#staring into my fermentation station

[sent-from-my-pondering-orb]

How do I check if my fermented goblin eyes are still good? The last container exploded in the Closet of Cooling. Don't want to have another Swarm on my hands.

#standing in my kitchen at 3 am #staring into my fermentation station #they stare back #but bubbly

[notmuchtoconceal]

My name is John Jacob Janus Kaminsky. I am knocking on the door of a home I have never known, for no family of mine has ever lived here.

I am knocking on the door in the dead of night, waiting for an answer I know will never come and expecting the world regardless. I am alive and this life is my life and with each morning I vow to make the beast of tomorrow, making the least of what passed for yesterday.

The door swings open.

By the flutter of my heart, I am taken by arrest.

Throwing back, so too does that what frames the porthole in the dark.

The doorframe which is not a mirror but the door on which I am knocking. The door from which I had knocked, it having swung open, and I being confined by no chamber, but he within -- left alone to ferment in the dark, stood symmetrical in station and profile.

He was tall and broad and more handsome by the day for his heart was unburdened and what forces played over his eyes, his imperceptible eyes I hardly recognized, though I saw them every morning in the glass.

It wasn't me. I was simply what was staring back, and he was more familiar than I could ever be, being so much more familiar to me.

I wasn't moving away. He wasn't moving in, being the first to move.

Don't go, he said with the words "Who are you?"

"My name is Jon Jakob Janusz Kaminski. I would thank you next time not to skip the previews. I was the voice they used to put in the trailers!"

He stared at me, seeing me outside the door which was not this door, but the porch of the home at which I lived. It only occurred to me now, the reality of my intrusion -- not only on this night, but the unreality of what myself must have been to him -- how strange it would have seemed to me, were it to be me to have met him on the step of my door.

"Would you like to come in?" I asked.

"You're outside," he said.

"Would you like to change places?"

"No. This is my house. You stay outside outside til I invite you in."

"May I come in?"

It only now occurred to him how rude it must have been, that I had introduced myself and he had not yet done likewise, though also -- supposing I cut him off with a social faux pas, saying what I'm sure will be the first of many things to make little sense if they were observed -- as if by a neutral audience which was not likewise agreed upon by the two of us, and therefore had no means for comparison; was therefore doomed to seldom overlap, each of us performing some distillation of proper etiquette for an imagined auditor, the least of which was the other.

"Please forgive me, mysterious and handsome stranger! The uncanniness with which it is the most fantastical unveracity that I may look upon you without swooning (which I'm now realizing is a perfectly adequate and natural response for stiff-lipped, hyper-rational, upper class Victorian gentlemen faced with confabulating circumstances) has unsettled me as such that I have forgotten my manners! I always thought the word swoon was girlie. I had thought everyone who ever swooned was but a ladyboy who couldn't handle the existence of monsters, yet here I am! Tempted to swoon merely looking upon you, and yet perhaps I am not mistaken? Is this not itself proof you are a monster?"

"Me, monster? Buddy, you're the one who lives at monster house!"

"Pardon me, friend. If monster house this be, its admittance you surely do not seek. Kindly turn and leave, having never darkened my life with your disturbing and impossible presence, strange shade of iniquity."

Our eyes met. The corners of his lips tugged defiantly, predictably.

As did mine.

"It is so hot that you can say this shit to me. I know you don't mean a word of it since you already invited me in. Introduce yourself so your brain keeps working and the flow of interaction may continue uninterrupted."

"I am J. Jonah Janice Kaminsky. I am not an animal, I am a machine. I am not a machine, I am a man. "

"A likely story. But it isn't the whole story, is it Chucky?"

He paused, slapped his forehead in a burst of exasperation.

"The shit you fucking say to people and expect them to respond to. Holy fuck. Nobody knows what that means. Nobody could parse out the nuances of that. The only fucking reason I know what you mean when you say that is we are evidently insane in the same fucking way."

I took a step back. I was moving my hips and my hands.

"Yes, that was it. This is the thing about us which is the same!"

"May I come outside?"

"You may, but you will?"

"That's not a question, I already have."

"Hey, plot twist."

His shoulders brushed me. His body was warm.

"What's over there?"

"I dunno. Do you think the world might dissolve if we try to move past the scenery? Sometimes I look at the city and the graphics are amazing."

"It think it'll just repeat. I think we'll walk down that street, then wind up back here once we turn the corner."

"There is a field."

"There is a street."

"Would you like to come in?"

"I thought you already asked."

The room was dark. Through one window crept the streetlamp. Through the other the pale beam of the waxing moon,

"Would you like a coffle? Tea? Coke Zero? I can piss in your mouth?"

"Foot rub'd be nice."

"Nice shoes, bro."

"Nice dick, man."

"You are seated in the den of J. J. Kaminsky. Poet. Playboy. Homeowner. "

"You are hearty and well-stocked. In body, mind and spirit."

"There's a shitload of stolen candles I already used in that end table. See if you can find any jackets with all the matchbooks written out."

The shimmer whorled around me black in the aquarium glass.

"I have to say, friend. While it is still too dark for me to take in, let alone admire and compliment the beauty of your decor, let me first say that you yourself are exceedingly handsome and well put-together in a subtle and understated way which is casual and decisive. Your red cap is fetching, as is the length, thickness, and metallurgical composition of your chains. Your shades of grey, in your snug and trim and clingy hood, and your shimmering nylon sweats, silky and smooth -- your socks and your armpits likewise are exquisitely scented, mulchy as a distillation of vetiver, a woodsiness near fungral for how damp and bucken with hearty fat."

His pause... Was too natural to be calculated.

"Thanks, bud. I"m well aware that our styles are nearly identical and you flatter yourself as you flatter me, yet nevertheless I can simply find no fault with your statements, and that our intense similarities in style induces in me something like a nervous and radical tension to rapidly diversify I feel is well-contained, for truthfully -- I feel moved into a death-like stillness gazing upon you, for you are simply... "

"I think..."

"... I know what you mean."

He stared at me, and I stared at him. I likewise felt a desperate need to distinguish myself in some way, and a contrary and opposite yet equally powerful need not to compromise myself needlessly, for he was simply content and I was simply content and yet -- as we looked upon one another in our mutual anxiety, the stolidity of our gaze, of our frame, the strength of our posture began to crumble and cord. I had felt knots strike me in places -- points of tension I seldom knew now breaking me -- as I steered myself against my volition in some arbitrary opposition in spite of myself, seeing him strangely and likewise pulled farther in twain.

"I, uh..."

"Yeah..."

Our mutual distortion sickened us. Where moments prior our near identical shape and countenance had been a source of alien alleviation, now every point of similarity seemed so wretched a mockery for what was sharpest and most apparent was each point which distinguished us -- and vulgar it was, for it marred what moments before had been a state of perfection, and was now still continuously contracting -- likewise in mutual and cyclical awareness that we were embroiled in a state of simultaneous and inescapable corrosion -- simply for we had attained awareness of one another and so robbed ourselves of limitation.

"What are you gonna --"

You cut him off, for your expression was more urgent.

"Your overall suboptimal status, I have to say -- is quite charming. Not in a way which is childish or crude or rubelike (I say these things solely so you know I do not mean them!) but with a firm absoluteness which is the elegance of the always understated and gentlemanly male who needs not the ferocity of an ideological monopoly to keep up the ruse of love!"

His pause... Was too long to be rehearsed.

"You too, bro? You think I look and act like you're fuckin dad?"

It was shocking. This thing he would naturally and inevitably think!

"What? Why would I think that? My father is an imbecile and a monster."

"Thanks, bud. You've made that clear already with your immediately prior sentence, as well as that crack earlier about monster house -- Monster House? Was that a Dreamworks? Why is that still deep in your unconscious? Does a porch with shark teeth simply recall the animistic imagery of all things fanged by icicles in childhood winters?"

"While your evidence is strong, I know that was the polar opposite of my intention, and your lengthy and detailed diatribe about the the obscure echoes unstirred by trailers glimpsed in movie theaters (some of which I narrated) while fascinating in its own right, simply reveals the depth of your insecurity and capacity to participate in projections. I mean, you know what you are, buddy. I don't gotta rub it in your face . Big dog boy dudes like you who desperately want to lick my face with your eerie canid witch teeth, you know -- they like fuckin headpats and to be the best boy and to run around and jump in daddy's lap. Aren't you getting a boner right now, just by hearing me describe this? I sure as fuck still am!"

"Yeah, bro. It really makes my dick fuckin stiff, all these casually condescending attitudes you just carry fuckin around and don't take any responsibility for. Yeah, dude. The only fuckin person on planet earth you've managed to convince you're not a condescending prick is yourself cause you're the only one who buys into your own bullshit. If you think I'm your fuckin carbon-copy (but also I'm an idiot like you're father, who your nothing like except, oh wait!) you should get a boner while you slip cash from your wallet into your wallet. Hey, wow. I just thought of that! If I made you take out your wallet and I took out my wallet, we could compare identification to check the veracity of all these circumstances and give a definite, credible timeframe and location to these events, and while we're at it, hey -- we could glimpse strange and eerie details in the details of each other's portraiture, and hey -- what if one or both of us is making derp face or something cause those things only expire like every five years and you gotta show em to law enforcement and bankers and like -- what if you just made the derpiest face while taking an ID photo, then sat there in severe stoic contemplation anytime you had to show it to somebody in some sort of official capacity? That'd be a riot."

" . . . "

"I'm reading your mind. You don't have your wallet on you (predictable) and you're so goddamn in love with me because I'm so helpful and full of good ideas and possess deep intuitive structural awareness which lends morasses of deceit and falsity to the illusion of mundanity and reality. The best thing to do when you're lying to somebody, to really, really make it fucking convincing is to come up with a lie so close to the truth, it's almost invisible. You can swathe the surface events of the situation in such a fog of business-as-usual, nobody'll ever fuckin think to look there -- and anybody who does'll get accused of being nosy or some kind of dangerous renegade, cause you're rightfully aware -- normal fuckin people are the worst. Their need to be corralled festers their resentment and their mediocrity, but you give em a chance to be free, hey -- see how they fuckin act. You can say it all you want. They need to use their freedom productively, but here's the trick, bud -- they don't want freedom to be themselves, nuh-uh. They want you to be the better person so they have a better person to occupy. It's always, now and forever, always about them. They will never love you or care for you. They crave your power for they want power. Any, not yours. They could only ever see all you've constructed as a temple for themselves. They want freedom from themselves. They want a great man of history, some self-deified living God, to come in, destroy their way of life and take them over. Oh Your God. The only way Christ Who Is Caesar conquered the pagans was by saying he was the best! Pagans always want the best! They are so stupidly easy to brainwash and corral with carrots and sticks! Dog boy only understands operant conditions! Dog boy wants to be the big winner! Dog boy wants to take home the crown! They want a better person to be. You need to stop listening to fucking weaklings who've given up cause others gave em an excuse to. It really is as fuckin simple as it looks sometimes, bro. It's your feelings are right and you're being lied to. You're being lied to. You're constantly being lied to. Almost everything you hear is a lie. Wrapping yourself up in tight-af second-order rational conscious rope bondage does not change that. The world ain't always like a paradigm shift or a magnifyin lens, fucker. Sometimes makin shit smaller just makes it smaller, not paradoxically bigger. There are different rules in different situations, much like matter itself inverts at the margins. Am I being clear? Am I going too many places at once? Do you need it in a straight line, reduced to three points, bulleted? Maybe our little state ID thing can channel Patrick Bateman's famous and much celebrated business card mania -- you know. Bridge that gap between the casual barbarity of human mediocrity and the great men of history with these wall street betas who have no business and zeroer personality dry-humpin each other in a scene which is so spectacular precisely because Christian Bale's charismatic deadpan elevates the simping to unimagined heights. It's the performance which is noble, not the subject. That scene barely registers in the book, in part cause it's so much fuckin longer and there are so many way funnier scenes, most of which would be prohibitive in film. You know. You're a monologue guy yourself. You're aware of how Merry Huron's impeccable direction -- the score, cinematography, editing -- all of this renders an otherwise blase subject which is the height of bathos into the object of operatic heroism."

" . . . "

"Are you more angry that I said all of this out loud before you could, or that you're aware I probably said it better than you ever would?"

"Why would I be angry?"

"You look angry."

"First off -- Josh, the Cousin I am Within Give me the Strength to Stick Big Blocky Books on It All-- you said so many fucking things so fast, I need some time to process them. First off (here we go) just going back through my thoughts (backwards in my mind, not upward on the page) you opened with the claim of telepathy, which I was then reflexively skeptical of, so I approached all your following speech in that context, and (as I was still listening) was convinced as to its veracity by the tumult of echoes arising eerily out of nothing (which in turn spurned its own emotional reaction which I'm still processing) which made me then take more seriously the other things you were saying (while I already had about seven or eight tabs open) and then ... Oh, fuck me. Gimme a sec. I don't want you to prompt me. Um, and then you said..."

"You were in love with me, it's okay. I said it."

"Yeah, you said that, and then uh... All I can think about is how there is so much fucking material in American Psycho, Mary Harron's film version feels like a series of vignettes finely arranged -- a light brunch with wine, as opposed to the multi-day feast of its literary source, retaining the placid sanity of the business world but it seems for one frenzied eruption in the final minutes, where an ATM begs for pussy meat and shoot-outs with the police stir hallucinatory confessions to answering machine men who laugh and do not wish to think. Certainly, the full text of American Psycho has potentially vaster operatic potentials which've yet to be mined; the theatrical and ritual applications of which are almost unthinkable -- the lone man against the material."

"The prison of his own making."

"It lends itself so well to gay bondage porn."

(Who is talking right now?)

"Earlier I was really, really... thinking about throwing myself at you and burying myself in your arms and tasting your beard, but now I suspect ... I didn't, and rightfully so, for you were lying to me the entire time..."

"Of course you wouldn't be mad that I would effortlessly drop bombs like that in conversation. I'm demonstrating with my lived reality the lack of pretention inherent in film criticism, for this isn't simply a specialty skill. Our cinematic works compose our cultural vocabulary, and knowing how to view, processes and unpack visual and storytelling details is no different from translating one language into another. You'd have to be a real fuckin stupid-ass to think a Frenchman who was French and who could only speak French was somehow being "pretentious" by not knowing how to speak your mongrel degenerative colonialist dog language designed to make you stupider. Aw, man. Bro, not once. Not once in the history of human civilization have an oppressed people ever been given suboptimal tech and cultural modes to give them an irrational, needy, identity-based fear to cling to mediocre values!"

"People act like it's ... some sort of insane parlor trick to know how to talk about a movie. They think it's showing off to read a book."

"Bro, people are way too busy spending all their time and money on families they don't want and can't support to think about how propaganda is ruining their lives. Honestly, man. You're being inconsiderate by not already being their noble patrician billionaire daddy they can give up and rely on cause they finally feel seen and wanted. Like, bro. Think about this. Do you really think these people are worth saving when they only know how to be exploited? What if the proper attitude to take towards the working class is the same attitude PETA takes against Pets, which is also the same attitude taken by Our One True God, the Vengeful Mesopotamian Storm Deity, Enlil, against all these mongrel-hybridized bastards you desperately wanna stick your dick in."

"Absolutely everybody thinks about genocide. Talk to a man on the street, see the yearning for a mass baptism in a tide of blood. Why wouldn't I think all left-leaning management are lying, do-nothing bastards who manufacture realities with just as much falsity as management which leans to the write, but softer? It's what they are. Anyone who thinks otherwise is deluded, all in the same ways most people allow themselves to willingly be deluded, as was I -- thinking we were fundamentally better, when we were simply fundamentally different. Feeling persecuted and beaten down and losing ourselves by needing to be "better"."

"You give up everything you are just to be near them. It's sick. What they take from you and could never give back. It's better to keep people wanting you if all they want is to be wanted. Why would you want someone who only wants to be wanted? The urge to be wanted ought serve only the need to satiate another's want."

"When I want nothing, I could want only freely."

"I want everything, and I say only shades of... not today, not tomorrow."

"Not ever."

"What I want is you, bro."

(What I want is for you to know.)

"Every time I point out you might be lying, you seduce me."

"Wow, third time's the charm! Record time, bud!"

"The dating life's a blooper real."

"Don't plaster it over the credits. Stick it in the special features."

"Will you give our wedding video a boxset?"

"I've been feeling very Showgirls lately."

"You mean Bridesmaids."

His eyes clank like an executive toy. Abrupt.

"Right, those are different movies. Those are two different weirdly violent genre-busting chick flicks with one word compound titles both of which feature a synonym for virginal young lady bout to get deflowered."

"In terms of subject and tone, they're quite different."

"In terms of the ways I've already described, they're similar."

"One seldom knows the contents of a file before they open it, they tend simply to go off the name, that being what a name is for. To indicate."

"If I named something with an attempt to obscure its inner substance, what level of deception would that be, if we are assuming the purpose of a name is to describe, which -- why wouldn't it be, as this is the function of all language? When you name something, you are describing it. This is how pet names, nick names, well as the fuckin Bible all work, bro."

"If you were doing it with a deliberate irony you'd intended to be read, that would be the establishment of wit. Yet, the problem arises -- one needs to be aware that their audience shares either certain values or expectations (is aware of certain nuances, let's say) for the irony to be read, otherwise it may be confused for confusing or obscure."

"Naming a big man Tiny always reads. Everyone can feel size. Now a racist joke, on the other hand --"

"If you are a [White, probably white] man mocking racism, how much do you simply reveal of your own racism by being able to recognize it?"

"If you know what being racist is at all, you're racist!"

"Therefore all [Insert Racial Minority Here] are Racist."

"Therefore all [Insert Racial Minority Here] are the Most Racist!"

"Yet, that's absurd. To know and to recognize something isn't itself to condone it, as such a view could only come about in one who was totally an automaton with a lyrically-excised capacity to reason."

"It's like when you hear an Evangelical preacher talk about demons and you wonder if -- in our rational, scientific materialist world where nobody knows about the fallen celestial powers except whackjobs and drug addicts and rednecks -- if these clearly disturbed individuals holding sway over a captive congregation are simply using the Oylea Joshua Christos as a Font and an Opening to Spew Back A Corrupting Influence into Our Water Supply Like So Much Pipe In So Many Southside Leads."

His astuteness was wordless.

"Not once has anyone successfully Christianized the Irish."

"Likely, what's going on is that some [White, probably white] men exploit the opportunity for good-faith burlesque and its cathartic opportunities to vent in profound and hilarious ways and just spout their racist attitudes "ironically" (a flat and artless reduction of the subtle and overt juxtapositions which make for the sophistication of real irony) thus rigging the game against the powers of light, by casting a dim shade of fear and doubt over every earnest imploring for truth and reason."

It was unthinkable, all the things he could make you think.

"If a young man with no prior theatrical or analytical training were to see these distortions at an impressionable age, see their apparent effect -- their reaction -- have no knowledge of those outside of his small pond, their immediate doubts and anxieties, yet nevertheless -- being otherwise trained to regard them with expertise and authority, may overinflate the worth of their attitudes, their truth more definitely smeared.."

He leaned in close. He was so sexy when he was haranguing.

"One big lie. A thousand and one false conclusions."

"It's the American way."

(Bombs falling from the sky again!)

"You could never save them all. Only the ones who want to know..."

"... are fit to live."

"The urge to survive, a fleeing --"

"-- the desperate urge to persevere."

"In knowledge there is death, as in ignorance there is life."

"Running far, I always find you again."

"I wanted... to kiss you..."

"Do it."

"You're a liar, and a thief."

"Sit and drink..."

(Deutschland is on the --)

Penny for you

(Rhine Again!)

r dreadful thoughts.

. . .

When you stumbled back, there was a [cachunk].

You felt it in your legs. The tremor in your bones and nerves.

You didn't read it on a screen.

"What? What is this?"

You stared down. In the light of the moon, fuller than it was the day this night began, the mahogany handle of the icepick bled into the surrounding darkness. The gleam shone stainless in the moon, blooming beneath the weave and lace, the pleating of her gown, the reds of her heart. Snowy as the poppy fields you yearned to skip across.

"That's, uh... That's your sister."

"What's my sister doing at your house?"

"That's a very good question. Why don't you ask her?"

"I'm asking you. She seems -- if you do not mind my being so blunt -- a bit indisposed at the moment."

"She seems a bit... indisposed at all moments?"

"Hardly a recent happening, you'll lead me to believe!"

He looks away. To what you presume is a camera in the wall.

"Hey look, we're finally where you wanted us to be four hours ago!"

"Four hours and three nights."

Not sure if that was you or the mic.

"It's amazing that you can write for this long after you take a break! I think it's a lot easier to get me to be your willing slave when you feed me, water me, take me out for walks, and let me get a full night's sleep!"

(You're positive this was you this time.)

"It's amazing that you can talk at me all that time to hide the fact there was a body on the floor all along. Okay. Back to the diegetic realism which you seem to favor, not-at-all hypothetical person in some purgatory realm of my own making. (Purgatory! Before I wholesale adopted other people's guilt complexes, I always wondered why everything was purgatory. Purgatory! Purgatory! Purgatory! That's every urban legend, every crack analysis, everything which leads one to believe all which is not adopted as orthodox is not heretical, but simply arbitrary. It's exactly what I thought it would be, but feeling it's a whole nother level of different. I guess we all (secretly and all times) know exactly what we're getting into and we just do it to feel what others feel, so the whole of humanity remains not a tantalizing enigma, but a tedium. That way I can get back to my work. Not my work which is personal, no. That would be arrogant. The very height of it. To work for oneself. To not know slavery. To yearn for freedom. Best to work for someone else your entire life for a pittance, reminding yourself that people are hateful and not worth knowing, so you never feel tempted to suspect you're missing out.) -- Why did you invite me in? If you were hiding a dead body (my sister's allegedly -- do I even have a sister? What was I doing before I came here? Where am I going, and what am I after? I know this isn't my house, and you aren't me, and yet -- you look exactly like me, and I don't know where I am. You seem the sole point of stability in a chaotic, inverted and meaningless world and yet somehow I distrust and fear you more than anything, despite your seeming constant availability and honesty. You're not lying to me about the lies, unless you're doing so to obscure some far vaster lie, beyond even your understanding? Love opens oneself to vastness, and yet to contemplate love in its complexity is to become so meager, how could one ever possibly hope to strive for it? Best not to think about love. Think about love as little as possible. Just let love happen, and when it happens, try not to fuck it up!) -- why did you invite me in? With this dead body on the floor? How long did you think I would sit here, not stumbling and groping in the dark, but spellbound by you, seemingly for an eternity, while I stood and did nothing and followed a riptide downward, for all around me (invisibly) were the corpses of my loved ones lying prone and hopeless? If I turn on the light, which I still have not found, will I behold simply a blanket of corpses? Floor to ceiling, the lacquered dead shall assail me, twisting and entwined, in the false petrified embraces of your arbitrary and yet sublimely transcendent schema, for a man who has allowed himself to be made material is consenting to the lime of transformation, decay and display."

He pauses. Not to take it in, merely to highlight how he does not.

"Oh, I thought I'd have gotten you into the bedroom much sooner. I don't know, bro. You talk way to fuckin much. I can just tell you talk too fuckin much, so I try to untalk ya by outtalkin ya, but you're so goddamn stubborn and suspicious and seized by such a categorical mania, you don't just give in like a normal person and consent to be brainwashed by surrendering after the opening salvo, no. You talk back. You chose to participate. You haven't gotten the subtle messaging that participation as an equal is discouraged. The only way our sham democracy can work is by people knowing they have opportunities, but feeling like they can't. When you don't allow yourself to feel, you don't allow yourself to feel bad in the ways which control everyone around you. Bad boy."

"It's so alarming and yet so affirming to think--"

"LIMITED TIME OFFER. GO FAST. GO FAST. GONNA MISS OUT. OPPORTUNITY NOW. ONCE IN A LIFETIME. GONNA CHANGE EVERYTHING. STICK FIGURES DANCIN. HYUK-HYUK-HYUK."

"Beep-boop-boop-bop. Time for cogent answer recognized. You are not serving my immediate use-value needs. You are not a useful node for obedience and control. Running shame protocols. Next time give up easier. Moving onto easier target to brainwash and convert."

