#it somehow reflects a specific moment in time while also being so ahead of its time
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one thing about me is i am obbsessed with the history of i love lucy
#desi and lucy (individually and together) have such an interesting story#and its so embedded in the history of early cinema#from vaudville influences to the communist trials#it somehow reflects a specific moment in time while also being so ahead of its time#and actually began a lot of tv practices still used today like reruns and live studio audience
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Part 1 - Part 2
The Trapper
The Entity knows…
Everyone grew a consciousness, most of them not knowing of what to do with it other than to keep sticking to their purpose to which they were programmed to follow from the very beginning.
You could say that Dead by Daylight currently lives and exists because of you, although in a very underdeveloped state.
And the possible risk of everything to disappear from the moment that you die is just too great of a defrayal. Therefore, for you to be *sacrificed* is absolutely out of the question.
But in order to keep the game as it currently is- healthy, functioning, self-aware and breathing with new-found life; the Entity feels hell-bound to keep you in a similar condition.
Days have already passed, you see. From day one, the moment you actually went up and moved from the campfire after escaping the Trapper, the dark power had led you straight into an empty arena containing many items and resources for you to survive and to live rather comfortably from.
Of course, not an hour goes by without you trying to find a way out. The two times you did manage to do so, you were unknowingly forced to make a loop through the mist and straight back into the arena.
Perhaps you long to return to the real world. The place you were born and raised. Yet it doesn’t want you to go. It can’t let you go. This is your home now. Your purpose is here. You wouldn’t have ended up within the game if that wasn’t the case.
And then an idea pops up… Companionship… A survivor always needs one…
And then an added fact.
The Trapper…
Ever since the masked slasher has crossed paths with you, his loyalty towards the Entity has diminished almost completely within the very short span of just a few days. Currently, he’s unruly and unpredictable as he doesn’t sacrifice his victims at all anymore, preferring to kill them upright instead.
And by listening to the beat of a black heart and sensing for the sparks traveling through a twisted brain does the mighty being understand why one of its most loyal of servants acts the way he does now.
The bond between you and him is stronger than that of anyone else’s, no matter from what state of mind you approach the matter. Even the bond between the god-like entity and the slasher isn’t nearly as… intertwined. The entity knows which emotion is the culprit of this very fact. Love. Or at least, a rather deformed and more extreme form of it. It had already started to bud and blossom to what it is now from the very first day you played as him and against him through your computer/console.
Perhaps, it’d be a good idea to reach out to the killer and tell him what one of his new tasks is from here on out. One which doesn’t only benefit the Entity, but most definitely the Trapper as well. The new question now, however, is how well you’ll adjust to it and if you will accept the new situation once it sets its plan into action. Accept, and you’ll have a happy life ahead of you. Reject, and the Entity will force you to decide otherwise…
You feel frustrated. Absolutely frustrated. And not just because of the ever present darkness that’s watching you from above.
Even after these few days, you still don’t know where you are. The modest house which desperately needs a fresh coat of paint, murky pond, old and slanting shed, overgrown garden and the bit of unmaintained farmlands at the side do not look familiar to you at all.
In fact, the entirety of the map is utmost unknown to you, and it looks a tad bit better than most areas within Dead by Daylight. Almost as well-kept as Haddonfield, so to speak, just by the fact that you have a working kitchen and a warm water bathtub within that old-fashioned house…
The few hints through which you could tell that you’re still stuck in this specific game is that the night is endless within this universe- the moon forever stuck at its peak, and every time you found a way past the walled border of the area, you’d somehow end up right back at the spot where you’d previously slipped through from. It didn’t take long for you to figure out why.
You brush your fingertips alongside the cold metal bars that make up the Arena’s main gates. Then, you withdraw your hand just as quickly as black spikes suddenly spawn from the place you’ve just touched. The Entity is currently pretty desperate to keep you inside the premises, especially from the moment you’d nearly escaped a third time.
You scowl, kick the gates in a pent of aggression and retreat back into the house with a hand skimming through your hair. This is not going as planned and your emotions are reaching an all-time low. As far as you can see it, there’s not a single chance of escaping, your family might as well have called the national news for how long you may have been missing and you don’t have a single clue of what the Entity has in store for you with the way it has been treating you from the moment you had escaped your first and only trial. You’re basically a bird stuck in an impoverished golden cage.
You proceed to drag your feet upstairs after a quick raid of the kitchen’s cabinets before retreating inside of your bedroom. In the meantime, reading a book might stimulate some ideas for a future escape attempt and to give you some time to reflect for the ones that have failed in the past. It might also help you to calm down for a bit in order to tackle the problem with an overall better state of mind.
But before you could actually grab a book from the over stacked bookshelf besides the window, you incidentally saw something move from behind the window and look down to see a tall shadow stir to the right from behind the fenced border which is being overshadowed by the shed. And when you finally see it stalk into the moonlight, you felt as if the ground gave out from underneath you.
It’s the Trapper… Weaponless?
You quickly duck below the windowsill with a hand already clenched over your heaving chest.
Why is he here? Does he know that you’re here? Did the Entity send him? Is he here to kill you with his bare hands? Is this the start of some sort of a trial? Has he seen you standing here?
There are so many questions rumbling through your brain with not a single clear answer to pin them to. And frankly, you don’t plan to hang around to see them answered on their own, either.
You quickly decide to dart out of the room whilst making sure to close the door behind you, before moving over to the room located at the other side. There, you also make sure to close the door before leaping towards the window.
After another survey of the outside world, you decide that the coast’s clear and carefully slide the glass panel upward as quietly as you possibly could.
As you did so, you heard the front door open with a soft groan, indicating that the killer hasn’t only succeeded in entering the premises, but to enter this damned house as well.
You climb through the window and firmly place your feet between the slippery vines and tested your footing before starting your climb downward.
A sudden bang can be heard, and then another. He must have checked your bedroom, like you’ve suspected, and must have shut the door in irritation before slamming open the door of another room next to it.
It didn’t take long before yet another door was thrown open against a wall and heavy footsteps could be heard from above the second you’ve reached solid ground.
A chill prickles your neck and causes goosebumps to appear all over your skin, automatically forcing you to look upward.
Your eyes widen and your breathing stops for a millisecond as you do so.
The Trapper grinning mask’s staring at you from above, breathing heavily. If it’s due to him running around the house or him being irritated with you(the later most likely), you truly do not know. Maybe a combination of both, for all you care.
You move and point your body towards the direction of the main gates, waiting for him to move away from the window since it’s almost guaranteed that he won’t climb down the vines himself due to his weight. Maybe he’ll fall for your trick, and move towards the gates as quickly as he can in order to cut you off. He did just that and you quickly spun around and run towards the back of the building instead.
You already know he’s a sharp killer. The only question is, will he round the house from the right or from the left once he understands what you’re actually trying to do? The fact that you’re also trying to bluff him as if there’s another way out of the premises? Maybe he’ll cut straight through the building?
‘Wait… Damn it! Of course the backdoor isn’t locked! I didn’t expect a killer to stroll around here anytime soon!’ you remember, and quickly decide to move your point of destination towards the shed instead.
You need to move quickly before he truly does burst through the backdoor and throw himself onto you.
You stick to the wall, take a peek around the corner and confirm that he isn’t there. As a hasty distraction, you pull open the backdoor- making sure that quite a bit of noise is made before you dash straight into the shed.
Once at the front you take another look through a split in the wooden wall. He’s not at the main gates, and more importantly, the gates are gaped wide open…
But what if it’s a trap?
You could wait and observe for a little while longer before actually trying your luck… Yet you cou-
Your thought of process falls silent as heavy footfalls abruptly thunder into earshot. You turn around, only to see no one in sight, but heave out a surprised gasp instead when the shed’s rickety doors suddenly burst open and something big flies straight towards you.
Before you knew what was actually going on, you were quickly pinned against the wooden wall by a warm, big and rough-skinned hand coiled firmly around your upper arm.
You try to break free from him, but the more you struggle, the tighter his grip would be until the point it actually is starting to hurt. As result, you seize your attempt of wriggling yourself out of his iron grip before dropping your head in defeat- feeling utterly useless in your current situation.
Eventually, he slowly and reluctantly lets you go and takes a step back in order to allow you some breathing space, but still remains close enough if he’d be forced to grab you again if you’d decide to try and make a run for it.
After a moment, you finally dare to speak, fear obviously affecting your vocal cords; “W-Why… are you here…?” you ask him with a shaky voice. You can already guess the answer, considering his current behavior, but you need to hear it from him as confirmation.
He replies with a voice so dark and raspy that it forces a shiver to creep down your spine; “To keep you from running away any longer. Entity’s orders…”
Figures…
You take in a deep and shaky breath, sadly doing little to calm your fear before taking a tiny step to the right. Just so he won’t get the wrong idea, you ask him to follow you before leaving the shed, the tall man following close behind.
Many thoughts, mainly complaints, race through your head like a herd of out-of-control horses, but you won’t ever voice them out. You can’t voice them out, let alone to the slasher currently following you. The fact that the Entity decided to basically stall him with you already says a thousand words. And you hate it…
Of course, you don’t know how dependent this game’s Entity is with feeding on the mismatched hope of survivors. Before you know it, it might need you more than it needs them, in a sense.
You suddenly turn your gaze towards the man walking behind you, only to quickly turn away with your heart jumping in your chest as you noticed how close he is to you now. Still, you also saw enough of his posture and recollected enough of his behavior before all this to see what he’s approximately thinking right now.
In his own way, he seems to be attached to you in a way you never expected to happen at all. A character of a video game who’s smitten with you… A killer from Dead by Daylight… You would have laughed hysterically if someone ever told you that this would happen to you- deeming them crazy.
Your shoulders quake as a shiver runs up your spine. A shiver of fear and disgust.
You turn to him again after you suddenly heard a low grumble resonating from the giant behind you, springing away from him.
He seems overstrung and strangely out of place as your eyes land on him. He’s sensed that you’re feeling very uncomfortable in his presence.
Your eyes are wide for a second, surprised with his observation and the way he’s giving you your space as result. You then frown at him. Not out of irritation. At least, not entirely, but more so out of empathy. “I’m sorry,” is all you could whisper after a minute of silence, not even knowing yourself what you’re exactly apologizing for. For your feelings? For his? For the situation as a whole?
Of course, he seems to know you much better than he obviously seems to let on. Also, Meg did know your name without the two of you ever meeting each other before face to face during that trial. Does this mean that all of them were able to watch you in a similar way you were watching them while you played? The Trapper included?
You swallow as you turn yourself away from him before stepping into the house.
Either way, you don’t know if the survivors, the Observer or anyone else out there could ever save you from your peculiar situation. Perhaps all you can do in the meantime is to try and make the best out of it while searching for a way out... A quest now all the more difficult now that you have a love-sick killer as your unwanted bodyguard…
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Not a Day Too Soon
Request: Spencer Reid on his wedding day hands the reader a receipt whilst at the altar instead of starting his vows and asks them to read the date and it turns out it’s like one month after their first date and then he asks the reader to read what the receipt is for and it was for their engagement ring and he’s just “that’s how long I’ve been sure. That’s how long I’ve wanted this to happen” and they’re both just crying sappy dorks getting married
A/N: Thanks for the request, anon! Hope this is what you dreamed of when you submitted this request to me. I hope I met all your expectations for sappy fluff! From your request, I decided to make the reader gender-neutral if that’s okay with you!! There wasn’t a specific gender specified and I wasn’t sure if it was done intentionally or not, but I hope you still love it! (Also, to anyone reading, I put a father walking the reader down the aisle, but you totally can substitute someone else in placement of a father)
Couple: Spencer Reid/Gender-Neutral!reader
Category: Wedding fluff
Content warning: None whatsoever
Word count: 2.4k
Notes: Y/F/F=Your favourite flower Y/B/F=Your best friend Y/M/N=Your middle name Y/L/N=Your last name
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Today was the beginning of the rest of your life with Spencer. For the last two years it had already felt as if you two had known each other centuries before. Every moment with him was undeniably time well spent. Every moment felt as if you had lived it and were reliving the best parts in an endless wheel of dreams. Marrying Spencer Reid was probably the peak of your forever happiness.
You stood in front of the mirror in your dressing room to look over everything. Your makeup had been flawlessly done and so was your hair. You were so nervous your eyeliner would smudge or your foundation wouldn’t match somehow. You had to admit it looked absolutely flawless. Your makeup artist was definitely worth every penny.
You admired your wedding attire one last time. The BAU girls and some of your friends had accompanied you to pick your perfect wedding attire. It took several hours but you were satisfied with your choice. You don’t remember the last time you ever felt so beautiful. Today was destined to be the best day of your life.
“Y/N, you ready?” You heard your dad ask from behind you.
You turned around and smiled. “Of course.”
You walked over to him and linked your arm with his. He handed you your bouquet of Y/F/F. He guided you out of the dressing room and out into the long hallway leading outside. He couldn’t stop telling you how beautiful you looked and how happy he was for you. You had to stop yourself from letting your tears fall from your eyes. You couldn’t bear messing up your mascara before meeting Spencer at the alter. You knew you would be shedding plenty of tears throughout the day, but you wanted to at least make it down the aisle tear-free.
You two made it out into the courtyard venue and the beautiful clear skies greeted you. The sun warmed your cheeks as a smile spread across your face. Spencer was standing at the altar in his black tuxedo with a cute black bowtie and from what you could see he was still wearing his famous mismatched socks. You couldn’t ask to marry anyone better ever in your life.
Everyone looked at you as you walked down the aisle. You could hear breathy ‘oh wow’s’ and ‘they looks gorgeous’ from the crowd of family and friends. Your eyes were still set on Spencer though. He covered his mouth in amazement as he watched you walk towards him. His joy couldn’t be held any longer as you saw a few tears escape his eyes. He removed his hand from his mouth to wipe them away. His covered smile was now beaming as he continued watching you in all your beauty. Derek, who was his best man, had to rub his back to give him some composure again.
As you reached the altar, you looked at your dad and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He held your hands tight in his, squeezing them tight before letting go. You knew he was about to shed tears of his own by how red his eyes were.
“I love you, Y/N. I’m so happy for you,” he said.
“I love you too,” you said.
He went to go take his seat as you went to your designated spot across from Spencer. Y/B/F grabbed your bouquet from your hands. Spencer reached out for your hands and you didn’t hesitate to place yours in his. You held his hands tight in yours, happy he was here with you. He looked even more handsome up close. His smile was so joyous you couldn’t help to reflect it back.
Rossi soon walked in to meet both of you in the middle of the altar to begin the ceremony. You and Spencer hadn’t gotten a real pastor since neither of you were that big on religion and decided to just have a wedding officiant instead and to your surprise Rossi was a certified one. You saved yourselves a couple of bucks in exchange for a few sarcastic remarks and tasteful humour.
“Well, if I’m thinking what everyone else is thinking than my answer is yes, it is about time someone other than myself to get married,” he began and got a ton of laughs in response.
He looked at the both of you, who were laughing, but both of you were laughing while looking deeply into each other’s eyes as if you were in your own world. He even noticed that you two were whispering “I love you” to each other already and you were slowly, but surely tearing up.
“They’re already saying “I love you” to each other. Hello, kids, this is a wedding ceremony, not a date. Save the I love you’s for either the Honeymoon or the bedroom,” Rossi joked.
Everyone laughed, even you and Spencer, as you two finally got over yourselves. You took the time to wipe an escaped tear from your eye and regained yourself by taking a deep breath. Rossi cleared his throat to get everyone settled, so he could proceed with the ceremony quicker since he believed that you and Spencer would rather spend your wedding privately at that point.
“But being serious now, we’re gathered here to join these two dorks in holy matrimony. I’m glad that we could all be here today to join Spencer Walter Reid and Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N as one big Doctorate degree,” he joked again.
Both you and Spencer looked at each other with approval. You two had spent your money wisely when you decided to spare the pastor and hire Rossi instead. He brought something so tedious to life.
“Proceeding, in the presence of family, friends and loved ones, I’m going to go ahead and initiate this whole thing. Ever since these two were born, they’ve been meant for each other, but it took fate to match them up at the right time. We’re also here to celebrate the good in life that has come from the bad and trust me, they make bad look like a schoolyard bully. I’m honoured to bind these two souls together and I’m overjoyed to not be the one saying the vows because I forgot them, so please, Spencer, let your lovely partner know how you feel.”
Spencer smiled and took a deep breath as he let go of your hands to reach into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of folded paper. He let out a soft chuckle as he looked up from the paper to you. You stared at him, eagerly awaiting him to say his vows. You were kind of surprised he had to write down his vows. Maybe an eidetic memory was good to a fault. To your surprise though, he handed you the paper.
“Y/N, read the date on the receipt,” he said.
You looked at him confused, but followed his instructions. This was definitely an unexpected move on Spencer’s part, but then again he was always full of surprises. You opened up the receipt and looked at the top for the date.
“June 3rd,” you said.
“You know what day it was a month prior to that date?” He asked.
You giggled as you remembered. “How could I forget? It was our first date.”
He smiled. “Exactly. Can you read what the receipt was for?”
You looked back down at the receipt. You went to the items listed and only saw one. As soon as you read it, you felt tears form in your eyes again. You looked up at him and as soon as he saw the look on your face, he knew you saw what he bought. You could also see tears starting to form in his eyes again.
“An…an engagement ring,” you said as you tried your best to hold back your tears.
“Yes, an engagement ring. That’s how long I’ve been sure we were meant to be. That’s how long I’ve wanted this moment to happen. I bought the engagement ring a month after our first date with the intention of marrying you one day. All that I have, all that I am, all that I’ll ever be is yours forever. From the very moment I saw you, I knew you were the one for me, the one that I knew I had to spend the rest of my life with. Our courtship was one of the best days of my life, for you have become not just my lover and companion, but also my best friend. I want to be your lover, your companion and your best friend for the rest of my life. I promise to love and cherish you, to keep you close and with faithfulness, to be your prop and helpmate in times of need, to make you laugh and to hold you when you cry, to hold you to the highest respect and honor as you so deserve for the rest of my life,” he said as a few tears escaped his eyes.
As he said every word, you felt it sting the depths of your heart as no other words have done before. The love that rolled off his tongue, every word he said overwhelmed you with content. You looked lovingly in his eyes as he looked back at you with a warm smile that you could never get enough of. It made you thrilled to think that you would be seeing that face for the rest of your life and you had no regrets about that decision.
Knowing a month from the first day you two met was the day he decided he wanted to be with you for the rest of his life was the best feeling your heart ever felt. You were overjoyed Spencer had felt as deeply for you as you did him from the start. The love he gave you would never grow old to you not even after death. His love would probably still warm you from the grave through its endless warmth.
“Y/N,” Rossi said. “Go ahead.”
You took a deep, jagged breath. “I have dreamed my whole life of having someone as…as wonderful as you to love me the way you do. I give myself to you and I…I gladly promise here to treasure for all of my days the love we celebrate today. Let us bring together our lives and find ourselves anew each day…Sorry.”
A few tears started to stream down your face. Spencer took his right hand and wiped away your tears, gently enough, so he didn’t mess up the hours of perfecting your makeup for the occasion. He gently whispered to you to take your time because he knew how much this meant to you and how overwhelmed you were. You smiled at his touch, as you seemed to breathe a bit easier from his reassurance. You took another breath before continuing.
“You are a precious gift to me, my springtime, my hope and my joy. You are everything that's good and pure and true and I worship you with my mind, body and soul. How lucky I am to be able to say that you are mine, to be able to love and cherish you for the rest of my days. I vow to always put you first in my life, always be there to comfort you in your sorrow and rejoice with you in your victories. May our hearts and very breath become one as we unite this day as partners in life. I promise to be your true love from this day forward and forevermore.”
He beamed a big grin at you as a few more tears left his eyes. It was your turn to use your hand as tissue and wiped away his tears. Tears were still flowing down your own eyes as you found it hard to hold back your happiness. From ear shot you could hear some people in the audience crying from joy and letting out sweet awe’s as they watched the two of you being in deep love with one another.
“I don’t think I could have said that better and I’ve been married three times. Before these two crying dorks become dehydrated from water loss, let’s get to the ring exchange. Henry, the rings, please,” Rossi said.
Henry, who was standing by Spencer’s side, lifted up the pillow to give the two white gold rings to you both. You and Spencer took each other’s ring, waiting for the instructions from Rossi to initiate the ring exchange.
“Spencer, as you put the ring on Y/N’s finger, repeat after me: I, Spencer Reid, take you, Y/N Y/L/N, to be my partner.”
“I, Spencer Reid, take you, Y/N Y/L/N, to be my partner. I promise you love, honour and respect, to be faithful to you and forsaking all others, until death do us part,” Spencer finished as he eagerly slipped your wedding ring on your finger.
“Or not. Y/N, your vow,” Rossi said.
“I, Y/N Y/L/N, take you, Spencer Reid, to be my partner. I promise you love, honour and respect, to be faithful to you and forsaking all others, until death do us part,” you said as you slipped his ring on his ring finger.
“I don’t think I really have to ask this since you basically said it, but Spencer, do you take Y/N as your lawfully wedded partner till death do you part?” Rossi asked.
“I do,” he responded.
“Y/N, do you take Spencer as your lawfully wedded partner?” he asked.
“I do,” you said.
“Well, I know you two have been waiting for this exact moment since June 3rd, so you may now kiss.”
He didn’t even have to tell either of you that as you two immediately locked lips as he finished his sentence and enjoyed your first kiss as lifelong partners. You had to admit, it felt pretty good, maybe even better than any other kiss you two had.
Everyone stood up as they cheered for you both, some crying at the sight of two souls becoming one. As you parted lips, both of you looked deep into each other’s eyes and smiled brightly at each other. You had only been married for a minute and already started to mimic each other. The pianist started to play a tune for you two to walk out with. Spencer immediately grabbed your hand as you grasped his with great strength as he led the way down the aisle as your guests watched and cheered for your happiness and future lives together.
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MASTERLIST
#spencer reid#dr. spencer reid#dr.spencer reid#Matthew Gray Gubler#mgg#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fic#Criminal Minds#Criminal Minds Fanfiction#criminal minds imagine#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x gender neutral reader#spencer reid x gn!reader
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Kuroshitsuji / Black Butler SMUT
| Ciel x Wife!Reader
Note this: This is actually a smut spin-off from my BB fanfic which had ended, that's why it is in third PoV. But no worries, I have crafted this piece so that people who hasn't read the fanfic, could also read this. Enjoy!
Summary: It had been four years since they won their freedom to live life together. Nineteen and married, the guilty indulgence they shared had always been performed with restraints until now. In this cold winter, none of them thought they would be heating themselves up in the confines of his study. This time, he was no longer holding back.
Warning: Extremely kinky.
Themes: breeding kink, pregnancy, penetration
[ Heated Winter ]
.
The scattered papers on the desk had been shoved aside. Some had fallen to the floor in the heat of their passion.
Their lips were all over each other. Wild hands were roaming across naked skin.
His warm, swollen cock was slick and drooling against her inner thighs with pre-cum.
The thighs under her bare bottom were coated with her arousal which wouldn't stop leaking.
She didn't exactly know how they ended up like this.
What felt like a minute ago, she was just standing behind him, her hands trying to knead those stiff shoulders.
His hands were still on his desk then, his fingers flittering through the paperwork spread out in front of his scowling face.
She knew Ciel had been stressed these recent days. Ever since he decided that he wanted to revive her family's dead business and let it flourish alongside his Funtom, he became even busier.
It did not sit right with her how he would sometimes end up working at it till the nights despite her numerous attempts to get him to rest. He had been adamant about doing this, and she knew he was doing this for her even though he would deny it every time she told him to forget about it.
Somehow recently, nights falling asleep without him beside her extended to two weeks. Oh, how she wished she could retract the casual, wistful thinking she voiced that one night. She had never thought her mere words would spurn him to attempt it.
It had been months since their wedding and there hadn't been enough windows of time to indulge in the guilty pleasure they both grew addicted to. Their desire to have kids was made known even before their big day but their inactions made it seem like they were mere afterthoughts.
She couldn't exactly figure out how they ended up discarding their respective tasks on hand. She could have sworn she was just giving him a shoulder massage while he remained focused on his work a minute ago.
Nothing more, nothing sexual to lead them to their current position.
There was no in-between.
Things happened so fast, driven by lust and sexual frustration. The pent-up stress and negligence for their needs seemed to be the culprit.
.
A trickle of saliva ran down her chin as soon as he released her lips from their desperate kiss.
Her hands tightened on his shoulders as his lips traveled down her neck, sucking and attacking at the right places. The moans breaking free just wouldn't stop at every point of pleasure.
She wasn't too worried about being heard, for everyone else was two floors below.
A hand slid up his head, burying her fingers into his soft dark hair as she felt him envelop her breasts in the warmth of his palms.
Her lips rested upon his shoulder blade, her muffled moans humming against him as the warm hand cupped to her left breast rolled her sensitive nipple between its fingers. Jolts and jolts of tingles shot through her as he tugged and kneaded the flesh.
Lost in the heat, his teasing lips left her neck before she could register.
A gasp found its way out of her mouth when the hand over her right nipple was suddenly taken over by his hungry lips. Her fingers buried in his hair tugged on as his hot tongue licked and rolled her pebbled nipple while he worked his mouth on the perky mound in a heated suckle.
The hand on the other was as busy as his lips.
The continuous sensations on her chest made her heated core ache even more.
Aching for the cock situated so deliciously near her tearing wet entrance.
Aching to be filled.
Aching for the release she had been waiting for.
She could sense a similar ache in his throbbing cock from the way it stood prodding against her stomach for attention.
Her free hand which had slid down to his back in the heat moved to attend to its weeping needs.
A hiss rushed up to her ears the moment she wrapped her fingers around his restless erection, her long, slim fingers instantly splaying across the slick tip, coating his entire length with his hot leaks. Her hand slid back up to the tip of his cock with a playful tug, increasing her grip with a squeeze.
Ciel tore his mouth away from her breasts with a groan at the delicious clench of her hand.
The carnal desire to shove his cock into her was starting to win him over.
Ciel had been straining against the overwhelming lust since the start because he wanted to give her the foreplay she deserved for his negligence of her needs.
He could feel himself starting to weaken against the crushing urge.
All it took was a daring, intricate tracing of the protruding veins on his needy, swollen cock to break his self-control. She knew that little action was more than enough - he was going to make sure she took responsibility for that.
The smirk on her smug, panting face faltered when his hands flew to her hips in an almost bruising grip.
Her eyes snapped to his, wide eyed. The raw hunger and intense lust in his reflected back at her as she felt him lift her off his lap. The descend down was guided by the hand on her hips and the other which had switched over to hold his yearning cock still.
His tip greeted her hot entrance with a kiss, the slit pushed apart with a wet squelching sound as soon as their juices met.
An eager push down, a strangled cry rang out of her mouth as his cock shot up into her, the whole length completely buried in one go.
"...You feel too good." Ciel clenched his eyes close with a growling moan, relishing the tightness wrapped around his cock.
He had to hold back the burning need to let himself go right now.
He lifted her up again, until only the tip of his throbbing cock was the only part left inside her. The muscles in the bruising grip on her hip tightening was the only warning before he slammed her down with an almost equally bruising force.
But there was no pain, only a shot of electrifying satisfaction at how his cock filled her completely in that one swift entrance.
The pace he started was faster than he usually would. He was desperate; he knew he couldn't hold himself back any longer. His cock rammed into her, delving in deep every time he pulled himself out to his tip before thrusting back in harsh, urgent snaps.
The sensations she was feeling was overwhelming. Even in the winter, the study felt so hot.
Her whole body felt like it was on fire. Her senses were alarmingly high - she could hear and feel everything so clearly.
The broken whimpers leaving her lips at every thrust.
Slapping skin.
Wet squelching sounds.
His grunts and growls at every snap of his hips
Her sensitive nipples brushing over his chest at every bounce of her perky breasts.
All these filled her overheating senses.
Oh oh, and she missed this.
The amazing, addictive stretch of her cervix each time his cock was shoved into her.
And when he did this, she couldn't help but be aroused by the intensity in his gaze - the same one she noticed whenever he was focused on accomplishing his duties as the Queen's Watchdog.
Sometimes the intensity was even more. As though, he was bent on something.
Like now, it was there again.
The razor-sharp focus in his eyes triggered her walls to give a hard clench.
Just as responsive to the clasping pressure, the swollen cock right up her overstimulated hole swelled up even more in size as a groan fell from the tenacious Earl's lips.
A similar sound from her accompanied his as the burst of pressure made by his increased size stretched her walls even more.
Every nerve was screaming for a release.
So caught up in ecstasy, she didn't realize he was moving her to his desk until she found herself staring up at the ceiling.
The pace of his thrusts did not falter at all even as he moved them to his desk.
His items on the desk were pushed off onto the cushioned carpet below in his haste to get them in a better angle.
But all that fell past his concern.
The sight of her flushed face, slacked lips and her bouncing breasts from his towering stance was a powerful distraction from the mess around them and ignited a bigger flame in him.
Pulling her legs to his chest and over his shoulders, the slippery lubrication made from their mixed fluid made the change of his thrusting angle easy.
Her hands gripped hard onto his arms as she emitted a drawn moan at the mad rush of exhilaration the new position introduced itself with.
In this new angle, each dive of his cock was deeper and more precise, punching the right spot at every single thrust.
Her bruised nipples from his meticulous suckling earlier were not spared; they had been continuously rubbing against her knees ever since Ciel had curled her legs into her chest for this new angle.
"C-Ciel, I'm clos- Ahh!"
Her gaspy breath escalated into strangled cries when the snaps of his hips gathered speed.
"... Go ahead." Ciel murmured through gritted teeth.
The words she elicited told him she was ready. They were a relief to his ears, for her clutching walls were pushing him too close. It was hard to hold back any longer.
His chest expanded more rapidly as his hips began to stutter; the long-drawn thrusts descending into shorter rapid ones.
Tattered moans and hitching hot breaths escaped into the study as she felt herself drown in the erupting heat. His cock continued to hit the specific spot over and over again, relentless in its mission to seek hers and his release.
His whole body was perfectly lined with hers, chest pressed flush against the back of her bent legs.
His eyes stayed on her, drinking in the sinfully beautiful sight of her gasping under him. At the image of her struggle to keep up with his passion, a sudden thought of the consequence carved a deep hunger in him.
They already knew what they wanted even before their wedding.
Already far in their maturation years, they were ready long before this.
They have waited long enough.
This time, he was going all the way.
The furrow between his eyebrows deepened when the heat around his cock spasmed frantically in his haste to get her over the edge.
"Y-You..." He let out a shaky exhale,"...ready take it all in?"
The subtly powerful meaning in his question made her gasp. She wanted this.
"Y-Yes, p-please...!"
At her words, her body and the desk beneath shook more vigorously to his demanding, urgent thrusts.
She could feel herself coming undone; she was only a few more thrusts away from the edge. The extremely swollen cock dragging along her throbbing walls was making her see white flashes behind her eyelids.
"Ci-Ciel...!" A desperate cry of his name left her lips as her eyes rolled back at the starburst of her orgasm finally tearing through her for the release her body needed.
A sharp hiss reached her ears as her walls clamped down aggressively around him, sending an explosion of her release spilling over his diligent cock. Now coated with more slick, his thrusts grew even faster. His movements were sharp but unstable as he felt himself about to burst.
Still high on her intense release, she could feel another coming in quick as he charged into her.
Catching onto the breathtaking way the strong, tense look on her husband's face was quickly losing foot to the overwhelming passion of his own coming release, her second orgasmic wave was aroused to approach faster than the first.
His thrusts were desperate and frenzied until his hips finally jerked and buckled erratically into hers.
Face scrunched up at the bloom of ecstasy ripping through him, Ciel tensed with a grunt just as a broken moan tore out of her throat.
The broken moan rode through her throat as ropes and ropes of his seeds continued spurting from his twitching cock and filling her womb so much that a few trickles managed to slip out of her soaked cunt.
Her eyes wavered at the mind-blowing pressure that was jerking deep inside her from the relentless ruts of his hip into hers, not stopping even after he had released his load. As if every drop of his semen mattered to him.
Her chest heaved and fell fast as she tried to come down from her high. She could feel the quiver of her legs over his shoulders.
"Th-That was amazing. We- Ah!"
The sudden circling movement of their hips drew out a startled moan from her.
The warm fluid stirring inside her quieting walls made her look up at Ciel.
The satisfied glint in his gaze and the object of his focus made her blush.
Not yet pulling away, his cock still buried in her depth stirred in sync with the small jerks of his hip.
Her head fell back onto the desk with a shaky sigh at the small jolts of pleasure at every small touch of pressure.
The soft wet squelches every time a pressure was applied to her walls were clearly audible. The blush on her face intensified at how erotic they sounded.
Peering at him, she tried to understand what he was doing. He looked keen about something.
Ciel pulled away just as she was about to fire her question.
She sat up.
"W-What was that about?" She asked raspily, shuddering at the emptiness he left behind.
"I heard it helps." Ciel answered vaguely with a smiling glint in his eyes.
