#cryptbcund

[2:51:57 PM] Kinkcilius: i will definitely be on that

[2:52:08 PM] Grandma.: they way mikael is on balls

throwback verse starter for 1945. we can go in the order in the title; just tag the next person and when it comes to your turn again only delete your own? Let me know if this doesn’t work for any of you and I’ll edit it.

SHOTS. 

That was what Alaric really remembered from the night before. Shots of bourbon, tequila, vodka, you name it, the guys had passed them around the table, all in his direction. Because who wouldn’t want to get the groom so HAMMERED on the night before his wedding that he wouldn’t be able to walk straight down the aisle the following evening.

Ric had sat between Stefan and Damon as people congratulated him, talked about his future, asked about the bride to be. And while he answered, he drank. Though, to be fair, that was what Alaric did MOST nights, anymore. It cooled the burning of his throat, quieted the demons in his head. It made things easier.

At some point, however, Alaric had left the bar alone, wandering through the rubbled and semi-littered streets of Mystic Falls, heading in god only knew what direction. It wasn’t home, that was for sure. And then... the rest of the night was a complete BLANK.

When Alaric opened his eyes again, they landed first on Stefan’s face, unconscious and slack jawed, spread out on an open lawn. So this was how the party ended. The next face made less sense, some kid he didn’t recognize, just waking. And finally.

Sobriety hit Alaric like a jolt of lightning and he sat up straight, the world tilting and a nausea he didn’t know himself capable of rolling through his stomach like thunder. “Mikael.” The name was barely a whisper on Ric’s lips, but it was undoubtedly enough that the other man would hear it. “Stefan. Wake up. I think the party bus took a wrong turn somewhere. We gotta go home.”

“Bound by primordial entity entwined, thy hands within mine own genteel breast. I who hold the sky, I who whisper “Cans’t thou see the North Star there yonder? Follow the heart of dear Coeus.” I bound in Tartarus’ immortal grasp, I who slew mine Father’s tree in cold blood I, titan.”

Lukas ran his fingers over the final word before closing the book and gently prying his glasses from the edge of his nose. He looked to address the class at large.

“Tomorrow, a position paper analyzing the excerpt. No hints, but I’ll say this. Why is it written in mostly iambic pentameter? Speak of the Elizabethan fascination with the Greeks. I’ll collect it next class. Merci beaucoup.”

Students filed out in droves. Lukas found himself watching them, reminded of souls passing through Hades. As they would, too, someday. Before he turned to begin the arduous process of wiping the chalkboard, a figure entering the lecture theatre caught his eye. He turned pointedly, replaced his glasses upon their perch, and began collecting his books.

this is elderly abuse