#//the rainbow war was a blur to him he still has no idea what was going on

[giuramento-terra]

@parallelroutes TEXTED: [ protective prompts ] "I know you don’t need my help. but i’m offering it anyway." ♪ [X] (Accepting)

重力| | Recognition by proxy, a bit by final battles, some by emphasis from his oath-born friend; They hadn't exactly spoken much during those hectic trials, and he only found out later that this was the man who had fixed Kaoru's panicked mistake. In that regard, he owed him thanks. In others, he would likely be reprimanded for not taking the prior fate of the future into consideration when responding. Bearing in mind the decisions he himself had been capable of, there wasn't much reason to judge - people were cruel, and people with power were often clinical in their methods. It wasn't surprising anymore. Staring up in despondent fascination, rune-etched sclera reflected the fellow mafia boss similar to how a deer would gaze upon oncoming traffic. He lay on his back, currently, a bit roughed up but otherwise not deathly injured, as the growling of two dogs began to cease; They backed up immediately upon the man's arrival, and as soon as he spoke, turned tail and ran. "It's not like I could hurt them, even if they hate me. Uh.. thank you..? It's weird anyone is out this late, though."

He mumbled from the dirt, unwilling to move just yet.

[snoffyy]

Inquisitive

@zhaomas

Funny story, I sat down and wrote this thing in one sitting thanks to barely lucid ramblings and mashing together different ideas into some sort of chimera equivalent of written work in the late hours of night.

I don’t really know what’s going on anymore, but all there is to know is that there are pirates, cactus juice, and Knowledge Seekers.

Fulfilling the prompts uh............ secrets, pride, spirits, and cactus juice.

Zhao has never claimed to be an expert in botany, but even he knows not to drink from mysterious plants in the middle of the desert. It’s a different story, though, when it’s offered to him by one of the desert tribes.

He came across them by accident, but he’d be a fool to refuse their hospitality. Not in this death-trap, where pride is more a hindrance than a help if one does not know when to put it down. He tells them about the fabled library he has been pursuing for years, and they nod with sombre looks. Unlike everyone else he has told, the tribe does not jeer or scorn his ambition to chase this impossibility.

A spirit, they whisper, barely discernible underneath the crackling tongues of campfire, with wings as dark as midnight’s shadow, eyes of the cosmos, and a face the colour of a shroud.

They offer him a drink of cactus juice before he leaves them. They grimly jest he should imbibe one more time before he is to face death cloaked in shadows. Zhao takes the drink, and it tastes like water, but the potency is anything but.

Colours swirl around him, he sees things that aren’t there, or could be there, or shouldn’t be there. Dragons flying through the air, rainbow fire warping the already sweltering air of the desert. Fire Lord Azulon laughing from the shadows, striking them down with lightning streaking from his gnarled hands.

For glory, the Fire Lord roars, louder than the screeches of pain, for the glory of the Fire Nation!

It’s somewhere within these hallucinations that Zhao finds Fire Nation glory doesn’t mean all that much to him. He’s a lieutenant, posted out in small pockets of Earth Kingdom territory. He doesn’t see all that much action, and what little action there is is in the form of paltry Earth Kingdom divisions and weak-kneed, dirt-streaked commanders.

There’s the bigger picture, of course, but in the end, Zhao can’t see a world of peace, even within the fog of illusions. Where he, the renowned war hero receives the accolades and due rights, and then lives out the rest of his days in an idle blur.

By the time his head has cleared, Zhao thinks, ah, silly little misconceptions from drinking questionable substances.

Yet the inkling of doubt persists in the back of his mind.

.

Wan Shi Tong is no more a scholar than he is a spirit. The two are deeply intertwined, and Zhao knows that while those talons of his can tear a grown man to pieces with ease, Wan Shi Tong is far more interested in using them to flip pages.

Time seems to work differently in the library. Zhao spends what feels like days sitting in the Air Nomad section, poring over scrolls from a culture long dead (not dead – they still live within these walls) and traces drawings of their temples, their architecture, their people.

Pacifists. Vegetarians. Spiritual enlightenment. Free will.

Free.

And then they were captured by ash and smoke. Wings plucked out one feather at a time, not even a pin feather to spare.

“The Air Nomads had armies,” Zhao attempts to justify to the Knowledge Seeker pup curled up at his side. It’s a tiny thing that refuses to leave him alone, and he’s found that running his fingers through its fur is surprisingly pleasant while he’s reading.

“They did not,” Wan Shi Tong replies as he flits above him. It’s a remark carelessly thrown Zhao’s way as the owl spirit swoops to a different section of the library. “Your people massacred them, and then fed lies to the next generations.”

.

Zhao visits the Earth Kingdom section next, though he is still reeling from all that he’s discovered. It’s here that he reads about crystal catacombs and their ability to calm the mind. He reads about bloody history and proud peoples, the cultural heritage of Ba Sing Se, the social castes and how they came to be. There are modern reports of the Fire Nation’s impact on Earth Kingdom life. Education reports, health and sickness, infrastructure and agriculture.

Everything goes towards the Fire Nation.

“The Fire Nation is propagating better ways of life,” Zhao says to Pup. Yes, Pup. Unoriginal, but it was easier than calling it Knowledge Seeker all the time. Pup reaches up, licks his nose, and, for an animal spirit, gives him a remarkably sceptical look.

“Not without a price,” Wan Shi Tong hoots from somewhere in the library, his voice echoing throughout every chamber. “Not without blood.”

.

In the Water Tribe archives, Zhao finds something that would change the world.

“Great Spirits in mortal forms,” he informs Pup, though his voice comes out more lacklustre than he’d like. “Imagine if an enemy got their hands on this information.”

Belatedly, he realises, oh, that would be me.

Pup licks his nose again. Zhao idly scratches their head, paying close attention that spot behind their ear and – oh, there it is. The Knowledge Seeker flops over, tongue lolling out, eyes lidded in bliss.

He finds more than one terrible secret in the archives. Bloodbending, he reads with morbid fascination, can be used to heal and harm in equal tandem. Originating from the Swamp Tribes, it is a little-known technique, with masters few and far between.

“Makes sense,” Zhao says to Pup. “They’re renowned for plantbending. I suppose it’s a matter of going from plants to humans.”

He ought to be horrified. Take it as justification for wiping out all waterbenders. But listen, look, Zhao isn’t some war-mongering brute who wants to wreck and ravage the world. He works for a cause, and the cause is to finally bring this world to peace even if it required subjugation of lesser peoples.

But… are they lesser?

Imagine how much more the world would know if the best from each culture was brought out and offered. It seems a waste to quash such things like using bloodbending to treat clots and haemorrhages.

Zhao looks at the Spirit Scroll again, and the doubt returns ever stronger.

.

Wan Shi Tong hasn’t said anything to him for a long time. But Zhao carries Pup into the Fire Nation section, trying to bat away a wagging tail.

It’s here that he finds secrets that could get him killed. Scandals in the royal family, maps detailing all the hidden passageways of the palace both above and below ground, diary entries and letter exchanges of Fire Lords long past.

And…

A mandate for educational reforms. State-approved programmes, orders to learn only what the governing body wants one to learn. Restrictions, limitations, erasures and censures.

Let it be known that Zhao is loyal to himself and only himself when he can help it. He’d known from a young age that he had a craving for knowledge, and the one thing Zhao dislikes as much as failure is being lied to.

The doubt bursts forth like a deluge breaking free from a dam.

“You do not require any more of my input, I take it.”

Zhao turns around, meeting the fathomless stare of Wan Shi Tong.

“No,” Zhao says. He’s heard enough. He’s had enough.

“I have always wondered about the merits of a travelling library,” Wan Shi Tong muses. “To chase after knowledge rather than wait for knowledge to come to me.”

“Why don’t you?”

“The library is my physical tether to this world,” Wan Shi Tong gestures with a night-black wing. “I am bound to it. Much as how Tui and La are bound to their mortal forms.”

Zhao absentmindedly runs his fingers through Pup’s fur. “Travelling library, huh?”

“Of sorts. Knowledge is not stagnate, after all. Knowledge is power. A power that grows by the day yet is understood by precious few.”

Zhao is quiet for a long, long time.

.

He makes a decision. An impulsive one. But it’s a decision and it’s all his own.

Lieutenant Zhao perishes in the Si Wong Desert.

Captain Zhao rises.

A different sort of captain than the one he’d always thought he’d become.

Pirate, Zhao mouths the word, tasting it along his tongue. It tastes of brine and freedom, and it’s so, so surreal.

He’s not a conventional pirate by any means. He has no iguana parrot, but he does have a Knowledge Seeker. His hair is kept short, his ship polished and meticulously maintained. He remains clean shaven, his clothes are simple and black, and he refuses to wear jewellery.

Zhao is not an unkempt, filthy pirate. He has standards, damnit.

His crew is carefully selected, and he chooses them based on merit rather than bloodline.

He trades in knowledge. But he’s always been more a taker than a giver, so he’s more than happy to give up scraps of knowledge… for a price.

Supply routes, military plans, maps, strategic locations, any type of intel is up for offer. It’s his most coveted commodity, and he gives it to anyone willing to buy. Payment is in the form of equivalent exchange, whether it be monetary or some other form of knowledge.

Zhao is still selective about what he takes. He’s no saviour, no hero, no do-gooder. He doesn’t go out of his way for people, and if someone tries to seek him out, he makes no promises to help them.

And he likes it that way.

.

It’s winter. Cold gales sweep across the ocean, and Pup has taken to gluing themselves to Zhao’s side in a bid to stay warm. Zhao didn’t think spirits needed thermoregulation, but he supposes Pup isn’t a conventional spirit either.

General Iroh pays him to carry a message towards the Northern Water Tribe. The banished prince is sulking outside, grumbling about pirates swarming all over his ship. But Zhao doesn’t pay any mind to it. He’s here for a job. No more, no less.

“The Northern Water Tribe is a long way away,” Zhao mentions, weighing the feather-light missive in his hand. “This better be worth the journey.”

“You will be paid handsomely,” General Iroh reassures. “I have also heard you are quite partial to libraries?”

Zhao gestures at his ship in answer. It’s practically a floating library, one that Wan Shi Tong himself helped him design.

“Ah, yes, of course,” General Iroh continues smiling away genially. “Well, I’ve put in a good word for you to peruse the libraries within the Northern Water Tribe.”

“That’s not a guarantee.”

“Trust me, you won’t be refused,” General Iroh says, a devious spark in his eyes. On Zhao’s shoulder, Pup perks up. They’re still a tiny thing, and they’ve developed a penchant for slinging themselves over Zhao’s shoulders like a shawl.

“If you say so.”

Zhao bids goodbye to Prince Zuko out of some lingering obligation of courtesy towards the royal family. He’s met with a derisively raised brow and an ill-tempered scowl.

Brat.

“Have you heard anything about the Avatar’s whereabouts?”

Zhao pauses, turns on his heel, and tilts his head questioningly at the prince.

“No more than you have, I’d think.”

Prince Zuko grimaces. “I lost his trail a week ago. Haven’t you heard of anything since?”

Zhao shrugs. It’s a terribly casual habit to display in front of a member of royalty, but hey, he’s not exactly under their servitude anymore. “No. But I’d head north if I were you.”

Prince Zuko squints in suspicion. “On what basis?”

“Just a feeling,” Zhao smirks, rubbing a thumb against the parchment in his hands.

He doesn’t stick around long after that. In the safety of his cabin, Zhao eases the letter open, gives it a quick read, and nearly snorts when he realises it’s mostly about Pai Sho. As promised, there’s a request to allow Zhao passage into the libraries, but other than that, there’s nothing too eye-catching.

He makes a copy of the letter anyway. One never knows, and Zhao distinctly remembers Iroh’s days as a fearsome, cunning general.

.

The Northern Water Tribe sees him as a firebender first, a pirate second, and a librarian third.

Although, ‘librarian’ is a loose term in all honesty.

He doesn’t quite care. The letter backs him up, and he’s begrudgingly treated as an honoured guest.

The princess escorts him to the royal library, and she is incessant about hearing his travels around the world. Zhao humours her. He’s in a good mood, especially after he’d ‘accidentally’ tripped that Hahn fellow into one of the canals.

Hahn’s fault, really, for refusing to remember ‘Choi’ is an appalling misnomer.

“The Avatar is really back?!” Princess Yue cries out in delight, awe sparking in her eyes.

“Oh yes,” Zhao chuckles. “Might be heading this way at this moment, as a matter of fact.”

From behind, Chief Arnook’s booming voice interjects, “What of the Fire Nation?”

“Well,” Zhao clicks his fingers, letting a flame spring to life. Pup yips at the sight, prancing around Zhao’s legs excitedly. He’s always liked displays of Zhao’s bending, seemed to think of it as a source of entertainment. “Where the Avatar goes, the Fire Nation follows.”

“What do you know?” Chief Arnook demands.

He knows a lot. Knowledge is power, after all. And Zhao happens to like both.

Zhao smiles. It’s a sharp thing, like the silver slash of a cutlass. Pup recognises the expression and stands at attention, ears perked, tail wagging.

“How about a trade?”

[littlesparklight]

Cruelties of the Heart

I

It wasn't the glittering pressure of Iris that woke Menelaos up. Rather it was Knossia stirring from under his arm, slipping out of the bed with a whispered 'wake up, my lord', sliding out of the room with a bow to Iris while she dressed and Menelaos had barely sat up. He looked from the nymph, escaping out and certainly about to disappear into her fountain again, then to the goddess, near touching the roof where she stood in the middle of the room, her golden wings shedding a light all of their own and enhancing the morning's rose-gold light that fell in through the windows.

Menelaos shook his head, not awake enough, not quite quick enough, to even begin to guess why a goddess should come here to Crete to see him. Unless this was about Helen, for Helen was the daughter of Zeus, and the king of gods and men would surely be concerned about his mortal daughter's welfare if something should've happened.

"Has something happened to Helen?" Menelaos spoke through the too-thick beat of his heart that had taken up space in his mouth, hand frozen partway through his distracted comb-through of his hair with a hand. His hair was not important, if Helen was in danger.

"Son of Atreus, honoured husband to Helen, daughter of the dark-misted son of Kronos; up and back to your ships. Light-footed, radiant Aphrodite has stolen through your house, uniting Paris and Helen. Your guest took your wife with him as he left in the night, and Helen went with him, the sanctity of your marriage bed despoiled."

Silence rung beyond the echo of Iris' words, hanging there with damning weight even as the goddess herself disappeared out the window with a rainbow shimmer. There was a weight on Menelaos' heart, an ache in his gut, and hot, liquid weight flooded him as soon as the silence settled, the goddess' presence no longer pushing all air away from her.

Helen wouldn't.

Helen - had looked at Alexander of Troy with stolen, wide-eyed glances, lips pressed thin even before she knew he'd spied her looking. Helen had taken the gifts Alexander had offered her with a comely little blush to her cheeks, yes, but with all due decorum. Helen had wondered aloud, in the privacy of their rooms, as to the beauty of their foreign guest. Had teased him - he'd thought - if the effect of Alexander passing through the corridors of the palace, leaving sighs in his wake, was any similar to the effect she left in her passing, however small such a similarity could be.

Perhaps it hadn't been teasing. Perhaps it had been Helen confessing to more than understanding of the effect she could have by watching someone else. Perhaps it had been Helen confessing she was as affected by such beauty as the rest of the world was to hers, but carrying it she could hardly fall in love with herself.

Menelaos stared down at his trembling hands, slowly tightened them into fists, and ignored how his vision blurred.

Helen wouldn't.

Except he'd left her alone, because he'd trusted her, and who trusted the beauty of one's wife to other men? Who trusted the beauty of a man such as Alexander?

Collapsing back, Menelaos didn't even flinch as his head met the wall, and clutched his face, biting down on any embarrassing noise. Anger might come later; at the moment he was too heavy for anger, too weighted by tears for the insult to spur him to any action at all. He couldn't move, sorrow and dull, echoing pain carving chains straight out of his heart and keeping him on the bed. He should get up, but the enormity of both his own emotions and the situation kept him there, unable to decide what to do.

It wasn't until the door opened and Agamemnon stepped in that Menelaos realized he'd sat there for hours - the sun had long since passed from shy morning light that lit up his borrowed room into afternoon heaviness that threw the room in shadows.

"Menelaos---" His brother paused, staring at him. The shadows made him huge, taller and broader than he was, more similar to the towering, unpleasant ghost of their father, especially with that scowl on his face. It immediately eased up into a soft-mouthed breath drawn as Menelaos found the strength to drop his hands and meet Agamemnon's dark-eyed gaze. His brother crossed the floor in three steps, hovering now, as a thick-maned lion hovers over his young cubs daring a trip out of the lair their mother has kept them in, to drink from a sweet, cold pool and for the first time exposed to the dangers of the open sky and shielding grass, which could yet hide dangers. "What's paining you? Sitting here in the darkness - what news could you even have received when no herald or messenger has come past Idomeneus' hall?"

"Gods need not use stairs and doors, Agamemnon," Menelaos said, finding some thread of wryness, his mouth following a stumbling step behind but not quite managing a smile to match his tone. "Storm-footed Iris, messenger of Zeus, came to me."

