves closer to me. “Let’s try again.”
“I’ll pull back and you take a little initiative,” I agree.
This time, Peeta tilts my head gently. “Close your eyes.”
I comply, closing my eyes, feeling his warm breath ghosting my lips.
When he finally presses his lips to mine, I open my mouth just slightly, biting down my instinct to thrust my tongue to taste. In turn, Peeta slants into the kiss, his own tongue sweeps artfully inside my mouth to taste it hungrily.
A moan escapes from between us and I’m not too sure who did it.
Pulling apart, I’m embarrassed realizing somehow, I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck and I’m sitting halfway on his lap.
I move off him. “Sorry.”
“No, that was better!” he exclaims.
I beam at his praise, wetness suddenly between my thighs and I feel my face warm. “Um…”
Peeta gives me an encouraging smile. “Honesty, remember?”
I got a little wet when you told me that,” I admit.
More than a little wet, actually.
His eyes flare at my words.
“I’ll remember that,” he says tightly. “For later.”
I nod, my stomach flipping at the thought. “For later.”
“Now,” Peeta starts, his hand going to the belt around my waist as I stand before him. “May I?”
I nod. “Please.”
Slowly, he undoes the belt, letting the robe fall to the ground.
++++++
“What the fuck is that?”
The words leave my mouth without the thought.
Because Katniss is standing in front of me in a pair of cotton panties (it’s Friday and they’re her Wednesday pair, according to the print covering her mons)—and a sports bra.
A fucking sports bra.
“It’s my underwear,” she informs me. “Johanna said that I should be comfortable and make you work for it.”
“Do you have anything lacy?” Katniss shakes her head. “Maybe something with that see-through mesh fabric?” Another shake. “How about something cotton with a little bit of push-up?” She shrugs. “Katniss, love, I know you want me to work for it, but that—" I wave my hand at the black bra with thick straps and round neck. “—is a fortress.
“Well, I like it!” Katniss protests. “And I think it’s…attractive.”
“Fine. Take that off—seductively,” I counter as I rest back on the couch.
Katniss stands in front of me and reaches to pull it over her head—wow, she has great nipples—and there’s a bit of struggle before she reveals her flushed face.
She’s panting by the time the monstrosity is in front of my feet and practically hyperventilating at the exertion. “There.”
“Not even close,” I snort, and I see her face fall. “But really—” I wave my hand at her chest. “—why are you hiding those?”
Gleefully, Katniss cups her breast and I bite back my groan. “Really? You like them?”
Her breasts are round and full, shaped like teardrops with nipples that are a dusky rose. They look like they have some bounce of them and that perverted part of me imagines them jiggle mid-thrust. My eyes draw down to her bottom half—my mind was purely focus on her breasts that I didn’t even notice she took her panties off—where neatly trimmed hair covers her center.
“Without trying to sound like a complete pervert, they’re the kind of tits that I’d want to smother my face in.”
The image of me motorboating those glorious breasts flashes in my mind and I go completely hard.
Katniss blushes. “Well, thank you.” She clears her throat. “Your turn.”
++++++
I’m sitting naked on my couch.
Should I put a towel underneath? Johanna and I never really talked about the logistics of whether we allowed sex in the public parts of our apartment. However, something also tells me that if there was a rule, she’s broken it many times over.
Gross.
Expectantly, I wait for Peeta to begin removing his clothes and primly place my hands on my lap.
“So, did you want me to do this slowly or just get naked?” he asks, his face red.
“How did you do it with other girls?” I reply.
The thought of him with other girls causes a twinge to my chest. I know he’s not mine, but I always felt a little bit of him belonged to me. The thought that one day, another woman will take my place makes my stomach turn uncomfortably.
“I…uh…guess I’ll go slow.”
Peeta reaches to the hem of his grey t-shirt pulling it up, slowing revealing a firm abdomen and smooth skin. He tosses it down to the carpet to join my clothes before slowly reaching to the button of his jeans.
I swear my breath catches when I see that single button undone.
His fingers drag down the zipper and before I know, his hands go to the sides of his jeans to yank them down.
“Good so far?” he asks.
I’m sure he knows this dumb, slack-jaw impression is because I am totally into it. Trying not to look too eager, I nod, and he toes off his sneakers before stepping out of the pile.
Peeta is wearing white boxer briefs; I can see the outline of his cock against the stretchy fabric.
“Take them off.” My voice, desperate and breathy, doesn’t even sound like me. “Please.”
Grabbing hold of the waist, Peeta slowly moves his boxer-briefs down to his ankles before pushing them off to join the other discarded clothes.
There it is—Peeta Mellark’s penis—just staring straight at me.
“Hmm…” It looks normal, not like I’ve seen many penises before, but I imagine that this is pretty standard in terms of cocks. “It looks…friendly.”
“Friendly?” Peeta looks amused. “Like Mr. Rogers friendly or friendly like you wave to it, but never go into personal stuff?”
“Don’t worry, Peeta,” I assure him. “You have a very friendly neighborhood kind of penis.”
I kneel to look at it more in depth. It looks like it matches his skin tone (does that matter?) and there’s a smattering of pubic hair before his testicles. I’ve always been interested in this part, usually it’s all dick but I feel like I shouldn’t neglect his southern neighbors.
“Tell me.” My hand reaches to one testicle and Peeta hisses sharply. “Are balls important to most men?”
“In terms of human reproduction, they’re very important,” he starts. “I mean I wouldn’t exactly protest if someone was fondling them—or had them in their mouth.”
“Mouth?” I look up at him, my hand still moving along the flesh, trying different pressures to see if his reaction changes. “How does that work?”
Peeta shrugs. “Probably the same way it would be…if I were sucking on your—” His eyes dart down to where I kneel, focusing on my breasts. “I imagine it’s like that.”
For all the bitching he did about my sports bra, he really does like my boobs.
Moving my hand off, my eyes go to his cock which is now flaccid.
“I mentally had to calm down,” he says when I look up at him.
“Do they all look like this when they’re not hard? He’s just hanging there…kind of lazy looking of you ask me,” I tease.
“If you look at any flaccid penis on the internet, I guarantee it looks exactly like this!” he argues.
“Really?” I reach for my phone on the coffee table and finding my search app, I quickly type. “Flaccid penis…”
Peeta snorts. “You’re seriously looking?”
Going to the image tab, I find one and look it over, comparing it to the one in front of me.
They do look the same…I’ll admit Peeta’s is nicer.
“I guess you’re right,” I say. “Though I wonder how you know what other flaccid penises look like.”
“Gym class…I have brothers…Finnick is not at all particular about being naked in our apartment,” Peeta informs me. “Almost got him kicked out once.”
“He and Johanna should meet,” I tell him. “They seem like they would get along. She’s not one for caring about nudity too.”
We lapse into silence.
His penis is still right in front of me and curiously my hand reaches to hold it. The surrounding skin is surprisingly soft, and the head does look like a mushroom. I’ve read some erotica (Johanna keeps a stocked collection in her room) and they all pretty much talk about the head—must be pretty important, if it’s being mention.
Peeta speaks first. “Do you have questions?” he asks hoarsely.
I smile to myself remembering that he used to sound like that when he was going through puberty, slightly cracked with the beginning tones of the deep timbre he has now.
“Yeah.”
I stand up and look into his eyes. They’re safe and warm.
For a moment, I fancy myself in love with Peeta.
“How do I get it hard again?”
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Can I request a scenario where the reader gets drunk with bo/Vincent and it gets all sweet and lovely and they reveal their feelings for each other ? Or something along those lines like pls give me drunk Sinclair twins admitting their feelings or being soft
Bo
In hindsight, allowing Bo and Lester to get you drunk was… a bad idea. That last shot of vodka definitely was, and now the world spun around you with every wobbling step. At some point Lester had abandoned you, and here you were; barely upright, head buzzing like a swarm of bees, and the back of your eyes were pounding so hard you swore you could see it.
Across the table, still grinning despite the wooziness in his gaze, Bo wasn’t in much better shape. That, at least, gave you a little comfort.
“Fuck, how much have we had to drink?” you study the empty vodka bottle in your hands. The harder you stare the more it spins, and you let it clink back onto the table with a huff. “The last time I drank this much was… I dunno. College? Yeah, that time in second year when my friend threw up on my shoes.”
“At least you didn’t throw up on their shoes,” Bo shot back. He was trying not to laugh, you could tell by the way his nose scrunched and his lips pursed.
Even when totally trashed, Bo managed to keep his composure. Impressive. Cute. No, scratch that, his weird little not-laugh was downright adorable, although you reckoned if he heard you say that, he’d have your head. Didn’t make it any less true, though.
Your eyes flickered up, and the whole room swam. You wanted to laugh, the urge rising in the back of your throat and you fought to shove it back down. Then you saw Bo’s expression - furrowed brows, head tilted in thought. Studious - and the laughter died on your lips. “What?”
“You think I’m cute?”
Oh. Had you said that out loud? A smile curled at your lips, a snort of laughter escaping your lips before you could stop it. How silly, admitting that out loud when you thought it had all been inside your mind. You reached out across the table, hand splayed across the wood, and gave Bo what you hoped was an unimpressed look. “I didn’t say that.”
“No,” he huffed, “you did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” you slurred, “and even if I did, so what? I’m not allowed to think an incredibly tall, broad man is attractive? I mean damn, look at that jawbone.” You waved a hand in his general direction. The urge to laugh bubbled up once more, but only a pitched giggle slipped through your lips.
“So I’m attractive now too? Slow down, or I’m going to start thinking you’re into me.”
This time you did laugh, the shrieking sound bursting from between parted lips of its own accord. Then words tumbled from your mouth too, and it was you saying them but as if from afar, like it wasn’t really you. “How could I not be into you? Have you like, looked in a mirror?”
“Starting to sound like you’re in love with me here,” Bo teased, “not that I can blame you.”
“Yeah yeah, everyone already knows that’s true,” you shot back with a grin - only for it to melt from your features as the impact of your words smacks you in the face. Oh. Oops.
Bo’s smile slipped. His eyes widened, just a fraction, but enough for you to see the shock hiding beneath the surface. Oh, he really didn’t know already? Going by the way his mouth hung open, all signs of flirting vanished, you guessed not.
Fuck.
Stumbling to your feet, the chair tumbled backward and you scrabbled to catch it before it could fall. “I should go,” you said as you lurched away. Reality snapped into perfect, terrible focus, and your vision tunnelled in on Bo’s wide eyed expression. “Just- just forget I said anything, all right? Forget it." You spun, and your senses weren’t quite back because your hand swiped the empty bottle and sent it skittering across the table. It rolled, tumbled to the ground, and disappeared somewhere beyond your line of sight.
You were almost to the door before you felt a warm hand grab your own. "Wait.”
You didn’t seem to have a choice. Your legs refused to move, Bo’s soft touch rooting to the ground, mind whirring. What did he want? Would either of you even remember this in the morning?
His hand didn’t leave yours, nor did his eyes leave your face. He bit down on his lip, oh so serious despite the way he wobbled on his feet. For a moment he didn’t seem to want to speak at all. Then, “you love me?”
“I said forget it,” you snapped. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and not just from the alcohol running havoc through your system.
You could have pulled away, could have disappeared into the dark depths of the house, darted upstairs to try and sleep of this drunken stupor. You never had the chance.
In the time it took you to blink, Bo’s lips were on yours. He tasted of vodka and whiskey and every other alcohol under the sun, but to you it was perfect. Soft lips moved against your own, so gentle yet needy as he tugged you closer. Your eyes slipped closed as a breathy sigh left you, entire body sinking into his touch. A thick arm snaked around your waist as Bo smiled against you, his kisses trailing lower. Down your jaw, neck, collar bone - before dancing back up for one final, lingering kiss to your lips.