He pulled her into a kiss before she could ask more. Unlike the rough and desperate one that usually led them to sex, his lips were gentle as if he was caressing her. The touch on her lips was soothingly warm and tender with his affection.
When he finally pulled away, he had an unreadable glint in his eyes.
"Be extra careful from now on."
An air of silence followed her as she tried to understand those words.
Then it hit her.
"Oh."
The intense meaningful gaze watching the dawn of her realization made her look away bashfully.
A new forming blush bloomed across her face.
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the beginning and end of everything UPDATE!!!
DISCLAIMER: This is my original work. I choose to share my work here and here specifically for my comrades in the writing community. Plagiarism in any form will not be tolerated.
HI EVERYONE! I FINISHED MY NOVEL! Whooo hoooo!!!
It’s actually sort of surreal, I started it in June of 2020 and now it’s 2021 and it’s over! Ty, Jude, Ada, Dorothy, and Madison have been living in my head since October 2019, and less than a year and a half later, they’ve been brought to life! Crazy!!
A summary in case you forgot/are seeing this and don’t know who the hell I am:
Ty Kassisieh has no direction. He’s just graduated college with a degree he doesn’t care about and no clue what to do with his life. Per his parent’s request to be more like his genius twin sister Ada, he picks up a job at a local library to save some money. There, he meets his coworker Jude, who’s stuck in a position not too far from his own, and Ty immediately sees the potential for companionship. But after speaking to him, Ty discovers Jude is everything he isn’t: he’s cold, introverted, aloof, and worst of all, humorless. Soon, Ty forgets all about his initial goal and becomes determined to crack Jude and see what makes him tick.
Ty’s journey of self-discovery is uprooted completely as what begins as an investigation blossoms into a friendship, and then into something more. Ty is forced to confront the feelings he’s been pushing down since high school and come to terms with himself, his family, and the relationships he thought would never change. It’s only when he befriends a young library patron, Madison, that he finally begins to see the world for what it is and figures out how to pave his own path.
Here are some stats!
Word count: 65,900 (it’ll get at least 20k words longer)
Genre: Romantic comedy
POV: third person limited, present tense
Characters: Ty, Jude, Ada, Madison, Dorothy, Diane, Omar, Paul, Uncle Hubie, Ethel
Chapters: 15
Font: Times New Roman (sorry)
This was my second novel, but the first novel where I actually knew what I was doing, at least a little bit. And holy shit, I learned SO much about my writing process:
1. I cannot pants for the life of me. I have no idea what I’m doing without an outline. But sometimes, the outline doesn’t know best. I added a ton of subplots and off-the-cuff scenes halfway through that have no set up, gave up on subplots that weren’t working halfway through, it’s a disaster of a plot. BUt the important thing is that I know how to make it perfect. I know what the story needs and how to get that.
2. Why can I only write in bursts? I wrote like seven chapters, half the novel, in the month of July. There was a day where I wrote almost 5,000 words. And last night, I wrote for 6 hours straight, without eating, drinking, or going to the bathroom (because frankly, I forgot those things existed) and I cranked out a chapter and a half in a DAY. I had such a headache and was very hungry by the end, but it was SO REWARDING.
3. I noticed while drafting is how often bits of my real life bled through. Little anecdotes, arguments, dynamics and experiences. Those who know me particularly well can probably pick out little allusions to either some of my past works, my friends, and myself.
It was 1:00 AM when I finished, and I live on the east coast of the U.S. so we’d just had a huge Nor’easter (New England for blizzard) and I went outside in the middle of the night, in my pajama pants and my uggs, and stood in my backyard and looked at the trees and processed the fact that wow, I just wrote a novel. It was cathartic and beautiful and I 110% recommend standing in snow up to your knees by yourself in the middle of the night. Very peaceful.
As exciting as it is to be done, it’s kind of weird to be ending it. I started this novel from Ty’s first person POV, and he was just kind of another goofy, dorky character that shared my own sense of humor as well as my sense of perfectionism. But as I wrote, not only did I realize that third person worked so much better, but I started realizing how much of me and my own journey as a queer person had gone into this. It turned from a light-hearted, silly rom-com with little depth, a fun summer project to keep myself busy, to the most self expressive story I’ve ever written. I didn’t expect it to come out with much deeper meaning, it was summer and I was on a light-hearted rom-com kick, and life was carefree and silly and I wanted a book that reflected it. And then, school started, and life just descended into absolute chaos, and it was November, and it was NaNoWriMo, and I was writing my novel while watching CNN for a week straight. (But it all turned out great! New president!)
I can’t remember exactly when I started to incorporate my own struggles growing up as a queer kid, but somehow they bled through in the second half. The last scene of the book is (no spoilers) an incredible breath of fresh air for Ty. It’s something I can only wish for every queer teenager, that moment where you can finally be unapologetically and authentically queer without that nagging worry in the back of your mind. I’ve struggled over this past year with my identity, and as Ty found his place, I found mine as well.
Seriously, writing this book was one of the best experiences I’ve had. Yes, the entire time I had a separate document open, writing down every little thing that needs to change, but I legitimately feel excited for draft 2 and continuing working on this project. I think about how much this book helped me, unconsciously creating the story that I needed to hear, and how maybe, in ten, fifteen years, some queer teenager will be wandering around a bookstore and pick up The Beginning and End of Everything. Maybe just because the cover is pretty. Maybe they like the F. Scott Fitzgerald reference in the title. Maybe they heard about it on Twitter somewhere. But they pick it up, and see themselves in Ty, or in Jude, or in Madison. I know every book that gave me that feeling, I cherish them so deeply, and all I really want is for someone to get that feeling from something I wrote. To see themselves in the pages and know they’re not alone. It’s cheesy, but it’s true, and it’s important.
I think one of my favorite themes in the novel is the whole ‘someone’s got your back’ thing. I 100% did not mean for it to go in the way it did, but I was writing this as I was going through some Stuff, some stuff in which I realized that having someone, just one person in your corner can mean the entire world, if only for that moment. And if there’s no one in your corner when you need it, you can be in someone else’s when they need it. Frankly, I love how it plays out throughout the novel. There was always that theme of Ty and Madison sort of being there for each other, but as I found myself in the first semester of the school year building new friendships with incredible, smart, funny people (albeit most of that being online) and strengthening old bonds, it worked its way in, and it fits perfectly. It adds depth and strength to the story I couldn’t have done consciously.
Essentially, it is still the romantic comedy I intended it to be, but it’s also a coming-of-age (except much older than the traditional coming-of-age). Watching some of my close friends and family graduating college and continuing to struggle with their identities and places in the world I think is what truly carved out this idea. Because not everyone has everything figured out as soon as they graduate, and I feel like, as a teenager, that’s something my friends and I really need to get through our heads. A lot of us expect to have everything figured out as soon as we turn 18. But, we’re 18. There’s a lot of life ahead of us, and we can’t possibly know what we’re going to do so young. So I think that was my main source of inspiration for this novel, and I’m really proud of the way that fleshed out. Of course it needs lots and lots of work, but. I like it. The way my personal life bled through and strengthened the story is incredible to reflect on. Honestly, I really, truly, cannot wait to start working on draft 2.
taglist:
@alicewestwater @august-iswriting @lottieiswriting @phiwrites @jennawritesstories @chloeswords
#the beginning and end of everything#teenwriter#am writing#my writing#my novel#writblr#writeblr#writing update#teen writer#young writer#writingupdate#writer problems#writerscommunity#writing#drafting#nanowrimo#losenanowrimo2020#camp nanowrimo
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2020 Writing Wrap-Up
Something that I do every year on the 1st is go back through absolutely everything I’ve written throughout the previous year and compile it into one massive word document. Everything from outlining notes to unfinished short stories to my NaNo project wind up in that file, where I like to read back and reflect on what I’ve gotten done through the year.
Every year, I end up having written more than I expected, and this year was no different!
Total for 2020: 203,119!
This is the first recorded year (I think it’s year 4 that I’ve done this for?) in which I’ve cracked 200K! It’s also the first year I’ve ever actually followed through on my resolution to share some of my writing online! So as rough as 2020 has been, I still somehow managed to break some personal records in writing. Which probably has everything to do with the fact that I joined this community earlier this year, and it’s been incredibly encouraging and supportive!
I also branched out a bit more this year in a few ways. I worked on some poetry and prose, which is not something I’ve put a lot of time into before so tends to be a challenge. It’s nothing that I’ll be posting anytime soon, but it was fun to work on in the moment, which is especially important in such a wild year as 2020.
One snag that I definitely hit was the fact that I have a lot more unfinished work than most years. A majority of the short stories I started working on never got finished. But I can’t even be too upset about that, because I totally loved being able to read back on even the fragmented pieces I ended up with. And while I do think a large part of that (for me) is discipline over inspiration, I’m willing to accept that, sometimes, things will remain unfinished. And it’s okay to stop working on them.
My overall focus shifted a bit this year, too, which was interesting. I worked more on longer things than most years - started out the year by finishing my first draft of Castle on the Hill, continued making some edits and reworking its outline, did a large part of Beneath Alder Creek’s first draft in November. Right now, I’m working on what I expect to be a novella by the time I’m done with it. It’s a big contrast to the usual, short and snappy short stories that fill most of my previous wrap-up files. But I still definitely write those sometimes, and it’s nice to be able to try stretching and testing my own boundaries.
This is the part of my wrap-up where I go ham throwing in some of my favorite out-of-context quotes from a variety of different things I’ve worked on. Some of them might be familiar, a lot probably won’t. I’m going to post it beneath the thing so this doesn’t become even more absurdly long!
Some of the ~highlights~ of 2020:
First Thoughts in the Morning:
wow the sexual tension between me and the alarm clock right now.
Later Reflection:
wtf? (a literal note on my notes app that I included because I Cannot remember writing any of this and it made me laugh)
Edriele’s gaze trailed down to the woman’s armor, and her stomach twisted. “Where did you find your attire?”
The woman glanced down in surprise, as though she’d forgotten she was wearing it. “It was fitted to me when I gained my ranking. I suppose it draws attention, but after my confrontation at… you mean to ask me whether I’m impersonating a Knight!”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” the Sister replied dryly. (novella WIP)
“Do you need to make a stop at your house before we head to the chapel?” Leslie asked as they started off.
“What for?” Winnie asked.
Leslie looked pointedly at the tip of her galoshes poking out from beneath her dress.
With another roll of her eyes, Winnie sighed. “Oh, I suppose so.” (Beneath Alder Creek)
When the third meeting for the Society of the Hidden Immortal Tribe was called for the decade, I knew heads would roll. Gathering the entire society together took months. Everything had to be hush-hush; that was the entire point of spreading ourselves out. Plus, every time a letter arrived in the mail, it was a reminder of the idiot who had decided we needed a name change. Everybody agreed that being deemed the ‘S.H.I.T.’ was humiliating, but nobody could agree on a better title, so it had remained the same for nearly a full century.
That was the problem with living forever. You always had more time to make decisions, and, in the end, nothing ever got done. (S.H.I.T.)
When she leaves, I’m not sure I remember a word of what she’s said. But as the stresses of the semester wash back in, and my mind clears like being pulled out of a dream, I suddenly understand how one could crash upon the rocks without realizing they’d ever changed their course. (A Modern Siren)
When Georg arrived later, he found Klaus leaning forwards onto the table, staring vacuously at one of his textbooks.
"Studying hard?" he taunted as he approached and dropped into the seat Ingrid had been occupying.
"I talked with Ingrid," Klaus explained.
Georg's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, but he quickly recovered and looked pointedly at Klaus' posture. "Go that well, then?"
"She said I'm arrogant and completely self-involved and that I never take what a girl says into account whenever I'm on a date." With a haunted gleam in his eye, Klaus stared up at his friend. "I think she's right."
"Well then it's a good thing somebody pointed it out," Georg offered, and he turned to his work. (Castle on the Hill)
Takemoto Hana rested a hand over her face. She couldn’t see the swirling of darkness over her head, but she heard the whine behind its words. With a wry smile, she asked, ‘Do you not know how to brew tea?’
‘Of course I know how to brew tea!’ The dark spirit’s voice boomed with a defensive defiance that rang false in the funny little woman’s ears. (The Funny Little Woman)
“None of us want to be here right now,” Edgar called out to the hall. “None of us want to go back through the handbook and listen to the steps of proper etiquette in immortality. But it seems that, once again, it’s necessary.”
“Dammit, Dave,” muttered the man next to me. I said nothing, but I couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment.
Dave was… how do I describe Dave? To call him an idiot would be underestimating his craftiness. To call him a genius, I’d have to ignore all of his dumb antics. Cruel was too strong. Misguided was too innocent. Mischievous fit best, but even that fell short. Dave was a trickster god, if ever one existed. (S.H.I.T.)
Ridiculous, he told me with a self-conscious laugh of someone who didn't expect to be believed. I smiled, but I didn't join in. (The Little Roads)
“Hey, where did Alina go?” Lorelai asked.
Zoe shrugged, but Jaiden cleared his throat. “I think you crossed one of her boundaries, Lo. She specifically asked not to involve her girlfriend in this, and then you did anyways. I know we needed the help, but friendships have to be built on mutual trust, my dude. You should’ve at least let her know your plan before you went behind her back.”
The two women stopped and shared a look.
“Hey, Jaiden,” Zoe asked. “Do you know the capital of Canada?”
He shook his head. “I dunno, Ontario?”
“Amazing.” (Mirror, Mirror)
"We had a bet going over whether you'd make it in time," Hans told him.
"Did you win or lose?" Josef replied.
Hans flipped a 5-Deutsche Mark coin over to Peter, who grinned as he pocketed it.
"I'm glad you have so much faith in me." Josef's voice dripped with sarcasm. (Castle on the Hill)
Taliesin reached over his head and grabbed at one of the low-hanging bows, picking leaves from it. “I’m not sure.”
Winnie stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t know.” (Beneath Alder Creek)
While she attended to these, the man beside her began to stir. Ella could see him out of the corner of her eye, attempting to push himself up into a sitting position.
‘You may want to lie back down,’ she told him, scrubbing uselessly at her skirt.
The man continued to sit up anyways, pressing a hand against the side of his face. ‘Am I killed?’
‘No, but your savior may be.’ Ella threw her skirt back to the ground. ‘When the Madame sees the state of me, I’ll be spending my future afternoons off making a new dress out of the fabric scraps.’
A frown crossed the man’s face as he considered her words, followed by a scowl of understanding. ‘You work for them. The bourgeoisie.’ (Cinderella)
Ingrid took the seat and began digging through her bag for a book. As she did so, she explained, "There were no other tables open in the building - even in the quiet section upstairs - so I figured that I would just ask the first person I recognized if I could sit with them, and well... here we are."
"Don't worry about it," Georg answered when Klaus found himself dumbstruck again. "Just ignore the oaf, he'll leave you alone."
Ingrid shot a grin at Georg, and Klaus suddenly wondered whether it was a good idea to have the two of them sit together. (Castle on the Hill)
Up ahead, I could see the glass walls of the bus stop. Usually, I waited for the bus leaning against the metal frame of the stop, leaving the seats inside open for children on their way to school. But the seats were empty now.
I still avoided them. (Flo’s Magical Emporium: The Pandemic)
Now, I ask that you do not feel too much self-pity. For as easy an error as it may be to mistake a visiting aristocrat’s son for the hired help, the true talent in such a display causing his immediate departure lies within you alone. And to think that the meeting was the work of your father’s tenuous sway over the court! Well, I am sure the time away will do him some good, lest you begin to consider that you’ve ruined his position as well as your prospects. (Dearly Detested,)
Edgar was at the front of the lecture hall, and standing beside him was Dave, smirking as though at some private joke that only he was in on. He was wearing sunglasses, despite the dim lighting of the room, probably because he thought he looked cool. I rolled my eyes.
What a tool. (S.H.I.T.)
The work is different now. Countryside pathways winding through the forest lie forgotten for years without the familiar steps of a traveler. Off beaten paths in the city are never unknown for long, and sometimes streets that were once crossed by thousands a day fall back into obscurity. (The Little Roads)
“How much time will you give me to think on it?” she asked suspiciously, wrapping her arms around herself as though afraid they’d reach out to him if not kept in check.
“You have all the time in the world,” the golden man said. “The boy’s, however, runs out with every passing second.”
He extended his hand. (Beneath Alder Creek)
You ever met a rich person? Not comfortably wealthy. Not ‘my Uncle Kenny is a lawyer’ rich. Not even ‘widow answering the door to her manor on a hill dressed in fine silk’ rich. No, I mean proper, so-much-money-you-literally-can’t-spend-it-fast-enough rich. They say it isn’t worth Bill Gates’ time to pick up a $100 bill off the floor because he’ll have earned more in the time it takes to grab it. That kind of rich.
They seem to be bred for times like these. Their houses are a source of endless entertainment – movie theaters, bowling alleys, personal gyms with a view of the sprawling landscape they overlook like cruel dictators. There’s no need for them to leave during a pandemic; they have access to the equivalent of a luxury resort most families have to save up month to visit. Necessities can be stockpiled in one of the useless extra spaces in the house. I mean, I once had to hide out in a luggage room for a contract. That’s right. An entire room dedicated to holding luggage, bigger than some of the apartments I’ve rented.
I thought their residential labyrinths were my greatest source of grief. But social distancing? I’m one bad contract away from retirement. (Bounty Hunter During a Pandemic)
Shaking his head, Detlef pulled a new sheet from his notebook. “Look, I’m just saying, if we can get the satire right, we can be a modern Jonathan Swift.”
“I don’t want to be a modern Jonathan Swift, I want to be a student actually passing his debate course!” Peter snapped. (Castle on the Hill)
Moonlight illuminated the German’s fair hair and pale skin, the effect more malevolent apparition than man. (Face on the Other Side of a Dark Window)
Back then, he’d been known for commissioning the exact same portrait of himself every hundred years, hanging them in a hallway in his manor and trying to pass them off as his line of ancestors to any of the locals. It had been a far less skeptical age, and Dave had earned himself a small band of worshipers before Jeff Goldblum himself had been forced to intervene. (S.H.I.T.)
Clara stood before the board of advisors assisting with her thesis. She was one, very intense paper away from her M.A., and she wasn’t about to risk it all by being too proud to ask for help. When she’d made the appointment to meet with them, she expected a series of questions surrounding her topic.
Instead, they’d opened by offering her a job.
“You want me to steal from the school?”
Dr. Pye wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. Next to her, Dr. Pritchard said, “Don’t think of it as theft, dear. It’s merely redistribution.”
Clara hadn’t amassed tens of thousands of dollars in debt to be lectured on the definition of robbery. “Either way, it involves me sneaking into the Chemistry department and taking a huge risk to get you some new toys to play with.” (Origins: The Ghost)
“Why is undermining Pryderi so important to Queen Ceridwen that she would risk breaking a timeless alliance just to dismantle them?” Her stomach twisted into a knot, protesting against the answer.
“There are few members of the Dusk Court that we know by title.” A shadow passed over Enid’s expression. “The Lord of the Undernell is second only to the Queen.”
“Great deeds build the reputation of one in their own court. Cruelty builds it in both.” Taliesin buckled under Winnie’s weight as she suddenly leaned against him. (Beneath Alder Creek)
“Why are all my friends so quick to endanger themselves?” I muttered as I packed up Midas’ crate.
Natalie swiveled around from the candy aisle. “So you’re finally willing to admit that we’re friends?”
“Save it.” (Flo’s Magical Emporium: The Pandemic)
#writeblr#writing#my writing#writers of tumblr#teriwrites#writing wrap-up 2020#my wips#I forgot just how much I missed my boys from CotH until I was reading through it#wow I would die for those funky little dudes#also feel free to ask about anything for some extra context since I've never talked about half of these projects#anyways that's all folks
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it’s like one idea and two blurbies. also the joke is we never get to read about the date ha ha
i guess this is like the conclusion to the whole kate and ét thing. ish.
Date Night
20XX
“So, I have a question,” Étienne typed out and hit sent. He’d been texting with Edward for a good half hour now and there had had been something he’d been itching to ask his boyfriend for a while. He wiped his hands on his pants, feeling ridiculous for suddenly being nervous, but – this was an unusual question and he was both parts excited and nervous for Edward’s potential answer.
“Sure, go ahead,” Edward’s answer read.
Étienne took a deep breath and steadied his nerves. Of all the things he’d ever asked Edward, this was tame in comparison to some past questions, but – still.
“I know you sometimes go out as Kate – like for fun and I know Calvin’s taken Kate out before – so, I was wondering – well, I’d like to take Kate out. One day. It doesn’t have to be on my next visit! And I totally get if it’s some exclusive thing you – Kate does with Calvin and I respect that, but yeah, I’d like to take Kate out at some point. Just – to a restaurant or something. Spend an evening together – or brunch or – something. But – I’d like to go out. In public. With Kate.”
There was an extremely long wait before Edward’s next reply.
Étienne’s nerves went on frenzy and he tried his very best not to freak out. He told himself that no, he had not just scared Edward away and that no, his boyfriend hadn’t just been insulted by what he’d just asked him. Edward was two time zones away. He had a life. Things he did. Maybe his phone had died. Maybe he’d gotten a call. Maybe he’d gotten distracted. Maybe he’d received a parcel. Maybe a hot guy had shown up to strip for him.
“Maybe you’re over thinking this,” He told himself. Out loud. Like a normal person.
His phone buzzed.
He nearly dropped it in his haste to open it up to read the new message.
“Oh darling,” The first message read and Étienne’s stomach sank – this couldn’t be good. Edward was probably trying to let him down easy – trying to spare his feelings and such. Then again, Edward seldom ever called him darling.
“I would absolutely be tickled pink if you took me out on a date.” The other message read.
Étienne blinked to make sure he’d read correctly. He even took off his glasses to make sure they were clean.
“Kate??” He asked, just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. This was new. In fact – all of this was still very new. He’d been going to see the shows, as many as he could, whenever he was in town and Kate was performing. He’d been – good about it, really. He and Edward had talked long and hard about this and he’d been doing his best to show that he was supportive and to make up for being a right old jerk in the past. They were moving past that and enjoying this new normal. It was a new chapter and he absolutely loved where this was going and genuinely enjoyed going to watch the performances.
“Hello darling,” She answered him back quickly, “It’s good to hear from you.”
“It’s always a pleasure! So it would be okay? You wouldn’t mind going out with me?”
“Not at all; I was starting to think I would need to be forward and ask you myself! But I’m ever so pleased you’ve taken the initiative. I would love to! In fact, if you felt up to it, we can go out on your next visit.”
“Really?” The last thing Étienne wanted to do was to misinterpret her message and find himself in an awkward situation where Kate would feel pressured into doing something she didn’t want to. They had time. Lots of it. They could wait. Do this on a different occasion. No rush.
“Absolutely. Did you have anything specific in mind?”
“Well – sort of. I really would like to take you out to dinner, but I’m open to other suggestions if you don’t want to do that. I’m also open to restaurant suggestions, even though I have done my research, but you do know the area better. And, you can drive, if we’re going by truck or whatever, but you are absolutely not paying.”
Étienne kept an active list of restaurants Edward had casually mentioned wanting to go to and he and Calvin actually exchanged on other such pertinent information. Of course, the list wasn’t as thorough as his own list of Montreal locations, but he had a fair amount of places he knew Edward liked and that Edward would like going to. He just hoped the overlap would apply for Kate as well.
Kate sent him a string of emojis from one that rolled its eyes to one that cried while laughing, “Somehow, I’m not surprised, but that sounds lovely. You can make reservations for whichever night you please, but do let me know, so I can make sure to be ready on the right day! And if you need any other suggestions, I’ll be more than happy to give you some.”
“Sounds good!”He felt giddy. He had an actual date with Kate! He was already looking forward to it. Not that he hadn’t before, but his excitement had suddenly shot up.
“It’s a date then <3”
“It absolutely is <3”
--
Étienne made sure to make their reservations over the weekend of his visit. It gave them both ample time to settle in around each other and catch up and if ever Edward wanted to back out for whatever reason, it gave him a chance to do so. That last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a disaster. This was another big step for the both of them and even if he knew it wouldn’t be perfect, he wanted it to go over smoothly.
On the day of the actual date, Étienne found himself to be actually nervous, which he thought was funny in its own way. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been nervous for a date and he wondered what that meant. He was giddy, also, since this would be the first time he’d be going out with Kate. It would be different from a show and different from the post-show evenings they’d spent together, when Kate had lingered for a while longer.
But, if anything, Edward had also seemed a little nervous and that had reassured him. In fact, his boyfriend had shooed him out of the bedroom what felt like hours ago in order to get ready and Étienne had taken the spare guestroom to change as well. Being ready, he took to the living room and sat himself on the couch, trying to distract himself while he waited for his date.
He was busy twiddling on his phone, refreshing a page on one of his social media accounts, when he heard footsteps approaching him. He quickly put his phone away and looked up, only to have his breath catch in his throat. Kate stood in front of him, in a gorgeous evening dress that complimented her complexion nicely. It was deep mauve, with delicate patterned flowers that went throughout and the a-line dress flared out at the hips and worked wonders with Kate’s body.
Étienne found himself standing and wiping his hands on his trousers, as he took a step forward towards her. “You look stunning,” He murmured, slightly breathless at the sight of her. She flushed, pleased, and swatted his chest playfully.
“You charmer,” She said, “Can you help me clasp my necklace? I’m afraid I’ll ruin my nails.”
Étienne nodded and followed her back to the bedroom, where Kate’s necklace was waiting on the dresser. Étienne prayed for steady hands as he looped the chain around her neck, while she held up her hair for him. He managed to get it clasped on the second try and then watched as the pendant hung around her neck. It really did bring the ensemble together, as he caught their reflection in the mirror and paused to appreciate the sight.
“We make a lovely pair,” He said as he placed a careful arm around her waist. Kate leaned into him and Étienne couldn’t help but smile, his eyes still on both their reflections, who smiled back at him.
“Don’t we?” She asked, grinning, before she turned to look at him and pecked his cheek. Étienne was surprised by the gesture, but couldn’t help but laugh, pleased by her boldness.
She laughed when she noticed the faint lipstick stain on his cheek, “Oh, this gives me an idea,” She said as she reached over for her rouge and powder, “Would you mind?” She asked as she held up a brush.
Étienne hesitated for a moment. He’d been – reacquainting himself with makeup again; nail polish and mascara – sometimes even eye shadow and eye liner, but it had always been at home, very rarely when he went out. But this was an important night, after all and he wanted to look good for Kate. He nodded, finally, figuring this was a big night and a big step they were taking together – he might as well go the extra mile.
Kate looked pleased as punch as she rummaged for a shade that would look good on him. Her movement was sure and her strokes gentle as she worked her magic on Étienne. She checked in with him every so often to make sure he was all right, but every time he assured her that this was fine. In the end, she settled for something soft. She added a bit of lip-gloss for effect, subtle shiny eye shadow and called it a success. “There,” She said as she stood back and took in her work, “I think we’re ready to go.” She added with a reassuring smile.
Étienne spared himself a glance and had to admit that he liked the way he looked – the way they both looked. He also liked the fact that it had been Kate who had added these finishing touches to him. “Yeah, I think so; shall we?” He asked and offered her his arm. She gladly accepted it and after putting on their shoes, they headed out for their date.
FIN
#pc: montreal#pc: edmonton#edward murphy#étienne maisonneuve#kk the magnificent#pc: kk the supreme#fic#projocanondoko
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Hello, how are you? Are taking requests? If so, could you please write a Lambert blurb? I read you Eskel one and I love it! Thank yoooou
AN// Thank you! I’m glad you liked my other one <3 I wrote this, then realised you wanted a blurb. This is a little longer, but I will get to writing a shorter thing for ya. Requests are always open!
Kaer Morhen was a wrecked fortress, with rubble rolling over every lick of the mountain it was built into. Only ghosts and the remaining witchers tread through the demolished halls, unless bringing on a willed companion. Geralt was the only wone who ever brought people with, though they were growing less welcome by the person. Yennefer, Triss Ciri and Dandelion had taken the trail and had spent winters within the walls. Though, after Triss, the White Wolf was warned by the youngest witcher that compliancy with new people was quickly dwindling.
It had made sense. Yennefer was known to have her talons embedded in the wolf’s fur, which never really gave anyone hope for any other sorceress from the Lodge. The Merigold had come along, chestnut hair bouncing in the wind, her nose held high. Lambert hadn’t taken too kindly to what she preached, as she hadn’t spent every winter in the keep- everything she saw and spoke down upon were things the men were well aware of. He swore, that if the woman ever spoke poorly of his manners again, he’d show her just how ‘savage’ he could really be.
Luckily, this winter was looking up. The men usually informed the others of any companions they were bringing, but there was no word from Geralt. Yennefer had made a large fuss after Triss had apparently tattled, so the young Lion Cub would be spending winter with her and the Lodge. While Lambert would begrudgingly admit he’d miss the little spitfire, being alone also sounded like a nice difference. It been a rough year for him and the public, and despite hating being alone with his own ghosts, he wasn’t sure he could handle more people.
When his medallion started to vibrate against his chest, every hair on his body stood on end. He clutched the powdered dimeritium closer to his chest, ready to start a war. He had warned Geralt, and he wasn’t one to joke when it came to disrespect and people associated with it. Geralt strolled through the front door, and a younger female gasp was heard behind him. Eskel was quick to evaluate Lambert’s reaction, but decided to greet the two.
“Brother, glad you made it.” The two wolves’ arms fell around each other in a familiar yet rare embrace. The brunette pulled away to ask his friend, “And who is this?” The subject of the question turned from the pile of supplies she was looking over to show a bright smile. Her hand jabbed towards him through the air, excitement seeming to be her driving force.
“Hello! Y/n, mage consultant of Dorian. Thank you for being kind enough to allow me to stay here, it’s an honor.” The hand not meeting her shake went up to brush over his scar, and landing behind his neck. He gave a small, dubious smile, trying to cover up Lambert’s loud scoff with a response. Despite being across the large hall, it was clear as day what type of anger and disgust that dripped from the young witcher.
“Eskel. I don’t know about honor coming with it, but you are welcome. We aren’t entirely sure the reasoning behind your stay, but you’re here now.” Y/n’s smile faltered when their hands dropped.
“Oh, my apologies. I helped Yennefer and Ciri out of a large scuffle, but some people are after me now.” Lambert had left his spot on the table to come to the group. Shoulder’s squared, he threw on a sarcastic smirk.
“What type of people does a sorceress need to worry about?” Sorceress was spoken with a fake worshiping tone, with hand gestures in the air to allude to him seeing them as overpowered deities. The woman’s smile fell completely at the new character’s entrance. Both Eskel and Geralt watched as her chest popped out as well, and her eyes followed Lamberts purposely. Though, it was clear it wasn’t a struggle for dominance, but for respect.
“I’m actually a simple mage. Human. Aging and all. That’s why Geralt offered to help,” her tone became stronger through her finishing statement. “And why it was so surprising I was any help in the first place.” Eskel’s eyes widened, looking to his younger brother. No one had approached his berating with that tactic. How can one bully someone who already bullies themselves- and with such confidence and bravado? Eskel stepped in, his shoulder barley overlapping Lambert’s, giving a small buffer between the two.
“This is Lambert. He’s always this way, but he is kind.” The man in question rolled his eyes before folding his arms over his chest. His glare flickered to Geralt, and snarled out,
“I told you after Merigold that I’m not dealing with this horse shit.” Every consonant was hit with a certain venom that reminded the other two of the Viper school. Grealt had huffed, folding his arms as well while it was the mage’s turn to scoff.
“Triss? I wouldn’t say I’m in league with her.” Wide eyes flew to her, but she gave a nonchalant shrug. Her eyes wandered over everything but them, her attention easily being taken by the new location. “I might have a great knowledge of alchemy and chemistry, but she was never fond of how I conducted my experiments. You need to take risks for breakthroughs, even if it’s yourself that’s at risk.” Her eyes finally met everyone else’s. “I know she didn’t want me to hurt myself, but discovery is harnessing the unknown. I know the risks. She certainly could have laid it on nicer though.”
Vesemir’s entrance back into the great hall had taken a weight off of the White Wolf’s shoulders. He had mentioned the tension she might face, but he hadn’t been too worried. Though her introduction was kind, he wasn’t confident that it would deter the young man. He wasn’t one to let go of grudges, especially since they are his main bedfellows.
A week had gone by, and the men hadn’t really seen the mage outside of mealtimes. While it was understandable as they were really only focused on three other things: Training lounging, and rebuilding the ruin. As far as Lambert was concerned, that’s how it should be. This was his time, and she was Geralt’s guest. If she stayed away and was only summoned for meals, so be it. Though, this fake paradise was short lived once Vesemir asked him to escort her through the mountain to the old watchtower.
He didn’t bother knocking on the library door when he pushed it open as it was his home. There was a certain strut he had to him, but his grand, sassy entrance was wasted as the mage was leaned over the large table that had been pushed to the side years ago. Lambert stopped just next to her, leaning over her shoulder to find multiple books spread over a large map. Penciled in circles scattered over its surface, and she had a finger running over a book’s text before adding another circle.