He closed his eyes, gritting his jaw until he could speak, for where there'd been tears there was now a flare of white-hot rage.

"Alexander of Troy left with my wife in the night, stealing my marriage bed of its precious contents and robbing my house of its greatest jewel." Reaching out blindly, he didn't need to fumble for Agamemnon's hand to close about his. "Agamemnon--- what do I do?"

He knew what he wanted to do, but the idea was vast, and though the threat itself might - should, surely - be enough to threaten Troy to give up its stolen loot, if it didn't, the price could be high. It seemed a terrible thing to ask of the sons and lords of Achaea by his own authority.

"There was an oath sworn," Agamemnon growled, his voice as if that of the Thunderer himself, "we call on it. I won't have you disrespected this way, dear Menelaos."

II

They were finally to do this.

Finally, after the wrong city, after being scattered and remustering over five years, and quietly, full of useless, gentle hope, Menelaos hoped that these five years were part of the ten Kalkhas had interpreted that the war would last for. It could be, couldn't it? Why shouldn't it? They might not have been engaged in armed combat for more than that assault on Mysia, limping back to try and find their way and then scattered by the storm, but it was one link in the chain, a part of the war, as disappointing and empty as it'd been.

This time there would be no further disappointments, no further derailments. Odysseus had gotten Achilles off from where he'd ended up on Skyros, and Telephus would be showing the way; they were all gathered, it was only a question of setting off in the morning.

So, for today, there was celebratory hunting, and Menelaos found himself smiling as he had little energy to do lately when Agamemnon's spear was the one to take down the deer they'd been chasing.

"Better than the virgin huntress herself, wouldn't you say?" Agamemnon proclaimed, his voice ringing with giddy pleasure of success and rustling the leaves of the trees around them, proud as any young boy being given the chance to take down his first quarry, the older hunters stepping back to allow him his first taste of glory and experience.

Menelaos choked on his breath, hidden underneath the laughter around them. Cold punched his chest, seized his tongue and froze it still, even as lava bubbled up, scalding his stilled tongue with the need to speak, to shout at his brother. He glanced around, but all the men present - Nestor still in his tent in the Pylosian contingent's camp, too old to comfortably keep up with the rest of them and not deprive them of all but the most unworthy, old or diseased quarry - were laughing, thoughtless with success, with the coming riches and renown to be gained.

All but Odysseus, standing at the fringe, rubbing his chin and jaw.

Briefly, their eyes met, and Menelaos wondered, considering Odysseus' reluctance during the first muster, if he wasn't pleased. If so, it wasn't visible on his face, and Menelaos could only marvel at the man's ability to keep himself contained. They broke their gaze to look up as a disturbing wind made the branches dance, scraping against each other like a harpist only the Receiver of Many would employ at his grim court.

In the distance, clouds towered up and the winds were soon tearing at both clothes and hair, driving the grass flat and threatening to pitch them all to the ground.

III

The tent was silent save for Menelaos pacing with a particularly pinched expression on his face Agamemnon well-recognized and wasn't much in the mood for.

His little brother's temper was rarely roused, but when it did so it could be fierce and take little heed of others - and most often it rose against Agamemnon himself, despite how quiescent Menelaos was at the best of times, despite how hard he worked to keep his younger brother satisfied and safe and unharmed. Sometimes, Menelaos could be the worst sort of dog.

"I'm not sacrificing my own daughter," Agamemnon snapped, staring at his hands. Hands a goddess would have him murder his own beloved, oldest daughter for. That he hand this task, this foul thing, over to someone else was as unthinkable as doing it at all. If it should happen, he would do it himself, but it wasn't going to happen. But if it didn't happen, then their name would be left besmirched, his brother's home and person insulted and left to be laughed at, and the glory and gain to be won, surely beyond counting, lost.

To be sure, leaving your wife with an unknown guest in your halls was reckless and foolish, too trusting of both strange man and beloved wife, but Alexander of Troy had been a guest - it was unconscionable that he should then repay his host the way he had. More than that, the host had been Menelaos, his little brother. The memory of coming into the room Idomeneus had given Menelaos and seeing him on the bed as if all life and vitality had left him still hurt.

"I didn't say you should," Menelaos growled, whirling around but pausing in his pacing to stare at Agamemnon from across the tent, brown eyes ablaze and the light from the lamps catching bloody in his pale, red-blond hair. "Blessed gods, brother, what do you take me for? There has been enough death in this house, I wouldn't ask any more of you!"

Slowly, Agamemnon tightened his hands into fists, though that didn't so much hide the tremble in them as subsume it, setting his very blood to vibrating, his veins pulsing in answer until his skin was buzzing from fingertips to armpit. Menelaos wasn't lying, of course. He didn't want Agamemnon hurt, or to hurt him, both for perfectly normal, brotherly reasons as well as to hold the darkness that always lurked at bay, fangs bloody in the dark, waiting. But there was, still, an edge to his words, in his voice, like a knife hidden under the well-appointed, beautiful dress of a woman plotting as only women could, resorting to subterfuge for that was both their nature and their need.

"And yet you have more. Out with it."

They stared at each other for a beat, a pulse jumping in Agamemnon's jaw to match the one at Menelaos' temple, and then his little brother grit his teeth, usually so very warm eyes narrowing. There was a time those eyes had looked at him with nothing but beseeching need, searching him out for every little bruise that tender heart had suffered, knowing not the worser pains Agamemnon had gone to lengths to shield him from. Maybe if he had refused to help his brother in winning Helen and redirected him towards another potential wife, they wouldn't be here. On the other hand, what was the chances no one at all wouldn't have tried what Alexander of Troy had, even if Helen would have been married to Achilles?

"I will not ask you, and I won't demand it, but I wouldn't even have to if you hadn't opened your mouth! What were you thinking! A deer in her own sanctuary, and even if not, you claimed yourself better than one of the Deathless Ones instead of thanking her for the kill, and now I should be left with nothing but ruin and laughter, completely aside from not knowing what I'm leaving Helen to?"

"From what you told me of him, that boy could not force her if he so went to her bed when she would be sleeping and could put up no resistance." This was not acknowledging the real source of Menelaos' anger, but Agamemnon felt little desire to admit to it. Of course, he could not sit there and watch his little brother flinch as if he'd slapped him, looking away and seeming to collapse in on himself.

"Helen wouldn't have gone willingly," Menelaos whispered, hands tremblingly tight in fists at his sides, and Agamemnon bit down on the next few words, knowing Menelaos knew she must have, for he'd accused her of that to Agamemnon himself on the way to Sparta from Crete, furious and hurt for a blazingly glorious moment. The problem was Menelaos' anger could never quite be sustained for long whenever it was roused, and now he had retreated into soft-hearted pain and the security of insisting the ridiculous, woman-mad pretty boy had forced Helen from Sparta and to the ships.

Grunting, Agamemnon drew breath to - redirect the conversation, if not apologize, but Menelaos got there before him, and he should probably have expected the shape of the retaliation.

"What do you care for, in the end? For me, at all, when you insult a goddess just as we are about to set off, my grief finally to be assuaged, and you're unwilling to repay her the respect you lost her, even as cruel as her demand is? Or only for wealth and glory, which can be easily discarded at the slightest opposition, considering the wealth of Mycenae? If this was about wealth and renown, you know I wouldn't be here, and I would be urging you against the whole of the gathered sons of Argos and the Danaans if they were the ones howling for your daughter's blood for favourable winds to win them their promised glo---!"

"So you would have me sacrifice my daughter for you? One half of my heart for the other?" Agamemnon bellowed, surging to his feet, and knowing not what hurt more - that he might be considering it exactly for that, or that Menelaos was leveraging himself this way.

"No!"

It wasn't much of a consolation that Menelaos seemed horrified, even when that had been exactly what he'd implied in his anger. Choking on something hot and wet, Agamemnon halted in his advance, but Menelaos came to meet him, clutching his arms and now meeting his eyes unflinchingly. If Agamemnon only could do the same, but he was staring over the top of Menelaos' head, the lush, soft tumble of half-wavy hair still in disarray from their walk here through the rising storm winds. He hadn't noticed he was shaking, and not just his hands.

"I would rather we not be here at all, Agamemnon. I would rather not be responsible for the lives of all these men, young and seasoned both, rather not be the reason they're here, and the deaths that will come of this already pains me." Menelaos grimaced, jaw, lips, tight, which hid the briefest of trembles to his usually soft mouth. Agamemnon couldn't remember when he last saw his little brother smile, and something hurt within. It was far too reminiscent of when they were younger, when Menelaos had been slender as a whip and creeping quietly around, tense as a fawn walking out into the open for the first time, following its mother but fearing any nearby hidden wolves and its sharp, slavering jaws, thirsty for tender flesh and young blood, so as to not arouse their father's anger. "And I don't want to see Iphigenia's blood on the altar, for the pleasure of cruel gods who care more for their Trojan sacrifices than the golden laws of hospitality the son of Kronos himself guards. But I can't just turn back, either. What sort of man would I be, then, to neither defend my wife or punish the crime, to let a far lesser man take something so precious from me, away from Achaea and Sparta itself, where Helen belongs?"

Menelaos closed his eyes, shaking his head. "And I know the chance she left unwillingly is slim, but if there was even the barest of risks of that, how could I leave her to suffer continually at the hands of the man who stole her?"

When he opened his eyes again, Menelaos was stiff as he squeezed Agamemnon's arms and said nothing more, merely watched him with a tense, dark look that had become far too familiar in the last five years. Even the slave woman he'd gone to pains to find for his brother had not ever stirred even the smallest edge of Menelaos' usual smile, though she did delight him, he knew. And if they - he - did nothing, how long could he expect Menelaos to be respected on Sparta's throne? How long until he would have to field disrespect against both of their thrones, against his brother personally? He did not want to see him in more pain, but Iphigenia...

Agamemnon's heart quavered, and he lurched forward, clutching Menelaos to himself, and if there was a wounded noise that escaped him, at least it was hidden in his brother's hair.

"My daughter. How can she ask for my daughter, even if she kills women, young and old, at whim?" Agamemnon groaned, but could not deny Artemis had a right to her recompense, as little as he was going to admit it. The words had been said, and he had been the one to say them, and he couldn't imagine disbanding the army, as close to it as he'd been before Menelaos had shouted at him over the wind that they needed to talk things over. But talking things over had merely put his brother right in front of him, his brother who'd been grievously insulted and maltreated, his brother who Agamemnon was still furious to see losing both spark and smile since Helen had left.

"I don't know," Menelaos murmured, wrapping his arms around him. "I don't know."

His brother, and his daughter.

Agamemnon closed his eyes, but could not escape the memory of Iphigenia's glowing smile as she sang at dinner the evening before they set off for Aulis a second time, proud for her father, for the glory they were to win, respect rewon. His darling, sweet-faced Iphigenia, with her dark, curly hair and bright eyes, who'd liked to 'provoke' him into chasing her when she was younger, growling like the most ferocious of wolves and herself shrieking in horrified delight.

Agamemnon shook until he was still, digging bruises into Menelaos' shoulders, wetting his hair, and then he took a breath.

"We could put it to a vote," Menelaos offered, then, and eyes still closed, Agamemnon pulled back to shake his brother a little.

"I am not putting my daughter's life to a vote among the council. If I am doing this, I am doing it by my own decision, by my own hand, as it was my own words that landed us here. Nothing more, nothing less!"

His daughter, and his brother.

In the end, the decision, as heavy as it was, as cold as it made him, was, perhaps, foregone.

* An attempt at using both the hints of variant traditional material where Agamemnon and Menelaos’ relationship isn’t as simple as the older brother eclipsing the younger and Menelaos giving way to Agamemnon in all things, but without turning Menelaos (or Agamemnon, for that matter) into some terrible villainised version of himself as seemed to have been popular to make of him in a number of plays. Also to deal with Agamemnon coming to the decision to sacrifice Iphigenia.

[atruththatyoudeny]

Monthly Reads | October 2020

Happy 28th! I probably sound like a broken record already but I have to say it again: this fandom has an insane amount of talented writers! I am in awe! Every single one of you is my hero! ♥♥♥ Here are all the 23 fics I read and loved this month:

✧ Welcome to The Rivalry | 2tiedships2 | a/b/o - strangers to lovers - enemies to lovers - rivalry - college - 19k “Welcome home!” Niall yelled, clapping his hands in excitement. “Isn’t it great?” Louis looked between Niall and the house, unsure how to respond. “I don’t understand,” Louis finally managed to say. “Aren’t we a little old to be living so close to campus?” Niall scoffed. “You’re only twenty-four for fuck’s sake. There is still plenty of partying left for us to do. What better place than one street over from where a car was set on fire after the Michigan game last year?” “Is there proof of that? Did the car have Michigan plates or something? Is there a photo I can send in a DM to Wolfie?” As if on cue, a Twitter notification popped up on Louis’ Apple watch. He had tweeted again. Or a reverse You’ve Got Mail au inspired by the Ohio State/Michigan rivalry. Featuring duplex neighbors, (kind of) enemies to lovers, and an anonymous Twitter feud between omega Louis and alpha Harry.

✧ Back to Seventeen | crimsontheory | teacher - soccer coach - 26k As a first grade teacher in a small town in Illinois, Harry’s life is pretty simple. He loves his job, is close with his family, and has a best friend he would go to the ends of the earth for. When a new soccer coach starts at the local high school, things start to get a bit more exciting for Harry. Because that coach just happens to be Louis Tomlinson; the guy Harry was unrequitedly in love with in high school. Or the one where Louis moves back to his hometown and Harry realizes he’s still not over his high school crush.

✧ Sigh for Sigh | logogram | historical - a/b/o - regency - miscommunication - pining - marriage of convenience - 11k When his father's sudden illness forces Harry to get married in a hurry, he's delighted that Lord Louis Tomlinson is the one who makes him an offer. Being married to Louis is just as wonderful as he imagined, except for one thing-- they haven't mated yet. Or the one where they're both idiots, Harry's afraid to say what he's thinking, and Louis's just trying to be honorable.

✧ We Can Find a Place to Feel Good | yeah_alright | 1960s - High School - school dances - 8k 14-year-old Harry is ecstatic to finally be old enough to experience the time-honored tradition of school dances. But with each year that passes and each dance he attends, he’s realizing they’re not all he used to hope they’d be. Especially when he can't actually dance with the person he most wants to. Maybe he and Louis can figure out their own ways to keep dancing, anyway.

✧ At Risk, I Fold | clare328 | canon compliant - established relationship - angst - emotional hurt/comfort - miscommunication - anxiety - implied/referenced alcohol abuse - 15k 2015 is a stream of hotel rooms and whisky on the rocks, tired glances and touching hands under tables. It’s the bears and the bees under a rainbow sky, and Harry and Louis have to figure out how to grow up together, instead of apart.

✧ Carry These Feelings | LadyLondonderry | fae Á faires - established relationship - magic - 3k Harry is one of the fae, and has to return to Court once a year to please the Queen. He makes a detour on his way home to Louis. Two weeks and I'll be home.

✧ Hung Up High in the Gallery | lovelarry10 | friends to lovers - slow burn - pining - 14k "Louis, lay still!” Louis sighed loudly, and Harry watched his chest puff out as he inhaled deeply, the breath he let out loudly making Harry’s curls shift. “I am, stop being so fussy. Can I see yet?” “Nope,” Harry remarked, smiling to himself. “I’m doing your chest next. Shit, this is going to look so good, Lou. Your tan and these colours… why haven’t we done this before?” “Because we haven’t been this drunk in a while, and it never occurred to me until tonight?” ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ When Harry’s best friend, Louis, comes to support him at his art show, he decides they need to do some celebrating afterwards. How fast do the lines between friends and lovers get blurred ... or better, get painted?

✧ Love you in the dark | Perzikje | historical - wedding night - arranged marriage - dubious consent - 10k The story of a historical wedding night: in which Louis is quite unaware as to just how clueless his brand new husband is about sex. They try their best to figure it out together.

✧ Victorian Boy | audreyhheart | historical - victorian - royalty - enemies to friends to lovers - slow burn - angst - murder mystery - 101k Victorian AU. Harry the virgin Duke of Somerset knows little of love, while Louis the sly Duke of Warwick knows too much. When the two dukes come together for the Bilsdale fox hunt in York, Harry finds himself drawn into Louis' bed. But when secrets from Louis' dark past come to light, Harry fears that the fox isn't the only one being hunted.

✧ the anticipation of knowing you | sweetrevenge | strangers to lovers - neighbors - light angst - 13k Hello Neighbor! Just wanted to let you know that you were having sex so loud and scarily I called our building manager and security officer because I thought you were hurt. P.S. I sent them away when I heard you yell ‘cock’. I’m sorry that I heard that, but I wanted you to know in case they stopped by to check on you or something. Sorry! Your neighbor Louis Tomlinson in apartment #306 After Louis overhears his next door neighbor having sex, he doesn’t really expect anything but awkward hallway encounters to come from it. Instead, he’s surprised to find himself in a whirlwind pen pal relationship with the sweet, albeit loud, baker next door.

✧ We'll Be All Right | dandelionfairies | married couple - accridents - 13k Harry is performing his one night only show in LA but there are four very important people missing.