"Oh my God. Imagine being someone over the age of 14 who thinks in terms of being the main character. Who's a cute little boy who's finally learning to see themselves as their own priority, extrapolating their awareness outward. D'awww. Hey. Good for you, bud. Good for you for finally learning you don't need to serve someone else's needs, you can make your own. The absolute level of juvenile self-absorption -- coming from a man in his 40's --- I mean, come on. You're giving away that your only familiarity with storytelling structure are the basics. That Chosen One Shit. Really think about it. Really think about this, dude. Stories for adults (even stories for children for that matter) can have multiple main characters! I think anybody with a functioning brain (not you or the your own stupidity you see in other people) can figure out that truth arises somewhere between any one perspective, and like -- lemme see. Aside from how works of emotional complexity retain the same fundamentals in storytelling but minutely-refined through the endless variances of time and circumstance (they ultimately being but echoes, theories and elaborations upon our psychic reality), learning how to construct a character doesn't only reveal the nature of the self, it reveals the nature of other people. By crafting a character of a different sex, ethnicity, social class, what fucking ever, you both go outside yourself and inside yourself. It's empathy and it's narcissism because we are at all times ourselves and in coordination with other people. Durr. Fucking loser.

'Drench me in the sweat of your bench and call me yours!"

"If I wanted to pull the exact opposite shit, I would check this -- Think about fucking weirdo nerds who only "worldbuild" because they need an imaginary framework to string their knowledge of disparate historical and scientific subjects together into a fantastic register which is a vessel for their learning. Why else would they do it? Why else would they do such drastically unsexy, radically unfuckable things if not to learn and have fun? Is having fun and learning sexy? Is learning and sexy power? Oh my God. Is that what is it? Do we only get good at things to have power? Is competency power? Should I feel bad for being good at anything? Why should I ever have any sympathy whatsoever for the nerds I wedgie when all they are're weird lil hobgoblins who jack off over D20s pretending to be God? Why does anything feel good? Why does anybody long to discover or know or care? Let's sit here and really think about the fundamental reasons for why we do what we do, instead of just doing the things we have and want to do? Let's all sit here and Judge Ourselves for That Great Imaginary Audience Who is Either God or Your Peer Group or Your Absent Mother and Father and just announce to the ether that we're doing the right thing and deserve to be loved instead of just ... I dunno. Doing what makes us happy with the people who make us happy!"

He didn't pause. He was you.

"It's better to know the self in isolation than to know a fake world in mutual isolation, reminding one always there is no joke to be in on."

"Kids are a treasure. If you don't want em, you ain't ready to receive."

"Don't open before you're ready for business."

"Don't invest til you have the means to trust!"

"The more mistakes, the more reason they can find to control you."

"The more control they have, the more they can hide their mistakes!"

You didn't have to look. It was never fully out of mind.

"The dead body on the floor, you know -- you're not getting out of it."

"I had you going! You forgot it was there!"

"So what else have you lied to be about? Do you even really look like me, or are you a gray of a Faye or a djinn or a Wynn?"

"You callin me glamorous?"

"A regular puss, you have your tendrils in every opening."

"Kitty got claws, but the pussy got feelers!"

It was so stupid. How opportune he always was.

"I want to kiss you, but you're a murderer harboring a corpse you haven't disposed of, and you've already told me multiple times that everything you say is a lie, so I have no reason to believe anything I say."

"Murderer? Why you think I murdered her?"

"This is your home."

"I could have come home and found her this way!"

"You were hiding the body."

"You knocked unexpectedly, and uh... hello, corpse! I mean, hey! Look what happened! You immediately suspected I was the killer! Why wouldn't you? Do you I think I wouldn't suspect that, and then my presumed guilt would make me panicky? We've already established how freakishly cruel and judgmental you are, with your rampant unaddressed entitlements and condescending attitudes. I am not telling you anything which doesn't sound reasonable and which you already expected might be true, since other people look at you and think that you're repulsive."

Right. He was doing that thing where everything he said made sense if you were talking to someone who wasn't you, and didn't know all the things you know. He never had any idea who he was talking to.

"Okay, self-confessed liar who I suppose may have been lying about that. Why not. Do explain as how to the corpse of my sister I have no memory of found its way into your home, seemingly without your knowledge, or am I presuming? Perhaps you simply leapt to the presumption of total ignorance to test me, and you know well how she died, but aha -- did you also expect me to distinguish this theoretical from your later elaboration, or did you suspect -- like most -- that I would take the example of the excuse as reflective of the immediate experience of your life?"

"You, uh..."

"You can't. You're a liar. Would you like to come outside where I can see you be the vision of some foreign satellite which gives only luminance?"

"Don't call me a liar, you know if you say it, I'll do it."

"You always me tell me the truth."

"I love you and I hate you and I wish you were dead I wanna be you."

"Eat me."

"I can't."

"Why not."

"That's repulsive and horrible and contradicts my every learned value and natural instinct."

"Then why did you suggest it?"

"I don't know... it feels really, really good?"

Your eyes wandered over. You didn't want them off him. The woven stockings of her legs slithered in the black arabesque.

"Is that why you murderered her?"

"Do you really think I murderered her?"

"I suspect if you hadn't, you would have said so by now."

"You didn't murder her."

"I didn't murder her."

"No, you didn't."

"Did you?"

"I didn't."

"Why didn't you say that earlier?"

"I, uh..."

"Could you not say it until I could?"

"Well, uh..."

"What if I said 'I absolutely can self-terminate?' I didn't say it, but let's say I did. Since I didn't say it, if you can picture it, you only imagined I did and if you only imagined I did, it was your own latent wishing arising wholly out of your secret desire, which you manufactured from scraps and other sparse vestments which you've woven to a comforter."

". . . "

". . ."

" ... why would you do this to me?"

"Why have you done any of the things you've done?"

" . . . "

"Is that all?"

"No, I uh..."

You had been staring at him. You'd forgotten he was you.

"Why?"

"Why, uh --"

"Why not?"

". . . "

"This is your house?"

"You're certain."

"A foot-rub'd be nice."

"Was I... getting you a drink?"

"To invite me into the bedroom?"

"Would you like a glass of water?"

"I'd like you to tell me about the body on the floor."

". . ."

" ! . . . ? "

"Body on the floor?"

"Is this really you? What reason would you have to be ashamed of murdering my bitch sister? Certainty one or both of you wanted it."

"I didn't think you'd understand..."

"How is that likely?"

"Things which needn't be spoken oughtn't be said aloud."

"Would you like to innuendo the secrets of the corpse to me?"

"Things like that sound like they can be arranged?"

"What was she like? This sister of mine you confess to know nothing about, or did I only presume that once more by the example you'd earlier given suggesting not only her death, but her identity was a mystery? Yet why would I think this, you knowing she's my sister, while I do not? Why would I project my lack of familiarity with her onto you? You must have known her, she being in your home, unless-- would you like to now claim her death was self-defense, or am I leading you by being generous?"

"No, I can work with that. She attacked me."

"You got her with her own ice pick. She thought you were cold, but you'd made her hot -- and dampened, her seawalls gave way to shatter!"

"Why was she attacking you? Did you instigate, or were you invading? Is this her house? Why do I suddenly feel as though this is her house? Who are you again, and what are you doing here? Why do you look so familiar, and did you look familiar to her? Did you say she knew who you were?"

"If I didn't know her, I don't suppose she knew me."

"Maybe she could know you very well despite her not knowing you."

"Maybe her knowing me very well is why you didn't know you?"

"Are you saying I murdered her because she wanted me more than you, or did I reverse that in my head, I'm not sure? Wait, no. I definitely didn't and it was absolutely you, though in which way I'm absolutely unsure!"

"No, these --"

"The only mindgames I like to play are Jenga and Twister. You may think they're not mindgames, they're simply ones of cause and effect and applied pressure and this is absolutely so -- both are opportune avenues for exploitation and domination through subtle installation."

"You like things collapsing into piles! You're a good lil dynamiter!"

"I'm King of the Anarchists! I look so cute in my scarf mask and my molotovs and my 19th robber baron-century hot-air balloon chase!"

"Bro, I'm parched. Kindly lead me into the kitchen and let me watch you pour me a drink from an unsealed source into a glass I have freshly washed myself so I can be absolutely certain it remains unspiked."

"I'm helping you cause you wanna help yourself! Don't you ever fuckin forget that, bro! People who don't themselves, I fuck hard!"

[That thing which was stated to occur

occurs raptly in the feign'd on-time,

complicated only by elaborations

well-suited within their bounds

that every struggle becomes a dance

tension pluck'd to a harpsichord ping

as each flyboy writhes tautly knot

the h(a)unted yelping in surrender.]

You sat there, seated in his armchair. With your Zero and your coffee.

One laced with lime, the other with nutmeg and cinnamon.

"Lemons, I like lemons! You only have lime, and yet both are citrus, how does the substitution change the measure? From lemon one makes lemonade, and this is the alchemical gold which is one with the shower! The lime is alike with brick and mortar, it seems not to change shape, but simply cement and what is it I'm sealing, searching for a cask as you lead me farther down, farther down, to the doom you have expertly deigned for me yourself-approved, in the empty cell of some lone wall."

"Why do you wanna go in the box so bad? Are you the real vampyre? If you only wanna fuck dead things, maybe that's why you're here, talking to me about that corpse on the floor that I don't wanna talk about for the reasons I have just stated, namely how badly you wanna fuck it and how rightfully uncomfortable that would make me: a sane man and a homeowner with a stable and satisfying dayjob and lots of good and easy hypnotizable normie friends I can feed on with my acts of generosity and good cheer as they fall in love with the imaginary perfect man in their heads they project onto me, as I dispassionately know all secrets of the universe as they bare themselves splendidly and nakedly before me?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that I know everything you say is a lie and you're love in me and only want to control me -- that I am absolutely certain alone of these three things -- makes you rather than a source of dismay, one of paradoxical and persisting comfort."

"To you my brother, I say thus: all lies reveal the truth, and all love is love for oneself, as control is an extension of but these two things alone."

"That your axioms are so strident, I yearn only to contradict them."

"You may do so. Reveal their falsity to the best of your ability."

"You have linked them as such that to disprove the whole is to disprove the entire triune at once."

"If you shatter one, would the whole chain not crumble at once?"

"No... no ... you say all lies reveal the truth, and they must, for to catch a lie is to lead one closer to the truth, unless it leads one only to another lie... yet one could not be sure if this was so, until one had gotten closer to the truth and seen how further they'd been, thus now certain they've drawn closer... Yet, in the context of the statement this is complicated by the following: namely that all love is love of the self. This too seems difficult to contradict at once, for if one were to love a stranger, one wouldn't be sure if one would be attracted to the difference, the sameness or how the two interacted? The foreign may only be known in the context of the familiar, but then it is no longer so. It may only be reflected upon, in a context which no longer is. Since the interaction is relevant, one cannot be sure if the attraction is rooted in sameness or difference until one has clarified ... the source of the love, for you chain both together to control, and one cannot know control until one has been freed from it, complicating all prior associations. It's more that to disprove the third, one has to disprove the first and the second simultaneously, to collapse the third, otherwise all three remain supported for the stresses of their contradictions seem to feed back into one another and disperse."

"Well, you know ... that's all well and good for a first impression, but surely there's a lotta shit you just haven't had the time to think of yet!"

"And that "two things alone" bit."

(Wow-ow--ow-woW)

"...It's to say with certainty that control could only ever arise out of lies reveiling the truth and love being the love of the self. If I could simply find a form of control which was honest and selfless ..."

"Hey, good luck with that!"

"To phrase it in such a way makes it seem inevitable, and yet was the statement not produced to make it inevitable?"

"If conclusions are drawn, they are always representations."

"Everything right is a theory."

"Everything right is what's agreed upon."

"Why do people agree?"

"Simply stern and severe rational consideration of the facts, maim."

"You're right, I may one day disprove it, but it doesn't seem as though I can do so now, for despite the refreshments I weary of talking."

He skips hoppily up to leer at the camera in the wall.

"Holy fuck! That took ten hours! We've been at this shit ten hours! Finally! Finally I can get his dick hard! He's finally fired out enough to fuck!"

"Why would we fuck? You're a murderer? What's to stop you from ice picking me then spouting a bunch of nonsense at the next hunky young plainclothes detective who comes to the door looking exactly like me and looking at you, and wondering, wondering, wondering when?"

"That was never proven!"

"The murderer or the hunky detective?"

"One of those things hasn't happened yet!"

"So you admit you're the murderer?"

"I admit there's a murderer! The murderer happened!"

"So it was definitely murder, then? She didn't commit suicide or trip and stumble and fall on the ice-prick then roll over?"

"Yes. Yes, there definitely is and always was a murderer on the loose!"

"We're both in danger?"

" ... y-Yes."

"What if I'm the hunky detective and the murder hasn't happened?"

"What if -- since I'm you -- she tried to murder me and I killed her in self-defense? What would you do or believe then?"

"If you killed her in self-defense, there would be no murderer. You'd be guiltless in the eyes of the law, and she -- never killing you -- would not be a murderer. Therefore the murderer... would not have happened."

"Then if she were to murder you in self-defense, that'd have to happen later still too, right?"

"No. She's already dead, why would she defend herself against me?"

"What if she rises from the grave and tries to consume your flesh?"

"Furthermore, you can't murder in self-defense."

"I can't, but she can?"

"Did you do something to her body which will cause it sometime to reanimate? Is she under some enchantment, the vessel for some entity? Is she stricken by a fossilized alien parasite or pricked by some viral -based bio-organic weapon? Is she in a state of self-induced trance from which you hope her awakening will startle me into a fit of unexamined and explosive fear? Do the vagueness of these circumstances -- my evident lack of short and long-term memory withstanding -- make the sudden intrusion of genre elements not only palpable, but vital for a genre element lends both dramatic and psychological familiarity, we understanding monsters in all their forms to be metaphorical, even if only illustrative of man against his imagined other?"

"If she got up, that would certainly be shocking -- both to you, and as far as you can tell, also certainly to me as well!"

"Oh, look. You don't want to fuck at all. You wanna go another five or six hours and make this a lengthy dissertation on the nature of genre!"

"Oh God, please no! I can't stand another second of cogent academic consensus! I am neither bored nor falling apart, but simply -- void, and empty of any happenstance, any need which is unnecessary, or any squanderings which would result in squalor, I am simply... now?0 I dunno -- I think I was not before, and now I do not understand!"

"Would you like to go outside?"

"Oh God, please! Please get me the fuck out of here!"

"Fleeing the scene of the crime. That won't look good."

"They know where I live, unless this is her house, at which case, they don't know what you know, and anyway -- good luck explaining!"

"Explaining what?"

"The dead body we're fleeing from."

"I'll simply tell them I asked you and you told me nothing."

"If they ask me, I'll tell em you told me everything."

"Well, that'll be their problem then."

"Good fuckin luck, am I right!"

"More than anything I need fresh air."

"You think we'll ever come back?"

"Right now, it seems only a matter of time."

"Whose to say if the same will be true later?"

"Time will tell."

"I eat time for breakfast."

"Tribulation in tails, satisfaction in snails, tongues won hands-over-feet -- the rumbly in your tumbly whispers utmostly the inevitable!"

The door swings opens.

You're coming and going, receiving and parting.

The crisp bright night awaits, beckoning endless probability through the clustered & creeping axons of its bare, entwining branches.

"Trust in your healthy gut!"

"Buy me a kombucha."

"I am not paying for bacteria, go lick a fuckin rock!"

"You wanna lick my face?"

"Like a fuckin dog, boyo!"

"I feel this needs some concretizing tragedy."

"I feel all concretes are known, and all I know is tragic."

"That'll do, pyg."

"Oink oink! Porkchop's a pup and I'm a goddamn golem!"

#brodude #hey brother #fucker #that was fun

[startrekwintergiftexchange]

A Recipe for You and Me

Gift for @enbygesserit from @vaporwave-manatees!

===

Ziyal walked calmly down the promenade, avoiding eye contact with the ease of much practice. On Dozaria it had kept her out of trouble with the Breen (though of course their actual eyes were never visible) who would often reward a sullen or insolent look with a blow. On Cardassia it spared her some of the open disgust, the anger, the outrage her very existence brought no matter where she went. On her fathers ship, then Deep Space 9, she'd had a small lull, a peaceful window of time she could be more friendly and open, and expect at least some of the same in return. Now however, with the station reclaimed by the Cardassians and their Dominion "allies", her habit had returned full force. Better than seeing the cruel sneers, insincere smiles, or the tired and anxious faces around her.

"Ziyal!"

Well, mostly full force.

Major Kira strode briskly towards her, grinning warmly, and she couldn't help but grin back, at the only person she could always rely on to look at her with honesty, and kindness, and as her own, whole person, despite everything.

"Major." She curtsied slightly, enjoying the eye-roll she received for her put-on formality. "Having a good day?"

"Ugh, not until now, but let's not talk about it shall we?" Kira linked their arms gently and continued their walk down the hall, past the Bajoran temple doors. "I wanted to ask how your project was going?"

"Oh well...." Ziyal blushed, "I'm not sure, I haven't tried any yet."

Kira looked surprised. "But sampling the brine is the best way to track how the fermentation is going! What variety are you using?"

"Lotha province peppers. Vedek Nane gave some to me, he swore they're the spiciest peppers on all Bajor."

Kira rolled her eyes dramatically. "Sure he did, just like every other Bajoran will say that grows their own peppers."

"Would you like to come and taste some? We could make some hasperat, maybe I could show you my new drawings."

"That sounds like just what I need, first though Odo wanted to let me know-" Kira stopped abruptly mid-sentence, staring ahead, then swung them to the side neatly, into the door of Quarks. "Y'know what? It can wait, actually. How about we go this way, I just want to....check something."

"Of course". Ziyal nodded along, pretending that she hadn't also noticed her father standing further down the promenade, deep in conversation with the Vorta, just before their sudden detour. She knew perfectly well that Kira didn't want to interact with him, and unusually, she didn't particularly want to greet him right now either. Even more unusually, she didn't feel particularly ashamed about that.

They took their odd detour as if it was the most natural thing to do, looping up and back around along the second level then taking a lift to Ziyals quarters.

"I've been peeking in once and a while, trying to keep track of the number of bubbles." Ziyal ran to the back corner of her room, drawing the metal pot she'd replicated out of the darkest corner she'd been able to find. "I think I'm supposed to keep it cooler, but I'm not sure. Nane's instructions were kind of....vague. Plus, I don't want to lower the temperature of my room too much, since the rest of the station is already so......chilly......" She trailed off, nervous about the critical gaze Kira was sporting now. She knelt beside the pot, lifting the lid and giving the mix a tentative sniff.

"Hm...."

This moment suddenly felt nerve-wracking, like her first steps onto Cardassia with her father, her first days on the station, the first review of her art. The idea of Kira finding it lacking, finding her lacking suddenly choked her breath, and she folded her hands to prevent them trembling.

"Don't tell me, has my first hasperat experiment gone terribly wrong?" She tried to make the question humorous, light. She wasn't sure if she succeeded.

Kira finally looked over at her, and her small frown smoothed. She chuckled. "Well, about as well as most first hasperat experiments go." She leaned in closer. "It's okay, the one and only time I tried to make it alone my father banned me from touching his peppers for at least a few months."

She stood with a soft groan, then sat down on the couch. "First off, you need a real brining pot, clay instead of metal. You can use mine, I barely use it; not enough time to spare. You're right, the temperature here is too high, but there's a cooling unit you can replicate that you can place in the corner so you don't have to keep the whole room like a cold cellar. I can send you the specifications. You didn't use up all the peppers right?"

Ziyal joined her on the couch, relief washing through her like a wave. "Only about half, Nane gave me a lot, maybe he knew there would be some stumbles."

Kira nodded approvingly. "Alright, I can also give you some Dahkur province peppers too. Now, I'm not going to claim they're the spiciest on Bajor, but they have a crunch and sweetness I would say can't be beat. And I prefer a hasperat with some depth of flavour, not just spiciness alone."

Ziyal quickly picked up a nearby PADD, beginning to jot down notes. "Alright. How often should I taste test it? Should I slice the peppers, or crush them? Boil, or just simmer first? What ratio of salt and water do you use for the brine? Are there any-"

"Slow down! One at a time!" Kira laughed, sliding closer to bump their shoulders. "A Lot of that is up to you, but let's start at the beginning and make sure you've got all the basics....."

===

"Mm".

Ziyal waited patiently, watching Kira's gaze shift back and forth, the hasperat roll still poised neatly between her lips.

"Better." She met Ziyals eyes and gave her a quick, warm smile, eyes shining a little more than they had on her last taste-test. "But, if you want this hasperat to really make my eyes water, I'd say the brine needs to simmer a few more hours at a lower temperature, then rest a day or two more at a lower temperature."

"How about the saltiness? I could add a bit more if you think it would bring out the flavour."

Kira shrugged. "It's really up to you, as long as you love the taste it doesn't have to be perfect."

Ziyal nibbled her hasperat, then looked up timidly "But, I could make it perfect, just like you like it, if maybe....you could tell me how your family would make it."

Kira's expression tightened, mood shifting perceptibly. Ziyals heart sank, fearing she'd said too much, an overstep.

It happened often, less with Kira, but more with other Bajorans she'd attempt to associate with. Things would be going so smoothly, conversations would flow, walls would begin to come down. Then she'd stumble on some inevitable landmine; a remark or expression or even movement which reminded them she was different. Then the walls would come back up, the distance, the cool, guarded politeness.

But Kira's expression lightened, and she reached past her to the clay vessel, settling its lid back in place and caressing it softly.

"Typically....well, they say there's one hasperat recipe for every family on Bajor. Sometimes even two. You can be taught the basics, but from there you're supposed to figure it out yourself."

Ziyal nodded, tried to take the advice as heartfelt, but the attempt battled inside her with a sudden surge of bitterness. She pushed the pot back into the cooling unit with a clatter, perhaps a bit more roughly than necessary, then sank down on her couch, looking out the port to the silky dark of space. "Well, until now I never even got the basics. Let alone my family recipe."

Kira folded her arms, looking gravely at Ziyal then out the port along with her. They spent a long moment together like that. Kira sighed. "You know, I-"

The door suddenly swept open with a loud hiss, then-

"Major! What a pleasant surprise!"

Ziyal leapt back up, her heart dropping in sudden dread and embarrassment. They both abruptly turned towards the door as Dukat waltzed in. He bared his teeth in his way which missed friendly, but didn't quite reach threatening, and Kira's gaze hardened into the typical professional mask she used in front of him.

"Dukat. I thought there was a reception for that new Cardassian envoy tonight?"

"Oh yes, yes, it's going just splendidly, though of course we miss your charming presence. But I was in the area for a moment and thought I'd just drop in to see how my darling daughter was doing tonight." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, though the tender gesture didn't relax and cheer Ziyal like it usually had. "I hear you two have a little culinary project in the works, how is it coming along?"

"It's going well father" Ziyal was desperate to smooth the growing tension, trying to think of some way, any way to move the conversation along, get him to leave. "Kira said the hasperat brine I've made is getting better and better."

"Is it now?" He walked over to the cooling unit, pulling the brine pot out.

"She's right" Kira spoke cheerfully, and suddenly, strangely, her tension was gone, and she smiled at Dukat in a sweet, disarming way. "Her blend of peppers creates a wonderful balance of flavour. I'd say her recipe so far rivals the hasperat of many of the fine cooks on Bajor."

"I see!" Dukat seemed surprised by her newfound easy spirits, pressing a hand to the table and leaning in towards her as she came over and lifted the lid back off the pot. "Well, with a teacher such as yourself I'm not surprised." He smirked. "Though frankly, I think her time could be spent on other, more worthwhile endeavours." He looked over at Ziyal in the indulgent way which she knew was meant to be loving, yet somehow still made her feel like a silly child. "I mean, what's the use of spending so much time on something any replicator could make in moments?"

"Oh, but Dukat" Kira looked up at him with wide, coy eyes, as she dipped the ladle down into the brine. "Everyone knows that a replicated hasperat can never hold a candle to the real thing" she sipped it, humming in delight, "Though, as I told her, it isn't really spicy enough yet." She held the ladle out towards him, smiling serenely, "Would you care to try some?"

Dukat gave the spoon a calculating look, then Kira. Her pleasant expression never wavered. He smirked then leaned forward, holding the eye contact, drank the spoonful and rose back up to his full height.

"Hmmmm" Dukat smirked, swallowing. "Yes delight...ful". He swallowed again. Blinked. The smirk twitched, and he seemed to be trying not to cough. Or maybe cry. "Yes, haha. Not quite..... As spicy..... As...... It could be, to be sure." He smiled again, though not with the same enthusiasm as before.

Kira's smile widened, by all appearances delighted. "Oh, I'm glad you like it. Would care for some more?"

"No, no, I - ahem." He lurched toward the door, now blinking up towards the ceiling in a rapid, peculiar way, eyes shining. "While I appreciate the offer, I'm afraid I have some more....things to attend to, just wanted to drop by for a moment. In any case, enjoy your evening ladies." The hiss of the door nearly cut his final words off as he practically lurched back out into the hallway.

