Scooping up the fallen parcels, Baz inspected them. As he figured, they were not addressed to him, but to one Simon Snow. An unusually large case of a usual misdelivery. The address on each one, however, was clearly Baz’s.
All seven of them.
Or: How a simple case of misplaced mail leads to such things as cheer-up-the-bachelor parties, transience as a state of being, the icepocalypse, and mildly prophetic Taylor Swift lyrics.
Read on AO3!
#I do not have a good reason for this fic to exist other than I lived 80% of it #please enjoy this knockoff hallmark movie! #fic rec! #snowbaz#my writing #shout out to the postal service bc they deserve better #also shoutout to my own package person I hope you're doing well <3
Rwby 1920's party au (aka the idea I can up with last night that I'm inserting into several of my series.)
This is an outline of ideas for an idea I had last night about our Rwby characters and some ocs of mine in a 1920's party having their own adventures in love, life, and food all in this one night. A few notes: a. I normally shove Oscar into my Cloqwork ship, but not in this au, so he will not be related to Maylea, Garnet, Oz, or Qrow in ANYWAY in this au. Other than platonic. B. Don't expect me to be good at writing anything, especially this. C. Lot of ships, some of which people don't like. If you don't like it, please skip. D. This isn't really meant to delve into serious topics. This all meant to be a fun anthology thing. If I do end up putting in a serious topic, there will always be a warning.
Now, onto the character notes!
Ruby Rose - Age: 15. From a middle class family. Reluctantly crashing the Schnee's big winter ball with her sister and her girlfriend.
Yang Xio Long - Age: 17. Ruby's half sister. Party animal. Crashing the Schnee's party to see her girlfriend.
Blake Belladonna -Age: 17. Yang's not-so-secret girlfriend. Invited because she is friends with Weiss and Weiss insisted to have at least one of her closest friends there. (They wouldn't let her invite all of her other friends hence why the majority snuck in.)
Weiss Schnee - Age: 17. The middle child of the Schnee family. Singer for a majority of the night. Waiting for a fun night with her friends and her love interest.
Pyrrha Nikos - Age: 17. Daughter of the famous socialite Nikos Family.
Lie Ren and Nora Valkyrie - Age: 17. Very close couple. Nora's in Pyrrha's dance class. They snuck in at Nora's insistence.
Jaune Arc - Age: 17. The awkward kid who is trying to be a good business man like his father. Like Pyrrha.
Oscar Pine - Polendina - Age: 15. Adopted son of Pietro Polendina of Polendina electronics.
Sun Wukong - Age: 17. Weiss' love interest. Snuck in with his friend Neptune.
Garnet Merlot - Age: 15. Foster child of Ozpin. Got dragged along by her sister Maylea.
Aurora Hemlock - Age: 15. A waiter working at the Schnee Manor to earn some extra cash along with her friends.
Qrow Branwen - Age: 40 something (I don't remember their ages) Ruby and Yang's uncle. A teacher at Beacon.
Ozpin - age: 40 something. Headmaster at Beacon. Qrow's crush. Only came because Glynda said it would be a good idea for the school's funding.
Hopefully, this will be an interesting series to those who actually like my shit. These are the following ships to be involved so you can actively seek or avoid the posts I make on this au:
-JNPR berries (poly jnpr)
-Pinning Poly Team HELL + Garnet
More characters will appear, maybe if you want to request something in this verse you can. I will always specifically tag these posts. Most likely I'll tag it as #Rwby1920s unless someone else has tagged it as such.