✧ The Last Song of Your Life | reminiscingintherain | famous/not famous - Rays of Sunhsine - homophobia - 21k As Harry glanced around at all of the faces, he froze as a very familiar pair of blue eyes leapt out at him. A pair of eyes that he hadn’t seen since before the One Direction bomb exploded. A pair of eyes that he never expected to see again. ~~~~ or the famous/not famous AU, with first love, miscommunication, interfering bandmates, and adorable little sisters.

✧ Her | jaerie | a/b/o - trans character - transitioning - dysphoria - anxiety - quarantine - 7k The buttery swipe of a high quality lipstick was almost a sexual experience in and of itself. This time a deep colour with purple undertones which drew out the emphasis of long, dark lashes and perfectly contoured cheekbones. It was a look for loose and styled curls, feeling the classy formal nightclub vibes reflected back from the mirror. The silky plum coloured slip dress would be perfect to debut. The tags still needed to be cut free from the new garment that hung in the closet, but tonight was the night to set it free. When Harry gets home, she can finally be who she wants to be. Letting someone else in always feels like a distant daydream to her... until it suddently isn't.

✧ Loving You's the Antidote | lululawrence | Stylinshaw - a/b/o - touch deprivation - hospitalization - soulmates - polyamory - anxiety - friends to lovers - no smut - 11k Nick and Harry had never been an obvious match. When eighteen-year-old Harry, newly presented as an omega, came home freshly bonded to Nick, a man nine years his elder and a beta no less, Anne had been more than skeptical and Eileen had shared some harsh words of her own. That didn’t deter them, though, and their families soon realised there really was something special about the bondmates that allowed them to work together almost seamlessly. It was only a few months later that Harry started getting sick. Or the one where Harry and Nick have been able to keep Harry's disorder at bay over the course of their relationship, but when they move to London and away from their support system, they find themselves in desperate need of help.

✧ Like A Neon Sign | reminiscingintherain | canon compliant - mentions of death - fluff - 8k Harry had always been perfect to Louis, through every age, through every stage, and in all the important ways, he was proud to have been able to witness the growth that Harry had experienced first-hand.

✧ We Had Everything | lightswoodmagic (sarah_writes) | exes to lovers - getting back together - famous/not famous - 3k “You know Harry’s coming, yeah?” Louis’ fingers twitched, faltering where he was straightening the knot in his tie as he tried to ignore the false nonchalance in Zayn’s voice. He had no idea how he missed the name on the invite list, how he skipped over the initials on the small gifts, didn’t notice the elegant swirl of Harry’s name inked onto an emerald green place card. Or, Louis and Harry fell apart, and Louis' never forgiven himself. He gets a second chance at Zayn and Liam's wedding.

✧ True To Your Heart | reminiscingintherain | Mulan AU - a/b/o - 13k The world was at war with itself. In the small country of Enilenif, in a tiny, often overlooked corner of the world, young Alphas were quickly signing up to fight, desperate to protect their Omegas and their country as Aidem began to attack their borders. A few defiant Omegas tried to enlist as well, but were firmly turned away with disapproving looks by the staff in the office. Harry Styles was one such Omega, sighing heavily as he kicked at a small stone on his walk home.

✧ What the Water Gave Me | larryatendoftheday | fantasy - mermaids - long distance relationship - 29k When a mermaid crawls out of the sea to listen to Harry sing, it changes everything.

✧ it’s hard for me to go home | localopa | angst - breakup - getting back together - 5k don’t call me baby again

✧ The Prince and the Thief | jaerie | Fairy Tale - a/b/o - strangers to lovers - violence - kidnapping - threats of rape/non-con - 19k Harry is an omega prince locked in a tower and Louis is the thief sent to kidnap him. Nothing turns out as planned.

✧ Up On The Shore | wordsnnotes | Eroda AU - magic - epistolary - friends to lovers - childhood friends - emotional/psychological abuse - angst - long-distance relationship - domestic violence - 34k Magic has been outlawed on Eroda ever since President Cowell came into power, and all the magic people had to go live on the island of Stonell. Things are not looking good for Harry when he finds out he's a magician and his abilities seem more and more out of control. Thankfully, his best friend Niall's mother has the idea to put him in touch with Louis, a magician boy living on Stonell. They begin a secret correspondence and drama ensues. Or: Louis hides his feelings under sarcasm, Harry is too sweet for his own sake, everyone is a rebel, the mums are amazing, Harry's dad is a jerk, and I'm struggling to make it understandable without using normal narration.

✧ this town's just an ocean now | louistomlinsons | exes to lovers - friends to lovers - summer romance - miscommunication - childhood friends - light angst - fluff - 31k “I have really great friends. Do you remember Louis? You guys were always hanging out when you were growing up.” Harry remembers Louis. Harry remembers Louis. Suddenly, his throat feels way too dry, despite the ice cream he keeps licking at. He chokes a little on a chocolate chip before saying, “I, uh. I remember Louis.” Her face brightens. “We have dinner every Sunday. He owns the house now. His parents moved further north, and he wanted to stay here, so they just gave it over. Now if you want to worry about someone being lonely, that’s who I worry about.” inspired by watermelon sugar, featuring picnics on the beach and boys being dumb

✧ I Am the Blinking Light | dearmrsawyer | ghosts - shipwreck - 19k There is a legend of a lighthouse far out to sea. It can’t be found on any map, and those who do find it never return. They say a ghost haunts the lighthouse, and you can hear it calling out in loneliness on the ocean waves.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

S.T. REWRITE - S2:E8; Chapter Eight, The Mind Flayer - [Pt. 6 - FINAL PART]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

An unlikely hero steps forward when a deadly development puts the Hawkins Lab on lockdown, trapping Will and several others inside.

A/n: we're so close to season 3 you have no idea how excited I am 😭 will and you are ADORABLE in s3. Enjoy a sprinkle of Byler in this ch. for now, sorry it couldn't be more 😂

Oo also, the pov flashbacks are kinda terrible but its kind of on purpose depending how old they're supposed to be. The younger they're supposed to be the more straightforward if that makes sense

Warnings: so much angst ahead, oof, my goodness. Buckle up kids :> this is a quite ambitious chapter but hopefully I handled it okay. Possibly the longest chapter in Cosmic history?? I think??

||Will's POV||

The vulgar smell of chemicals lingers in my nose and sticks to the back of my throat as my eyes adjust to the blinding light.

Immediately I feel his icy presence, and felt myself losing control and all sense of self in a matter of seconds.

But I was still moving, squirming, but I'm not the one commanding my body.

Shit, not again!

This has been happening on and off since he got me, he goes silent until he needs me. But lately, it's all the time. Usually I stand a fighging chance to break free but this time he's in full control. I want to scream and cry, tell my mom I'm here, I'm here! But he won't let me. I'm still trapped in this small corner of my mind, and the longer he stays the smaller the prison gets.

There are four(?) figures looking at me, but it's hard to make out their faces at first. Mom! Mom is here, she'll help me, I know it. And... Jonathan!

Help me! I'm so sorry! I couldn't control it, he made me! He made me!

They don't hear me, everytime I try to speak, yell, cry or do anything, he won't let me. It's been like that since I was admitted. Since the fire in the tunnels.

Just thinking about the pain makes him angry, I can sense it.

I recognize another face, the man they asked me to identify but couldn't. I know I know him. I know I can trust him. But the fog... Ever since the monster got me, a fog has been spreading in my brain, making me forget things. People.

The man, Hopper, I think his name is, steps towards me with a look of concern. He's cautious of me, I can tell. Not that I blame him, but again it makes me want to cry, even though I'm not in control. But I still feel the pain, like the sting in my wrists and ankles as he fights against the restraints.

It's then I fully process I'm actually tied up. I don't have time to react before I hear my own voice speaking without my permission.

"What? What?" I watch as passenger in my own body as he makes me look around the room and down at the restraints. "What is this?"

Nobody answers, and I'm beginning to grow fearful myself. I know they wouldn't hurt me, but they might have to. In order to get him out. And I'm worried about how they plan on doing that.

"What? What is this?" He repeats.

Again, nobody answers, and he fights harder against the restraints hurting me more.

"Why am I tied up?"

Mom steps out from the shadows and I calm a bit, the real me, anyway. She kneels down in front of me, looking up at me seriously.

"Will, we just want to talk to you." She says.

I'm here! I want to talk too, Mom, please hear me.

"We're not gonna hurt you." She says gently.

I know Mom, please just tell me what's going on!

My head rips up, making me look at everyone in the room frantically. There's still one figure I can't quite make out, but he doesn't seem to care about them.

"Where am I?" He demands.

The man kneels down next to me, and I can feel the monster's anger and agitation. He's threatened.

The man holds up a piece of paper, a drawing. I recognize at once that this is something else the fog has touched. I know it, and it must be something I made. Fear takes over me; my own, real fear of the monster that was now apart of me, but I also feel his fear. All I know is the drawing upsets him, and he knows something I don't.

"Recognize this?" Hopper asks, and the shadow monster shakes my head. "Do you recognize this?"

My head shakes again, and I barely hear a soft 'no' come from my lips.

I'm now looking at Mom again, she's staring deep into my eyes. My body isn't mine anymore, but I swear when she looks at me, she's looking at me. Like she knows not only that I'm trapped and that this is not me talking, moving, answering, but she knows exactly where I am. She's looking at my real self that's trapped in this small corner in the back of my mind and I'm certain I'd be crying if I could.

"We wanna help you," She says to me. "But to do that, we have to understand how to kill it."

Oh no.

His anger explodes in an instant, so bright and so intense that even I find myself feeling annoyed. But I remind myself that it's not my anger. I want to help. I want to tell them, but I still can't. Instead, my voice comes out in a hostile shout that makes my mom jump.

"Why am I tied up?" They both try to calm me, calm him. But it doesn't work. "Why am I tied up? Why am I tied up?"

Mom shakes her head, and it's clear to see how uncomfortable she is growing. I just wish she knew for sure this isn't me yelling at her.

He continues shouting the same thing, and I can feel my throat start to sting and ache from screaming.

"Why am I tied up?! Why am I tied up?!" Hopper pushes me back, and my wrists and ankles and even chest begin to sting as he fights against the wires again. "WHY AM I TIED UP?! WHY AM I TIED UP?!"

The lights begin to flicker and my body continues to kick and scream but not the words I wanted to scream. It's just the same question, and he won't stop growing louder. I see the figures, Jonathan and Mike...! But they're scared of me. They're backing away, and Mike briefly looks down at his hand and behind the post. The figure had grabbed his hand, but I still can't quite make them out.

I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!

"WHY AM I TIED UP?!" He screams, now fighting hard against Hopper's hands which are now trying to pin me back. And the more he screams, the deeper my voice goes and I swear it sounds less and less like my own voice. "LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!"

Please... Please, somebody help me.

"LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!"

Hopper now has his arms wrapped around me, and I know it's out of restraint but it's also gentle and sympathetic like a hug. He knows I wouldn't do this, I can tell because he holds me tight and I even hear him mumble encouraging things trying to calm me.

My mom does the same, but I can feel the furious look welded to my face as he screams at her, and yet she still tries to comfort me.

"-sweetie,"

"LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!"

"-honey, it's okay."

"LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!"

Let me go! Leave me and family alone! Go away!

I know it must hear me, but since I am no longer in control all I can do is try to fight it. It's hard, but I don't give up.

Stop it! Just stop it!

I focus as much as I can, as much as I can muster. All I can focus on is the hurt and fear in everyone's eyes. Mike's, Jonathan's, and my moms. Hers hurts the most.

Suddenly I feel my body start to weaken, and my voice starts to lower in volume. But I still feel helpless no matter how hard I fight.

He's angry with me now.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

The shift in Mom's eyes keeps me going. She can tell I'm fighting, but I don't think she knows I can't hold out much longer.

Mom, please...

"Let me go! Let me go! Let me go! Let me go..."

My breath is harder and harder to find, and my shoulders heave as my lungs fight for breath. But I can feel it; I slowed him down.

"Go..." he mumbles weakly.

The lights stop flickering and Hopper lets me go. Mom stands briefly to sit across from me on the chair. She watches me carefully, and I can feel the tiniest bit of relent from him.

"Do you know what March 22nd is?" She asks calmly.

He's trying to figure out what to do, he's calculating. And he must be pushing back because I realize that that day sounds familiar. But the way she talks it seems like I should know.

"It's your birthday,"

The fog is coming for me. I can't remember my own birthday, and I've already forgotten other things about myself. Maybe if I keep talking to him?

Please, just let me go!

He wants me gone completely, and already I feel myself slipping back out of whatever control I had. He's winning.

Go away! Please, just go away. Go away... Go away... Go away.

But that's when she sees me again, she looks directly at the real me thats trapped and fighting for my life.

"Your birthday."

All I can do is listen to her, cling to her voice as the fog closes in on me. But I feel it start to slow when she continues, her voice as soft as ever.

"When you turned eight, I gave you that huge box of crayons. Do you remember that?"

Mom smiles a bit as she thinks about it, and I feel a single grain of strength returns to me. I can almost picture the lost memory, it comes back in small details, like a blurred home video with lots of static.

"It was 120 colors," she says, and I can see tears building up in her eyes. "And all your friends, they got you Star Wars toys, but all you wanted to do was draw with all your new colors."

Her smile grew a bit, not once looking away from me and I noticed an overwhelming gleam of pride. But still, I listen completely hooked on her every word. And I don't know if it is because of me, or what, but it almost feels like he's stopped too.

"And you drew this big spaceship, but it wasn't from a movie." She shook her head, gleaming at me still even if her voice began to break. "I-I-It was your spaceship."

Rainbow ship...!

"A rainbow ship is what you called it," her bottom lip began to shake before she smiled brightly once more as she spoke. "A-and you must have used every color in the box. I took that with me to Melvald's and I put it up and I told everyone who came in, 'My son drew this,'"

'Mom! Come on, it's not funny! Just take it down!'

'Honey, how are people supposed to know how great this is if I don't show them?' She asks.

'Mo~m!'

"And you were so embarrassed," she chuckles.

I'm remembering... Mom, I remember! I'm remembering!

But she still can't hear me, I'm still not in control. But he's listening. He's quiet.

"But I was so proud," Mom leans forward looking deep into my eyes. "I was so, so proud."

Mom...

She's fighting back tears now and I hate now more than ever I can't speak my own thoughts.

Mom, please! Keep talking, it's working. Just please keep talking...

Another voice speaks instead.

"Do you remember the day Dad left?"

My head whips up to see Jonathan, and for a moment I don't even know who was in control. I can feel it working, clinging to the stories they are telling me. They feel like home even if I don't remember.

It hurts to see his eyes are watering, and he looks just as worried and sad as Mom.

Like the crayon story I try and search for the memory. I feel as if I'm reaching around in the darkness, trying to find any kind of detail that might help me remember. And he doesn't get mad at me when I don't respond.

He walked towards me instead, and kneels down beside me.

"We stayed up all night building Castle Byers..."

I can feel that my face has softened over time, but still all I can do is listen. He's watching Jonathan, and I can feel his silence. Not his absence, he's still there inside me but it's like he's trying to make sense of what these moments are and why they're affecting me. Regardless, moments of that night came flooding back to me.

'I'm trying, Jonathan!' I whine, stopping to hit the ground with the hammer out of frustration before dropping it all together. "It's this stupid thing, it's balance must be off or something.

'Don't blame the hammer, Will,' Jonathan jokes dryly, not even looking at me.

I drop the hammer in frustration, I practically threw it and I begin to sniffle.

'Well, I do! This stupid hammer isn't doing the one thing it's suppose to do. How are we supposed to make Castle Byers if he's not helping?'

I go quiet, realizing what I had just said. I look to Jonathan shyly, and he's already stopped his hammer to look at me.

'We tried, Jonathan,' I mumble, sniffling. 'but it's no use. Let's just go home.'

'Go home?' He asks. 'No way! We said we were going to build Castle Byers, we always said we would. And we are. With or without Dad. He'll just have to miss out,'

"just like you drew it." Jonathan tells me, his face scrunching up a bit as he chuckles. "And it took so long because you were so bad at hammering."

But you were still patient with me. You helped me get through it even though you were going through the same thing... And I never thanked you for that.

I feel my mouth begin to twitch as I try to say the words, but nothing comes out. It was working, it was almost working! But I don't think he can tell...

"And then it started raining, but we stayed out there anyway." Like Mom, his voice started to crack. "And we were both sick for like a week after that."

You let me stay in your room and we played cards and other games while we were stuck in bed.

"But we just had to finish it, didn't we?"

Suddenly, I felt my fingers tap the sides of the chair. But, it was me! I think it was me!

"We just had to." Jonathan repeated, his voice still breaking.

Jonathan, Mom, anyone! Is anyone seeing its working?

"Do you remember the first day that we met?"

It was Mike speaking now, and my head turned to meet him. Again! I can't quite be sure if it was really my doing but any question of it went out the window when I saw his expression. He had stepped forward, and I noticed he was crying.

"It was... It was the first day of kindergarten." He spoke with a big lump in his throat. "I knew nobody."

A swingset... I remember a swingset...