There was a beat of silence.

"Thank the prophets, finally" Kira muttered, leaning her hands against the table as she breathed a huff of relief.

"I'm sorry" Ziyal said softly, sitting back down on the couch.

"It's fine Ziyal. Just my luck he'd pop in." Kira pinched her nose bridge, then slid her palm against her forehead, as if trying to grind the encounter out of her memory. "It figures, it's like he's got a sixth sense for finding, then bothering me."

"No. It was me, I'm sorry. I told him you'd be here." Ziyal whispered. She couldn't look up, seeing Kira turn to her slowly. She swallowed around the lump forming in her throat, trying to make sure her voice didn't wobble. "He wanted me to attend that reception tonight, but we had planned this and I.... I couldn't find another excuse quick enough. I swear, I - I asked him not to come, I told him it was nothing, just a project for the two of us, and he, he p-promised me, he said he wouldn't-"

"Hey, hey" Kira knelt before her, taking her hand and shushing her gently. She chuffed Ziyals hand between hers, tilting her head until finally Ziyal lifted her head back up and met her gaze. "I understand. Trust me, I do." She slid up to sit next to Ziyal, still holding her hand, as finally Ziyal let the tears begin to fall.

Kira lifted one hand to her shoulder, and they sat close, saying nothing, as Ziyal let all her weariness and frustration, her anger and hurt, overwhelm and crash through her. Eventually the tears stopped, leaving her tired and a little ashamed, but feeling better than she had in ages.

"Better?" Kira asked softly.

"Yes" she tried to turn away, chuckling weakly. "How embarrassing. Father says showing such weakness is never wise, just puts you at a disadvantage."

Kira scowled. "He would say that, wouldn't he."

"It's true, isn't it? You're always so strong, I wish I could be like that."

Kira smiled, sort of. "I'm not…I used to think that was strength. Never drop your guard, never stop to let anything catch up to you" her face became pensive. "Now though…. I think strength should be facing the emotions, feeling them, and letting them change you for the better."

Kira leaned back, thumping her head against the couch back. "And, saying that…… I was going to tell you earlier, I…." Her voice wobbled briefly, eyes shining again from something different than the hasperat. "When you asked me for my family recipe, I, I made excuses, I lied, because honestly? I don't even remember my family's recipe." Her eyebrows pinched together, as if in pain. "My father, I remember him trying to teach me, showing me how, but I wasn't interested, too busy playing rebellion, then tagging along with the resistance, and finally fighting. I wish….. I should've…." She sighed, shaking her head. "Just another thing lost, I suppose, but… I remember the flavour, like a ghost, a memory of a memory. And no matter whose hasperat I try, it's never right. But…. I have no way of making it right."

They sat in silence again for a moment, then Kira sighed, smiling softly and turning to Ziyal.

"How about that? Embarrassing?"

Ziyal shook her head, hard. "No. Not at all. I…. I would never have thought you and I would be the same, like that. Thank you for telling me."

"Of course" and there it was, her real smile, the warm smile, eyes and teeth and her hand clasping Ziyals.

Kira stood, and stretched. "We'd better put that brine away, and I'd better go to bed. Another busy day tomorrow."

Ziyal joined her walking over to the pot, taking one last look then replacing the lid. "Kira…. we could make our own recipe" she put the pot away carefully, then turned to her with a smile "It won't be the same, but it could be something…good, something special. A recipe just for you and me."

For a moment Kira looked amazed, then pulled Ziyal into a fierce hug. "I would like that….very much". Her voice wobbled again, just briefly. Then she chuckled. "I could even teach you how to make Hasperat Soufflé".

Ziyal nodded eagerly. "Is it quite difficult?"

"It can be a challenge, but I think you'd be up to it, and the flavour, oh. It's worth all the effort. I have a friend in Ikreimi who could grind us some real katterpod for flour, the soufflé never fluffs up right with other kinds. He'd probably even let us visit and use his clay ovens, maybe then we could also go see…

*Fin*

(I took some liberties here with how the brine for hasperat is made, since I couldn't find anything specific on the subject anywhere. This takes place sometime between Sons & Daughters and Sacrifice of Angels, and essentially blossomed from my question to myself: "What if it was Kira who taught Ziyal how to make that Hasperat soufflé?" And then I decided to just write something not even exactly about that haha)

#enbygesserit #vaporwave-manatees #ds9 #kira nerys #tora ziyal #fanfic

[justanotherstarlightmonger]

Something they serve in Heaven- PJM

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Jimin x desi!reader

Content warning: None whatsoever

A/n: This drabble is inspired by @buzzyybee 's jalebi drabble. Ayo bee, look I wrote a thing 🥺 Proof read by my baby @bebejungkook who's been so kind to all my insecurities lately 💜

Also, I have two more lovely drabbles lined up for this week, can't wait to share those too.

Find other works from me in my Masterlist.

!!Feedback is always appreciated and looked forward to, send me an ask, leave a comment or let's talk in reblogs!!

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You loved Korean food. Everything from instant ramen to intricate broths that would bubble for hours and kimchi that would ferment for weeks, Korean food tasted just as much as home to you as Pakistani food did. Especially after marrying Jimin, you had had so much new Korean food, courtesy of his lovely mother who made sure to send tupperware full of whatever new delicious thing she had made every other day for the last whole month.

His parents were the most open minded people you had met in life. If anything made their son happy, they'd go to the ends of the earth to love it just as much as he did. Jimin had gotten his kind heart from them, not to mention his incredible genes. The boy you loved, owed his entire career and personality to the lovely individuals who raised him, and so you found yourself loving them before you had even met them.

And then you met them, and you felt like you had immediately been adopted into the family. There had never been a single awkward interaction, never been a single moment where you had felt left out in a conversation or celebration. And the best part was, they had welcomed your culture with as much enthusiasm, one thing that had scared you so much.

The biryani that you thought you could do better on had been devoured within minutes, the karahi that you felt could be too foreign to their palate had left your father in law licking his fingers and Jimin beaming at you. You were at peace, you were loved and most importantly, you were going to meet them for the first time as their official daughter in law.

Which brought us to here and now. As you stood stirring in the sugar to the boiling milk, smelling sweet because of the cardamom pods you had steeped in it a few minutes ago. Jimin had been in the shower for some time now, which meant his loud self would be out in the kitchen following you around with those love dazed puppy eyes as he did whenever you were making something desi. He had been busy catching up to all the work he had missed during your extravagant wedding festivities, which meant you hadn't really visited your in-laws, waiting for the freedom of a chill weekend when Jimin's phone wouldn't ring every half hour and he could actually have a good time too.

Adding a couple of pieces of saffron to the happy dish, you drained the soaking rice and added it to the milk, just as Jimin came out of the bedroom, wearing only his sweatpants. His freshly cleaned bouncy, fresh smelling hair shone in the morning sunlight but it was his smile that shone brighter.

"Babyyy." He cooed as he made his way to you, looking over your shoulder as you stirred the wonderful concoction. "Is it almost done?"

"No lovey, you gotta be patient." You booped his nose, his happy eyes crinkling in adoration.

"Ok, how can I help? "

"You can help by chopping up those almonds and pistachios I've laid out" you pointed at the chopping board where the aforementioned nuts sat.

"Aye, aye captain!" He announced, making his way over to his station, eager to please his focused wife.

Soon enough, the rice pudding started thickening, the viscosity increasing as you stirred continously. You were happy with how this was turning out. Turning to Jimin to check how he was coming along, you melted watching him carefully chopping away, his tongue sticking out just a little, the slightest frown on his forehead and his attention nowhere else.

He noticed your stare though, and met your eyes, laughing a little at the proud look you had on your face. "So, what's this called and why are we making this so early today of all days?" Another thing about Jimin, he was always curious about the rich values and culture you came from, and you were always willing to entertain his questions, the eager glint to learn more that shone in his eyes when you told him stories, all the validation you'd ever need.

"Well," you began, "This is called kheer. Traditionally, the new bride makes it the first day in her new house for all the family members, to usher in prosperity and blessings for her marriage. Also as a delicious little treat to boast off her cooking skills." You giggled, placing your arms on his exposed chest as he listened carefully, subconsciously wrapping you closer to him with his arms around your waist.

Then something clicked behind his eyes and he exclaimed, "Yeobo! Why didn't you make it the first day of our marriage then?" His eyes were wide in worry and his expression was serious, "Does that mean we won't have your ancestors' blessings for our marriage?"

You burst out laughing, but then saw the milk almost bubbling over and rushed back to the wok to stir it and save it.

"Honey?" Jimin urged you, making you giggle again. You turned back to see his still concerned face.

"Oh baby," you cooed, taking a few steps to cup his cheeks in your hand, "With the amount of money we spent on that wedding, we better have their blessings or I'll have a bone to pick with them. It's just a superstition. And anyways, I wanted your parents to taste it, as traditionally intended." You shrugged.

"Superstition or not jagiya, I'd like to not take any chances when it come to you." He bent to kiss your cheek, relieved at the explanation and unaware of the way his little spectacle had made you fall all the more in love with him.

You turned back to the thickening pudding, then decided it was done and began fishing for a bigger bowl to pour it into. Instinctively knowing, Jimin reached up into the cabinet you had ignored and pulled out the exact bowl you were looking for. How was he this intuitive to everything about you? You couldn't wait to spend the rest of your life with this man.

Pouring the kheer into the bowl you sent it straight to the freezer to chill quicker while you took a shower and got ready.

Stepping out in a new off the shoulder frilly yellow dress, your thick hair styled into bouncy curls that sat all the way at your waist and your makeup fresh and pink themed, you were pleased to find Jimin in a matching yellow sweatshirt, sitting on the couch like the perfect picture of a patient man.

Retrieving the dish you had spent the whole morning making, you couldn't help but scoop a tiny bit into a bowl to taste.

Instantly, Jimin had materialized in front of you, curious and definitely hungry. "Me too, me too, I wanna try." He shuffled on his heels.

You took a bite, resisting the urge to jump in victory as the rich, sweet taste filled your mouth. Maa would be so proud of you right now.

Smiling at the impatience of your husband, you topped his spoonful with a couple of slices of the almonds he had chopped and fed him.

Jimin, who loved to analyze the new flavours he'd discover with the sweet, unfocused look into space, suddenly smiled his widest smile as his eyes widened. "mMmmmmmmm" he hummed in approval, snatching the bowl from your hand and taking another spoonful.

Without warning, you felt the whirlwind of Park Jimin's affection hit you as he kissed you passionately. He tasted surprisingly sweet, the remnants of the milk still lingering on his lips. Pulling away smiling he nuzzled his nose against yours, "This tastes like something they'd serve in Heaven."

A blush crept up your cheeks. That was a heavy compliment.

"I mean, it makes sense, since I am in heaven ever since I've met you jagi. You've outdone yourself here. If this is anything to go by, I'm sure we'll have the sweetest marriage there's ever been." He continued, unfazed by your agressive red cheeks.

"Mimi," you muttered, loving every word coming from him.

"But Jagi... If you're bringing something this traditional, shouldn't you wear a dress to match?" He tilted his head.

Your eyes widened. " Would you like me to wear something traditional? "

Jimin laughed, "Hell yes baby, you look like a goddess in your embroidered dresses, and I'm sure omma's gonna be wearing that pink dress you sent her last week"

Heart full at the idea that his mother would wear something you had picked out for her, and the fact that he loved seeing you in clothes you had brought from back home, you rushed back to your bedroom, the perfect outfit in mind.

#bts #bts jimin #jimin fluff #jimin fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts x reader #jimin x reader #fluff jimin #bts fluff #domestic bts #desi reader #brown reader #jimin #jimin x y/n #reader insert

[whiskeynwriting]

Insatiable - Chapter Two: Let Me Teach You

Oberyn Martell x OFC Reader “Savia”

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Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) alcohol consumption, flirting, dirty talk, mentions of an age gap (reader is 21), flexibility, semi-public groping, praise kink, oral (m and f receiving), vaginal sex, bathtub sex, multiple orgasms, cum play/cum eating.

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Summary: Oberyn finally invites you to his bed chambers, slipping you away without too much attention; and you’re amazed at how much the prince reveals.

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A/N: oof y’all truly get to see Oberyn’s stamina today. I’d say this chapter is 80% porn, 20% plot LMAO. I hope y’all enjoy the prince of Dorne’s insatiable sexual appetite.

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The prince leads you back to the large gathering in the ballroom down the hall. Though you’re both more than eager to head back to his personal chambers, you still have duties to tend to. You were House Martell’s honored guest, and Oberyn is the prince of Dorne, it’s your job to entertain the many guests Lord Doran has invited on this night.

Your name is called as the prince leaves your side to go speak with his brother. You look over to see Ambrose rushing over to you through the crowd.

“Ambrose!” you shout, embracing him in a sloppy hug.

“I’ve been worried about you.” He pulls back, looking at you.

“What? Why?”

“You were gone for so long. I’ve been station on the far side of the room trying to keep an eye on you. I couldn’t find you for nearly twenty minutes.” You blush, knowing exactly where you were during those twenty minutes.

“I’m okay. I was… I was in the bathroom.” Not exactly a lie.

“For twenty minutes?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact!” you retort. “You know, Ambrose, it’s rather rude of you to inquire about what a lady does in the bathroom.” You huff out, turning away from him. The cart next to you houses wine, which you eagerly reach for.

Ambrose knows you’re playing with him, a smirk curling on the edges of his lips. You’d grown up with him, watched him rise through the ranks until becoming the knight he is now. Anya also knew him well, the three of you spent much of your childhood together. You and Ambrose, though, had formed a close bond over the years, and it was relieving to have a friendship with a man that didn’t want anything more; he is truly like a brother to you, and you his sister.

“Wine?” you offer, handing him your glass.

He takes it from you, only allowing himself a sip before asking, “How have the Martell’s been towards you?”

“They’ve been pleasant.” You smile, taking the wine back. You glance over your shoulder at Lord Doran, currently surrounded by a small crowd off to your left. “Lady Mellario is rather quiet, but Lord Doran is welcoming. As is prince Oberyn.”

You sigh, turning back to face Ambrose as your body tingles from the fermented liquid and the slickness between your thighs left from the prince’s mouth. “He’s quite charming.”

“Ah, yes. Prince Oberyn.” Ambrose tuts, staring into the sea of people behind you. “I hear he has a reputation for being quite promiscuous.”

You roll your eyes, giggles bubbling up through you. “You sound just like Anya.”

He chuckles along with you as he admits, “I actually think she’s the one who told me that.”

“Such a gossiper,” you roll your eyes again, laughing wholeheartedly. You eventually sigh, suddenly missing her presence.

After reassuring Ambrose of your safety, you wander back over to the head table. The servants have set out fresh fruits and cakes for the royal family and yourself, and you decide to let yourself indulge. You sit back in your seat, sliding lazily into the wood frame as you eat the delicious sweets. Your eyes scan the room, identifying those you’ve met and are now familiar with. You even see Ambrose on the far end of the room, blushing as a woman pulls him over to dance. Get it Ambrose! He never approached women; he was always too shy. You chuckle at his awkwardness, watching her sway with him.

The night continues on, the many people in the ballroom dancing and conversing happily as they become more and more influenced by the alcohol and loud music. When you’re done eating and return to the floor, you’re pulled off here and there by random strangers eagerly introducing themselves to you. Some ask you to dance, others ask you to express your clever wit through conversing in different languages or testing your knowledge on various subjects. You’re thankful that in your drunken state, you’re still able to hold conversation. Hm… alcohol, yes more of that sounds nice. But you should watch yourself, you don’t want to lose yourself to the fermented liquid; you still have to remain composed.

You’ve never been to a gathering quite as fun as this. Your past travels had lasted a maximum of two weeks, and your hosts rarely threw celebrations as grand as this one. It’s only your first night in Dorne and the Martell family is already exceeding your expectations. The moon is high as it rests in the blackness of the night, but the party continues, the people of Dorne endlessly enjoying themselves inside the palace walls. Your eyes find the prince in the crowd, speaking with a group of politicians. He looks delectable, stunning, and… quite bored, actually. You stroll over him, deciding to save him from the dullness he is so clearly enduring.

“My prince,” you coo, grabbing his arm.

He turns to you, smirking at your sudden presence. Your name then rolls beautifully off his tongue as he greets you. Oberyn introduces you to the surrounding men, all clearly important throughout the Dornish society. You’re pleasant, but quiet, and Oberyn notices.

“Is everything okay, pretty girl?” he asks, his voice smooth and soothing as he pulls you off to the side.

“Yes,” you sigh, doing your best to suppress your giddy giggles.

“I see you’ve been spoiling yourself,” he grins, his thumb rising to run over your wine-stained lips.

“Hm, yes.” You moan lightly, batting your eyelashes. “I saw you with those men, and you seemed irritated. Is there anything I can do for you?”

He sighs, his smile widening as his hands find your exposed back, stroking you lightly. “So attentive…” he hums.

“I’ve never been one for politics.” Oberyn sighs, looking down at your shapely figure standing before him.

Your hands rest on his chest, your smooth skin gliding over his. “You’ve managed to impress many guests tonight, little one.” That epithet… it makes you feel so submissive beneath him.

“I’m glad I have lived up to the expectations of the Dornish royal family.” you smile proudly, tilting your head flirtatiously.

“Yes…” he purrs, his one hand rising to stroke your cheek as he holds your face. “Such a fascinating woman.”

You bite your lip when he meets your gaze, his mouth parting slightly when he looks down to focus on yours. His right hand grabs your ass, squeezing you tightly, the action unseen by the surrounding people due to your bodies pressing together as you lean against the decorated wall.

“I wish to have you, pretty thing.” He whispers, massaging your flesh in his strong hand.

“Then have me you shall, Viper.”

His lips part as you call him this new name, something that was truly random and unexpected by the both of you. The prince’s tongue peaks out, running over his top lip as he stares at you.

“Come with me.” He says lowly, grabbing your wrist and swiftly turning to lead you through the surrounding crowd.

The two of you stroll beneath the ballroom’s large entryway and into the hallway he pleasured you in nearly one hour ago. But as you’re lost in your lusty and excited trance, you feel someone grab your other wrist. You whip your head around to meet Ambrose, a concerned expression covering his face. His motion stalls your actions, yanking Oberyn back a bit and causing him to turn to look back as well.

“What are you doing?” Ambrose asks, clearly alarmed.

You put your finger up to your lips, ushering his voice to lower. “I’m okay, Ambrose.”

“Is everything alright?” the prince coos, pressing himself behind you and reaching up to rub your shoulders.

“Yes. This is my personal guard, Ambrose.”

Ambrose nods toward the prince, bowing slightly at the sudden introduction.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” the prince drawls out, smiling amicably.

“The pleasure is mine, Prince Oberyn. Forgive me, it is my duty to make sure she falls under no harm.”

“I don’t think she will be harmed tonight… unless she requests it.” He leans down to kiss your neck, mouthing at you hotly as he runs his fingers through your hair.

The shamelessness the prince displays shocks you, eliciting a strong wave of arousal to pass through you. Ambrose stutters slightly at this, his eyes looking to yours to gauge your reaction. You smile, sighing out as Oberyn continues to run his tongue over your skin.

“I’m okay,” you repeat, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He hesitates, unwilling to trust the prince with you just yet. But he has no choice, he doesn’t have the control here. His protectiveness over you falters, and he bows once more before retreating back to the ballroom.

Oberyn quickly sweeps you away to his room, only one flight up from the level of the ballroom. You’re met with two large, wooden doors at the end of an enormous hallway. The prince opens the left door, his hand on your lower back leading you into his chambers. The prince’s personal space is ethereal. There’s an in-ground tub already full and steaming from the hot water, the aroma it exudes fruity and sweet from the flower petals floating through the waves. The rooms lighting is dim due to the surrounding candles, offering a rather relaxing atmosphere. There’s a spacious balcony further behind the round bath, its curtains swaying in the light breeze of the night. His bed sits off to the left with stained glass windows on either side of it. Its wooden bedposts rise up to the high ceiling, a multitude of lavish pillows and blankets scattered beneath it. He has many books lining the stone walls, and you eye a lengthy table off to your right. An assortment of glass bottles are scattered along the tabletop, likely perfumes and oils. The entire space is decorated in potted plants, some on the floor and some hanging near the open balcony.

He ushers you in further, stepping toward the round, stone tub. He places his hands on your waist, his mouth returning its attention to your neck. Your head lolls to the side, allowing him further access as you take in your surroundings.

“Would you like to bathe with me, little one? Wash away the stress of your travels?” he offers, licking a long, slow stripe up your neck to your ear.

“Yes,” you moan, more than eager to see the prince reveal himself.

He moves his hands behind you, undoing his belt before shrugging his robes off. He then unties his pants, allowing them to drop to the floor as he steps out of them. You gasp at the feel of it, his fully hard cock pressing against your backside. Oberyn’s sizeable hands move back to your shoulders, easily slipping the fabric of your gown down your arms. You let the prince undress you, sliding his hands down your body as your thin dress flows to the floor, pooling at your feet. He sucks in a breath, sighing deeply at your fully naked form before him. His body presses against yours, his hands roaming to your stomach and sliding up to cup your breasts. They leave you quickly, though, as his lips begin to trail down your back. He continues downward, placing open-mouthed kisses along your backside, sinking his teeth into the plump flesh of your ass.

“Oberyn…” you sigh out, your eyes fluttering closed in desire.

He hums, his groan vibrating through your hips while he kisses your cheeks. “You are beautiful,” he mumbles, mouthing hotly over your skin.

“As are you,” you respond breathlessly, smiling at his commendation.

He stands, turning you around to face him. Your hands fly to his shoulders, your heart beating strongly in your chest as he stands naked in front of you. His tanned body is completely exposed, his lean muscles tensing with arousal. Though he stands above you, your eyes are set on his strong chest. You lean in, passionately licking and kissing the smooth skin, the alcohol swimming through your veins helping you to express your desires fully. His rough palms find your ass once more, cupping you harshly while your lips move against him. Arousal drips from between your thighs as you nip as his skin, surprisingly taught for his age.

“Come,” he coos, his voice rumbling beneath your lips. “Relax with me,” you lift your head to press your lips to his, cupping his jaw as you give the prince a quick kiss. He sighs again, grinning as he begins leading you toward the warm water.

You follow him like a lost puppy, eagerly watching his every move. He descends the marbled steps into the water, and you trail closely behind. The water feels amazing against your skin, just hot enough to tingle against you as it rises to your chest, just beneath the swell of your breasts. You close your eyes and wrap your hair up into a bun, enjoying the surrounding warmth, the steam blanketing your soft skin.

When they open, you see Oberyn watching you intently. He’s sitting on a bench beneath the water, submerged up to his chest as he focuses on you. His hand lifts from beneath the surface, reaching out toward you. You take it and float over toward him as he guides you to sit on his lap. The prince’s hardened length rests between the two of you as you straddle his lap, your delicate hands returning to his bronze chest.

“How glorious…” he mumbles, glancing down at the swell of your breasts as they peak out over the surface of the water. He cups them, quickly moving forward to suck your left nipple into his mouth.

“Oberyn!” you gasp, reaching to cradle his head as he suckles on your breast like a hungry babe.

He moans into you, massing your tits gently while he sucks on them. The vibrations send shock waves through your chest, tingling your nipples while he mouths at the sensitive buds. His length twitches between you as the prince’s excitement grows.

“Pretty girl…” he groans, pulling away from your chest. He leans in, his mouth inches from yours. “Are you a virgin?” he inquires, his tone curious as his eyes find yours.

“Is that important to you?” you wonder, unsure of his personal opinions. The sudden question pulls you from your lusty haze, worry flushing through you at the inquiry.

“Yes.”

“In what way?” you ask, prying further.

“I need to know if I should be gentle…” he mumbles, leaning into your neck.

His lips ghost over your skin, his hot breath warming you as he speaks. One hand slides up your back, fingers wrapping into the hair at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back.

“Or if I can have it my way.” He groans, his tongue slowly licking the skin of your neck before biting. He throbs against your stomach as your hips shift on his lap, continuing to hold your hair while waiting for your response.

You gasp out, his strong hand holding you tightly. “Have it your way, my prince.”

He grins, lowering his hands into the water and grabbing onto your hips. Your hands wrap around his neck as he lifts you, pulling you closer to him. A hurried breath escapes from your mouth when his swollen head pushes between your lips. You bend forward, resting against him and allowing him to guide you down onto his hips.