There was no attention afforded to the man yet, and he was able to finally get a clear look at her. Her frame was covered in thicker layers that still had lighter colors despite the norm having otherwise. Light blues painted the clothes with white furs lining it. He was glad to see she wore trousers, dreading to have to carry a woman through the mountain if she strips over the skirt of a dress. Her skin looked soft- too soft to be found in the fort. Even Triss and Yen, with their perfect skin, had a specific hardness to them. Weathered skin, while it can look flawless, has a texture. There were burns and cuts that littered Y/n’s hands and wrists, likely from the experiments she had mentioned when she first arrived. Despite those blemishes, Lambert was sure that he would only feel a silk or velvet like thing- he wasn’t familiar with either textures, so the fluffy words were things he must have picked up in passing with Dandelion. If he were to reach out, he was sure she would fit snuggly in his arms.
The young witcher was lost in his observations, so when she abruptly stood straight, he had to work double to make sure she didn’t touch him. She turned; a bright smile that had the sun reflected in her eyes beamed at him. The map was being rolled in her hands and was shoved into a satchel that was hastily thrown over her shoulder.
“Thanks for doing this, Lambert. I think I’ll find the herb at the watchtower, but if not, there are three other places it might be. Of course, if you don’t want to, we could go out a different day if the tower is a bust.” His arms crossed over his chest, trying to shield himself from the onslaught of positivity.
“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. ‘We’ could easily turn into a ‘you and someone else’. I was volunteered, and I doubt I’ll be as willing to waste my precious minutes next time.” He gave a smile that was tainted with sarcasm. Despite this, her hand had somehow made its way to his upper arm, and gave a light squeeze. Her smile faltered, telling him something hit home, but she put up a strong front.
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that this herb will help in covering my magic footprint. Therefore, we find this now, you won’t have to see me later. Volunteered or not, I’m sure you’ll find some joy from today’s journey somehow.” The feigned joy that radiated from her statement threw the man through the wringer again. The deflection by self-destruction in their first meeting had obliterated the jesting wall around his heart. It had defenses- it had to. One of the main defenses it had was what some would call bullying, but he usually never meant any jest he tossed. But it was like he threw a bomb at her, and by her using aard against herself, it blew the bomb back at his wall by getting caught in the gust. And again, he was taken back. He was familiar with the tactic, but only because it was something he used to do before the trials. If you bully yourself, no one else can find joy in doing it. He saw himself in that moment, and it made him wonder, what happened to her?
Lambert nodded, moving to give a grandiose wave of the arm.
“Lead the way.” With that, the two headed towards the tower. Luckily, there were trails leading to it, but unluckily for them, they met trouble. The mountains were crawling with bears, and while both Lambert and Y/n were fine with it, it seemed the bears weren’t fond of them. A smaller, yet fair size bear walked in the way of the path, though it looked to be alone.
Lambert was quick to pull his steel, but he stiffened when he felt the mage’s hand clamp around his that gripped the sword. His eyes glared towards her for a moment, but her eyes were still on the bear. She was completely still, which made Lambert roll his eyes. Then, her voice came out stiff, lips unmoving.
“Stay very still.” His eyes rolled, but decided not to move. He couldn’t smell any fear, but anxiety still came off in soft waves.
“That doesn’t really work. If someone from the School of the Bear heard that, they’d laugh at you.” He watched as her body shifted slowly, and only when she couldn’t see the bear’s eyes. After a minute of the standoff, she was behind him completely. The young bear looked baffled when she was gone, and started to move quickly towards them. Lambert brought his sword in front of him, but he heard a small, ‘get ready’ in his ear. His form broke when Y/n jumped onto his back. His hands automatically fell under her legs, and shifted her up. Despite catching her, he remained confused until he heard her make something between a roar and a scream. It was loud and full, but to him it sounded as if a kitten were impersonating a lion. The bear, who looked as though he was going to stand on his hind legs and strike, quickly fled. Lambert let her fall from his arms before picking up his discarded sword.
“That shouldn’t have worked.” He looked to her, who was smiling and looking quite pleased. She turned to face him, throwing her hands over her head, while curling her fingers to make fake claws.
“Well, we make quite the feral beast.” Lambert’s head was thrown back at the loud and powerful laugh that raked through him. He felt his shoulders quake, and his eyes close, but the other half of their ‘feral beast’ stood there blushing. Her hands fell back down by her sides, and she simply stood. When his laughing died down, and she still simply stood, he sensed her. He noticed the elevated heartrate and turned, hand on hilt, making sure another bear didn’t appear. When there was nothing, he turned back.
“What?” Her blush grew, and she bent to fix her boots and fiddle with her satchel. When everything seemed in order, she turned to start walking toward the tower again. The witcher followed, and after a moment, she looked to him.
“You have a beautiful laugh, is all.” Lambert immediately stiffened, but when he listened to her heart, he found she was telling the truth. It was still elevated, but the flush that was still spread overhear cheeks and neck was the reasoning for it. His brows still furrowed as they continued to the destroyed building.
It didn’t make sense. People don’t like Lambert. He was brash and blunt, neither attribute highly sought after. Brutal honesty is what he gave because the other option was lying. Lying by sprinkling in a kindness that he knew didn’t exist in the world. There was little positivity that he gave because there was never any shown back to him. He knew that it wasn’t too fair, as he gave up looking for it. There were always moments when he would be shown that sun, but every other day was grey. And being a witcher at the core was the nail in the coffin. People didn’t want to interact with a mutated monstrosity, let alone like them. Or find their laugh beautiful.
The young witcher agreed with himself in putting up extra defenses. This random mage who was on the run wouldn’t get any closer to that fortress he called his heart. He tried to forget the multiple smiles she has thrown his way over the past week. The multiple times she received the bread bowl, and asked if he wanted any before taking some. The short, passing statements that showed a valley of pain behind the mountains of kindness. Forget those bright eyes that show no judgement for anything but herself.
Disappointment was obvious when they made it to the tower, and she couldn’t find it. Lambert stood by the entrance, watching with crossed arms and a dismissive look as her shoulders fell. His golden eyes fluttered over their surroundings for a moment, looking for wraiths or bears. He looked back to where Y/n had just been, but ran in when she was gone. He found her halfway up a tattered latter, a look of determination obvious.
“What are you doing? If Vesemir- hell, if Geralt sees me carrying you back to the fort with broken bones, it’ll be my ass on the chopping block. Get down.” While he was telling the truth, and his tone was harsh, he did feel worried. He is her escort, and he can’t have her getting hurt on his watch. If a strong witcher can’t protect her on a simple scavenger hunt, what would she think of him once she was better? Would she still smile at him? He doubted it, and the way he covered up his real reasonings didn’t matter. She didn’t know he needed her safe to see her smile at him willingly. Y/n turned, pointing up somewhere towards the remaining top of the turret. He could see her red, cold fingertips due to the fingerless gloves she decided to wear. While it was just frost and light snow that covered everything, the chances of her fall was too high.
“There’s a platform up there, and I’m gonna check.”
“No.”
“What?” He shook his head, putting his hands on her hips. He lifts her easily and places her softly back on the ground.
“I’ll go. What does it look like?” Again, Y/n simply stood there. She shook her head, while quickly going for her satchel.
“Uh, yeah, yeah. The herb. Give me a moment.” Lambert dropped his hands from her hips when she had to maneuver her bag over his arm. The mage pulled the book from her back, opening to the page with a small purple bud. “They’re hard to spot. If it’s open, don’t touch it. If it’s closed, give it a pinch. It should be hard to the touch despite its gentle looking exterior.” He nodded, and turned to the latter. It didn’t take too long to scale the rubble, finding the small buds. He did as she asked, and gathered a handful before jumping and flipping back down. When he landed, and presented the buds, her eyes sparkled much like they did when she first arrived.
“Are you going to take them, or did I do all of that for nothing?” Again, she shook herself back to reality, tearing her eyes from his face. He didn’t feel it happen, but a small smile crept onto his face. He wasn’t even trying to impress, much like he would in the courtyard. Her fingertips brushed the heel of his hand as she gathered the buds, and he felt a yearning he hadn’t felt before. He was right; her skin was soft. Cold, but soft. He wanted those fingertips to brush over him again. One of the tips felt rough, likely from the same place those burns came from. But it was a pleasant difference, and something he’d love to explore.
“Perfect, Lambert.” Her voice was soft, and she hadn’t said anything after that. She smiled and turned, jerking her head to beckon him to follow. He did like a lost dog. They made their way back to the keep, Y/n rambling about the importance of the plant. There was an interlude in her speech when she asked, “How do wolves climb? Is that like a special power you have? How high can you climb? Can you do anything else as cool?” A smirk found its way to his face as they entered past the bridge.
“I frequent with people from the School of the Cat. I don’t think the others can do quite what I can. They don’t like when I hang with them, but I think it’s just jealousy. And yeah, I have a whole arsenal of tricks.” He smiled to her during his last statement that earned what he would classify as a giggle.
“Well, it was quite spectacular.” Lambert found his smirk falling, trying to figure out why that statement would be made. They made their way back to the main hall, where his eyes danced over the rest of the men at the table. “I’m going back to the library. Thank you again for the help.” Her hand flew back to his arm, giving another light squeeze. “If you want to show any other cool things from that school, I’d happily watch.” Lambert watched as the blushing mage flew to the stairs. Once they all heard her footsteps disappear, the men at the table start to chuckle. Lambert throws his swords onto the tabletop, falling in place next to Eskel. Before the brunette takes a drink, he jokes,
“No more Merigolds, Geralt. Our guest has to go.” More chuckles stirred around him, but he didn’t react from his hunched position, looking at the table.
That woman should be running from witchers. If she didn’t run from face value, she’d definitely run with a man riddled with rage and a torn past. Even if he wanted to pursue Y/n, there are multiple points in their courting where he knew she would run. He didn’t want to be fixed if she didn’t, and he knew those types. They think they can strut in and try to glue pieces back together. But it’s never right, and he is forced to break down the new image they tried to build. But there’s something more to her that makes him hesitate to brush her off completely. And the warmth he tried to deflect had gotten past those walls that kept his heart.
#witcher imagine#witcher x reader#Lambert x reader#lambert imagine#Witcher lambert x reader#witcher lambert imagine#geralt#jaskier#eskel
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Debbie Harry doesn’t believe in harbouring regrets. “I have made many, many errors, but nobody leads a perfect life,” she reflects down the telephone from New York. “So, should I regret anything? No. It is a waste of time. It really is a waste of time.”
Dial back to the turn of the 70s and the life that Harry led before fronting Blondie – prior to her image being burned onto the retina of popular culture – was colourful to say the least. “I was so desperate to live life,” she says of her time spent hanging with the outcasts and artists of downtown New York. “I was jamming in as much experience as I possibly could and I don’t know if I could have done anything differently. I learned a lot.”
The old Bowery music venue CBGBs has long passed into music folklore as the place that called the likes of Television, Patti Smith, and the Ramones their house bands. It was also where punk and new wave progenitors Blondie cut their teeth before they sashayed into the wider world with the protean panache that would make them a household name. Classic singles such as “Heart of Glass”, “Call Me”, “Atomic”, and “Rapture” have been responsible for more worldwide rug-cutting than an industrial carpet tool. To imply that they were merely a solid singles band is to do them a cardinal disservice, however.
And although they’ve always cocked their attention to the things ahead of them, Harry and her Blondie cohorts have spent a lot of time looking back just lately. Harry’s long-awaited autobiography, Face It, hit the shelves last year, and Blondie co-founder and one-time partner Chris Stein published Point of View: Me, New York City, and the Punk Scene, a photography book featuring personal snaps taken during the band’s pomp in the 70s and early 80s. “We can’t keep on touring and doing club dates the way that we used to. It would be physically impossible,” Harry concedes. “Living through this pandemic has certainly made us take a long look at the value of what we’ve got with our body of work.” Asked if it is a process of attempting to frame their legacy, she admits it’s something that they “have to do”.
This deep-dive into their canon has culminated in a mouth-watering archive set, Blondie: Against the Odds 1974-1982, slated for release next year. Coming in four formats, it promises to include extensive liner notes, “track by track” commentary by the entire band, a photographic history plus rare and unreleased bonus material. The group will also go out on the road – coronavirus permitting – for an autumn Against the Odds UK tour with Garbage.
The artist born Angela Trimble was put up for adoption only a few months after she was ushered into the world in the summer of 1945. A loving New Jersey couple took her in, rechristened her Deborah Harry, and raised her as their own. She grew up in a suburb that she “never left”, was voted best-looking girl in her high school yearbook, and oscillated within a social circle that consisted of “many of the same people” throughout her childhood. “I was somehow shy within that,” she recalls, “(but) somebody once said to me that being shy was an ego trip and a light went on in my head. I thought, ‘Oh, uh-huh, let’s have none of that!’”
Harry travelled by bus as a curious teen to nearby Greenwich Village, imbibing the febrile inner-city atmosphere. In 1965, she graduated from junior college with an associate of arts degree and New York’s allure became too enticing to resist. She decamped to the bright lights of the city and made ends meet with a succession of odd jobs, including secretarial work for the BBC, waiting tables and an infamous nine-month stint as a Playboy Bunny.
The period was a traumatic one, too, with Harry enduring an ex-lover-turned-violent-stalker and a near-miss with serial killer Ted Bundy (although Bundy’s identity is contested by others). In her memoir, she writes candidly of the time she was raped by a man wielding a knife while on her way home from a concert with Stein. Music offered a vessel for her creativity, and she spent time as part of girl group The Stilettoes and folk ensemble Wind in the Willows before her meeting with guitarist Stein which set the foundations for Blondie. Their classic lineup was completed by Gary Valentine (bass), Jimmy Destri (keys), and Clem Burke (drums).
“Somebody once said to me that being shy was an ego trip and a light went on in my head. I thought, ‘Oh, uh-huh, let’s have none of that’” – Debbie Harry
Although they self-identified as punks, the parochial and nihilistic mandate as promulgated by the genre’s militant diehards never fit Blondie comfortably. The group looked outwards from the moment they started, drawing inspiration from their cosmopolitan city. Their sound was a melting pot pulling at the seams of culture’s fabric, and they would weave their own patterns from it.
Harry agrees that their eclecticism was down to good fortune in coming from the “metropolitan area of New York” where they ingested “a lot of musical influences”. Taken as a whole, their catalogue bears this out. Blondie never stood still musically – yet never sounded like anyone else – and they loaded their songs with more hooks than a fisherman’s trawler. 1976’s punchy, eponymous debut married surf-rock textures with 50s girl-group sensibilities, and their palette had expanded exponentially by the time of seminal third album, Parallel Lines (1978). Eat to the Beat and Autoamerican followed, by which point they could boast flirtations with disco, rocksteady, funk, hip hop, and more within their enviable output.
When asked to pick one track that encapsulates the essence of Blondie, Harry opts for their 1981 US number one single “Rapture”. “What happens in ‘Rapture’ is very comprehensive,” she says. “It took a form of music that was, or still is, very modern and can be very political. Rap and hip-hop songs back then didn’t have their own songs. Rappers would just rap on somebody else’s music. (‘Rapture’) was crafted specifically for that rap. Until then that hadn’t been done. It was a breath of fresh air.” It stands as one of the things in her career that she feels “very good about”.
Blessed with the sort of features that could sell sand to the Saharans, Harry’s appearance caused a stir from the band’s earliest days. “That’s part of showbiz,” she says to me, trying to downplay it. “We always had an eye for that, the entire band. We always had an idea of making a look that represented our sensibilities and links to British pop and mod.” Maybe so, but it was Harry alone who was immortalised by Andy Warhol in one of his iconic silkscreen prints, and who posed for era-defining photographers including Robert Mapplethorpe and Anne Leibowitz.
Did the disproportionate attention she attracted ruffle feathers within the Blondie camp at the time? “Yes and no,” Harry remembers. “We were all happy that it was working. I suppose there was a certain amount of competition or jealousy but ultimately, no. I think that’s a better question for Clem or one of the other members in the band. Of course my relationship with Chris was so close that he was very happy about everything.”
The band’s wheels eventually came off after their muddy and unfocused sixth album, The Hunter, dashed against the commercial rocks in 1982. They had to abandon their subsequent tour after Stein became gravely ill with a rare autoimmune disorder, pemphigus vulgaris, that proved extremely difficult to diagnose. Blondie had no option but to bow out of the public eye, and they broke up quietly.
15 years later, with Stein fully recovered, the group reconvened and released a critically acclaimed and commercially successful comeback album, No Exit. They even topped the UK charts with lead single “Maria”, but faced tussles with erstwhile members at the time too. Former bassist and co-writer on “One Way or Another”, Nigel Harrison, and guitarist Frank Infante attempted to sue the rest of the band over their omission from the reformed lineup. And when Blondie were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2006, Infante grabbed the microphone to express his ire publicly.
Fast-forward to 2020 and the settled iteration of the band are working on a new album with John Congleton, who produced 2017’s Pollinator. Does Harry have a formula when it comes to songwriting these days? No, as it happens. “When a phrase or a sentiment makes me respond emotionally or physically, I write it down and I save it,” she explains. “At a certain point, I’ll sort of review things. A lot of times I like to just work with a rhythm track. Just a drumbeat or some kind of drone-y rhythm, a groove. Other times people will give me a rough sketch of some chord changes – an idea that they’ve got. I seem to work in a lot of different ways.”
Thanks to her effortless chic and timeless looks, Harry’s relationship with the fashion industry has been a mutual love-in since forever, and she recently announced a revival of her partnership with ethical fashion designers Vin + Omi – the duo responsible for her profane ‘STOP FUCKING THE PLANET’ cape worn at the Q Awards in 2016 and throughout Blondie’s Pollinator tour. They have teamed up for a new sustainable clothing line entitled HOPE, and her enthusiasm for the project is palpable. “I love Vin + Omi,” she says. “They are so creative and adventurous. They have this desire to prevail and do things that are smart and modern in terms of recycling and making energy count. I think that is brilliant.”
As a fledgling bee-keeper, the plight of the bees is also something close to Harry’s heart. It was one of the reasons why 2017’s Pollinator was, well, named exactly that. “You’re either being stung by a bee or you’re going to eat its honey,” she chuckles softly, marvelling at the absurdity of the contrast. “But bees and water are two issues we cannot escape from. We should be concerned with finding better ways of living, using our resources in the best way possible.”
Help is coming, she hopes, through the election of Joe Biden, who is “firmly attached” to the idea of helping the environmental cause – and she believes his ideas can help the economy, too. “I’ve been saying for quite a long time that solar and wind power are renewable (energies) that can create jobs,” she says. It’s a far cry from her feelings towards outgoing President Trump and his “daily infusion of bullshit” and “thunderstorm of endless diatribes”.
“One of the most exciting things about rock’n’roll was that it was about breaking the rules, and (‘WAP”) is certainly a part of that. It’s titillating and aggressive and it is part of what is exciting about popular music. The nature of what we try to do is to shock and entertain at the same time” – Debbie Harry
What strikes you when you speak to Harry for an extended period is not only her warmth, but her unexpected humility for someone so staggeringly famous. I reference a Bob Dylan BBC interview from the 80s in which he observed with sadness how his fame had the ability to change a room’s energy and how he missed seeing people act naturally around him. She paws the comparison away, saying she’s nowhere near famous “to the degree of Bob Dylan”, whom she calls “such a megastar”. This could sound like false modesty coming second-hand, but in person it feels like a sincere statement, even if it is a little bewildering coming from an international icon. She will concede, however, that she has “definitely noticed and felt something like that” and has often wished she could simply be “a fly on the wall”.
There is also an inquisitiveness that makes the conversation a more two-way affair than your quote-unquote typical ‘interview’. She fires questions back at you, not as a deflection tactic, but to expand and explore a topic further. This happens when conversation turns to Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion’s ubiquitous “WAP”. A recent interview had her fangirling over the track, but Harry’s feelings no longer appear to be as clear-cut and she wishes to discuss the song further. “I love it and hate it at the same time,” she now shares. “One of the most exciting things about rock’n’roll was that it was about breaking the rules, and (‘WAP’) is certainly a part of that. It’s titillating and aggressive and it is part of what is exciting about popular music. The nature of what we try to do is to shock and entertain at the same time.” She pauses. “I don’t know. Everything is revealed and maybe sexual explicitness has come of age.”
Pushed about what she dislikes about “WAP”, she says she would “hate it” if any young girl or woman was hurt by the song’s message. “I think that, in a way, men have to know that women think like this, and that there is this component,” she says, “but I would hate it to mean that everyone should be treated like this. I don’t think anybody should be hurt by sex”.
Harry has long championed the LGBTQ+ communities. When she refers to her dearly departed friend and Hairspray co-star Divine as a ‘drag queen’ in Face It, she acknowledges the term in some instances is no longer accurate or politically correct. I suggest that it can often seem as though the evolution of our language is speeding up in the digital age – by necessity, of course – and ask her if online culture fills her with concern when it comes to using the right terms. “Yeah, (because) in many cases it can be a slip of the tongue, especially for an old dog like me! Things do move so very, very quickly. It is hard to keep up,” she observes. “Fortunately, I have a lot of godchildren!”
Speaking of younger generations, Harry likes to think she’d have coped with social media if she were coming up today, but is thankful that she had her “dark cocoon” in which to “bloom out of”, a place where she was able to “ripen”. “When you’re under the harsh glare of constantly being analysed, that shapes you whether you want it to or not,” she says. “It’s a germ or a seed that’s planted in your mind. It can take surprising turns and it can affect your growth. For good or for worse, who knows?”
“When you’re under the harsh glare of constantly being analysed, that shapes you whether you want it to or not. It’s a germ or a seed that’s planted in your mind. It can take surprising turns and it can affect your growth” – Debbie Harry
One thing that remains is her fierce level of self-criticism. “I always want to do better,” she declares matter-of-factly. “I’ve always been very critical of everything. I hear things or look at them and say, ‘Oh God, it should have been that (instead).” Maybe this hypercritical inclination is what still drives her forward. “I honestly don’t like resting on my laurels. I like working and I like creating. I always beat myself up about not being more creative or more prolific.”
When looking at the bounty of projects she has lined up, no one in their right mind could put Debbie Harry and laurel-resting in the same sentence. Aside from the new album, archival set and fashion project, the paperback edition of her autobiography will be released with a brand-new epilogue in April of next year. (Just don’t ask her what’s in it – “I don’t remember what I wrote. I’ll have to look it up!” she says with a laugh.)
The signs are that the musician is done looking into the rear-view mirror, though. Time may be passing, the tide may be higher, but Debbie Harry is doing more than merely holding on. Her eyes are locked to the future and she’s positively thriving.
Blondie: Against the Odds 1974-1982 will be released next year; Face It is out now via Harper Collins
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Aren’t We Monumental? (Ahkmenrah x Reader)
Description: His reality is splitting at the seams - you’re in his dreams, a comfort as he loses his grip on what makes him happy.
Prompt: Fishing
Notes: I’m all for historical accuracy so I’ve decided that from now on, in my Ahk fics that take place in Ancient Egypt, the reader is going to have dark skin. I myself have incredibly pale skin and I have no problem reading about it so @ any pale people reading these, you shouldn’t either. Also, your name is Meryt! It means beloved :) The songs in this are written by me, because I didn’t want a recognizable modern song and I’m not sure how to write ancient egyptian song lyrics. Gender neutral again.
Warnings: Ahk is PRETTY depressed in here and develops some major symptoms of anxiety.
Word Count: 12.4k
AO3 Link: Aren't We Monumental?
In the distance he sees the unapproachable, casting a net to the water. Every dream he’s had as of recent is plagued by you, far away and unreachable. With every step closer he grows further away, till tonight he sees the futility of his actions, and sits on cold ground, staring at your blurry form. For the first time you turn to him, watching over every breath he takes. With a wave, he finds himself beside you, staring up at you. You’re distinct, clear against a backwash of a dark, unseeable background. Aimlessly you stare forward, pulling the net from the water and back into your hands; it drips freezing water onto his hands.
“There’s a love in simplicity that cannot be achieved in any gluttony,” you say, still staring ahead at nothing. Casting the net back into the water you drop down, sitting cross legged next to him on the wooden dock.
“What?” He asks, his brow furrowed. Now that he’s met you, the first thing you say makes absolutely no sense. He tries to not let it irritate him.
“Work with your hands, good fellow,” you tell him, and for the rest of his dream you don’t say another word. Silence encompasses the both of you, only broken by your net dragging back up to shore. Again, no fish, but there is a rock inside that looks rather beautiful. There isn’t anything particularly special about it, no swirls of color, no skeletal shape inside, but it’s very smooth, and very dark - in his hands it shines in dim moonlight, the shadow of his reflection staring back at him.
“Can I keep this?” He asks, holding the rock up to the moon and admiring the odd shape of it. You don’t reply, you don’t even move, so he, perhaps incorrectly, assumes it’s alright and holds the stone tight in his grip.
His awakening late in the morning is slow, rays of sunlight prodding him gently to consciousness. As always his servants dress him, and as he stares dully ahead they push a crown atop his head. In the mirror he spots it, the gold catching his eye.
“I haven’t seen this before. What is it?” He asks his servants, taking the crown off his head to examine it. A braid of gold encircles its entirety, a cobra with fangs unsheathed sits at the front. It’s well made, he notes, though he’s not quite sure as to its purpose.
“It’s a gift from your father,” Naguib, his personal servant, tells him, head bowed politely as always. Ahkmen sniffs, setting the crown back on his head - it doesn’t look bad, he decides, and for another moment he admires himself in the mirror. Yellow isn’t his favorite color, but status is enshrouded in gold, and status is of the utmost importance to his father. Thus, the only cloth he wears has gold sewn into it, and gold is somehow assigned to him. Blue is Kahmuh’s color, which is unfortunate - he favors blue over gold, while Kahmuh envies the amount of gold Ahkmen is constantly surrounded with.
His day continues as it usually does; there’s the daily fight at breakfast as Kahmuh inevitably has another outbreak about how much he hates Ahkmen. This time, it’s about the gifted crown, and how he doesn’t get a crown. His father just rolls his eyes, shakes his head with a sigh, and ignores his eldest son, while their mother attempts feebly to calm him down. Kahmuh storms out of the room, and the rest of the morning is spent in silence. In Merenkahre’s meetings Ahkmen stands by his side, opposite of Shepseheret like a mirror image. They’re a perfect family without Kahmuh, who watches the court from the shadows of the archways leading into halls.
By afternoon Ahkmen is back in his room, his head hanging off the bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling and trying to remember what exactly happened in his dream. As important as it was to him, he always has trouble with his memory, an unfortunate genetic trait. Caught up in his thoughts he doesn’t notice Naguib enter his room, tapping his shoulder.
“Um, my prince?”
He perks up, staring upside down at his servant, who is carrying a basket in his arms, his shoulders tight with nervousness.
“Yes?”
“You told me to tell you when I was going into the city again… you didn’t tell me why, though,” Naguib says quietly, unsure of every word. With a deep breath Ahkmen gathers himself, standing up and brushing out the folds in his clothes.
“Will I draw much attention like this?” He asks him, opening his arms for observation of his outfit.
“Quite a bit of attention,” Naguib tells him honestly. Nodding, he changes quickly into something more inconspicuous - a simple skirt and necklace.
Distantly he recalls asking Naguib to tell him, and though the exact reason escapes him he assumes it was for fun. He and everyone close to him knows he doesn’t get out much, and certainly not without being noticed and paraded as a prince. He loathes the attention, always self-effacing and hesitant to think of himself as above anybody else, even though it’s what he’s been told all his life. But Naguib knows the streets well, helps him not to be noticed, taking him through lesser known paths filled with fewer people than the main markets.
“What are we looking for anyway?” He asks as Naguib grips his wrist and pulls him into an alley as a large group of nobles pass by.
“The physician’s assistant is off on some adventure, so I’ve been filling in for them. Adom needs herbs of some sort… I don’t remember the name, only what they look like,” Naguib explains, glancing around the new street the two of them find themselves on. Ahkmen hums his acknowledgement, trailing after Naguib when he leaves suddenly into the rush of the crowd.
Amongst a mass of people he sees a variety of things he’d consider odd - though, when mentioning these things to Naguib later, he doesn’t react the same way. Apparently carrying live fish in a water basket isn’t strange, and neither is snakes in pockets. There is one thing he hesitates to mention, back in the safety of his room; something he is convinced didn’t really happen, but the memory is so clear that he’s at war with himself.
In the end he doesn’t tell Naguib what he saw. Instead he lets it haunt his memory, the image of a black jackal baring its’ teeth lucid like nothing else he’s seen. It jumped at him, or at least he thought it jumped at him, as by the time it should’ve landed on him the mirage dissipated. Luckily, in the crowded market no one noticed one man flinching away from nothing.
By evening time his parents are berating Kahmuh for reckless behavior again. According to them, he wandered out into the desert, but according to Kahmuh, he was hunting for a specific animal. Though, considering he can’t seem to name the animal, Ahkmen doesn’t particularly believe his story. As he does during most dinners, he eats in silence, blocking out the arguing and yelling. Quietly as he possibly can he slips away, tucking his chair back underneath the table and heading off to what he hopes is a good nights’ sleep.
When he opens his eyes to his dreams his hand is heavy. Looking down, he finds the rock, and in sudden clarity he remembered what had happened - now, he’s lying down in a hut, a fire burning beside him. The cot he’s laying in is soft, softer than it should be, and out the open door he sees you’re on the dock again. Slowly he moves to his feet, leaving the rock behind on the bed as his eyes never leave you. The echo of his feet against the wood is loud, making you turn and smile when you see him approaching.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” you say, fixing his messy, sleepy hair with your free hand. The other hand holds the line connecting the net back to land.
“How long?” He asks, unsure of why he’s asking it.
“I’m still waiting,” you tell him, softer and regretfully forlorn - with half lidded eyes you stare back out to the wide river. The other side, which last night he saw so easily is so far away all he sees in the distance is fog.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his conscious self still confused, but something inside him speaks without his permission. You just nod, a gentle, homesick smile growing slow on your face.
As conversation quiets you pull your net back, finding nothing in it. Sniffing, you reel the rest of it in and with a mighty throw, it’s back in the water.
“I…” he starts, thinking back to the jackal he saw in the market, wondering if you’d have anything to say on the subject. “I saw something today. Something I’m not sure I should’ve seen.”
You respond with silence, no nod or any acknowledgement that you heard him, but nonetheless he continues - you’re dangerously easy to talk to, he notes.
“I was in the marketplace with my servant, and when we reached this crowded area… I turned, and there was a jackal, a black jackal staring at me. He was growling, ready to lunge at me, but when he did.. he disappeared.”
“What comes from nothing becomes nothing itself,” you finally respond, the words useless to him. Exasperated he sighs, wondering why he thought it was a good idea to tell you in the first place. “Don’t worry on what can’t hurt you. Anything that can cause worry can bring peace… if you can fix it, there’s no need to worry, and if you can’t fix it, find solace in your helplessness.”
“Oh,” he breathes out, the exclamation coming out involuntarily. He stares at you, his brow knitted together as he tries to figure you out - unlike anything he’s seen before, and so painfully familiar, like a cosmos he’s admired for too long. “What if it happens again?”
“If it frightens you, tell someone who may help you, good fellow,” you say, and with a short glance to the water and back to you, you’re gone.
“Where did -“ he starts, but realizes before he’s through that it’s fruitless to call for you. He doesn’t know your name, or anything you might respond to, and you seem like the type of person who wouldn’t reply anyway. Disappointed, he wanders back into the hut, slipping away into nonsensical dreams that he can’t care to remember.
Your words calm his thoughts, but only temporarily - by morning he’s forgotten exactly what you said to him, only recalling you told him not to worry. With a sigh he curses himself and his horrid memory, going about his day in a thought-heavy wander that brings his health to question.
It isn’t for another three days that something odd happens to him again, though this particular version of odd is different from the jackal. In the palace, there’s an absurdly long corridor that leads to the water gardens - it’s empty, barren of torch or painting, and it’s an unsettling sight one must go through to see the beauty of the outdoors. Ahkmen has asked his father three times to put something in the hall, but there’s always been something more important, and thus nothing has ever happened to the absurdly long corridor. When he turns down it, he sees the end as usual, a small rushlight set on the single shelf at the end. But, as he walks nearer, a fog rushes in from the corner - a sick scent fills his head, and the world turns dizzy. The smog draws closer and closer, growing thicker till he can’t see. He can’t feel his heartbeat, can barely feel anything, but the shaking of his fingers is a telltale sign of his anxiety returning to him. Swallowing thick and shutting his eyes he crouches, trying to find a wall to ground himself against but he can barely see the floor he stands upon.
No one finds him. No wise words are imparted upon him, and anxiously he waits for night to receive any answer. You’re the only person - can he call you that? a person? - that he’s trusted thus far; no one else knows of the visions he has. The smog, the jackal, it’s something he’s heard of before, though accounts vary on what exactly it is. He can’t remember what exactly they’re called, or what they may mean, and he doesn’t bother to search for answers before talking to you. He goes to bed early that evening, and finds himself sitting on the edge of a very familiar dock.
This time, you’ve already caught a fish - out of the side of his eye he spots you, tending a small fire, a fish impaled and roasting slowly over the heat. Stumbling to his feet he makes his way to you, his steps slowing as he nears.