"I had no friends and..." he sniffled. "I just felt so alone and so scared, but..."

He looked up at me, and for a brief moment it was the same look from that day. The details were still fuzzy but, that look I recognized. Sad but hopeful.

"I saw you on the swings and you were alone, too." He fought a hiccup as he spoke, the kind from crying and another tear rolled down his cheek. "You were just swinging by yourself. And I just walked up to you and... I asked."

'Hi, um, my name's Mike...'

He was looking at me, and he kept shuffling on his feet. He looked a lot more nervous than mean. I look up at him, and decide giving my name wouldn't hurt.

"I'm Will," I whisper.

"I asked if you wanted to be my friend." He chokes. "And you said yes..."

"Do... Do you wanna be my friend?"

Everyone else was picking on me for not knowing anyone. But he wants to be my friend!

I smile, pointing to the open swing next to me. "Yeah! Wanna play?"

Mike smiled at me, and took the seat. He looked pretty happy. But I am too!

"You said yes," he croaks. "It was the best thing I've ever done."

I can feel my face start to break, every twitch is a sign I'm gaining control even though my fingers are still moving as well. With all the strength I can gather, I'm able to turn my head at Mom. Fighting against him feels like I'm swimming up stream.

Mom, please get me out. I think I'm losing...

For once I feel hopeful that she notices something when she starts searching my eyes, my expressions and I'm still fighting. I have to fight for every muscle, and doing that feels like every one of them is made of lead.

Mom must have caught something in my eyes cause of the look in hers. But it's too late. I can feel him pushing back again.

No! Leave. Me. Alone! Leave me alone. I want my mom! I just want my mom!

I feel an overwhelming chill and I feel my body temperature drop again, not even realizing it had started to creep up again. The fog was coming back, and quicker and stronger than ever until I could barely hold on.

Then I hear my voice again.

"Let me go."

No! No, stop! STOP!

But then Mom looks away and down at the floor, sighing, and I feel whatever crumb of hope I had dissapear.

What? No, Mom, look. Just please look! Talk to me, stay with me, just please don't leave!

She looks like she's contemplating something, and then she looks up at Mike asking a question with her eyes. I can't imagine what, but Mike seems to understand. Then, they both look past the post at the figure I had never made out.

"Sweetie, why don't you come say hi?" My mom croaks to the stranger.

My head moves to look all around the room and allowing me to look at the others expressions. They all watch expectantly, and when my eyes land on Mike's he nods at the figure.

My body tenses suddenly but I don't know why. He seems to though, and it feels like another wave of ice is pumped into my bloodstream.

For a moment, there's the sound of shuffling footsteps and I barely detect movement. Like they're inching away from the hiding spot.

Then she steps out from behind the thick sheet of white light wearing a timid, tearstreaked face.

Y/n! You're here!

The one blissful movement I have vanishes in an instant when he takes full control once more. My muscles tighten and I feel my jaw clench shut, and the pain of the wires against my skin comes back as he starts moving me again. My face curls and I hear my voice saying such bad things to her.

"Get out!" She winces, but this time she doesn't listen to him. "GO AWAY!"

"No," she states, but I can tell it's hard for her. "not until I talk to Will."

"GO AWAY! GO AWAY! GO AWAY!"

"-Will" my mom tries.

My body starts to move again, fighting against the restraints and Hopper has to pin me back again.

I can feel his anger again. But there was something else too. The same thing I felt the first time he took total control.

Fear.

Y/n, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm trying. I'm fighting! I don't mean it, I don't mean it!

He still fights and kicks, but the longer I see her the less I care about the pain on my ankles and wrists. It's the look on her face, she's heartbroken. She looks destroyed. Just as upset as she was that night, and guilt pulls me back down. My strength for fighting him diminishes, but what stops it from dissapearing altogether is the fact she hasn't moved.

All she had done was take the seat across from me. And just... waited.

He kicked and screamed until I felt my limbs grow tired, but still she waited. Once again since I woke up, I'm happy that Hopper was here to hold me back so I didn't break free.

How are you not leaving? After all I did?

Finally, he starts to stop, and thats when I feel Hopper's hand slowly release me. And even though he stopped, the menacing glare he gave her never weakened.

"Will," she says finally. "I know... I know you're in there."

Like Mike, her voice is already strained as she speaks through her tears. Even her nose sounds a bit clogged and I feel my heart break and stomach sink all over again. How hard I was making her cry.

She sniffles, and she begins wringing her hands revealing her nerves. Then she raises them in defense, her arms still glued to her legs as she leans on them.

"I'm just here to talk, I promise."

I know, Y/n. I trust you. I really hope you know that.

He doesn't agree though, he's furious she's even here. Every nerve is standing on edge and I feel colder than ever.

Leave her alone!

I feel my nerves jump, he's still anxious to get away from her.

"What about the day I officially joined the party? Do you remember that?"

My heart is pounding violently against my ribcage almost to a point it hurts to breathe. She's looking into my eyes, likes she's trying to find me. I think she actually is. Just like what happened with the others, the picture is hard to find. It's all just too fuzzy. The small part of me that's left can tell Y/n knows my answer, and that she's dissapointed. But she still doesn't appear mad at me, even though she has every reason to be.

"It was around fifth grade," she began, "You guys had been friends with Dustin for almost a year, and even though everyone saw, and treated me as Dustin's sister... you didn't."

She paused for a moment, trying to keep her sobs in. I could tell by the way her jaw clenched and she bit the inside of her cheek. My own throat began to swell as I felt an enormous lump growing in the back. I hate seeing her so sad, and I hate even more that I'm the reason. She began shaking her head.

"Sometime during spring vacation, I remember Dustin coming up to me all cranky" she chuckled, and looked down at the floor lost in the memory. I waited for her to continue, wanting nothing more than to soak up the missing details when she smiled. "He had just come home from playing with you guys at Mikes, and he was holding a small yellow card with my name on it,"

Y/n grinned, looking at her hands wistfully as if she could still see the card in her hands.

And then she looks up at me, with a wide, trembling smile but there were still tears in her eyes.

"It was an invitation to your birthday party,"

The thick layer of static over the memory flickered, and for a brief second the image was clear and I could make out one thing. Just a small moment in time.

Y/n, she looked a lot younger. She was standing in my backyard. But she was off to the side, all alone. She was watching Lucas and Dustin bobbing for apples in a big pool.

"From you. You had insisted I come and you knew Dustin couldn't say no," she laughs.

"I was so excited, but," she sniffled, her smile falling. "even Lucas and Mike didn't bother to include me, they all forgot I was there and for a moment I thought nothing would change. But... then you came up to me, smiling all nervously, but without skipping a beat you asked me. You asked if I wanted to do something else."

"It was so casual, too. We weren't even proper friends yet, and it was your birthday party, but you knew something was wrong, and you asked me how I could feel more included."

Y/n shakes her head, seeming disbelieving.

"We talked for a bit, and then you offered to show me Castle Byers. 'It's just over the hill,' you told me. So we went - and figures, the guys never realized we were gone - but I thought it was, just, the best thing. We played in there for a few minutes, these toy cars were all you had in there at the time,"

She chuckled, and held up her hands to demonstrate something of size.

"I remember you had this Tonka Truck, it was just smaller than a toaster and you let me play with it. You said it always cheered you up, and maybe it would help me, too. You even let me keep it at the end of the day, cause you saw how happy I was, even though the truck wasn't what me so happy."

I could feel my face twitching again, my fingers drumming against the chair numbingly. And then I felt a single hot tear slide down my cheek, and his discomfort grew.

"But you told me something in Castle Byers that day, something I don't think I'll ever forget, even if I wanted to..." she was crying again. "You told me, that we could go talk to the others and convince them to let me join, that I could be your guys' friend... I asked you why you were being so nice to me, why you wanted me to apart of your group,"

A small sob came out in the form of a chuckle, and she wiped a tear off her cheek.

"And you told me it was because that was your birthday wish."

The room was dead silent again, and I could hear sniffles coming not only from Y/n, but Mom and Jonathan, too.

"Sure enough, we were all the best of friends just days later. We were building forts, playing cards, I think we even got our walkies a few months later and stayed up all night leraning morse code... You helped me make that happen, Will. And I'll always be greatful for that."

Another tear slips down my cheek, but I feel my face is as still as stone. The next thing I feel is his icy grip pulling me back down, and this time I know in my gut it's for good. In once desperate attempt, I scream for my muscles - my arms, legs, head, anything to see if I can move. And that's when I realize, my fingers are still wiggling. I don't think he can tell. I don't think he knows.

He's too focused on her! I just need them to look. I can get a message out. My fingers tap just a little louder as I try to remember the right combination.

Right. Here.

Right. Here.

As I focus all my energy into the message, I hear her broken voice speak again.

Right. Here.

Right. Here.

Here.

"Will, if-if you're in there," she looks around at eveyone else in the room and back to me. "Please, just talk to us. Say anything, just please help us help you."

Right. Here.

Right. Here.

The fog grows, stretching farther over me and chilling my body.

Right. Here.

Come on, hurry up. Anyone!

Here.

Am I remembering it wrong?

Here.

Here.

Hopper jumps up abruptly, glancing quickly across the room, and back once more at me. Suddenly, his hand dives into his pocket to fish something out.

Here.

Here.

Here.

He pulls out a vial - or is a needle? - I can't quite make it out in the light but I see him uncap whatever it is, walking towards me.

Here.

Here.

Here.

It plunges into my arm and before I know it I feel myself growing sleepy. The last thing I feel is cold fear and the feel my fingers slowing growing sluggish against the cardboard until it stops altogether.

Here...

||3rd Person POV||

Will awakes once more, attempting to process the many things flooding his senses. The return of the chemicals in his nostrils and throat, the blinding white light blocking his vision, and the feeling of being watched. But this time, he does not wake to a dead silent room, but a string of all too familiar music floods his ears.

The first notes of Should I Stay or Should I Go explode through the quiet air, and strangely enough for Will, everyone inside with him has dawned an all new demeanor. They aren't weary anymore, rather they are determined. Jonthan is the first to take a seat across from his brother, an expecting look in his eyes.

"Do you remember the first time I played you this?"

Will's body sits completely still, a lost look in his eyes.

"Mom and Dad were both arguing in the next room," Jonathan continues. "So I played you the mix tape I made you. And it was the first time you got into music. Real music."

Steadily, his fingers begin to tap a new pattern all unbeknownst to the Mind Flayer who watches his captors studiously. Particularly the young Henderson girl lingering in the corner awaiting her turn.

All the while, Hopper stands behind the Byers boy, walkie behind his back as he echoes the boy's message to the other half of the team waiting inside to translate.

Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy surround the kitchen table. Each with a task of their own.

"Dash, dot, dash, dot," Dustin mumbles, feverishly scribbling them on a piece of paper.

Lucas and Max scan the coordinating letter provided on an old guide.

"Dash, dot, dash... Yeah, got it!" Lucas exclaims. "C!"

Nancy transcribes onto a fresh piece of paper and this process continues as the others take turns talking to Will. Mike is next.

"And then the party escaped into the sewers," he recalls excitedly. "and there were those big insect things, and you guys were still on level one. Then you cast Fog Cloud and you saved us. You saved the whole party!"

Another pattern by Will turned into another letter on paper as the kids listened intently to Hopper's incoming message.

"L!"

"Dash dash-"

"-O!"

"We were so happy to see snow," Y/n explains, arms waving as she reimagines the moment. "and we got so wrapped up in our snowball fight, we didn't see my mom open the garage and when you ducked, I knocked over the old floor lamp that had been sitting out there. We had to spend the rest of the day cleaning it up, but we couldn't stop laughing,"

"-S,"

"You saw how sad Y/n was," Joyce says, knowing she was just about to reveal a fact to the girl in the room, a fact she might have missed out. But this doesn't stop her from telling the story, or breaking away from her son's gaze. "and when you two came back from Castle Byers, I saw her thanking you for your Tonka Truck."

"-E."

"and I pulled you aside before she left, and I told you that we couldn't afford to buy another one,"

Y/n's eyes flicker from Joyce back to Will, swallowing the entirely new perspective her side of the story revealed.

"-G."

Joyce began to choke on her words at the pride of her son, as well as Y/n who stood off in the corner with a simultaneous swelling, and breaking of her heart. "You said she should have it because she was sad. She's sad, Mom, and I want to make that go away."

"-A."

"I love you so much," Joyce tearfully coos.

"-T."

"So, so much."

"-E!"

The play button ejects on the Byers boom box, the music coming to an end and the others gather around Nancy at the table. Will's message drips off their tongues simultaneously and a chill spreads through the air at what it reads.

"CLOSE GATE"

A loud, shrill ring pierces the chilled air and a total of six heads whip up at the startling noise of the Byers phone; All who are inside, and the sixth belonging to Will.

The rest in the shed follow suit, and they experience the plunging feeling of fear as they realize what is about to happen.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Dustin spews through his clenched jaw, the first of his group to reach the phone.

He rips it off the line and slams it back down.

The others look around at one another, silently wondering if they were in the clear. A second shrill ring answers their question, and Dustin scrambles to hang up the phone. Nancy beats him to it, and rips the phone - mount and all - and throws it to the ground with an angred grunt.

Everyone sighs, and Max is first to voice their shared concern.

"Do you think he heard that?"

"It's just a phone," Steve replies, his tone of voice betraying his intended confidence. "It could be anywhere... Right?"

Without his permission, Will's eyelids flutter closed and his head begins to twitch.

The Mind Flayer had begun his search.

"Hey," Joyce jumps up worriedly, placing her palm on her son's knee gently shaking it to get his attention. "Hey, can you hear me?"

His bretahing grows increasingly ragged, his eyes moving under his eyelids as the tunnels begin to spread under his command.

Hopper kneels down beside Will, his voice grave. "It knows. It knows where we are."

"Shit," Joyce hisses.

She jumps from her seat altogether and grabs the remaining dose of anesthesia and plunges into Will's other arm. His head drops in seconds and Hopper, Y/n and Jonathan flood outside onto the lawn. Their eyes scan the trees behind them, as well as the rest of the backyard but it is eerily silent.

Until the piercing cry of the Demodogs carries through the air, and across the night sky announcing their advances.

The others hear it even from inside the house, and they near the window. Moonlight spills onto their faces, illuminating their fear as they realize the dangers to come.

"That's not good," Dustin breaths, paralyzed.

The quartet return to the shed, pushing themselves past the makesshift curtains blanketing the door.

"They're coming!" Jonathan cried to his mother and Mike.

Everyone scrambles to untangle Will from his restraints, and scurry inside, Will over Jonathan's shoulder.

The only one to linger is Hopper, who hesitates outside the shed, and goes back for the rifle that sat amongst the pile of the sheds discarded things.

He's the last to enter the house, closing and locking the door behind him, and yet he does not know what good it will do them. He marches across the kitchen, grabbing the other rifle he had nabbed from the lab, and enters the living room. His eyes widen when he sees the children packed against the windows on the couch.

"Hey." He barks. "Hey, get away from the windows!"

They scramble off the couch and one by one everyone else files into the living room as they prepare. Hopper's scanning eyes land on Jonathan and he holds up one of the rifles.

"Do you know how to use this?"

"What?" Jonathan asks, still processing the sudden change of events.

"Can you use this?" Hopper seethes, turning red in the face as his impatience grows.

Another voice answers.

"I can,"

Dustin and Jonathan part as Nancy steps forward, and catches the rifle in her hands without a second thought. Her and Hopper cock their guns, and take their aim. In a matter of moments, everyone is packed in against one other in a protective huddle, their hearts beating as loud as drums. Some were lucky - and quick - enough to get their hands on anything they could use as a weapon. Apart from Y/n, who began wringing out her hands and attempting to shake out her nerves, and Steve who wielded his signature weapon; the spiked bat.

The tense silence grows thicker, hanging in the air far longer than any one of them would have preferred. The occasional chitter could be heard, and the rusting of branches followed all too soon.

"Where are they?" Max cries, her fear grows when she finds herself without a weapon.

Subconsciously, she moves herself tighter to be near Lucas who has drawn his wrist rocket.

Another silence, and the next noise to be heard beside their ragged breaths is the sudden groaning of the beast who growing closer by the second.

What sounded to a select few like a human cry was drowned out in the several thuds and more screeches from the Demodogs. The sound of branches breaking outside brought everyone's attention - and aim - to the dining room window visible from where they stood.

"What are they doing?" Nancy mumbled through her fearful panting.

Everyone could see the leaves shake violently against the window as if something had landed in the bushes.

The battle cries of the Demodogs flew from window to window at an alarming speed, as did the barrels of Hopper and Nancy's guns.

Everyone watches with great worry and confusion as the battle cries quickly turn to cries of pain. And for one small moment they think they hear the sounds of bones crushing as it screeches in pain.

Before their minds can conjure any possible explanation, the far left window pane shatters as the body of a Demodog comes crashing onto the living room floor. Violent cries of terror rip from everyone's throats as they jump out of the way, turning on the intruder.

Their guards lower on a single notch as they realize the thing lays completely lifeless. And yet, they creep forward to examine the body, Hopper the closest of all as he advances on what he hopes is its corpse.

"Holy shit," Dustin whispers.