For a second, you truly thought you were dreaming. Then Bo laughed, ticklish against the shell of your ear, and everything came rushing back to you. “Bo, I-”
“I love you too, idiot,” he murmured, and both arms gripped you, gripped you so tight the breath was pushed from your lungs. “I’ve always loved you, ever since you turned up in Ambrose.
You let out a choked laugh. Your mind was buzzing, but the sting of the alcohol had faded to the back of your thoughts. "Don’t tease,” you huffed.
“I’m not.”
And then he kissed you again, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, and you knew he meant it.
Vincent
You had seen Vincent drunk perhaps once before in your life - when Bo was away and you sneaked into his stash, staying up long into the night laughing about nothing. It had been fun, and weird, and all kinds of silly.
This time, it was different. Even through the haze of your own drunkenness you knew it. He drank like he wanted to forget, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You weren't sure when the change had shifted over him - when the easy smiles and hushed laughter had turned sour.
"Vincent," you murmured, "maybe we should call it a night." You had one leg slung over the arm of the chair, the rest of you nestled amongst cushions and an enormous blanket.
Across the living room, perched on the very edge of his own armchair, Vincent's single eye flickered. "Why?"
"Because it's-" you checked your watch, "nearly two-am and I have to be up early tomorrow. Today?" You shrugged, eyes darting to his. He didn't look at you. "Besides, we're both lightweights and you're gonna feel like death tomorrow."
"One more," Vincent answered simply. His hands shook as he reached for the bottle - some nasty whiskey, since the good stuff was long gone - but his hands knocked the bottle and sent it tumbling. Whiskey splattered across the coffee table and he cursed, slender arms scrambling to catch the bottle. Whiskey was already dripping onto the carpet.
That was when you knew he had hit the limit. This wasn't fun for him any more, and wasn't that the entire point of drinking? "Vincent, sweetie, let me-"
He swatted your hand away as you reached out to help - and you snatched it back with a yelp.
Your ow buzz was vanishing at the speed of light, leaving you with only a dull throb in the back of your eyes. "Vincent, quit it," you snapped, eyes narrowing.
He was still trying to mop up the whiskey, movements slow and sluggish, with the sleeve of his sweater.
"Something's on your mind," you muttered with a sigh. You were too tired and to achy to be mad. "People don't drink this much, in their own house, for fun."
"Why not?" Avoiding the question. A famous tactic of his. You watched him for a moment, the whiskey quickly becoming a dark stain spreading from the edge of his sleeve, right to his elbow. It wasn't good drink anyway.
Lips pursed, you fought down the burst of irritation in your chest. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you asked, "what's bothering you? And don't say nothing, I know it's bullshit."
He continued cleaning - if it could even be called that - and didn't meet your eyes. You waited, but it became clear he was studiously ignoring you. He didn't pause until you snatched his wrist, the other hand cupping his chin until he had no choice but to look. Behind the mask, his one bright blue eye widened.
"Vincent Sinclair, if you don't tell me what's wrong right now, I'll tell Lester and he'll annoy the answers out of you." You accentuated the threat with a quirked brow, trying very hard to look stern and not like a drunk idiot. Then you realised you were still holding his face, the wax pliable under your fingers, and your cheeks flushed. Like you were a schoolkid with their first crush, eyes wide, you snapped your hand back and tried to cover it with a cough.
Smooth.
Still you crouched beside him, waiting on his reply.
Vincent shifted, tugging at his now soaking wet sleeve, eyes cast to the floor. It hurt him to speak, what with the extensive scarring you were rarely allowed to see, but his silence was driving you mad. Then, "I love you."
Huh? That's what had been on his mind? You blinked, your mind somehow skipping over his words and jumping straight to his shy, nervous look as he finally met your eyes. Oh. he was handsome - so what if you could only see one eye and a sliver of his cheekbone? You knew what was underneath, knew he was probably pursing his lips beneath the mask, his cheeks a beautiful shade of rosy pink-
"I shouldn't have said that."
What? Oh. Oh. A gasp fled your lips as your hands reached for him, and you mustn't have been a sober as you thought because of all things, you laughed. Only to slap a hand across your face a moment later. Yet the other hand remained firmly in his. "Vincent," you murmured, "I had no idea. I... holy shit."
He simply shrugged, his momentary confidence gone as he once again stared at the floor. Thick, dark hair hung in his eyes, shielded him.
Your hand trailed along his palm, danced across his wrist. He shivered at the touch, bringing a smile to your lips. "You know," you muttered, "I've always admired the quiet, artistic type. It's no wonder I fell for you too."
His gasp, muffled by the mask, made you grin. His eye, so wide, locked with yours. Hands clenched around yours until it bruised, but when you saw the timid hope flicker across his face you didn't care how much it hurt.
"I mean it," you urged. When had you leaned so close? Did Vincent always smell of lavender underneath that ever present wax? Was it his heart thundering so loud, or yours?
You weren't sure when Vincent tossed away his mask, but all of a sudden you were in his arms, his bare face pressed against your shoulder as he bundled you into his arms. "I love you," he whispered, like a mantra, "I love you, I love you, I love you..."
"I love you too," you murmured, pressing a feather-light kiss to his uninjured cheek. "I have since the day we met."
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Today, September and Calendar
Thanks!
Today: Have you made any progress in any wips today?
Uhh, no. Remember what I said about writing earlier this week? Well, I've done a million things, but unfortunately writing hasn't been one of them.
September: Share a comment or review which still warms your heart?
Oh, Anon, I can't share only one. I've been rereading comments this past month and several come to mind right now. These all warm my heart no matter how old they are or how many times I've read them already.
randomdork11 on House Potter:
You’re back!!!! I’ve missed you and this story more than I realized. Little Sev dealing with sick Harry and exhausted parents is so heartbreaking and sweet that I can’t handle it! Plus, I can totally relate to the exhausted parent bit XD. That whole family is just far too adorable. A certain bean who is far less evil than she proclaims to be, told me you were about to post again, so I’ll admit that I’ve been checking my updates like a crazy person.
Self-doubt is easily the worst part of writing. However, if I can offer you any encouragement, it’s that you have no reason to doubt yourself. Sometimes stories seem so big and daunting and we aren’t sure if what we are writing even makes sense or is relatable or true to character. Everyone goes through it and - as I’m sure many have already said - in your case, you’ve nothing to worry about. This story is beautiful and charming and captures the characters so very well. You’re doing a marvelous job of creating well rounded characters who all have faults and positive traits. You’re writing it in a way that none of the characters seems too good or too bad, just simply human. It’s utter perfection and you should be extremely proud of this work!!
Happy writing Ailec! And if you end up in doubt, just remember that your readers all agree that you are wonderful and we are here for you!!
@allstoriesrtrue24601 on the last OFaH chapter on AO3:
What a beautiful ending to an unbelievably impressive series! Having read the original series on fanfic.net repeatedly habitually since their original completion, it’s brought me so much joy to have weekly reminders of how much I love this story; and now with a gorgeous new epilogue!!
I’ve said it before but the one thing that really gets me about your writing is the characterisation - it drives the stories in a way I feel is really missing from most pieces of published works and tv shows. The bonds you build between characters and the whole dynamic really comes through throughout each installment - making the character development extremely natural and impactful. I’ve waxed lyrical previously about your writing style but I reiterate that it’s utterly and irrevocably beautiful, especially when considering English is not your first language. The pacing, plot and actual progression of the pieces are so well thought-out and really prompts excellently-executed dialogue and exposes opportunities to get to the hearts of the characters. It is suffice to say I have THOROUGHLY enjoyed your work in every one of its forms.
On a side note, I feel massively honoured to be mentioned in author’s notes (I have to say I’m slightly star-struck) and I’m more than happy for any future English queries. Have a wonderful day x
Kuroui, also on OFaH, but the first version on FF:
I realize I never actually left a review on here but here it goes.
This is definitely one of my all time favourite fics to ever exist period. Not just within the OUAT fandom. I was ecstatic with the introduction of Zelena, as it opened potential for Regina to have someone blood related still alive for her to interact with. At the end of Season 3 when Zelena was given that second chance, I was excited to see a possible turn around for her character. Up until that point, everything she had done was to give herself a better life, one with her blood mother, in hopes that she may be loved. She was not unlike Regina's initial persona and I could see how they could connect over it.
Season 4 dashed those hopes, and the progressing seasons left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. In the end, I am glad at least that at the end of Season 6 they had become something like sisters, and for that I am glad. I am also happy to see Zelena returning to play some time in Season 7. I dont know what it is but Zelena is my favourite OUAT character, and I love Rebecca Mader who plays her. For that reason I always seek out Zelena fics in hopes of finding good ones as she is not one of the most popular characters, in terms of fic writing at least.
This fic was both amazingly written and brought to light my hope of them reconciling as sisters. I like that it was not an immediate turn around from "villian" to "good", but a gradual process that involved interactions with multiple people and learning from mistakes. It made her a very real and relatable person. Everyone has flaws and makes mistakes and going from a life where her only goal was to hurt Regina, to living with her and attempting to be "good" was a large turn around that no doubt shook her to her core. You displayed that in your series very well, showing the ups and downs in her journey as well as the reflective reactions from those around her.
Henry's role in this was very heartwarming and he really is a miracle. The Greatest Believer. I do not think that Zelena would have come as far as she had without him. Though Regina does her best, it is always nice to have someone else there, not to mention someone who looked at Zelena without any negative feelings. Having multiple people care and believe in her no doubt gave her greater motivation to change and be a better person. Not to downplay Regina's role in this of course. Regina very much has been the core to this family, to Zelena's change.
At the end, Zelena desired to be wanted, to be enough, and she was going to look for that in Cora. Regina knew though, that it wasn't Zelena's fault for that, Cora only wanted power. Which you had her explain. And I think that having Regina turn into that person that Zelena wanted to be enough for, to be loved by, was a big change even if she didn't realize it. The initial hostility, anger and sadness moved away from being targeted AT Regina, to more herself and referenced in terms of Regina instead.
At that point, I think that Zelena's family slowly began to form in her own subconscious which eventually or hopefully would expand onto friends like Robin and Tinkerbell and perhaps even the Charming family, they do get along well enough of course. And if Charming's reaction to her run in with Sidney was any indication, I'm sure they would welcome her with open arms at this point.
Overall I suppose I can summarize it into this.
Thank you for writing this story/series. It holds a very very special place in my heart and I come back every once in a while to read through it. It warms my heart every single time no matter how many times I've read it. I love it with every inch of my OUAT loving soul and I am so glad that such an extensive well-written piece on Zelena exists.
Long comments aren't the only ones that have my eternal love and gratitude, though. Here's a couple of recent ones that are making this writing hiatus much more bearable:
Ninafia on the latest instalment of Hotchpotch:
I loved this! You're really good at writing emotions.
It's like I'm in their head, if that makes sense. Thanks for the chapter!
Lilia on House Potter:
This is such a remarkable story—so subtle and heartbreaking. Use of child Sev’s POV is a true narrative tour de force. Wish I could give it 100 kudos.
I'm lucky to have received a lot of nice comments over the years and you can be sure that, if your comment made me happy the first time I read it, I've come back to it more than once.
Calendar: Do you have a schedule for posting?
Not right now —I only keep a posting schedule when there are a few chapters already written at the very least.
Fanfic questions :)
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Home Front, Mission 8: Peter’s Fitness Montage
Fitness, not fighting
~
PETER LYNNE: Hello, listeners. It's me again, poor old Peter, still stuck in a projection box at the Princess Louise Theater. And since you last heard from me, I have faced my greatest survival challenge yet. Oh um, speaking of, you're going to be facing a few challenges yourself soon, courtesy of yours truly. So um, why don't you start warming up now? A few stretches, running on the spot, whatever gets your juices flowing, as the bishop said to the personal trainer.