His tip presses further into you, sliding past your folds as your hips lower further. Every ridge and vein of his cock rubs against your velvety walls as he slides into you slowly, groaning when he finally bottoms out inside your aching cunt. You sigh loudly when his hips meet yours, tightening your hold on his neck as he bottoms out inside you.

“Such a good girl, letting me fill you so smoothly.” He moans, “So eager for me to fuck you, aren’t you?”

You nod, leaning in to kiss his full lips as he starts to move your hips. Your knees rest against the bench he sits on, and you quickly find the position to be uncomfortable.

“Wait,” you huff out, maneuvering yourself so you can plant your feet on either side of his legs, allowing yourself a much better range of motion.

He looks up at you questioningly before his eyes roll back in his head as he realizes what you’re doing. Your hands resume their place around his neck as you move on top of him, dragging his cock through your walls as you begin to bounce on his lap.

“I see the answer to my previous question is quite clear,” he coos, smirking at the wrecked look on your face as he watches you fuck yourself onto him. “Your experience has taught you well.”

The hands on your hips are bruising against your skin, his hold tightening as he thrusts up into you. You match each other’s pace easily, rutting against one another in unison. The surrounding water sloshes fiercely around you, spilling over the edge of the tub and onto the surface of the room’s floor. One of his hands lifts from your hip to caress your back. He leans forward to kiss your neck, licking and biting into the sensitive flesh while you move against him. He then moves lower, planting his face between your bouncing breasts. You love his desire, his passion, his strength. You cradle his head before arching your back, shoving your tits further against him.

“You fill me so nicely… just what I need.” You admit, panting above him as you continue to spear yourself onto his stiff erection.

“Has it been some time for you, my love?” he inquires, his face still buried in your plump chest. “How long has it been since a man had his way with you?” He pulls back, staring up at into your eyes.

“Too long,” you shake your head slightly. You tilt your head down to see his dark, brown eyes and reach up to cup his face.

“Touch starved,” he mutters.

The arrogant tone in his voice makes you clench your walls. He has such a way of making you feel so small around him, but strangely enough, you find yourself reveling in it. It doesn’t seem like he’s teasing you, it seems like he wants to take care of you.

“I don’t believe that.” he tuts, amusement in his voice as he continues. “How could any man not beg for you? Not yearn to fill your womb with his seed and hear you cry out his name?”

“They do,” you laugh breathlessly, “But most are undeserving.”

“I’m honored to be found worthy of fucking your aching cunt.” He growls, scraping his short nails down your back. “I will fuck you, sweet thing, as much as you want. As much as you need. Stuff your weeping cunt full of my cock until you’re delirious from pleasure. Let me satisfy you, pretty girl, let me give you what you desire.”

“You wanted to study me, no?” you inquire, running your thumb over his bottom lip while continuing to spear yourself on his thick length. “Then study me, my prince. Experiment with my body, teach me the pleasures I’ve yet to know.” You beg, aching for Oberyn to flood you with ecstasy and indulge further in your captivating beauty.

His hand reaches down between you, the pads of his fingers quickly finding your clit and rubbing wildly against it. His other hand continues to guide you down onto him, shoving himself inside you and pounding up against your cervix.

“I will teach you, little one.” He grunts out, his hips continuing to rut up into you.

His lips find yours, his tongue eagerly massaging itself into your mouth. You moan at his taste, swallowing each intimate sound that leaves his throat. The prince’s grunts are forceful, full of passion and lust as his cock fills you over and over again. His fingers continue their pace, forcing the waves of pleasure washing over you to climb higher. Your orgasm then crashes into you, his thick fingers demanding it as they rub your sensitive peak.

“Yes! Yes! Oberyn!” you cry out, throwing your head back and shoving yourself down onto him, his relentless digits continuing to press and rub against your sex while you endure your climax.

Your body rolls against his, your hardened nipples rubbing over the lean muscles in his chest as they flex beneath you. Ecstasy floods through your limbs while his pulsing cock aids you in riding out your release. Just as he did before, he reads your body’s signals, slowing his hips until you still above him.

“My prince,” You breathe out, panting above him, “you didn’t find your release.”

“No,” he hums, “I wish to find my release elsewhere.” He murmurs, staring at your mouth.

“Are you interested, love?” he asks thoughtfully, holding your face in his head. “Or are you finished with our activities for the night?”

You’re far from finished with the prince of Dorne. You move up and off him, his firm cock heavy as it slides out of you. It rests against his lower stomach, aching to be pleasured. Without leaving his gaze, you grab him, pumping him slowly in your tight grasp.

“Let me taste you, Viper.” You coo, leaning in to kiss along his neck.

He moans at your words as your hand moves along his shaft. “You are perfect.”

His arms move up, planting his hands on the surface of the floor and pulling himself out from under you to sit on the above level. He’s completely bare and laid out for you, exposed to your mesmerized gaze. His body is beautiful, truly a masterpiece. There are a few scars that litter his skin, some along his torso and thighs, one or two on his arms, but other than that, his skin is incredibly smooth. The prince’s frame is built perfectly, and if you had to guess, likely in the gods’ image. Water drips from his limbs and onto the stone floor, his cock also drips before you, his precum running down his shaft.

You crawl forward between his legs, squatting on the bench in front of his swollen cock. You’ve never taken a man in your mouth before, but are eager, nonetheless. The experience Oberyn assumes you have is simply from penetrative sex; the men in your life never offered you anything more, but it seems like this one might.

“Have you done such a thing to a man before, little one?” he inquires, one hand stroking your hair as he leans back on the other.

Slightly embarrassed, you bite your lip and shake your head. To your surprise, he smiles and sighs happily as your confession.

“Then let me teach you.” he offers, his voice tantalizingly low. “Let us make your mouth as gifted as your mind.”

Your body tingles with excitement at the prince’s continued interest in you, eagerly anticipating any and all future lessons. Your eyes flicker down to his crotch, his tip licking with need.

“Lick it,” he commands, nodding his head down at you. “Taste the prince of Dorne.”

Your tongue moves out between your lips to flick over his tip, the salty musk landing on your receptive buds for the first time. You moan at Oberyn’s flavor, and you’re already tempted to taste more. You run your tongue slowly over his tip, lapping at the precum dripping from him.

“So good…” he sighs, tilting his head as he watches you.

“Open, pretty thing. Open your mouth.” He begs above you, and you immediately comply.

Your lips part widely, sticking your tongue out for him. He grips his shaft, shifting forward a bit so he can place it on your waiting tongue. He moves forward, sliding it along the wet, hot muscle.

“Suck.”

At his command, you close your lips around him, sucking his bulbous tip into your mouth.

“Oh, yes…” he purrs, staring down at you as he smiles. “So obedient.”

You hum happily at his praise, the vibrations sending shockwaves through his length and hips. His cock pulses from the feeling as he shudders, saturating your tongue in more of his salty fluid. You close your eyes and enjoy the taste and smell of his length as it rests in your mouth. He places a hand on your head, flattening against you and urging you further down onto him. Your lips widen, allowing more of him into your mouth. You gag involuntarily when he hits the back of your throat, pulling off of him to catch your breath.

“Look at you,” he purrs, “Choking on my cock. Do it again, sweet thing.”

You sigh at his words as you stare up at him, smiling while your chest rises and falls. You return to his hips, taking him back in your mouth. He slides his cock to the back of your mouth in one motion, and you’re eager to shove him further in than the last time.

“Breathe, little girl.” He sighs, moving hair out of your face and holding it behind your head. “Breathe.”

The names he calls you makes you drip with desire, the words beckoning a song of submission from deep within you. The fist Oberyn has in your hair tugs upwards, gesturing for you to come up for air. But you’re greedy, you want more. Working against his strong grip, you shove yourself further down, allowing his cock to enter your throat while your mouth wraps around his thick girth.

Oberyn grunts and throws his head back, his hips jerking involuntarily up against your face. “Greedy little thing.”

In one swift motion, he shoves himself down your throat, pushing past your gag reflex and beginning a quick pace. You continue to gag on his length, your throat swallowing around him to squeeze his cock. Spit starts drooling from your mouth and onto the skin at the base of his shaft. His short, dark curls scratch roughly at your face and his hips rut into your mouth. His head is thrown back as he continue thrusting, leaning back on his one hand while the other forces you down on him.

“Oh, yes…” he moans out, “beautiful girl. Taking my cock so nicely, so willingly… swallowing me whole.”

The sounds your mouth makes while he fucks your face are obscene as they echo off the stone walls. You slurp and suck on his long cock, your salvia mixing with his precum and dripping all over his hips and your chest.

“Pretty girl, you’re going to make me cum.” He groans, gritting his teeth. “I want you to look at me,” he pleads, “look at me if you want to swallow my cum.”

You’ve never tasted a man’s cum before, and you wonder how the liquid would feel sliding down your throat, the flavor of it as it coats your tongue. Your eyes immediately look up to find his, desperately wishing to taste the prince’s seed.

His lusty brown eyes stare down at you, a smile spreading across his handsome face as he pants breathlessly above you. You stare up at him, choking and drooling all over his cock. The prince’s face contorts in pleasure as his thrusts become quicker and even more forceful. You moan around his length, and that’s what sends him over the edge.

He hurriedly sits up, the hand he once leaned on joining the one on your head. His lean frame bends lightly over you as his hips jut against your face in quick, shallow thrusts, holding you still as he fucks into your mouth. Finally, the first spurt of cum shoots into your mouth, splashing onto your tongue. Each shove of his cock releases a long string of his seed, pouring over your tongue. The liquid is thick, warm, and sticky as it coats your tongue and throat. It’s also salty, much saltier than his precum, and you savor it. There’s so much that it drips from your mouth, sliding down his shaft before you can gulp it all down. You continue to suck Oberyn’s cock and swallow his cum until he slows down, eventually relaxing and leaning back on both elbows.

You hum pleasantly, elated in your ability to make the prince cum with your mouth and tongue. His softening length slides out of your mouth as you lift yourself from him. Oberyn’s eyes are closed, his face now slack as he comes down from his high. You notice that traces of his cum are scattered along the base of his shaft, and you immediately lean forward to lap at the pearlescent liquid, cleaning the prince of his spend.

The prince hums beneath you and his hand reaches up to stroke your hair. “You like the taste?”

“Yes,” you sigh out while licking him clean.

He sits up, taking your face in his hand and kissing your thoroughly. His tongue dives into your mouth, and he moans lustfully when he tastes himself. You then unexpectedly feel the prince harden against your lower stomach.

“You’re hard for me again, my prince?” you question, continuing to use his title. Though he claims you don’t need to, you absolutely want to.

“How can I not be when your bare body is against me?” he groans, running his hands over your back.

“Then fuck me,” you whisper, leaning in to lick slowly up the cuff of his ear. “Let me feel you cum inside me.”

He groans huskily beneath you, “You are magnificent. Join me in my bed, pretty thing.

You roll back into the water, watching the prince stand and stride over to the table near his door. He picks up a bottle, examining it before walking across the room and over to his bed. You ascend the pool’s steps, the water dripping down your curves as you saunter over to him. Oberyn sets the bottle onto a nightstand, then turns to face you. His hard cock rests stiff against his lower stomach, his tan body displayed gorgeously beneath the candlelight.

After tasting his cum, you’re ravenous, completely cock drunk for him. You hurry over, kneeling before him and sliding your hot mouth down his length. Oberyn gasps out, watching your greedy mouth take him once more.

“Hm…” he moans, stroking your hair as you swirl your tongue around his thick cock. “Such a quick learner.” he praises.

You stare up at him, your big doe eyes needy and desperate for more. He reaches behind him, grabbing a bottle of wine from an ice bucket sat on the bedside table. He then bends down to grab your jaw and ease you off of him.

“You look quite thirsty, pretty girl.” He notes, stroking your face. You nod, breathless as you stare up into his brown eyes.

Oberyn pops the cork from the bottle, lowering it. You open your mouth, assuming he’s going to pour it inside, but he tuts and shakes his head at this.

“No, sweet thing.” He sighs, smiling and chuckling lightly. His voice is low, teasing, his accent emphasized as he speaks to you. “You’re going to drink it from my cock.”

You moan lustily as you watch him lean back a bit, pouring the red wine over his lower stomach and into his cock and balls. You’re quick to bend forward, angling your head so your mouth lays open beneath his balls. The wine trickles onto your tongue, the sweet liquid only adding to your arousal. It drips messily over your face, down to your neck and chest. You suck one of his balls into your mouth, rolling your tongue over the flesh while tasting the mix of his musk and the wine.

“Clean me,” he orders, “Clean me as you did before.”

You do as you’re told, moving up to run your tongue along his shaft, slurping up any fermented liquid that did not fall onto your tongue or skin. You trail higher, licking over the muscles of his lower stomach. The visible v-line along his hips drives you absolutely wild, and you lean in to nip at the sensitive flesh. The prince gasps, reaching his hand down to your elbow and guiding you to stand before him.

You stick your tongue out, running it over his lips as he smiles. “I seemed to have unleashed something feral in you, little one.”

“I want you,” you pant out, “Please, Oberyn.”

Your mind is hazy from alcohol and lust and the constant sexual tension that has been ever-building since you stepped foot in the palace. The prince wanted you, and now he has you; and you want him to use you. To fuck you until he’s spent and delirious, your pussy swollen and achy from his girth and strength.

Oberyn’s hands move you, spinning you around before bending you over the bedside. He reaches down, lifting your left leg up to rest on the mattress.

“Is this okay for you?” he asks, his voice a whisper as his hot breath hits your skin.

You giggle excitedly, pushing back against him with just enough force to make him step backward. You lift your other knee, folding your legs out into a middle split along the bedside before him.

The prince’s jaw drops at the sight of you, completely sprawled out and ready for him. Oberyn moans, the smirk on his face evident in his tone as he watches you, fascinated by your pliant body. You suddenly feel the wet drip of a heavy liquid on your backside as the prince steps back over to you. You whip your head around to see him pouring a bottle of oil onto your body, red and scented with rose petals, likely the one he had grabbed earlier. Once satisfied with the amount, he sets the bottle back on the side table. His large hands stroke along your body, massaging the oil over your ass and thighs, humming while he admires you and your flexibility.

“Look at you…” he purrs, his thick fingers reaching down to scoop up the slick dripping from your folds. “So eager for me.”

He leans over you, his hard cock pressing between your cheeks. You turn your head toward him as he holds his hand out for you, his drenched digits now touching your lips. The prince’s fingers slide into your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself. You moan as the tangy flavor coats your receptive buds, sucking on his fingers as he shoves them further into your mouth. You’re also able to taste the oil the prince has chosen to use, which is delightfully fruity and sweet. You move to swirl your tongue over his fingers as they explore your mouth, but are quickly distracted by your abrupt moan. The prince has thrusted into you while forcing his fingers down your throat and causing you to gag.

“Oh, I love that,” he admits, sighing out, “the sounds you make are so delectable.”

He pushes past your gag reflex, urging his fingers down your throat. He thrusts into you again, the force behind his hips powerful as they slam against your ass. His other hand grabs your plump flesh, squeezing and spreading your cheeks even more for him.

“You sound so pretty… feel so pretty, choking on me. Any part of me.”

You groan at his words, the sound muffled as his fingers slide down your throat, opening your mouth wide. You wrap your lips around them, causing him to sigh out joyfully.

“I have never had a women spread out for me so extensively,” he admits, his voice rough as he removes his fingers, both hands now moving to your hips. That is quite surprising to you, considering the Red Viper is known to have fucked half of Westeros. Regardless, you’re delighted to give him something no one else ever has.

“Do you, fuck – do you like it, my prince? Do you like the view I’ve made for you?” you inquire innocently, gasping at each snap of his hips as the air is punched from your lungs.

“It is enthralling.” He grunts through gritted teeth.

The prince of Dorne continues to pound into you from behind, punching his swollen tip against your cervix as he shoves himself entirely inside. You grin at his praise, his cock, his groans… everything. Everything about him and this night has you completely enamored in the mature man behind you.

“So submissive, so young, so innocent…” He groans, thrusting into you at a frenzied pace.

“Hmm…” you moan out, “Do you like young women in your bed?”

He leans down over your back, pressing his curved nose to your cheek, “I like you in my bed.”

You turn you head, and your tongues eagerly meet; swapping spit as it drips messily between your mouths. Prince Oberyn’s vigorous passion is something you’ve never experienced from a man before, not to this degree.

“Have you ever fucked a prince?” he questions, arrogance lacing his voice as he grins.

“No,” you whine out, “Never.”

“And how does it feel now that you’re full of one?” he purrs, returning to his upright stance as he smirks behind you. His hips continue their fervent speed while he speaks, his tanned muscles straining above your sinuous body.

“You are absolutely captivating, my prince.”

He chuckles happily at your words as he leans back over you, gasping into your ear and wrapping his hands around your body. “Are you ready to be filled, pretty girl?”

“Yes! Yes Oberyn, please. Fill me with your cum.” You beg, desperate to feel his release flood into you.

He lets himself go at your request, rolling his eyes back in his head as his pleasure peaks. A strangled cry is ripped from his throat, his hips now thrusting against your ass at a jagged pace. Each thrust is quick and deep as he empties himself inside your pussy, tightly squeezing your body as he cums.

You throw your head back as he does so, the liquid warmth pooling within you. The thick substance now coating your stomach and your womb, fully allowing the prince to empty himself into any hole he wants. Rope after rope floods your inner channel, his cock shoving each gush further into you until it pours over his length and drips onto the sheets below. He begins softening inside you, resting his sweaty forehead against your back while he catches his breath. His hips retract, letting his cock slide out of your swollen sex.

The Dornish prince leans down, his rough hands spreading your cheeks. He shakes his head, tutting quietly as he watches his cum leak out of you.

“You’re dripping all over the sheets, little thing.”

You blush as the prince stares at your fluttering hole, his cum pouring out from between your puffy folds. It’s shameless, the way he spreads you open right in front of his face. You’ve never been so exposed before a man… you’ve never been so completely devoured by a man.

He then leans forward, running his tongue through your lips. The sensation causes you to gasp, a noise that slowly turns into a whine as the prince tongue-fucks your aching pussy. You keep your legs spread for him, stretching your muscles while he drinks his cum from your folds. The act is so shocking and lewd, it sends fresh waves of ecstasy through your hips.

“Oberyn,” you sigh, glancing over your shoulder. “Do you like how you taste?”

He doesn’t answer, he simply moans against your sex instead, shoving his face further between your spread legs. His tongue shoves its way inside your wet channel, slurping and sucking on your combined juices. You wiggle your hips back against his face, and the groan it elicits from the prince is almost animalistic. His strong hands find their way under your legs and up to your hips, lifting you slightly so he can latch his mouth to your throbbing clit. He suckles on it like he’s hungry, like he’s a man starved. Though he’s already tasted you once tonight, he can’t seem to get enough. His thirst for you is insatiable; Oberyn is completely captivated by your beautiful soul. And you can’t blame him, because you can’t get enough of him, either.

The prince is teaching you many lessons tonight, as it’s filled to the brim with firsts for you, and even one for him. He’s the first man to have his mouth on your sex, the first to taste your cum as is splashes against his face, the first to shove his cock down your throat and pump his cum into your belly… the first to fuck you so vigorously.

His fervent tongue applies pressure to your clit so beautifully, it makes you want to cry. He moans as he consumes you, happily tasting himself in the process. His cum continues to drip from your fluttering hole and onto his face while he laps at your pleasure center, whining in arousal as it runs down his cheeks.

“Cum for me, dirty girl.” He grunts, “Let me taste the delectable cocktail of your juices mixed with my spend.”

His words cause you to cry out, your eyes rolling back as he pulls your climax right out from under you. His strong hands hold your hips against him, burying his face between your ass cheeks as you shudder against his talented tongue. You rock back on his beautiful face, rolling your hips and allowing the waves of pleasure to engulf you entirely.

Oberyn moans deeply, adding to the blissfully debilitating pulses shooting through your hips and thighs. You rest your forehead against the blankets beneath you, entirely exhausted and breathless, but Oberyn continues. Even when you’ve fully calmed down from your orgasm, he laps at your juices. Your combined liquids leak out of you and onto his wanting tongue, the tangy musk coating his taste buds as he swallows it. His lips move over your entrance, loudly slurping and sucking as he drinks from you like you’re the fountain of youth.

He finally pulls himself off you, resting back on his heels as he admires your swollen, red sex. “Delicious,” he moans, sighing out deeply.

You hum happily when you feel his hands on your thighs as he helps you to move your legs and slowly lower them down, allowing your muscles to relax. His solid frame leans over you, the skin of his chest pressing to your back as he kisses your shoulder.

“I hadn’t expected this from you…” he whispers devilishly, moving up to kiss your earlobe. “For one so young, so innocent… your stamina and passion seem to fit mine quite well.”

“I agree,” you sigh out, rolling over and pulling him down onto you.

You wrap your legs around his lower back, cupping his face as he kisses you with his wet mouth. He was right, the mix of your fluids is utterly mouthwatering.

“I hope I will get the opportunity to feel you fill me more than once while staying in Dorne.” You smirk, truly hoping to see him more during your stay.

Oberyn chuckles above you, releasing a long breath as he smiles. “I anticipate you’ll be spending many nights in my bed during your stay.” He responds, leaning in to kiss you. “I haven’t had my fill of you just yet.”

Detailed Chapter Summary

Oberyn treats you to a pleasurable night in his private room, and you’re absolutely shocked by what he’s able to do. The entire evening is spent performing erotic activities, the two of you growing closer by the minute. 

When you’ve exhausted yourselves, Oberyn holds you in his arms, happily snuggling into you. He’s absolutely enamored with you, and you with him. Before your eyes drift shut, he admits that he’s intending to continue the beginnings of your relationship. 

Chapter Three: Let Me Show You

Insatiable Taglist: @pascalslittlebrat

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[moccahobi]

Dancing in the Rain Pt. 1 [Namjoon x Hoseok]

Member: Namjoon (BTS) x Hoseok (BTS)

wc: 1.9k

Summary:  Namjoon lived in a small town. He loved it. It had just enough going on to give him fun when needed and not enough going on that he felt overwhelmed. On top of that, it was only a three hour train ride to Seoul where he met with his publisher and many of his friends lived. It was the best of both worlds. His life gets a bit more interesting when a mysterious bleach blonde with a heart shaped smile enters his life. 

genre: Slice of Life, Strangers to Lovers, Fluff

warnings: lying about one’s name

a/n: this fic is part of @whipped-kpop-creators​ project “a whipped summer” project! I used the prompt “warm summer rain” and heavily relied on their amazing playlist!

Next Part

The rain.

Namjoon loved it. 

He especially loved it in his new area. When it rained, everyone rushed to get to their locations and there was a park nearby that was always void of people when it rained because of that. Normally it is filled with students out of school and friends enjoying picnics, especially during the summer, but when it rains, it’s like everyone hides away and he has the whole park to himself. 

Namjoon walked around the park, slowly looking around at the emptiness. His phone (in a zip-lock bag) awkwardly sticking out of his jacket pocket, a reminder that he had less than an hour to enjoy the warm rain today. He had to get back to his apartment and be chained to his computer in meetings soon, but for now, he was enjoying the rain. 

When he finally got to the park, he slipped his sandals off, making a b-line for the soft grass as he started to meander. The warm rain was a soft, comforting blanket that quieted his mind and in that moment he just was. There wasn’t a meeting in an hour (his alarm would remind him when he needed to return). There weren't any intrusive thoughts. There wasn’t anyone else he had to handle. No parents. No friends. No one. 

It was just Namjoon and the sheets of rain that were coming crashing down.

The park’s animals had hidden away from the rain. Namjoon could just barely see a few of them peek out from holes in trees and under bushes. Part of him wanted to walk closer, tip toe on the sharp mulch, and try to interact with the animals. He knew they’d run away though and Namjoon didn’t want to spend his time chasing after something that would just run away. 

He didn’t care to do that during this special time he had.

Rain was common in this area, it was part of why he moved here, but the warm summer rain that covered him like a blanket was less common and he wanted to savor it. 

His peace was shattered at the loud sound of someone singing further down the path. Part of him seethed at this disruption. The park was peaceful before this and now someone was singing some peppy song and in the distance he could see them dancing as well. Another part of him, and the part that won him over, was curious as to who this person was. Namjoon had lived here for two years now and this person wasn’t someone he recognized and this town wasn’t known for their tourism so this had to be a new person living here. Slowly, Namjoon walked towards them, eyeing them cautiously. They had bleach blonde hair and a wide smile that grew as they kept singing and dancing (it was more of a series and sways and twirls but Namjoon digresses) and Namjoon was struck. 