"Is it dead?" Max gapes, wearily inching forward towards the monster.

Hopped takes a deep breath, gun still drawn and finger on the trigger and inches his boot closer to the Demodog. It's lifeless head falls to the side limply, and everyone breathes what they know to be a temporary sigh of relief.

The relief is snatched up in seconds, and everyone's guard returns when they hear a soft wooden creak coming from the front door. Everyone returns to their position, weapons drawn ready to fight.

An unusual sight turns their heads as they watch the deadbolt unlock by itself. It's sharp click booms in their ears like thunder. Everyone creeps forward by a mere few steps, and in their heightened adrenaline fueled state, they begin to questions the Demodogs capabilities if only for a fleeting moment before dismissing it altogether.

They watch in awe as the chain lock on the door, slides itself unlocked, and drops instantly, swing limply against the door. It creates a taunting scrape as it grazes the door.

Everyone wonders what they are about to face, everyone apart from a the dutiful chief, a missing experiment, and a certain boy who does not dare let himself entertain the idea in fear of another painful heartbreak.

With soft and muffled clicks from the tumblers, the wooden door creaks open painfully slow. A worn out pair of white sneakers fit around a dainty pair of feet cross the threshold and onto the wooden floors.

All weapons lower immediately in shock as they gape at the sight before them. Standing across the room in a brand-new wardrobe and slightly longer hair blending perfectly with her usual bleeding nose and fierce look in her eye was none other than El.

Her eyes scan the small crowd of familiar and unfamiliar shock-ridden faces until they land on the one she had never stopped dreaming about. Her heart skips a beat when she does not seem him at first before bursting altogether when he steps out from behind Hopper's towering frame.

His widened eyes are swimming in tears as he gazes at her as of she were mirage. Her hard and concentrated glare melts immediately into vulnerability as she meets his eyes, feeling eerily similar to him as if he would inevitably disappear as soon as she woke up.

And instantaneously, matching bright smiles break out on their faces when they know.

Neither of them were dreaming, and at long last, they had finally found one another again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

PLEASE!!! Don't stop fighting for black lives. This has been said a thousand times and it shouldn't have ever needed be said in the first place but just because it isn't on the news as much anymore, that it's not "trending" anymore doesn't mean it's over. Please continue fighting back and doing what you can. Links below as usual.

Protect Protestors From Federal Officers

[my city of Portland is not the only one to face this, as there are plans of using this tactic on other cities trump views as a threat. Please help!]

[Link]

Black Trans Education Foundation GoFundMe

"We're raising money to provide $3,000 scholarships directly to 20 black trans students."

Donate if you can and please, please share!!

[Link]

rown & black businesses damaged by the protests

"In efforts to help Black & Brown businesses that were damaged during riots this weekend, @ buyblackatl and @ spoiledberry are raising money. Please share this, and if you or anyone you know owns a Black/Brown owned business that was impacted, please contact us. 🖤"

[Link]

+++

Tag List: @dickkwad​​ @aimee-lucass​​ @iblesstherainsdown-in-africa​​  @miscellaneoustoasts​ @happyandlonely-blog​ @missmulti​ @youpi-chan​ @peeperparkour​ @ba-responds​ @bibliophilesquared​ @blogforhoes​ @witch-of-all-things-soft​ @shawkneecaps​ @whothefuckstolemykeds​ @mirdall @fishswimbetterunderwater​ @daughter-of-the-stars11​ @stranger-things4​ @heavenlycat567​ @nightbu-g​ @grapesauze​

DM me, or drop by my inbox if you want to be added!

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

🏳️‍🌈 Thurs 13 Feb 🌻

Louis played the Brits Week benefit show tonight at Scala, his first real full length solo just for him show, and...well as Louis said, "Blown away by tonight. Can't quite get my head round it. This was a special and forever memorable moment. The tour is going to be incredible," and, "really can't put into words what happened tonight but it was a break through moment. Thank you. Feeling very excited about what's to come." And now we are all crying forever, or at least until tour starts in a month and we get to watch him bloom like a fucking (nocturnal) sunflower a little more every single night! Still high with a little feeling, Louis then liked a tweet saying "I hope Louis is smoking a nice fat blunt rn," briefly before unliking LOL yes, agree and I will accept that as confirmation. So yeah: the show was amazing, he was shining and talking about how confident he felt and giving the now-usual waves and thumbs ups to the rainbows in the crowd and working the stage and crowd. I love that he can lean right in and have the group hugs and love without being groped or mauled! So cute. Anyway also today, there were special Louis/War Child charity benefit t shirts on sale and Louis said the weirdest fan gift ever was a live grasshopper back in the early days at a signing, that the best thing about being famous is the fans and the worst thing is the intrusiveness and people being "annoying." He will be on Total Access tomorrow.

Oh also Eleanor was at the show: she wrote "proud"...on a picture of herself. Hmm. One wonky 'you tried' star for you I guess. Anyway who cares all I care about is her dad showing up outside after the show, clambering awkwardly over the barricade with help from fans (who were like who is this man what tf is going on), then turning around and being like "I'm Louis' girlfriend's dad! Do you want a picture with me?!" to some fans with a rainbow flag. That one picture was taken (by someone fans called her brother, but based on what?) then off they went into the night. Lol WTF? Lord help us.

We learned that Harry was a busy boy while he was in Miami- he didn't just film a message for Ben Winston's mom, he also filmed spots with James Corden's parents for the Late Late Show! Highlights, salsa dancing wiggly butt, and his mermaid tattoo being blurred out, omg. This just in, Harry's arm is too obscene for network television! Today we got Eroda tweets, one asking for favorite Eroda memories and gifting shirts to a few deemed worthy and one leading up to a video- thirteen minutes and twenty one seconds of Fine Line Live(pt 1) behind the scenes! Much of that time is fan footage but there's some quality Harry as well, like him unfolding his ridiculously long limbs out of his tiny sports car, doing a little TikTok meme dance, and adjusting his titties before the show. What next Harold? Is he playing on the radio tomorrow? Maybe so! Is he also releasing a single, perhaps a video, or what?? Maybe we'll find out more someday.... perhaps....

And that Zayn song? A song claiming to be Fugir (Radio Edit) is on Spotify now, linked to what look like burner accounts for a "Rafael" and "Zayn." It's not unlike leaks that have seemed to be Zayn in the past but would he be leaking this after he just stopped it from coming out? Nothing makes any sense what's new welcome to never knowing anything. [edit wait that Spotify version has been there since Feb 7??? I have no idea y'all. Make it make sense please.]

Meanwhile, Niall tells us he's mixing something special just for us and bragged about getting a follow from Ryan Reynolds. I guess Mr Reynolds is branching out from his Zayn stanning: maybe Deadpool is a Ziall shipper? I buy it. If not, he's probably open to being convinced, someone should get on that.

[lilrexsoka]

I freaked out for no reason! I could have just posted them in the correct order after all... don’t blame me, my brain has been frazzled by school. :(

Rexsoka Week 2020 Day 3: Prompt- Secret. 

Tagging: @officialrexsoka

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26698138/chapters/65261311

Read it on AO3 or read it below:

Rating: G

Tag Warnings: None

After a battle, there always was a terrible clamour. Despite the utter relief that the fight was finally over, and this latest mission had been a victory for the Republic, there continued to be a dull aura of defeat. Ahsoka had learned that every fight won was a bitter win; there always was some sort of loss. Even in a skirmish against the lifeless battle droids, there was still the chance that the clones by her side would give their lives for the greater good. That possibly hurt the most.

This fight had been against the citizens of Umbara; actual, breathing people who had sided with the enemy. Ahsoka had been placed in the middle of the dog fight, and admittedly it was a bit easier to imagine droids behind the cockpits, instead of people with their own values, interests and lives.

Her men had finally returned from the surface; she had yet to speak to any of them, but it seemed everyone had something to do. It was as if some unspoken rule had directed every clone to busy themselves with any available task. She didn’t blame them; according to Master Kenobi, though he had not supplied the young Padawan with any details, they had been put through a devastating event.

She didn’t just want to approach any soldier, however. She tried to remain close to her allies, but she thought they would appreciate the space, if what she had been told was true. They shouldn’t have to relive that experience twice in a day. Her feet took her tirelessly around the ship, moving past troopers with their heads ducked in dismay. It hurt Ahsoka as much as it seemed it was hurting them. Still, she continued on, until she finally found the man she was looking for along a distant corridor; it was easy to find his Force Signature among the turmoil, brimming with great anger and grief.

His helmet had been discarded; it lay abandoned on the floor, it’s owner standing a short distance away, slumped against the wall with his head in his hands. He clearly had not planned on being found; he jumped when the Togruta leaned down to pick up his helmet and sighed desolately.

“It’s just me, Rex,” Ahsoka soothed. She hesitated for a moment as he brushed his fingers over the fuzz on his scalp, still avoiding her eye. Slowly, to gauge his reaction, she crouched by his side and set his bucket beside him. “I noticed you were missing, and I thought I should check up on you.” She waited for several moments, but he did not answer. The Togruta knew all she could do now was to leave him to his thoughts; hopefully, it was enough for the Captain to know that she had been thinking of him.

However, before she could leave, the clone raised his voice and stopped her in place. “Don’t leave, Ahsoka.” He immediately corrected himself as she turned around with risen spirits. “I mean… Thank you, Commander. I was just… wondering if maybe you would like to keep me company. I… can’t go back. Not yet.” They didn’t measure the amount of time that they spent simply sitting in silence. Ahsoka guessed he was taking comfort in her presence, and she was more than happy to offer anything he needed. He was a good, strong man, but even the best could break.

Before long, Rex sighed again, quietly. “You don’t have to do this, Commander. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

Not in her opinion. But, if he really wanted her to leave, then she would. “There is nowhere else that I should be right now,” Ahsoka argued and reached out to touch the plates of his arm without really realizing it. Rex neither pulled away nor protested, so she let it linger. “I want to help. I can’t do that anywhere else… unless you have changed your mind again.” Secretly, she found herself wishing he would not take that suggestion. His presence was also comforting her.

“If you say so, Commander.” He pressed his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. His brows were furrowed as if he were thinking hard. Ahsoka waited for him to speak, but the words never came.

She bit her lip as she dove into her own thoughts, but quickly conjured up something to say. In her opinion, she wasn’t too good with things like this, but it was the least she could do to try. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Rex turned his head to eye her. He licked his lips and answered, “Why?”

“Because you are my friend.” Ahsoka answered bluntly and hoped he felt the same as she rolled onto her knees and leaned forward. She felt tempted to press her shoulder against his leg for support, though she was not sure why. “And I think this is a secret that you need to hear.” She chewed the inside of her mouth, awaiting his final answer.

“Alright,” Rex sighed. He shrugged nonchalantly and gazed back at her expectantly.

The Togruta ran a hand down her lekku as she began to speak, slowly and hesitantly at first, but more confident as she went on, her voice strengthening. “I...I would love to not be affected by the war. I wish I could do my duty without any of the emotions that come with it- grief, anger and fear, and I wish that it didn’t take more of me every day.” She paused and swallowed harshly, pushing away the tightness that had begun to constrict her voice. “It takes from everyone. You would be a fool to deny that. But you’re doing something that I couldn’t imagine ever doing. You’re pretending it doesn’t. Either you’re incredibly brave… or really, really full of yourself.” Ahsoka couldn’t help from smiling at her own joke. “But that’s not my point. I don’t know why you do it, either to protect yourself or others, and it may not be a healthy choice… but I’m not here to tell you that. Instead, I’ll tell you that… you’re my rock, Rex.”

The clone was listening to her carefully; a rainbow of emotions passed his face, even too blurred to be read through the Force.

“Whenever I’m uncertain, whenever I’m afraid or worried… I think of you,” she barrelled on. “You’re the strongest person I know… and I guess that’s my secret.” Another warm smile, this one even better than the last. “You’re so important to me. I look up to you more than any Jedi. You’re… awesome.” She shook her head and sighed again. “That’s two secrets, actually. You wouldn’t think a Jedi would get scared.” No wonder he keeps to himself. Opening up is hard, but I know it would have been much more difficult with anybody else.

Rex was speechless for a long moment, which only fuelled her uncertainty. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea- maybe he wasn’t the type of person to be reassured by openness. Maybe it was only upsetting him. She really hoped her plan wouldn’t backfire- more for his sake than hers. He finally answered, sounding far more confident then the Padawan had been. “That’s impossible. You’ve always been the solid, unmovable figure in my life.” You could always tell when Rex was being genuine; he was a terrible liar otherwise, as well the tone in his voice; it was hard to describe, but it was something Ahsoka had learned to know and love. “And don’t you think everyone fears something? I’m not going to berate you for something everyone experiences.”

“You really think that?” the Togruta murmured, her eyes widening in disbelief. She could feel the back of her neck heating up, though she wasn’t sure why. Possibly it was because as a Jedi, such admissions of admiration were rare.

With a shy smile, the Captain dipped his head. “Yeah. I do.” He looked away again, though his grin did not disappear.

Ahsoka couldn’t help but smile back. “Now you’re comforting me when I should be comforting you.” She sighed loudly and smirked as Rex chuckled.

“You’ve already done that,” he told her, meeting her eyes once again. All in one movement, he swept his bucket up with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. Once on his feet, he reached out invitingly to the Padawan. “You only had to be near me to cheer me up. You really went above and beyond.”

She allowed him to help her to her feet, taking his gloved hand and enjoying the strength behind his gentle tug. He’s strong mentally and physically, her thoughts purred, but she quickly shook them away. “That’s what Jedi do,” Ahsoka answered cheekily and beamed. “Glad to help.”

“Let’s get back to the boys then, Commander,” Rex suggested, playfully slinging an arm over her narrow shoulders and shaking her as she laughed joyfully. “Maybe you can cheer them all up.” He chuckled again as she growled teasingly and shrugged him off.

Ahsoka shook her head. “I dunno… I can’t really tell them all my secrets. Then it wouldn’t really be a secret, would it?” She barely noticed how low her voice became, or even the strange expression that crossed the clone’s face.

“Yeah, I agree.” His smile had vanished and had been replaced with a small smirk. “Besides, I share the same secret.”

Ahsoka couldn’t help but grin. She didn’t know how he did it; maybe it was unintentional, but he truly was the greatest at improving her spirit, and of course, making her smile. “You really need to stop being like… this. So… wholesome. My cheeks are going to start hurting!” Her protest didn’t hold any real despair; she wouldn’t mind if he made her happy for the rest of time.

The clone broke into a low, hearty chuckle once again. “Doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” he said when he had recovered.

No, it’s not, Ahsoka thought as the clone interrupted another bout of silence by suggesting they finally return to their troops. She agreed; they both had duties, and she wasn’t sure what kind of questions would be raised if someone found the two officers standing close together, nearly touching, with debatable expressions. “Alright,” she agreed. “But let’s keep this… and our secrets… to ourselves.” Again, bored minds would find delight in pondering the real reason behind their time alone. It had happened before with poor Jesse and a medic during a supply drop at a Republic medical center.

“Will do, Commander,” Rex answered, saluting her with an eyebrow raised and a slanted smirk. They began to walk down the corridor, side by side as always. Ahsoka didn’t think she could ever imagine a different clone to share her command, to fight as a pair, or even to break down together. After all, sharing secrets had to be a bonding experience, and she hadn’t told a single soul but him.

[danielslilangel]

Make Love Not War- Daminette (Pt. Three)

Part One

Part Two

Part Three 

(Thanks everyone for all the love! Daminette is my new favorite ship and I’m obsessed with all of the amazing Maribat content out there now!)  

“Begin!”

Neither one moved at first, trying to guess what the other was going to do. Unsure, though the whole thing had been her idea to begin with, Marinette took a slow step to the left. Damian mirrored the movement and they slowly chased each other around the perimeter of the circle.

“Hey!” Jason yelled, drawing the attention of the two heroes even though neither of them turned to look in his direction. “Is this a fight or what? I’ve got good money on the line so let’s get this show on the road!”

Damian rolled his eyes at his brother’s words, but noticed a shift in the energy between him and Marinette as they came to a stop across.

The two of them launched themselves forward, movements blurring with the speed at which they attempted to attack each other. They quickly became a tangled mess as feet, knees, elbows and fists found their marks.

Damian charged forward with a soft growl that grew louder in frustration as Marinette jumped in the air, using his shoulders as a spring board, leaping over him. As soon as her feet sunk into the mat she raised one leg back to donkey kick Damian away as he moved towards her once again.            He grabbed her from behind only to let go when she unexpectedly sunk her teeth into his forearm. He was proud of her for not being afraid of fighting dirty. As soon as he released her, Marinette spun and launched a series of kicks towards his midsection that Damian struggled to block with his arms. One kick caught him in the hip. Instead of moving out of the way, he stepped into the blow and caught her foot in his hand.