Um, yes. Anyway um, in case you've forgotten, the auditorium here is absolutely packed with zombies, but keeping a movie on the screen distracts them. So there I was, looking through the cinemas digital archives for something nice and long, and I found a playlist of every single Rocky movie for a Sly Stallone fan marathon. Except the playlist got stuck and I've been watching Rocky movies on a loop for eight days straight, listeners. I've managed to stop the playlist around the tenth run-through of Rocky III.
I fear I might have gone a bit peculiar. I spent the whole morning on comms to Janine waxing lyrical about Mr. T, but - but it has given me a great idea for a workout, and you'll never guess. It is boxing. Plenty of fisticuff-related entries on my list of Ministry exercises. First, though, a song that'll help you with your warm-up. I'm going to put on some music you can dance around to and really get your blood pumping, and if I am very lucky, maybe I'll finally get “Eye of the Tiger” out of my head.
~
PETER LYNNE: Welcome back, friends. Now I know we're all quite tired of being stuck indoors. Oh yes, although uh, Runner Five, if you're listening, I gather you've had a change of location recently. Locked down in a camping shop, Sam said. Could be worse. [laughs] I mean, you could be me. But let me tell you, my cinematic ordeal has given me the perfect lens for viewing this lockdown. See, we need to not think of it as being trapped, oh no. We can think of this as one extended indoor fitness montage. We are just in that part of the movie where we have to hunker down, crank the volume, and get our pulses racing!
So let's keep our warm-up going with some more push-ups, because if they worked for Rocky, they're gonna work for us. [paper rustles] Right, here is our official technique courtesy of Ministry guidelines. First, I want you to get down on all fours with your arms just over shoulder-width apart, then straighten out your body, supporting yourself on your hands and also your toes. Now lower yourself to the floor and push yourself back up again. Now if that feels too difficult, that's fine. Don't be afraid to support yourself on your knees and lower legs instead of your tiptoes. We are going to try one whole minute of push-ups or as many as you can manage. And go!
Excellent. Don't get carried away. Tortoise and the hare, all of that. 15 seconds down. Don't rush. Take your time with each push-up. That's beautiful. Exactly what we want, I assume. Halfway there. Feel the burn, as the old cliche goes. Never quite understood what that was supposed to mean. Uh, 15 seconds left. Oh, you can taste the finish line now! And five, four, three, two, one, and rest. Done.
All right, well, you should be all warmed up. I'm actually going to do a few push-ups myself in the next music break and you know, feel free to rest or you can keep going along with me. Frankly, I'm finding this music by going through movie credits and I want to be distracted when Cats III comes up next. So stay put, everyone. Your pal Peter will be back after this.
~
PETER LYNNE: Well, my friends, I have a shameful confession. I'm actually starting to miss the Rocky movies. Even the really bad ones, which is something of a tautology, but it just goes to show a person can get used to anything. I mean, Janine told me to emphasize our goal today is fitness, not fighting. Abel runners always do their damnedest to avoid conflict, and rightly so. If you do end up in a scrap, you need to be able to dodge as well as hit, so before we get to the hitting, you are going to practice a move called the side-to-side hop. Not a classic dance move, but it'll help you hone your evasive reflexes.
So to do this, we start by balancing on one foot with your knees and your arms bent. Then you hop to the side like you're jumping over an imaginary line that's between your legs, landing on the ball of the opposite foot. So try that for me. And absolutely fair, if you've got any knee problems or if that's painful, you can just do a grapevine or sidestep instead, totally fine. Okay, now we just keep hopping back and forth across that line, but as fast as you can. See if you can keep that up for a solid 45 seconds. I promise you will find that deceptively challenging.
And we are going to start now. There we go, but don't get carried away. You've set yourself a high bar. 15 seconds down, 30 left to go. Probably starting to feel what I meant now. 30 seconds down. You can pretend that you're dodging punches or - or lunging zombies. There's - there's one on the left. There's one right. Duck, duck, move! And five, four, three, two, one, and stop hopping.
Brilliant work! Right, so that's got our fancy footwork in the bag, and that means we can [metallic bang] Um... Did you... did you hear that? Uh, well no. No, you didn't. And well, of course, no, me neither. Um... It's gone. That's... Okay. I'm going to put some music on so that we can all pretend that that just didn't happen. Uh, you all take a break and relax or um, you know, bust out your best dance moves. Oh, but uh, seriously though, uh, don't overdo it. Because when we get back, it's going to be time to, uh, really get the workout going. Okay? All right.
~
PETER LYNNE: Okay. Well, that's quite enough of that one. Yeah, that - that song always reminds me of a bad breakup. I can't actually remember which. [metallic bang] It's back, and that was - that was definitely louder that time. See, um, I've been hearing some not really great things in this booth, listeners. Sort of... shuffling from behind the walls. You know, I think... something might be crawling around in the, uh, ventilation system. But uh, I mean... I mean, there's definitely not going to be enough room in the ducts for-for zombie. That would be... I mean, unless it was just a half of a zom. Oh God, what if it was just like that? Just like the front half, just like some sort of fleshy gingerbread man just like rolling itself down there, looking for a way out?
Um... yes. Okay, I'm, I am quite scared, actually. Uh, there's nowhere to run in this booth, but we still have exercises like this, which I find are a fantastic distraction. You see, I can immediately pretend that I am a seven foot tall beefcake training to take on whatever that is. Good God, that sounds pathetic when I say it out loud.
Okay, we're gonna have to move on. Um, punches, ladies and gentlemen. [paper rustles] First, you're going to need to adopt a Ministry-approved fighting stance. Hold your fists up in front of you. You have to have your dominant hand held back, and that's protecting your face, and the other hand is extended in order to attack. So plant your feet diagonally, shoulder-width apart, with your knees just slightly bent. Your dominant foot goes to the back. Right, we're going to start with the basic jab. You punch out with your lead hand, rotating your arm so your knuckles end up facing up and your shoulder moves forward. So we're going to do one minute of jabs. If you'd like some variety, feel free to alternate your stance from time to time and then you end up leading with the other arm.
Ready, set, go! There we are, perfect! More aggression, get the anger out. 15 seconds down. You can try imagining a bullseye. Aim right for the center of the target. You could even imagine an actual bull's eye and aim right for the middle of its face. Great. Halfway down, just keep on beating that bull in the face. I don't know what it did to you. I like to imagine that it's taunting me. I don't know what sort of names it's come up with, but they were hurtful and I think it mentioned my mother. 15 seconds left. We're so near the end now, we're gonna get that bull. I'm gonna move away from the bull. You can imagine whatever you like. Jab! Jab! Five, four, three, two, and we're done.
Good, very good. It's important, though, with zoms of course, punching has to be your last resort. But in the meantime, as a way to get your frustrations out, it's not a bad go-to, eh? I'm gonna do a bit more of it myself in this next break and uh, if you guys want to keep jabbing alongside me, well, all things considered, wouldn't really mind the company.
~
PETER LYNNE: Right there, kiddos, time to get comfortable. Here's a genuine piece of advice. Now like I said, punching zombies has to be your last resort. I have seen more than a few tough morons get infected themselves from undead blood in their knuckles. All men, by the way. Shock, horror, I know. So if you do ever find yourself boxing a gray, remember, if you don't have gloves - and that's what you want - at least wrap your hands in cloth or gauze. Your aim is only to knock them down or away so that you can run.
So to that end, we are now going to try some punches with a bit more juice behind them than the jab. These are our hooks and uppercuts. So back in your boxing stance, one arm back, one arm forward. So the uppercut, you keep your feet grounded, bend your knees and rotate your body with the direction of your lead arm. So you're pushing off of your lead calf and punching upwards with the lead arm, releasing your rear heel and feel that rotate outwards as you go. So try that all together. It should feel like you've got the power coming through in that punch. Great, okay.
So now the hook. Back to the stance. Now you shift your weight to your lead foot whilst swinging your lead fist in an inward horizontal arc and moving your shoulder forwards. So try that. You can imagine just knocking a zombie's head off with this one, right off of his shoulders. Great, okay. Now we are going to try a full minute of mixed jabs, hooks, and uppercuts. Dealer's choice, so go wild, switch them up, swap stances occasionally. Get ready, and go!
Excellent, we're off to a flying start. Look at you, you scrappy little thing. 15 seconds down. Imagine you're fighting a big scary zombie version of Ivan Drago. You know, that's the um, the-the villain from-from Rocky IV. Why am I telling you? You know this. Keep going. Yes, lay into him! One, two. More! Halfway there. You've got him on the ropes. And of course, he's gonna get stronger and come back at you, and it'll look like you're down. but you're not down, you're back up! And it's 15 seconds. He's now almost down! Yes, you've got the upper hand now. Finish it off! Five, four, three, two... Oh, and it's a knockout! Surely not! They've won the belt and the title! Oh, good job, people.
Yes. Now I might have gotten a bit carried... [metallic bang] Okay, that one was... that was loud. See, there's um... so there's this air vent right by the projector and I can see a shadow moving under the grill. See, the reason I worry is that there's a, uh, there's this broken open vent in the toilet and so if that thing comes through that whilst I'm sleeping... Okay. Listen up, people. I am going to go and confront the monster. Fear not for old Peter. I am not totally unarmed. I have this mop. Perfect. I'm going to put on some music first. You can rest or... you know what? Actually, throw a few more punches in the break if you feel up to it. Can't hurt to know you champs are fighting alongside me, eh? [laughs] Okay, on three then, I suppose. One, two, three, and off we go!
~
PETER LYNNE: Well um, hello again, everyone. So that one did not turn out exactly as I expected. Turns out wasn't a zombie at all. That was actually just a scrawny little fox, and it must have come in through the window, sniffing after... I mean, I guess rotting flesh? I don't know why it would want that. But got itself lost and just came shooting out like a bullet when I opened the vent in here. It's just, uh, it's actually just sitting in the corner now. It looks friendly enough. [fox screeches] Maybe not. Right. Okay. That's your side of the room now. Completely understood. I've probably got some food around here somewhere, actually.
Tell you what. Um, I actually do need to thank you, listeners. Might sound silly, but without you, I actually might not have worked up the courage to open the vent. That would have meant this little fellow would have starved to death instead of coming out to occupy half of my room. Hey, hello. Yes, that's you. Catch this. Here we go. [laughs] Somebody's a fan of old, old cinema hot dogs. That makes two of us. Please don't tell anyone.
All right, listeners, I'm going to go and find more scraps to feed to my new roommate here, and it really is sometimes better to make friends than fight, especially when your rival's got those big teeth. Don't worry, I'll be back very soon. And in the meantime, stay safe out there, champs. You know, I'll be rooting for you. Oh, and uh, if anyone knows how to um, delete a movie playlist, could you try and get in touch somehow? Honestly, it is amazing the things you miss when they're gone.
~
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they say before you start a war (you'd better know what you're fighting for) (redux)
“I will just expand Acatl’s part a bit,” I said. “I’m not totally thrilled with the ending,” I said. “This will be a quick project,” I said.
FIVE THOUSAND WORDS LATER...y’all get this. Tizoc successfully executes Acatl during Harbinger of the Storm, and Teomitl will do anything to bring him back. Including hand over his own soul.
Original version here.
Also on AO3.
-
His knees hurt, and the stone under them was cold. It was an absurd detail to focus on when he was bound hand and foot with the executioner looping a garrote around two meaty fists next to him, but that was what stuck in Acatl’s mind. He was going to die, and his knees hurt. And, to add insult to injury, he was going to go to his death with his hair badly in need of a wash and something stuck in his back teeth. He prodded it with his tongue. It didn’t help at all.