“It’s happened again,” he says, desperate for any answer you could give. Anything nonsensical, even - he hasn’t heard you speak in a long while, it feels. Yet you give him nothing, carefully watching your catch cook. With a half-groan he kneels on the ground, watching the fish with you, and wondering if he copies you, you’ll finally talk to him. “Fog, this time,” he continues. “I felt like I was suffocating, and I hated it. I mean, obviously I hated it. I don’t know why I said that.”
Still nothing.
“I also had an orgy with seventeen people,” he says, a shocking lie to get you to respond, but still you say nothing.
For a good while he just watches, irritated at your silence and coming up with ways to get you to talk. When the fish is done and safely set on a plate too fancy for your home, you finally turn to him, staring him direct in the eye. Digging into your pocket you pull out the rock, and vaguely he remembers the beauty he’d admired so indefatigably only four evenings ago.
“You forgot this,” you say, almost stern, but still more caring than what fits the relationship you have with him. Extending your hand to him, you wait for him to close the gap, which he hesitantly does - his hand hangs open, palm upwards and below yours. Your grip loosens and the rock falls too heavy into his hand. He almost loses his grip, watching with a quick panic as his hand drops with the weight of the rock.
“That’s… heavy,” he says, the words instant and he regrets saying it the moment you look up. With one short glare that almost says as if I didn’t know, you turn back to the cooked fish.
“I used to dream of you. Since then I have never known peace,” you tell him, doing nothing but confusing him further. Heaving a tired sigh he sits on the ground, watching the flames of your fire reach lower and lower, till they dim to glowing embers.
When he closes his eyes he expects to wake to his bedroom, but he doesn’t - the cloth of the bed is a dark red, darker than blood, the bed floating lazily down a slow-running stream. He evens his breath, takes a look at his surroundings, glancing twice at the empty space beside him. By the third time he looks you’re lying there, not sleeping, not quite alive and not yet dead, horribly pale and still.
“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, setting a hand on your shoulder. Your touch freezes his fingers, spreading up his arm till he grows as pale as you, like a white paint coating every inch of his skin. Somehow he manages to not panic, simply lying down next to your unmoving body, waiting for something to happen. Wishing for you to speak again. In the entirety of the dream you haven’t said a single thing that could help him, only words that add to a story he can’t understand. He turns his head to you, your eyes open and dripping a steady flow of tears. A shiver runs through him; the sight is unsettling in a way he wishes he couldn’t know.
By the next morn he’s up earlier than usual. Dreams bring him no solace, so he turns to books and whatever knowledge they may store. He knows he’s heard of his condition before, these images that feel so real, so real he can’t know they aren’t until they’ve disappeared. Ta’i, the bookkeeper, leads him down rows of scrolls and clay tablets till they reach the medical section, where Ta’i leaves him. He can’t trust anyone with what’s been happening to him, not when he’s got the status he has - if it slips out to the general populace that their prince is unwell, it welcomes invaders and those who would dare to usurp power from the rightful family.
Most scripts don’t mention his condition, thus leading to a search that spans much longer than he originally intended. Without the help of Ta’i telling him exactly where specific books are, he’s left to what little knowledge he has of the organization of the library. It isn’t until afternoon that he finds anything that even mentions it, and it isn’t till evening comes that he finds any actual information on it.
Some scholars say visions are prophetic, and a gift - others say it’s a curse, that Gods vowed their hate upon the victim. Others say it’s magic. All he can feel is hunger, and he remembers, dusting off older parchments that he hasn’t eaten all day. Leaving the papers open upon the desk he leaves, wandering down crowded halls to the kitchen, barren of people.
When he emerges, date bowl in hand, the halls are empty save for Naguib, carrying a massive basket of lotus flowers. Curious, he stops him, asking what the flowers are for - when Naguib answers, nothing comes out but silence, and he continues on down the hall towards the physician’s room. A little shaken from the encounter, though not deterred, Ahkmen resumes his research, and comes up with little comfort besides the fact that he’s not the only one.
During dinner his parents coddle him, asking where he was all day - apparently he missed the unveiling of some sort of garden temple, and his mother tells him he’ll have to go see how beautiful it is at some point. He registers the words, knows what they mean, but it doesn’t process in his head; he’s far too lost in the information he’s read.
He resumes his search after dinner, and as night grows long he falls asleep at the desk - Ta’i doesn’t have the heart to wake him and kick him out, so they leave him there, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape.
Back on the dock, he opens his eyes to see you wading in the deep waters of the nile. He almost stops you, anxious that you’ll drift away in the current, but you seem perfectly fine - calm, even. More welcoming than ever before you smile at him, waving in a friendly-stranger sort of way.
“Still looking for answers?” You ask, your voice raised to be heard across the distance. He laughs, though he doesn’t know why, and sits on the edge of the wooden dock, his feet dipping into the warm water.
“I’m still at a loss for answers, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies, watching you drag fish traps out of the nile.
“Perhaps you’re asking the wrong questions,” you say, huffing with the effort you give. Hair falls in front of your face despite the fact that it’s brushed back, and you tuck the stray strands behind your ear. At the simple motion he feels his heart quicken, careful to observe the way you smile, and the way you express your exhaustion. In all the time he’s known of you, you’ve only ever caught one fish, and it wasn’t exactly a very big one. Watching you set the traps up, he wonders how you get by, the fact that you’re a dream escaping his mind - all that’s left is the fact that you’re standing before him, moonlight reflecting off the sheen of sweat on your dark skin. And in that moment, he finds you’re very beautiful, and he wonders how he never noticed before.
There isn’t anything grand about your stature, the way you carry yourself, or the way you dress and look - your words are are the only unearthly thing about you, but still he finds himself staring at you.
“What do you think I should do?” He asks you when you begin wading to shore. You don’t answer till you reach the sand.
“Look at the causes. Not the symptoms,” you tell him with a soft smile, patting his shoulder with a wet hand. “Know you are loved. Wake up.”
“What?” He says, furrowing his brow. Wake up?
“Wake up,” you say again, and he wakes with startling clarity - his father has a hand on his shoulder and is shaking him awake.
“My son, what are you doing here? It’s so late,” his father says, quiet and worried.
“Oh, uh… fell asleep. Sorry,” Ahkmen mumbles, his eyelids still heavy with exhaustion.
“No need for apologies. Get yourself to bed,” he instructs him, patting his shoulder once more. Without another word he drags himself to his room, forgetting about the open scrolls on the desk, and falls asleep on top of the blankets of his bed.
He doesn’t dream, not of anything, and not of you.
Come morning time he hears voices outside his door, whispering their woes in hushed voices, ones he barely recognizes. Blearily he comes to his feet, padding over to the door to open it - on the other side stand his parents, who halt their speech at his appearance.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice still rough from sleep.
“Ahkmen, we’ve been… discussing something. Father found you last night amongst a lot of our medical scrolls, and we’re worried you’ve been hiding a condition or illness from us,” his mother says, pinching her lip with her fingers as she speaks. A wave of anxiousness shocks his body, his shoulders and hands tensing. His fingers shake as he tries to come up with some sort of excuse.
“I - I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he says, a half truth. “I’m trying to figure it out.”
“You could at least tell us what’s wrong, your symptoms. Adom might be able to help you,” his father says, his arms crossed as his weight switches from foot to foot.
“I’ve - can we talk about this later?” He only asks to gather a semblance of a good excuse for not telling them, and the fact that he just woke up. “Breakfast maybe?”
“Alright. We’ll see you there,” his mother murmurs, kissing his forehead, and leaving with his father when he closes the door. Heaving a sigh he groans, clutching his head and rubbing his temples as he tries to reckon with the fact that his little issue isn’t a secret anymore. Muttering excuses to himself, he doesn’t notice Naguib enter, carrying his usual day clothing.
He doesn’t say anything, only directing Ahkmen to the right positions to set the clothes round his body. Ahkmen hardly pays attention, doesn’t look at himself in the mirror - the last time he looked, he didn’t have much skin on his body, and a fear seizes his heart whenever he catches his reflection in any object. When he’s done, Naguib bows and leaves the room, and Ahkmen makes his slow way to breakfast. There’s still no excuse, at least no valid one in his arsenal of excuses that would explain his reluctance to talk about his condition. As he sits at the table, he decides the truth is the only thing left to say.
His parents, sitting next to each other, stare expectantly at him, while Kahmuh at the far end of the table is glaring at him as per usual. He hates to show weakness in front of his brother, and can feel that hatred physical halting his speech, but he tries to get words out.
“I’ve been seeing things,” he finally gets out, a weak explanation that doesn’t clarify anything.
“Like… with your eyes?” His father asks, promptly hit by his mother. No one says anything more, so he tries his best to continue.
“Little things, sometimes. Like I’ll see a light in the corner of my eye, but when I turn it’s not there. But sometimes it’s…” he eyes Kahmuh, who is watching him intensely, “bigger things. The other day I saw a spider crawl up my arm, but when i went to get it off it wasn’t there anymore.”
“When did these visions start?” His mother asks, always the first to comfort and pretend as though nothing’s wrong with him.
“A good while ago. I was in… the garden,” he lies, “and I saw a jackal.”
His mother and father share a look of concern, and don’t reply - breakfast continues as normal, just much quieter. By the end they direct him to Adom’s study, following him to make sure he really goes, which is fair enough - the thick atmosphere of the room is sickening to him, let alone the stench.
It isn’t for another several weeks that Adom really comes to a conclusion as to what’s really wrong with Ahkmen. During that time, he doesn’t see you quite as much in his dreams; you’ve wandered past that, into another apparition that wanders the palace in silence. The urge to chase after you grows stronger with each day, and with each incorrect prognosis his vision of you becomes clearer. You don’t talk to him in this real-life form, you hardly even interact with the world, but you’re there, leaning over his shoulder and listening to Adom. The night before Adom’s final diagnoses he finally has his first coherent dream in weeks.
“I’ve seen the roots, and seen the skies,” you sing when he opens his eyes to the roof of your hut, the sight a familiar comfort. Sitting up, he sees you tending the fire - you toss in a couple of twigs, continuing to sing. “But I’ll see you again, my love…”
“What.. what are you singing?” He mumbles, deep and warm in a way he doesn’t expect. The melody isn’t anything he’s familiar with, nor is it similar to anything he’s heard before. You keep humming till you turn to him, a knowing smile on your face as you stand. Sauntering over to him, he lets his legs hang off the cot, and you kneel before him, one hand on each knee.
“I haven’t forgotten you, you know,” you say, your smile growing into a giddy grin. As usual when it comes to you, he’s left with many questions, but you stay knelt before him, unlike your usual ‘speak-and-leave’ method. “I kept your rock.”
“My what? Oh, oh. Right,” he mumbles, remembering the smooth pebble from long ago. “You didn’t need to. It’s not that important.”
“You thought it was important once. Eventually, anything that was once important will become so again.”
“I thought I was important, once. I’m still not important,” he says, and the words don’t weigh heavy in his heart. He’s already fully convinced himself that it’s the truth, but you tut, reaching for his hand and tracing veins it with your fingers.
“Perhaps now you think you’re unimportant…” your eyes dart across every feature his face has, every imperfection and mark, every impeccability. “But the feeling will come and go, just like every other feeling. One day you will know you’re special.”
“… special?”
“Incredibly. Have you met anyone that looks like you? A person who walks with your stride, or smiles in the way you do? I’ve never known a soul who thinks the way you do. Not one.”
“You aren’t real, though,” he says, for once remembering he’s only dreaming.
“How do you know?”
“You’re just in my head, like those damned visions I have,” he says with a biting hatred, his throat tightening along with his hand, fingers curling to dig his nails into his palm.
“Have you met every person on earth? There’s no proving I don’t exist somewhere. But… for now, breathe,” you murmur, reaching up to rest your hand against his cheek. He sniffs, and you wipe away the single tear the escapes him, smiling softly in a way he wishes you wouldn’t. The care evident in your eyes isn’t something he’s equipped to handle, a love he hardly ever gets is unbearably strong in your hold. His parents’ coddling can hardly count as love, and outside the palace he hasn’t got any friends - and to be fair, he hasn’t really got any friends in the palace, either. The closest he has is Naguib, but he can’t exactly count him.
Only then does it hit him how incredibly distressing his life is. He doesn’t have a single outlet for stress except for dreams he can barely remember, and the constant arguing between his parents and his brother has to have some sort of toll on him, even minor, though at this point it’s safe to say the effect is major. The only real happiness he finds is in sleep, either in the nonexistence of his consciousness or your presence, which is comforting even though it really shouldn’t be. When he finally sees out his own eyes again, you’re still kneeling before him, gazing into his soul and knowing what he’s thinking. With a sigh, he melts into your touch for the first time, letting you hold him.
“Oh, my dear. How long you have yearned for a warmth you’ve never known,” you say, smiling sadly at him.
+
His parents stand beside him, one at each shoulder as they collectively listen to Adom’s deductions and explanations. The study isn’t quite as smoke-filled in the afternoon sun, and the smell is down to a tolerable level, not that he wants to tolerate it. Adom prattles on for a good while, discussing the different symptoms Ahkmen is experiencing, and is astoundingly correct on most accounts, before moving onto the many conclusions he came to, before the final one, which is more conceivable than previous ones. At least, conceivable for Ahkmen - prophecies of the future didn’t seem quite right, but stress-induced hallucinations sounds much more plausible.
“What could be stressing him out?” His mother asks, worried if not scared.
“A number of things. He’s a prince, for one. But Ahkmen could tell you more about it himself than I can,” Adom tells them, and all eyes fall to Ahkmen, who is starting to wish he hadn’t attended this meeting.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles, barely hearable but the message gets across. Neither of his parents are satisfied with that answer.
“Well we can’t just let it be, you said these visions are disturbing, so you want them to end, right?”
“Of course I do,” he retorts at his mother, “I don’t want to talk about what’s stressing me out, is all.”
“Ahkmen, if it’s a girl, we’re fine with that. We aren’t going to punish you for anything,” his father says, but it only works to irk him further.
“I don’t want to talk about it!” He snaps, his fists clenching tightly as he storms out of the room. They watch him leave, hesitant to follow after, for which he’s grateful, though the emotion is blurred by his anger. First he thinks to go to his room, before quickly remembering that that’d be the first place they’d look to find him, so instead he heads towards the kitchens. The people there are kind, quiet, and tend to avoid talking to him, which is exactly what he needs.
As expected, he finds the kitchens mostly empty save for a few servants, dutifully preparing for his family’s next meal. Pulling aside the head chef, he instructs her to tell no one of his whereabouts, and doesn’t wait to see if she agrees or not - instead, he goes direct for the wine cellar, where it’s dark enough he doesn’t have to think about anything too hard. Without thought for anything except that he doesn’t want to fully exist anymore, he grabs a pitcher, filling it with wine before chugging it. He’s never drunk this much at once, and a sick feeling swells in his heart that makes him nearly choke on the drink. His world is crashing in on itself and he feels no need to keep experiencing whatever life has to offer - but perhaps it’s all his fault.
Tucked away in the dark corners of the wine cell, tears burning their way down his cheeks, he wonders if maybe it’s all his fault. Maybe he should open up to his parents, and get a grasp on his life, make some real connections, but when the thought occurs to him an anxious shiver runs down his spine.
I’m not ready, he repeats to himself in his head, over and over until he drinks himself into a blackout.
+
“My dear, good fellow,” you murmur, running your fingers down his cheek. Blearily he opens his eyes, seeing a sky holding so many stars it might as well be daytime, though the earth he lies on is dark.
“What…” he rasps out, slowly coming into his senses as his consciousness slips fully into his dream.
“Panic attacks take a heavy toll on the soul, especially one as gentle as yours,” you say with a doleful smile.
“Panic attack?” He repeats, trying to sit up, but you hush him and tell him to lie back down.
“Don’t think on it, don’t worry, we’re taking you somewhere you’ll be happy,” you tell him, your voice strange and not fully yours.
“What? Where - don’t take me anywhere,” he begs, gripping tight at your shirt, his voice cracking with the force of his speech.
“Shh, don’t worry,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
With a sigh he realizes reality is seeping into his dreams again, and there’s little to do about it. The last time he tried to force himself to wake up, he had a dream about waking up, which led to an even worse dream. So he lets you stroke his hair, comfort him with your touch while knowing all the while that it’s most likely his mother.
They’re probably taking me somewhere where I can be someone elses’ problem, he thinks to himself bitterly, finding it harder and harder to just lie there. Still, he manages it, trying to enjoy ‘your’ affections to pass the time.
I wish I wasn’t alive.
+
“Ahkmen, we’re here,” his mother says in her usual, soothing voice, though it does little for his anxiety as of late. He opens his eyes to white sails tied to a mast, the smell of salt thick in the humid air, and he safely assumes he’s near the ocean. His mother hangs over him, his head in her lap as she runs her fingers comfortingly through his hair.
“Where are we?” He asks, his voice hoarse. When she halts for a reply he slowly sits himself up, looking around at the land brightly lit by a blazing sun overhead. Squinting, he realizes he’s still in the Aur, surrounded by palm and date trees - a relieved sigh leaves him at the idea that he hasn’t really left home. The nile still flows, and he can still live beside it. He glances at the other side of the nile, the sight making his breath catch in his throat, his heart beating too fast against his chest.
He knows this place. The riverside hut is too familiar, the bonfire circle to the left of it something he’s known for a long while, and with wide eyes he watches his father speaking to someone he can’t see. They’re standing half inside the hut and half outside, but his father is much bigger than they are, so the little he does catch of them isn’t helpful. Fingers shaking, he tries to get a different angle, anything to try and confirm his creeping suspicion. Turning back to his mother, he gestures his confusion, attempting to get an answer out of her, any answer.
“Your father thought it’d be a good idea for you to get away from whatever is stressing you out. I suppose it is a little presumptuous, to assume being a prince is the thing stressing you so terribly -“ he’s astounded their guess was correct - “but I think time away will be good for you either way.”
With a nod from his father, his mother helps him to his feet and leads him off the boat, and down the wooden deck he’s known but only now felt - an impending dread fills up his head and heart as he grows closer to the entrance of the little hut, thickening his blood and slowing his thoughts. At long last his father steps to the side to make room for him and his mother, and he sees you - smiling politely at him, your hand outstretched to shake his.
Gingerly he clasps his hand in yours, the short touch electrifying his nerves, but he manages to keep himself under control as his father introduces you to him.
“This is Meryt,” he says with a smile, “and you’ll be staying with them until you think you’re well enough to come back home.”
I don’t think I’ll ever want to come back home, he thinks to himself distantly, feeling out of place in his own body. How, exactly, a real person becomes a character in his dreams, complete with the right house and job escapes him - all he can see is the gold pattern of the sun shining through the thin canopy and onto your skin. Your eyes glitter a brilliant color, staring into his soul without a care in the world. As his father continues talking, muted into the background, he wonders if you already know how important you are to him.
It’s a few hours before his parents leave, sailing up the nile in the royal barge, leaving him with you. Behind the little house, the sun is beginning to set, and you pull a net out from a box on the dock, pulling it to the edge and throwing it out into the water. Looking up at him, you pat the wood beside you, and he sits carefully down beside you.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ahkmen,” you say with a pleasant smile, your head drifting from side to side gently to music you hear in your head. “As your father said, my name is Meryt. My friends call me Merry.”
“Merry?” He asks, surprising himself with how quiet he speaks.
“Yeah, you can call me that if you’d like,” you say, and when a silence spans between you, you start humming. He sits beside you for a good long while, wondering how to bring any subject up - his dreams, the reason he’s here, the fact that he’s probably a damper on your daily routine. Before he can think of anything to say, you tie the net line to the dock, and head inside. He almost follows you, but you remerge a second later with two cups. Handing one to him, you sip from the other, sitting back down next to him, your legs dangling off the edge.
“So, um,” he stares down at the gold liquid in his cup, “what is it you do here?”
“Various things,” you answer vaguely, giggling when you see his confusion. “I fancy myself a fisher, though I’m not very good at it. It was really more my fathers’ thing. I’m a brewer, sort of.”
Glancing at you, and back down at his cup, he takes a sip - it’s beer, which he usually doesn’t have, but it’s certainly sweeter and kinder to taste than the brews he’s had in the past. When he looks back up you’re watching him, gauging his reaction, so he smiles, thanking you for the drink.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s what I sell in town, but the beer itself I buy from Umut, who’s the actual brewer. I just add some special ingredients, but other than this, I don’t get around much. Most everything I need can be supplied by what I already have.”
“Probably why I’m here,” he mutters to himself, the simplistic lifestyle a clear reason as to why his parents would bring him here of all places.
“I heard you’ve been having visions,” you say, quiet and sincere. He looks away, a blush crawling to his cheeks as he scowls. “I have a friend that used to have those. Though, I don’t think they were as bad as yours are… is it alright to talk to you about this?”
He nods, slow and shy, but a definite yes.
“She used to see these lights, like stars but close by… this mage from the East said they were fairies. Your parents didn’t tell me much, but I don’t think yours are like hers, are they?”
“Not really,” he mumbles, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them close.
“Mm. You can talk about it, if you’d like, or we can do something to get to know each other a little better,” you suggest easily, and it almost annoys him how kind and down-to-earth you are. You’re nothing like his dream, at least not thus far, but he doesn’t know what he expected anyway - you aren’t a dream, you aren’t solely his, at least not anymore. He retracts the thought a second later, but for a single moment he wishes you were entirely his own, a secret safe from a world he’s started to fear.
“Do you have any advice?” He asks weakly, flinching when he hears his voice crack.
“Advice…?” You think for a moment, staring out into the nile before looking back at him. “There’s… there’s no way to tell if you’re doing the right thing, or if the path you’re on is the one for you - but there’s comfort in the inevitable, and in the unchangeable, just as there is love in the ever-changing.”
“Oh,” he gets out in a whisper, staring at you as you watch the water ripple with the breeze. The way you smile strikes an uncommon warmth in his heart, welcoming and anxious all at once - in this moment, watching your lips turn up at the sight of turtles at the shore, more than anything he wants to be close to you in a way he knows he can’t. People have boundaries, he warns himself, though the ache to know the softness of your hair and the blush of your cheek against his fingertips is more enduring than anything, and for a fleeting moment he thinks maybe it’d help him. Maybe you could help him. But when he breaks from the trance, he’s far too terrified of poisoning your innocence with his brokenness to do anything of the sort. Instead he watches you, the dying light of the sun casting shadows across your skin, dipping around the creases your smile makes.
“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him away from his thoughts. “I’m not very good at giving advice.”
“No, no… it’s good. I think it’s good,” he mumbles, his nails digging into the wood of the dock.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
For dinner you make an assortment of fruits and vegetables, and though it’s not exactly the cuisine he’s used to it isn’t bad. Sitting at the fireside, the hut sheltering you from the wind growing stronger as night grows, the two of you eat in silence. Afterwards, you share another cup of beer, and you tell him a little bit more about your life and what you do.
“You know quite a bit about me now,” you say after sharing the basic information about yourself. “What about you?”
“Me? I’m - I’m not very interesting, I’m afraid,” he blurts out, almost choking on his drink when you ask.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“… what?”
“Your favorite color,” you repeat. His mouth hangs open, confused as his eyes dart from side to side.
“Uhh… blue,” he answers slowly.
“There you go, that’s something interesting,” you say with a brilliant smile. For the first time in months he laughs, shaking his head.
“That counts as interesting?”
“Of course it does. Everyone has interesting things about them. There’s a story in everyone… why’s blue your favorite?”
“Oh, I don’t know, um… I just like it, I guess,” he mumbles, thinking just how I like you as the words come out.
“It’s a nice color,” you say with a kindly smile.
“So does my favorite color tell you anything about me?” He asks, taking another swallow from his cup.
“Just what type of things to get you. Now if I see something blue that I think you might like, you’ll like it even more.”
“That’s…” he wants to say dumb, because it’s really such a childish gesture, but what instead comes out is, “… really nice of you, actually.”
“Well, you deserve kindness.”
He begs to differ, but instead of pursuing that, he changes the subject.
“How do you know my father? I’m sure he didn’t just drop me off here without knowing you,” he asks, and in a few aspects he’d be right.
“My father knew yours when they were young. Unfortunately, my father was a very solitary man, never told much about himself… I think the only person he ever opened up to was maybe my mother.”
“That explains why your home is sort of in the middle of nowhere.”
“Do you believe in soul bonds?” You ask out of nowhere, taking him by surprise. Furrowing his brow, he shifts uncomfortably.
“Um… I - I don’t know what that is,” he tells you honestly, setting his cup down and fidgeting with his fingers, staring into the low flames of the fire.
“People who are meant to meet, connected beyond status and distance,” you try to explain, and he understands for the most part.
“I’m not sure,” he answers, thinking of how he dreamt of you, wondering for a moment as his eyes flicker to you if he’ll dream of you again tonight.
“Fair enough answer,” you say. “I just thought you might, because when you looked at me, you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
“I did?” He says, his voice tight.
“A little - are you alright?” A concerned look grows quick on your face as you shift to be on your knees, scooting closer to him, looking over his face.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He says, but his voice is still cracking and far too high. I’ve forgotten how terrible a liar I am, he thinks as your hand brushes against his. Swallowing thick, he tries to ignore your attention, staring into the fire.
“Ahkmen, if you’re seeing something you can tell me. I won’t think any differently of you, I’m here to help you after all,” you say with a weak chuckle, clearly too worried to fully comfort him.
“It’s - can I tell you later?” He gets out in a rush, unable to catch his breath long enough to speak a full sentence. You back away, sitting back down on the floor as you watch him, curious and concerned.
“Of course. Take your time,” you tell him, gently patting his hand curled into a tight fist. You take his cup and plate and your own, cleaning and putting them away. By the time you get back, he still can’t breathe right, his chest strained and heavy with anxious weight.
When you sit next to him, you place your fingers on the side of his face, turning him to look at you. His eyes flit across each of your features, clear as day without the muddling of his dream-state, and he nearly cries at the care in your half smile.
“Breathe with me,” you murmur, taking his hand in your own and pressing it upon your chest. Slowly he feels you, your heat, and the even movement of your breath. He tries desperately to match, watching with a frightened intensity as his fingers shake against you. Every second moves embarrassingly slow as he notices every detail of you, watching every move you make, but he’s in your bed before he knows it.
“Wait, where are you going to sleep?” He asks, already drowsy from his panic as he holds your wrist.
“I have a blanket,” you tell him, and for hm, the answer is hardly satisfactory.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he mumbles, barely able to keep awake.
“Go to sleep,” you say, kneeling before him and petting his hair. With an undignified hum, wishing you’d just take your own bed, he falls into sleep.
The following couple of days he tries to distance himself from you, and though it’s clear you don’t understand why, he thinks his reasoning is obvious. When you cast your line out to fish, you ask for him to sit next to you, but he often refuses - he doesn’t want to be a hindrance to your life. When you prepare food, he eats as little as he can - he knows you’re not exactly rich, and food can be hard to come by, even if it is a plentiful summer. Still you push him to eat more, saying the portion you give is what you can afford, often noting his noisy stomach.
“I don’t -“ he tries to get out how he feels, attempts feebly to tell you what he means, but the words clog his throat till he can’t speak anymore.
“You’re not a bother. Your basic needs physically cannot be a burden, not on me. Not on anyone. Certainly not on yourself,” you tell him, pulling his hands away from hiding his face. “Hey,” you murmur. “I know you’re hungry. Eat.”
Staring into your worried eyes he relents, sighing as you smile, pushing a plate into his lap.
By the fifth day you’re fully comfortable with him - the same can’t be said for him. He’s still a nervous wreck in your presence, complete with sweaty palms and weak knees, and a variety of reasons for this go through his head. It could be that he simply doesn’t know you very well, or it could be that you’re still in his dreams, kissing and touching him where he’s rarely ever touched, or it could be that you’re more strikingly handsome than any foreign princess. Eccentric and classic, you’re a succor he’s desperately needed for so long a time.
The more comfortable you grow with him, the more you begin to act like you do in his dreams. Quiet, thoughtful, and never one for direct answers; it gets to the point where the only way he can tell the difference is that in his dreams you touch him incessantly. In real life you always ask, uncertain of his wishes and hesitant to comfort.
“Looks like there might be a storm,” you say, gathering up the net from the water to put away.
“What?” He asks, pulled out of the memories of his dreams, looking up at you. As usual, you’re to the left of him, though this time you’re standing as he sits, his feet just barely touching the warm water below the dock. Your clothes are beginning to soak with the net gathered in your arms, sticking tight to your skin.
“The wind comes from the north, which,” you point to the gathering clouds, “is where the clouds are coming from. I’ve been expecting it for a while now.”
“Really? You didn’t say anything,” he says, hurrying to his feet to help you.
“Wasn’t sure until now. Either way, I’ve been stocking up food, so if it’s bad, we’ll be okay,” you say with a charmingly positive smile. He doesn’t understand your unending optimism, and doubts he ever will, but he most definitely appreciates it.
After helping you pull the rest of the traps out of the water, the wind growing steadily harsher, he follows you inside and shuts the door. By the time he turns around you’re already working on starting a fire, sparking your flint against the wood. All around the outer walls the wind begins to howl, growing louder as rain begins to fall down. Once the fire is fully started, the rain pelts down on the roof, a far too loud white noise, but luckily quiet enough that he can still hear you talk.
“Did I tell you my mother built this home?” You say, sighing when you finally relax into your makeshift seat on the floor, a bundle of pillows and blankets set out in front of the stone hearth. “Except for the fireplace. That was my father.”
“It’s well made,” he says, unsure of what response is appropriate. Often, you’ll talk without any meaning, not expecting a word from him though appreciative when he does add his input.
“Yes…” you breathe out, glancing up at the ceiling, then back down at the fire. “Well made. Like you.”
“… Like me?”
“You were made with love in mind. We’re all creatures of hopeless regard and admiration, dedication and loyalty,” you say, poking him right where his heart sits.
“Not everyone,” he points out, remembering court stories of rape and abuse.
“The Gods have a story in mind for every one of us. In the heavens each of us are crafted from nothing… isn’t that beautiful?”
“One time you said what comes from nothing becomes nothing,” he says, growing quieter as he remembers that’s something you said in his dreams. But you just go with it, your mouth parted slightly as you try to think of answer, shifting in your seat.
“That’s true. But until then, we exist as love incarnate,” you murmur, smiling soft and hesitant at him in a way that far too often makes his heart stop. “Don’t forget our world came from nothing. Ptah came from nothing.”
Technically, you weren’t wrong, but it didn’t settle well in his stomach anyway - you’re pure, wonderfully positive and endlessly loving. He feels like he’s nothing, he knows he’s nothing, his life can’t mean anything, and it shouldn’t mean anything to you. He must’ve had a look about him, because you scoot closer, tracing the soft skin of your fingers down from his temple to his jawline, and at the motion he lets out a shaky sigh and closes his eyes.
“Every king and kingdom, every emperor that claimed to live forever came from nothing. We are all equal. Your father has as much power as a peasant - if they switched positions, no one would know the difference.”
“That’s treasonous talk, you know. I could have you stoned,” he jokes weakly.
“You could,” you say as though it doesn’t matter. It does, it matters a great deal to him - you should feel fear at the thought of your death, but you’re at peace with death just as much as he’s at discord with living.
“Merry, you can’t… you can’t just agree with me,” he gets out in a whisper, squinting as though it’ll help him understand you.
“But you’re not wrong,” you point out, and he grumbles, irritated.
“No, but aren’t you afraid of death?”
“A little. Fear is natural. I don’t wish myself to be in pain, but… death is just the next step and it’s necessary. It’s something we all go through in the end. Fortunately we have a little leeway on how we die,” you say with a curt smile, patting his knee.
“To be honest,” he says, interrupting you from almost standing, “I’m not sure if I believe in Gods anyway. Even if they did exist, I don’t think my father would be one.”
“I think of Gods more as magic. The beauty in the world,” you say, nodding your head distantly before meeting his eye again.
“Well, yes, there are little bits of magic in our world, but… nothing absolute. I’ve never seen any god, nor any trick to warrant belief… but.. I want to believe. Have you ever seen magic? Actual, true magic?”
“I saw you.”
He scoffs, almost rolling his eyes as he looks away from you. It’s such a corny answer he can’t decide if you’re joking or not, but by the way you scoot closer, it’s safe to assume you’re being completely serious.
“Hey,” you say softly, resting your hand against his cheek to push him to look at you. “Look at me. If you think about it, you’re phenomenal. Gods can number many, and the stars are innumerable but there’s only one of you. Ahkmen, galaxies are more commonplace than you! A unique being, capable of complex thought - isn’t that wonderful? Aren’t you monumental?”
Stunned into silence he can’t respond, his mouth barely parted as you stroke his cheek with your thumb. Smiling soft and sweet, so commonplace he’s almost used to the sincerity, you stand.
He watches you pull ingredients from your various cabinets, throwing them together in a mix and placing it inside the fireplace. As you pull down a loaf of bread to slice, he intervenes without word, cutting for you. In your appreciation you peck his cheek quickly - you’re not tall enough to reach his temple, but the affection still leaves him blushing bright red nonetheless.