Without hesitation Marinette put all her weight on the foot he held and used his hand as a step and lifted herself up into the air over him. She hooked her thighs around his neck and used her momentum to toss him to the ground, pausing for a second to appreciate the shocked look on his face before he rolled to absorb some of the impact.            "Oh shit,“ Jason whispered. “Is it too late to change my bet to Marinette? Cause she looks a lot less like sunshine and rainbows and more like… I don’t even know what… She’s just… different all the sudden.”            "I’m still betting my money on Damian,“ Dick said, having seen what the Demon Spawn was capable of against his enemies.            "At least they’re no longer holding back. It’s pretty interesting to see a competition bring out this side in them.”            "They are actually pretty evenly matched considering neither one of them have managed to land a devastating blow.“ Tim watched as the pair danced around each other inside the circle, perfectly countering the other’s attacks. Marinette was proving to be much more capable than the Ladyblog videos had let on. No matter who won this round he had a feeling that Ladybug was going to be making quite a few more appearances throughout the city.            "I don’t even think they’ve drawn blood.”            The Wayne boys resumed their silence as Marinette and Damian’s groans and panting filled the room, the pair now drenched in sweat from their efforts to prove that they deserved to win.            I underestimated her, Damian thought as he dodged yet another kick that barely missed connecting with his jaw. That one would have broken it. He grabbed her next flying fist after jerking his head out of its path and used her locked arm to flip her over his head, taking her to the ground.            As he moved his hands to better hold her down, Marinette slid out from under him and pushed herself back into a standing position.            I’m not used to drawn out battles, she thought as she feigned left and managed to connect a heel to his calf though he danced out of the way to avoid much of the blow. He gains the advantage the longer this fight lasts. With no lucky charm to help her this time, Marinette had to rely on herself more than ever to try and win. She decided to risk it and stepped closer to him, trying her hand at landing more hit with close combat. He had more formal training than she did, but she was smaller and faster than him. Their similarities and differences just kept balancing out as neither one managed to get a solid punch to the other.            "How long has it been?“ Dick asked, not taking his eyes off the two dark haired blurs going at it in front of him.            Tim glanced at his watch. Eyes wide, he announced, "seventy-three minutes.” Usually the boys’ sparring never lasted more than half an hour at most before someone was injured or pinned.            Damian tried to keep his focus solely on the fight, but he couldn’t help the voice in the back of his mind that would not stop gushing praise for his girlfriend’s level of skill. He claimed it was logic that told him she’d be safer if she avoided getting into any battles while they were out on patrol but with each kick of his she blocked and punch of hers she landed upon his body, Damian knew that he had been blinded by love. He was nearly out of breath, something that hadn’t happened in quite a while, and knew that she was getting tired too, but she still kept going. He was giving their fight everything he had and it was just enough to keep her from overpowering her. Though he acknowledged her ability to hold her own, the need to win was preventing him from stopping.            Suddenly, Marinette tripped, and that small mistake was enough of an opening for Damian to leap at her, sending the pair sprawling onto the ground. She bucked as he tried to pin her and tangled her legs in his, using her thighs to flip him over so that he was now laying with his back on the mat as she straddled his waist. She had the chance to take a shot at him that could have led to her victory, but paused just a second too long to follow through with it. She couldn’t help but stare at her boyfriend who lay beneath her, white t-shirt sticking to his wet body like a second skin from all of the sweating he was doing. His muscles were taut from the fight and she was too easily distracted by a heat overcoming her that was not brought on from the batter. A heat that only intensified as she lifted her gaze to his eyes.            Not wanting to let an easy opening pass him by, Damian used his abs and the counter pressure of her sitting on his lower half to sit up and wrapped his fingers around Marinette’s pale wrists that had, for some reason, been laying at her sides. He brought their arms up above their heads, meaning to use that motion to push her into the mat and claim his victory, but he found himself once again caught in her blue gaze as she looked up and stared at him.            Marinette let out a small whimper as his fingers locked around her wrists and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.            All at once, Damian became very aware of the fact that his opponent, who just so happens to be his girlfriend, was sitting on his lap in just her leggings and a sports bra covered in sweat from rolling around on the floor with him for the past however long it had been since their last match had begun. Marinette. His very brave, very strong, very attractive girlfriend… Was straddling him… biting her lip… As he held her wrists above her head… Looking at him with a look he hadn’t yet seen from her.            Marinette released some of the tension in her legs from holding her position as Damian froze after sitting up. She managed to hold back another whimper as Damian closed his eyes and let out a low moan, his body treacherously responding to the sudden pressure he felt as she shifted, lowering herself more into his body, brushing his…            His eyes snapped open, once more locking eyes with hers as he released her wrists in favor of grabbing her bare waist so he could stand up while still holding her pressed up against his body.            The sudden movement made Marinette gasp and she reflexively wrapped her legs around him, crossing her ankles to hold on tight as her arms fell around his neck once freed from his grasp. That was all it took for Damian to growl and bury his face into her neck, covering it with feverish kisses, enjoying the taste of her salty skin, as he made his way out of the gym.            Forgetting all about his brothers and the match, he made his way down the hallway and enterer his bedroom after fumbling with the doorknob with one hand, not willing to let go of Marinette more than he absolutely had to to get them alone.            Entering the room, he lifted his leg back to kick the door closed but found that Marinette had already nudged it shut with her own feet so he decided to turn the pair of them around to lock the door. He moved a little too fast though and found himself pushing Marinette’s back against the door, causing the girl to open her lips in a breathless gasp that threatened to tear him to pieces. He needed to hear that sound again more than he needed air to breathe. He leaned closer and caught her lips with his own, flicking his tongue to get them to part them again.            "Damian.“ She couldn’t stop his name from sliding past their tongues into his open mouth anymore than she could stop the small moans and gasps from coming. Her voice must have snapped him back to reality though as he pulled his face away to look her in the eyes.            "Tell me if it’s too much for you. I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.” His eyes were addled with lust and she knew that the last thing he wanted was to stop as they hardly ever had anytime to themselves and had yet to be able to move beyond making out, but he would absolutely stop if that’s what she told him to do. “I want you to want this. To be ready.”            "Damian…“ She couldn’t find the right words to say so she decided to lean in for another kiss, but Damian pulled back.

“I need you to use your words Angel. I want to be sure this isn’t just something that is happening from the adrenaline.”

She tangled her fingers in his dark hair and gently tugged on it. “I want this. I want you Damian. I’ve never wanted anything so much before.” She bit her lip as heat crept up her cheeks from her blatant words but pushed through the mild embarrassment and kept going. “We may have gotten caught up in the moment out there, but that doesn’t change that fact that I’ve wanted to get you alone like this for a while and now that we are here… I don’t want to stop.”

“Angel.” Damian buried his face in her neck once again and smiled as he kissed her over and over and over again. Since he had taken a second and forced himself to pause and take a deep breath, he wanted to do this right.

“But…”

He instantly pulled back to peer at her.

“I don’t… know or really care- well I do care, but not a lot like to the point of…” she trailed off before starting again. “It’s just that… I’ve never… done this, uhm, kind of thing before.”

He didn’t mean to, but he laughed, the sound warm and deep. He removed Marinette’s legs from around his waist and set her down on the ground. He slid a hand up into her hair, removing the tie so that the blue-black strands fell loose around her face. She peered up through her dark lashes at him and he smiled at her confusion. “I don’t know what you’ve been led to believe during our time together Angel, but I’m not exactly a people person. I went on a few dates here and there before I met you, but I’d never been in a relationship until you came into my life. I never expected you to be…” he tried to think of the right word to say. “Experienced. I’m still glad to hear it though because I want to be your first… your only, Marinette.”

In a quiet voice she squeaked out, “Does that mean I’m your first?”

He chuckled again and moved so that their lips were almost touching, relaxing as he breathed in her air. “Yes Angel. You’re my first and I hope you’ll be my last.” Damian stayed where he was, letting her make the choice for herself.

She didn’t hesitate. Marinette threw herself against his body, crashing their lips together.

As they made their way to his king-sized bed the pair, once again, became a tangled mess of limbs as their clothes disappeared like magic and they found a way to heal every aching muscle left over from their fight.

Basking in the warmth of their love, Damian rubbed slow circles on Marinette’s bare back as she lay contentedly draped across his chest wrapped in his covers.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“I wasn’t talking about just now.”

“I know.” She lifted her head to rest her chin on his chest so she could look him in the eyes. “I get that you were just worried about me and wanted to protect me.”

“It was still wrong of me though. I know you’re capable of holding your own… especially after seeing how you managed to keep up with me.”

“I did more than keep up,” she laughed.

“True. I do have quite a few sore spots on my body.”

He arched an eyebrow as Marinette gave him another one of her wicked little smiles.

“You know how Ladybug has the Miraculous Cure? Well, I have that power too.”

“Oh really?” He liked where this was headed.

“Absolutely.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she disappeared under the blankets.

Damian definitely liked where this headed.

TAG LIST I hope you enjoyed the surprising (hopefully) ending! :)

@zazzlejazzle @jessigurl-design @xxmadamjinxx @imfreakingmagical @constancetruggle @shizukiryuu @segajr @mystery-5-5 @black-streak @heldtogetherbysafetypins @eliza-bich @2sunchild2 @northernbluetongue @dont-touch-my-dinosaur @vgirl-10123 @mochinek0 @unabashedbookworm @queencommonsense @crazylittlemunchkin @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @tbehartoo

[brightsun-and-darkmidnight]

Don’t Let Go

TITLE: Don’t Let Go

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 2 / ?

AUTHOR: brightsun-and-darkmidnight as well as @melodylnoelle

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki's life if he did not let go at the rainbow bridge... (After the Bifrost being destroyed.)

RATING:  Explicit

NOTES/WARNINGS: Depression. Thoughts of suicide.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my thoughts of what it might have been like if Loki did not let go. This is set immediately after the Bifrost being destroyed. Loki has a lot to sort through...

My Ao3: brightsun_and_darkmidnight

*FINALLY..Read the warnings. Once you agree you can handle it...

 ~ ~ ENJOY  ~ ~

There was a distinct knock at the entrance door. 

"Loki?"

Loki stood to greet his mother, "in here."

Frigga entered and instantly glanced at the full tray of food but said nothing.

"We are going for a ride, I would love it if you accompanied me." She paused for a moment then walked to the window to fix the drapes open. "It is a beautiful day."

Loki played with his hand as he went to the balcony with Frigga. He looked down to the people, "I take it people are still upset with me."

"Thor as well. You both had your parts in this." Frigga turned to place a hand on Loki's arm, "your father."

Loki turned quickly to retreat into his rooms. Muttering as he sat, "he is not my father."

"We raised you, my dear Loki." Frigga took her place next to him. "You are our son. You know this."

Loki clenched his jaw to stop the same conversation from repeating itself because he hated that talk.

"Ride with me. We are going to the forest, near the waterfalls."

Loki didn't like the idea of others going as well, knowing it was going to be Thor and HIS friends. "I would like to refine my skills for battle."

"Alright." Frigga stood with a smile, "at least eat at some point. You will do no good in any fight without nutrition in your system."

"Yes mother. I will eat before I go train."

"You better or I will whip up that potion to make you eat, like I did when you were a child." She went to the door then turned to say, "you know which one."

Loki forced a smile, "yes. I know. I fear the side effects never wore off of Thor."

Frigga gave Loki her little smirk and shake of her head before leaving.

Loki looked at his plate and ate a little before going to train as he promised.

-:-

Loki did not go out of his rooms for longer than needed, but his mother requested his presence in the library. The entire journey Loki held himself high like a prince should, despite the stares, whispers and glares. Once at the Library Loki relaxed with the familiar scent of old books and the special warmth only a library could offer. 

Sitting in Loki's favorite area was Frigga with a tray of tea and danishes. Loki smiled at the sentiment and took his favorite chair.

"I am happy you could join me." Frigga sipped at her tea, "the ride went well last week."

"Great news mother. Did you see your favorite fish again?"

"Oh yes. I actually seen a bilgesnipe as well." Frigga stated proudly with forced fear to tease.

Loki checked her over with a glance, "A bilgesnipe?"

"Yes. Huge things. This one was injured and was taken care of."

"My apologies, I did not go with you."

"Without substance how well would you have faired?"

"I did eat mother."

"And you will eat here now." Frigga gestured towards the plates with his favorites.

Loki picked a particularly delicious looking pastry. He stopped before taking a bite and sent an accusing stare, "did you have your potion put in these?"

Frigga sent a warm smile, "they are your favorite things to eat, so enjoy them."

Loki gave her a glance as he chanced a smell of the food in question.

Frigga chided, "Loki."

Loki did not sense anything strange about the pastry so he ate it slowly but waited for a strange hunger to overtake him.

"Your father plans to have both you and your brother make an appearance together, to show all is well." Frigga set her tea down in exchange for something to nibble at. "Perhaps you and Thor could get together for a good talk."

Loki offered an answer out of necessity to do so, "Perhaps."

"You know there is not only a war about to start with the Jotunheim but a war among Asgardians about you and Thor."

"I know. There are those who agree with Thor stopping the genocide and those wishing I succeeded. All are upset about the Bifrost being lost." Loki took another danish and ate it slowly as well, noticing how Frigga was watching him carefully. "So why the grand show of family unity?"

Frigga smiled sweetly. "To show we are a strong family."

"Of course." Loki sipped his tea and seen Frigga's eyes sparkle. "I see it was in the tea."

"Sharp as ever but you know not to drink the tea already set out."

"To drink the tea in the kettle would have been worse. The warmer the potion the better it works."

Frigga smiled with a quiet laugh, "well at least you will be eating dinner in the hall tonight."

Loki was starting to feel the effects of the potion already. "I assume you had this planned." Loki picked some of the fruit to the side.

Loki noticed a quiet girl with curly light brown hair enter the Library.

Her voice just as quiet, "I apologize Allmother. The guards let me in. "

"It is alright sweetling. I asked you to accompany me here."

Loki stood feeling uncomfortable and Frigga stood as well.

Frigga turned to Loki, "Would you like to meet me for dinner dear?"

Loki knew he had no choice with the way his stomach begged for more food. "Yes mother, I will see you for dinner." Without a thought Loki walked past the girl who bowed her head.

-:-

Loki stuffed himself full in the dining hall later on, satiating his stomach only after multiple helpings of food. His mother’s potions really were strongly made. No one really spoke to him as he ate, but he did not mind. He was rarely in the mood for conversation these days and did nothing to bring attention to himself. He let Thor do all that, taking the spotlight for himself. It felt at the same time a new routine and a familiar shadow.

The next few weeks passed by as a blur of public appearances with the rest of his family. In Odin’s eyes, the only way Loki could atone for what he had done was to take the blame publically for his actions. He had forced Loki to make a public address to the people, a formal apology for the initial attack on the Jotuns. The action had swayed some of those to favor Thor for stopping Loki, but it did not do as much as Odin had hoped to quell the civil disagreement among them.

Odin took it one step further. Tensions were continuing to rise between the Jotuns and the Asgardians, their two worlds still on the brink of war. War and council meetings, public addresses – it no longer mattered. Everywhere he went, Odin made a point to set blame on Loki for not only his attack, but the entire war. Loki could feel the seething anger that was starting to build among those who believed his words. With all of that, Odin never made mention of Thor’s involvement. That it was Thor who actually made the first attack, the first move, the first threat. That it had been Loki who had tried to stop it then. Thor continued to be the golden child of Asgard, and Odin made mention of his pride for Thor often.    

Through all of that, everyone was touched by the heavy weight as they mourned the bifrost. All the realms did. The Asgardians held a ceremony to honor what had happened with it. As soon as they were able, they began the long process of rebuilding their doorway to the universe. Heimdall often took it upon himself to assist, feeling the grief worst of all as he was supposed to be its keeper. For that, Loki could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. He had always liked Heimdall, and it hurt him to see him so sad.

At least for that, there was still some contempt among the people for Thor, but it was almost never voiced for fear of Odin’s wrath. Odin always defended its destruction, blaming that on Loki as well for giving Thor no choice.

The one thing that was never spoken of, though, was Loki’s true heritage. That secret was kept and those few that knew sworn to secrecy on threat of imprisonment by Odin. Not even Lady Sif and the Warriors Three were allowed to be in the know. It was hardly ever spoken of again, in fact, but it did not need to be. Loki could still feel the awkwardness from Thor, could feel Odin’s obvious bias for Thor. The thought of what he was still plagued him often as he sorted through how to deal with it. The remark he had made to Odin about being a stolen relic played through his mind frequently, too. He really was starting to feel as though he was locked away, just like the Casket.

-:-

[thebookdragonsden]

The year is 2380, and the graduating cadets of Aurora Academy are being assigned their first missions. Star pupil Tyler Jones is ready to recruit the squad of his dreams, but his own boneheaded heroism sees him stuck with the dregs nobody else in the Academy would touch… A cocky diplomat with a black belt in sarcasm A sociopath scientist with a fondness for shooting her bunkmates A smart-ass techwiz with the galaxy’s biggest chip on his shoulder An alien warrior with anger management issues A tomboy pilot who’s totally not into him, in case you were wondering And Ty’s squad isn’t even his biggest problem—that’d be Aurora Jie-Lin O’Malley, the girl he’s just rescued from interdimensional space. Trapped in cryo-sleep for two centuries, Auri is a girl out of time and out of her depth. But she could be the catalyst that starts a war millions of years in the making, and Tyler’s squad of losers, discipline-cases and misfits might just be the last hope for the entire galaxy.