#♫ ． 𝒊 ， visage ； her soul as clear and blue as her eyes . #♫ ． 𝒊 ， erik ； always with me : he ‚ the unseen genius . #♫ ． 𝒊 ， raoul ； you had run into the sea to fetch my scarf ! #♫ ． 𝒊 ， meg ； little giry should be writing gothic novels ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒊 ， ship ； anywhere you go ‚ let me go ‚ too ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒊 ， ship ； through music my soul began to soar . #♫ ． 𝒊𝒊 ， ship ； stories like this can’t come true ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒊 ， ship ； whose is this voice you hear ? #♫ ． 𝒊𝒊𝒊 ， ismes ； always with her head in the clouds . #♫ ． 𝒊𝒊𝒊 ， musique ； christine daaé could sing it ‚ sir ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒗 ， ooc ； [ john mulaney voice ] sing ‚ goddamn it ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒗 ， écritures ； every detail ‚ exactly as she said . #♫ ． 𝒊𝒗 ， les promotions ； let the spectacle astound you ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒗 ， inbox ； please ‚ monsieur ‚ another note ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒗 ， call ； far too many notes for my taste ! #♫ ． 𝒊𝒗 ， dash games ； our lives are one masked ball . #♫ ． 𝒊𝒗 ， crack ； and she literally dragged him away .
12:32am shouldn’t be thinking about dean/cas having weird roleplay sex in which cas says the most embarrassing/strangest lines imaginable. good night
#[ ooc: assbutt speaks ] #( roleplay is something he is so so terrible at but he'll do it if it works for dean ) #( in any case this is in my top 5 funniest but also endearing shippy scenarios ) #( and something i'd sincerely love to write out sometime )
It's exhausting to always pretend everything's okay all the time.
It was tiring then and still is now.
It's not like I could have expressed my problems to just anyone. And its not like I didn't tell anyone. The problem is that the people that could know didn't care enough to listen.
Now I've just bottled up so many feelings and memories that I barely know myself anymore.
And I hate when someone tells me remember when you were 6 or you were 3 or 8 and we went here or you liked this. Bc I can't remember most of childhood, I've suppressed so much of it I can't remember the important experiences I had.
There's always an excuse as why my problems can't be fixed and my concerns are always cast aside.
The hysterical thing about it all is I'm supposed to be the strongest, sane one out of them all.
Bc I was the good student, I'm not quick tempered, I'm really patient, I'm supposed to be the dependable one, the one they can always tell all their problems too. But mine are never valid enough to be concerning.
Instead it's be grateful. Be hopeful. Be happy. But why? I have nothing to look forward to or look back on.
But I have to be okay, I have to pretend everything's all right.
Me @my friends: hey, my paranoia and abandonment issues is ramping up bc of COVID, I get you guys are introverts but can you please reach out to me also?
My friends: yeah we will!! Don't worry!
Them: stop replying my texts but constantly replies to each others, so anytime I have something to share it just stacks up after not being replied to for days
Me: gets blocked by one of my friends but I don't know who, making my paranoia even worst
#I dont wanna say fuck them because they care about me? #but also them not replying to my texts and not reaching out to me makes my paranoia worst #and they love exchanging art with each other but the moment I talk about writing they just sort of... yeah unless its convenient for them #but this might be the paranoia talking #but the blocking thing definetly happened
I can’t understand why, when I can’t focus on work, that when I try to draw something for myself - why I can’t draw actual scenes from my stories like I’d like to? It’s always stuff that will probably inspire writing.
#not necessarily me doing the writing #i hate my head tonight
#nah cause why do i do this to myself good BYE #anyways gonna tackle drafts and things #kinda want to clean up my blog bc high volumes of numbers always stresses me out bye #but also for the first time i ? actually don’t want to delete all my posts like… lemme keep my writing for once Huh
CW/ TW: Angst; mourning/loss, death, letter, anniversary, pain, brooding, it’s very heavy and sensitive so please proceed with caution and let me know if I didn’t TW something you deemed necessary; also a bit more hopeful/ light toward the end because my heart couldn’t handle that much sadness tonight
Notes: I guess I missed him a lot tonight… Sorry for the pain
Some elements included in this fic are inspired from chats I had with @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s ; thank you little moon for being an inspiration to me 🌙
Iridescent - Linkin Park
Happy anniversary Fives.
Though I don’t see how it could be happy, when you’re everywhere but here. I never grew used to your absence, I never could; not when you’re haunting my every move, haunting this place and this world, finding your way back to me through faint memories and thousand of faces walking up to my office every day, asking me about my day and if I feel well.
I have to look at the ghost of you, every single time, and lie.