“You’re such a sweetheart,” you tell him, still smiling brightly - he can’t find it in himself to respond, but he tries to smile without meeting your eye. Instead he concentrates on the bread, trying to pick out the smell or think of the ingredients as you handle your own task behind him.
As he finishes, pulling the honey down from the cabinet, he hears music, and he halts - he hasn’t heard music since being in the palace. You usually don’t sing, at least not in front of him, and he doesn’t play any instruments. Turning around, honey pot still in hand, he sees you standing with your eyes closed, swaying back and forth to the music you play on the lute. You don’t notice him staring as you start to sing, melodic and breathtaking; he nearly drops the pot.
“… and in the dust, you are saccharine sweet to the endless you seek… You spoke to me, whispered in my ear, ‘lets live forever!’ But we chase the lust of living for creations’ dissever…”
He swallows thick as you continue.
“I didn’t know you could sing,” he rasps out, throat dry by the time you finish.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at it. But I’m good enough for children, and for birds,” you tell him, setting the lute down behind a chest.
“… birds?”
“That’s usually who I sing to,” you tell him, taking the pot from his hands and drizzling it over the bread, taking a pinch of your spice mixture to sprinkle over it.
“Did you write that song?” He asks quietly, frozen in place.
“Yes, actually… it’s a hobby of mine.”
“I.. I never learned any instruments,” he says, kneeling in front of the fire.
“I’m self taught, but I could help you start if you’d like,” you say, sitting beside him and handing his plate to him, a row of small slices on one side as you pour the vegetables from the fire on the other side.
“No, I, um… I like hearing you,” he mumbles, pinching his skin as his anxiety spikes up at his own sincerity.
“Thank you,” you giggle, ruffling his hair.
The rain creates a nice ambience, he decides, the muted pattering on the roof working in tandem with the crackling the fire. Like a melody he can’t decipher, completed by your presence beside him, comforting and nerve-racking all at once - sparing a glance at you, you’re still off in your own world. He wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you sing again but has no idea how to bring it up again, so he decides he’ll settle for just hearing you talk.
“How does the chimney stop the rain from coming in?”
“Hm? Oh, the chimney has a hat,” you tell him, quickly returning to your meal.
Damn, he thinks at the short conversation that could barely qualify as a conversation. The rest of dinner he tries to think of another topic, of anything to get you to talk, but before he can think of anything you’re cleaning up the dishes and he’s tending the fire to continue burning as the two of you sleep. When you finish with your task, you sit beside him again, a little closer than usual, and you breathe a little harsher than normal - absently he wonders the cause.
“Ready to sleep yet?” You ask, watching him for any reaction. He doesn’t turn to you.
“Can you play another song?” He asks weakly, still not facing you.
“Of course,” you say with a smile, patting his shoulder as you stand to fetch the lute.
I’ve known you from a distance, longed for the sweetest shame,
But it’s been far too long since I’ve felt the embrace of someone dear to me,
so cling to me, the sweet ambition, cradled in innocence’s swath -
Though I may know you for a century, I’d give myself for a minute more.
The dearest touch of what is known -
I beg to gently press my kiss to your chest,
to hold your tender heart as my own.
You’re much closer to him as you sing, knelt beside him as you strum. He almost wants to sing along, but it’s finished much faster than your last song, and he lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.
“Do you have these written down somewhere?”
“Not everyone can write, Ahkmen,” you say with a soft laugh, once more putting the lute away, hidden from sight. He nods as he remembers where he is, and who he’s talking to - perhaps I’m still too used to palace life, he thinks, and not for the first time that day.
With a small yawn, you undress, and as usual Ahkmen does a full turn to avoid staring at you. Once you’re dressed in night clothes, you make yourself comfortable on the cot, wrapping the thick blanket over your shoulders and pulling your knees to your chest.
“I made this bed big enough for three people,” you tell him, and when he looks it doesn’t really seem it. Then again, his bed is about the size of your entire house, so he assumes his doubt has to do with his status once again. He wonders why you bring it up, but you take his hand, pull him to his feet and sit him down next to you on the cot. With drooping eyes you lean against him, yawning again. “We can sleep together tonight.”
He freezes, nearly choking on his own spit.
“What?”
“It’s gonna be cold,” you mumble, not bothering to elaborate as you lie down, your head on the pillow and the blanket fully wrapped around your own body. Still finding it hard to breathe, all he can do is watch you, your little hums of comfortable pleasure pulling him deeper into his consternation. Slowly, his eyes never leaving you, he leans down till his head is beside yours, staring at your tired face.
“You… want me to sleep… with you..?”
“Mhm,” you hum, surprising him - he’d asked the question, yes, but he thought you were already asleep. Without opening your eyes, you pull another blanket out from a nearby basket, handing it to him with very little grace.
“Why?” He asks, but at that point you’re asleep, your breathing even and slow. To calm himself he tries to match his breathing to yours, watching your lips just barely part in your sleep.
“You need to do something about me, you know,” you say as he wakes in his dreams, the sky above clear and blazoned with an eternity of stars. You’re sitting cross legged on the soft grass near the waters’ edge, his head in your lap as you run your fingers through his hair.
“What do you mean?”
“Love is an unsure thing, naturally it cannot be hindered or birthed… it’s a choice as much as it is unavoidable. Though you have loved me for so long, choosing to keep loving me… you say nothing,” you murmur, and when he meets your eye they’re sparkling with tears barely there. He sighs, knowing you’re right.
“I’ve really only known you for five days though,” he says, and though he’s right you shake your head.
“A soul may know another from the beginning of time and past the end of it. Sometimes these souls meet each other in the physical realm, but memories are fickle - don’t take our chance meeting for granted. Tell me of your dreams, I’d love to hear it, even if you don’t think I do. I care so deeply for you,” you say with such honesty he can’t help but believe, the ache of your heart reaching through your words and into his mind - maybe you do care for him.
When he wakes in the morning, the feeling is gone with the storm; you’re lying on top of him, hair tussled with sleep as your breath tickles the bare skin of his chest. For a moment he cherishes, you stay asleep as he brushes his fingers against your face, working his way up to your hair that he combs till it’s untangled, though it takes a good long while.
He doesn’t say anything about his dreams, about his infatuation for the entirety of the day as he helps you clean up the mess the storm left in its’ wake. In fact he doesn’t even bother to think of it for months until it’s staring him in the face, too clear that even the blind would see and the deaf would hear - in the middle of the village market he feels as though every person in a hundred mile radius would know all his doubts and fears were proven wrong. He’s known you for months know, stayed with you what seems like forever, but you still surprise him.
It was very simple, really; a gesture anyone could give. People had done it to him before, always looking to gain his favor or coerce his opinion, in fact most people had gone a level above. But you’re different, he’s convinced you’re special in a way no one can never be.
In the middle of the bustling trade market, he’d lost sight of you for a moment - you left him on a bench with a pastry you’d bought a few minutes earlier, telling him you’d be back soon. Trying his best to believe you he sits quietly, watching people flit past in their busy lives and keeping a lookout for you. Eventually you return, bag in hand and a smile on your face as you sit beside him.
“I got something for you,” you say, handing the bag to him.
Eyeing you nervously, he looks down into the bag. There’s paper in the way, blocking the gift from view, so he looks back up at you.
“What is it?” He asks slowly.
“Check for yourself,” you reply, your smile growing as you tear off a piece of the pastry to eat.
Once more he looks to you, then removes the paper. Underneath is a blue scarf - the edges are lined with gold fabric and down the center are sewn white flowers. Holding it in his hands he feels its’ softness, nearly as soft as his own royal robes, and he wonders, astounded, how you managed to afford it.
“How… how did you get this…?” He asks in a quiet, confounded voice, his brow furrowed as he examines each stitch and its material.
“Over there. Traders from Persia, I know them well. I know you don’t really have much to your name right now, so I asked them to keep an eye out for something that you might like… something blue,” you murmur, your smile fading slightly as you get quieter. For a moment you allow him to admire it, answering any question he has with answers that leave him adoring you even further.
“You asked them to get this? How long ago?”
“The trek to Persia and back is long, but not too long, fortunately. I asked them the day after you told me your favorite color.”
“That long ago?”
“Something like that, yes,” you say with a giggle, leaning closer to inspect the scarf with him. “I think it’s pretty.”
“Yeah…” he mumbles, caught up and enraptured in your smile. Your eyes drift over the material, delicate and detailed, humming to yourself when you find nothing wrong. “Um, yeah. It’s pretty. Can I - can I tell you something?”
“Of course,” you say, leaning back to see him fully.
“I think I’m in love with you,” is what blurts out of his mouth, and while he originally planned to go for a much less direct approach, you’re still blushing dark red.
“Oh, um…”
When you don’t answer immediately he can already feel the stinging of his eyes, anticipating tears before they form. I shouldn’t’ve said anything, he thinks to himself, repeating the phrase over and over again as he’s shocked into paralysis. Staring at you, waiting for your reply, he can’t move, can’t run away as he desperately wants to.
“No one’s… no one’s ever said that to me before,” you mumble, half embarrassed and half surprised.
“Seriously?” He asks, finding his own surprise in your statement. “I thought you would’ve heard it quite a bit.”
“Well I don’t know that many people to start off with, so…” you trail off, finding your words again a moment later. “Ahk, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to love me.”
His heart could’ve stopped beating and he wouldn’t have noticed - all he can feel is the ache in his chest, the numbness of his arms, and his thoughts repeating that he shouldn’t’ve said anything.
“I do adore you, more than anything I’ve known, but my place is here. Your place is with your family. Sometimes love isn’t enough,” you say, your voice cracking with the tears you’re trying to hide.
“I’d stay with you forever if it meant you’d love me,” he replies, dropping the bag to the ground to take your hands, holding them in his lap against the silk of the scarf.
“You can’t give up everything for one person. It’s not healthy and -“
“Meryt, we are fated to be together -“ you try to interrupt him - “just listen to me… please?”
Slowly, you nod.
“I dreamt of you. Long before I knew you, before I even thought I needed help, I dreamt of you nearly every night. You’d tell me these wonderful things, you’d hold me close and whisper to me, and I don’t know how it’s possible but I’ve known your love for so long I think I would surely waste away without it,” he pleads with you, searching glassy eyes for your gaze.
“That’s why you looked the way you did, when we first met, isn’t it?”
He nods.
“Will you let me stay with you?” He asks soon after, desperate for an answer.
“I… your father will look for you, he loves you very dearly,” you say, your fingers trilling soft pressure into his palm.
“Then we’ll run away, join those Persian traders,” he says, smiling wide when you giggle at the idea.
“They aren’t Persian, they just go there to trade,” you say, still laughing as a tear runs down your cheek.
“Is that a yes then?” He asks, holding you closer than before, still searching for any sign of an answer.
“… yes.”
+
The traders welcome you happily, mostly thanks to your previous connections to them - they know you’d never steal or cheat them, and by extension they trust Ahkmen. As grueling as the travel is, the people you meet always spark your interest. More often than not a simple hello turns to a long, drawn-out conversation about birthplaces and life stories, to the point where Ahkmen usually has to drag you away, still smiling to himself the entire time.
Though you kiss him often, and did it far before the prospect of a romantic relationship was ever a thought, you don’t really kiss him until you’re sitting in a desert oasis, far away from the nile that used to comfort him so deeply. You and Ahkmen have the habit of staying up the latest, watching the stars swarm the sky, sometimes shooting across the darkness as your campfire dies out.
“My mother says she makes a wish when she sees a shooting star,” Ahkmen murmurs, not breaking his stare into the endless sky. You hum, nodding distantly as you silently make your own wish.
After a moment, he asks, “what did you wish for?”
“I’m not telling you,” you say, laughing. “That’s bad luck.”
Caught up in the golden swirl of his eyes, you lean in, eyes half lidded as you come close enough to feel the heat of his breath against your skin. When he leans in the rest of the way, he feels the softness of your lips for the first time - endearing and forever his.
I like that, he thinks to himself, melting further into your touch as you move to be closer to him. Your chest against his you trace your fingers down his face, temple to jawline, before cupping his chin and pulling him in deeper.
Forever his.
+
End Notes: hope y’all enjoyed Ahk’s trip to Ye Olde Mental Hospital. I gave it an AU ending because it was the only way to make everyone happy and I’m tired of the sadness. We all deserve love.
#ahkmenrah x reader#ahkmenrah#rami malek#rami malek x reader#night at the museum#male reader#female reader
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Finding Forever: Chapter 4
Pairing: Henry Cavill/ OFC
Rating: E OR M however you want to say it
Warnings (: Dom! Henry, Sub OFC, Smut, Some Angst, Oral, female receiving, Unprotected sex, (Don’t be silly, wrap your willies people)
A/n: Sooooo it wasn’t that slow of a burn. I think four chapters is good enough to start the smut lol
Catch up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
In honor of Henry being a cheeky boy this morning, here is this gif and the story...
The ride back to the hotel was quiet as I regretted my hasty words. I knew I had effectively ensured Henry would dislike me if not right out hate me. Not to mention Mia would always feel some type of way about me if she and Henry decided to give it a go. I knew she wouldn’t outright cut me out for him because we had been through too much together for that to happen, but that didn’t mean I wanted my friend to look at me differently because of this. All because of my stupid inability to keep my mouth shut and my emotions down.
I trudged up to my hotel room, flinging my shoes off and adding the chain to my room door. I headed to my bathroom, shuddering at the reflection in the mirror. Her ponytail was loose, her eyes red, eye shadow smudged and looking downright tired. In short I looked a mess.
I turned on my shower, grateful for the warmth of it falling on my skin. I stayed in far too long contemplating on how I would face the two of them tomorrow. I could fain a hangover but that wouldn’t save me from Mia and honestly she would figure it out that I was faking it. Frustrated, I cut off the shower and got out, pulling on a pair of grey spandex type shorts that had outgrown being appropriate to be worn in public and comfortable enough to sleep in, along with a thin black cami that had the words “killin’ it” written on the front in white. Pulling a black almost floor length on, I had made the decision to deal with everything head-on tomorrow. As much as it would kill me, I was going to have to apologize to Henry. I told or at the very best implied something that he asked me about in confidence. I knew how that felt, as I had former friends other than Mia that I thought I could trust and they turned to use those secrets against me. I was a shitty person to do that to him. I cut on the TV in my bedroom for more background noise than anything and went out to the front of my suite to grab a bottle of water.
I hadn’t bothered to cut on any lights as this was a quick trip over to the desk where I had been leaving my bottled drinks.
“You know this hotel should really invest in better chains for their doors. I was able to slide that out of its place with a comb.”
Is familiar accented voice said and I yelped, jumping a foot in the air, before trying to find a weapon in the darkness. The lamp near a red and gold accent chair cut on to reveal Henry sitting there looking as calm as ever, however I was the one freaking out.
“Holy shit Henry, you almost gave me a damn heart attack! What in the fuck? How did you get in here?”
He gave a small smirk, holding up a rattail comb with the metal end.
“I told you with a comb. More specifically Mia brought me this comb and her copy of your room key, when I called to tell her I couldn’t reach you.”
My eyes narrowed at the mention of Mia and while I winced on the inside, the outside showed no change. I crossed my arms across my chest, jutting a hip out.
“You do realize there is thing called knocking. How it works is you tap from the outside, I hear it on the inside and decide if I want to let you in.”
He chuckled.
“I knocked. You didn’t answer so I got to thinking maybe I could wait for you to come back to your room. I realized you were in the shower so I waited. I thought I was going to have to rescue you considering how long you were in there.”
“It’s my room I can stay in the shower as long as I want. Now what I want is for you to leave.”
I pointed a thumb toward the door. His response was to lean forward, elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together in front of him. I noticed the worry lines across his forehead.
“You make everything so hard.”
“The only thing hard about this is you still sitting here.”
He stood abruptly crossing the room quickly with his long legs. He was in front of me before I could retreat away.
“No. What is hard is that you are so fucking hard headed. I came to talk to you, sort this whole thing out like rational adults.”
“Look Henry. I apologize for outing you to Mia like I did. I know that was messed up...”
“Stop. Where did you get this idea that I was interested in Mia?”
I stepped backwards again trying to put more distance from being able to smell his cologne. He wouldn’t allow it as he stepped forward again.
“What are you talking about? Henry you literally asked me if she was single.”
He began to laugh, affronted, I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.
“What is so funny?”
“Aura darling, there has been a major misunderstanding. I am not interested in Mia, not now, not ever.”
I somehow let a breath of relief that I didn’t know I was holding. Embarrassed, I didn't want to deal with this right now.
“Whaa... But... I can’t do this with you tonight. Get out.”
I shook my head and moving backwards. Henry looked at me, incredulous then his eyes narrowed slightly and seemingly got darker.
“No I don’t think I will.”
“It wasn’t a request Henry...”
“Not a request... Do you want to know the true reason I asked that question about Mia?”
He moved closer and this time I didn’t move. Something about his gaze kept me pinned in place. I didn’t say anything either which also wasn’t like me when I was pissed, as evidenced by my little club outburst earlier. I nodded my head, noticing that my throat was now dry.
Close enough to me now, Henry reaches up brushing some of the wayward hair away from my face pushing it back behind my ear. The action screamed gentle and soft, but his eyes said otherwise.
“I prefer if you use your words when you address me.” He prompted. Intimated by the tone he spoke in coupled with his actions I looked at him and spoke.
“Yes go ahead and tell me.” Fake bravado won out in the end.
“I asked about Mia because Jay, who is one of cameramen for the movie really wants to get to know her. While Mia is certainly pretty, she is not who I am interested in.”
“So you are interested in someone just not here. Oh my bad, hopefully I didn’t mess anything with whoever you actually like.”
I couldn’t tamper down on the attitude, trying to keep a wall up between us to help save face. I began to walk away, but Henry only let me get but so far, then he ended up catching me by the waist. His grip was sure, but not painful.
“I am interested in someone who is currently acting like a brat because she can’t take a hint. I tried the subtle thing with you Aura because I didn’t want to scare you off. You however are stubborn.”
His right hand came up to my face, grasping my chin to make me stare him directly in the eyes. My hazel crossing with his blue and I couldn’t look away.
“Let me be clear, the only one I have an interest in is you.”
White noise rang out in my ears as I felt my breath hitch in my throat again. As the tension in the room was about to boil over.
“Me?”
“Yes you Aura.”
Slowly I moved in and he moved in until our lips met, the kiss ignited a fire in me as I pressed myself flush against him and both of his hands drifted down the side of my body landing on my hips and making sure I could feel how he had hardened against my stomach. I slid my hands up his torso, linking around his neck. I was breathless by the time he pulled back, a smug look on his face, lips redder than normal from our kissing.
“I have been wanting to do that since I met you. It was not a disappointment.”
“Is that all you have been wanting to do since you met me?”
I questioned with a mischievous grin. I’m response he raised an eyebrow.
“Oh no actually I have been thinking about just how good you are going to look after you’ve cum 5 times...”
That was it. I felt a rush of wetness leave my body as I tried to clench my thighs together. Henry noticed and his gaze was intense as he didn’t break eye contact, which could be unnerving but it wasn’t as much as it should have been for me. I untied the black robe in the front and let it fall to the floor, well aware of my lack of bra and tight shorts that clung to me.
“You talk a good game, but can you back it up Cavill?”
I turned and walked toward the bedroom. I didn’t even check to make sure he was following because I knew he would be. I walked in turning the dimmer on in the room so it was a soft glow, but not pitch black like hotel rooms could be. I guess my stop to mess with the dimmer was all the time Henry needed to catch up to me because he was in the door quicker than I had only taken 4 steps, grabbing my hips again, stopping my forward motion.
“It’s sir to you Aura and where do you think you are you going?” He questions.
“Umm to the bed?”
“Did I tell you to get in the bed yet?” He questioned his hands grazing under the edge of my shirt, drawing small circles with his fingers. His breath warm against my right ear.
“No but I’d imagine if we are going to do this, we need to be in the bed.” I snarked to him. All that earned me was a sharp slap on my ass. I yelped in surprise as I heard Henry give a chuckle.
“Ouch. That hurt.”
“ You’ve earned a lot more than that one, but if you’re a good girl for me. I’ll suspend your punishment.”
I bit my bottom lip in anticipation.
“What if want to be bad?”
He laughed again.
“Trust me baby girl. You will want to be a good girl for me.”
With those words, I turned around to face him again, and instead of standing there so I could kiss him as planned he walked over to the bed. Sitting on the edge of it, he looked at me and beckoned me closer. I smirked.
“You just want to be in control so bad don’t you.”
“And you want to give it up so bad. I sensed it in you from the moment we met. So why don’t you let me Aura?” I find myself nodding.
“Give me a safe word.”
“Raggamuffin?”
I say with a smirk. He returns it back then agrees.
Henry reaches up, gasping my neck lightly again, then down into a kiss. His hands slid down until the reach the hem of my shirt, then breaking the kiss, pulling it over my head. Bare from the waist up, Henry makes my face feel warm, as my body is under his direct gaze. He strips my shorts and panties off in one smooth pull. He breathes in deeply, as I try to anticipate what he will do next, my legs still trembling slightly as his hands run from the back of my knees to my ass.
“You smell absolutely delicious.”
I began unbuttoning his shirt, wanting nothing more than to see it on the floor. He helped me get it off then began kissing my stomach, his lips drifting lower and lower around my bikini lines, but never where I wanted his lips to go.
“Your legs are shaking darling. I think you should sit on the best seat in the house.”
He slaps my ass again, but this time not as hard. I moved backward, as Henry moves backward resting his head on the pillow, then beckoning me up there to him. I did as he asked, crawling up his body, feeling his jeans brush against my bare skin, then the thick, dark chest hair.The sensation dynamic played a role in the power imbalance, and I was loving it. I was headed for the button on his jeans, when he spoke.
“The seat I want you on is up here.”
I had to be dripping by now, he kisses me one more time and I pulled myself to hover above his full lips. His hands glide up my thighs, then he kisses both of them stupidly close to my sex but doesn’t touch it. I could feel his breath against me and it frustrated me further, but his strength kept me held up.
“Please Henry”
I whispered. He squeezes my thighs just enough to sting and make me whimper.
“ What did I tell you to call me?”
My fuzzy mind struggled to come up with the answer but I soon found it.
“Sir please. Please touch me.”
Finally his tongue sticks out and touches me. I lower slightly and he actually allowed me to move. I gripped the grey hotel headboard as best as I could. He started drawing what seemed to be random patterns. I wanted to grind down against his face and take my pleasure but he was having none of that. He stopped for a second.
“Let’s play a game. Let’s see if you can guess the letters I am spelling out. You get them right, I’ll keep going. Get them wrong and I’ll stop.”
I whimpered not wanting him to stop. He chuckled, the vibrations traveling directly into my core. Then he went back but this time it took every ounce of my collective concentration to even guess at the first letter.
“Umm...shit.... it’s a H.”
He didn’t respond but kept moving. When he swirled his tongue around my clit in an unrecognizable letter my mind went blank until he suddenly stopped.
“What is the letter baby?”
“I..I don’t know.”
“ You ready for the game to be over already?” He asked me with a chuckle, which sent the vibration directly into my center. I bit my lips and then whispering quickly,
“No please don’t stop.”
He does the pattern again.
“W!”
“Good girl”
He moves on me getting the remaining letters of D, and C. His initials. He thought I wouldn’t notice but I did... somehow. He moved on with me guessing the spelling for Daddy and Sir correctly.
He finally took mercy and sucked the bud he had been torturing for the better part of 20 minutes. Crying and convulsing I came, head tossed backward.
Sensitive, I tried to pull away, but actually wrapped his hands around the outside of my thighs, pulling me fully seated, forcing me to accept his tongue inside of my body until sensitivity became pleasure again.
“Fuck Fuck Fuck!”
He let go of one thigh to move his hand up where he rubbed my clit again combined with licking and sucking until I came again.
Coming down from the high, I gasped for my breath, finally being allowed to move off of his face, I dropped to the bed next to him, feeling my eyes begin to drop closed after a few moments but Henry was not with that. He climbs over me, pulling me into a kiss, waiting until I was engaged again before pulling off to get out of the bed. Just as I was about to ask him where he was going but he only took two steps back, sliding his jeans down, finally revealing himself to me. The pictures online of him in tailored trousers had done him no justice and that was saying something.
“See something you like?”
“I’m waiting to find out if I like it or not.”
I couldn’t turn the snark off if I wanted to. I think I was testing him on purpose. At the look he shot me I knew he was going to make me regret that.
“Keep testing my patience and you won’t. Turn over.”
I tried to comply but the second Henry thought I was too slow he moved me quicker, positioning me on my hands and knees.
“Do you remember what I told you at the beginning of this?” He asked caressing the soft flesh of my ass.
“Umm...”
“About you being a good girl.”
“You would suspend my punishment.” His fingers grazed the strip between my legs, lustful again already.
“Now do you think you’ve been good?”
I shook my head, my bold nature leaving just as quickly as it had come. Then I felt his large hand come down on my ass again. I yelped.
“Henry!” He did it again.
“You keep adding to your punishment and we haven’t even started it yet.”
“What was that for?”
“You keep breaking my rules.”
“What rules?”
I was confused slightly, he rubbed my ass.
“You should be using your voice to answer my questions AND you address me as Sir.”
“What if I don’t want to call you sir?”
“You don’t have a choice. Either you do it or you safeword out and not to be a shitty person love but if you can’t handle calling me sir, you certainly can’t handle what else I have in mind. You may want to tap out now.”
I turned around, looking over my shoulder.
“You think I’m a quitter...sir.”
I raised my eyebrow as I looked at Henry whose arms were crossed over his chest. He looked at me for a moment, resolved he motioned with his finger for me to face the opposite wall again.
“Alright little miss “I’m not a quitter”, just don’t forget your safeword. Now I’ll be nice tonight, you get 10 total. 5 for not coming to talk to me when you have a problem and 5 for being a brat. Count them. You mess up, I start over.”
And with that he hand came down across one cheek, the force matched the others he had given me.
“One.”
*SLAP*
“Two”
*SMACK*
He moved to an opposite cheek for three and also increased the force a little, but this time he rubbed the spot, kneading the flesh of my cheeks.
“Four, Five”
They were in quick succession and harder. I thought this would be a turn off but he was proving me wrong.
“Six!”
I yelped, the sting leading to wetness gathering between my legs even more.
“Seven!”
Henry noticed when my arousal starts to run on my legs, and I thought I heard him groan before sliding his fingers through it. I can feel myself struggling to stay in the position he put me in.
“Eight!” I cry, the pain having gave way to pleasure somewhere around smack 6.
“N...nine.”
*Smack*
“Ten!!!”
I say as he gives me the hardest spank of the night followed by an immediate plunging of a finger into my core.
“You are so wet baby. I think you might have enjoyed your punishment too much.”
His fingers moved in and out of me for a moment, but pulling away, leaving me whimpering. Henry immediately moves me onto my back, and yanks me to the edge of the bed, pulling my legs apart like a pair of pliers, they fan to either side of his hips.
“You took your punishment so well. I think it time for a reward.”
He rubs his hardened cock in my folds collecting some of the wetness that gathered there, then slid into me. Henry was surprisingly gentle in this, taking his time, letting me adjust. His own eyes closed. From the angle we were in with him still standing I couldn’t reach him to touch him.
“Damn Aura. You are tight been waiting for me all this time have you.”
“Mmm...yes” I moan out, distracted the pulsating of his cock inside of me. He was thick and long, I could feel myself flutter around him. He held still for a moment and I got impatient, moving myself against him slightly as a signal to move.Henry seemed to have gotten the hint, because he began to rock, moving himself in and out slowly. Torturing me with his deliberate strokes. I tightened my legs around his hips, trying to move into him. He took this as a challenge or at the very least motivation, tilting his chest down to mine, changing his angle just enough that he deepened, hitting a new spot that had not been reached before.
Henry leans down, strong arms on either side of my face pressing his lips to my body, peppering small kisses across my chest and neck, my nails to his back.
“Fuck, harder.”
“Oh darling where are your manners?”
He said teasingly,slowing down, drawing back until he was almost all the way out, leaving only the tip in then froze. I wiggled my hips, but Henry just moved one of his hands to my hips, stopping the movement. Frustrated, I groaned, looking down at where we were connected, but no movement.
“Please sir, please fuck me harder.”
Not much warning before he slammed back in, taking my breath away when he did. A polar opposite to how this began, his strokes deep enough that I could feel them in my stomach. Me making whimpering sounds, my breasts moving with the force of him, and honestly it had moved me up the bed some from where I had been on the edge. I truly couldn’t tell if I was running from him or not, but it all for damn anyway because It seemed the word sir activated the primal part of him, as he leaned back, sliding out, and having made just enough room for his knees to be on the bed, grabbed the back of my knees, folded me up like a pretzel and went back inside.
I knew I had to be yelling, but I couldn’t tell you what I was saying, it was all hazy jibberish to me, all I could really feel was the pleasure rising inside of me, my walls clenching around him, building. He was giving me those deep strokes, you know the ones that made your eyes roll into the back of your head, your stomach tighten, and you feel the full weight of your partner body pressed against yours, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit sinfully. I was damn close and I could feel it, Henry had been making noises of his own, manly grunts and hisses that added to my pleasure, knowing he was being satisfied by my body.
At the feeling of my clenching, Henry, already close to my ear says
“You hold it, you don’t get to cum until I tell you to.”
As one of his hands moves up the side of my body, until it latches onto my neck, tightening, adding just enough pressure that my orgasm doesn’t come, but instead keeps building and building as his hand tightens some more to the point of black spots invading my vision. I could tell he was close and I was about to cum regardless of any commands.
“Cum for me baby. Cum all over my hard cock.”
He said, his words snapping and invisible tether inside of me that caused a shout and a physical body shaking as I came all over us my wetness covering his thighs. My orgasm lasting longer than it ever had, especially as Henry let’s go of my neck and his thrusts become faltered, his hips stutter and freeze as I feel him coat my insides with his seed.
“Aura!”
Both of us breathe heavy as he stays inside of me for a moment, the with a groan, he slowly rolls out of me. Then after a beat of silence he gets up from the bed, my body too exhausted to move much. Henry comes back in a few moments with a small washcloth and bottles of water. To which he hands me the water but not the towel, instead using it to wipe my center clean of his essence, tossing it aside and then demolished his water bottle.
“Thank You for taking care of me...sir.”
I said attempting not to stumble of calling him sir when he wasn’t blowing my back out. Then somehow I found the energy to move, moving from my position from laying sideways to lay the correct direction on the bed and get under the covers, sliding over once under to make room for Henry. He follows suit, getting into bed next to me, and in a surprising move pulls me into his arms.
I hadn’t pegged him for an after-sex cuddl-er especially after the type of sex we just had where he seemed to be all hard edges and tough words. I half expected him to redress and leave, so when he didn’t I kept my surprise quiet and relaxed at his side, tossing a leg over his and my arm over his abs, head on chest, with his arm drawing random swirl patterns on my skin. Yawning, as my adrenaline came down, I snuggled into his warmth, content to lay with him for however long he would lay here. We didn’t talk, we didn’t need to, my breathing begins to even out as I fall asleep
“You know Aura, I could take care of you forever if you let me...”
Henry says trailing off, I was too close to sleep to respond, letting his words send me into the land of satisfied and content sleep....
A/N:
Alright y'all tell me what you think! I had loads of fun writing this, maybe i’ll do some Headcannons....
#henry cavill#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x black ofc#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill smut#black!ofc
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Scrambles
To me, at least, this is the big one. I originally listened to BTMI!’s discography in chronological order, but if I was trying to get someone into them right away, I would probably tell them to listen to Scrambles first. As a collection of great songs, as a coherent album, as a testament to what BTMI! could achieve, it’s my first pick by...well, not a long shot, considering I love a few of their other albums almost as much, but I will say that it always comes out on top in my rankings.
Of course, there’s a lot of personal bias here; Scrambles came to define my high school experience in part because of its regrettably-relatable lyrics that convey an all-consuming anxiety and frustration with the world around you. That might seem like a strange thing to experience nostalgia for, but for better or worse, that is exactly what it invokes for me.
It’s a cliché that high school is a stressful time – though I think people who say that tend to be thinking about the pressures of trying to “find yourself,” “fitting in,” gaining autonomy from parents, etc. I’m not saying that those things didn’t concern me, but for some reason my anxiety about the future was running something like a decade ahead of me. And so I found myself imagining a future in line with fears about what might happen if I followed Jeff down the path of “Stand There Until You’re Sober” – unable to move forward in life “’cause I can’t grow up.” The songs on Scrambles took this kind of stress one step further, and I found myself identifying with the chorus of the Springsteenian anti-anthem “Fresh Attitude, Young Body”: “If you don’t find a steady job now, / If you don’t find someone to love now, / Oh, you will die freezing cold and alone.”