Rating: 4 stars

THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS - READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Aurora Rising, Aurora Rising, how to describe to explain my feelings about you? In my initial high of completing the book, I was like FIVE STARS! ABSOLUTE FAVORITE! But then I took some time to dwell on it, reality set in, and I thought... was it? Was it really? The short answer is no. It was definitely fun and engaging but there were some problems. I can't wait to read the next one but I would recommend this one with caveats. The long answer is that there were things I absolutely loved about this book and felt were really well executed. When it was going right, it was really going right, but it hit a couple of heavy duty stumbling blocks for me. For starters though, it's no secret I love found family stories and this was definitely scratching that itch. A group of difficult misfits from a variety of backgrounds finding a home with each other? Hell yes! I loved the way they came together and helped each other fit in, even if sometimes it meant calling each other out and delivering hard truths. There's still room for growth and expansion on this and I hope to see it continue in the next book. Tbh, I loved pretty much all the characters in the book with one exception, which I'll come to when I start unpacking what didn't work for me. Obviously, Finn was a beloved character, full of sarcasm and personality, but no one was more shocked than me when it turned out that Tyler ended up being my favorite character. I don't normally care much about the golden boy archetype, but there was something about the way Tyler was written that I really enjoyed. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that he obviously didn't get the team he wanted but he never shoved that in their faces and he didn't try to domineer them. He looked at them and thought, what are they capable of and how can I bring that out of them? He believed in them and they delivered. I was here for it. Additionally, I loved his relationship with Scarlett. They were so supportive but also such little shits to each other. There was a lot for this book to get through, plotwise, which means it moved at an extremely fast pace. There was not a lot of time to linger and really develop characters. This was especially true in the case of Zila, whose personality was one that made her more withdrawn. The lack of participation meant she kind of disappeared at times. It also meant that some of the characters blurred together. Sarcasm and wisecracks are pretty much a trademark for Kristoff (I can't speak to Kaufman because I've never read a book she's written solo) and it's been liberally applied to pretty much every single one of the team, which meant they could be pretty indistinguishable from each other, especially in group settings. Also, there were a few scenes that were supposed to be tense and serious, where they're trying to negotiate with someone and a professional portrayal is really important... and someone has to say something witty, and it's really jarring because the book completely ignores the potential issues of said wisecrack. It would launch me right out of the seriousness of that scene. It wasn't common though so it was easy to ignore. The villain of the book was interesting idea, although it did take pretty much until the end for it to be revealed. The description of it wasn't really bringing me creepy vibes, although that could be different if I actually saw it, and while the appearance is something unusual and unexpected, I can't say it was necessarily original. I'm withholding a real verdict on it until the next book. So... what cost the book a full star? Space is a rainbow... and all the pairings here are het! I appreciate that Finn is very blatantly bi/pan and that homophobia is not a thing but it's really hard to hold on to that appreciation when you're sending heavy vibes that he's also going to be paired off with a woman, which brings it to total of 3 canon het pairings among your seven main characters. Also, there's a scene in there that left an extremely sour taste in my mouth because it reminded so much of queerbaiting tactics I've seen executed before that it still fills me with a sense of frustration.  There's a lot of jokes, especially from Scarlett and Finn, that Tyler and Kal should kiss. It eventually does actually happen, but only as a method of throwing off pursuers, and Kal already has a "mate" in Aurora and the only indication we have of Tyler's orientation is a complicated relationship with Cat. So... the only actual non-het potential pairing in the whole book is a fakeout.  My wife didn't feel the same though, so YMMV. Secondly... the mate thing. I'm not always opposed to soulmates in stories but I hate when it's used as a copout for developing a relationship between people. It's an interesting take to have only one of the characters experience the "mate" link but it still left you with one person who was instantly devoted and thought their mate was a perfect human being for no actual reason except "they're mates!" It doesn't help that once Aurora finds out Kal sees her as his mate, it's suddenly 'oh, he's not a dick to me and I should give this relationship thing a go!' which is, again, a copout for developing an actual reason for them to want to date each other.  We'll see how things progress in the next book. The last thing I really struggled with is, because of the lack of ability to really focus on development, I feel like Cat's character got shafted. I struggled to like her and a lot of it had to do with every time she was involved, especially from her perspective, it was petty and vindictive. A lot of this is tied up in her seeing something that isn't there and thus hating on Aurora for no reason, which yay, more girls hating on girls over boys, just what the world needs. I never came around to liking her, which I still feel wasn't entirely fair to her. TL;DR - a fast paced book with a cast I (mostly) loved and great found family feels but it suffers a little on the character development side and be wary if you're expecting the LGBT rep to manifest in actual, canon pairings.

[farbeyondtheuniversethings-blog]

Saudade

This was based on @tyrezlangst post where they ask for someone to write a fic where an older keith has to go back in time and convince a younger version of himself to stop Lance from killing himself and I was inspired. tyrezlangst I hope you enjoy this!

Quick A/N:

There is suicide mentioned. It doesn’t happen in the present of the story but I mean I think it feels real. Suicide is always hard for me to write or read about because I’ve dealt with it personally in the recent past years. I’m getting help with it (which is super important: if you have feelings of killing yourself you need to talk to someone. In the states this is the number for the national suicide prevention hotline 1-800-273-8255) and actually confronting it through fiction (the medium I am most comfortable with) has done a lot to help me personally.

Also, I’ll be posting this to my AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Far_Beyond_The_Universe/works) as well if you prefer to read this there.

Without further ado:

saudade

noun

a deep emotional state of melancholic longing for a person or thing that is absent

from: Portuguese

Keith remembers the day Lance died. He remembers every day without him. Almost 300 days. Almost a year. He doesn’t remember nearly enough days with him. He’s spent his year looking for a way to bring him back, to return him to himself. He left Voltron behind, he left the Blade behind, he left himself behind. Not that now, after the war, it mattered much. Voltron was a figurehead, a statue, not a war machine, not anymore.

But less than a month ago Pidge showed up at the door to the temporary room he was keeping on a planet not far from Olkarion. She pushes her way into his room with a grunt and sets up her computer. If he was being honest he didn’t realize she was even still in space; he’d figured she’d gone home to the rest of her family.

And he was going to kick her out before she looked him dead in the eye and told him she could help him get Lance back.

Today they are ready; Keith has less than twenty minutes to accomplish his tasks. He’s thought about it all: what he’s going to say, how he’s going to say, where he’s going to say it.

And before that, for even longer, he’s thought about the exact moment he needs to say it.

Because Pidge figured out that while she can’t resurrect Lance she can send Keith back in time to a specific moment and prevent everything from happening. They debated whether he should confront Lance or whether he should speak to himself. Eventually he won the argument: as badly as he wanted to see Lance again, alive, he knew he had a better chance of having him back in the present if he could convince a past version of himself that he needed to take better care of the boy. Keith had never been good with words—he’d particularly never been good with speaking to Lance—so this was his best bet.

“You’re sure this will work,” Keith is strapping a helmet-like contraption to his head. Pidge said she based it off the designs used for the memory-sharing machine they’d all used back when they were beginning to figure out what it meant to be paladins.

“For the last time, yes. You have to stop thinking of time like it’s a circle. That’s just what pop culture has made everyone think. Time is a line,” she held up her hands, a piece of wire pulled taught between them. “And you’re jumping from one point back a little, temporarily. Ideally, you’ll cause a ripple that will be positive and then Lance will be back, the way it’s supposed to be.” She eyes him harshly, “You can do it, right. You can fix this.” It’s not really a question.

Keith nods. He directs her to punch in a date and grips the arms of the chair he is in. She’s promised that this won’t hurt.

And then she presses the button.

Well she didn’t lie about it not hurting but he doesn’t have any time to gather himself because on the top of one second he’s in his proper time, a year after the war has ended, and the bottom of the same second he’s five years ago standing on the Castle of Lions again.

Keith is dizzy, he needs to catch himself. He clicks his watch; he has twenty minutes and then he’ll be gone out of here, back in his own time. Being back in the Castle in absolutely surreal. He never thought he would see it again, never quite realized all the emotion that came with a place he had temporarily called home. But he pushes the memories aside because he doesn’t have the time. Lance doesn’t have the time.

Today—the day Pidge has sent him back to—is not an important day. Nothing much happened today. But it’s around the time when he realizes things must have started happening for Lance. Or at least around the time when Lance started to give up on fighting his inner demons. And it’s one of the few days Keith remembers being back on the Castle between Blade missions.

He hurries through the halls. He has no idea where anyone else is, he just knows where he is, and he’s in the training room like he always is. So many regrets, Keith thinks to himself as he goes down the familiar passages. He glances at his watch—four minutes have already passed and his heart quickens—and pushes into the training room.

There’s a moment of complete vertigo as he watches himself in action. Younger-Keith doesn’t notice him at first and Keith loses another minute trying to orient himself. And then Younger-Keith sees him. He watches his own eyes widen, watches the Bayard drop and collapse into itself, and then watches himself go for his knife. But Keith is quicker than his past self and he rushes himself, pushing his mothers blade out of his hand, and pushing Keith against the nearest wall. Their faces are close.

“What the quiznak!” Younger-Keith struggles against him.

“Stop! Stop, you need to believe me. I’m you, from the future.”

Younger-Keith narrows his eyes but stops struggling to tense himself. Keith knows himself and kicks Younger-Keith in the knee, causing the younger version of himself to untense in surprise.

“This isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve come across, or will come across, so just shut up and listen.”

“Prove you’re me,” Younger-Keith demands.

Keith is losing precious seconds but he looks himself dead in the eyes and says: “We find our mother. Soon. And we forgive her; which is what we’ve always wanted to be able to do.”

Younger-Keith is still. There are tears in rim of his eyelids but he does not let them fall. Keith hopes there are no ramifications with this.

“When?” the question is a whisper.

Keith shakes his head and lets go of his younger self. “I don’t have much time and I have to tell you something. Something you can’t tell anyone. But you have to do something about it. You have to.” Keith puts as much emotion as he can into that. He puts his heart into that. What’s left of his heart after Lance died, at least.

He checks his watch. He has thirteen more minutes.

“Don’t speak, just listen. Okay? Listen:

“You care about Lance. I know you do. We care about Lance. A lot. And we think he doesn’t care about us. It doesn’t matter if he cares about us because in four years, once this war ends, he kills himself because he thinks no one cares about him.”

Lance’s sister had been the one to find his body. He’d overdosed. In his letter he’d said it was because he didn’t want to look dead on the outside. In his letter he’d said that he loved them all and that it was okay if they didn’t love him back. In his letter he’d said he was done being their burden and that he hoped they didn’t mind if he made a few last requests about the funeral. In his letter he’d said he had thought about killing himself earlier but that Voltron and the universe needed him and earth needed him, but now no one needed him so he knew it was okay. In his letter he’d left a note just for Keith and he’d told him that he was sorry he hadn’t been a better friend and that he was sorry for the stupid rivalry but that he wasn’t sorry that he’d never had the nerve to tell Keith how he felt about him because he didn’t want to put in that position. Not when Keith finally had a family and was happy; he didn’t need someone like Lance being a bother.

Keith had gone to the funeral and he had wondered if maybe it was a bit of his own funeral, too, because he felt like he was burying a large part of what made him him. He was burying his heart and Lance had died and been happy that Keith hadn’t known how he felt.

He’d been so angry in the aftermath. How could Lance have done this? To him? Not put that on him? Now he was left, alone!, to mourn someone he loved who loved him back but neither of them had said a thing. Now the paladins were left to fall apart because, no, they didn’t need Lance to form Voltron but by god they needed Lance like they needed the blue sky or the green grass. Lance had always just been and now Keith, and everyone, had lost him. He’d lost a color from the rainbow, a constellation from the heavens, a fucking piece of his heart.

But then he’d become dedicated and hopefully, now, it was paying off. If Younger-Keith would listen to him.

Which it seemed he was. Because his own wide, violet eyes were blurring with shock and tears.

Keith shook his younger self. “Listen. Listen! You need to do something. Anything. Make sure Lance knows he matters. I’m not saying confess; I’m not saying anything dramatic. Keep tabs on him, make sure he’s not alone or lonely. Ask him how he’s feeling. I couldn’t so you have to. Keith!”

Younger-Keith shook his head. He knew he was overwhelmed.

“He-he kills himself?” Keith sees his younger-self’s eyes full of confusion.

“Keith, please. Please.”

And he looks at his watch again. Six minutes left.

“Keith, I hate to put this on you. But I know you can take it because I can take it. I know you can save him. It feels harsh now, it feels scary, but if you don’t do this…”

“But… will it work? Will it be enough.”

“It will have to. Don’t worry about the time travel or the math Pidge figured it out. Please,” and Keith’s voice is so small. Four minutes left.

And the training room doors burst open.

“Keith, here you are!” The voice shatters through Keith’s whole body. He turns, feeling frozen, and there he is.

Brown hair tasseled from air-drying. Blue eyes, bright like the ocean. Shit-eating grin. Alive.

“Wait… are there two of you?” But Lance is barely able to finish his sentence before Keith is throwing himself at the younger boy and pulling him into a tight hug.

Lance. Does he say it aloud?

Lance is stiff in Keith’s embrace; shocked, maybe.

Two minutes left.

Keith pulls far enough away so he can see Lance’s face clearly. He maps it into his mind because he doesn’t know if this will work. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see him again.

One minute left.

“You are so important. You matter so much Lance. Lance, Lance, Lance. You are not a bother or a burden. You matter, Lance. You matter.” The words Keith had wished he’d been able to say before it was too late. Or, most of them. It wouldn’t be fair to either his younger self nor this younger version of Lance to spill his heart and confess. Not now; Keith had fucked his own chances over. This was his last chance.

Thirty seconds left.

“Keith?” Lance is so confused, Keith can see it in his eyes.

Ten seconds left.

Keith leans close again, breathing Lance in.

And at the top of one second he is holding Lance in his arms, the chilly and sterile training room around them, his younger self trying to gather his mind around the fact that Lance kills himself if things keep proceeding the way they were.

At the bottom of the same second he is in a warm bed, covers wrapped around him, holding Lance in his arms. And Lance is holding him back, sleeping softly against Keith. Head tucked under Keith’s chin, heart beating against his chest.

A sob is caught in his chest and Keith pulls Lance closer.

His memories are at war. He remembers Lance dying. He remembers the letter. And the funeral. And going back in time.

But he also remembers the first date he takes Lance on. He remembers introducing him to Krolia as his boyfriend. He remembers Lance and him tussling in bed, kissing and wrestling in turn, naked as the day they were born, and then Lance landing on top of him and declaring that they should get married now that the war is over. And he remembers the small ceremony and exchanging rings.

“What’s wrong?” Lance has woken up and has concern written in every inch of his face.

Keith pulls his husband closer and breaths Lance in. “Nothing at all, my love.”

FINI

P.S.

I hope you liked it. If you did, please share, or let me know. Also, I am on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/users/Far_Beyond_The_Universe/works where I’ve been working on a fantasy au Klance story. I’ll be posting this there as well if you prefer to read it there.

[lady-therion]

Homecoming: Part 1 [Nessian]

Summary: Cassian really misses his feisty mate.

(Post-bonding. Post-ACOWAR.)

A/N: Because y’all know this precious overgrown bat baby would straight up sulk (like whine-at-the-door-and-paw-at-it sulk) if Nesta was gone for too long.

***

   He missed her.

   That was all. He missed her.

    “So write her a godsdamn letter,” said Azriel, dancing along the edge of the sparring ring. He’d been on the receiving end of Cassian’s fists all morning and had yet to be reprieved. “It’s only been a week, Cas. We’re all getting tired of your moping.”

    “Who says I’m moping?”  

   “Everyone,” his brothers said in unison.

    Cassian turned to scowl at Rhys, who had been sharpening his sword on a nearby bench. “Yes, everyone,” he added smugly. “Feyre, Amren, Elain...”

   “Elain?”

    Azriel smirked. “The actual word she used was ‘cranky.’”  

   “I am not cranky.”  

   “An understatement if there ever was one,” Rhys drawled. “I think what sweet Elain actually meant was: insufferable ass.”

   Cassian growled.

   “Right. Because you acted like a godsdamned ray of sunshine when Feyre handed herself over to our enemies in the Spring Court.” He bared his teeth. “How did it feel knowing your mate was in danger and all you could do was wait? Because I sure as hell feel like shit and am in no mood for this today.”

    Rhys’ violet eyes remained cool, but Cassian could detect a flicker of guilt that almost made him feel sorry. Almost.

   “Point taken,” said Rhys. “I apologize, brother.”

   “So do I,” said Azriel.

   Cassian sighed.

   It had been Rhys’ idea for Nesta to travel south to strengthen their ties with the mortal realm, which was now horribly fractured thanks to those treacherous wyrm-queens. As emissary, it would have been Nesta’s duty to go. But Rhys always believed in having a choice, so he gave her one.

   Of course she decided to go. Of course Cassian understood the importance of her going. She wanted to do something for her people. She wanted to see the world. And deep down, he could never blame Rhys for granting her that wish in the first place.  

   But that didn’t mean Cassian had to like it, especially since it meant that she would be gone indefinitely.