“I’m fine. What can I do for you?”
And I hear your voice again, and again. It tells me about the pain running through your back, the nightmares hitting harder than usual, and the fear eating you alive every time you get out of your hard, cold bed.
But it’s not you. It never is. I never could be.
I stopped buying your shampoo. I couldn’t even bring myself to finish the bottle we had in the shower. It’s still there, hidden somewhere in the bathroom, waiting to be emptied and thrown away carelessly, in such a mundane way one could so easily forget about it. But I can’t throw it away; it’s not mundane anymore.
I hid the jewels too, except for the bracelet. I hate to wear it, but I hate even more to put it away. I just feel…I feel naked when I don’t have it, and empty when I do. I can’t help but see you – feel you – through the shades of blue and black. What was once the purest blessing turned into the worst curse, and I can’t break it. I almost did – breaking the bracelet. I almost did.
I could if I really wanted to; but then I would lose you again, and I just…
I gave your aprons to the boys. I couldn’t stand to see them, neatly hanging in the kitchen. They were silly anyway, and I had no use for them. I’m a doctor after all, not a cook.
I published my thesis on the clones’ rights, and it is being presented to the Senate by Senator Amidala as we speak. I told her I wouldn’t be able to be there for her discourse, and she simply hugged me. I wish she hadn’t.
It’s been a year, yet it feels like yesterday. Everyone moved on; everyone but me, and I can’t help but be mad. I am mad that they forgot so easily about you, that they brushed you off as “another collateral damage”, another…clone. It’s the way they say it when they try to comfort me.
You were more than a clone. More than a soldier, and more than a man.
You were Fives.
You were my anchor, and I was your ocean.
I miss the way you said it. Coming home to me, tired, features drained and eyes darkened by the horrors of your latest campaign; but always soft and caring through the hoarseness of your voice as you whispered it against my skin. You always found a way to be there for me; for everyone, even when you were losing yourself in your own prison.
I am mad at you because of that. Because you couldn’t stand back for once, be egoistic and think of yourself instead of trying to play the hero in the dark. They killed you because you didn’t wait, not even when I asked you – begged you to. I am so angry because I called you an idiot, and all you could answer me was “I love you too, my ocean. My anchor.”
You didn’t even let me say it back.
I am mad at myself. You trusted me enough to tell me everything, and you knew I would believe you. And when you tried to do something about it, I called you an idiot. I wasn’t even there with you; I should have been there with you. I could have saved you.
I remember the first time you came home. At the time, it was still “my place”, but the moment you stepped in it stopped being mine only. I always told you to come by if you needed; and the one time you did, we ended up laughing so hard the neighbour had to knock at the door. But it felt good. I guess that day I gave you a part of myself, and you carried it with you ever since. I suppose it died with you, too.
I know I shouldn’t be so broody; I can almost hear you, your chuckles filling the room, your hands pressing down my shoulders as you tell me “it’s a celebration, smile for me!”; and the smell of that shampoo tickling my nose as you come close to lay a kiss on my cheek…
But now the only thing I can feel are the tears, and that twisting ache in my chest, burning my skin and ripping my lungs apart. I can’t even breathe correctly anymore, I…
I’m sorry I had you waiting.
I fell asleep on the table, and woke up because of the cold. It’s always cold in here now. I borrowed one of your old sweatshirt - I hope you don’t mind. I kept them. I almost gave them to the boys, along with the aprons; but then I thought they could always come in handy.
They do. When days like today happens; days where I feel too lonely, where I miss you too much and it just feels too cold, I slip into one and hold it so close to me it almost feels like you’re here. My arms become yours, your faint perfume comes back to me fresh and soft, and I sometimes swear I can feel your warmth against my skin. I close my eyes when I do that, and it stops being a dream for a second.
For just a second, you’re back. You never truly left.
And when I open my eyes again; when I realise what it is all about, I still feel you. I see the bracelet, smell the black tissue, watch one of these B movie we used to laugh at and somehow I feel the best and worst I’ve felt in a long time.