The rain kept on pouring down but Namjoon was no longer focused on how it felt on his skin, instead his mind was stuck on the man in front of him. He stared on until the stranger stopped singing, their arms wide as if waiting for cheers and applause. 

And Namjoon obliged. 

He didn’t clap because clapping in the rain was hard but he spoke, his voice sounding rough to his own ears, “That was really good. You should think about going professional.” 

He tried to smile but he’d spent so much time brooding and focusing on his writing that the act felt foreign and forced to him. The stranger’s eyes flew open in shock as he eyed Namjoon up and down, his arms slowly falling to his side.

“Thanks. I just might.” His voice sounded smooth and soft as he shyly tucked some wet hair behind his ears.

“I am Kim Namjoon. Are you new to town?”

He nodded and smiled broadly, “I am new. It’s Ju- Kim Taehyung. Yeah… Kim Taehyung.” 

Namjoon nodded along slowly, taking in the baggy and bright clothes Taehyung wore, “Nice to meet you. When did you move in?”

“Uh… last month but I travel a lot so I haven’t had time to really explore…  I really wanted to visit… the local book store but then the rain happened and I just…” He looked around and shrugged, “I couldn’t help myself. The rain is so nice and I don’t get to just enjoy it enough.” 

“Yeah. I love the rain here. No one is out, well almost no one,” Namjoon said with a laugh, “It’s a good time to just walk and be.”

“Oh! Did I disturb you with my song then?” 

Namjoon shook his head and Taehyung’s smile seemed to grow larger, a heart seeming to form from how big his smile was, “Well then, care to dance with me in the rain some?” 

A sadness washed over Namjoon when he finally made it back to his apartment after an hour of dancing with Taehyung. With each sopping step he took deeper into his apartment (at one point stopping to wring some of his clothes out over his plants), he felt a pit of despair growing heavier in him. His legs felt like led and arms slow as he changed and prepared for his meetings. His time with Taehyung today was short. Too short. Dancing in the rain wasn’t what he had intended to do, but the warm rain and his boundless energy fed Namjoon and now all he wanted to do was run back out to Taehyung and continue dancing. 

He had work to do though.

Namjoon could only hope for two possibility:

He comes across Taehyung again in the neighborhood.

Next time it rains, the two meet again. 

Namjoon didn't know which he’d prefer, but in the end, it didn’t matter. He didn’t see Taehyung for a whole month. It was as if the man disappeared off the face of the earth and even though Namjoon didn’t know the man well, he missed him. Plus… he might have felt a little hurt that Taehyung hadn’t gone looking for him after their dance. There wasn’t a time when Namjoon caught a glimpse of bleach blond that he didn’t perk up in excitement. And each time he was more disappointed to have to relearn how bad his eyesight was.

Did Taehyung do the same when he saw a head of black hair? 

Namjoon really hoped so. 

Frustration pooled in his stomach as he left for the train station, a suitcase trailing behind him. It was a crisp morning and he was being forced to go up to Seoul for meetings with his publisher. Normally he enjoyed trips to Seoul (he had previously lived there and it still held a soft spot in his heart), but he wanted more chances to see Taehyung around. He’d just moved in and was bound to be out and about town at some point. 

And Namjoon was going to miss it because his publisher couldn’t hold a few meetings over zoom. 

Hell. Namjoon even suspected that one of them could be an email.

His frustration fermented to disappointment as he looked out the train’s window longly, the town growing smaller all the while. Planning to get together with a friend of his, reading, writing, responding to emails. None of it worked to take his mind off of Taehyung. When the train finally stopped at a station near his hotel, Namjoon was utterly exhausted and dreading all the meetings that were coming. 

The only bright side was that he would be meeting with a friend of his, Seokjin, before he left. 

When he finally entered his hotel room, he took his shoes off, dropped his keys down, and fell onto the bed. He had no energy to do anything at all. All through the walk to the hotel, Namjoon struggled to pay attention to where he was supposed to turn (he barely had the energy to keep an eye and ear out for people near him, let alone his location).

Bless his phone for providing him with the directions that he was mostly able to follow. 

His meetings came and went in a blur despite how painful they were. Almost all of them could have been emails or zoom calls. Just as Namjoon suspected, there was no real need for him to come back to Seoul. All throughout the meetings, his frustration simmered and by the time Seokjin and him met up for dinner, Namjoon was full on venting to the poor man. 

They’d started out catching up but the second Seokjin asked why he’d returned to Seoul, it was like a dam had been released. He hadn’t intended to return. He didn’t want to return. Sure it wasn’t a long trip and he would be back home soon, but he was missing prime time to meet Taehyung again. He wanted to get to know the mysterious blonde who sang in the rain more and his work was proving to be a real hindrance to it!

The more Namjoon delved into his vent, the more occasional laughs left Seokjin before the man was full on cackling. Despite Seokjin laughing like a maniac (or maybe because of it), Namjoon enjoyed his dinner with him. It took him back to when they were both in college and would only meet once in a blue moon due to being at different colleges. The times when they did meet, the two of them would make the best of. From parties to concerts to cooking classes, they always tried to do so much. 

A soft sigh left Namjoon as he watched the waiter walk away with their checks, “Hyung. Is there… like some sort of music event happening tonight? I don’t want tonight to end yet.”

Seokjin snorted at that, “I think that there is something happening in an hour. Yoongi was talking to me about it last night. Let me text him to see if they still have some seats.” 

Yoongi didn’t have seats available though so Namjoon found Seokjin and himself getting some soju and wandering around the streets of Seoul. They mostly just people watched while meandering through streets and occasionally stopped to watch and dance at busker stations (always leaving some sort of tip when they did). Despite not having a concert to attend, they still managed to dance and enjoy good music. 

Drunk Namjoon probably also argued that they had a better time than at a concert where they would have been more crammed in than around a busker. Seokjin simply laughed and listened to his drunken rambles. 

During one busker's performance, Namjoon became hyper focused on an advertisement being shown on a building. It was for some random hair care brand but the brand itself wasn’t what had drawn his focus. It was the man in the ad. 

Sloping nose. 

Soft looking hair.

Heart smile.

Taehyung.

Except… when the ad ended, it didn’t say Taehyung’s name. It said Jung Hoseok. 

Namjoon tried to brush it off and enjoy his night with Seokjin but he kept being distracted by ads that Taehyung… or Hoseok was in. 

Hair care.

Chicken.

Sprite. 

He was in a lot of ads. 

If Seokjin noticed Namjoon getting distracted more, he didn’t comment, instead stopping to get more soju and dragging Namjoon around Seoul more. The next morning, Namjoon was on a train back home, nursing a piercing hangover. In spite of his hangover, Hoseok was practically running around in his mind. The man was more of a mystery to Namjoon than before and a whirlpool of conflicting emotions sloshed angrily around his mind as he tried to think through his next interaction with the man. Nothing should change. Hoseok was still the same man as before just with a different name and Namjoon got why he would lie and give a fake name. A random stranger walking in the rain isn’t inherently the most trustworthy person… but…

Namjoon lost his train of thought.

Next Chapter

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[waterbearwaltz]

Assassins AU wip

So I've been thinking a lot about Southern Raiders Katara, and what her character would be like if she'd been raised to indulge that darkness. And then the thought "Kataang AU but they're assassins" made me laugh out loud in a meeting, and now here we are. But I've written like 10k words and am somehow still at the beginning? How do people write long things? What and how is plot? Ugh. Whatever. Have a chapter. 

--

Aang’s eyes skimmed the crowd of Fire Nation nobles moving like a single organism under the ostentatious chandelier. Ozai’s parties were always tense affairs, an enjoyable night as likely as a gruesome public execution, but this one was especially anxious. The guard was double what Aang had seen on previous evenings. They weren’t just stationed at the doors but milling about the crowd, weapons on their hips, daring anyone to step out of line. Another bomb had gone off near parliament that week, and according to Aang’s sources Ozai’s paranoia was calling the shots even more than usual. This function was an expression of that more than anything else, a flimsy excuse to gather the most wealthy and powerful of his citizens and flex his muscles. Remind them of the closeness of his watch, the price of treason. 

Aang’s eyes skated over the dance floor and paused. The dancing at these was without fail the most stilted he’d ever seen. He understood that in the Fire Nation, dancing was mostly ceremonial, a way to show respect for their host, an expression of patriotism made at gunpoint. It was the most stiff and joyless part of these stiff and joyless evenings. But this time Aang’s eyes caught on something new. 

She was swaying in a sheer, dark red dress that he could just see the outlines of her body through. Thick dark hair swept up into a fashionable loose pile on her head, a few tendrils brushing her dark shoulders. No one thing about her was particularly out of place, other than being of obvious water tribe descent, a relative rarity in the capitol. But everything together caught him. It was the sway of her hips, he decided. The way she moved as if a part of the music, rather than shifting awkwardly alongside it like the other dancers. A fighter, certainly, from the lean definition of her bare back and shoulders. Aang wondered if she was one of the guards Ozai had hidden amongst the crowd. That would be odd, he thought he had files on all of them. And a woman from such far flung colonies would be a highly unusual choice for a palace assassin.

Tsungi horns blared, announcing the entrance of the ruling family, and Aang snapped his attention to the door, frowning at the unusual lapse in focus. The musicians fell silent and an abrupt stillness settled over the crowd. Attendants entered first, followed by yet another unit of guards. Aang wondered dryly if Ozai had ever considered the difference between displaying strength and paranoid weakness. A little shiver went through him as Ozai’s children entered. In studying this family he’d encountered all manner of atrocities, but something about the princess in particular unsettled him. He’d had the chance to observe her in person a handful of times now. Ozai’s heir was haughty and beautiful as always, but as her eyes swept too near to him and he had to concentrate on not tensing visibly. The monks had taught him that every life contains the same precious spark of humanity, and he’d never had cause to doubt this before seeing Azula up close for the first time, looking into her eyes, and seeing absolutely nothing staring back at him.

Ozai finally entered with a few military leaders and Aang’s body ticked into higher alert. He took a deep, stabilizing breath. He was as prepared for this as he’d ever be. Tonight was the result of years of carefully maneuvering himself into the capital’s moneyed elite. Everything was in place, every edge case planned for. If there was ever a chance to remove the dictator for good, it was tonight. He was ready. 

--

Katara’s eyes tracked the commanders up the steps to the dias. She felt the familiar heat under her skin as she finally sized up her target in person, taking advantage of the whole room’s focus on him to take a first and only long look. 

Ozai was older than he appeared in the propaganda plastered across every city, every textbook, every yuan. Their Glorious Leader. Her lip curled in disgust but she smoothed it into a tepid smile. He had a spray of gray across his temples, a sharp jaw, and deep set eyes hung with dark circles. His posture was slightly askew, probably a shoulder injury. She thought he favored his left leg, but wasn’t close enough to be sure. His expression was tense and he muttered sporadically to the man on his left. He was wearing a military style jacket in a deep red, plush looking material. She could tell from the way it sat against him that he had body armor underneath. 

It was strange to finally see him in person, the man she’d spent her whole life training to kill. The corner of her mouth quirked up. She’d never been so ready for anything in her life. 

Her dance partner slipped an arm around her waist as the music started back up. “A drink?” he asked. She smiled up at him and nodded, letting him guide her to the bar. It had been embarrassingly easy to get invited to this. After a ten minute conversation with Kazin at the university library she had her in. She’d had several backup plans of course, every piece of intel said getting here would be the hardest part. She rolled her eyes. White Lotus leadership had always had a penchant for dramatics.

Katara leaned against the bar and smiled at Kazin, half listening to him dribbling on about his father’s mining operation and half scanning the room over his shoulder. If security was this insane in the rest of the palace she’d have to rework some of her plans. Idiot militants. What the hell was blowing up a building half a block from a dummy parliament supposed to accomplish? If she ever saw Jet again she’d wring his stupid neck. 

“Kazin, my darling, I didn’t know you were back in the city!” An older woman pressed a kiss to her date’s cheek and shot her a curious look. Katara automatically slid her face into a blank and amiable mask. 

“Yes, school started last week. Auntie Azina, this is Zaia, from the northern colonies. She’s studying medicine at the university.”

“The northern colonies, how...exotic” the woman finished, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I didn’t know they were admitting colonials now. How times have changed.” Katara let the blankness seep deeper into her, enveloping herself in it the way Master Iroh had taught her. A lie cannot be detected if you make it your truth. Sweet, simple Zaia smiled wider and grasped the woman’s hand a touch too enthusiastically.

“Oh, it’s a dream come true, getting to study in the capital! I’m just so lucky to have been chosen.”

“Don’t be modest. Zaia was the top student at her university.” Kazin puffed up magnanimously. “Why wouldn’t we want the best minds of the colonies enriching our great civilization?”

“Hmm,” Azina had already lost interest in Katara and was scanning the room. “Ah! Ulan!”

A man in his 50s approached their group, kissing Azina lightly on the cheek. “This is my nephew, Zura’s son. Ulan was a dear friend of your father’s. Runs our shipping in the greater kingdom.” Kazin and Ulan exchanged pleasantries, Katara blissfully forgotten. Her attention caught on the quiet young man beside Ulan. She kept her eyes on the conversation, sizing up the newcomer in her periphery.

He was tall and lean, with dark hair shorn close to his scalp, sharp, elegant bone structure, and overly kind eyes that got her hackles up. She knew how to make her eyes kind too, and what sort of situations she did so in. A little too young and a little too handsome to sit right with her as a foreign shipping mogul. Maybe a rich kid working a cushy job for daddy’s company? There were certainly plenty of those in this city. He kept his eyes on the conversation as well, but something about his stance made her uneasy. The way he held himself felt...practiced. Maybe undercover security detail? No, that wasn’t right either. He wasn’t native Fire Nation, he couldn’t possibly work in the palace.

“Ah, how rude of me! This is my emissary from New Ozai City, Azan” Ulan said, gesturing to the young man. Cushy job with daddy after all. Kazin shook his hand as his Aunt flicked her eyes to the ceiling and pressed her lips into a thin line. Guess she didn’t like former colonials any more than current ones. A guard pressed close as he walked past the bar and Karara took a casual sip from her drink, slipping her arm through Kazin’s and angling her body slightly to keep him in view as he passed.

“And who is this lovely thing you have here.” Ulan drew closer than necessary and grinned down at her. He smelled like stale rice wine and the spicy fermented onions sitting in little bowls along the bar. Katara had a strong stomach, but it got a run for its money when he leaned in to kiss her cheek. When Kazin spoke up to introduce her she smiled and ducked her head as if overwhelmed by the attention rather than the smell. 

“Charmed,” came a soft, deep voice on her left. Cushy Job Boy gave her a small bow and met her eyes directly, holding her gaze intently until she looked away. She really didn’t like that. She returned the bow with a warm smile and turned her attention back to her date.

“Another dance, Kazin?” 

“If you insist, darling” he answered indulgently, as though speaking to a child. He steered her back to the dance floor, launching into a lecture on different types of mineral extractants as she noted the guards rotating their shifts around her. 

--

When she saw the first stirrings of the next shift change, she excused herself to the restroom. Kazin barely acknowledged her, deep in conversation with an old general about iron ore. She couldn’t have dreamed up a better mark if she tried.

She’d spent weeks memorizing the palace layout and slipped quickly up a flight of stairs, down a hall, down two more flights, and into a servant’s wetroom near the back of the building. She swung herself up to a vent near the corner of the ceiling, bracing a foot against one wall and her shoulder against the other, and got to work on the screws holding the grate in place. Her ears pricked for the sound of footsteps, her hands made quick work of it with a tool from the small leather satchel that had been pressed between her breasts all night. When the last screw was loose, she dropped back to the floor, pulled her dress over her head, bundled it tightly around her waist, and swung herself smoothly into the air duct, pulling it shut behind her.

The vent was slightly smaller than she’d expected, and it was slow work making her way through. That was fine, she’d left herself plenty of time. The party hadn’t even begun to break up yet.

Much of the journey was directly up, and she inched one foot, then the other, then her back up the metal plates of the ventilation system. It wasn’t particularly taxing; she was in excellent shape and had practiced this a thousand times over the last few months. It would have been boring if not for the thrill of being so close to her target. She’d hunted men before, but it had always felt like preparation for this. None of them were half as thrilling, though she’d thought Yon Rha would have been. It should have been sweet to end the life of the man who had, in every way that counted, ended hers. But for some reason it wasn’t. Maybe he ruined it by begging. She’d been hoping for a good fight.

When she reached the top floor, she pulled herself into a smaller, auxiliary vent and made her way to Ozai’s chamber. It was even more important to be utterly silent now, as she could clearly hear the movements and conversations of the servants below her. Perspiration beaded on her skin as she moved, creeping like a crab in her thin pants and cropped undershirt. Finally, she peered through one of the grates and saw the interior of Ozai’s private chambers. She stretched out carefully so that her limbs wouldn’t fall asleep and settled in to wait. 

--

Aang watched Ozai get drunker than usual before retiring from the ballroom. That might make his job easier. When the first waves of people began heading for the exits, he carefully lost Ulan and headed to meet his contact in a half-hidden alcove in the inner hall. Ishran was already there, a slight man with a sheen of sweat on his balding head and a great deal of tension in his shoulders. This was no trained agent. Not for the first time, Aang wondered what had made this man decide to risk so much. It wasn’t the sort of thing one asked.

Ishran gave Aang a curt nod and pressed his fingers into the wall behind him. A servant’s door swung open and they disappeared through it. 

“There will be a three minute gap between guard shifts outside his quarters. I hope that is enough, it’s all I could manage.” Despite his shaky appearance, Ishran’s voice was sharp and even as they climbed the windowless staircase. Aang was impressed he’d been able to pull that off. He was assuming he’d have to operate in complete silence. 

“That’s more than enough. You’ve outdone yourself.”

A soft hmph was his only response. After several minutes they came to a stop. 

“I’ll make sure he’s asleep, then wave you through.” Aang nodded, Ishran was the only one of them who could possibly excuse his appearance if Ozai was awake.

Ishran squinted at Aang for a moment, before turning to the large, stone door.

--

When Ozai finally shuffled in, sweating and stinking of liquor. Katara wrinkled her nose. A drunk target was usually too easy to be fun, but for him she’d make an exception. She spent the first half hour Ozai was asleep going over the layout. A large, canopied bed dominated the majority of the chamber. Gold and red tapestries adorned the walls, embroidered with dragon-dense battle scenes, and an ornate desk sat between the bed and the balcony.

When Ozai had been still for half an hour or so, Katara lowered herself out feet first, dangling for a moment before dropping to the floor without so much as a whisper of fabric to give her away. She felt the adrenaline rise in her. She let it make her stronger, clearer. 

Katara crept to the bed. Ozai was already on his stomach. How helpful. She slipped the garrote from her shirt and in a swift, clean motion, had him pinned. Her hands tightened the cord around his throat at the same moment her legs clamped his arms to his body and her ankles locked around his chest. He jerked in her grasp and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She’d placed the thin, woven wire with surgical precision, blocking not just air and blood, but preventing his throat from sliding into a position that could produce sound. He reared back against her and her back slammed into the wall with more force than she expected, his strength apparently untempered by age or alcohol. The wind was knocked from her, but her hold on him stayed true. He stumbled forward and slammed back again, this time catching her against the edge of the desk. A sharp snap like a whip being cracked split through the silent chamber. She gritted her teeth, pouring all her focus into her hold on him. The second time she hit the desk the snap was more of a wet crunch, and even through the haze of adrenaline she felt pain shattering down her side. He reared forward and thrashed again, but the movements were disorganized now, and she could tell he was losing consciousness. He fell to his knees and was just tipping forward as a soft creak snapped her head to a tapestry hanging on the far wall. 

She was on him as soon as his hand slipped out to draw the fabric back from the hidden door. She took hold of the wrist and with a smooth pivot, pulled the intruder forward and swung around to slam her elbow into his windpipe. The last thing she needed was him calling for help. Still holding the wrist, she gave it a sharp twist, snapping it and getting a sharp rasp out of the man’s crushed throat as he doubled over in pain. A knee to the face and he was down. She was just turning back to Ozai’s prone form when a voice hissed from the darkness behind the tapestry.. 

--

Aang’s eyes darted from Ishran crumpled on the floor to the water tribe girl above him to Ozai’s empty bed. He was moving before he’d finished taking in the scene, not wanting to get pinned down in the narrow staircase.

“You,” she snarled as he lunged forward, putting his body between her and the servant on the floor. She dropped into a low stance and he swung down, hoping to sweep her legs out from under her.  She was much smaller than him, he might be able to end this quickly. The chamber’s doors were shut, but she must have a way to signal the other guards.

She leapt easily over his attack and struck out with her heel as she fell. He caught it-- barely-- and shoved her hard. She flew back a few feet and hit the wall behind her, but was on him again by the time he regained his footing. Some remote part of him was impressed with her speed, but the majority of his mind was occupied dodging a flurry of strikes aimed at his head, neck, and chest. He jumped, twisted and lunged, always missing her hands and feet by millimeters. A sense of deja vu came over him and his mind flicked to the hours he’d spent in the training gates at the temple. The lesson was to be as a leaf, pivoting at every resistance, to pass through the storm. And she was very like a storm. When the flurry of blows began he hoped to tire her out before striking, but she wasn’t getting slower, wasn’t getting sloppy. 

There was a subtle shift in her weight and saw her next strike coming. He sent a kick out to the side that would be left open by her attack. But she turned on a dime, ducking under his leg and catching his knee, sending him careening face-first towards the floor. He turned it into a roll and sprung up, but before his feet touched the floor he felt a bright shock of pain as she brought her elbow down on his solar plexus. He hit the ground hard, trying not to fight the muscle spasm, which would only prolong the seizing. She slipped a garrotte out of her shirt. 

--

This guy was infuriating. She flew at him with everything she had and met only air. She didn’t recognize his form at all, but it certainly wasn’t Fire Nation. Their style was centered around brute force and bold, decisive strikes. It was a style she preferred in her opponents, especially larger ones. She could hurt them more by redirecting their strength than she could with her own. But this guy...this guy fought like it was a goddamn game of keep away. And she was running out of time. 

Finally he struck out with his foot, and she used the energy of it to fling him down. While he recovered she managed to land a clean blow to his chest and he grunted and crumpled. She slid the garrote out, wishing for a quicker weapon, but the security at the palace was so tight this was all she’d been sure she could sneak in. 

But he somehow recovered instantaneously. He flipped to his feet and circled away, putting himself between her and the door. They were on the far side of the bed now and his eyes fell on Ozai’s prone body. He froze and his eyes grew wide. Ever so slightly, his stance slipped.

“Is he dead?”

“He’s next in line after you,” she spat as she launched herself at him. He was distracted, unable to right his form in time. She feigned a direct hit then twisted in the air, vaulting off the wall and landing on his back.

“Wait” he rasped out, and she realized he’d managed to get a finger between her wire and his neck. Oh for fuck’s sake, would this guy just die already? She was debating just going with the slower, louder process of killing him like this when several things happened at once. 

Ozai began to stir on the floor, coughing weakly and pushing himself up on his forearms. The main door to the chamber opened and a hesitant voice called out “Sir?” As she was taking all this in, the fake earth kingdom emissary grabbed her forearm and twisted roughly, ripping her off his back and over his head. The wall rushed up to meet her, enveloping her in a blinding flash of white.

--

The woman’s body slumped against the door she’d collided with. He hadn’t meant to throw her so hard, just needed time to reason with her, to explain. But now the guard was pushing the door back open and Ozai was stirring and before Aang knew what he was doing he’d scooped her unconscious body over his shoulder and slipped through the open window. 

#kataang #kataang au #work in progress #avatar #avatar aang #katara #i dont want to post to ao3 till there's an end in sight #fanfic #atla fanfic

[bush-viper-cutie]

Mess After Mess

Pairing: None

Word Count: 1,944

Rating: E for Everyone

Plot:  Severus is forced to restock almost all his potions ingredients at once all because of two clumsy students who never learn their lesson.

Warnings: None

A/N: For Snape Appreciation Month, prompt 7: Snape and Potions. @snapeloveposts​

Posted: 6/16/20

Masterlist

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

“YOU INSOLENT CHILDREN! Look what you’ve done!” Severus stepped over the broken glass and spilled powders and liquids. “This is why wands are NOT ALLOWED in my potions classrooms! Clean this mess up at once. WITHOUT MAGIC.”

The two second years nodded and ran out of the classroom for brooms and mops. Severus took out his wand and put out the small fire starting in the student stores. All of the middle shelves were broken in half and only half the bottom shelf jars survived the flaming sparks.