He took one deep breath. Another. Any one could be his last. He was careful to keep them deep and even; he would not die sobbing and hyperventilating, begging for mercy. Though it be jade, it is crushed; though it be precious gold, it crumbles. For we do not live forever on this earth, but only for a little while.
A hand in his hair yanked his head up, and the cord came to rest loosely around his neck. He took another breath. Mihmatini. Teomitl. I’m sorry.
If only he’d had more time. His siblings would mourn him, he knew, but they knew he loved them. He’d said all he needed to say there. Teomitl was a different story. When he’d first agreed to teach him the magic of living blood, he’d never expected to feel so strongly for him. True, he’d grown fond of him quickly, but that had been very nearly against his will. His heart had been locked up so tightly for so long that the first crack in the stone had felt like the walls of the Sacred Precinct crumbling around him. At first, it had been terrifying. Over the past year, however...
Well. He didn’t think he could rightly call his feelings fondness anymore. Teomitl was stubborn as a rock and prickly as a cactus, but more and more Acatl had felt something soften like wax in his chest whenever he looked at him. Pride? Affection? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it made his heart beat faster. That Teomitl’s radiant smile always brought an answering one to his own face. That when Teomitl looked even the slightest bit disappointed, the urge to pull him into his arms was near-overwhelming. That Teomitl was the most beautiful young man he’d ever seen. And now it would forever be a mystery. Now he would die, and Teomitl would never know that he might...he might...
His heart hammered against its prison of ribs, twisting nauseatingly as the realization struck. I might be in love. And I can never tell him.
Now his eyes were burning with unshed tears, and he forced them back with pure effort of will. This was a good thing. Teomitl was his student, a dozen years his junior, and courting his sister. There was no way he’d react well to learning his teacher had conceived a passion for him. He would die before he could be tempted to reveal what he’d learned and ruin the relationship they’d so painstakingly built. Teomitl would never be burdened with that knowledge. If he survived this, he would marry Mihmatini without guilt, and they would have a dozen children. Acatl could picture them now.
“And so the traitor falls.”
Oh, Duality preserve him. Instead of trying to fill his mind with calming thoughts of his family or his god, he was going to spend his last moments on earth listening to Tizoc gloat. Of all the indignities heaped upon him, this was one he knew he didn’t deserve. Somehow, he found words enough to snarl, “Hurry up.” It came out as a slurred rasp.
Tizoc smirked at him. He shut his eyes, but he could still hear the smug glee in his voice. It made him want to be sick. Throwing up on Tizoc’s sandals would even be satisfying; too bad the bastard was out of the likely splash zone. “And which of us is on his knees, priest? Which of us has betrayed the Mexica Empire with his words and deeds? It surely isn’t me; you know I’ve always worked for the good of Tenochtitlan, despite your efforts to obstruct my path. I do hope you’ll find an ample reward for your pains in the hereafter.”
There was more after that, but Acatl wasn’t paying attention. The cord was starting to draw tight. One more breath. Another. The darkness behind his eyelids was starting to flash. Another breath—no—he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t breathe. He bucked and jolted instinctively, eyes fluttering open in time to catch blurred images of Quenami and the She-Snake watching him; if he’d had his hands free, he knew he would be clawing his fingers to ribbons against the tough cord.
I can’t—
He needed air. He needed air and there wasn’t any, he was choking, he was going to die—
It wouldn’t be Tlalocan that awaited him, he knew, despite the manner of his death. A High Priest could go no other place than the realm of their patron. After this, he rather thought it would be a relief. At least in Mictlan, he could rest. Lord Death was always fair. Lord Death would let him fade the way his body was stubbornly refusing to.
No. It’s over. It’s over. I’m—only hurting myself—
His eyes snapped open as a twist of the cord sliced into his throat, feeling the sting and the trickle of upwelling blood. The sun blazed down, bathing the courtyard in light. For a moment, he could focus—there was Tizoc smirking, and there was Quenami with a twist to his mouth—but then the darkness flooded his vision again, and though he kept his eyes open he saw nothing.
This was it, then. He thought he should probably be afraid; maybe it was the lack of air that was making it so difficult for him to struggle. His limbs felt like stones, the hammering of his heart echoing like a drum through his ribcage.
The cord bit deep, but it no longer hurt.
He couldn’t feel his own limbs or heartbeat anymore. Soon, he couldn’t feel the cord either. Here at the end, there were no prayers to Lord Death he could offer. But then, he’d be seeing Him soon enough. He hoped Ichtaca wouldn’t be too overworked.
As he faded, he thought he heard the ahuitzotls’ song. And then...
Darkness.
&
Acatl’s knives burned at Teomitl’s hips, sending bile up into his throat and frozen emptiness down into his stomach, but they hadn’t yet damaged Huitzilopochtli’s wards woven over his skin and so he welcomed the pain. It was agony, but it spurred him onwards. He couldn’t afford to slow down or lose his focus, not even for an instant. Even that much of a delay would be too much time in which Acatl was in mortal danger. If he was late...
He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was late. Part of him cursed Nezahual; if he hadn’t run out of power merely getting them out and finding them a boat, they’d have Quetzalcoatl’s magic to speed them on their way. Southern Hummingbird blind him, they’d probably even be safe by now. He could at this instant have been on a boat to safety in Tlacopan or Texcoco or gods, anywhere in the sea-ringed world as long as Acatl was in his arms. Instead there was only him and the ahuitzotls, who were still fast on land but not fast enough. He wished desperately that he’d been blessed by Mixcoatl instead, Lord of the Hunt, but there was no helping that now.
Instead, he prayed to them all, hoping desperately that fervor would make up for not daring to stop and offer his own blood. Gods, please. Please, I’ll build so many temples, I’ll cover you in gold, the blood of eagles, the hearts of jaguars—just let me save him.
They didn’t answer. He kept running. Down the corridor, through one room and another, turning when the sparks of Acatl’s knives sang close, close, and then he was bursting through the entrance curtain and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t move.
There was his brother, smug grin slipping into surprise as he registered the interruption. There was Quenami, backing away with his empty hands raised as though that would save him. There was the swirl of a black cloak around the far corner—the She-Snake, fleeing like a coward. There were even a few guards, looking panicked as they drew their weapons. And in the center of the courtyard was the executioner loosening his garrote to let Acatl fall bonelessly to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing. Dead. Dead. He didn’t need the rattling chill of the knives to tell him that.
No. No. Nonononono—
Teomitl’s mind was a whirlwind of horror and pain, but he’d been in enough campaigns now that his body knew exactly what to do. He couldn’t feel his hands, but that didn’t matter.
He drew his sword and opened himself to Chalchiuhtlicue’s power.
It felt like being at the bottom of the lake; it always did, but this time the water numbed him. He saw the world through lake water, through the eddying rush of a streambed. His heart pulsed like ripples on the shore. When he breathed, he tasted algae; inside his head, the ahuitzotls’ song rose in a chorus, threatening to drown out his thoughts.
In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we hunt
In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we consume...
He sucked in a hard, painful breath and wrestled them back into submission. It had been harder since Axayacatl’s death, when his world had tilted; now that it was entirely inside-out, shattered irreparably, it was nearly impossible. He might not have managed it if he hadn’t given them their favorite command. Kill. Kill them.
They leapt to obey. He was only vaguely aware of their rush forward; the executioners and guards screamed as his beasts descended on them in a flood of snapping teeth and grasping claws, but he didn’t bother pitching in. The ahuitzotls had them well in hand. He tasted blood in his own mouth, felt the slick red heat of flesh tearing under his own claws—no, hands. He had hands, and they held a sword. And he had a job to do. The rabble didn’t matter. Even when one took a swing at him, he parried it without looking; all his attention was on Tizoc.
Tizoc, who had just slain Acatl. Tizoc, who was unarmed. Tizoc, who was trying to speak, as though anything he said could possibly bring Acatl back, could undo what he’d done.
“So you have betrayed me!” It sounded like it was coming from underwater.
It was just possible that, if he’d been contrite, he might have earned a few more seconds of life. Unlikely, but possible. But this? This—vindication, as though he was saying he’d been right, and he’d die being right? Teomitl inhaled sharply, feeling it scorch his lungs. “No.”
And then he swung his sword in an upward arc, feeling it cleave flesh and bone; something snapped off in Tizoc’s sternum on the way to the heart, but that was alright. He’d fix it later. Hot blood sprayed his face as Tizoc screamed and screamed and screamed, and some knot in his chest eased. Now I’ve betrayed you. It would take him a good, long time to die.
He turned away, lifting his head. The executioner and both guards were down, ahuitzotls feasting messily and adding the stench of entrails to the heavy odor of blood. They’d left a space around...around Acatl, and ice threatened to flood his veins. I’ve failed. Acatl, I’ve failed you. He wanted to crumple in on himself, wanted to curl around Acatl’s corpse and weep like a child. If he’d been minutes earlier, Acatl would still be alive. Avenging him, killing Tizoc—he knew, deep in his soul, that Acatl would have urged him not to. He would have urged him to consider the strength of the Mexica Empire and his own safety. Now he never would again. Grief rose like knives in his throat.
But he couldn’t give in to it, not yet; there was one foe in the courtyard he hadn’t yet accounted for. He could just make out Quenami huddling frozen and wide-eyed half behind a pillar, frantically trying to trace a glyph on the ground. He recognized the words of a spell on his lips, but that didn’t deter him. It would never be cast. He remembered the sight of a blade at Acatl’s throat with a sharp, sick swell of rage. Quenami had had the nerve to smile when dragging Acatl to his death. Teomitl would carve that smile from his face.
Water flowed around him even this far from the lake, washing Tizoc’s blood from his skin and lending him speed as he charged, sword raised. Quenami was frozen in fear, he could simply cleave his head from his shoulders and that would end it—
Again, he was too late. The strike slammed against glittering golden wards raised in the nick of time; as they spiderwebbed, a wordless scream tore its way free of his throat. His ahuitzotls screamed with him, abandoning their meals to circle this new target. He swung again, and the wards broke.
Quenami’s voice wavered—rank terror, not the ripples of Jade Skirt’s magic in his ears. If Tizoc’s death throes hadn’t died down to gurgling whimpers, he might not have heard it. “My lord...Teomitl-tzin, please!”
Please, he says. Rage threatened to choke him. Only his own self-control kept his hand steady, but the obsidian edge of his macuahuitl was pressed into Quenami’s neck just shy of drawing blood and it was extremely tempting to press harder. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated.
No, that was a lie. He knew why. Because Acatl, damn him, would have cautioned him against reckless slaughter. Would have warned him about the boundaries, about the safety of the Fifth World, about the godsdamned star demons trying to devour them all. If Coyolxauhqui truly was controlling them somehow, they would need the High Priest of Huitzilopochtli no matter what he’d done. But Acatl wasn’t here anymore to gainsay him, was he?
Would you have listened if Acatl had begged for his life? If he had asked to be spared, before you slew him? “Why? Why should I let you live?” His hand was still steady, but his voice shook. He would not cry in front of this bastard, this dog’s son who had torn his heart from him. He would not. Acatl is dead. He is dead, and it’s because of you. I will carve out your heart for his funeral pyre.
Quenami swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. Blood trickled down his neck from where the edge of the sword bit into his flesh. There was fear in his face, yes, but also a stone-hard resolve. “I can bring him back.”
He took an unconscious step backwards, feeling the edges of his grief crumble under the first light touch of hope. If he’s telling the truth. If...I could have Acatl back...
“...Speak.”