I wish you were here. I wish I could tell you how much I missed you and how beautiful you are; if I could hold you tight, one last time... I didn’t even get to hug you one last time. I didn’t know it would be it; else I wouldn’t have let you go.
Echo is supposed to come around today. He told me he would. He didn’t forget about you either, you know. Neither did Rex, or Jesse, or Kix. Your vode didn’t forget about you. They always make sure to keep you alive, tell everyone about you and remember them of who you were.
Echo always says you’re his best friend. He never uses the past tense. I can’t blame him; I still say you’re the love of my life whenever people ask me. I guess we know deep down these things will never change. We don’t want it to change.
Wait, someone knocked.
When was the last time we laughed like that? For once, we turned the tears into something better; lighter. I’m sure you would be proud of us.
Of course, you would be proud of us.
It almost feels good to see you through Echo; to find glimpses of you in his smile, the faint spark in his eyes when he retells your best pranks, and the way he chuckles...I almost feel at home right now. With you. Not quite, but close enough.
Enough to make me smile, for the first time today.
Echo says hi. He’s watching me writing to you. He asked me to tell you that Rex lit a candle for you this morning, and the boys had a little something for you; but I can’t know what; apparently I “wouldn’t understand anyway”. So I hope – we hope – that you liked it. We’re probably going to watch a bad movie and mock the poor acting until we fall asleep, and tomorrow we will…We’ll probably think of you again, but hopefully there won’t be as much tears as today.
I guess it’s a battle worth fighting. Not for the Republic or the Greater Good; not for the Senate or the Chancellor. Not for the Jedis or the Galaxy.
No, it’s a battle we fight for you, Fives. Let us be your anchor, for once, and rest easy now, because more than anything or anyone else out there… you deserve it.
Been having stardew valley brainrot and I don’t feel like drawing so have this little Drabble I made abt my farmer and Seb
“Hey, Sebastian,” Nico smiled brightly at the male sitting next to him. “How are you feelin’? It’s been a few days since I’ve come to visit you.”
“I’m alright.” He shrugged, glancing away. He went to light his cigarette, then remembered something that Nico had said to him a while back. He didn’t know why it stuck with him. He hadn’t cared at the time.
“Yeah I’m asthmatic.” They laughed. “I had family members who smoked, I’m good as long as it’s not directly in my face.”
Even after saying that, he coughed ever so slightly, but it was almost as if he were attempting to hide it.
He put his lighter and the cigarette away.
“Oh is your lighter out of fluid? I think I have one in my bag,” Nico started to rummage through the bag of light meals and drinks he took with him when he went mining.
“No it’s fine. I just shouldn’t smoke around you.” Sebastian scoffed. “I’m not heartless ya know.”
“No no no I wouldn’t consider you heartless at all if you smoked around me! My grandma did it all the time back home I can just avoid the smoke if I need to it’s really no problem I know addictions are hard to get over I—“
Sebastian stopped him by putting a hand over his mouth. “Just shut up and look at the stars with me.”
He sat down on the ground and looked up, hearing the rustling of the grass next to him as Nico sat next to him.
“Man, I’m so glad I moved out of the city…” he smiled, “It’s so much more beautiful here and there’s so much more to do. Having an office job is boring, but being out in the mines, being able to gaze at the stars. This is the life.” Nico stretched out and stared up, grinning.
“I know you’d like to move out one day, though. You’ll have to stay in touch or I might have to come find ya.” They playfully punched Sebastian’s arm.
“I assumed there was no escape from you, Bee Boy.” Sebastian chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah. You love me.” Nico sat up. “I should probably get home. My arms are sore from being in the mines and a crab tried to take my fricken life. I’ll see ya tomorrow, Bat Boy.” They stood and brushed themselves off, offering a hand to Sebastian.
Sebastian took their hand and stood, ruffling their hair. “You’re short.”
“Now I’m gonna leave faster, screw you.”
“Pfft— get outta here emo boy it’s past your bedtime!”
I really want wacky animated superhero comedy Stucky so...