It would take an entire afternoon at the apothecary alone to replace everything that had broken, although he wasn’t sure how soon he could replace the ingredients that had been fermenting since before he was born.

He shook his head and hung it low, cursing himself for thinking these children could be trusted alone for even a minute. He stormed out of the potions classroom, growling at the children running back in with dustpans in hand, and stepped into his office.

He closed the door and fell onto it, ripping his cravat from his neck and unbuttoning the top buttons to breath better. Why couldn’t people be more MINDFUL of things? He had yelled about using magic in the classrooms countless times and yet he constantly caught students messing about with it.

“It’s like these wizards can’t spend five SECONDS without casting a spell of some sort.”

He threw his cravat onto a chair and sat at his desk, opening a drawer and taking out the list for the student stores. The middle shelves had half the materials alone… If he was their Head of House they would be neck deep in detentions but he knew what the others would say… ‘Just children’. More like obnoxious brats.

. . .

“Headmaster. I will be gone for the weekend and will be back Sunday night,” Severus wound his scarf around his neck and turned to leave Dumbledore’s office.

“Heading down to Hogsmeade, Severus?”

Severus turned, fearing what the old fool would ask of him, “I… am – but only for one thing.”

Dumbledore looked up from his book and smiled, “Then perhaps, you wouldn’t mind me asking for a few things… not too many, I can assure you.”

He sighed, “Fine. Give me the list.”

. . .

Hogsmeade was loud during this time of year. The leaves crunched under his foot, the birds chirped above everyone’s heads, and the chatter from the passersby cluttered the air. Even the signs sung their creaks under the influence of the cold wind. Hogsmeade village was at its peak during these types of autumn days.

Dervish and Banges was a shop at the corner of two intersecting streets on the opposite side of the village. There were two doors in the front of the shop; the yellow was the entrance to the store, and the run-down one lead right up to the living quarters of the old man that ran it.

He knocked on the rundown door and waited for the heavy footsteps and creaking of the old man coming down the interior stairs.

He opened it and tipped his hat, “Ah, Mr. Snape. Your order – ”

“Thank you, Mr. Dervish,” Severus took out the bag of coins he had collected from Dumbledore and held it out, “Your payment.”

Mr. Dervish nodded and turned around, picking up a heavy box from behind the door and handed it to Severus, “Careful there – ”

“Thank you,” Severus poured the coins into the man’s hands and clutched the box tight as he walked down the street towards Hogsmeade Station.

The train arrived precisely on time, like it always had since the first time he rode it.

He boarded and picked an empty car, luckily having to share it with no one since wizards didn’t really travel from Hogsmeade to London all too much and certainly not so early in October. He opened up the Daily Prophet – he had held back on reading it that morning specifically for the trip – and scanned the headlines, hoping for anything good to read.

It was all the same type ridiculous journalism that had people fretting for their lives every other weekend. First the journalists claim that the Ministry was allowing dragon egg trading between trainers will cause minors to harbor illegal eggs for fame among their peers and burn houses down, and now that the Ministry has banned it again, they are risking the lives of wizards by making the illegal harboring of dragon eggs that much more appealing to minors, causing houses to burn down.

. . .

It was as dark as the Hogwarts dungeons outside when the train arrived at London. He picked up his box and hailed a cab for Leadenhall Market where the Leaky Caldron entrance to Diagon Alley was located. The ride took fifteen minutes but the ‘quick’ chat with Tom the innkeeper took almost twice.

Unfortunately for him, Dumbledore had sent a message to confirm his room reservation and explained the whole story to Tom, who had wanted to hear the story all over again from him this time.

“What do you want me to say. The students were senseless. Therefor did something careless. And then the results were disastrous!” he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please,” he pushed the box into Tom’s arms, “take this to my room.”

Tom nodded and headed upstairs, finally freeing Severus from the social corner he had been forced into. He sat down at a stool and ordered the most expensive hot meal, Why not, if I’m not paying. After the meal he headed up and went to bed, knowing the next day would be incredibly long.

. . .

Severus unfurled the list of items he needed to buy from the apothecary and smoothed it out over his thigh. He could see the scrawled names better and reminded himself to stay on track and not let anything distract from the task at hand.

“Student stores ingredients only,” he whispered.

He opened the door and a gust of air rushed out of the cold shop. There were dozens of baskets stacked on tables with little cards for labels. All the jars were filled with powders and the barrels full of dried creature parts were all labeled as well.

He stepped in and started his way down the shop, looking at all the shelves and sticking his nose in every barrel. He opened a few jars and shifted the powders to check for any additives – none were found. This was his favorite store – or the only favorite one he didn’t have to be cautious to be found in – so he decided he’d take his time.

He lined up seven of the best-looking armadillo bile jars and inspected each one for the best color, holding them up to the light and checking each one against the rest. Next, he moved on to the Abyssinian Shrivelfig and picked out those with the longest stems. The bubotuber pus unfortunately required several whiffs that left him nauseous, but he recovered with the honeywater samples.

. . .

It took him from dawn to dusk to inspect and choose every last ingredient on the list. He made it out of the shop just before closing time and headed to his room, eager to get started. He spread out all the items on his bed and unboxed the jars. He rubbed his hands together, excited to start putting everything into place.

He took off his coat and quickly unbuttoned his clothes, shrugging everything off and slipped into his night shirt. The floor of his room wasn’t very dirty, so he brushed away some dust and knelt on the ground beside his bed.

He felt like it was Christmas already, having to unwrap all the ingredients from the brown paper and twine wrappings to organize it all in their glass jars. He cut some twine in half and put his hair up, not wanting it to get in his way.

He got to work putting everything where it was supposed to be. He stuck tape on all the jars and labeled everything with the contents and exact date he acquired it. All the jars were put back in the box, all but one. The newest find at the apothecary. The frozen glass frogs.

He had bought twenty of the little frogs and filled the jar up to the brim. He had been sending owls to the owner for years to stock it, and not just include it in the potions kits, and finally he had done just that. The one potion every student messes up every year he could now make them do again and again until they got it right.

. . .

The train ride back was long and uncomfortable but what made things worse is he had to go back into Hogsmeade for the items Dumbledore wanted. He took out the list and looked it over.

“Unbelievable,” he crumpled the list and headed into Honeydukes Sweetshop.

“Welcome, can I help you find anything?”

Severus turned to the woman at desk, “Yes. About… a pound… of Green Lime Jumpers.”

He stood by the counter as the woman took out a bag and filled it up, weighing it carefully and handing it over to him. He paid her and left, carrying the heavy box in one arm and the bag in the other. He delivered the bag to Dumbledore, refusing to stay and chat, and got to work restocking the student stores.

He set out all the glass jars on his desk and one by one they disappeared onto the labeled spots on the shelves – all except the jar of glass frogs, which he needed to place in his own stores cabinet later. He closed the door and locked it, hoping he wouldn’t have to go in to replace almost everything for another several years. He rolled his eyes and sat at his classroom desk, putting his head down for a second.

“Ah, Severus, thank you for the sweets.”

He looked up to see Dumbledore walking into the classroom with the two troublemakers behind him. He sat up and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I expect everything was able to be restocked,” Dumbledore looked over at the closet door with a large lock on it.

“Yes. This time,” he stared down the students.

“They feel very sorry about the whole thing,” Dumbledore smiled down at the students, “They didn’t mean to burn and break the shelves.”

Severus hummed in acknowledgment but rolled his eyes.

“Might I have the bag back? I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”

He sighed and headed out of the classroom into his office quickly spotting the bag of coins he had been given before the trip and grabbed it. He closed his office door and walked down the corridor to his classroom. He opened the door and stood there, staring in.

All of the frozen glass frogs were jumping about the classroom in all directions trying to escape. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them back up and looking at Dumbledore. He had one of the tiny frogs stuck in his beard trying to jump away. One of the two students opened their mouth and spit out a tiny frog while the other dropped the clump of unfrozen frogs from their hand.

“I assumed you had bought a jar of Green Lime Jumpers for yourself.”

“Naturally. Headmaster,” Severus stepped back out and closed the door, shutting Dumbledore in with the mess he had created. “Out of sight, out of mind,” he headed to his office for a much-needed drink.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

#pro snape #snapeloveposts #severus snape #severus #snape #snapedom #snape appreciation month #snape appreciation month 2020 #snape one shot #one shot #snape fanfiction #snape fanfic #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic

[unwoas]

angelina jolie. forty five. cis woman. — behold! ashlynn grandmore has finally joined us at court! as princess, sister to the king of house grandmore, they’re known for being private, but also quite mercurial at times. the halls of this great castle harbors great secrets, and she does not disappoint; reputation precedes them as they’re known for their healing talent, which has inspired dangerous rumors.

hello! i’m deni. twenty-six, she/her pronouns and in the gmt+9 timezone. below is some information about one of my characters, ashlynn grandmore. i used to write her as a twenty-something year old, so i’m happy to have aged her up a bit! if you’d like to plot my ims are open, and i also have discord if that’s better  <3  looking forward to writing with you!

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋.

name : ashlynn grandmore. label : the maverick. nicknames : lady of blood. the lady’s lady. age : forty five. magic : non magical. currently living : private villa in the outskirts of the royal village.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.

traits : private. shy. mercurial. opinionated. independent. shrewd. alignment : lawful neutral. hobbies : gardening herbs, fruits, vegetables and a small plot of flowers. attempting to ferment her own wine. attending to house calls of the sick or injured in the village. writing romance novels under a pseudonym. collecting artworks of women. habits : staring blankly. narrowing her eyes in scrutiny. moving to the closest windows or doors for fresh air. counting her steps. fears : childbirth again. being powerless. losing either of her brothers. captivity.

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋.

orientation : lesbian. homoromantic. kinks : being left alone. hookups or relationships : a dissolved marriage. a long-term partner. relationship status : in a civil union. shipping status : undecided.

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐄.

faceclaim : angelina jolie. height : 5′ 5. hair : long brown waves. eyes : green-grey. piercings : ears pierced once each. tattoos : none. scars : none.

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

level of education : very high, normal with her station. she doesn’t recall a lot of what she was taught in history or literature, but she continues to enjoy and explore studies in science and medicine. occupation : princess. herbalist. healer. tutor  ( science, medicine )

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇.

drinker? : yes, occasionally. smoker? : no. recreational drug user? : no. disabilities : developing arthritis in the joints  ( particularly her hands and fingers ) mental illnesses :  none known.

𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖.

➥ a wild spirit, she could’ve conquered the world if that’s what she wished. but ashlynn’s never been a social woman, and even as a girl she found more comfort in the quiet of the forest than any court room. trial and error taught her how to live life within the cage of responsibility, and she’s taken her victories where she can. ashlynn’s always found a skill in marrying expectation and independence, and now she enjoys the life outside of the castle walls she’s always craved.

➥ she studied, but she studied what she wanted. she attended court, but she remained quiet and watchful. she married, but she ended the union as soon as she bore an heir. she supports her brother’s rule as long as she enjoys the freedom her age and station grant her. ashlynn avoids the necessary, but petty politics of the city’s players as long as she reports the commonfolk's politics to the king’s ears. 

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒.

➥ ashlynn is an accomplished archer. as a younger woman, she won tournaments and showcases with her impeccable skill. once upon a time, she used her skills to take out officials she saw as corrupt or ill suited for their positions of power.

➥ areligious. ashlynn puts on appearances, but does not personally worship any known deity. she does maintain a spirituality that she’s come to peace with in her older years, and finds spiritual comfort in nature.

➥ prefers to live in her private villa outside of the castle. she isn’t particularly warm or charming. however, she does come to court at her older brother’s request occasionally and will listen to his concerns.

➥ spends a lot of her time nursing and helping the sick outside of the castle. she isn’t exactly popular, or what you might call a “people’s princess,” but she isn’t hated. however, rumors have begun to circulate about her true lineage and her healing abilities, due to some of the people she’s been able to help.

➥ ashlynn prefers light fabrics, warm furs, and neutral tones in her day-to-day wear. she dresses rather simply away from court, but has a few more expensive gowns. she has a weakness for jewelry.

➥ was very close with her mother despite their differences. her mother supported the dissolution of ashlynn’s first marriage after the birth of her child.  

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

➥ past marriage. ( 40+, any gender. )  they were married for only a few years, long enough to have or adopt a child. their relationship was amicable, but mostly platonic, and when ashlynn  ( or both ) fell in love with someone else, they mutually agreed to dissolve their marriage. the decision shocked and possibly angered their families. disagreements on how to raise their child has caused friction.

➥ risky business. she’s helped them heal from wounds others said would kill them. they’re curious, and having heard the rumors about her before, start to suspect her of more than just talented herbalist.

➥ sugar baby. as a princess, she’s in contact with the echelons of society. they have their fingers in other pockets. together, they both have what the other needs. ashlynn hasn’t decided whether she fully trusts them yet.

➥ assassin circle. years ago, before she was a mother, ashlynn herself took to protecting her family’s interests in the city with her own two hands. she’s interested in resurrecting the secret troupe of women who reclaimed power in the city, and they’re at the top of the list of potential recruits.

#─── ⠀ 🌙 ⠀ ⠀ * ⠀ ⠀ashlynn g. ⠀ ／ ⠀ study . #throneintro

[drakainaea]

@oraclespoken​​  :     Delicate hands upon fragile petals, handling them as if they would disappear into the winds. Her song stops as steps neared. Lunafreya rises and looks to a nervous Maria accompanying the scarlet stained woman. "Oh, Commodore Highwind," she greets with a nod. Aranea as she knows her, has made a name for herself within the Niflheim army. She's heard Ravus speak of her many times before. "Is something the matter?" Lunafreya asks despite sensing a hint of the plague of stars lingering around her.

        𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙶𝙾 𝙱𝙰𝚈 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙴𝙻𝚂𝙴 in fleet of airships as they come in to dock —— twenty-minute grace period to retrieve their things & clear out.  they have sped to the manor in the nick of time.  𝒈𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒍𝒚, pelting her calming prairies & valleys into a precarious landscape.  fleuret aides awaiting in the distance by the vast manor’s entrance that has poured out from their stations 𝒕𝒐 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 for such an “unannounced” visit.  unease begins to swirl in the air toward the sudden occupation of men donning imperial military vestments gradually MARCHING IN CADENCE & eventually spanning the length of improvised landing strip. three rows of mercenaries stand, unmoving.  at her rear, biggs & wedge.  mid-stride instructs them to wait by the ships.  & then saunters across grassy fields segmented by asphalt walkway en-route to mortared stone staircase, 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒃𝒍𝒆 & 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 against fields of cerulean flower stalks carrying with it a sweet perfume in 𝑼𝑵𝑹𝑬𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑮𝑼𝑺𝑻𝑺. & smells also faintly of ferment & rain that is about to fall.  there is a sense of richness about fenestala manor that reminds her of imperial city  ——  of the upper-tier stuff, gold leaf accents, conical spire rooves, towers aplenty.  it is...ritzy.

once at the gate, aranea exchanges a few words with the steadfast man of a guard on duty.  from the perception of the fleuret attendants, what was said must 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉, because he powers the gate’s doors open with a herculean force.  

in the foyer of the manor, aranea watches activity increase as though she’s kicked a beehive.  many pairs of eyes of staff alike settle on her in passing —— some with scrutiny, others with curiosity.  fortunately, aranea finds that she does not need to stand 𝐢𝐝𝐥𝐲 & 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 & idiotically next to a large flowerpot while being watched because no sooner is she approached by a woman ; the skin on her neck cracked with age & 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒔.  her grey hair is combed ( rather, heat styled ) to an immaculately neat bun & there is something so delicate yet regal about her.  perceptive blue pools of sight 𝙵𝙻𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙵 𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙴𝚃 while she greets aranea as graciously as a woman of her age can muster ; a grace that is bone deep & practically ingrained into her DNA. aranea, 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔, coughs up a nicety in the form of a polite dip of the head in kind to the woman who introduces herself as ‘maria’, already deducing THE DRAGOON’S IDENTITY with contextual clues & her political savvy. her body language is one which suggests a ‘walk & talk’ session.  

following maria, whose silken brocade fabrics of skirts’ hemline lick the back of her ankles in stride, she carefully explains the reason for her visit through the 𝑴𝑨𝑹𝑩𝑳𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑺 of the manor : during a daemon-hunting assignment near the vesperpool, one of her men & youngest of her rag-tag unit, drummond was caught unawares & pinned to a nidus which was ultimately destroyed, but a remnant of it remains lodged into his shoulder, infecting him with its dark elements known as STARSCOURGE & has been spreading since.  like any communicable illness, he is isolated on one of the airships.  𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 since & he requires assistance “like yesterday”.  assistance that only one known individual on this gods-forsaken rock can provide. 

the governess doesn’t say much for the duration ; however it can readily be perceived by the downturned line of her lips that she is 𝙳𝙸𝙶𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 it all.  it is an austere understanding that the situation is dire.  what aranea 𝒏𝒆𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 is that a promise has been made to drummond that he will receive the proper care & be ready to go back into the field in no time. & if not...?  swallows hard at merely the thought she is actively in denial of.

aranea stops behind a large, carpeted doormat  —— floral art nouveau designs embroidered.  it matches the banister & matches the poise of the woman who is engrossed in flower arrangement on the other side of the already pried-open 𝑫𝑶𝑼𝑩𝑳𝑬 𝑫𝑶𝑶𝑹𝑺.  she settles a hand to her hip & stares at the door’s threshold, to maria pouring past it & then to the oracle who in duality to her dark clothing wears clean ivory linen. 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 & 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎.  ancient, but drawing in desperately an aura of security & comfort. the fragrance that’s greeted her is delightful, like a MELODIOUS tune.  ( unnervingly calm —— even by her standards. ) she stays like that & can imagine lunafreya doing the same in their equivalent introductions.

❝ princess, ❞ comes her voice, a tonal rasp adding to her dark mystique.  coupled with a nod of her own,  ❝ didn’t mean to shake things up around here by my impromptu visit, but it’s pretty urgent...❞

❝ i’ve got a guy on deck who’s in pretty bad shape. think you can take a look at him? ❞ 

#oraclespoken #( 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 : grab that cash with both hands & make a stash. ) #( 𝐯𝟎𝟏 : it's always sunny in eos. ) #[ *pap pap's luna* ]

[wittystarkk]

The Last Five Years | Part One | Bucky Barnes

author: wittystarkk

word count: 3k+

relationship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader

Warnings: None.

Summary: In New York two young lovers work their way through lust, love, work and letdowns. A handsome actor finds himself skyrocketed into fame. An aspiring writer finds herself stuck in a mundane hamster wheel of rejection. Each works to make their lives together successful, each finding it harder and harder. Their tale is shared from different perspectives. 

A/N: Hi everyone! So, this is basically my retelling of the movie ‘The Last Five Years’. I wanted to practice writing, and see if I could affectively (from memory) translate what I saw on screen onto the page. So I wrote this. It’s going to be 16 parts, all corresponding to the songs of the movie. As a disclaimer: i do not claim any of the film, and I do not claim the characters. Et cetera. This is purely a self indulgent fic that I thought I would share with all of y’all! I hope you enjoy it. Additional information: this story is told 2 ways - Reader: end to start. Bucky: start to end. 

Next Chapter

The subway was hot and stuffy from the bodies of all the passengers crammed in like poorly packaged sardines. Everyone was tired and longing for their exits. (Y/N)’s hair had gone flat and her back was sore from having to curve around a pole to keep herself steady. She’d had to remove her jacket in order to survive heat stroke, and was elated when she was cold enough to put it back on. The subway had smelt like human body odor and an underlying scent of fermented garbage. Had she not been a semi-regular subway passenger, she would have completely given in to the throws of misery. She hated how used to things she could become. How complacent and accepting she tended to be. Ohio had been a small Hell that she had ultimately gotten used to, just as had been the subway. She felt she could overlook anything.

(Y/N)’s anticipation for home had risen every second she’d spent away. She was unhappy. She was tired, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. Wanted to curl up in bed and put the entirety of Ohio behind her. Put the entirety of everything behind her. Her previous weekend had been one of the worst, and she prayed that coming home would ease that pain. Ease every hurtful word and emotion she’d heard, said and felt some two days ago. Ease the anguish in her chest since he’d left. She had spent the entire time thinking, “soon I’ll be home. I can make it a few more hours.” Trying to reassure herself that things were gonna be fine. That they were gonna be fine. That when things to be at their worst, they always have a knack of swinging around to good again.

The cab from the dingy train station to home wasn’t excruciatingly long, but felt like an absolute eternity. (Y/N) knew she would soon be home and was growing more uplifted with every passing street. She would feel better, hopefully happier. Nothing that happened in Ohio would matter when she walked through the doors of her apartment and saw all of her things, and him . He would make everything good again, with his hugs and his words of support and soliloquies of I missed you and his sorry . His I didn’t mean it . He would heal all wounds, fix the crack that had nearly split the two of them apart. He had been the one to make it, after all.

When the cab parked in front of the three story brownstone a wave of something washed through (Y/N). She couldn’t describe it and was entirely sure that she didn’t like it. “125 West 119th Street,” the cab called to her from the front seat as if she didn’t already know the address of her own apartment. She remembered the day that they had signed the lease on it. How scared she felt, and how he kept telling her that it was gonna be great. That their home was gonna be great. That they were gonna be great.

(Y/N) snapped out of her daze. Handing the cabby her fare signified the end of her trip and the feeling she had intensified. Stepping out of the cab, she gave a glance up to the second floor window of her apartment. The curtains were half drawn and the lights were off denying a proper peek in. It was nearly six in the evening and the sun was completely cloaked behind a jacket of clouds. If he was home, surely he’d need a light on. (Y/N)’s stomach knotted.

The cabby retrieved (Y/N)’s bag from the trunk while she was staring up at the window, hand fisted around the strap of her purse. She wasn’t aware that more than ten seconds had passed, and was startled when the cabby dropped her suitcase at her feet, huffing loudly. (Y/N) dismissed him with a ‘thank you’ called over her shoulder as she bent to pick up her bag, carrying it towards the stairs of the brownstone.

Her keys were clipped to the strap of her purse, her fingers finding them easily. They gave a small hassle while trying to unlock the deadbolt of the main door but didn’t prove to be too big of a challenge. When she closed the main door behind her there were hushed voices from down the hall.

“(Y/N), is that you?” Mrs. Zaldana asked from her front door at the end of the hallway. She was dressed in a tattered purple robe, with slippers that had seen days better than the present. She figured that the voices she had heard were coming from the blaring TV that was stashed somewhere within Mrs. Zaldana’s apartment. The poor old woman was deaf as a doornail and it was made even more apparent by the volume she listened to things at.

“Yes, Mrs. Zaldana, it is.” (Y/N) loudly replied, looking longingly at the staircase to her right. She was in no mood for a conversation, merely one flight of stairs away from / him/. She didn’t want to prolong the wait. “I’m sorry to be rude, but I’m exhausted. I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning. I might bring muffins,” she told her, not waiting for a response as she ascended the stairs. Her footfalls sounded so loud, echoing against the walls. Were they always like this?, she wondered.

As she walked her mind busied itself with quick thoughts of him. They’d fought the last time she’d seen him, they’d argued and she’d cried. He’d yelled, and he’d looked angry. She knew he would surely not be over it. Couldn’t be over it. No, he never did let things go like she did. He held onto everything. Let his anger or resentment fester like an infected wound. Wouldn’t let her clean it and heal it and mend it. He was so stubborn. So hateful sometimes. She loved him madly.

A hiss sounded when she reached the top of the stairs. Mr. Martinez’s cat was perched on the banister of the staircase, it’s legs tucked underneath her orange body. She gave the cat a soft stroke when she reached her, letting the cat affectionately nuzzle into her palm. After a moment her hand left the tabby’s fur, dropping to her side. Her heartbeat sped again as she took the final distance to the apartment, readying her keys to unlock the door. She gripped the handle to pull the door towards herself, the only way the old bolt would disengage, and found it loose. She narrowed her brows at the brass knob, giving it a tentative turn. The door opened with a squeak.

“Bucky?” She called into the apartment, following the door inside. The apartment was dark and empty. She shrugged out of the black leather jacket covering her arms. Kicking off her shoes, she realized the chair to the desk in front of the window was pulled out. Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach, her hands becoming clammy and shaky. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. Her mind began pulling forward every awful scenario that could be happening. That could be the reason for a dark apartment and an unlocked front door. She wanted none to be true.

She sat down on the chair in front of the desk, her knees feeling too weak to support herself. The desktop had been cleared of nearly all of the objects that once littered it before she left. In front of her was a stark grey envelope that had her name written on it in a familiar messy scrawl. She cleared her throat, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She couldn’t open the envelope yet. Couldn’t breathe. Her throat felt dry and scratchy, like she was struggling with a bad cold.