&
Quenami spoke. Indeed, once he was no longer in immediate danger it was difficult to get him to stop. There was a ritual, apparently; a secret passed down through Huitzilopochtli’s clergy from one High Priest to the next. Often it involved making a body of maize and amaranth dough, but given that Acatl’s remains were all in one piece they would be able to dispense with that step. All they would need to do—a trifle, really—was go down into Mictlan and convince Lord Death to relinquish Acatl’s soul. The hardest part would be opening the way, for which Quenami ordinarily required the other High Priests. Given the present circumstances, Ichtaca and the Guardian of the Duality would need to stand in for Acatl—Ichtaca for his connection to the underworld, and Mihmatini for raw power.
Mihmatini. Thinking of her brought another pang to Teomitl’s heart. They’d made plans to send her away for her own safety, but she hadn’t left for Popocatepetl yet. She would have to be informed of her brother’s death and the part she would play in his resurrection. Teomitl doubted it would comfort her much. It certainly wasn’t comforting him.
Acatl was dead. Teomitl had slashed the bonds around his cold limbs and closed his sightless eyes with shaking hands, cursing himself all the while that this was the tenderest touch he could offer, here where it no longer mattered. He should have spoken up when he had the chance, but what had he done instead? Picked stupid fights, clung blindly to his faith in the older brother who had once been admirable, failed to see the kind of man Tizoc was until it was far too late. If this works, he thought, I will lay the full truth of my heart at your feet and beg for your forgiveness.
Other people handled the cleanup after the slaughter, but that wasn’t Teomitl’s concern. He stood on the sidelines and watched as they gathered up the bodies and cleaned up the blood. There were questions. The She-Snake and the rest of the council showed up to answer them, with many sidelong glances in his direction. He hadn’t yet bothered to wash the blood from his skin. It seemed unnecessary.
Eventually Nezahual strode in, directing his warriors to place themselves at Tenochtitlan’s disposal. As he strode over to Teomitl’s darkened corner, Teomitl looked up from his idle study of the tops of his sandals to meet his eyes. Certainty filtered through the numbness. If he gives his condolences, I’m going to stab him.
“Teomitl.”
He held up a hand. “Don’t.” Not that he’d had enough bloodshed—Acatl was dead, he could float the city on a lake of blood and it still wouldn’t be enough—but if this worked, Acatl would probably be upset with him for maiming an allied Revered Speaker. Even if it was terribly, terribly tempting.
“I wasn’t going to.” But the way Nezahual’s eyes widened suggested he’d been thinking it.
“Good.”
Unfortunately, Teomitl’s curtness didn’t make the little bastard leave. No, instead he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Is it true what I’m hearing? That Quenami can restore him to life?”
His heart gave a hard, painful lurch in his chest. He’d been trying not to think about that. Quenami had sounded so certain, but what if that was only self-preservation? What if he was only telling Teomitl what he wanted to hear? No, he thought finally. He wasn’t desperate enough for that. At least, not after Teomitl had taken the sword away from his throat. “He says it is.”
“Hmm. Hmmm.” Nezahual glanced away, stroking his chin. Teomitl forbore mentioning that it was an incredibly stupid-looking gesture on a youth who couldn’t grow a proper beard yet. Finally, he looked back at him and in a quiet, serious voice asked, “Can I help?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?” You had your chance, and your strength ran out when you might have prevented this. Do you think I’ll let you fuck it up again? Somehow, he managed to keep that behind his teeth.
Nezahual hesitated. “...I confess to feeling...somewhat responsible for Acatl’s current situation. I would not have this drive a wedge between us.”
Teomitl sucked in a hard breath. “No.”
“No?” He tilted his head like a snake, eyes just as cold.
Maybe it was stupid of him to rebuff him. No, he knew it was stupid, and he didn’t care. He could apologize later when his chest wasn’t full of knives. Right now, the idea of spending any more time in Nezahual’s presence made him want to kill something. Mihmatini and the priests would be strong enough. They’d pull Acatl’s soul out of Mictlan themselves. “You’ve done enough,” he spat.
Before it could deteriorate further, he spun on his heel and stalked away. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He picked up the pace, almost running through the palace. Servants and nobles alike took one look at him and nearly dove out of his way—a good thing, because he wasn’t stopping. Anger and grief turned a tight whirlpool in his chest, keeping him on his feet. If he stopped to dwell on it, he would fall apart. He couldn’t do that yet. When Acatl is alive, he thought. When he breathes again, I’ll let myself remember this day.
Mihmatini waited for him in the Duality House. He was struck by how normal she looked, surrounded by slaves and underlings. The sun shone down upon her, clear and bright—it was a beautiful day, when there should be storms to match the one in his heart—and she wore a sleeveless blouse embroidered with flowers. Looking at her, he might almost think the world was alright again.
“I...” he began, and stopped. Just that one word was already bringing tears to his eyes.
She got to her feet, searching his face for something she didn’t find. Her own expression crumbled, but her voice was shockingly steady as she asked, “Acatl?”
He shook his head mutely.
“...So it’s true,” she whispered, and threw herself into his arms.
He held her tightly enough that it had to hurt, but she only wrapped her arms around him and shook silently, without tears. Somehow that made it worse; if she’d sobbed, he might have been able to wipe them away and feel a little more useful. Instead he buried his face in her hair, shut his eyes, and focused on his breathing. In. Out. In again. Slowly. No hyperventilating, or he would be the one weeping. And if he started, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop. Again he reminded himself, Not yet.
Finally she sucked in a noisy breath and released him, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with the back of her hand. I should have taken Tizoc apart piece by piece. Out loud, he said, “We need to talk.” Her entire body jolted, and he belatedly thought he could have phrased that better. “It’s not bad. It’s about—him.” He still couldn’t manage Acatl’s name.
She inhaled slowly and nodded, meeting his gaze. “I’ll take you to a private chamber. Follow me.”
He followed.
The room she led him to was bare and impersonal, with a colorful pattern on the wall he was far too unfocused to make out. The only thing that mattered was the expression on Mihmatini’s face—grief-tight, with eyes like flint. He couldn’t find words at first; when he did, he was surprised at how steady he sounded. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. “Quenami says he can be brought back. There’s a ritual. To—to pull his soul out of Mictlan and place it back in his body again. We need you.”
She stared at the floor. He saw her fists clench, knuckles going white in the folds of her skirt. “And you trust him?”
“No.” Not even as far as I can throw him. He took a breath and continued, “But it’s all we have. I...I was too late to save him, Mihmatini, I saw him fall.” Then his voice did break, and he shut his mouth before it could turn into a sob. Acatl’s skin had been so cold.
Mihmatini closed her eyes. “How...?”
He saw it again in his mind’s eye, that horrible ring around Acatl’s throat. The words floated up from far away. “...The flower garland.”
She took a slow, deep breath. He felt the magic of the Duality pulse within her, the thread connecting them flaring up like a line of fire. “Acatl wouldn’t want anyone to go through that. But if this fails...if it’s some sort of trap...I’m twisting the rope around Quenami’s neck myself.”
Some things never changed. He found he could breathe a little easier. “It won’t fail. It can’t. But if it does, you’ll have to. I killed the executioner.”
“And your brother.”
There was no judgment in that voice, but he felt something twist in his chest anyway. His nails bit into his palms as he snarled, “Acatl died of Tizoc’s—of his paranoia and incompetence! He killed him, as surely as if he’d done it with his own two hands. I’d do it over and over and be glad about it!” The emotion was too much. He had to shut his mouth, chest heaving. I wish I’d taken my time about it. See how many parts I could remove before he died.
Mihmatini was watching him, eyes shrewd. “You love my brother, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
For a shameful heartbeat, he thought of lying. Like a brother, he could say. Or, Of course, he’s my honored teacher. But he knew there was no use—Mihmatini’s words and tone had made it all too clear that she’d looked at him and seen straight to the core of his heart. He couldn’t deny it. Not when Acatl was dead and she was here, waiting for him to speak truthfully. He could give her nothing else.
Dropping his gaze to the mat and feeling his face catch fire, he whispered, “...I do. I’m sorry.”
She frowned at him. “For what?”
The question was so unexpected that for a moment all he could do was gape at her. Horror. Anger. A broken heart. He’d expected any one of those reactions. There was simply no good way to tell the woman you might marry that you were in love with her brother, not and still keep her in your life. And he liked Mihmatini—as a friend, if nothing else. He’d been looking forward to marriage and raising their children together, even though the secret he’d harbored would surely tear them apart if he let it slip. But she’d neither struck at him nor burst into tears, and so—at a loss for words—he spluttered, “I—you—he’s your brother—”
She sat back. Whatever she saw in his expression made her face relax into something less precarious than it had been. “I can share. If you think you can make him happy.”
“...I can try.” The wise thing would probably be to reassure her that she would always have the first place in his heart, but he wasn’t sure if that had ever been true. A sizeable chunk, certainly. But the first place had been reserved for Acatl since the moment the man had first bandaged his wounds after a lesson, hands cool and gentle, and he couldn’t see that changing. Acatl made him want to be stronger. More patient. Better. The least he could do in response would be to gladden the man’s heart. Once it beats again.
The frown was back. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I. Uh.” The vow he’d sworn suddenly felt like a much more uncertain thing. There’s no way he feels the same. Does he? What if he hates me for it? But Mihmatini knows her brother; she wouldn’t suggest if she thought it would bring him pain... He chewed hard on the inside of his gold lip plug, but for once the action didn’t help.
By the way she looked at him, his distress was obvious, but her voice held no pity or scorn. Thank the gods. “You should.”
He squared his shoulders and met her eyes. “I will.” They would bring Acatl back. He would breathe again, smile again, walk under the sun with his family again. And Teomitl would lay his heart at his feet, and if he was fortunate—please the Duality, let him be fortunate!—Acatl would pick it up. He refused to favor the idea of any other outcome with so much as a passing thought.
“Good.” Now she was almost smiling, and some pain-tightened corner of his heart relaxed. “He deserves that. He deserves...so much.” For a terrifying second her voice sounded watery, but then she squared her chin and added, “But you’ll do.”
It took a moment for him to register it as a dry attempt at humor, and the chuckle that came out had more in common with a sob. Oh, Mihmatini. What would we do without you?
She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. “Take me to Quenami. Whatever this ritual needs, I’ll do it.” After a moment she added, “And please don’t let me kill him until after we’re done.”
That settled it. If she’d still have him after all this, he was definitely marrying her.
&
The ritual needed a great many things. Acatl’s corpse needed to be washed and laid out—straight, not curled for a burial—and a suitable space prepared. Mictlantecuhtli’s temple handled that, watched over by a gray-faced and nearly silent Ichtaca in full regalia. Not Acatl’s, thank the gods, but something with almost as many owl feathers and clicking bone beads. Slaves brought the beasts they would need to sacrifice; Quenami moved gingerly among them, tallying cages of owls and hummingbirds and a huge, ill-tempered heron. Mihmatini carried armfuls of flowers for the Duality, the orange of marigolds and the red blossoms of plumeria the only color in the room.
Teomitl had never been in the temple’s innermost sanctum before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about his surroundings when a single wrong move might put Acatl beyond his reach forever. He stood by, forcing himself not to fidget as the fog of centuries of Mictlan’s magic sizzled against his skin. It very much did not care for the residue of Huitzilopochtli’s wards, even though those had been ritually removed to make his job easier. Across the room stood Neutemoc, who hadn’t spoken a word since arriving with Mihmatini nearly an hour ago. At least there was one other person who would much rather be fighting a dozen star demons at once than standing here waiting. There was very little he could do; it was up to Quenami to sacrifice the hummingbirds and trace the glyph for Four Jaguar while Acamapichtli did the same with the heron and the glyphs for Four Water and Four Rain. Ichtaca, knife in hand, took care of the owls and Four Wind. Four glyphs for the worlds that had come before, and living blood to bind them all into the spell. Finally Mihmatini stepped forward, slashed her earlobes, and added her blood and the flowers to their work.