Is that ridiculous, for a high school kid to be thinking that far ahead? I still don’t know. Capitalism puts an absurd amount of pressure on people to decide what they want to do with the rest of their lives from what feels like a young age, and I was facing a serious dilemma that a lot of musicians face: I wanted to try playing in a band for a living, but I also wanted to have some kind of stable future...and unfortunately, these two things rarely go hand-in-hand. So I worried a lot over whether I would be able to make the right choice for myself; would I move on with my life and get a job that I probably wouldn’t like, forever resenting the fact that I didn’t choose music? Or would I choose the music and watch my life fall apart because I wouldn’t be able to earn enough to gain any kind of independence, still living with my parents like the narrator of “25” (which is, by the way, one of BTMI!’s catchiest-ever songs) at 25 years old? Many of the songs on this album perfectly capture that tension, which I think extends beyond my own specific situation – anyone who’s felt the crushing pressure of a hegemonic system coming down around them, whispering threats of a future spent scrambling to catch up with their peers in their ears when they can’t sleep at night can probably relate to the lyrics of this side of Scrambles.
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There’s the personal angle, but then there’s a social/political one (which wasn’t entirely without personal meaning to me – but I’ll get to that in time). “9/11 Fever” mocks the ultra-patriotism-turnted-opportunistic-exploitation that so many American engage in for the anniversary of the terrorist attack. And while that’s the most overtly political song on the album, plenty more go for the throat on issues in the politics of the punk scene. “Stuff That I Like” rides a killer riff as Jeff skewers the “fucking cocaine parties” that “fucking freak him out” (another gem later on: “I gotta take a piss in the cocaine room, / What is this? The line for lines? / It’s a long line for lines.”), as well as the “booming bass and the shitty DJs” of the clubs. The song ends with a condemnation of the limited possibilities of “going out” to “have fun”: “The gates rise up like / ‘What’s up? You’re in prison, confined by alcoholism / And lack of better decisions for having fun on the weekends.’” “Gang Of Four Meets The Stooges (But Boring)” attacks bands that purport to be on the “cutting edge” but have no respect for the other bands they share a bill with.
Best of all is “(Shut) Up The Punx!!!”, a mile-a-minute monologue from Jeff on the fucked up “holier-/hipper-than-thou” attitudes that make the punk scene look bad from the outside set to one of the band’s most frantic ska-punk freak-outs. The lyricism in this song is really on another level – take just the second line in: “When we all march to the beat of the same different drummer, / The steps start to come off like clockwork.” And for all this wordiness, Jeff somehow manages to make the phrasing fit rhythmically into the song, using the intensity of the music to emphasize key parts, eg. the swelling of horns leading into the descending breakdown that matches “I’d rather be vomiting and I despise vomiting and BLECH!” The chorus sums it up: “This non-conformity feels like conformity, / Why should anyone believe in our community? / This organization doesn’t feel like anarchy ‘cause / We’re suiting up to have the same identity.”
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My love for this song is intimately connected with my feelings on the state of punk rock circa my time in high school (and the first couple years afterwards). Jeff mentions in the notes on Quote Unquote that this song is about “a very small portion” of the punk community that he’s met, and I believe him, but to this kid who spent his adolescence stuck in the Canadian capital Ottawa, an unsurprisingly hostile environment to the development of a healthy punk rock scene, it feels like this song was about every second band I’d heard of. The too-cool-to-care hipsterism of the early 2010s was in full swing at that point, and many kids I knew had fallen into that attitude. And the musical tastes and scenes followed suite. There was a bizarre amount of implicit pressure to identify a band with a specific sound or scene, adopt a particular fashion sense or way of performing that played to audience expectations within a certain genre. But in spite of all this, I felt like I couldn’t just sit and stay angry about it; the dismal state of affairs was also a cry for help, a call to action to change the way things were. That’s why I love the fact that “(Shut) Up The Punx!!!” is more than just a stream-of-thought criticism – the lyrics were inspiring to someone like me who felt disillusioned with the very scene they aspired to be a part of: “Smile big, hug bigger, talk big, act bigger, / Stop judging do something, shut the fuck up do something!”
There’s the personal anxiety angle, and there’s the sociopolitical angle, but some of the best songs on Scrambles just do a great job of capturing specific feelings. The lilting “Wednesday Night Drinkball” (which feels a bit like a sequel to “Stand There Until You’re Sober” both musically and lyrically) starts with a great example of this: “There’s nothing less fun than being exhausted / From hours of not doing a damn thing at all.” “Saddr, Weirdr” is a reflection on the loneliness of moving, which, while packed full of wacky percussive noises and bells, also contains a rather poignant observation that always gets me: “I just threw out another gift, / I know it had a bit of thought but / Mary we won’t talk soon, / I have no use for Crocs now, / And I have no use for gifts.”
“Sort Of Like Being Pumped” closes out the album by putting one of those feelings that can be hard to describe into words. On a quiet, muted guitar accompanied by a rather beautiful (if you can believe it) banjo riff that phases in and out of the mix, Jeff describes one particular moment at the end of a workday when he watched the sunset from the train home. In addition to the simple but important sentiment conveyed about appreciating brief moments of happiness, the song also once again demonstrates Jeff’s knack for the killer phrase, the one line you can repeat until exhaustion: accompanied first by Laura Stevenson’s harmonies, then exploding without warning into a blistering punk outro, we hear over and over again the chorus that stresses that one brilliant instant, a seemingly never-ending build-up to the climax as if Jeff is trying to drag it out as long as possible, maybe make it last forever: “When I saw / When I saw / When I saw / When I saw / When I saw / THE SUNSET!”
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Shameless Season 11 Episode 11 Review: The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits
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This Shameless episode contains spoilers.
Shameless Season 11 Episode 11
“We’re adults now. This is what adults do. They move on.”
Shameless tows the line over whether Frank Gallagher is actually wise or just so high on his own supply that he’s convinced himself that he’s a street smart genius. The truth of the matter is irrelevant because either way Frank still makes bold declarations as if they were the word of God. He’s a non-stop repository for nonsensical advice and Frank’s teachings have been present through every season, even if they’re lessons that the Gallaghers actively ignore.
“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” pushes a narrative where characters need to either move forward or slow down, but a greater source of wisdom that influences the episode’s structure is the laundry list of life lessons that Frank has spewed out for eleven seasons. This direction turns Shameless’ penultimate episode into one of the most emotional and impressive entries of the season and provides the right direction for next week’s big finale.
Previous seasons of Shameless frequently treat Frank like an unrepentant derelict and there are times where he even operates as an outright villain. This final season has worked hard to humanize Frank as he transitions into this feeble stage of his life and it’s been a very powerful experience. Now, an episode away from the very end of Shameless, Frank is at his absolute worst and at this point there’s no hatred towards this passive father figure, only pity. William H. Macy looks utterly lost in these scenes and he’s really put everything into this final season. Macy actually deserves some award consideration when the time comes and this is the episode that he should submit.
Frank is usually the one that drives the chaos forward in Shameless, right down to the previous episode, but “The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” turns into a somber celebration of all things Frank Gallagher as Liam graciously tries to remind Frank of the indomitable fighting spirit that’s defined him for his entire life. Liam throws Frank’s own advice back at him when he tells him, “Either you run the day, or the day runs you.”
This episode feeds off of the energy between Liam and Frank from the previous installment and it’s appropriate that Liam is the one that’s with Frank during his weakest moments. Frank can rest easy knowing that Liam is living proof that goodness has come out of all of his selfish behavior over the years and somehow this child has been able to synthesize his ramblings into practical advice.
It’s a lot of fun to return to this farcical side of Frank’s character, but the comedic sensibilities of Shameless continue to be all over the place this season. There are some legitimately funny and subtle jokes throughout this episode, but there are also ridiculous setpieces where good samaritans get steamrolled by a truck. Shameless has always had a dark sense of humor, but it needs to have a little more confidence in itself and not resort to such broad gags that come close to breaking the reality of the show’s universe. Mickey’s consternation over housing complex guidelines feels more natural, and is funnier, than fatality punchlines or extended TikTok dance routines.
Mickey and Ian’s time in Chicago’s West Side becomes surprisingly fulfilling and it achieves the right balance between comedy and drama. This new lifestyle puts Mickey and Ian at odds with each other and it becomes a strong dissection of their characters as well as how far their relationship has come. Their material is full of great character moments, like how Mickey needs to listen to car crashes and general destruction as a white noise machine to help him peacefully fall asleep. Mickey’s discomfort over his new life becomes so severe that he has to sneak back into the Gallagher house and get up close and personal with the crime and chaos that echoes through the South Side.
I don’t expect Mickey to completely regress and be unable to forge ahead with Ian in this marginally swankier life, but this feels like a reasonable temporary hurdle for him to clear before the series concludes. Despite how this West Side lifestyle is a productive change for Ian and Mickey, it’s still something that Ian made official while Mickey wasn’t completely on board. It’s an understandable schism between them and the episode is smart to tease them falling back onto old habits, only to do the opposite.
“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” teases infidelity and disappointing decisions, but their selfless resolution to the problem is one of the sweetest moments from the entire season and basically what I’ve wanted from these two all season. Every character in Shameless has been through a tremendous amount this season and it’s impressive how Mickey and Ian’s conflict resolution methods have evolved from the volatile place that they were at when the season began.
Mickey and Ian display genuine maturity with their relationship issues and it’s a level of synergy and consistency that Debbie craves. Everyone is considerably worn down from the events of the season and is close to their breaking points, which in Debbie’s case finally causes her to take a long look at why her romantic endeavors have all been so toxic. This introspective attitude is good for Debbie, yet the victim mentality that she adopts and her anger that Frank has “ruined love for her” is a little too simplistic. Debbie has been in healthy relationships that failed because of preventable problems that she instigated.
Debbie polls the people in her life on how to build connections and stay together when her family is on the cusp of separation, which does carry a level of poignancy, even if not all of the insight that she acquires from the experience is healthy. It’s a storyline that works as well as it does here specifically because it’s juxtaposed around so many changes and goodbyes. Debbie does productive work to better herself, but the direction of her endgame is more than a little confusing.
“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” parses out several scenes where an aggressive woman named Heidi causes a wave of mayhem promptly after she’s released from prison. Initially it looks like Heidi’s roaring rampage will intersect with Carl’s new police gig and provide him an opportunity to take down this menace and become a hero again on the force. That’s not at all what happens and it’s madness that Heidi is meant to instead provide closure for Debbie!
Heidi literally threatens to shoot Franny with a revolver and minutes later Debbie is ready to spend the rest of her life with this loose cannon. The most frustrating thing is that next week’s series finale will likely hint at a happy future for this fresh couple, but based on everything that’s known about both of these characters it seems like it’s destined to go up in flames, perhaps even more quickly than previous relationships.
Carl doesn’t get to take out an angst-ridden recidivist, but he does still find some peace and gain a better understanding of his calling after a season of being frustrated. Carl’s impassioned speech is long overdue, eloquent as hell, and completely right. It also would have been justified several episodes back, but at this point Carl’s pent up frustration over what he’s witnessed at the police department makes sense.
It’s encouraging that Carl embraces his demotion and uses it to find clarity. It’s still hard to say if this police direction for Carl’s character was worth it in the end, but thankfully it doesn’t suck out his soul or leave him bitter at the world. Joshua Malina is such a hyperbolized schlub through all of this, which is entertaining and also reflects the greater level of incompetence that surrounds Carl while he attempts to do honest police work.
Carl and many of the Gallaghers are caught in flux when it comes to their new lives, but Kevin and Vee already have Chicago in their rearview mirrors. Vee and Kevin represent a force of confidence and their resolve towards Louisville inadvertently helps many of the Gallaghers work through their own sources of stress. It even feels natural that the person that Kevin and Vee sell their house off to turns into a break for Lip to diminish the colony of ulcers that have been brewing in him all season. This blessed development also doesn’t feel contrived because it’s an opportunity that Lip ultimately botches.
Liam reminds Frank that he’ll have both good and bad days, but this cautionary advice becomes even more applicable to Lip’s story. It’s heartbreaking how everything sours for Lip and there’s such palpable tension through it all. This is supposed to be Lip’s easy way out to a happy ending and it instead quickly becomes a nightmare. It’s very clear that something is about to go wrong and just how poorly Lip has handled this situation. It’s a slow motion car crash of drama to the worst degree.
This sword is left to hang over Lip as the episode concludes and he almost seems to accept the cloud of hopelessness that’s formed over him. It’s a sad, hollow version of Lip that doesn’t feel dissimilar to Frank Gallagher and his decision to go out on his own terms. Frank’s concluding moments are devastating, but they’re also the only time in the episode where he feels empowered. It’s a turn that fundamentally changes the tone for Shameless’ series finale and has the potential to bring out the best in each character. There’s now a small sliver of hope that Fiona might show up, whereas I was previously convinced that this was impossible.
“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” is the strongest episode of Shameless’ final season, it contains some of William H. Macy’s absolute best work from the show, and it instills some optimistic confidence for what the series has planned for its final installment. The Gallaghers’ lives are far from over and there’s still a lot that these characters need to figure out before the series’ conclusion. The tragedy that strikes in the episodes’s final moments is a strong catalyst that should bring everyone together and deliver a series finale that’s just as much about togetherness and supporting each other as it is about new beginnings and closing the door on the past.
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It will also absolutely end on its own terms, just like Francis Gallagher.
The post Shameless Season 11 Episode 11 Review: The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits appeared first on Den of Geek.
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Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Official Playlist
listen on spotify // listen on youtube
cover art by @princess-faelivrin
Okay. So. I’m gonna try and walk you all through this playlist? It’s a combination of “songs I listened to while writing” and “songs that just have A Vibe”; it’s a little over an hour in length. It’s vaguely meant to evoke the flow of the story, but there’s a little back and forth to facilitate a better listening experience and make it less jarring.
Survivor - Oceans: (And I can’t help but wonder out loud ‘If only we could go back to square one, if finally we could pinpoint where we lost touch, I’d stand alone reaching out my hand to you’) This is where we start the story, more or less, with Findekáno confused and lost and a little angry. It’s a song about separation, about not knowing which way is up or down, about wishing you could rekindle a lost relationship and being a little desperate to do whatever is necessary to fulfill that wish. Also the music and the production create this wonderfully mournful tone; I do get the impression of speeding across a dark ocean with nothing but pain behind and uncertainty ahead.
Emilie Autumn - Castle Down: (Trying to balance all that I had left with what I didn’t have anymore) Findekáno finding out about Maitimo’s capture, and being lost, and trying to rebuild his psyche after such a devastating blow, and wrestling with the fact that his husband is both his savior and his destroyer in one.
Shinedown - If You Only Knew: (I don’t regret any days I spent, nights we shared, or letters that I sent) More reeling from loss - this is very much a story about what you do for love, and musing on what you had before tragedy, and Findekáno’s mental state through much of chapter two matches this kind of frustrated brooding. Not to mention that he’s tormented by Maitimo’s situation and absence enough for his sleep to be disrupted - it’s all he can think on, and it consumes him. The fact that this is sung to an absent lover who presumably can’t hear the singer’s thoughts and isn’t aware of them only makes it more poignant.
Adelitas Way - Last Stand: (And I can’t make it without you, I need a second chance ‘cause I wanna make it about you - I’m making my last stand) Of course, he ultimately does decide that, for better or for worse, he’s going after Maitimo, regardless of the impact on his life and the lives of his people. This is a song about trying to do right by your partner after some kind of separation, and it’s just frustrated and desperate enough to tug at my heart.
Kamelot - Lost and Damned: (Leave me behind, don’t look back) When Maitimo becomes aware of the fact that Findekáno is sharing his consciousness and is seeing what he’s seeing and feeling what he’s feeling, he responds by shoving Finno out of his head and shredding all he can of their marriage-bond to keep his captors from noticing. This song has a specific story function in a greater rock opera, but it really works here.
Journey - Separate Ways (Worlds Apart): (Someday love will find you, break those chains that bind you) If you’re writing a story about Thangorodrim and you don’t put this song on there, what are you even doing? In all seriousness, though, this was my first song that I ever heard that made me go “oh this is about Russingon”. An eternal classic and full of yearning and desperation and pain, and perfect to describe Finno setting out under cover of darkness, I think.
Icon For Hire - Hope of Morning: (When the hope of morning starts to fade in me, I don’t dare let darkness have its way with me) This song, honestly, more than any other I’ve ever heard, is Findekáno. For one thing I’m hooked on associating him with the dawn, and with the hope that comes with the sunrise; normally in Tolkien the Sun is associated with Men and I think it’s a really interesting thing that Finno also has some of that same imagery and energy tied into him, particularly surrounding his death. But beyond that? This is a song about being worried about your legacy, struggling to balance hope and duty and mental health, worrying always that you’re not doing enough and resolving to cling to the dawn and keep looking forward. I can’t think of a better summation of my favorite elvish prince.
Devour the Day - Oath: (One way or another, I’m coming home to you) This song’s title alone would have earned it a spot on the list, but the fact that it’s called ‘Oath’ but is about endurance beyond all else in the name of returning to a loved one’s side? Yeah, that’s Blessed Hands in a nutshell, especially this first part.
Fireflight - You Gave Me A Promise: (I will hold onto this hope that I have, you gave me a promise, you gave me a promise) This is the part of Finno’s journey north that isn’t him being miserable all the time - he’s doing this for love and for the sake of his marriage and the commitments they made to one another, and the hope he has is the hope that he can do right by the nér who promised to share his life.
Linkin Park - The Catalyst: (We’re a broken people living on a loaded gun) The other half of Finno’s journey north is him worrying and fixating on the possibility that he’s left behind his people to freeze to death, even having an encounter with some sort of ghost that feeds off of that fear. What’s more, this song just has an auditory aesthetic of loneliness and cold solitary journeying through desperate situations, and of uncertainty towards the future; that fits well here.
Bastille - Icarus: (Look out to the future, but it tells you nothing, so take another breath) Mountain climbing song! No, really - the way this balances an urgent, frightened beat and fast-paced instrumentation with lyrics about not knowing what’s coming? There’s nothing better for the moments when Findekáno is terrified out of his wits and afraid he’s going to have to shoot Maitimo, only to be saved by an eagle.
Atreyu - Lose It: (This is it, I’m falling - my wings need to grow, I lose my hold, I will let go) This is a song about being afraid of falling, and doing something terrible and frightening. It’s a perfect accompaniment to amputation, and the sick horror of being forced to make a decision that might end in death for all involved.
Sara Bareilles - Gravity: (I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love) Honestly I like this song less for the lyrics than the overall aesthetic. It’s a peaceful, gentle, regretful tune with so much emotion in it, and its themes of wondering what to do and wondering whether or not to continue on a set path with someone else are fitting. I tend to apply the idea of wanting to leave someone here to mean Finno wrestling with his royal duty - once Sorontar saves him and Maitimo from the cliff, they have the chance to go elsewhere, be other people, leave the Noldor and the Oath and the war behind them. And he chooses not to do this, for both of them, because while he wants to run he knows he shouldn’t.
Skylar Grey - Coming Home - Part II: (I know my kingdom awaits, and they’ve forgiven my mistakes) A soft, sad, mournful reflection on a less than ideal return home, that’s somehow warm and uplifting at the same time. It encapsulates Finno’s feelings on his resumption of duty and social role perfectly.
Meg Myers - Running Up That Hill: (If I only could, I’d make a deal with God, and I’d get Him to swap our places) And now we come to the heart of Blessed Hands, the song that encapsulates the whole of part I in a single tune. I chose this cover by Meg Myers because I like the instrumentation’s aesthetic more than Kate Bush’s original when it comes to this subject, but any version, really, would work. This is a song about wishing things could be different, about trying to make them different, about wishing after changes and alterations. One other line that speaks to me is ‘Is there so much hate for the ones we love?’ which, in the context of this relationship and these families, cuts right to the heart of the whole matter. Blessed Hands Will Break Me is a story about loyalty, more than all else, and about choosing love over hate, and about trying to defy cruel fate and sometimes winning, and this song covers all of that and more.
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REVIEW
REVIEW
The day has come, I had gotten a reservation at the restaurant that is most mysterious to the world. It is for that mystery that we decided to make an exception in the michelin policy of reviewing the restaurant with two inspectors, as the cook Lenny Bellardo only allows one single diner per night to enter his premises We know virtually nothing about this place, a lot has been said, nothing has ever been confirmed. We base our assumptions on the Trucks with foreign license plates entering the site and the single blank faces of the guest being spilled out at the end of each dinner. What morbid curiosity! The whole world is dying of curiosity.And it is absolutely to be expected it’s normal, we all want to see that which is hidden we all want to stare the forbidden in the face. [1] I turn the corner of Kundmanngasse and it appears infront of me. A dark place, and the veil in front. [2] at the back of which a three dimensional space is projected onto a two dimensional screen. [5] As If the lights coming from the house wanted to reveal to the world its inner workings. I hear the murmur of honey bees, the varied songs of many birds; riotously [36] tremendous flurry calling of slaves and butlers, and pandemonium among the cooks. [34] shaping, all, on one great tune with bees, insects, flowers and trees. [36]
A man of stained white clothes welcomes me at the gate ushering me in. I feel a jet of warm air cascading over myself. [10] the smells are simple : roasting beef, some wine, presumably some scent of baking bread [11] and above my head, the birds chattering and singing in the elm trees. [18] There are truffles, tubers, and sponges; minerals, gems, and fossil woods; flowers, animals, fruits, grasses, and vegetables of the Old World and New; an aviary, so to speak, of magnificently depicted birds.[13] Along the retaining wall, a ramp sinks down into the earth..The space widens and the concrete wall becomes an opening. [15] Above the entrance to the open hall I see an array
of slow turning axial flow fans [17] whispering the scents of the kitchen into the atmosphere of the garden The hall is large, cold, and all but empty. [19] The merchants dealing with cooks with imports and sales settled over here. [20] The ingredients are sorted into 150 specific coded categories. [23] The most bizarre thing I see? That would have to be a frozen lizard. [17] freezing in a closed container, with water clocks and with air withdrawn or evacuated from a container [26] As we walk through the large gate. I feel a special sense of power, of entitlement as I walked through this gate and into the intestines, the inner working of this building. As if I was some kind of mobster in the movies walking through the dark and twisted hallways of the establishment he owns.
I can’t help but picture myself walking through the kitchen experiencing all the scents and maybe even hear an ortolan squeal as it is drowned in armagnac. Open the wall, open the hymen, open the veil: death. [9] cold. Silence. a Catalogue of 10, 000 stars. [29] White light is broken [through the ice] into the spectrum of the rainbow and absorbs it, just as the tail of the peacock folds back after it spreads.If you want to become everything, accept being nothing.Yes.The transparent void. [31]
In this closed cell, this temporary sepulchre, the myths of resurrection arise easily enough. [15] Locked in frozen layers, a universe of ancient creatures awaits another chance at life. [16] as we move to the kitchen. I witness a transformation of substances and a dissolution of forms, a passage to the limit or flight from contours in favor of fluid forces, flows, air, light, and matter, such that a body or a word does not end at a precise point. [27] there is nothing but the immense noise of the ocean. Chaos, noise, disorder. The base of existence. [...] Behind power, behind the ultimate power, behind the universal appetite, in their vicinity, on their edge, noise spills out into space. [24] And through the blazing mist of the shining red atmosphere of noise I see him for the first time.
Through the noise produced by excited molecules. [...] Lenny Bellardo the mixer of meanings or voices, the dissolution of signals in the fog of noise, is thus this very same excitation, or the one who gets it.[...] It is not uninteresting to have a single operator. he warms the room, gives a fever, increases agitation and thermal disorder. [22] his arms raised if he were making a sign to someone I could not see, or like the conductor of an orchestra [...] violent rhythms succeed a graceful andante. As we move from the kitchen to the dining room a curtain is opened for me to move into the vast white space that is behind it. Defined by purely white walls and covered by a glass roof whose grid seems to structure the nothingnness and define the place for the sole table standing in the middle of the room. As I move forth under the glass cupola , I understand that it is not the environment that is unknown but rathermy, my own body, that becomes the point of interest of the room: the cover of white rhomboidal glass on the outside, and of hundreds of polished and colored crystals on the inside, that tinges with dozens of colors and marks of light any object and person that is within its interior. [34] The white space itself is in turn circumscribed, redoubled by a veil or a net which is superimposed, and gives it a volume, or rather what one calls in oceanography a shallow depth. [35] I take a seat on the rudimentary, singular chair and wait. Reflecting on the turbulence of the frozen ingredients, the frozen histories dissolved and ready to be reassembled. I remain alone in anticipation. Ataraxy is the material background of being, the permanent murmur against which the flying words stand out, birth and death. [...] The eternal silence of these infinite spaces soothes me The circle, beginning in the hollow of the swell and passing through two neighbouring crests, includes the same space as those which delimit the high and low waves. [35] Then a sound of the soft fabric being pulled apart. Out of the passage I had just walked through arise two waiters, carrying together on their shoulders one single Platter. I try not to turn my head as to reveal my juvenile excitemennt. I wait patiently as the plate is slowly lowered on the table and the abundance of food on it is revealed.
Arranged like a still life, I see the finest of all delicacies. The plate contains the many coloured multiplicities as its object. [...] garnished with every type of vegetable and fruit, macedoine, jardiniere, pudding, stuffing farce, pate, stew, pot pourri or hodgepodge, not forgetting the meats. [39] Carrying colours, gestures and scents, this route traverses the basement window of their eyes, the orifices of their sense of smell or of their heat sensitive organs, and passes through the light of these narrow skylights; a few calls, sounds, certain words also cross their hearing. [36] Our movements through time and space seem somehow trivial compared to a heap of boiled meat in broth, the smell of saffron, garlic, fishbones, and Pernod. [38] The abundance emodied. Each delicacy slightly altered from what I’ve known and would have expected, arranged in uncommon constellations. through the fusion or confusion of vicinities, erasing its swirls of colour while preserving its effectiveness. [40] And in the center of all: The holy grail. The ortolan. Appearing miniscule among all those indulgences but bearing in itself the absolution of pleasure. Its force so strong that everything else seems to be rotating just around this tiny songbird. But as it is custom the ortolan will remain on the plate until everything else is eaten, being the pinnacle of all culinary sensation. The waiters leave and I am left alone with the indulgences. I take in the first bite. liquids dissolve into fluids, or solids, as poorly cohesive as flesh, into thin or thick sauces, thereby obtaining subtle liaisons.Where does meat end and stew begin? Sometimes even our sense of taste cannot distinguish. Our body has difficulty knowing where one sense, place or part begins, and where another sense, a second place or nearby patch ends. [41] it is the whole of things, between their birth and their collapse [...] An irreversible, irrevocable time, pointing like the endless flow of atoms, flowing, rushing, crashing towards fall and death. Things are heavy: they sink down, seeking their peaceful rest. [42] I gorge through the delicacies which for what seems like an eternity. I am not sure if that is so because it is the best meal I have ever had or because of my longing for the precious ortolan. But then, the moment has come, as I take the last bite I hear the curtain being pulled open again. Out of the darkness arises the figure I had seen last through the hazy red noise of the kitchen. But now he appears crystal clear. without the word, he walks up to the table. In awe I bow my head and look down at the ortolan a tiny, roasted bird. head, beak, and feet still attached, guts intact inside its plump little belly. I lean forward as the host high pours from a bottle of Armagnac, dousing the bird then ignites it [43] Eager to indulge upon the bird I look around the table for the napkin that is traditionally used to cover the faces of and allows diners to savor the aromas and enjoy some privacy while devouring the bird or hide their indulgence from the eyes of God. But it is missing, instead Lenny looks me straight in the eye affirmatively as to tell me to go ahead.
Here I am in turn, the last, at the pinnacle of power, at the very instant of committing the sin. [44] An internal law rules up to a threshold, after which the law is changed. [...] The five senses stop at these thresholds which it is now a question of going beyond. the Gates of Hell or Paradise. The horror, rather, of those who detest experience, or the ecstasy of those who bathe in it. Let’s go beyond these childish [...] The mouths of bodies and things open. [45] I take the ortolan, I close my eyes, and open my mouth. I accept my dissolution in the burning plasma of matter. [46] First comes the skin and the fat. It’s hot. So hot that I’m drawing short, panicky, circular breaths in and out like a high-speed trumpet player, breathing around the ortolan, shifting it gingerly around my mouth with my tongue so I don’t burn myself. [...] There’s a vestigial flavor of Armagnac, low-hanging fumes of airborne fat particles, an intoxicating, delicious miasma. Time goes by. Seconds? Moments? I don’t know. [...] I bring my molars slowly down and through the
bird’s rib cage with a wet crunch and am rewarded with a scalding hot rush of burning fat and guts down my throat. Rarely have pain and delight combined so well. I’m giddily uncomfortable, breathing in short, controlled gasps as I continue, slowly ever so slowly to chew. With every bite, as the thin bones and layers of fat, meat, skin, and organs compact in on themselves, there are sublime dribbles of varied and wondrous ancient flavors: figs, Armagnac, dark flesh slightly infused with the salty taste of my own blood as my mouth is pricked by the sharp bones. As I swallow, I draw in the head and beak, which, until now, had been hanging from my lips, and blithely crush the skull. What is left is the fat. A coating of nearly imperceptible yet unforgettable-tasting abdominal fat. [43] I witness a transformation of substances and a dissolution of forms, a passage to the limit or flight from contours in favor of fluid forces, flows, air, light, and matter, such that a body or a word does not end at a precise point. [27] Language or sounds, breezes, scents, shadows and songs, shapes, ecstasy? [47] They touch on the obscure sources of human pain and desire and can thus unleash very powerful emotions. [48] Dreams and madness then reveal themselves to be made of the same substance. [49] I take a second to let the last aromas dissolve on my tongue As I open my eyes again, I am blinded by the light of the room and as my eyes slowly get used to the light again I see Lenny. Not looking at me anymore but at the window in the ceiling. Where just moments ago the cloth of the veil covered the glass, now stands tall and judgingly the reflection of the moon mirrored in the façade of the neighbouring building. Bright, distorted and fragmented by the still lit windows. My face is frozen in terror. [55] All the force goes from the inside to the outside, from the black box to its lit up threshold, from the hidden to the publicly posted, from veil to unveiling, from the entangled to taking apart thread by thread. [50] Madness surges upon me. The justice of this form of madness lies precisely in its capacity to unveil the truth.Its truthfulness lies in the fact that in the vain delirium of my hallucinations [...] Truthfulness also lies in the fact that the crime that was hidden from all becomes apparent in the night of this strange punishment. [51]
I have no option but to consider myself guilty. My torture had been my glory: my deliverance was my humiliation. [52] I sit here in disbelief as the two waiters who had brought the food, come to escort me out of the building. We leave the white room through a door, I had not noticed until now. We enter an elevator. as the elevator moves downward crushing silence reigns. The doors open and I am placed out in the city again. Lost.
I stop frozen with ecstasy on the sidewalk. [53] how can the resurrection of the body occur when the dead body has disintegrated so far as to be nearly impossible to re assemble? [54] Gluttony, laziness, lust, and anger pass from the confessional to the laboratory, from spiritual and subjective intention to rational evidence and obligation, both final and causal. [65] But the madman unveiled the terminal truth of man : he showed how far he could be pushed by the passions, life in society and everything that distanced him from a primitive nature that knew no madness. [57 he has only found a new way of judging life, of universalizing the condemnation of life, by internalizing sin” [58] The bringer of sin and death necessarily also brought healing and life. [59] I see that it has not changed; and yet I see it differently. [60] Why write about an object that is disappearing, in a language that is dying? [...]The five senses, still on the verge of departure towards another adventure, a ghost of the real timidly described in a ghost of language.
this is my verdict. [61]
[1] The Young Pope
[2] Serres, Rome
[5] Ockmann, Architecture Culture 1943 1968
[36] Serres, Hominescence
[34] Seneca, Complete Works
[10] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology
[11] Bradley, Smell and the Ancient Senses
[18] Hugo, Les Miserables
[13] Braidotti Hlavajova, Posthuman Glossary
[15] Leatherbarrow Eisenschmidt, Twentieth Century Architecture
[17] Banham, The Architecture of the Well Tempered Enviroment
[19] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology
[20] Saunders, The Art and Architecture of London
[23] Zimring, Encyclopedia of Consumption and Waste
[17] Zimring, Encyclopedia of Consumption and Waste
[26] Schmitt, The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy
[9] Serres, Rome
[29] Serres, History of Scientific Thought
[31] Serres, Troubadour of Knowledge
[15] Foucault, Discipline and Punish
[16] Braidotti Hlavajova, Posthuman Glossary
[27] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus
[24] Serres, The Parasite
[22] Serres, The Parasite
[34] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968
[35] Serres, The Birth of Physics
[36] Serres, Hominescence
[38] Bourdain
[39] Serres, Rome
[40] Serres, The Five Senses
[41] Serres, The Five Senses
[42] Serres, The Birth of Physics
[43] Bourdain, Medium Raw
[44] Serres, Troubadour of Knowledge
[45] Serres, Statues
[46] Serres, The Birth of Physics
[47] Serres, The Five Senses
[48] Armstrong, Jerusalem One City Three Faiths
[49] Foucault, History of Madness
[50] Serres, Rome
[51] Foucault, History of Madness
[52] Foucault, History of Madness
[53] Kerouac, On The Road
[54] Powers, The Overstory
[55] Negarestani Mackay, Collapse Volume VII
[56] Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
[57] Foucault, History of Madness
[58] Deleuze, Pure Immanence
[59] Foucault, History of Madness
[60] Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
[61] Buehlmann, Mathematics and Information in the Philosophy of Michel Serres
[62] Saunders, The Art and Architecture of London
[63] Marzano, The Roman Villa in the Mediterranean Basin
[64] Burros, New York Times
[65] Serres Latour, Conversations on Science Culture and Time
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Entertainment in Inferno! (Alastor Enters Hell)
Part 1: “Alastor enters Hell” 1933
Hell: 1933
Black empty space.