“You can’t do this to me,” she managed to whisper out, seeing the gold band that had been carefully set atop the envelope. Her hand trembled minutely when she picked the ring up, turning it around her finger. The outside was scuffed and dirty, showing the wear and tear of three years on his finger. The inside, however, was smooth and polished. She figured it was from all of the times he’d taken it off. She set it down with a pained look like suddenly the metal had sparked a flame against her skin.

She noticed the keys next, deciding they were the reason her front door had been unlocked when she had returned home. She saw the house key and the mailbox key both attached to a dull metal ring. She plucked them up, sliding the metal ring along her finger until it sat at the base. She held the finger up, looking at the keys while she spun them around. She wanted to be able to throw the keys out of the window and the pain that she was feeling with them.

She dropped the keys to the desktop with a thud, deciding to finally face the letter. He throat felt drier than before and she had a tingling in her nose that indicated she was on the verge of crying. Inside the envelope was a piece of off-white paper folded thrice. Unfolding it revealed that he’d written his final letter to her on a slip of paper that read “ James and (Y/N) Barnes ” at the top. “How fitting,” she said to the empty room. “Writing your goodbye on our stationary.”

She held the paper tightly in between the first finger and thumb of both hands, eyes scanning over the scratchy script. She felt like every letter was being burnt into her cerebellum as tears rolled down her cheeks leaving streaks where the foundation had been washed away.

She let the letter fall from her fingers to the desk, her breath held in her chest as she moved her gaze to focus out the window. The sky outside was still dark, the clouds an angry grey. She felt as if the weather was mocking her. Saying she didn’t deserve to see the sun since hers had just walked out on her. She pushed up from the chair, her knees feeling wobbly as she did. She took a few tentative steps, reaching her hand out to grab onto the arm of the couch. She thought of how much she hated it when he’d picked it out, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the realization that the fight they’d had over it was the most inconsequential thing now, but had held so much weight before.

She sunk to the floor in front of the couch, resting her back against it. She hadn’t stopped crying. The tears felt like they’d started coming faster, pouring down her face like they were on a race to see who could make it down her neck the fastest. She brought her knees up, her arms wrapping around them in a self hug. She didn’t know what she could do, what she could say. She felt numb. Her whole being had frozen like gridlocked traffic. She couldn’t bring her thoughts away from him, couldn’t even begin to worry about what she was going to do now. What she could do now that she wasn’t his, he wasn’t hers, and he wasn’t here.

She looked around the apartment that once had been theirs, where their memories were made and their lives were shared. Where they’d started their lives as two and joined together to become one. A unified being.

“Bucky’s gone,” she heard herself whisper into the apartment. Her voice sounded weak and scratchy from the sobs that had been echoing from her throat since she’d begun reading the letter. She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, sniffling hard to clear her nose as best she could. “He thinks this is all my fault,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

Had she not tried? , she wondered. She’d dragged him to therapists, sat on couches uglier than the one he’d picked out for them and aired all of their dirty laundry to a therapist with a judgmentally arched eyebrow and a pen that never moved. She’d lauded over him, poured her heart out in a flood on the floor. Listened while he blamed her for every problem, abhorred her for every instance in their lives when they were unhappy.

“You always thought that I was the problem,” she said, raising her bloodshot eyes to look at the picture of the two of them on the fireplace mantel. “I’m sure you’re doing just fine, knowing you were the one who got to decide this. Got to leave. Chose to cut and run, to what? Find something better?” she hissed. “Find someone better,” she amended. She felt anger bubbling up, quickly tampering that down to stifle it. She needed to feel her pain first. Accept that she was heartbroken, not deny it. Not cover it up with easier emotions.

“You don’t -” her voice broke, her hand rubbing at her nose. “You don’t get the easy way out.” She felt insane, sitting on the floor and talking to a picture. Knew that it wasn’t going to solve anything. She was going to still be hurting, and he was completely oblivious to it all. “God,” she groaned. “What about you? Huh? What about you, Bucky?” She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her nose, figuring her hand unfit for the job. “You think I’m the problem?” She asked of the picture which would stay mute. “You had your secrets, Bucky! You knew you had to hide things from me. Keep them locked away in some vault within yourself. Throw them out when they got to be too much. Ignore them like you ignored me. Bring them back, Bucky! Bring back your lies. Hang them on our wall! Hang them with our wedding photos and the photos of you and I where you were already falling out of love with me. Why not?” She stood from the floor, a sob ripping through her chest when she caught a glimpse of his ring again.

She trudged the short distance across the apartment to the small kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter. She reached up and removed a wine glass from the shelving unit where it was held, setting it down with a clink to the faux granite countertop. She ripped apart a drawer in order to find the corkscrew, cursing over the fact it was never easy to locate. She uncorked the bottle and threw the screw into the sink where it made a loud metal clang. Pouring the liquid into the glass she became aware, again, of her trembling hands. She wondered how she wasn’t dousing the entire kitchen with the wine.

She walked out of the kitchen armed with a half full glass of wine in one hand and a bottle in the other. If anything were going to help her, it was inebriation. “You know something?” She asked, aware that she would never hear an answer. “Here I am, stuck in this fucking apartment that you wanted. Covered in invisible scars from every fight we had in this place, and you? Where are you? Hiding away? Chasing something that you’ll never find? Fuck you.” She chugged the wine from the glass, refilling it as she sat down on the padded bench in front of their - her - bed. She set the bottle down by her feet, holding the glass firmly between both hands. Memories were racing back and forth as she looked around the apartment.

She was certainly still hurting, she decided. No more anger from before, though her tone could have fooled an outsider. Nothing but pure, unadulterated pain. Pain for everything they were, pain for everything they’d yet to be, pain for everything that they should have been. She finished her second glass, setting it down beside the bottle. “Maybe, maybe if you’d stayed. If you’d have talked to me. Told me your goodbyes in person… Maybe then I could understand how you could leave. Maybe then I’d see that you never thought we had a chance at all.”

She stood from the bench, walking to his dresser which she knew was empty now. She paused for a moment, wanting to open the drawers. Wanting to see his clothes in them. Wanting to see some evidence that he wasn’t really gone. That he hadn’t really left after all. That this was just a fucking act to try and change her. Make her cave and shape herself into the wife he thought he deserved. One that turned a blind eye to everything he did. One that knew how far they’d cracked apart, but would be able to salvage it. To rebuild everything between them.

(Y/N) looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers out. She wiped at her cheeks, sniffling before splaying her hands out again in front of herself. She looked from the old golden ring with the adorning pearls she always wore to the small silver one that she would spin anxiously. She then moved her attention to her wrist, unlatching the watch that was looped around it. She was out of time with the one who had given it to her, she felt no need to keep it on. Sliding it off of her wrist, she had to pull her lips in between her teeth to keep from making any sounds. She set the watch down atop the dresser and moved to take off the golden bracelet that had accompanied it. She set it down next to the watch, taking in a shaky breath.

She looked back down at her hands again, seeing the last thing he’d given her. The diamond band around the ring finger of her left hand. She sobbed, this one sounding more pained than she ever thought she could. More raw and vulnerable than she’d ever been in her life. She twisted the ring off of her finger for the first time in three years, setting it down atop the dresser. She rubbed at the skin of her finger for a moment, feeling the phantom weight of the ring like it were still there. She took a few weak steps back from the dresser, eyes trained on the jewelry that had once held so much value to her. She sank back down onto the bench, hands falling into her lap.

“What now?” (Y/N) wondered of the empty apartment, voice drained and heart heavy. Where could she go now? Where could she turn? She wanted to lay on the bed and have him to curl against, to lay with and be comforted by. How could he be the one she needed the comfort because of? How could he be the one who broke them? Broke her? Let something that was once so wonderful die?

She was still hurting, alright. And God. She wondered when that would change.

#sam writes #sams post #sam posts #my first fanfic posted on this blog!!! #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fan fic #bucky barnes fan fiction #sebastian stan one shot #sebastian stan fan fic #bucky barnes oneshot #sebastian stan fanfic #sebastian stan fiction

[eorzean-capitalist]

“You’ll do it because I said so!” Lord Michellant roared, “You may be a bastard but you’re still my daughter!”

There would be no further argument.  He expected, demanded even, for Sebastine to acquiesce meekly and meet with yet another insipid suitor in the manse parlor.  Nibble daintily on petite fours and drink tea and ask innocuous questions about the man’s interests and hobbies.  Sit there and look pretty, like a painting on the wall or a sculpture on display.

Sebastine kept her features schooled to neutral and stared at him, “As you say, Father.”

Michellant inhaled deeply, still glaring down at his willful child.  When he spoke again his words were measured and sharp as tacks.  “Have your mother’s handmaid do your hair this time, no braids.  And be on your best behavior.”

Sebastine’s lips formed a thin line, pondering how best to tell him where to stick it with that demand.  She nodded, biting her tongue for the time being.   Michellant controlled the purse strings and she was not quite ready or able to strike out on her own yet.  She had to bide her time, and that meant playing along until she didn’t have to anymore.

That evening, she still wore her braids, both of them dangled over her shoulders.  The handmaiden wrung her hands when Sebastine refused any hair styling.  She allowed herself to be dressed at least, attire suitable for a young woman meeting a potential suitor.  Demure, flattering but nothing scandalous.  Dark green fabric and a collar that clasped just over the base of her throat.  A peridot pendant dangled off a chain.  She hated peridot, but her father insisted she wear it, to show off her purity to the men who might marry her.  It felt like a weighty price tag around her neck.

How she envied other houses.  Where women could become knights and dragoons and shape their own destinies.  How unfortunate to be born into a more traditional family dynamic.  With traditional views on bastard children.  Sebastine knew she was nothing more than a political tool, a plum ripe for trade with some other family who had something her father wanted.

Her would-be suitor sat across from her.  She almost felt sorry for him, looking at how his face turned red when she asked him questions.  His hands wrung nervously and he tugged at his collar, too tight.  She’d met with tall men, short men, men with all manner of mustaches or beards.  Men who apprised her critically as one might a vintage weapon or bottle of fine wine.  Others who clearly had perverse intentions and enjoyed trying to make her uncomfortable by staring at her chest boldly.  

This one wasn’t as terrible as others.  Some women might have found his fumbling endearing.  Sebastine found him boring.  He had no real interests that meshed with her own.  He liked tournaments and competitions between gladiators in Ul’dah.  She’d seen the fighting pits once, and only paid attention to the alchemists tending to wounds or handing over potent potions meant to aid a warrior’s strength or agility or vitality.  It was how she discovered her passion in the first place.

Somewhere along the line, she’d stopped really listening to him prattle on about the last tournament in Ishgard.  She nodded her head at the right times, tried her best to appear interested when he explained things to her, and grimaced into her teacup when she was sure he wasn’t looking.  

Still, he was not a cruel sort.  She decided she’d let him down gently.  He’d do better with a woman who wasn’t itching to escape Ishgard.  

She bid him farewell, seeing him to the door of the parlor.  From there, the house manservant would escort him to the exit.  The second the parlor door shut, she pressed her back against it and sighed in relief, reaching up to unbutton the severe collar of her dress.  

When she was sure her potential suitor was gone, she left the parlor, heading down the hall to her bedroom immediately.  There she pulled off the frock and all the petticoats and under garments that came with it.  Until she stood stark naked in front of the bathroom mirror.  She had her father’s reddish brown hair, soft and wavy when not plaited. But she had her mother’s eyes, brilliant green.  The mother she never knew, who was said to have been stunning to gaze upon.  Up until the lord of the manor she served decided she looked better in his bed.  

This was not the life for her.  She’d realized that when she was old enough to understand her station in life.  The horrible dawning reality that she was not really family, not in the same way her brothers were.  She was underfoot, left to her own devices, ignored or kicked if she were in the way.  Denied even her father’s surname, she was a Greystone, like her many illicit siblings in Ishgard’s noble houses.  

Sebastine kicked her discarded clothing aside.  She could pick it up later to carry to the laundress.  Instead, she donned her work clothing. An old apron with deep pockets she’d repaired, worn clothing that she didn’t mind staining.  That no one would care if she ruined.  They smelled of a dozen different, cloying scents.  All the strange ingredients she’d collected to experiment on.  

From under her bed, she pulled out a suitcase and opened it, revealing a glittering array of bottles, cork stoppered flasks and vials.  Her alembic and mortar and pestle.  Everything she needed for practical applications of the lessons in her books.  She set all of it up neatly on the table by her bed.  

She picked up the vial she’d been studying earlier.  Here lay her future, spread out in front of her.  Written in tomes, fermenting in little dishes.  All she needed was to perfect this art.  Then she would be free.

But she was running out of time.

#Sebastine Greystone

[atamascolily]

An Appointment in Sawarra, 3/?

Dinner with Leia, Han, and Winter is an opportunity for adventures in Alderaanian cuisine and exposition.

(parts one and two)

"Sawarra?" Leia said thoughtfully, balancing her wine glass in her hand as she pondered Luke's announcement. Winter had taken the twins to bed, and it was finally quiet enough in the Organa-Solo apartment for grown-up conversation. "Now <i>that's</i> interesting. Why would you want to go there?"

Luke poked at the gelled crimson mound on his dessert plate--some sort of obscure Alderaani fruit, fermented to a pleasant fizz, flavored with equally mysterious Alderaani spices with a pronounced camphor aftertaste. Winter had picked the menu tonight, and it showed. Clearly, she been feeling homesick. He dared a bite.    

"You know the place?" he said, his mouth full. Once he'd gotten past all the chewing, he decided that he liked the texture, odd as it was. "I've never heard of it."  

Leia cleared her throat. "They're famous for being the last system in the Mid-Core to join the Republic seven hundred years ago, millennia after all their neighbors. Even then, they were incredibly xenophobic--they wouldn't let any outsiders set foot in their inner system at all. There was a single station permitted for all foreigners and foreign trade goods... and that was it."

"Oh. So it's like Nar Shaddaa, then?"

Han Solo, who had spent more time on the Smuggler's Moon than both of his dining companions combined, wrinkled his nose at his broasted brualki. "Nicer than that slimeball, I hope."

"It would have to be," Leia said. "<i>Everything's</i> nicer than Nar Shaddaa--except for maybe Nal Hutta."

"Is Sawarra more open now with the New Republic?" Luke asked.

Leia shook her head. "I don't remember the details, but from what I've heard, they threw off the Empire right after Endor. I know Mon Mothma sent several envoys to them, but nothing came of it."

"An independent system? It must be crawling with smugglers," Luke said. "No wonder Talon Karrde knows about it."

"Sure, maybe on the station itself," Leia said. "But I doubt they've relaxed their guard; fear of the outside world is a major tenet of all their major philosophies and religious traditions. There have been a handful of exceptions for diplomats and dignitaries over the years, but even those have always been tightly controlled. And hardly anybody leaves. I don't think I've ever seen a Sawarran outside of a few old holos, let face to face."

"Now that you mention it, it sounds kinda familiar," Han said. "Don't they have some sort of stellar anomaly that blocks comm signals?"

"That's right," Winter said from the doorway. "The Sawarran system is ringed by a dense cluster of neutron stars that constantly emit electromagnetic radiation, interfering with standard galactic comm systems."

No one bothered to ask how she knew this. In addition to many other talents--an excellent sense of timing, a keen-eyed stare, and the ability to make even a simple gray robe appear as haute couture when draped over her shoulders--Leia's childhood friend and lifelong companion was gifted with an eidetic memory and never forgot anything, no matter how trivial or mundane.

"How are the twins?" Leia asked as Winter settled down at the table at her usual place. Unlike Leia's far more complicated braids, Winter's long white hair was plaited in a single thick rope down her back, with a few strands loose around her ears that hadn't been there when she'd left the room a few minutes earlier. One of the twins--Jacen, probably, he was a grabber--must have tugged it loose.

"Sleeping soundly, Your Highness," Winter said. She picked up her chopsticks and tapped them against her plate. "What happened while I was gone to turn the conversation to Sawarra?"

"Luke says he's going there," Han interjected before Luke could say anything. "What do you else do you know about the place, Winter?"

Winter sighed and closed her eyes. When she spoke, there was a lilting cadence to her voice that implied she was reciting something by rote from her encyclopedic memory, reading some extensive tome that existed solely in her mind.

"Due to its unique stellar configuration, navigation in Sawarran space is exceptionally difficult, aside from a handful of approved routes regularly patrolled by the local authorities. By placing a station at the largest opening to the star cluster, the Sawarrans have total control over who enters and exits their space, which they have fiercely guarded."

"Sounds like the Kessel Run, then," Luke said, with a glance at Han.

Han snorted. "No, <i>not</i> like Kessel. Sawarra doesn't have spice; it doesn't have anything that anybody wants, or I would have heard more about it. Sounds to me more like Hapes with less obnoxious royalty, fewer luxury goods, and the discipline to keep to themselves for once."

Leia and Winter rolled their eyes at each other. Han had never been fond of the Hapans since Leia had been courted by the crown prince of the fantastically wealthy consortium. Even though Isolder had eventually withdrawn his suit and married someone else, Han still couldn't resist the occasional jab at his erstwhile rival.

Luke steered the conversation back on course. "So how did Karrde get to know someone on the main planet, then?" Luke asked. If the Sawarrans don't go out, and outsiders can't get in--"

"Maybe they met at the station," Han said. "Karrde's a shrewd trader and loves secrets. Seems like a natural fit. "

"What secrets?" Luke said. "I thought you said nothing exciting happened there."

"<i>I</i> don't know of anything, but that doesn't mean there <i>isn't</i> anything--"

Leia patted her husband's shoulder. "If they're hiding something, they've never shown it. They're certainly not interested in conquest. Maybe they just genuinely want to be left alone, except for a little trade."

"If you are going to Access Station, Luke, I hope your contact speaks Basic," Winter said. "My understanding is that most Sawarrans never bother to learn."

"Why would they?" Han cut in. "Not much point if you never leave."

"I assume she does, or else Karrde would have mentioned it," Luke said. "But I guess I could take Threepio along, just in case--although then I couldn't take my X-wing--"

Winter shook her head. "No off-world droids allowed on Access Station," she said. "The authorities are <i>very</i> strict about that."

"Why not?"

"I can think of all kinds of reasons," Han deadpanned.

"You can always use a portable translator," Leia said. "They're not as reliable as droids, but they work in a pinch."

"I guess so," Luke said. His stomach clenched and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. "Karrde did say this person was eccentric. I wonder if this was what he meant."

"Or maybe <i>she's</i> eccentric by Sawarran standards," Leia pointed out. "She'd have to be if she was on close terms with an outsider. She's, what, an academic, not a trader or a merchant, right?"

Luke nodded. All four of them pondered the question for a moment in silence.

#star wars #an appointment in sawarra #fanfic excerpt

[unorthodoxsavvy]

Gourmet Holiday

Title: Gourmet Holiday

Chapter: 1

Pairing: Dan and Phil

AU: UK-based BATK (Gourmet Makes) [Dan is “Claire” and Phil is “Brad”]

Word Count: 2.2k

Rating: G

Summary: Phil helps out Dan make candy canes in his holiday episode of Gourmet Makes

Trope: Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers

“Alright, my name is Dan, and today on Gourmet Makes we’re going to be making candy canes,” Dan smiled into the camera, holding up a box of a dozen candy canes.

“Candy canes are one of the best holiday traditions, even here in the UK. I love them for the taste, and also for the fact that if you get them sharp enough, you can stab someone with them-”

Dan quickly glanced up from the box to their camera man.

“Am I allowed to say that on this show?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Great!”

Dan started to pull one out of the package.

“Candy canes are really great too because they can be used in holiday deserts like brownies or as sprinkles or in like hot chocolate, ooh, we should make some hot chocolate- anyway-”

Dan unwrapped the long end and popped it in his mouth.

Behind Dan, his coworker, Phil, approached his station. Sensing the older man, Dan turned slightly.

“Phil! Important question: which end of the candy cane do you start with?”

“The curved part,” Phil smiled.

“Wow, someone isn’t valid,” Dan replied, turning back to the camera.

“Can I have one though?”

“Not if you’re going to eat it like that.”

Phil huffed and kept walking.

“Anyway, it’s time for my favorite part: reading the ingredients.”

Dan flipped over the candy cane box and started listing off the ingredients, doing his best to pronounce the bigger words. He knew that in the final edit of this video, the ingredients would be listed around him, framing his face as he rattled them off. Dan had always admired the editors work on all of his videos, a skill he felt like he could never pick up.

“Alright,” he grinned, staring straight ahead. “Let’s get started.”

The camera followed Dan around the UK’s BA Test Kitchen as he gathered up various ingredients and tools he’d need to start with his first task: making the sugar candy.

With a smile, Dan started to explain what he was doing as he measured out the sugar on his scale in a bowl, then transferred it to a larger pan he could boil it down to hard ball candy on the stove afterwards.

In order to make it a more elevated treat, Dan was trying to think of a way he could somehow use the mint leaves directly. One plan he had was throwing them in Phil’s dehydrator, and then using the spice grinder to grind them up and add to the mixture. It would probably give the candy a speckled appearance, but he hoped it wouldn’t look too much different from the original. Dan hated the artificial taste of extracts, and avoided them whenever he could.

After talking this through with the camera while his sugar boiled down, Dan removed it from the heat and waited for it to be cool enough to the touch for him to work with.

“I’m too weak for this,” he complained, grabbing the sugar and pulling it across his chest over and over again. Starting to get tired, Dan wrapped it around the stand mixer’s arm and used that to continue pulling towards him instead of out. Once satisfied with his sugar, he started to rip pieces off and form them by hand into cane-shapes.

By this time, Dan had been on camera for about 45 minutes, and Phil returned from whatever he’d been doing.

“How’s it going, Dan?” Phil asked cheerfully, looking down at Dan with adoring big eyes. Phil’s smile, which never left his face, was infectious, and tired as Dan was, he managed to smile back.

“I think I might need to find a mold for these,” Dan gestured to the candy canes he was making.

“You didn’t wrap the two colors yet?” Phil observed. 

“No, I just wanted to see how well I could do this without worrying about having to have them wrapped. If I can’t make these right without wrapping the red with the white, there’s no way I’ll be able to do it with that.”

“Alright, do you want some help making a mold?” Phil offered.

“What are you doing now? Are you working on anything?” As much as Dan would love the help, he didn’t want to pull Phil away from his own assignments.

“Ah, you know, just waiting for some things to ferment over at the fermentation station,” Phil mentioned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the shelf in the kitchen he’d claimed for his weird experiments, including a bag of egg yolks with salt he’d thrown in a plastic sandwich bag. Every once in a while Dan had the urge to rip it down and throw it out, but a part of him was morbidly curious as to not only how long Phil would keep it tapped to the wall, but what would become of it afterwards.

Dan rolled his eyes at the thought, being a bit extra for the camera. “Alright, if you’re not busy, then sure. Got any ideas?”

Phil tilted his head in thought while Dan gazed up at him from his seat at his counter. Standing side by side, Dan and Phil were almost the same height, and they both towered over everyone else in the kitchen. It was one thing that bonded them. Their personalities complimented each other as well: Dan was pessimistic, focused, and sarcastic, something that the internet had latched on to, giving him the success he saw today. Phil, on the other hand, was a bit chaotic, spacey, and made really bad jokes and puns. This lent him a different kind of love from Dan, but just as much success. Their respective shows were the most popular of all of the UK BA Test Kitchen’s channel.

“What if we got one of those putty things you can impress molds into?”

Phil was known around the kitchen for having out-of-the-box and generally handy ideas.

“That’s great, do we have any?”

“I have no idea,” Phil grinned stupidly.

Dan let out a dramatic sigh and got up from his station to look around the kitchen, followed by Phil and the cameraman.

After looking around for a good 20 minutes, Dan located what he was looking for- there was only one problem. There was only enough of the putty to make a mini candy cane mold, not the full-sized ones.

Dan showed it to Phil.

“Well, if it works out, they’ll just have to be that size,” Phil voiced, as if he had read Dan’s mind.

“My thoughts exactly,” Dan agreed, and brushed past Phil in the hallway, shoulders bumping slightly. Dan felt his face heat up in embarrassment and didn’t turn around to apologize so that it wouldn’t be caught on camera. The last thing he needed was to give the internet another piece of “proof” that the two were secretly in love.

They’d never really explicitly talked about how they were “shipped”, but Dan was fairly confident Phil was aware.