Quenami had the job of cutting a circle into the floor to enclose the space. He paused, gaze sweeping the room—how dare he, they couldn’t afford to waste time—and lighting on Teomitl’s face, heedless of his furious glare. Someone had bandaged the cut on his neck. “Only one of you can go into Mictlan. This is not my realm, and I cannot widen the path. It can’t be Ichtaca; he needs to hold the way for us here.”
Teomitl didn’t need to think about it. “I’ll go.”
Another voice echoed his; confused, he looked up to see Neutemoc take a step forward, face set with grim determination. He met Teomitl’s eyes as he continued, “He’s my little brother.”
“He’s my—” Friend seemed inadequate, teacher too base. Beloved was something he couldn’t allow himself to think lest he break. It was easier, safer, to reach for other justifications, and they came easily to him in the memory of Mazatl’s curious hands and Ollin’s gummy smile. “What of your children, if this fails? Will you leave them orphans? Stay here, and let me bring Acatl-tzin back.”
Neutemoc studied him for a long moment, searching for something in his face. Eventually he seemed to find it and stepped back with a satisfied nod. “You’d better.”
As Quenami knelt to close the circle, Teomitl moved to take his prescribed position kneeling by Acatl’s head. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t bear to see that face waxy and still, not now.
A dog’s throat was slit, and the hymns began. He let the words wash over him; as the chants rolled on, the world around him started to fall away. Mindful of instructions, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the temperature drop. The air took on the stale smell of a thousand years of dust and the reek of decay, acidic emptiness scouring the back of his throat. He had a moment to be glad he hadn’t eaten anything, and then his head was swimming too much for him to think. The only thing anchoring him to life was his heartbeat, steady and strong.
Beat.
Beat. He was weightless, floating.
Beat.
A cold, wet nose nudged his palm, and he opened his eyes to a field of black stone, gray dust, and a sky precisely one shade lighter. The dog that had been sacrificed was sitting in front of him, tail sending up little clouds every time it thumped. There was wet crimson blood in its yellow fur, colors leaching to gray in light that seemed to come from nowhere and cast indifferent shadows.
It trotted off. He followed.
He very quickly lost track of how long he’d been walking. There were no landmarks here; he was walking the same path Acatl’s soul had walked at the moment of his death, and a High Priest didn’t have to contend with the rivers of blood and plain of knives that the common rabble did. Part of him was disappointed, for at least it would have been some measure of progress. The rest of him knew he wouldn’t have made it through so much as an overly deep puddle. He’d thought carrying Acatl’s knives was bad, but it was nothing to actually walking through Lord Death’s realm.
The air sapped all joy and hope from his soul, leaving only the grim certainty that he had to keep going. Even anger was too much effort; the heat of it was simply no match for the gnawing emptiness in his chest and the tremor in his limbs. Tears welled in his eyes, but he was too listless to blink and let them fall. Cold seeped through his veins and slowed his heart.
At least he could still feel it beating. He could take some comfort in that. Acatl, wait for me. I’m coming for you.
The dog seemed to know where it was going. Though obsidian shards bit through his sandals and bloodied his feet, they left no marks on its paws. He kept walking, one foot in front of the other; blood was a small price to pay for Acatl’s soul. He would offer his heart if he thought it would help. There was nothing else he could do for him now.
But oh, he was so cold. He was cold, and shivering sounded like too much work. Maybe he should rest for a while—yes, that sounded like a wonderful idea. There was a rock up ahead that had twisted itself into something vaguely like a tree, perfect to lean on.
He staggered towards it, slipping in his own blood, and fell facedown in the dust. It hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to care; the relief of letting the earth support his body was too great. Acatl could wait a little longer, surely. Surely...
Teeth fastened in his wrist, pain jangling up his arm. His eyes snapped open on instinct, free hand going for the sword he wasn’t wearing before he realized it was the dog tugging pointedly at his forearm with a growl that seemed to say, If you aren’t going to walk to Lord Death’s throne, then I will drag you there. It let him pull his arm free and stand up, but kept up its low, discontented rumble.
He felt like growling himself. Fool that I am, how could I have forgotten? I can rest later.
They walked on. His wrist throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, tethering him to the world and to his mission. He would not fail. The road stretched on before him, and all he had to do was keep walking. One step. Another. Another. His sandals were soaked with blood, making him slip; annoyed, he kicked them off and continued on. He’d walk forever if he had to.
And then the ground shifted, warped, folded, and he stood before a dais made of bones where the world was filled with rot and ashes.
Somehow, he’d expected a temple; instead, Mictlantecuhtli’s and Mictecacihuatl’s thrones looked as though they’d grown out of the ground. Bundles of femurs formed the low arms, and the seats were made of a collection of pelvises bound with curved jawbones. Lord and Lady Death lounged side by side, watching him with an expression of amused indulgence on their sunken, skeletal faces. Like I’m a dog that might be taught to perform clever tricks, he thought without much heat. He knew he should probably bow. He couldn’t make his knees bend.
Mictecacihuatl tilted Her head, studying him. “Well, well. What brings you to Our throne, little mortal?”
He’d never been good at speeches. It was something he’d been meaning to study, especially if he meant to move up through the ranks, but now there was no time. Besides, if They were like Acatl, They’d appreciate plain language more. “Acatl-tzin. Your High Priest. Where is he?”
“Ah.” She met Her husband’s eyes, and they shared a long look. She settled back on her throne, a fan of scapulas sprouting up behind Her, and said, “We have taken him into Our home, as is Our right and privilege. He has assumed his proper place at the foot of Our throne.” She gestured expansively, and he followed the movement to something he hadn’t noticed before.
There, just in front of and between the two thrones, was a tiny, fluttering moth under a thin dome of dust and air. He felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Acatl.” A wild thought seized him—grab him and run—but he knew he wouldn’t get far in Mictlantecuhtli’s domain. He’d be lucky even to feel the brush of wings against his skin.
He spun back to meet the gods’ gazes. “My Lady, My Lord, please reconsider. The Fifth World needs him back. We can’t—” The star demons. The boundaries. My empire. “We’ll fall without him.”
“Worlds have fallen before.” Mictlantecuhtli drummed His fingers on the arm of His throne, bone clattering on bone. “We have endured. We will always endure. Why should We give up such a loyal and well-beloved High Priest only to run the risk of him being killed again?”
Because I won’t let it happen again. Ever. He blinked dry eyes, feeling them prickle with dust. His eyes darted to where Lord and Lady Death sat on Their thrones, desiccated fingers almost touching. Even in their most formal attitudes, They leaned ever so slightly towards each other. Slowly, the words came to him. “Of all the gods, You know love best. My Lord...if My Lady were taken from You...”
“All existence would know My wrath until She was returned.” Mictlantecuhtli’s voice had all the finality of the grave, and Teomitl watched as His hand moved to cover His wife’s. “And is this why you are here, begging for Our priest’s life to be restored? For love?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “I never got to tell him.” It came out in a breath, barely audible over the breeze.
The gods shared another long look. Teomitl didn’t dare move. He willed his heart to beat quieter, lest it disturb them. The gulf in his chest howled.
Finally, Mictlantecuhtli spoke. “We will release him into your care.” Teomitl thought His skull face was attempting a smile. It was a terrible thing to see on a face that was mostly bone and dried skin. “But there will be a price for you.”
“I’ll pay it.” Here, at last, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Whatever You want of me. Anything. My heart? My body? My life? It will be Yours. Just let me walk with Acatl out of here, let me set him back in his body and tell him how I love him.
“Brave boy.” The ash rose, nearly blinding him; when it cleared, the little moth was fluttering gently in front of his face. “You may take Our High Priest’s soul, and settle it back in his living flesh, and it will be like he never died. But upon your death, though you may die in glorious battle, you will take his place here.”
He cupped his hands around Acatl’s soul, feeling its tiny feet alight on his fingers. His heart felt full to bursting. He is here. He’s here. We did it. “As you wish, My Lord—my Lady.”
Mictecacihuatl snorted, waving Her hand. “You have what you came for. Be off with you, feather of the Hummingbird.”
Feather of the—? “Wait,” he began, but before he could even formulate a question there was a quincunx shimmering into being under his feet. For a long moment he knew nothing, was nothing, and then he was falling through ash again and back into the temple sanctum.
Beat.
Between one heartbeat and the next, he was present in his own skin. It felt too warm and too tight after his sojourn in Mictlan, breath rasping through his lungs, but he was kneeling by Acatl’s head and holding his soul in his hands so nothing else mattered. He could die immediately, and still nothing else would matter.
No, that wasn’t true. He still had to tell Acatl how he felt.
“Did it—?“
“Teomitl!”
He ignored the outcry around him. Instead he lowered his hands to Acatl’s mouth, letting the moth fly out to brush against Acatl’s lips where it disappeared in a brief, soundless burst of air. For an excruciating moment nothing happened, and despair threatened to drag him under. Is there more? Have we failed after all?
And then life flooded Acatl’s skin, and he took a slow, shallow breath.
Teomitl wanted to cheer. He wanted to sob. He wanted to curl up around Acatl and go to sleep for a month. He did none of those things. Acatl’s face was practically in his lap, filling him with so much tenderness he thought he might die of it; before he could even think to remember his audience, he reached down and cupped Acatl’s cheek, revelling in the warmth of living blood under his hands.
Thank the gods. Thank you, Lord and Lady Death, for this gift of Acatl’s life.
Things started to move quickly after that. Acatl was borne on a stretcher to recuperate in the palace, where the She-Snake had arranged for a team of Patecatl’s priests to meet him. Teomitl wondered if they’d be any use or if they’d just stand around making concerned noises; being brought back from the dead was surely not common enough to warrant a page in their codices. He supposed that if nothing else, they could do something about what promised to be some truly spectacular bruising on his throat. He wanted to go with him—surely he couldn’t be expected to leave Acatl alone, no matter that Mihmatini refused to leave his side—but when he tried to stand up he almost fell over, and Neutemoc had to help him to his feet.
“Thank you,” he muttered, face burning.
Neutemoc squeezed his shoulder, a brotherly gesture he’d never gotten from his own brothers. His eyes were suspiciously wet. “You brought my brother back. I should be thanking you.”
There were still too many people around. He couldn’t fall to pieces yet. “I won’t accept it. Anyone would have done the same.”
Neutemoc gave him a dry look so reminiscent of Acatl that he felt his throat close up. Before he could do or say anything else emotional, he shrugged off his hand and left. Star demons or no, he needed to be out in the sunlight. He needed to remind himself that he was alive, that they’d won at least this small victory.
The sun fell across his shoulders like a warm blanket, and he soaked it in with his eyes closed for a long, blissful moment. Here, there were no star demons. Here, there was no yawning chasm of power in the Mexica Empire. Here, he didn’t need to worry about consequences or the things he had left to do. Tizoc was dead, and Acatl was alive. The sun woke answering warmth in his blood. He could pretend he was free.
Then he opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky. The clear blue sky, with not a single errant star piercing through the fabric of the heavens. His mind went blank in shock. We don’t have a Revered Speaker. Nobody should be channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power in the Fifth World right now. This shouldn’t be happening.
He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, and took a second look. The sky remained clear. He squinted, trying to see if the tiny pale speck was a star or—no, it was just a cloud. The sky was still clear, and now his temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.
Footsteps behind him announced Quenami’s presence before the man spoke. “Well. Congratulations, my lord.”
He resisted the urge to whirl around and strangle the man with his bare hands. There’d be no point to it now that Acatl was alive. “Mn?” He didn’t mean to make it a question, but even for him Quenami was being obsequious.