Complete silence.
He felt like he was floating in some kind of void. Where he was, he didn’t know.
He had no form, no physical sensations of any kind.
For a moment he just…was.
A small white light emerged from the dark above, and steadily grew. Though it was blinding, the light didn’t bother him.
“Alastor…Alastor…”
A choir of vocals were speaking the repeated word in the distance. The voices grew louder as he felt himself rising upward. The word felt comforting to him, and sounded strangely familiar.
“Alastor…”
He suddenly stopped and saw a golden gate up ahead within white clouds. A winged figure puffed up his white wings and stared at him.
“I am Puriel,” the angel said. He had a white face with red blotches on his cheeks, yellow eyes and short bronze gold hair. He was dressed in white dress pants, a white shirt, a golden bowtie, and matching shoes.
“I am an examiner of souls and one of many who determine where one goes in the afterlife.”
He spoke an incantation.
“Alastor Roscoe Duvalier,” Puriel stated. “Here is your previous form.”
Alastor gasped as he suddenly remembered his name. A flood of memories of his past life rushed back to him.
Alastor stared down at himself and saw his human reflection in front of him. A thin man with a pointed chin stared back at him with chocolate brown eyes and small round glasses. His skin was a very light brown, looking almost white. His hair color was in-between brown and red, short with a bit of a wave pointing to one side. The longest parts of his hair were slightly past his ears, reaching toward his chin.
A large black bowtie was positioned below his neck. His undershirt was white with buttons and crisscrossing lines forming a few diamonds. The design resembled the structure of a radio tower. Along with tan pants and brown boots, he wore a candy red pinstriped coat with dark red stripes going vertically down toward his waist.
What was disturbing about his reflection was a small red x on his forehead between his eyes that seemed to be glowing. His clothes were stained with blood as was the side of his face.
Alastor sprouted a large grin and instantly felt better. He said his name out loud, surprised to hear his voice.
The angel in front of him continued. “Alastor Roscoe Duvalier, born in New Orleans to French American Joseph Duvalier and Creole American Loretta Duvalier. Entered Earth January 24th, 1896 at 3:00AM. Died in 1933 in the woods via a gunshot to the head and mauling by dogs.”
A brief flashback of him running from the police, trying to hide in the woods. Hearing the growling of canines and being surrounded by sharp teeth. A loud gunshot and an exploding pain through his head. Briefly seeing a buck in the distance before things went black.
Puriel looked through an endless holographic list of souls. He turned to Alastor with a glare.
“Due to the endless number of people you killed, you are not fit to enter Heaven. You are to either enter Hell, purgatory, Tartarus…” he listed off dark places from other cultures…
“…or go back to the endless void, as those who die a second death are fated to go.”
Alastor could feel a strange sensation, like someone, or something was tugging at his chest. It seemed to come from far below. He suddenly felt the need to follow it.
Having read his mind, Puriel nodded, a look of disgust on his face. “Your fate has been decided. Suffering and death will be there to meet you, unless you can somehow redeem yourself. Farewell.”
The angel and the golden gate vanished, the darkness filling in again. Like the sudden drop of a roller coaster, Alastor felt himself plummeting rapidly down through the dark.
He literally screamed into the void.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
He thought he briefly saw a familiar blue and green planet out in space, but everything rushed by too quickly for him to comprehend.
Breaking through dark ground, falling further into hot magma, uncomfortable heat that was even hotter than the sun…
Falling ever so endlessly, until he rushed through an opening portal in a crimson sky, the rim surrounded by flames.
Down below, a group of little red skinned imps were forcing enchanted voodoo dolls made of straw to dance on hot coals. Red glowing chains held the dolls in place around their necks, the magic coming from the lead imp’s claws. The lead imp cackled, wearing ringmaster’s clothing and a round hat while the other imps jeered. A few demons watched the show from a distance. Several circus tents were lined nearby. The lead imp looked up in horror as the yelling figure fell down…and crushed him, creating a giant crater in the ground. The chains disappeared and the dolls cheered. They jumped over the coals and chased away their tormentors with sizzling silver pins.
The imp and Alastor fell through another portal, this time into a dark void. Alastor landed hard on his back despite no visible structure being there. He coughed and slowly stood up, brushing off dirt and ash from his hair and clothes. The imp rubbed his long horns in pain and stood up too. The imp glared at Alastor, baring his fangs, but was quickly held into place via black tentacles pinning down his arms and legs. The imp yelled before being consumed by rows of sharp white teeth that appeared in the dark.
Alastor remained perfectly still, not even daring to breathe. (Not that he really could, anymore.) The black space was nothing like the silent void of death. In fact, it was more like an ocean of dark matter, humid heat and…
…things that were alive.
Shadow spirits ebbed and flowed through the endless space, some with glowing white eyes, others with horns, all of them blending in within the dark. Shrieks, moans, and the occasional cackle filled the air.
“Hello darkness, my old friend,” Alastor spoke to himself.
“Hello to you as well,” said a voice from behind him.
Alastor spun around and only saw darkness.
“Who’s there?”
“Over here,” said the voice, in a distorted eerie tone.
He looked to the side and nearly gasped. Surrounded by an aura of red was a shadow of what looked like a skeletal humanoid deer. The figure stood upright with large white holes for eyes and sharp teeth inside its mouth. A pair of large antlers sat around shadow deer ears and a mess of hair. A claw with four fingers gripped Alastor’s shoulders.
“Who are you?” Alastor asked.
The being morphed until it was a black copy of him.
“I am you,” the shadow replied. “You may call me… Rotsala. I was born from your deepest nightmares, nestled in your subconscious. All of your evil thoughts, your fear, your rage…and your desire for vengeance. Those thoughts nourished me. Every kill you made on Earth brought you one step closer to not only death, but also to the underground Loas, and myself. Once you died, I was born with this shadow vessel, and separated from your mind. I traveled down here, to my home, knowing you would come. Now we are reunited at last.”
“But you’re not a part of me anymore,” Alastor said.
“Yes and no,” the shadow said. “Though I have my own body, I am still a reflection of your true feelings, your true motivations. So, naturally, once we get to Hell I’ll be your…guide, as it were.”
“But we can’t go back to Hell. Aren’t we stuck down here?”
“Not for long,” said the shadow. He pointed down to Alastor’s arm. Alastor looked and saw three glowing red voodoo symbols etched onto it in blood.
Alastor could sense other ancient beings moving closer to him, speaking in ghostly whispers.
The shadow continued, “Your debt to the Loas and specifically to Lord Kalfu has been paid. A sacrifice of loved ones in addition to your own gruesome death…bestows upon you, neigh unlimited power.”
It all happened before Alastor had the chance to blink. Shadow creatures rapidly circled around him and black tentacles enveloped his entire body like a macabre cocoon. Alastor yelled as his human skin cracked, and peeled off his body in fleshy chunks, which soon faded into dust. Muscle and bone also disintegrated rapidly. Surprisingly, it wasn’t agonizing. It was more like the natural process of a snake shedding its old skin to make way for something new.
He felt formless, naked and cold, but soon warmed up as new flesh formed where his old exterior shell once was.
His new skin and face were grayish in color. Empty dark sockets took up much of his face, the home of his new demonic red eyes. Soon, other body features formed: thin gray arms, legs, four fingered hands and four-toed feet…an anatomy of a male human, though definitely not human at all.
Alastor opened his mouth and sharp yellow fangs slowly emerged from the top and bottom. They closed together to form a wide sinister smile.
Thick red hair grew on Alastor’s head, pointing out in a slight wave toward the right like his previous human form. Tuffs of hair ending slightly past his chin on either side completed the look, ending with black colored tips. Instead of round earlobes, thick fluffy deer-shaped ears grew from the sides of his head, ending in black furry tips. In addition, small black antlers stuck out in the middle of his head, along with a fluffy black and red deer tail that appeared near his tailbone.
Alastor waved his hand in front of his right eye, and an old fashioned monocle appeared under it, connected by a thin chain. A burgundy pinstriped dress coat and a red undershirt materialized and covered his body. The ends of the coat were filled with several holes, giving it a tattered feel. An upside down black cross lay under a large black bowtie in place under his chin and neck. He wore the same color pants, plus black shoes with red deer hoof prints on the soles. Black gloves with red tips covered his four-clawed hands.
With his new form complete, the tentacles released Alastor and parted away.
Tingling hot red electricity spread into his head, then moved down his body, much of it resting in his hands and fingers. He snapped on instinct and a burst of red magic sparked to life like a firework.
Then knowledge of magic and voodoo spells entered into his brain. The new information faded into the back of his head, staying there like he had it within him all his life.
“HEHEHEHEHAHAHAHA!”
Alastor let out a maniacal laugh that rose higher into hysterical giggles. All this supernatural power was coursing through his veins, and he loved every second of it.
Finally the magic quietly faded with a humming sound.
Two shadow demon figures approached with silent steps, eyes glowing red. Alastor could barely make out their forms in the blackness.
“One more thing,” said the shadow. “Demons make deals down here in Hell, and they are not to be taken lightly. These two are friends of mine. They are a few of the representatives of this world below Hell.”
The shadow creatures morphed into two alternate versions of Alastor. The one to the left had a red deer head with large antlers, radio dials for eyes and a dark blue suit. The other one had an old fashioned radio for a head, and wore a red suit with a black tie with crisscross lines on it like those of a radio tower.
“These two have taken forms suitable to your liking. They were the main ones who helped transform you…you may call them by their pseudonyms Cerf and Muse.”
The two shadows turned men awkwardly waved, feeling out of place in their temporary demon costumes.
“Since they used all their effort to craft you a suitable body to enter Hell…it only seems fitting that you could help them out as well.”
Alastor narrowed his eyes. There was more to this. “A proposal?”
The shadow nodded. “Give some of your newfound power to them and a connection will be forged between you and my brethren. You will be able to summon imps, shadow spirits and even the darkest creatures of the underworld with just a snap of your fingers. Cerf and Muse can serve as your bodyguards.”
Cerf walked forward. “I will give you animal instincts like sharp hearing and fast reflexes.”
Muse elbowed Cerf’s side and pushed forward. “I can give you something even better…your own personal weapon!”
Alastor was intrigued. “What is it?”
Muse smirked and wagged his claw, “You’ll have to agree to the deal if you want to find out!”
Alastor kept his smile on his face, standing proud in the face of uncertainty and risk. “And what’s in it for you?”
Alastor’s shadow grinned. “Why, your power, of course! Your sins on Earth coupled with your granted powers have made you, perhaps the most powerful demon yet to be. It would be quite useful for us in the long run.”
“Yes, yes,” said Cerf, “You know, ‘cause we want to eventually be free to roam Hell…and feast on delicious souls…havoc on the house!”
Muse elbowed him hard and flashed a warning.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Idiot,” he muttered.
“Aw come on,” said Cerf. “We worked for that Dr. Facilier not too long ago, remember? His soul’s still in Hell and he still has his Eldritch powers. This guy can’t be that bad.”
Alastor grinned, getting an idea. “Hmm…how much power do you want from me?”
“50%,” said the shadow.
Alastor scoffed. “Ha! No. Way too much. After all that effort in giving it to me? No. I won’t relent that easily.”
“Well…if you don’t take the deal, we could always take some away…”
Alastor leaned in close and sneered, “Then I guess I’d be left with fighting myself for eternity then. I think we both know that it would get boring fast.”
The shadow nodded after a pause. “Touche. How about 30%?”
“Still too much. I could give you a wealthy 1%.”
“It’s gotta be above a single digit, or the exchange is off,” said the shadow. “25%.”
“Nonono. How about 10%. You tell me where I can find this Facilier guy…make him my slave…it’ll be all yours.”
Alastor’s shadow held out his hand, the other creatures looking on eagerly. “So, do we have a deal?”
Alastor grinned and put his hand into the shadowy digit. Green electricity sparked as they shook.
Cerf and Muse spiraled around him in circles. Cerf vanished into Alastor’s ears, awakening his senses. Muse turned into shadow once more…and began to change shape. The shadow transformed and Alastor felt something appear in his right hand.
It was an old red vintage microphone staff. A glowing red eye appeared on the top, just below where the speaker was.
“About time you sealed that surreal deal,” came a voice from the device. It was a male voice with a radio filter over it. It sounded like an announcer on a broadcast.
“So this is my new weapon and accessory you were talking about.” Alastor said.
“Yes indeed,” the microphone replied. “Just turn me on and you can broadcast what’s going on around you, anytime, anywhere. I should say…your desire and love for telling dad jokes…I’ll help you go overboard with it.”
Alastor grinned again. He was already enjoying this opportunity.
“Enjoy yourself while you can, Radio Star,” said his shadow before disappearing behind him.
The microphone muttered something about already feeling trapped but Alastor didn’t listen.
He was already planning his next move.
“What am I waiting for?!” he asked out loud. He concentrated on the space in front of him and a portal opened back to Hell. He stepped through it and it closed behind him.
This would be the beginning of Alastor’s many conquests of Hell…and his new title of The Radio Demon.
The very first attack occurred in a dark forest in the moonlight (if there were even moons in Hell). Alastor discovered that when he concentrated and waved his hands over the ground, he could summon tentacles, shadow spirits and even voodoo imps from below.
If he was going to take over this peculiar place called Hell and be entertained, at least he would have help.
The demonic deer could hear the patter of footsteps and hid in the shadows, behind an old tree. Moving his head sideways, he peered to get a better look. Walking on the trail were two skeletal deer walking on two hooves. One of them was smoking a cigarette and the other was talking about “borrowing” coins from his ex-girlfriend. Behind them was a black minotaur in jeans and overalls. The first deer carelessly threw his used cigarette on the ground.
Alastor stared at it and the path ahead, getting an idea.
He picked up a rock and threw it in the distance. It crashed hard into the ground, causing the area to shake.
The two deer froze at the explosive noise and turned their heads around.
“What was that?” one asked.
“I didn’t hear nothin’,” said the second.
“You boneheads be hearin’ things,” growled the minotaur. He unzipped his backpack and took out an axe. He swiped several times in front of him, causing the deer to duck. “I pay you to protect me. Your job’s to cut down these trees for wood. Our saloon’s not gonna warm itself up in the winter ya, know.”
He kicked one of the deer with his hoof, sending the creature forward in a pile of bones. “Hurry up, now!”
The deer got up and continued forward. Alastor stretched out his hand and a black tendril snaked in front of the path. Invisible and silent, the deer didn’t notice it until they tripped over it.
“Aurgh!” they yelled, face planting in the dirt.
“You’re good for nothin’ but shit!” chided the angry minotaur. “Get your fat bony asses up before…”
FWOOOSH!
The lone cigarette erupted into flames from behind them.
“Before…that happens?” asked one of the deer, pointing behind the minotaur.
The flames moved rapidly through the dried wood. The deer rattled as they ran but were blocked as sparks ignited in front of them, with a snap of Alastor’s fingers. The barrier of fire blocked their path. Soon, the trio of sinners were surrounded by the flames.
“Now what?” asked one of the deer.
“Run through it, imbecile!” yelled the minotaur. “Or you’ll be even deader than you already are!”
Chuckling, Alastor turned on his microphone and strode forward, the flames having no effect on him. A spotlight shone from the eye that appeared in the center of the microphone.
“I believe I can help with that.”
“Who the fuck are you?!” spat the minotaur.
“The end of your pathetic existence,” Alastor said. “I’d say your attitude is sheer bullcrap, but who am I to know for sure.” He laughed at his pun as sounds of a laughing audience emitted from the staff.
The minotaur bellowed in rage and charged forward. A hard slap on the face from Alastor sent the bull man to the ground. Alastor stomped his foot and the bone deer were sent down into the depths in pieces.
“I’ve never hunted a bull before,” Alastor said, walking up to the minotaur on the ground. Four black spirits with big white eyes appeared to restrain him. A hunting knife appeared in his gloved hand. “…But I look forward to the new experience.”
He wedged the blade under the bull’s horns and began to saw through the material. The minotaur couldn’t fight off the spirits holding him down. Taking his sweet time, Alastor cut off the bull’s other horn.
“I must say, your horns are exquisite,” Alastor mentioned. He examined one in his hands like it was an artifact.
“Stealing my horns for the black market, are ya?” asked the minotaur.
“Nope!” he said. “I’m just curious to see how useful these things can be. We’re about to find out, ladies and gents…”
He rushed forward and stabbed the minotaur with his own horn. The bull roared loudly and briefly gurgled before falling backward with a limp. The horn was removed and coated with dark red blood.
Sticking out his long purple tongue, Alastor licked off some of the blood from the horn’s surface. He bent down and began to skin the dead minotaur before enjoying his midnight meal. “In case you were wondering, folks, bull meat can be hearty and tasty. Venison is my favorite, though.”
He stood up and wiped off his mouth. With a wave of his hands, the flames disappeared as did the spirits. Clearing his throat, he said in his announcer voice, “Welcome to the first ever radio broadcast, hosted by me, Alastor. 66.6 FM. It has to be deeply embarrassing to get stabbed to death by your own horn. But I don’t have any horns except the severed ones in my hand. Honestly, seeing the life leave that sinner’s eyes got me…should I say…horny. Ha ha ha! Stay tuned for more broadcasts in the future. Ta-la for now!”
He turned off his microphone with a tap and hummed a happy tune as he walked through the woods.
The second massacre was much more exciting for Alastor. It took place at an annual fair, which was jam packed with demons. Alastor casually walked toward the line of demons waiting to get in. He whacked one demon in the back with his cane. The demon toppled forward, ramming into another demon, who tumbled into the next one. In a comedic domino effect, all the demons crashed to the ground in yelps and grunts.
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked a grumpy old demon with the face of a mosquito. The insect demon wore a white shirt with vertical black stripes.
“Why hello there, good sir!” said Alastor, walking up to the booth. “I felt that the line was going much too slow, so I decided to speed things up.”
“Get back in line, punk,” the mosquito spit. “Or I’ll suck up your blood and energy.”
“Oh no, how scary,” Alastor exclaimed in a mocking tone. Still, he kept a protective spirit in his pocket for powerful demons like the one in front of him.
“Just tell me how much it costs to get in,” said Alastor. “I have lots of dosh.”
“One thousand and ten souls,” the mosquito grunted.
“I believe the sign only says fifty souls,” Alastor mentioned.
“No, it says one thous…”
He glanced at the sign which read: “County Fair, best in Hell, fifty souls.”
“It said one thousand and ten a moment ago.”
“I don’t think so,” said Alastor, laughing inwardly.
“Enough of your games!” bellowed the mosquito. “Get back in line. You should have enough to pay for this.”
“I do have fifty souls,” Alastor replied.
“One hundred and ten, idiot,” said the mosquito.
“Fifty!” Alastor answered.
“Hundred ten!”
“Fifty!”
“Hundred ten!”
“Hundred ten!”
“Fifty!” yelled the mosquito.
“How about zero!”
“Zero?!” yelled the mosquito.
“Zero it is! Thank you, fine sir!” called Alastor, swatting the mosquito’s face with his staff. He vanished ahead into shadow, leaving the mosquito in disbelief.
Alastor hummed happily as he walked among aisles of stands and booths. Children monsters threw bombs at a target, sending a sitting bat demon into a tub of acid below.
“Rotten candy!” called a pink dragon at a booth. “Freshly spun for everyone!” Blue and pink candy floss was being spun, and scooped up into a white cone. The dragon burped and the candy turned a sickly green.
A hydra at another stand was throwing darts at live suspended teddy bears covered with sores, some with eyes missing. Another demon with a TV for a head was riding a unicycle while twirling live wires in his hands.
Off in the distance, a family of brown Gollums were riding on a Ferris wheel. One of the parents got mad and threw a baby Gollum off into the air.
A roller coaster with zombies in the cars sent them upside down, then dropping them several feet to the ground on a mattress of metal spikes.
Inside a red and black circus tent, a crowd of demons sat in the stands, watching some individuals perform tricks in the center. A sign nearby read: “The Amazing Imp Siblings! Blitzo, Tilla, and Barbie Wire!”
Another sign read “The Incredible Blitzo! Big top, tickets now! One night only!”
“Come one, come all!” came the announcer’s voice from a speaker. “Presenting your favorite trio of tricksters…”
Drums played rapidly in the background…
“The Imp Siblings!”
Blitzo and his sisters emerged from an opening in the wooden floor and posed on a podium. The crowd clapped.
“Hello, I’m Blitzo, the “o” is silent!” called the imp in the middle. He wore a navy blue sequined outfit with yellow eye decorations on the sleeves. His face was red and white and his horns long and curved.
“I’m Tilla,” said the older imp sister.
Tilla’s face was red and her hair was long and black. Her dress was pink with black dots along the front.
“And I’m Barbie Wire!” said the youngest sibling. Barbie Wire wore a black and white stripped dress, and her horns were curved in spirals around her head like a ram.
After a jingle about their new Immediate Murder Professional Company, Blitzo mentioned to his siblings, who both grinned. The imps took their places as their performance started. Circus music played nearby, one scrawny demon playing a rusted organ on wheels off to the side.
True to her name, Barbie Wire balanced on a tightrope made of razor thin wire. When flying bats surrounded her, she took out a spear and sliced them down when they flew close. She almost fell, but held out the spear in front of her, steading herself.
Tilla was busy doing flips as a giant manticore was released from a nearby cage. The beast had a lion’s head, black bat wings, and the tail of a scorpion. Tilla dodged the deadly tail and began to jump over it like she was doing jump-rope. With a mighty back-flip, she landed on the manticore’s back and rode the beast around the arena. The manticore roared and reared up, but Tilla brought the beast back down, taming it.
Meanwhile, Blitzo was singing a song about murder into a microphone while twirling a double-sided torch in his hand. The three siblings killed off more creatures before landing gracefully back in the center before taking a bow. The crowd stood up and applauded with hands, claws, fins, and other appendages.
“Wow, what a performance!” exclaimed Alastor, his voice blending into the cheers. “Now this is what I call one hell of a show!”
The Radio Demon filed out with the rest of the crowd. Feeling giddy, he played several of the games at the stands (and didn’t hesitate to cheat in order to win.) He ordered hot dogs (made from actual dog), blood punch, bird brains on a stick…and passed on the literal shit kababs.
A pleasant feeling of nostalgia came over him as he remembered the fun times going to the circus with his family as a kid. He loved playing the games and feeding the animals at the petting zoo. He was especially fascinated by the fortune tellers, who had used Tarot cards to predict people’s futures. The Fool card, representing curiosity and beginnings, was drawn as his card for his childhood. For his future teenager card, the Hermit was chosen, representing isolation. Justice was the chosen card for adulthood, adding to karma. Last of all, if he made it past 30, the Devil card was placed in front of him.
At the time, he didn’t know what they meant, but it was fascinating all the same.
Back in the present, a troll with three eyes was dragging a struggling buck toward a sitting group of spider demons waiting to ride it.
“Man, I’m still hungry,” he thought. “Haven’t had venison in forever.”
He summoned a rifle in his hands and proceeded to blast the deer’s head clean off.
“The fuck?!” bellowed the gray-skinned troll, stomping toward him. “That was my prized animal!”
“And that is my meal,” he replied.
The troll raised his fist and brought it down to where Alastor once stood. He materialized behind him.
“Stop trolling around and show me what you’ve got,” said Alastor.
The troll landed more punches, Alastor dodging every one.
“You’re no fun,” Alastor replied. He held out his hand and blasted a fireball straight into the troll’s face. The troll fell backwards to the ground, only a smoking hole of charred flesh where his face once was. Alastor picked up the deer head and smiled at the spider kids.
“You arachnids still want a ride?”
The spider kids scurried away, without saying a word.
Later on, Alastor saw something that disturbed him inside for the first time. A group of four black reptile-like demons were huddled near a yellow and red striped circus tent. One held a whip in his hand and repeatedly slashed at a living voodoo horse made of straw. The creature was hauling a cart with a cage and was whining in pain.
“Get moving you bastard beast of burden!” sneered the snake demon.
The driver of the cart let out a hiss and a laugh. “Boy, we’re gonna be filthy rich by today’s end. Got lots of good victims to torture, it’ll make the boss happy.”
Alastor walked over toward the cage and saw several small voodoo dolls who were very much alive. A father and a mother doll were comforting little doll children who huddled into their cloth chests. The mother’s eyes were purple buttons and though her mouth was stitched shut, a voice still emerged.
“It’ll be okay, my son,” she said, soothingly.
“Mom, I don’t wanna go to the spectacle,” cried the kid.
The father doll sighed. “I can see why. My mother was used by a demon to harm his rival in the Second Circle of Hell. The pins and needles stuck into her every day, hurt her as much as that poor demon. But we’re stuck as slaves. We have no choice. To the demons and imps, we’re nothing but tools to be used.”
“That is very true,” thought Alastor. “But what if they could be used in a good way?”
The father looked at a grisly array of straw voodoo heads sticking from long spikes in the ground. The dead heads were trophies for the snake monsters. One wrinkled head with white curly hair remained motionless on a bloodstained spike.
“That’s your grandmother over there,” said the father. The boy doll turned away.
“The voodoo dolls who don’t serve their purpose right…” added the mother doll. She mentioned outside to more reptile demons eating living dolls, burning others, tearing other dolls to shreds and sewing them back together, only to repeat the process.
Alastor snapped his fingers and the cage door opened. The dolls stared confused but soon ran out when they saw the demon’s face.
“Hey, get back here!” called a bipedal snake as his captives fled on their short stubby legs.
Radio noises rushed from his staff as Alastor spoke a Creole spell.
Other voodoo imps and creatures slowly turned their heads to look toward him. Round faced dolls who were originally tied by chains broke free. Many gathered nearby knives, pitchforks, and even torches.
“You inssssulent strawberry clown!” hissed the boss snake, slithering over, wearing a business suit of black. “You think you can get away with ssssetting my prizes free like that. I’ll bite you and make you wish you never died!”
A tentacle rose from the ground and constricted the snake’s neck. His yellow eyes bulged and he gasped for air through his fanged mouth. He was then tossed aside into a pit of flames. A nearby doll rebel mob stabbed the snake with sharp pins.
Casting another spell, Alastor grew taller until he towered above the circus tent. His dress coat merged with the tent and flaps. Black spikes jutted from out of the tent and other tents nearby, some with voodoo heads on them.
Telepathically using pins to hold open the flaps, Alastor pulled the rest of the snake-men in with several tentacles. A roaring fire blazed to life right where the demons were standing. The reptiles roared in agony as the flames consumed their bodies. One snake opened his mouth, wide, reaching out from the tent, trying to escape. Voodoo imps off to the side, held their little weapons in the air, attacking any other demons who wondered by. The voodoo minions now had mouths of sharp teeth, with blood around their mouths, eyes white. Alastor, meanwhile was enjoying the carnage below, now in full demon form. His hands were spread out wide, his eyes red radio dials, and his antlers jutting out from his head. All the while, his victory was broadcast yet again over the radio.
“Goood afternoon, you filthy sinners! It’s your favorite radio demon, Alastor coming in live! I am here at the annual county fair. Just listen to that cheerful circus music, and the joyful sounds of sinners on their days off. And best of all, the screams of those unfortunate enough to be trapped in my inferno! Chaos is still running rampant here as voodoo dolls strike down their former masters with every kind of weapon imaginable. You know what they say: “be careful what you wish for…you may soon be on fire, for better or worse!” Tickets are still on sale for those who’d like to experience the show. Well that’s all for now, folks. Stay tuned for more, next time on 66.6 FM.”
Now in Alastor’s control, the doll citizens caused havoc around hell in the name of their new lord of chaos. They had aided him in his many other conquests, doing his bidding like the shadow spirits.
During one particular conquest, the voodoo imps stood in a line beside Alastor as they overlooked a city in one of the Nine Circles. The sky on that day was red and cloudless, the color of fresh blood.
The demons who lived there had supported Sir Pentious, the evil snake overlord from the 1800s. The boastful villain himself was there, controlling a hulking machine with metal arms and legs…and lots of blasters, from the inside. His egg minion army stood at the ready, some of them running around the inside, others watching their leader in awe.
“Oh I really wish I could be shot with one of those amazingly crafted blasters,” said egg #66.
“Shut up!” hissed the overlord, his one-eyed top hat on his head. “I need to focus here! There’s a rogue army of…toys straight ahead trying to take over this turf. But several perfect shots from my blasters will do the trick.”
The snake pulled several levers and the blasters fired torpedoes that exploded off in the distance. Alastor had formed a red energy shield which protected him and the dolls.
“Hey, red reindeer man!” Sir Pentious called through a loudspeaker. “What are you doing on my turf?”
Alastor turned on his microphone. His voice echoed through the air, accompanied by radio noises.
“It’s Alastor to you, old serpent. And I believe this territory now belongs to me.”
“Well my cult of demons would disagree with you,” Sir Pentious retorted. The demons stood holding spears and barring their teeth.
“You still have a chance to surrender and run,” said Alastor. “If I were you, I’d take it.”
“Fool!” Sir Pentious hissed. “You’re not getting in my way of my domination goal! Now, prepare to be blasted to bits! Hahahaha! Attack!”
More blasts shot from the robot’s arms. The demons yelled as the eggs charged forward, wearing pinstriped suits and black top hats. Alastor pointed his claws forward and the voodoo imps rushed in. One imp with horns, a black hat, and sharp teeth held a butcher knife. Another imp with horns bit into an egg minion with a large bite. The egg yelled and cracked open in a yok mess.
The eye on Alastor’s microphone created a spotlight that temporarily blinded the approaching demon soldiers. Happy, jazz music poured from the staff, a contrast to the grisly battle occurring.
A wealthy demon wearing a white shirt and rings on two of his three fingers, fled when flames sparked in front of him. Another demon wearing a blue general’s uniform had large black eyes and horns with black and pink stripes. He tried to fight off the imps, but the creatures held onto his legs with their fangs.
Black tentacles emerged from an opening portal, grabbing onto demons and tossing them inside like rag dolls. A final blast fired from Sir Pentious’ machine. “You’re done for!” the snake declared.
The torpedo froze in mid-air after Alastor held out his hand. The missile then flew backwards, right into the heart of the machine. The hunk of metal exploded and Sir Pentious fell out with a scream. He quickly fled while his remaining egg army followed after him. “I’ll have my revenge, Alastor! It’s far from over!”
“I’d say it’s closed curtains for your show,” the radio demon replied. He cut into his hand with a fingernail and droplets of red blood glowed.
The demon general stood up on shaky legs…then was instantly crushed by a large metal pillar. The pillar along with two others held up a tall radio tower that had materialized out of nowhere. A red light blinked ominously at the top, an Illuminati eye, watching everything.
“Now there’s some technology I can truly appreciate!” Alastor exclaimed with a clap of his hands.
Whenever Alastor paid a visit to a city or town, the people would run for cover, shouting, “It’s the Radio Demon! Run for your afterlives!”
Their screams and terrified faces filled Alastor with glee and a sense of dominance. He hovered in the air, his eyes demonic red, antlers long and extending from his head. He was a figure of chaos and power, under the glowing pink Pentagram in the indigo sky. Voodoo imps carried animal skulls on spikes as they roamed the streets. They left several spikes in the ground with severed demon heads attached (and sometimes voodoo doll heads.) The spikes would often stand near piles of dead demons. Some dolls broke into stores and smashed TV screens with their spears and weapons. “VOX EATS SOCKS!” was spray painted in red by two dolls on the glass window of the trashed TV store. After they left, a lone voodoo minion replaced the red “S” with a black “C” and cackled out loud. Alastor’s deer shadow hovered nearby in the air, with red eyes, large antlers and a grinning mouth.
Radios of all shapes and sizes were soon for sale in many stores in Hell. One of Alastor’s favorite ones was an old fashioned one with three panels at the top, a dial, and a row of grinning teeth that was part of the design on the front. A friendly reminder for listeners to keep on smiling.
The voodoo imps evolved further, some growing horns of purple and bright pink. Others rode in battle on skeletal deer with glowing red horns in place of antlers. Those more inclined to water hitched rides from moving skeletons of sharks and underwater monsters.
Even poor Husk, the alcohol drinking gambler cat demon, was dragged into Alastor’s schemes several times. At one point, he was forced to do a tap dance on stage to distract a crowd of demons while Alastor razed the nearby town. It was embarrassing for the winged cat demon, but Alastor obviously got a kick out of it. Reluctantly, Husk continued to serve Alastor in exchange for booze and cigarettes. Meanwhile, Niffty gladly helped out the Radio Demon by making him meals and helping to keep his interdimensional home tidy. She was just glad to be out of the flames and to keep busy. Both Niffty and Husk’s auras briefly glowed red like Alastor’s, indicating they were associates of his. However, they had free will of their own…when they were not summoned by him on occasion.