Megamind au where after being held captive & used by HYDRA for so long, Bucky is convinced he is "evil", but he hates HYDRA so he branches off to be his own villain and comes up with random dastardly plots that really don't do any harm to terrorize New York
he routinely kidnaps Steve (who may or may not be a retired Avenger? idk) but Steve just spends the whole time begging Bucky to join the Avengers instead or come home with him until Sam comes to rescue Steve and is like "Bro. You are annoying as hell. Also, please listen to Steve, you make him so sad and I am so tired of watching him pout," to Bucky, who just angrily pouts in response and refuses
until, eventually, Bucky does something heroic and saves Steve from a worse guy, and he's like "wait...... maybe i'm... not evil?" and finally goes home with Steve (to Steve's utter delight)
bonus: Bucky's actually 10x more obnoxious now that he's with Steve, so Sam is like, "Damn can we go back to when you lived in a lair and I only had to deal with you biweekly? You and Steve are, like, legit sickening to be around."
An Evening Immortalized ✨ (Laszlo Kreizler x Apprentice!Reader)
Summary: After an eventful night at the opera, a full course meal at Delmonico's, and a bit too much wine, Laszlo and his apprentice share a rather romantic discussion of philosophy together in the evening's aftermath.
Warnings: SUPER fluff and (subtly) romantic, a lot of wine consumption (drink responsibly!), lots of dante's inferno talk, mortality and morality, peak period drama pining!!
Words: just over 3k
A/N: reader is based on my own self insert, who's a famous writer before they go under laszlo's wing to become an alienist. i also wrote this originally while i was super sleep deprived at like 2am a few weeks ago, and i apologize for being such a nerd about dante. this is technically my first official published piece on here, so lots of love and feedback would be super appreciated! enjoy!!! 🥰 (i'll also be posting this on my new ao3, same name as my url on here hehe)
When thinking over the relationship of a master and their apprentice, some might believe the two must be absolutely inseparable by nature. The apprentice should always linger in the master’s shadow, eagerly awaiting with open eyes and ears for the wisdom of their newly learned trade, like a panther skulking in the shade. The master simply acknowledges the apprentice, allowing them to step into the limelight of their mastery and watch them with a careful eye, like a wise old owl, passing on the knowledge they so carefully collected through their own master before them. For some trades, this methodology was easier to follow than others, like blacksmithing or embroidery, but the world of psychology posed a unique disposition for yourself and your teacher, the infamous Doctor Kreizler.
Laszlo had only worried about you as he was busy tending to his various court trials and murder cases, all meanwhile you worked ceaselessly on his continuing research at the Institute. He would often find you curled up by the fireplace upon his return from the hunt of blood-lusted killers, open texts from Plato to Freud laid strewn about your feet. His eyes would dote on your exhausted form as you would bring yourself to the table for breakfast next morning, tired eyes contradicted by a warm, loving smile, and an eagerness to consume all knowledge available to you. Just as there was no hiding your insatiable appetite for learning, there was no hiding Laszlo’s affections for you as his pupil, and it seemed that all but you could read the expressions so clearly on Laszlo’s face.
Some breakfasts would entail the lovely John Moore to join your company, where he would find himself awkwardly sipping on his morning tea as he noted the near paternal gaze Laszlo had fixed upon you. However, if he even tried to question his dear friend on those looks and feelings bubbling just below the surface, he was met with Laszlo’s more familiar stubborn fashion of reply, muttering something about how it was simply a platonic cause and nothing more. Upon finding such an unbeknownst affection, John simply had to pounce on the persuasive opportunity, for it was his sworn duty as a reporter, a romantic, and most importantly, a dear friend of the Doctor Kreizler, to find a way to have his feelings no longer be oppressed by such backhanded societal stereotypes. After seemingly months of secretive unknown pining, and weeks of careful persuasion, Mr. Moore had now finally convinced that old hermit of an alienist to take his beloved assistant out for a night on the town.