Quenami chose his words with the air of a man picking his way through a field of obsidian knives. “Acatl has been restored to life thanks to you, and it...appears...that Huitzilopochtli has taken a liking to your bravery in walking into His enemy’s domain. Allow me to be the first to greet my new Revered Speaker-in-waiting.”
Oh. He stared down at his hands, seeing for the first time the faint tracery of gold glimmering over his skin, the warmth that he’d thought had just been the sun. In a manner of speaking, he’d been right. The Southern Hummingbird’s blessing. Is this what Mictecacihuatl meant? As he turned the idea over in his mind, his fists clenched. If the gods were choosing him for the office, then he would be worthy of it.
He would start by being honest. With himself, with Acatl, and with those less deserving.
“If you ever again address Acatl-tzin with less than full respect, Quenami, I will cut out your tongue.”
&
Darkness.
Pain.
It was the first thing that greeted Acatl as he swam up from the depths of unconsciousness. Everything hurt. His joints throbbed, his skin tingled, and his back ached. And his throat...his throat was the worst. It felt as though it had been squeezed shut, so sore and swollen that even breathing was agony. He lay flat on his back, staring at the inside of his closed lids, and tried to remember why that should be. The last thing he could recall with any certainty was the sham of a trial Tizoc and Quenami had put him through, where he’d been unable to mount even a few words in his own defense without drooling like an imbecile. And then...
The verdict. The flower garland. The courtyard. The ahuitzotls singing to him.
Teomitl.
He tried to stir, but at first his limbs refused to obey him. Alright then, he thought, small steps. Though it felt like moving an entire mountain, he could wiggle his toes. His fingers were next. His arms and legs felt constrained by something, but as he shifted he realized why. Instead of his own thin reed mat, he was laying on at least two thick new ones, and someone had covered him with a light cotton blanket like an invalid. He should have been sweating in the summer heat, but there was a chill sunken into his bones. The last thing he remembered was the garrote cutting off his breath. Swallowing brought a spasm of pain, a dry clicking noise, and the realization that he was desperately thirsty. “Mngh...”
“My lady? He’s waking.”
“Oh, thank the gods.” Mihmatini. She was safe, then. Whatever Tizoc had done, it hadn’t touched her. He thought she must be close by; he could hear the rustle of her skirts and smell the faint piney scent of copal incense. The small hand laid on his forehead was reassuringly warm. “Acatl, can you speak? How do you feel?”
“Grmngh.” He swallowed again. With another monumental effort, he wedged his eyes open. Mihmatini’s face swam into focus above him, pinched with worry but blessedly not bearing any injuries he could see. She’d braided her hair at some point, but now the simple plait was in disarray. The dark circles under her eyes looked bruised in the dim afternoon light, and there was fresh blood beading at her earlobes. I must be in terrible shape. “Sore,” he croaked, and then, “Water...?”
Water was brought, mixed with fresh-tasting medicinal herbs. He tried to push himself up and failed; his muscles were like softened rubber trying to move the cold, solid rock of his own flesh. Mihmatini’s hand at his back molded him into a more or less upright position so that he could drain the cup offered by a slave he recognized as Oyahuaca, ignoring both women’s concerned glances until he was hydrated enough to speak without feeling like he was gargling knives. It helped a little. Not much—gods help him, he was still so damnably weak, and his throat was in agony—but a little. He could think now, and with thought came questions. “What...what happened? Where’s Teomitl?” The ahuitzotls were singing. I know I heard them. Where they are, Teomitl wouldn’t be far behind.
Mihmatini shot a sharp look at Oyahuaca. “Fetch the Revered Speaker while I fill my brother in on what he’s missed.”
He heard the words, but they seemed to be slow in assembling themselves into a coherent sentence. The Revered Speaker? What did that have to do with Teomitl? Gods, he prayed they hadn’t elected Tizoc while he was indisposed. He couldn’t see that going well for anyone, not with that man’s paranoia given free reign. And Teomitl would surely be furious if that was the case, which wouldn’t improve the situation. He’d been in enough of a temper recently that Acatl really didn’t want to see what it looked like if it got worse. That wasn’t even mentioning the star demons. Was Tizoc even capable of channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power? Somehow he doubted it, Master of the House of Darts or no. It would be just my luck to survive a garroting and immediately have my soul eaten by a star demon, he thought sourly.
It wasn’t until Oyahuaca rose and left at a pace that wasn’t quite a run that he managed to say anything. “Mihmatini.”
She took a deep breath, staring down at her hands. “Do you remember the courtyard? The—the flower garland?”
He nodded dully. It wasn’t likely he’d ever forget. His knees throbbed, a sense-memory of cold stone and naked fear. Of searing pain and darkness and the knowledge that he would die with things left unsaid. Knowing that he now had the chance to say them didn’t bring him any comfort. It wasn’t as though he realistically could, not if he expected a favorable outcome. “There were ahuitzotls.” And then there’d been nothing else. He’d blacked out, probably.
“Well.” She took another breath, hands clenching into fists. “The ahuitzotls were too late. You...” Oh no. There were tears in her eyes. “Teomitl arrived in time to see you die.”
No. His chest felt suddenly too tight, his hammering heart the only thing he could focus on. As if in a dream, he looked down at his hands and knew she was telling the truth. If he engaged his priestly senses, he could see the ghostly tendons and bones under his skin. The dry, cold, acidic emptiness of Mictlan gnawed sharp and vicious at his stomach, too close to the surface. He felt colder than ever. “I...”
I died. I died, and yet I am here. He sucked in a slow breath, tasting ash and herbs and cold water. Another breath brought the sour stench of the sickroom. He’d died. He’d died, and somehow he’d been brought back. Somehow he was here with a pounding heart and aches in all his bones, the pain further proof that he yet lived. Mihmatini sat close enough that he could feel her warmth; when he sniffed, the mingled scents of her perfume and a distant kitchen filled his nostrils. Someone was roasting chilies, and it made his stomach growl lightly. Alive.
Mihmatini was still talking, and he struggled to keep up with it. “He killed Tizoc on the spot. He would have killed Quenami, too, if that dog’s son hadn’t led the ritual to bring your soul back from Mictlan. After...after that, apparently the Southern Hummingbird made it known in no uncertain terms who He was choosing to wield His powers in the Fifth World, so the rest of the council elected to instate Teomitl as Revered Speaker.” She swallowed. “You’ve...you’ve been unconscious for a week. You missed his coronation.”
What?!
Teomitl was Revered Speaker? That was... Acatl shook his head in disbelief. He’s too young was his first thought, but immediately he knew that was wrong. He certainly wasn’t too young to take prisoners in battle, to be personally chosen by Huitzilopochtli. To be the man Acatl realized, with a sinking heart, that he was definitely still in love with, because the idea of Teomitl wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown and still calling him Acatl-tzin, still looking to him for guidance, was doing something very strange to his emotions. He thought he might laugh. Or cry. Either was a distinct possibility.
It was too much. Mind spinning, he grabbed one thing out of the swarm of questions thronging his mind to focus on. He couldn’t handle politics now, not in the state he was in, but the workings of even the most esoteric magical rituals were refreshingly familiar. Even if they involved—ugh—Quenami. “Lord Death should not have released me. So...how...?”
A faint smile crossed Mihmatini’s face. “You should ask Teomitl about that when he arrives. He’s been very worried about you, no matter how many of us tell him that you’re recovering well. If it wasn’t for his coronation, I really don’t think he’d ever leave your side.”
He felt himself blush. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
She snorted and gently shoved at his shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m sure I’m not! He loves you more than he does me.”
He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. He sat in silence for a moment, willing the words to make sense. Mihmatini had to have said something else—meant something else. When she didn’t follow up with any sort of clarification and he realized she was looking at him for a reaction, he found his voice cracking in shock. “He—what?!”
“You heard me.” And now she was unmistakably smiling. For the first time in his life, Acatl wanted a cup with something significantly stronger than water.
It didn’t seem likely that he’d get it. She was still looking at him, seemingly happy as anything, and she’d just told him that the man she was courting was in love with him. He didn’t need to pinch himself—he was in quite enough pain that he knew perfectly well he had to be alive and conscious, thank you very much—but it still didn’t seem real. He couldn’t be that fortunate. He’d made his peace, hadn’t he? He’d determined already that he would go to the grave with his feelings rather than ruin the relationship Teomitl and Mihmatini were building.
Except he had gone to the grave. And somehow—he was not giving Quenami all the credit, he flatly refused, a man had to have some limits—he’d been pulled out of it. And now Mihmatini was telling him that Teomitl had been worried about him. That it had taken the long, painstakingly involved rituals of a royal coronation to pull him away from Acatl’s sickbed. That he loved him. “But you...he...” At a complete loss for words, he gestured in the air between them.
She shrugged carelessly. “Oh, the wedding is still on. We were waiting for you to wake. But I’m not first in his heart, and that suits me fine.”
He swallowed, another grinding flash of pain. Belatedly he remembered his water, and took a long gulp before answering. “...If you’re happy.” Regardless of whether she was the Guardian of the Duality or Teomitl’s wife, she’d always be his little sister. Her happiness was far, far more important to him than his own heart. Even if it seemed, amazingly, that he had nothing to fear.
“I am.” Her grin made her whole face glow. “And you?”
“What about me?” She didn’t know. He was entirely sure she didn’t know, not when he’d only realized it himself moments before he died.
She swatted him again. “Tizoc is dead, you’re alive, and you very definitely have the favor of our new Revered Speaker. The boundaries are safe. The star demons aren’t a threat anymore. I’d say that’s plenty enough to be happy about.”
He had to sit with that for a moment, still clutching his empty cup in both hands. She was right, of course. He was alive. They were safe. Teomitl was Emperor now, and he was no paranoid coward like his brother had been. No, instead he was brave and strong and whip-smart and he...Mihmatini said he might... Gods, he thought dizzily. He had thought there was no chance. He had died thinking there was no chance.
Mihmatini was looking at him. He choked out a grunt. It was the closest he could get to an actual response.
Someone was sprinting down the hallway outside. It was all the warning he got before the entrance curtain was yanked aside so roughly that it nearly came off its hanging rod; the cacophony of bells that announced the intrusion nearly drowned out the cry of, “Acatl-tzin!” that accompanied it. Teomitl stood in the doorway for a moment, relief plain on his face and the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown equally plain on his head.
Acatl couldn’t look away. He’s been crowned. He is my Emperor now. And he still...he still calls me Acatl-tzin. He wanted to laugh for the sheer joy of it.
Mihmatini rose gracefully, but the smile she turned on Teomitl had an edge to it. “I’ll leave you to talk.”
&
After Mihmatini left, all Acatl could do was stare at Teomitl. Absurdly, he thought, He looks the same. The same lean, solidly muscled build, the same nose and eyes, the same little scar on one elbow where a training sword had caught him as a child. True, his cloak and sandals were rich turquoise, his earrings and lip plug were jade and gold, and there was a slender emerald rod piercing his nose, but his face hadn’t changed. It was still open and guileless, every emotion writ clear. He loves you, Mihmatini had said. Acatl thought he could believe it.
Slowly, carefully, Teomitl sank down next to his mat. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Acatl’s face; for a moment Acatl thought he was going to reach for him, but he seemed to think better of it. “I...how are you feeling?”
How am I feeling, he asks. Again he thought he could laugh, but there was no joy in it; under his skin, dry dust rustled like paper. His bones still ached. Even with the blanket over him, there was a chill clinging to his skin. The words were out before he could stop them, more acidic than he’d intended. “...I’ve just been dead, Teomitl. How do you think?”
Teomitl jerked back, glaring at him with more hurt than anger. “It’s a valid concern!” He swallowed once, visibly, and added in a softer voice, “We weren’t sure when you’d wake.”