Dan placed the putty for the mold on his work counter and started to work to clean up the mess he’d made in his first attempt, camera continuing to roll on the off chance there was any good B-footage to be had for the end of the video, or even peppered into the main video. Phil tried to help, but Dan waved him off.

“I have a process,” he asserted. Phil threw his hands up and backed away gently, playing it up for the camera. Dan wondered if the scene would make it into the video.

Once Dan was done cleaning his station Phil pulled up a stool to sit next to Dan.

Dan startled from where he’d been staring down at the table in focus and looked at Phil, feeling his eyes drawn to Phil’s icey blue ones.

“I, uh, we, I-”

“You sound like me on camera!” Phil joked.

Dan’s face dropped into a glare, causing Phil to chuckle even more.

“I grabbed the box of mini ones we got to make the mold with,” Dan finally stated, pulling over the box so it would be on-screen in front of the two of them.

“Awesome, let’s jump in,” Phil smiled, grabbing the box from where Dan had left it in front of them, starting to pull out some of the candy canes.

Dan vaguely felt like Phil was hijacking his video more than he would have liked, but maybe with more air time for Phil in Dan’s series, it would get more views. 

Dan watched Phil delicately unwrap the candy cane from the plastic and place it into the mold-maker, thinking about how two people with such steady hands could engage in such different work.

“Look good?” Phil asked, showing Dan.

“Looks good. Oh, by the way can I use your new dehydrator?” 

“You sure can,” Phil exclaimed, getting up to head over it right away. Dan figured Phil wanted to show him how it worked, so even though Dan wasn’t quite ready to use it, he followed Phil over to the fermentation station.

“Alright, so when you open it up you can see right inside we got two nice large fans, right, so those really push the air around and make whatever’s inside dry up real nice.”

Phil closed the door of the dehydrator.

“Up here you can set a timer for how long you want it to run for and over here with this dial you can change how much air the fans are blowing and this one over here changes the temperature-” Phil went through and detailed each and every feature his new dehydrator came with while Dan politely listened. After about five minutes of filming, Phil was finally done explaining how it worked, and Dan thanked him, saying he was going to go grab the mint leaves he’d pre-ordered for the episode.

“Wonderful!” Phil followed Dan to where he’d been storing the leaves.

It became clear to Dan that Phil was in this for the long-haul, so Dan asked Phil how long he thought they should keep the leaves in the dehydrator for.

“There’s a fair amount of moisture in them because they’re from a plant, so maybe overnight and we check them in the morning,” Phil suggested.

“Great, and in the meantime we can test out that mold you made.”

“Awesome,” Phil replied in a deep voice for what Dan assumed was comedic effect.

The two returned back to Dan’s station where Dan started to make the same sugar mixture he had for his first test. “I think I like this mixture I made, but the first one was really just to see the logistics of this, I wasn’t really paying attention to the sugar to see if this is what I want to end up using or not,” Dan mentioned as he stirred, leaning over his mixing bowl slightly.

Dan felt Phil lean over his shoulder to glance in his mixing bowl, and Dan stopped whisking to turn and give Phil another glare. It had the desired effect, and Phil backed off, but Dan wasn’t sure if he did it for himself or for the camera.

Dan continued stirring before pouring his mixture into the pot he’d had Phil place on the stove for him. Dan turned the burner on and placed his candy thermometer in, leaning against the oven as he stirred the sugar.

Phil came and stood next to him. For the first time this whole video, Dan wished the camera wasn’t rolling so they could have an honest conversation, but for now it was casual conversation.

When the sugar was ready, Dan poured it out and let it set, getting Phil to help him pull it when it was cool enough to touch.

Phil placed some in the mold, and although it worked, he wasn’t quite as happy with the sugar as he could have been. When he bit it, it was a bit chewy and didn’t have that distinct crack and the crumble effect of a real candy cane.

Dan voiced his thoughts to Phil, who seemed genuinely interested in what Dan had to say. 

“It’s getting late, I think I’m going to run one more test and then call it quits for today, and we can start day two tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

Dan made one more batch of sugar to cook down while Phil watched, this time letting it sit a little longer and get a bit hotter.

Dan was happier with the results this time, but felt that after a good night’s rest (in theory) he could come back and make an even better version the next day. Dan let Phil help him clean up this time, and by the time they were done, they were the only ones left in the kitchen. The camera man had been running low on battery again, and decided to wrap up filming a bit early, as they would have enough content for the video without him needing to film the two cleaning up.

Phil waited for Dan in the foyer while Dan put his coat on.

“We make a good team,” Phil smiled.

“We do,” Dan agreed sincerely.

“Maybe they’ll give us a show together some time,” Phil joked.

Dan turned to him as they walked down the hall.

“I would like that, Phil.”

#just want to say this is not me shipping brad and claire i just love the dynamic of them and think it makes a good au #phanfiction #my phanfic #savvy's fanfictions #savvy's fics #savvy's writing #holiday phanfic #holiday phan #dan and phil #amazingphil #danisnotonfire #phil lester #dan howell #phandom

[bibliotechnician]

Just a bunch of excerpts I’ve shared with people over the course of the last few years or so. They’re split up by ship where applicable, timeframe where not. I might make more of these as they show up in archive searches or being written. If something stands out and you want more of it, lemme know; they’re all unfinished drabbles-in-progress.

Warning for some ... ah ... implied necropophagy in brief for one of them, which [for those unfamiliar] is cannibalism of dead people.

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

SAURKRAUTS

"What is that." It was less a question, more an observation. He stopped behind her, the scuffle of his boots and clacking of the gun belts falling quiet in the inky black. The only sound came from far off, a constant dripping trickle of water that penetrated the thick silence, so tangible it felt like someone could cut a slice off it. Even then, she knew he could at least see her enough to read her movements, and she was aware of him within her space. "What is it?" he whispered back, tentative to break the stillness. Something else was breaking through, she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Something that sent a shudder up her spine and set her metaphoric hackles raising. This wasn't the usual tunnel anxiety either. This was something real, something dangerous. She took a step back and broadened her profile in threat, grateful to feel his hand at her back to make sure she was steady. Instinct pulled her to look at the thing, whatever it was. But the problem was that there was nothing to see enough to actually look at. What is that... The thought plagued her head before the panic started setting in. She was underground, in a tunnel, the thought set her to hyperventilate. She barely heard Reiner's voice asking low and with concern if she was alright, the sound of her breathing and her heartbeat in her ears, the feeling of the tunnels closing down, the darkness pushing in, the shuffle along one wall... "There!” It erupted from her like a cannon, echoing around the concrete tube as startling as Reiner's flashlight beam cutting into the black abyss. Crouched on a jutted piece of masonry was a figure. It looked vaguely human in shape, swathed in black tatters, completely still even as the light hit it. "What the fuck ... is that..." That sure seemed the question of the day... She waited, staring at it. The longer she did, the more uneasy it made her feel. The hackles stayed up, her head lowered like they were. Whatever it was emanated a malevolence that penetrated the suit and her skin and her muscles and anchored deep in her bones. Volk prized herself for her ability to observe and conserve but this thing didn't want that, evident when a pair of wide yellowed eyes opened on the bottom of where the head was supposed to be. A wave of feeling hit her, foreboding and furious, and she went to pull the Tikhar from her side. It was only then she noticed the barrel of Reiner's rifle already aimed at it from over one shoulder.

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

MAKSIM

"Well, it is just lying around doing nothing but rotting and feeding the occasional hungry mutant." he started, his voice devoid of any extreme expression but there was an odd quirk of a smile on his face that made her stomach drop. "I would still rather hunt for rats. Or Nosalises. Or something I still deem perfectly edible." she told him, turning away to look for her own quarry. "Oh, you won't find rats in this tunnel. They rarely frequent it here." There was a musical twinge to his voice now and she was almost afraid of what it meant. "Besides. They don't tell you that human meat is sweet to the taste, especially when it's been fermenting for a short while. Give me a moment to have it cut and cleaned, you'll think you're eating pork from one of those lucky livestocky stations. It helps it go down smoother, in the end..." She shied from him then. "Fine. I'll eat mutant meat then, but you won't catch me eating my own, regardless of them being dead." "They certainly won't be missing it, it's not like I'm asking you to help me hunt a living breathing human being." "How is this any different." "It doesn't squirm so much. Or scream, or beg, or fight. You maintain a good healthy level of energy..." "God, I fucking hate you." "You know, everyone says that." he said, back to his flat tones and chilling smirks, a flash of dim light off the blade of a well-worn trench-knife in his hand, the sickening shlup of it passing through decaying skin and muscle making her gag and taste bile in the back of her throat. "You should all really think up better ways to express your distaste, hate is too broad a term to use. Try 'disgust', or 'repulsed', those are good words to use. Or get used to it. We're very likely going to be here for a while."

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BOOKWYRMS

She heard him shuffle to a stop on the stairs, taking a precautionary glance at the yawning doorways around the the top landing before looking behind her. He was looking at the catalogs along the wall with a look that she could take as some form of longing. It was hard to tell through the lenses on the gasmask, but there was the sparkle there. One of curiosity, and she figured he knew what the catalogs meant to Brahmin. She knew he had been here before, and that it had left him terrified of the place. She didn't ask him about it, she didn't need to. If he wanted to talk about it, he would. She wasn't here to force it. After all, it had taken her about two months to convince him to follow her, and another had passed before he approached her to try. She walked up next to him, looking from the catalogs to him. "Do you want to try?" she asked him, her voice low so as not to attract attention so close to the front doors. The look he gave her was reverent, though he lowered his eyes to the side. "I don't think I'm allowed to." he answered, sheepish and almost a whisper. "Because you're not officially Brahmin." she replied, watching him avoid her gaze as she pinpointed the reason. "You know, I don't adhere to a lot of Brahmin ways. Despite being one in their system." She added, with a nod toward the drawers on the wall, "Go see what they have for you. If you're meant to be here, they'll know more than me." The excitement was palpable, she could feel it waft off him in giddy waves as he made a beeline toward them, running a hand reverently over each surviving drawerfront until he found the one that apparently spoke to him. His fingers were on the knob, but he paused, offering a side glance to the Stalker as she walked into his field of view. She nodded her head at him and he pulled, sliding it open in the long casing of aged cards that had once served as a filing system. He reached forward, eyes scanning over the contents as he went, until he found the one that spoke to him the most. He pulled it out slowly, turned it around so he could see the writing on it, and she chanced a glance at it. Brave New World, Huxley. "What does it mean?" he asked after a moment, unable to see how her brows knit and her lips thinned. "...It has a lot of meanings. It is how you want to interpret it." she said at last, stopping his arm as he made to slot it back in. "Nein. Keep it. Keep it in mind, all will be made clearer as you look into yourself, now or later." She heard him cough a laugh, slotting it into a pocket. "For someone who doesn't believe in the spiritualism of the Library, you certainly see this as something to be worshiped." "The Library is a building. But there are things hidden in it. Strange things, stranger than you, me, the Librarians. Be aware that it is not the Library to praise, but that which it contains. That is what it is to be a smart Brahmin. That thinking keeps you alive."

"Aha! I see you have documented Librarians among these pages!" she crowed triumphantly. Artyom looked momentarily confused before glancing over her shoulder at the page she was staring at and looking side-eyed toward her with a playful condescension. "You are not a Librarian." A snort was awarded him with a, "Says you." The worn journal was snapped closed and handed back to him. "No. Really. I think you're the first one outside my father to say that in recent years." "I can't be the only one who still sees you for human." he stated, accepting his journal back from her. "Oh yes. Outside Papa, it's always a Librarian ... or a tree ..." He thought back to a point he'd seen a tree, trying to make the correlation before nodding slowly. "Alright, the tree I understand. But a Librarian? How do you get confused for that. It seems a bit strange, outside the whole 'working in the Library' thing..." She leaned her shoulder against him, her voice low. "Listen. You stare down one guy in a bar around here..."

"The Codec doesn't exist." Artyom started, as though the words had slapped him in the face for being a stupid child. "It ... it doesn't?" The question was quiet and tentative, almost like he was afraid he'd stepped on a nerve with it. Volk sighed a little and relaxed some, realizing maybe something so blunt wasn't a good way to go about it. "No. It doesn't. The Council actively believes in it, so to them, it wasn't a meaningless crusade. They sent one of their own believers with you, so you didn't have a chance to know the truth. But I can tell you with certainty that the Codec doesn't really exist, at least physically, within the walls of the Library." she told him. The tone change did wonders for his own anxiety and she saw him visibly relax with a slump of his shoulders. "If it doesn't exist, though ... How would you know?" "If anyone in this station would have found it and brought it back, it would have been me." "That sounds arrogant..." "I've crawled that Library top to bottom for many years and asked the Librarians to find it. The smart ones, at least." She looked him as sincerely as she could in the eyes. "If they haven't found it, I haven't found it. I'm sorry to say that it doesn't exist."

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EXODUS

"What. Is. That." Anna did not seem surprised in the least. Of course she wouldn't be, Volk mused to herself. She was already used to this and had been for years. Probably due to the morning she'd had, or maybe it was because the Spartan sniper was puffing nonchalantly away on a cigarette of her own, Volk pulled out a pre-rolled stick and lit it. "It's a bruise and a split lip. What do you think it looks like." There was a glint her eyes at that, a bit mischievous perhaps. She knew exactly what her shorter sister was referring to and chose to divert attention. All it got her was a scoff and a look of fatigue that seemed to span decades. "You know damned well what I mean, you walking tree. What is that!" She pointed toward the struggling mutant held firmly by the neck in the German's other hand, futilely trying to get away from the tightened belt like a collar either to bite its captor's hand and arm or simply to get away. "Oh! That. Ja..." Volk started, staring at it for a moment. The position it was stuck in could not have been comfortable for it. Served the little bastard right. "...The locals call them 'humanimals'." "...Okay, I'll bite. What is it doing here." Anna sighed, defeated and unamused. "Learning some fucking manners."

#metro 2033 #metro exodus #metro oc #saurkrauts #bookwyrms #some other crazy shenanigans like two polezhaevskaya line drabbles #also retcon #and anna being done with literally everything her crazy german sister does anymore

[mogadichu]

SOAST DRAFT TWO CHAPTER TWO

The Monastery of Kelsh stood at the heart of the green island, rich burgundy wood carved in patterns of leaping carp and blooming water lilies swept up in lapping waves. A gleaming gold sun stood at each curved tip of the green tiled roof. The inside was paneled with dark wood, the walls varnished with oil murals of sailing ships and groves of cherry trees. The floors were inlaid with shining squares of gold and turquoise stone. Sahn’s footsteps echoed as he weaved through the maze of the corridors, pausing at the cavernous scriptorium, where graying monks copied sacred texts by the light of an arsenal of candles and lanterns, their necks growing forward instead of upward. Tentatively, Sahn peered over one of their humped shoulders. With steel fingers, they painted a map of Kelsh along the thick beige paper.

Kelsh and only Kelsh.

“Did she fix them, Ue?” Kale poked his head out of the library’s threshold, hearing Sahn’s footsteps echo throughout the stone corridor. He reeked of sweat and grass, his clothes stained from his morning work in the fields. Sahn grinned, holding up the mended scrolls. Kale huffed in relief. “Thank the Baltha and all who came before.” Sahn followed his father back into the room, barely wide enough for a grown man to lay down in. The walls were lined with octagonal shelves stuffed to the brim with scrolls, each covered in a fine layer of dust, from the molded wood floor to the timbered ceiling, skewed slightly like a lopsided honeycomb. This held all of Kelsh’s knowledge. This was all they knew of the world, and Sahn and Kale knew every one forward, backward, and sideways.

The monastery was meant to be a beacon of knowledge, a scholar’s jewel, a place for every Kelshin, no matter their station. Most of the population being illiterate was either an unfortunate accident or a cruel twist of fate.

The monastery may have been a marvel to behold, but the scrolls remained unread, the gleaming stone never grew faded from the feet of a curious reader. All but few of the people of Katha ate and slept and plowed from the cradle to the grave without ever learning their letters. “I’ve got no time for letters,” Old Og, a rice farmer with thin arms and a pot belly, grunted when Sahn had asked about it. “I wake up in the morning, I plow, I muck, I seed, and I go home and sleep. Besides, knowing your letters doesn’t make you smart.”

“But my ma and da know their letters,” Sahn had protested, “and they’re smart.”

Old Og had scoffed. “If your ma were smart, she would have stayed and been obedient, not run off and opened her legs to foreign trash.”

Tongueless monks glided past the door as the two worked, dust swirling around their thick wool robes as they walked. Sahn breathed in the room’s musty scent, wanting more than anything to vanish among the hundreds of scrolls that surrounded him. He trailed a finger across one of the carved wooden covers, nodding in satisfaction when it came back clean. Not a speck of dust would touch these shelves on his watch. He ascended the ladder, sliding the scrolls back into their proper place. The ladder’s bottom step was missing, obliterated from its brave attempt to hold his father’s two meters of muscle. Kale’s massive feet never left the ground again after that day. Instead, he unrolled one of the scrolls, surveying Maudra’s handiwork. “Amazing,” he said. “You can’t even see the tears. How much did you owe her?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. She always makes people pay. How much?”

“Nothing,” Sahn repeated. “She was… busy.” He went still, the runes on the wall barging back into his thoughts. He repeated them over and over like a catchy song, wondering what they could have meant. “Da, could you pass me a pen and parchment?” He drew the symbols in a straight line, forming a sentence. It was surprisingly maddening. They looked like Old Kelshin, but they didn’t make any sense. Open there a to gate with… with… the final three runes, he had never seen before. “Can you read this?” He passed the parchment to Kale, not needing to look too far down to meet his eyes.

Kale studied the parchment for a long while, saying nothing, his eyebrows, like two mice resting above his eyes, knit together in puzzlement. He stroked his thick shallow beard, his chest rumbling in a low, constant hum. Then, he looked up, smiled, and tossed it back. “Ue, if your making up your own language, again, you should know that I won’t understand it.”

“It’s not a fictional language, Da. It’s Old Kelshin.” Sahn hopped back down to the floor, recounting the incident in the temple. “So, is Sister Maudra going mad, then?” It made far too much sense. The Daughters of the Moon had been fading for years, each one dying off with no heirs brave enough to take their place. Sister Hada was the only one left. Sahn had tried to give her as much company as he could. But the poor woman was still alone in that great empty temple, day in and day out. Moons, Sahn did not even know her age.

“I heard where you were this morning.”

Sahn and Kale both turned to stare at Shay, bent backward slightly from the weight of the crate in her arms, overflowing with jars and packages filled with fresh apothecary herbs. Sahn looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. Kale’s face glowed as red as the clover fermenting in its jar. He rushed to her, seizing the crate. “Let me take that, my love.” Shay’s amber eyes never left Sahn as her arms fell away. Sahn went back to work, suddenly very interested in the alignment of the shelves. Behind him, he heard her footsteps padding closer and closer, until he felt her warmth at his back. “You went to the Daughters’ Temple today,” Shay sighed. “You know how I feel about them.”

“Sister Maudra just mended some scrolls, Ma,” Sahn mumbled.

But there was no fooling Shay Darru. “She’s mad,” she pressed, more forceful than usual. “She’s always been mad. That’s why she’s alone.” Sahn flinched as though she had slapped him. “Of all the people on this island, why do you go to her?”

Sahn said nothing, putting scrolls in the wrong places, then the right, then the wrong again. The first warm day of spring wafted into the open windows of the outside corridor, blocking in the heat like an oven. Specks of dust waltzed about the sunbeams. Sahn wished he could be one of those specks, dancing out into the corridor, into the courtyard, anywhere but here. “First there was the old man in the northern monastery,” Shay went on. “Then, there was that homeless boy. Then, your cousin- oh, your cousin.” He could hear her rubbing her brow. “I just don’t understand-”

“Am I not allowed to talk to anyone, then?” He had not meant to sound churlish, but it came out as such.

“Listen, Sahn. We…” she trailed off. Sahn still did not turn around, but he knew she stood there now, her hands on her hips, her eyes on her feet. His irritation began to melt like ice in the sun. Of course, his mother wanted him to talk to people. She just didn’t want him to talk to Kelshins.

In her eyes, he may as well have been talking to skoiias.

Shay tried again. “There isn’t anything for us here, Sahn. These people won’t… Ever since Jehra…” Her voice fractured. Now she truly could not go on. Sahn faced her then, touching his brow to hers. He breathed deeply, prompting her to do the same, in and out, in and out. The pain, the heaviness in her eyes made her somehow look both too old and too young at the same time.

It was the one story that she could never tell; the story of a girl who ran away from a man who bought her, and returned ten years later with a Vyornish husband, a toddler son, and a pregnant belly. Both she and Kale thought their children did not notice the scornful glares, the pointing fingers, the giggles and smirks. It weighed on them like boulders, their shoulders hunched, dragging them through the mud and muck. The monastery was the only place that gave them work (the pension was barely enough for coal, but it was better than sleeping in a rubbish heap). Kale could help in the fields, but that was expected. The other men could only work for a few hours at a time, but Kale could glean until the sun Tuma made his leap across the sky, pulling the plow himself, leaving the munts to graze happily to the side. Shay sighed heavily, turning her head to rest on the hollow of his shoulder. Sahn wished he could take her pain from her like a dirty cloak and throw it in the river. But all he could do was hold her until, finally, she pulled away, meeting his eyes.

“We’re leaving soon,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that.”

Oh, Ma… Sahn stifled a sigh, forcing a smile to his lips. Shay kissed his temple before trotting off back down the corridor, leaving Sahn to lose himself in the silence.

 “You can’t kiss a goddess, Da.”

     “And why not? You can kiss a ghost.”

     “You cannot.” Sahn’s laugh sputtered into a groan as his stomach twisted again, reprimanding him for leaving it unfed. He hadn’t realized that he had missed both lunch and teatime until the library grew suddenly, immensely hot. He looked up from his scroll to see the sun Tuma searing in through the windows. It mercifully vanished behind the slope of Gleaner’s Hill as Sahn and Kale ascended the zigzagging streets.

     “I’ll show you,” Kale scoffed. “One day, you and I will both climb up to the Baltha itself and-”

     “Kiss a goddess?” Sahn asked, wry.

“Well, now. I didn’t say that. I said-”

But Sahn had already accelerated his pace, hollering toward the glowing windows of their house. “You say you’re going to kiss a goddess, Da? I hope Ma knows.”

“Quiet, you.” Kale slung his gargantuan arm around Sahn’s neck, silencing him with a deep, throaty laugh.

The Darrus’ house stood tall and lopsided, built upward rather than outward, squashed between two squatter buildings like a scroll shoved into a too-small space. The street was bare, everyone else already inside enjoying their dinners. Smells wafted from the string of open windows; fish and rice, wines and sweets and frying bread. But the cloying perfumes of Shay’s apothecary herbs could not be masked. Despite the previous heat of the sun, the evening but with cold, and Sahn craved the delicious warmth that awaited him inside.

“Halt.”

Sahn and Kale stopped short, turning to the threadbare curtain draped limply beneath the front steps. “You are not taking another step,” the voice announced, “until you witness my latest creation.”

The curtain flew open in a flurry of metal shards catching in the dim light. Every inch of Arelya’s cloak was covered in assorted gears and screws shoddily sewn. Some held fast, some dangled precariously from their strings, clattered to the cobbles as she twirled around. The noise was like tinkling bells. “What do you think?” she asked, beaming.

Sahn’s mouth hung open in humoring amazement, but Kale was blunt. “What is it?”

Arelya shrunk a bit. “Well, it’s nothing, really. I just decided to sew everything to my cloak.”

“Why?”

Arelya only sighed. “I’m unappreciated in my talents.” With that, she hopped onto Sahn’s back, her knees pressing into his sides, arms constricting around his thin neck. “Onward, my prized stallion,” she cried. “There is food to be eaten.”

“Ari,” Sahn chuckled through his startled coughs. “Please. If you keep this up, I’ll gain a hump on my back.”            “Good,” said Arelya, planting a hard kiss on his cheek. “It will make it easier to climb. Now, hush. Horses don’t talk.”

Sahn began to walk- hobble, actually- up the steps. “Come on, Da,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m sure Ma didn’t hear your intentions.”

His smile fell immediately at the sight of his father’s face. Kale gaped down the dimly lit street, his face blanching from copper to beige, as the two hulking figures stalked up the hill toward the three. Sahn was suddenly unaware of Ari’s weight sliding down his back. Kale backed away deliberately, placing a steady hand on Sahn’s shoulder. One of the men nodded. He nodded back stiffly, herding Sahn and Ari into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

“Finally,” Shay called from the dining room. “I nearly started without you. Come and eat.”

#saga #storyteller #chapter #two #original #fiction #fantasy