Of course, Laszlo was nervous. Scared out of his wits even. His anxieties about the evening only grew exponentially after donning his special evening tux, descending down the stairs only to freeze in place at the sight of you, like some tragic Greek hero caught in Medusa’s gaze. You looked stunning in your evening gown, something Laszlo had never even remotely seen you in due to your common preference for trousers and more simple, functional garments. The way the sleeves rested daintily at the edge of your shoulders, revealing your beautiful collarbone and gorgeous neck in his full view, adorned in precious pearls - why, the man was redder in the face than a child caught stealing from a candy store.
The carriage ride to the opera house, thankfully, seemed to ease his tensions. Small talk came easier to you than him, so you did enough talking for the both of you - informing him about your continuation of his work, the flooding of ideas for your next new novel, and chatting away about the precious children you had now come to love in your time with them at the Institute. It made him smile, to see you thrive in such well suited glory, going on and on about your passions and work like a man possessed. When you started asking questions, he was happy to oblige and offer his input, even chuckling at the sight of you pulling out a small notebook you kept to jot down notes for later. In a surprisingly bold move on his part, Laszlo leaned forward to place his hand atop your own, prompting you to tuck away your notes in a rather bashful fashion, a light blush now rising to your cheeks. This evening was a night meant to get away from your work, just as Laszlo hoped to escape from his own, and enjoy the so-called inseparable company of your lovely and darling teacher.
The opera you were attending was actually one of your choosing, as you had caught an ad for the show in the morning paper a few weeks prior (thanks to a clever placement on behalf of Mr. Moore) - Mozart’s The Magic Flute, or Die Zauberflöte in German. It excited you so, as you had recently decided to take up German as an intellectual hobby, to be able to understand the title in the paper. Laszlo, as a native speaker himself, had picked up on your lessons as well, helping you carry out light conversational German at the dinner table, and offering his aid in translation when you needed it. He even had the nerve to quiz you in the days leading up to the opera, with him knowing the songs and dialogue well enough to train you for the language and phrases you would hear this evening.
However, no amount of his teachings and taunts could warm his heart more than the enraptured expression he saw on your face throughout the entire opera. It was a nice change of pace to counter John’s insistent snoring, with you leaning towards Laszlo once or twice during the show to channel your excitement into a mousy whisper. It was just simple small talk, checking in to make sure you had heard the opera singer’s boastful lyrics correctly, only for Laszlo to curtly nod or correct your translation. He was thankful the darkened opera house hid his blush as you would straighten up in your seat, nearly perched over the edge with your opera glasses gripped tightly in your hand. As he witnessed your excitement bloom towards the end of the first act, his nerves from the beginning of the evening seemed to finally subside. He was just happy to see you in your element, away from harm and the stresses of his line of work. He could feel the weight lift from his shoulders as the audience erupted in applause at the curtain’s fall, feeling your pure joy radiate off you as he joined in the uproar from the comfort of his seat.
Once intermission struck, Laszlo was suddenly jerked outside the viewing booth, with you clasping his hands in yours and babbling in a frenzied mix of broken German and fluent English in raw, unfiltered excitement. After an extensive chat of psychological character dynamics in the show thus far, as well as a complimentary glass of champagne or two, the orchestra began to reawaken in its pit for the second act, prompting you to nearly drag your dear teacher along in your haste back to your seats. At this point, Laszlo could barely focus on the show anymore, absolutely dumbfounded as his heart and mind now raced with only thoughts of you through the remainder of the opera.
As you emerged from the opera house, a chilled air bristled past the two of you, with you finding yourself rather sheepishly unprepared for the colder weather this evening. Laszlo was quick to offer his cloak to you, as a gentleman like him would, insisting that his ensemble would be just as warm without it as he draped it delicately over your shoulders. You awarded Laszlo’s kindness with your radiant smile, tugging at the arm of his suit jacket as you led him back to the carriage.
Upon arrival at Delmonico’s for dinner afterwards, you and Laszlo quickly got lost in fine wine and conversation, the chatter surrounding you in the post-opera crowd and soft tunes of the orchestral band only feeding into your stimulating dialogue. You spoke in a slurred mix of half-assed German and English once more, mostly of psychological theories and the opera, with a light touch of indulgent gossip here and there. Though gossip wasn’t the only thing you two indulged in either, both teacher and pupil bursting with laughter as you and Laszlo downed several more glasses of wine throughout the evening, long after your stomachs had filled themselves with your dinner courses and lavish desserts.