At one point, Alastor posed with the rest of the villain overlords: Vox the TV demon, Velvet, Valentino the porn studio owner, Rosie, a skeletal deer surrounded by a halo of blue fire, a two-headed bird in a tuxedo, a bird overlord with yellow shades, a black spider demon, a thick haired lady who looked like Helsa, and another woman who may have been Lilith. Husk and Niffty stood as shadow silhouettes. Thirteen individuals in all.
By the time Alastor heard of the Hazbin Hotel, he had performed eleven successful massacres, all throughout the Nine Circles of Hell. There were even fliers taped around, showing Alastor at the circus with his victims burning underneath him. “THE RADIO DEMON! BEWARE HIM! DO NOT FUCK WITH HIM!” the fliers read.
Alastor hummed a jolly tune as he observed the fruitful results of his carnage. He was one step closer to dominating all of Hell.
Part 2: “Exterminations”
During one random day, the clock tower ringed twelve ominous tones. Alastor was strutting down the street when he heard the noise. He glanced up at the tower where a counter read “number of days till next purge: 0.”
“Purge?” he thought. “Sounds intriguing. Some kind of killing contest between overlords?”
Alastor soon got his answer when the center of the overhead neon pentagram in the sky tore open. Through a dark hole, dark flying creatures swarmed out and headed off in different directions. There were at least twenty of them, perhaps more.
Upon closer inspection, they were dark angels with black feathery wings, curved horns and bird-like feet clad in dark armor. They wore LED masks complete with creepy glowing grins, large x’s over their right eyes and curved horns off to the back, reaching past behind their heads. Each one also carried a harpoon spear in their hands.
One angel threw a spear that struck a flying demon square in the eye. The demon fell to the ground, lifeless. Another harpoon struck an orange horned demon in the neck, resulting in a gory death. A lone spear flew and lodged itself in the wall right above Alastor’s head.
All around the city, demons were screaming and scurrying frantically for cover. Several Exterminators circled over the cowering citizens of Hell with mechanical laughs.
“Cleanse Hell of the sinner scum!” rang out on of the angel’s voices.
With a spin and swipe of a harpoon from another angel, other demons dropped dead like bowling pins.
One of the angels glanced over to Alastor. Two other angels glanced over too, all turning their heads, grins glowing.
Alastor hid his shock with a sinister smile of his own. The shock quickly morphed into a new excitement.
“Prepare to meet your second death,” said the angel in the middle.
“Am I supposed to be sacred of you crows?” he asked.
Alastor was surrounded by the three angels hovering above him, spears raised.
His eyes turned into red radio dials and his black antlers grew slightly longer from his head.
“This is going to be quite entertaining!”
The three spears were thrown forward and black tentacles reached and slapped the weapons away.
Just as the harpoons appeared back in the Exterminator’s hands, shadow spirits with red auras circles around the angels, screeching, clawing and attacking them. One angel flapped and flailed, shaking off several spirits by striking them with a swipe of his spear. A tentacle impaled the angel through his gut from behind them. The second angel got his wings torn off by two other black tentacles emerging from portals in midair. A shadow spirit grabbed the angel’s spear and sliced off its owner’s head, falling into one of the portals.
The third angel began to flee, but Alastor grabbed hold of one of the angel’s dark arms. The Exterminator elbowed Alastor and scratched his chest with long nails. Alastor glanced down at the tears and new flowing blood soaking into his red pinstriped dress coat.
He growled darkly in a demonic voice. “That was my favorite suit.”
The Radio Demon soon had the angel in a chokehold with one of his four-fingered gloved hands.
“L-let go, filth!” the angel sputtered with a gasp.
Using his strength, Alastor bashed the angel down hard against the pavement several times. He soon heard a satisfying crack as his victim’s head split open and the dark horns fell off. He tossed the angel’s body aside for the nearby voodoo imps to consume.
Tom Trench, a white-haired guy with a facemask and a business suit appeared on screen. 666 News logo appeared in neon behind him.
“Breaking news! Exterminators have invaded Hell once again, with an even greater number than last year. Pandemonium is in the air as Heaven’s army slaughters citizens right and left at random, to reduce the population, as is tradition. Please, for your own safety, stay indoors and on lockdown. If you’re looking to take over new territory, please refrain from doing so during the rampage. It’ll be up for grabs after the purge…if you’re still alive, of course.”
There was a sound of glass breaking from the news room as a spear flew over Tom Trenches head.
“That’s all for today! This is Tom Trench, 666 News at 5. Until next time, have a great evening.”
Tom Trench fled the scene as an LED wearing angel eclipsed the careen and smashed it, causing static.
Alastor stood still for a moment…
“Who ho ho! What a great picture show. Wasn’t expecting that nice surprise during this time. Perhaps I should broadcast my acts of destruction on those Exterminators…”
More spears flew in the air, crackling with electricity. Alastor saw more angels fly through the overhead hole. Alastor glanced at his stinging chest.
“One more act it is then.”
His vintage microphone staff appeared in his right hand and lit up to life. The eye in the center of the microphone moved from side to side.
“You want to take things even further, do you not?” asked a radio voice from the microphone.
“You know me too well,” he replied. “But then again, you are a part of me, so of course you would.”
Alastor lifted himself into the air with a large tentacle, red voodoo symbols surrounding him. He tapped the staff and it blinked on.
“Well good evening, little sinners! It’s your one any only host, Alastor, the Radio Demon. Right now, I’m in the midst of a bloody battle between you citizens and the infamous Exterminators. It looks like several denizens of Hell have already fallen prey to the invaders. One angel’s beating up an imp pretty bad over there. Another demon with a spear through her mouth by the store window, doesn’t look too good for her…”
Four angels flew headfirst toward Alastor, only to be knocked back by red energy flowing from Alastor’s body. One unlucky angel got set on fire with a simple snap of the demon’s fingers. The angel let out a rather unholy yell before disintegrating.
Alastor’s hands and microphone were splattered with fresh blood. He fooled with the angels for several more minutes and spoke into his microphone. “Time for some jokes, my friends. What do you call a rejected do-gooder from Heaven?”
Alastor punched a charging angel in the face, sending him flying.
“A fallen angel! Ahhahahaha.”
Several exterminators down below were disintegrating Alastor’s shadow spirits with beams of light from their hands. One angel shot beams of light at the Radio Demon, who dodged each one. Her hair was long and blonde in the back. The angel roared in anger and shot light spears in every direction. Tentacles around Alastor blocked her attacks.
“Wow, that angel over there looks pretty mad…”
She looped and spun herself rapidly toward him, her hand in a fist. Her fist stopped right in front of Alastor’s face. He grabbed hold of her chest tight with one hand and karate-chopped her head off with his other hand.
“…I guess you could say she lost her head! Hahahaha!”
He dropped her headless body and continued swatting angels away like flies.
After a few more moments, Alastor was getting bored. It was time for the grand finale. He stood on a platform of surrounding tentacles.
He curled his right hand into a fist, sharp pointed nails digging into his now-glowing palm. Several large drops of red blood rained down from his hand, falling to the ground.
Several flaming holes appeared in the air around the flying exterminators. Tentacles wrapped around each of their waists, binding their hands and pulling back their wings. Their harpoons were tossed into the portals by separate tentacles. At least a dozen angels were brought close together, each of them bond by tentacles.
Voodoo symbols surrounded Alastor and his eyes briefly turned dark, displaying radio waves sizzling across them. His black antlers now extended far beyond his head.
Long thick shadows rose from the ground until forming into two swirling shadows on either side of the tied up angels. The shadows slowed, and solidified into two large gray four-clawed hands. The pointed fingernails were yellow, the same color as a spot down the middle of each finger.
Indeed, the large hands were uncovered copies of Alastor’s real hands.
The staff vanished. From a distance, Alastor lined up his own hands with the giant ones, which copied his hand movements.
Then, inch by inch, the hands closed in.
The angels stared in fear behind their gruesome masks, struggling to free themselves from their bonds. The remaining angels outside looked on in worry. A few bowed their heads and mouthed silent prayers.
The large curved fingers overlapped seconds after Alastor slowly interlocked his own. An invisible force tried to push the palms of his hands apart. But his hands closed in more, like he was molding invisible clay to his liking.
“For my final act of tonight, you shall witness…”
The last of the angel’s heads and struggling forms disappeared behind gray fingers and flesh.
With an evil grin and a glow of his eyes, Alastor pushed his own hands together.
The large hands closed with a shuddering shake. Muffled crunching and squelching came from inside. Alastor opened up his hand and the giant ones followed. A shower of blood, bits of body parts, and black feathers rained down to the street.
He finished in a low demonic voice, “…the Exterminators’ crushing defeat.”
Applause erupted from his microphone as the large hands deformed and sent out shadowy creatures which vanished through the last several portals before they closed. The remaining angels shivered and fled through the black hole overhead. Alastor’s antlers receded back to normal size.
“Well, folks, that’s all for tonight. I hope you enjoyed this remarkable demonstration of my amazing power. This is Alastor, 66.6 FM. Until next time, have a splendid evening…and as always, stay tuned!”
No one said a word as the Radio Demon lowered himself to the ground. The tentacles and portals vanished behind him. He stared at his bleeding hand and wrist. Lightheadedness overtook him. He waved his hand one more time and stepped down into a portal, which soon closed above him.
He breathed a sigh of relief. He was back in his lair, a bizarre home-like hideout floating in a void dimension just underneath Hell. It was a place where the Loa and dark spirits roamed.
Using so much power and blood magic had taken a bit of a stretch on his body. Gray circles were under his eyes, barely noticeable. With a yawn, he went into a bathroom to clean his wounds. The two handled faucets were made of gold and shaped like miniature deer heads. A black clawed bathtub decorated with large eyes stood in the center of the room.
After washing up and changing into a red velvet night gown, Alastor wandered past the living room, a room with a blood red rug, a couch, comfy leather chairs, and a fireplace of black flames. Above the mantle on the wall were stuffed deer heads mounted on display of various colors and states of decay. Rifles and several collected angel weapons were displayed in a darker corner of the room. Walking into the kitchen, Alastor pulled out vension deer meat from the icebox and heated it up on the stove. He hummed “You’re Never Fully Dressed” as he cooked.
After he ate his meal, he made his way into his room down the hall. Inside his room was a large bed with a leather comforter and satin red pillows. An old fashioned TV with two antennae sticking out stood nearby. Several different radios were lined up on a polished wooden dresser with a vanity mirror framed with round lights around it. Inside his closet were his suits neatly hung and shoes in a holder. Voodoo dolls resembling himself, Husk, Charlie, Angel and others were lined up in a black cabinet.
Alastor yawned again and climbed up into his bed. He soon had a small relaxed grin on his face. The lights went off after he waved his hand. His eyes dimmed and turned into small red radio dials. The droning sound of a radio powering off briefly filled the room as Alastor slept with his eyes wide open.
Part 3: “Killing Spree for Three”
Several years had passed since the Radio Demon had terrorized tons of provinces in Hell. It had started in 1933 shortly after his mortal death, when he fell down into Hell and was granted his powers by the Loas, Voodoo shadow spirits. Alastor, of course, had taken advantage of his new demonic deer-like form and Eldritch abilities, using his vintage microphone staff to broadcast his victories and carnage wherever he went. His sentient shadow had hovered by his side with an ever-present smile on his face like his counterpart.
During his time in Hell, Alastor had conjured looming metal radio towers and stations in the areas he had claimed. Despite being new to Hell in 1933, he quickly figured out the functions of Hell’s hierarchy.
Lucifer and Lilith were the powerful King and Queen, not to be tested with nor disobeyed. It was safe to assume that they knew everything that went on throughout the fiery realm. This was why Alastor never revealed his plans out loud…or if he did, he morphed the meaning into something more superficial.
Sinners, or those that had previously been human, were considered the lowest of the low in terms of class. They were the majority in Hell but also faced various forms of discrimination. Without his powers and charisma, Alastor would’ve fit the lowest sinner category.
Alastor was already familiar with being a societal outcast. Back in New Orleans as a human, he had been mocked and jeered at for being part white and part Creole. It was a time when racism ran rampant and white elites got to enjoy the most luxuries. If it weren’t for is mother and radio career, he would’ve rotted away in jail or in poverty.
But unlike his previous life, Alastor was much more prepared, and powerful. The Hellborns included imps, hellhounds and other creatures born in Hell, considered “superior” to sinners. However, even the Hellborn were nothing compared to the Overlords, powerful demon rulers with abilities beyond average. Alastor had become an overlord the moment he broadcast his first massacre in a dark gnarled wood.
It was not uncommon for overlords to not get along and to fight over turf, slaves, drugs and other commodities. Vox, the TV demon, Valentino the Porn Studio owner, and Velvet the doll demon were sometimes called the Three V villains. Vox and Alastor did not get along, for Alastor despised post 30’s technology. Alastor had also defeated Sir Pentious, an inventor snake demon who was previously born during the Industrial Revolution. Though that was so long ago, that he had forgotten who he was fighting with.
Currently, Alastor had control over a voodoo doll and imp army, could summon shadow spirits at will and create portals to the “other side.” He even created his own interdimensional lair underneath Hell.
Alas, just those benefits weren’t good enough. Alastor was a man constantly on the lookout for other sources of influence and entertainment. Why would he settle for anything less in his second “life?” Being one of the most powerful demons in Hell was no small feat. He required other allies and servants… those who were citizens themselves. Humming happily with his usual smile on his face, Alastor made his way into the city.
Under the red sky, monsters and demons of all shapes and sizes wondered the pot-hole covered streets of Pentagram City. A neon Pentagram hovered over in the sky, a symbolic reminder to those below where they were. However, the demons went about their ways like ordinary humans would on Earth. Teen Hellhound females smoked cigarettes while leaning against a wall. A black furry spider demon got into an argument with a zombie over a meth purchase. The zombie punched the spider in the gut and in turn, the spider knocked the zombie’s head clean off. The head yelled swear words as it plopped to the ground.
From inside a strip club, Angel Dust, a white spider demon was spinning upside down on a pole onstage. He was dressed in nothing but red lacy underwear, his legs spread wide for the viewers to see. Techno music was muffled by the window. Two snakes chased each other loudly and bust into the club, briefly catching Alastor’s attention. One demon spotted the Radio Demon from outside and fainted from terror. Angel Dust puckered his mouth in a kiss and waved at Alastor. Alastor rolled his red eyes in disgust and walked on.
A vertical neon sign on a street corner displayed a yellow saxophone with white musical notes coming out of it. The words along the side read “Mimzy’s Club and Bar.”
“Mimzy…” Alastor said out loud. “That name sounds very familiar.”
He went up to open the door and walked inside.
He was greeted by the upbeat sounds of trumpets, drums, a saxophone and even a piano not too far away. Demons wearing cowboy hats and mustaches were playing pool far in the back. Against one wall was a pink neon sign which read “Drinking” over a display of bottles. A humanoid couple dressed in Day of the Dead outfits were smooching in a booth filled with cigarette smoke. A red horned ogre dressed in gray Viking armor was serving up mugs of beer and alcohol to customers sitting on stools at the tall obsidian counter.
Just then, a short demon dressed like a jester with a stripped hat complete with bells stood up from his chair. He looked up and saw Alastor’s pale grayish face leering down at him. The jester gasped in fright and scurried backward. “It-it’s the Radio Demon!”
The music abruptly stopped and the chatter ceased. Everyone turned to stare at him, fear, anger, and for a few, excitement in their eyes. Alastor snapped his fingers and a spotlight appeared over him.
“Hello, there fellow sinners! How are you all doing this fine evening?”
Nobody said a word.
He chuckled and held out his hands. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to harm anyone. I’ve just come by to relax and have a drink. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
Several demons quickly shook their heads and muttered affirmations. Alastor glanced at the jazz band on stage and tilted his head. “Aren’t you going to play some tunes for us?”
The band members started their next song, making sure it was loud and catchy.
Several other demons moved out of the way to let him pass.
Alastor tilted his hand toward his chest. “Ah, such pleasant company here!”
The spotlight faded as Alastor took a seat at the bar.
The Viking ogre turned to look at him.
“Haven’t seen you here before.”
“Surely you know who I am?”
The ogre shook his head, unfazed. The others turned to the bartender, with concerned looks.
“Well,” said Alastor, “It’s nice to meet you, good chap.”
The ogre just grunted in response.
“I’ll have a small black coffee and a glass of Sazerac liquor, please.” Sazerac was one of the first cocktails in New Orleans.
The ogre nodded. “7 souls each.”
Alastor placed 13 dark coins with a small eye on each one on the counter. The ogre scooped them up in his meaty hand and turned to get the drinks ready.
“Heh, heh, he forgot to count them,” Alastor thought.
His black coffee was soon brought out in a small white mug on a white plate. Carefully picking up the mug by the round handle with several claws, Alastor softly blew over the cup before taking a sip. A satisfying bitter heat filled his mouth. It filled his core with warmth and made him feel more alert, just like it did every morning during his past life. He took more sips and closed his eyes in content. For a millisecond, unnoticed by anyone, his face briefly morphed into his human one: light brown skin, thin pointed chin, brown eyes and short brown hair with a wave off to one side. Small round glasses were placed over his nose. Then, just as quickly, his face returned to his current one: grayish pale, yellow teeth, red eyes, red and black hair, monocle under his right eye.
After several musical numbers had played, Alastor’s next drink had arrived. Alastor noticed something was not right.
“Uh excuse me?” he asked.
“What?” asked the ogre.
“I asked for a glass of Sazerac. Why did you get me noodle juice?”
He stared at the cup of brown tea on the counter in disgust.
The ogre shrugged. “We ran out of that kind of liquor. That fellow over there ordered the last one.”
He pointed to a shark demon finishing up the rest of his liquor bottle before smashing it on the floor and pushing open the doors.
“Heheheheh…excuse me for a second,” Alastor said.
He stood up and followed the bipedal shark outside. The visitors sitting in booths and chairs could hear muffled pounding, grunts, and stomps coming from outside. At one point, a dark tentacle appeared out of nowhere and then vanished. The gray shark’s head was slammed against the window, slowly sliding down covered in red blood. The demons shrugged, turned back around and continued chatting.
The Radio Demon stomped back into the room, smile on his face but anger in his eyes. The ogre seemed to be whispering something to someone hidden in the back. Alastor spoke to the bartender, composed, hiding his frustration. “I believe we were at the part where I asked you…why did you serve me noodle juice?”
“I already told you, we were out of liquor.”
“How does a bar run out of liquor so suddenly?”
“How should I know?”
“Do you have anything else?”
The ogre occupied himself with cleaning a mug.
“Besides noodle juice?”
A muffled giggle came from behind a set of curtains. He waved his hand and the curtains pulled back. A demon with black wings, horns, and a hat with a domino on it was laying on the floor with several empty bottles of Sazerac around him. He whispered to the ogre who turned around, “You lost the bet, you fucking lard. I told you he’d say “noodle juice” when you gave him tea.”
“I ain’t giving you any money,” the ogre whispered. “I’m the one who pranked the prankster.”
The horned demon stopped laughing and narrowed his eyes. “6.6 souls, hand them over.”
Radio static suddenly filled the air. “You think I’m a joke to you?”
The horned demon turned around and his eyes met Alastor’s before he was plunged down into a portal that appeared from underneath him. The black tentacle monster swallowed the prankster demon in one gulp. The portal closed and Alastor stared at the ogre. He sat down in his seat.
“Kindly fetch me a bottle of Sazerac before I hang you from the ceiling with your intestines.”
The ogre gulped and ran out of the room. He was stopped by a sharp tentacle slicing through his chest. His mutilated body crashed down a flight of stars in the back, starling a waitress who looked like an ostrich.
Alastor tossed the tea aside and summoned a bottle of Sazerac in front of them.
“Sometimes you gotta do things yourself,” he muttered before taking a big gulp from the bottle. Despite his powers, he enjoyed it when people did things for him, like bringing him drinks. The soul coins he had given to the ogre, flew back into his hand and vanished.
From backstage, a woman was putting the finishing touches of makeup on her face while staring at herself in a large square mirror framed in round lights. She took a deep breath and stood up from her seat. The music stopped and shortly after, a green suit-wearing alien stepped up to the stage and announced, “Our next performer, the marvelous Mimzy!” A woman walked onto the stage. Alastor looked over and his red eyes widened. His smile grew an inch more. The woman was short and chubby, wearing a pink flapper dress and a headband with pink feathers on it. Her black heels tapped against the floor in a rhythmic pace. Her face was white and her large eyes were black with hot pink pupils. She strutted up to the microphone, proud and confident.
Mimzy fluffed her short blonde hair and waved at the audience. Then she sang a lovely catchy jazz song from the early 1900s. Then she finished off with “Down in New Orleans,” much to Alastor’s delight. What a lovely melodic voice she had!
Alastor remembered Mimzy as a blonde-haired human, she had been a worker at a jazz club in New Orleans and she and Alastor had danced together on stage. He admired her then and still admired her now. They had shared a kiss as humans but Alastor thought of her as an affectionate friend.
That was all before he went insane and killed her in a frenzy.
Mimzy had been sent to Hell since she killed her husband in self-defense and was briefly a prostitute to make ends meet.
After Mimzy sang and stepped off to the side, another demon came up to the stage. She was tall and slender with sharp teeth in a smile, black eyes, and a large round pink hat with skulls on it covering her head. Several other demons bowed as she walked up to the microphone. She took out her pink umbrella, spun it around in a twirl and did a song and dance number: “Practically Perfect in Every Way.”
“By the time the fire has burned the restless souls down,
I’ll tell you, yes I can,
No matter the circumstance for one thing you shall know,
My character is spite, shine, spic and span,
I’m practically perfect in every way”
“For demons say
Each sin and misdeed knows no bounds
To hate is great and patently sound
I’m practically perfect head to tail
If you found a fault, it would be to no avail
I’m so practically perfect in every way”
“Both prim and proper, graceful and stern
So passive, at peace yet willing to TURN (briefly goes to demon form)
I’m clean and honest, my manner refined
And I wear hats of the sensible kind
I suffer no nonsense and whilst I remain
There’s nothing much else I need to explain”
“I’m practically perfect in every way
Factually flawless, that’s my forte
Uncanny ladies are hard to find
Unique, not meek, great matters of mind
I’m practically perfect, and never soiled
Killing like a villain with victims freshly boiled
I’m so practically perfect in every way
Well those are my credentials
Perhaps you have a few questions?”
“Yeah I have one!” called a boar demon. “Did you copy Mary Poppin’s song and just add your words to it?”
The crowd laughed and clapped.
Rosie took a bow. “Yes, so what if I did? I did it for my audience!”
On Earth, Rosie had been the CEO of a clothing company. She had also danced and met with Alastor as a human. She went to Hell due to forcing her employees to work long hours with hardly any breaks. Stern, elegant and vain, she was a perfectionist and it showed at her job. She did well when it came to organization, dressing fancy…and killing those who stood in her way. In Hell, she was an overlord and owner of an emporium.
Like with Mimzy, she and Alastor enjoyed singing and dancing…and terrorizing others. However, they had only gotten a glimpse of each other during their individual conquests and work.
But now was the chance for Alastor to warm up to his lovely lady friends.
Rosie finished her song and took a bow. Alastor clapped enthusiastically. “Bravo, bravo, what an outstanding performance!”
Alastor waved at the two performers who briefly glanced at him.
“Who’s that?” Mimzy asked, curiously.
“One of my fellow overlords. Haven’t interacted with him, though,” Rosie replied.
Alastor morphed into shadow and teleported onto the stage between them.
Both women gasped as Alastor appeared with either hand on their shoulders.
“Why hello, lovely ladies! Care if I join you?” He kissed Rosie’s hand, then Mimzy’s.
Rosie raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you that super-powered radio guy that terrorized half of Hell?”
“Yes indeedy. How do you do?”
“Be thankful that you’re a fellow overlord,” Rosie replied. She stared into his red eyes, “…and I’ll admit, devilishly charming. You name?”
“Alastor.”
“I’m Rosie.”
“Mimzy,” said the other lady, already blushing at the handsome stranger.
“Boo!” shouted a white demon shaped like a fox. “You’re interrupting the show!”
Alastor merely shrugged and laughed, the spotlight now on him. He conjured up his microphone staff in his right hand, which glowed red. “How about one joke before the next dance?”
“No dad jokes, get off the stage!” the fox yelled.
Alastor turned to the booing demon. “What time does my radio show start in Hell?”
“No one fucking cares!” the fox yelled.
“6:06…A-M. But thankfully, you won’t have to listen to it.”
He snapped his fingers and the fox demon exploded in a shower of guts and blood. The other demons stepped away from the mess.
Having the time of his afterlife, Alastor smiled even more and held Mimzy and Rosie’s hands. With a wave of his hand, his usual outfit turned into a red suit, and a white undershirt with a black bowtie. He now had black tap dancing shoes plus a top hat complete with stitches and two small pins sticking out.
“Embarrassing fact, I can’t tap dance,” Alastor said under his breath.
“I can teach you how,” Rosie said.
Alastor’s red eyes curved slightly into arches, his smile genuine. “I’d like that very much.”
The jazz band began to play a catchy tune. Alastor stood between the two women.
“I think you may have heard this song on the radio. Ready?”
Mimzy and Rosie nodded, already knowing the lyrics and familiar music.
Together the trio danced and sang Alastor’s favorite song: “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile.”
“Hey, hobo man, Hey Dapper Dan
You’ve both got your style
But Brother, you’ve never fully dressed without a smile!”
“Your clothes may be Beau Brummelly
They stand out a mile
But Brother you’re never fully dressed without a smile!”
“Who cares what they’re wearing
On Main Street or Saville Row
It’s what you wear from ear to ear
And not from head to toe that matters”
“So, Senator, So Janitor
So long for a while
Remember you’re never fully dressed without a smile!”
After a standing ovation from the audience, Rosie, Mimzy and Alastor sat together in a both. The table in front of them had a white tablecloth over it, though it was smeared with bloodstains. A small vase of black roses was placed in the center of the table.
The brown-haired bipedal ostrich waitress came over and asked them what they’d like to order.
“Rare venison, a side of Jambalaya, and a glass of New Orleans whiskey, 1901,” said Alastor.
“Shrimp Creole with champagne,” Mimzy added.
“Bouillabaisse and a glass of red wine,” Rosie said.
“Deer meat?” Mimzy asked curiously as the waitress walked away on her long yellow bird legs.
“Yep. Still got the old hunter in me.”
Alastor mimicked gunshots with his hands and Mimzy giggled.
“I must say, you’re a really good singer, Alastor,” Rosie said, smiling.
“Why thank you kindly, dear.”
“Despite what many may say, even genocidal overlords need some time to unwind and relax.”
“I agree with you there. Say, how did you meet Miss. Mimzy?”
“Strangely enough, at Lilith’s Resist concert,” Mimzy replied. “Rosie wanted to sing a song for Lilith and needed a backup vocalist. Naturally enough, I volunteered.”
“Were you nervous?” Alastor asked.
“Nervous, terrified…and super excited! Me, singing with an overlord and beside the queen! It was too good of an opportunity to waste. Heh, I’m glad I did well on the stage, otherwise Rosie would’ve incinerated me on the spot. People soon heard about my performance and more sinners came over to my jazz club!”
“Oh how wonderful!” Rosie replied. She then sighed. “Nothing out of the ordinary; still beating up my workers with my cattails made from hardened cat tails. (They feel like barbed steel, despite the appearance.) They still moan and complain but it seems to work. Business is business you know. There are those boring overlord meetings, occasionally discussing politics with the Magnes, the whole 66 yards. I bet that someday, my associate Franklin’s gonna get murdered and I’ll be the head of my emporium.”
Alastor laughed. “Oh my, how intriguing. You plan to kill him?”
“No, I’ll let mother nature do the rest.”
“Don’t you mean…stepmother inferno?”
Rosie rolled her eyes. “Puns are not funny.”
“They’re punny to me,” Alastor added. “Such great classics.”
Rosie cleared her throat, “No dad jokes. Please.”
“Aw come on,” Alastor teased in a mocking tone, “I was about to do my “Radio not, here I come” knock knock joke.”
Mimzy crossed her arms. “Spoilers, much?”
The trio’s dinners had arrived: a large rotten shrimp and clams for Rosie, Creole shrimp with demon bones for Mimzy and a fresh deer head over shrimp, rice, sausage and vegetables for Alastor.
“This is such a splendid meal,” Rosie said, satisfied.
Alastor whipped his face with his napkin. “I agree. Just as tasty as my human victims I ate on Earth. Though I will say, in regards to my…ignorant father, nothing beats the sweet taste of vengeance!”
Mimicking a choking sound, he leaned his entire head backwards with a loud crack and the others laughed.
He repositioned his head back to the front.
Alastor raised his bottle of whisky as Mimzy and Rosie lifted their drinks.
“To eternal chaos and happiness for us,” said Alastor, “and eternal damnation to our enemies.”
“Here, here!” they all said as their glasses clinked.
Soon, they had all finished their meals.
Mimzy then took a closer look at Alastor. “You…act familiar. It’s like I’ve known you before.”
Alastor tilted his head slightly. “You don’t say? Because I can say the same about you. I remember this beautiful singer I encountered at a bar in New Orleans. She was confident in her singing and loved doughnuts and desserts?”
“Yes…yes that was me!” she exclaimed. “Heh, being busy in Hell doesn’t give you much time to think about your past life.”
Then her eyes grew wide, suddenly fearful. “You…did you…”
“What?” Alastor asked.
“You were the one will killed me!”
Alastor’s eyes moved off to the side. “No, that was a different Alastor.”
“Phonus balonus!” Mimzy exclaimed in anger. “How many people in New Orleans have such a unique name?”
Alastor shrugged. “A lot, I imagine.”
Mimzy shoved Alastor off to the side and grabbed hold of his fancy red outfit. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“You know… I don’t like…to be touched,” Alastor seethed.
“Answer me!”
Alastor took a breath and removed her hands from his shirt. Memories came flashing back to him. “You were about to call the coppers on me. I knew I’d be caught and my life would be over. I wasn’t in my right state of mind and...”
Alastor stared down at his hands. He hadn’t felt this kind of regret and numbness since he watched his mother die and eat her remains. “Ending people’s lives…it was my only purpose…the one thing I could control besides broadcasting on the radio. I could lash out my frustrations and see results…I felt powerful when I did it, and I still do.”
He paused, unsure of what to say next. He held in his oncoming tears. “I…was holding your body, feeling regret at what I had done…”
Mimzy slowly backed away.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” His voice cracked slightly, despite his smile.
“You just ended my life because you could! I tried to stop you.”
“Sometimes, I wish you would have,” Alastor said softly. Then his regular voice came back, though it didn’t display the usual showiness in it.
“But look at you know. You have a new life here. It’s in Hell, but you’ve made the most of it. You’re a star and everyone knows it. Aren’t you happy with your life here?”
Mimzy shrugged. “It’s still better than death.”
“I didn’t really know if there was going to be an afterlife or not. I…I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t.” Mimzy replied. “I lost the Alastor I knew, that day, and…and now he’s gone.”
Tears fell freely from her black eyes. Alastor wiped away her tears with his finger. “I might not be human anymore, but I’m still here. Deep down, I’m still the same entertainer, but more than that, your close friend. I swear by Lucifer that I’ll never harm you again.” He held her hands and she sniffed.
“A-apology accepted.”
Alastor lifted up the corners of her mouth. “Don’t forget to smile, my dear. You’re never dressed without one.”
Mimzy leaned her head into Alastor’s chest, then abruptly sat up, hands on her hips.
“But you owe me…big time. 666 souls, daily groin kicks, plus swimming in the lake of fire.”
Alastor grinned.
“…without extra powers.”
Alastor’s grin shortened.
“So… it’s a deal then?” Alastor asked with a smirk.
She slapped his hand away. “No deals, jackass!”
Rosie’s eyes darted between the two of them. “Okay, this is awkward. Should I leave you two alone?”
“No no no, sweetheart, it’s fine,” Alastor reassured her.
“Don’t forget the midnight overlord meeting tomorrow. Lord Lucifer’s orders,” Rosie mentioned.
“Ugh how boring,” Alastor scoffed. “One of the bad things about my status.”
Alastor and his lady friends talked and enjoyed themselves throughout the night. It was a “dinner date” but it was also a “hanging hang out.” Afterwards. Rosie came up with the name after dinner when the three of them hung other demons from trees.
Soon the three friends embraced (Alastor hugged them, then stood back) and they said their farewells. Although Alastor was tempted to turn them into his slaves, he decided against it. Using his powers on another overlord could prove tricky. And he already made a promise not to hurt Mimzy.
Alastor glanced over at a casino and noticed a black and white cat winning a gambling tournament for the third time in a row. The way the cat moved and gulped down bottle after bottle of booze seemed familiar. A cyclops demon was sitting within the flames of a fireplace inside the building, sewing a quilt.
“Hmm,” Alastor thought. “A Niffty darling…and a Husk of a gambling guy…this should be quite entertaining…”
He finished with a low laugh.
Next time… “Shady Deals” 1973
Next time... “Daddy Dearest”
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