There was a tremor to the words Acatl really didn’t like, and Mihmatini’s words crossed his mind again. She’d never answered the question of how he’d returned. Part of him didn’t want to know. He was alive, wasn’t he? Let the details rest. But if Teomitl had done something...ill-advised to bring him back, then it was his responsibility to help fix it. Even now that Teomitl was Revered Speaker, it was still his responsibility. He took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt so much anymore. “I’m just glad to be able to wake at all. Mihmatini told me that Quenami provided the magic, but how...?”
Teomitl dropped his gaze, but his voice was firm; his shoulders rolled as though he was preparing for a fight. “...Someone had to go into Mictlan. I volunteered.”
What. The words crystallized in his mind, horror slicing like swords. It’s one thing for me to go—I am Lord Death’s servant! But Teomitl, sworn to the Southern Hummingbird and Jade Skirt, walking through enemy territory—for me—
“Lord Death was...willing to release your soul to me.”
He forced himself to breathe. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. For Teomitl to walk back to the Fifth World with my soul... With dread gripping his heart in eagle claws, he forced out, “What did He want in exchange?”
Silence. Teomitl closed his eyes on a long exhale.
“What did He want, Teomitl?!”
“Mine!” Teomitl’s eyes snapped open, filled with an anguished emotion Acatl couldn’t even begin to unravel. His fists clenched, white-knuckled, as he caught Acatl’s gaze and held it; he was stunned to see tears in his eyes. For all that, his voice held steady with barely a waver. “I offered Him my soul in exchange for yours, and He accepted. When I die...I’ll go to Mictlan. And it will be worth it, Acatl-tzin, do you understand?” He raised his voice right over the feeble noise that escaped Acatl’s lips. “It will! Because I lied to Tizoc, you’re mine, and I couldn’t let you die!”
Horror—he did that for me, gave up all hope of the Sun’s Heaven for me—almost threatened to swamp him. Teomitl was a warrior. He was the Emperor. He deserved an eternity by the side of the Sun, and he’d thrown it all away for him. For a poor priest from a family of peasants.
“I’m what,” he choked out. “Teomitl, what were you thinking?!”
“You heard me!” Teomitl snapped, making a furious stabbing motion with his hand.
His heart felt as though it had, impossibly, migrated up into his throat. He could barely speak around it. “But I...but...” Your soul. The place in the heavens you deserve. Even Tizoc might go there, if he died with a weapon in his hand. And you never will.
Teomitl had clearly decided there was no room for remorse or second-guessing himself. He raised his voice to a snarl. “No buts!” He jerked his head to one side, eyes shutting too slowly to stop the trickle of tears down his face. Acatl felt his heart crack in two at the sight. It was worse when Teomitl scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a hand, made a horribly wet throat-clearing noise, and bit out, “You’re the most important person in the world to me, Acatl-tzin.”
Helpless, he reached for him—and stopped. No matter how much he wanted to pull Teomitl into his arms, he had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well. “I’m not—” He stopped. Started again. “I’m just—”
Teomitl looked up, glaring at him through reddened eyes. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. Your life is worth more to me than anything else.”
Including your brother. He didn’t say that. His own eyes burned. “Mihmatini told me Tizoc-tzin is dead.”
“He is.” Teomitl’s voice was striving for neutrality, but there was too much bitter fury still lingering in it for it to ring true. That, and he still sounded close to tears.
Acatl had to swallow tears of his own and wished for more water. “By your hand?” He found he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Yes, brothers should stand by brothers, and unquestionably that precluded murder. On the other hand...well. He could admit to a certain petty vindictiveness. Tizoc had executed him for a crime he hadn’t even committed. That certainly deserved death in return.
“I had to,” Teomitl said simply. Now he sounded steady, but his knuckles had gone white where he’d grabbed a fistful of his jade-beaded cloak.
“...Why?” But even as he asked, he knew the answer. The knot in his chest started to loosen, and he found he could breathe.
Teomitl recoiled, staring at him incredulously. “For you, you fool!” It came out ragged, raw. He had to take a breath before continuing, “I saw you and—Tizoc tore my heart from my chest when he killed you, Acatl-tzin. I returned the favor.”
Oh. Oh. Mihmatini was right. By the Duality, she was right. And so was Teomitl; he was a fool, because he’d thought he could possibly have hidden how he felt. There would be no hiding this. His heart was hammering so fiercely he could feel it in his fingertips. He was still exhausted, still sore from his encounter with death, but that didn’t matter next to the cataclysm of emotion swirling through him. It was for me. He went into Mictlan for me, slew his own brother for me. Because...
It still didn’t seem possible. He was no great warrior or dazzling beauty. He would bring no glory to his clan. He could only hope to be a good man, to serve the gods and the empire well. And yet somehow, he’d earned a place in Teomitl’s heart.
“...Teomitl.” It seemed to be the only word in his reeling mind. He realized he was leaning closer, that it would be so easy for him to close the distance between them, and only just stopped himself in time.
Teomitl swallowed convulsively, dropping his gaze. Even in the dim light afforded to them, it was easy to see him turn a dull, dark red. “I—” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Acatl’s and squeezing tight. “Acatl-tzin. Acatl.”
He’d never heard his name like that before—harsh and desperate, unspoken emotion ringing through it like bells. It made his heart skip a beat, and for a moment he could barely breathe. “Are you not...?” The Revered Speaker, he wanted to say, as far above me as the sun in the sky. But the words lodged in his throat and stuck there; helpless, he gestured to Teomitl’s turquoise adornments with his free hand. The other one was still held firmly in Teomitl’s grasp, making it easy for him to tangle their fingers together. Whether you are or not, I’m yours.
It must have been the right thing to do, because Teomitl was looking at him again. “Yes. But...” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Acatl’s focus followed it. “To you, I want to be Teomitl.”
He wasn’t cold anymore. Warmth pulsed through him like another heart, and Mictlan’s chill had never felt farther away. “And...” The words were out before he could call them back; maybe it was a stupid question, but he had to know. He had to be sure, before he did something he might regret. There were many different ways to love, and it was entirely possible that what Teomitl had said and what Mihmatini had heard were two entirely different things than the emotion coursing through him now. “Is that all you want from me?” Please say it isn’t, he thought desperately. Please say I’m not the only one willing to follow anywhere this leads.
Teomitl’s thumb smoothed over Acatl’s fingers, very nearly distracting him from his words. “No,” he said simply.
Now he knew he wasn’t breathing. Teomitl’s hand on his was his greatest anchor to the earth. “Ngh?”
Teomitl smiled, brief and radiant, as his gaze drifted pointedly to Acatl’s mouth. “When you are well enough, I’m going to kiss you.”
It was a simple statement of fact—the sky is blue, Grandmother Earth is hungry, I am going to kiss you. Acatl took a moment to breathe, feeling the foundations of his world lift and resettle themselves to account for this new version of reality. His limbs still felt too heavy and his throat was a dull-edged sword of pain, but none of that mattered. Teomitl had brought him back to life, saved the Fifth World, loved him.
He tilted his head and leaned in, the clearest invitation he could give. “...I’m well enough now.”
Teomitl closed the distance.
He’d thought about what kissing Teomitl might be like. He’d been ashamed, yes, but Teomitl was an attractive youth who smiled easily and his vow of celibacy didn’t make him a eunuch. He’d imagined something rough and passionate, maybe a little clumsy in his eagerness. He’d imagined more teeth. He hadn’t imagined soft, gentle lips pressed to his, coaxing his mouth open. He loves me. It was the easiest thing in the world to relax into it, letting the arm Teomitl slid around him take his weight as he kissed back.
From there it was only natural to pull him close in return. Acatl rested a hand at his waist, revelling in the heat of the smooth skin there and the small, soft noise Teomitl made into his mouth. It almost sounded surprised, and he couldn’t help but smile. Did you not think I wanted to touch you? Oh, but it was too difficult to kiss someone when you were smiling, and soon he had to pull away. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
“Acatl.” Teomitl was smiling too; they bumped noses, and Acatl had to suppress a little bubble of laughter. “You don’t know how happy I am right now.”
“I think I can guess.” He ran his fingers lightly over Teomitl’s side—too lightly, evidently, because it startled a squeaky, adorable giggle out of him. He hadn’t realized Teomitl could laugh like that. He certainly hadn’t realized the man was ticklish. Now there was no use suppressing his delight, nor the grin that threatened to split his face.
Teomitl’s eyes narrowed warily, but without any real heat. “Do not. I swear to the Duality, I’ll take back everything I just said.”
He decided to be merciful, smoothing his hand over the skin instead and watching the delicate little shiver that resulted. “You won’t. You never break your word.” He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Teomitl loves me. I love him in return. That will never change, not in this world.
“Mm.” Teomitl kissed him again, brief and sweet. “No, but I wouldn’t mind the chance to say it again properly.”
“Properly?” He’d done an excellent job of expressing his feelings as far as Acatl was concerned. There was surely no chance of him misunderstanding kisses like that, not when they were still making his skin tingle.
But apparently Teomitl disagreed. He blushed again, averting his gaze. “This isn’t how I wanted to say...any of that,” he muttered. “I had plans. And besides, I was hardly sure you were going to listen!”
He felt like he’d been stabbed. How long? How long was he carrying this? And I was blind. I didn’t even realize what was in my own heart until the last moment. Duality curse him, he’d been a prize idiot. “Teomitl...” he murmured.
Teomitl glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. There was the faintest hint of a rueful smile on his face. “I thought for sure it was doomed,” he muttered. “That I’d have to take it to my grave. I thought I didn’t have a chance.”
Acatl was already shaking his head. Or rather, he shook his head once; continuing the motion reminded him he’d been recently strangled, and his neck muscles had opinions on that. “You thought wrong. I...” But he stumbled over the words, flustered.
“Hm?” He was acutely aware of the way Teomitl froze, watching him.
Well, there was no stopping it now. And it was the truth, besides. “I love you,” he blurted out.
Teomitl went spectacularly crimson, but Acatl didn’t have much time to admire the view because then they were kissing again. It was still slow and careful, but this time Teomitl shifted to lay them both onto the mat and that turned out to be considerably easier on his sore muscles, not to mention giving him an excellent chance to skim a palm all the way down the exposed skin of Teomitl’s side. Teomitl hummed into his mouth, an intoxicating noise. “Mmm...”
Even when he broke the kiss, he didn’t go far. He didn’t want to. “Does that mean you believe me?”
Teomitl’s smile was like a sun rising. “You’re right. Mictlan might have my soul, Acatl, but my heart is yours.”
He’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten. He closed his eyes, unwillingly assaulted with far too vivid memories of the cold and the darkness and the dust. But he still tasted Teomitl’s mouth on his when he licked his lips, and that helped to banish it a little. “I still cannot believe you did that,” he muttered.
Teomitl held him tighter, huffing out an annoyed-sounding breath. “I had nothing else to give. Oblivion is worth it as long as I can spend my life with you.”
He inhaled sharply. “Oh, Teomitl.”
There was nothing for it but to draw Teomitl in for another kiss, this one deeper; as hands found his hair, his own dug into Teomitl’s skin. After a second’s worth of surprise, Teomitl returned the fervor with a growl. There were the teeth he’d been wondering about, and he welcomed them. If he’d had the energy—if the Revered Speaker could be assured of any privacy at all—he would have allowed himself to crave more. Since they couldn’t, he settled for catching Teomitl’s lower lip lightly between his teeth and thrilling in the soft gasp before he pulled away just far enough to breathe, “Then I hope we die on the same day, in the same hour. I won’t let you walk through Mictlan alone.” Not again, at any rate.
Teomitl grinned at him. “It will be a good journey.”
Upon their deaths, they would both dissolve into dust at the foot of Lord Death’s throne. But here and now, they were alive. Acatl found he was looking forward to that.
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