Donning his cloak once more to brace against the cold, you suddenly found yourself unprepared as you unexpectedly tripped over the curb while making your way to the carriage, Laszlo swift (even in his slightly buzzed state) to capture you in the embrace of his good arm. Holding you sternly by your waist, your eyes were practically forced to meet, his honeyed irises staring back with just a hint of love as his already flushed face nearly burst into flames before you. Laszlo was struck with a sudden desire - no, a need - to kiss you, to simply place his lips onto yours and still taste the hint of pleasant wine and lavish dessert on your tongue. He nearly would have if he was drunk enough, but the sober remainder of his consciousness snapped him upright, carefully releasing you as he simply offered you his arm in condolence. Hooking your arm through his own, you carefully made your way back to the carriage, grinning like an idiot as your eyes were glued to the cobble below you.
Practically waltzing through the door held open before you into Kreizler’s grand estate, a wide smile adorned your face unlike any other he’d seen before. Laszlo let out a small chuckle, gently guiding you to the couch where you plopped down, resting against its arm with a dreamy sigh. Your heart was warm and bubbly with romance and white wine, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you let out a small giggle.
“I take it that you enjoyed this evening?” Laszlo inquired, a sly smile adorning his lovely bearded complexion.
You nodded gleefully, though your eyes were drawn to the fireplace crackling just nearby, working against the cold draft trying to seep in from outside.
“You know Laszlo...everyday I work as your apprentice, I feel as though there are less and less differences that truly lie between us.” You noted, smiling while leaning back on the couch you now shared with your mentor, who was intrigued by your sudden sincere change of tone. “You wear your elegant emerald shades and eggshell whites, I have my fondness for sapphire gowns and strings of pearls - it almost seems that we are truly complimentary of each other, Doctor Kreizler.”
Laszlo chuckled, though couldn’t hide his subtle blush as he remembered the very gown you were wearing this evening, brushing the image of your accessorized pearls against your exposed collar bone aside as he responded. “As pleasant as that sounds, it does also seem we’re quite different as well.”
“I suppose so,” You indulged, “Aside from the more obvious ones such as biological sex and general life experience. You and I are both situationally extroverted, though we seem to shine brightly in different scenarios. We both adore the opera, though I prefer the comedies, and you the tragedies. Much Ado to Hamlet, bubbly champagne to red cabernet, Inferno to Paradiso.”
Laszlo nodded. “You do have quite the passion for Dante, but I would expect nothing less of a writer such as yourself.”
“Inferno is simply more straightforward, and speaks of deeper themes than that of the other parts of his Divine Comedy.” You argued, though your face perked up with a mischievous grin. “Have I told you that because of Inferno, I’m driven to write by sin?”
Laszlo’s brow furrowed in curious confusion. “I don’t believe so, no, though it has been a while since I’ve delved back into Dante’s work.”
You smiled giddily, seeming eager to explain yourself. “There’s a particular canto I adore, when Dante is visiting the realm of the sodomites. Among those destined to run through blistering rain and hot, flaming sands for eternity, he meets one of his old teachers. They speak of writings and his teachings to Dante, but more importantly, there’s a mention of how writing is a form of immortality. The closest way we can get to reaching it outside of myths and fairytales. You see, while not in physical form, one would never proclaim the iconic name of Dante is unknown, practically burned into our consciousness as a literary society. Of course, I write for my own pleasure - to tell the stories I love to read, the ones that I want to see flourish in our world - and yet, there is some sick part of me still seeking that odd, powerful draw of immortality.” Your features softened, fidgeting with a small bow on the waist of your embellished dress. “My books may sit on people’s shelves long after I pass, the pages worn with age. Cracked spines and faded titles after being read cover to cover for centuries - perhaps I’m fated to run in those same sands, but who are we to know fate beyond our bounds of life.”
Laszlo nodded in agreement, taking in your intellectually stimulating dialect like a fine wine. “I suppose all pursuits of man somehow lead to immortality then, in that sense. The same could be said for my institute’s research, or for a starving artist’s paintings. All in pursuit of something greater - I admit, it is a rather kind outlook on life compared to others I’ve heard in my line of work.”
“Well, isn’t it the very nature of alienists to be kind? Or writers for that matter - we’re both people who want to pursue all walks of life if we can purely to understand them, even the most unruly and disturbing of them all. We’re all human, and as humans, we all reach for that childish dream of living eternally somehow.” You acknowledged, though not giving Laszlo even a beat to respond as you continued your line of thought.
“Different strains of immortality may also exist;” You theorized, “A more classic immortal pursuit might be that of fame or fortune, anything that involves the pure drive of only glory and remembrance, but I believe I may be after purely one of passion, my dear doctor.”
“And...what sort of passion would that be?” Laszlo inquired, shifting nervously in his seat, though making it look as if it were for comfort sake.
A slow building silence filled the air, starting to chew your bottom lip out of habit. “I’m not quite sure. A passion for writing seems obvious - a desire to inspire and enamor others for all eternity, but...romantic passion would be a dream. One always seems to remember their true love, leaving a lasting imprint on their soul for their entire lives. It affects people so truly, so deeply, that it thus impacts all other thoughts and actions in their lives, which subsequently moves to affect others affected by them. The lover lives on, the ache of desire echoing through a millennia of action, good or bad - or otherwise.”
Laszlo chuckled. “You do truly speak to your craft, I admire that much. Truly the views of a writer, or even a poet perhaps - though it seems to ring most true for a future alienist, at that.
A joyful laugh rose from your throat, a welcome song to Laszlo’s ears. “I almost fear I have to apologize - wine does tend to make me ramble. Perhaps you let me indulge too much at Delmonico’s.”
“Then perhaps I now know the perfect amount to now hear your great soliloquies, if I so desire.” Laszlo teased, raising another wondrous laugh from his beloved assistant.
“You truly are as sweet as the wine that met my lips this evening, my dearest doctor.”
“As you are always a delight.” Laszlo curtly imparted, deciding to rise from his seat. “Though now, I believe I must retire for the evening, and though I'm simply your mentor, I’d implore you to do the same.”
You sighed, collapsing dramatically against the sofa and draping your arm across your forehead. “Alas, my dear doctor, I feel so close to fainting, my life is coming in flashes! You must stay a bit longer, and hold tightly to my every word.”
Laszlo allowed himself a smile, keeping his decision steadfast before he could let himself indulge in his beautiful company any longer. “I’m sure then you can wait until morning - nothing is more fatal than a flare for the dramatic.”
You smiled, staring up at your mentor for almost a moment too long, before latching onto his wrist to stop him. “...Thank you Laszlo, for tonight. It was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time, and I do hope we can do it again some time.”
Laszlo blushed, his eyes darting between you and your grip on hand as he felt his cheeks heat up with an all too familiar warmth that had followed him throughout the evening. He smiled, leaning down carefully to bring your knuckles to his lips, a whisper of a kiss left in his wake. “You speak of immortality, and the formation of one’s legacy…” He let out a soft chuckle as he set your hand back down, “I do hope that means that this evening has cemented its own immortality within your memories, my dear.”
Your eyes lingered on his dark honey gaze before he finally walked away, truly leaving you for the night it seemed. “Good night, Laszlo.” You called after him quietly, your eyes now slowly fixating back onto the crackling fireplace. “I hope your wine banishes the thoughts of Dante’s hell from your dreams.”
Laszlo halted in his step, just under the entryway to the lounge, hesitating. Deciding to bite his tongue, he dismissed himself with a curt and polite nod. He guided his body towards the stairs, hiking himself up each step, the wood creaking beneath him as his true response still itched in the back of his throat.
Why, my dearest apprentice, you’ve wiped all thoughts of atrocity from my mind, though if I may indulge in such poetry...I would find my sleep more restful with the blessing of your kiss. Might I have the honor of meeting your lips, the same way that sweet, bubbling wine I so envy passed them before me?