   “Mother knows Nesta can take care of herself,” he went on. “Hell, if she were here, she’d be the first one to kick my sorry ass all the way to the Rainbow. But this…this isn’t easy for me.”

   He already failed her once—the memory still horrifically fresh despite everything that happened between them since. There were some nights where he could still hear her screams as Hybern’s men forced her into the Cauldron. He would wake up on those nights in a cold sweat, unable to be calmed by anything except his mate’s arms.

   He had seen over half a millennia of death and destruction, had been the harbinger of both himself, but never had he been so overcome by such breathless rage and sheer terror as he was in that moment. They laid hands on his mate...had violated her beyond imagining...and he had been completely and utterly helpless to stop it.  

   Never again.

   “She’ll be all right, Cas,” said Azriel. “Mor is with her and so is Lucien for whatever that’s worth.”

   Cassian shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

   The point was that he made a promise to protect her, and he didn’t like breaking promises twice.

***

   Several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t returned.

   Cassian could still feel her though, much to his relief. He knew she couldn’t cross the bridge of their bond too often; not with so many enemies nipping at her heels. Still, he could feel her—her warmth burning inside him like an eternal flame.

   He noticed it most often when his moods grew so black that even he couldn’t tolerate himself.

   Sometimes, it felt like a flare—as though she were chastising him from afar for behaving like a prick. Sometimes, it felt like the glowing embers of the firelight at their hearth, soothing him like nothing else after another grueling day at the war-camps. Other times, it blazed and smoldered, and he knew without words that she longed for him as much as he longed for her.  

   Thank the Mother she also sent him letters, though they were few and far between. The first one came shortly after his quarrel with his brothers.

   Dearest—

   I wish I could write more, but there are eyes and ears everywhere. Your family tells me you’ve been acting like an insufferable ass. I wrote them back asking if they only just noticed. Is my absence really all that unbearable? I promise you: I am whole and safe and healthy.

   So stop sulking. You big, ugly brute.

   N.

   It was the first time Cassian had laughed in days. He looked at that letter for hours, marveling at her elegant hand, no doubt trained by a slew of governesses by the time she was out of swaddling. It made him more than a little self-conscious about his own blocky chicken scratch, since he hadn’t learned how to read or write until Rhys’ mother taught him.

   Sweetheart—

   What can I say except that this big, ugly brute misses you? And yes, it’s unbearable. Almost no one says anything nice about my hair now that you’re not here to braid it! But in all seriousness: I want you home. I want you in our bed. I want to do all the wild and filthy things I said I would do once we became mates. Do you remember? If not, I’ll make damn sure to remind you. Thoroughly.

   Stay safe. Come back to me.

  C.

   He watched the paper vanish, only to return a few moments later.

   It was the same letter he just wrote, only with a note added to the end.

   ‘I’ll make damn sure to remind you.’ Is that a promise, my dear Commander? Or a threat?

   Either way, I’ll come...

   N.

   Never was Cassian more sure that he had mated himself to an actual goddess.

***

   Another several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t come home.

   But rather than sink into despair, Cassian threw himself into the one thing he was good at: violence. Needless to say, his legions bore his relentless ferocity with varying shades of bitterness and a little more than fear.

   “Take a timeout, Cas,” Rhys drawled. “I mean it.”

   This, after an evening of drilling that had their soldiers practically begging for the Mother’s mercy. True, Cassian’s training had been nothing short of brutal, savage, and unyielding. But Illyrians were nothing if not resilient and cunning bastards—and Cassian was the prince of them all.  

   “There’s still more to do.”

   “There’s always more to do,” said Rhys. “But at the pace you’re setting? We’d be lucky if our men can stand let alone fly at first light.” He turned to him, gaze softening. “Be honest. How bad is it?”

   “Bad.”

   It seemed like a lifetime ago when Cassian made some jest about Rhys’ mating bond chafing at him. Now having experienced it himself, he realized that it didn’t really chafe as much as it burned a fucking hole through his mind, fraying layers upon layers of rational thought. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep himself in check...and sometimes even that was not enough.

   “It’s not an uncommon reaction,” said Rhys. “Especially among new mates.”

   Cassian swallowed.

   Some mates didn’t leave each other’s sides for weeks, months even, after they consummated their bond. Nesta left mere days after the tenuous thread between them snapped into place.

   “Have you called out to her?”

   He had—his mental cries ringing like a bloodsong in his ears. But the wall that held Nesta’s thoughts remained cold and silent, surrounded by freezing mist. Nothing could penetrate it, no matter how hard he tried. All he could hear was the echo of his own desperation. A primal howl that longed to be answered.

   Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

   “I tried. There’s nothing.”

   Her letters had stopped as well. The last one unnerved him so much he nearly flew to the mortal continent himself—orders be damned.

   I’ve had quite enough of the mess these traitorous queens left behind. The matter of their succession is a thorny one. I pray we all won’t bleed out by the end of it. Vassa plans to host a summit at her palace to end this farce once and for all. Lucien is suspicious of anything that breathes. Morrigan even more so. I myself wouldn’t be surprised if the whole affair was crawling with assassins.

   My love, I’ll have to tread very carefully now. I’ll send word as soon as I can.

   N.

   That had been ten days ago, and still no word had come—from either Nesta, Lucien, or Mor.

   “If anything happens to her, Rhys…,” he said, clenching his fists hard enough to draw his own blood.  

   In truth, he didn’t know what he would do...save tearing the world apart to find her and wreaking bloody vengeance on anyone who did her harm.

   “It’s a good thing the Archerons are so formidable then. And hardy.” A reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll come back, Cas. You’ll see.”  

   It was a long moment before Cassian nodded.

   “I know she will.”

   She has to.

***

   The next few days passed in a gray blur that held no meaning for the General Commander. Crops of fresh recruits had arrived from the neighboring clans, gawking and gaping at him as he stalked through their ranks, his Siphons pulsing bright and deadly at random intervals.

   “I heard he killed a Hybern commander…”

   “I heard his mate killed Hybern herself…”

   If the days were miserable, the nights were their own kind of agony. He tossed and turned, his fitful sleep lanced by the same nightmares. Nesta screaming. Nesta sobbing. Nesta broken and bloody. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

   Where are you?

   Then suddenly…

   I’m here.

   Cassian shot out of bed, nostrils flaring as he took in that unmistakable scent. The scent of wind and rain and thunder and lightning. The scent of storms and the clash of steel. He scrambled out of his tent, not even bothering to don his full armor before spreading his wings and darting straight for the camps.

   A small crowd gathered in the main pavilions, Rhys and Azriel among the circle. A familiar flash of gold told him that Morrigan was also there, giving them her full report. The Fox, however, was nowhere in sight. And his mate...where was his mate?

   I’m here, I’m here, I’m here...

   He could feel her then, his heart beating wildly as the thread between them went taut as an anchor.

   There.

   She was standing apart from the rest of the group, speaking softly to a squadron of Illyrian females—one of the few that had been allowed to continue their training despite the odds.

   He dived for her, landing so hard a small crater had formed in the bed of canyon rock. But none of the surrounding gasps or murmurs reached his ears as his vision narrowed to the most beautiful female in the world.

  She turned to him then and his breath hitched at the sight.

   Blue-grey eyes widened on a face that was partially sooty, as though she had walked through fire to get here. Her Illyrian leathers gleamed in the moonlight, the scales worn and muddy but not beyond repair. Tendrils of golden-brown hair escaped from a crown of braids, falling on the bare skin of her neck that captured most of his attention.

    He wanted to say something clever—romantic, even. But he had never been good with those kinds of words and besides, the words didn’t come. Once again, his mate had rendered him speechless.

   She marched toward him, her pace so quick and purposeful that he wondered if she was preparing to strike. Instead, she yanked his face down to deliver a kiss that seared his very soul, her tongue demanding entrance, her body giving off the not-so-subtle heat of her arousal.

   He growled into her mouth as he embraced her, wrapping his wings around her to shield them from the catcalls and dirty jokes. She molded herself into his arms, almost grinding on him as he broke away to trail eager kisses down her cheek, her jaw, and finally to that lovely, lovely neck. Impossibly, she held him tighter.

   Nesta...

   I’m here. I’m home.

   Then she leaned in to whisper in the shell of his ear.

   “Care to remind me of what I’ve been missing while I was away?”

   He grinned. “Well...I did make you a promise, didn’t I?”

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[writsgrimmyblog]

I was tagged by the amazingly talented @akai-coat to post the first sentence from all of my published fics and WIPS. As I have over 100 fics on AO3 and most of my current WIPS are for anon fests, I’m going to spare you all of them and I’ve gone for the most recent 20. I’ve also included summaries of my own volition. I don’t think that’s part of the game, I’m bad at following rules.

It appears I’m obsessed with weather and broken boys.

I have no idea who’s already been tagged and I’m assuming these people already have done this, but I’m going to just @magicalrocketships @camiii @dictacontrion @jiksax @gracerene-recs (grace, this is @ your main blog but I’ve messed up the tagging :P) @daretomarvel @shiftylinguini @lordhellebore and anyone else who would like to consider yourself tagged!

Kissing in the Rain (Louis/Nick, Radio 1 RPF/1D) One minute you hate him so much you think you’re going to burn from the inside out because of it and the next minute you’re kissing him in a thunderstorm and realising that maybe - just maybe - you don’t hate him at all.

[Summary: It starts at a party with shitty cocktails, a DJ that's definitely not as good as Nick and some 'that only happens in the movies' kissing in the rain.]

The Morning After (Harry/Nick, Radio 1 RPF/1D) It’s been a long time since the days they spent fucking through hot summer nights, joined at the hip

[Summary: It's the morning after the wedding. Nick is hungover, Harry is persistent and somehow they end up right back where they started.]

Be Still (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) Harry returns to London in June, when Diagon Alley is covered with triangular rainbow flags and the cobbles are hot with the sunshine from an unusually warm British summer.

[Summary: Harry’s back in England and Draco tries to fix things before he disappears again.]

Angels on the Moon (Severus Snape/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) He comes back to Hogwarts at the beginning of August, when the trees are turning the colours of Gryffindor House and most of the castle’s main structure has already been restored.

[Summary: The aftermath of the war is almost as difficult as the war itself, Harry is a mess and Severus is a reluctant survivor forced back to Hogwarts to recuperate from his injuries. When a brick-bonding spell goes awry, Harry and Severus are forced to confront hatred, misunderstandings and a new and unexpected intimacy which takes them both by surprise.]

Secret Love Song (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) Draco scrubs his shirt with soap and water.

[Summary: If there's one thing Draco's certain about, it's that Harry Potter's hiding something. When he gets to the bottom of Harry's closely guarded secret, a flippant solution brings them closer together and forces Harry to confront his past.]

Just Like a Song (Harry/Nick, Radio 1 RPF/1D) They don’t do this.

[Summary: Harry decides it's time he and Nick stop avoiding the obvious and Nick's tired of fighting the fact he's been into Harry for longer than he cares to admit.]

Lazy Afternoon (Harry/Nick, Radio 1 RPF/1D) The thing is, Nick thinks he’s been pretty clear on cuddles. 

[Summary: Nick is famously not fond of cuddles, but Harry shows him the error of his ways.]

Wanting and Hoping (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock BBC) Sherlock doesn’t forget things.

[Summary: Sherlock can’t stop thinking about John and one evening, John finds out.]

Night Changes (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) “I’m knackered.” Potter rubs his eyes with his knuckles. “Are we nearly finished?”

[Summary: Draco and Harry have spent years dancing around one another, but Potter’s straight and married. Until one day he isn’t.]

Dressed for Dinner  (Severus Snape/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) “What’s going on?”

[Summary: Harry has a thing for men in tuxedos. Severus finds out.]

Forget Me Not (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter/Severus Snape) The smell of liquor is sharp and there’s a faint scent of cigarette smoke from the beer garden which wafts through the air as the doors open and close with a slam.

[Summary: One cleans, one collects and the other just wants to forget. Somehow, it works.]

Heat of the Moment (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) The thing is, Harry doesn’t think of himself as an Alpha.

[Summary: Harry’s never felt much like an Alpha but that all changes when Draco Malfoy turns up on his doorstep, asking Harry for help.]

Two Boys Kissing (Severus Snape/Sirius Black, Harry Potter) Of course the only gay bar’s in Knockturn.

[Summary: Sirius goes to a gay bar and meets the last person he expects. Under cloudy skies, two boys kiss and that one moment comes to define generations of want, need and hope.]

Christmas at the Dog and Duck (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) It’s all Harry can do to bite his tongue when Malfoy starts speaking.

[Summary: Because life has a habit of conspiring against him, Harry finds himself on a weekend away with Malfoy. The fact he can’t forget that one, searing kiss is definitely going to be a problem.]

Out of the Shadows of War (Severus Snape/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) Harry knocks on the door to Snape’s office, his hands surprisingly clammy and his heart pounding.

[Summary: After an almost-kiss with Severus Snape and discovering his newly acquired magical prowess, Harry doesn't feel like he fits in anywhere. With memories of the war still fresh on his mind a year later, he decides to pay a visit to the one person he can’t seem to shake from his thoughts no matter how hard he tries.]

Dancing on His Own (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) It’s been a year of night blurring into day.

[Summary: Under the decadent lights of London’s gay bars, Draco and Harry find one another again after years of searching.]

The Way He Looks (James Sirius Potter/Teddy Lupin, Harry Potter) "You’re doing what?" James stares at his dad, taking in the flushed cheeks and giddy look of excitement on his face.

[Summary: His dad’s having a midlife crisis, he hates the job he doesn’t even have yet and he’s somehow managed to accidentally bond himself to the best mate he’s secretly in love with. Surely growing up shouldn’t be this difficult?]

Memories (Severus Snape/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) Severus stares at the parchment on his desk.

[Summary: Severus receives an unexpected visitor on Halloween. Because Harry Potter's involved, there's bound to be more to it than meets the eye.]

Under the Same Sky (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) “You’ll never guess who’s back.”

[Summary: With memories of the war still fresh on his mind and Malfoy back in London, Harry's past refuses to stay buried. As Harry tries to grapple with life and love, Malfoy seems determined to make him confront his deepest desires and Harry has to try not to lose his heart all over again.

Sad Stories (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter) It takes years to rebuild Hogwarts, after the war.

[Summary: “I want you to cut me. Draco steps into the circle of Harry’s arms and touches his lips to Harry’s neck. He mouths down Harry’s throat and unbuttons his shirt with trembling hands. Make me bleed”]

[azissuffering]

The Cure - A TOG/ACOTAR Cross - Part 1

THIS IS IT, DUDESSS. PLEASE please PLEASE let me know if you enjoyed. This is one thing that I actually have a lot of ideas for and I just want to know if this something you guys want or something I’m getting way too caught up in. *Eventual Feysand and Rowaelin and Moriel and Nessian and SUCK IT TAMLIN, I PROMISE*

Evangeline gripped Aelin's hand tightly as they walked towards the portal. It was huge, swirling and frothing with unchecked power, and a ripple of fear pushed through her. Aelin, with that remarkable sense of hers, seemed to notice and squeezed Evangeline's fingers.

"Don't worry," the Queen said in her soothing timbre. "I'm right here."

The knot of fear eased.

#

Aelin was pissed as hell.

Three days. Three fucking days since the war with Erawan and Maeve and the gods' drama and blablabla. They all needed to find hobbies that were less destructive than world domination. Feelings aside, the battle had gone much smoother than anyone had predicted. Turned out, Aelin had a hell of a lot more magic than everyone had originally thought. Enough to burn the world to a crisp. It had bubbled to the surface in a fit of anger (no surprise there, really), and she'd wiped out damn near half the continent. It was a good thing, Gavriel had said, they'd been standing on the other half.

Too bad, though, that Aelin's power decided to make a cameo at the end of the battle, after Maeve's armada had wiped out half of the Whitethorns' and blood slicked the once-green grass of the killing field. Too bad that it was after Evangeline had been stuck through by an arrow. It shouldn't have been a problem really; the blunt stone head wasn't sharp enough to get anywhere that would do real damage. But something strange had happened when they'd cut the shaft and pulled the head. The wound had not healed, not even when tended to by Rowan and Aelin both.

No one had known what to do when ebon decay began to creep up Evangeline's arm, replacing smooth, healthy flesh with rotting black. One sweat-soaked sleep later, and the rot had spread from the wound's mouth at the shoulder, all the way down to the bicep. Finally, after three days of pacing and yelling and running hands through hair, Rowan had pulled Aelin aside and mentioned a possible solution: a tale from when he was a boy, of another realm, one where Fae and human were separated by a wall of adamant and strange magics thrummed through the land.

Aelin, being Aelin, had ignored his warnings of danger and probable failure, and scoured the libraries endlessly. It had taken less than a day to find the book she was looking for: The Walking Dead. And there, at the bottom of a nameless page, written in swirling Wyrdmarks, was the key.

Prythian, the place was called. More specifically, Velaris. How to get there exactly, she was not sure. That was something to worry about after the whole "making-it-through-the-portal" thing.

As they edged towards to the portal, Evangeline so close she was near stepping on Aelin's feet, it took only a glance at the limp, coal-black arm for the rage to return. Damn Maeve's archers for having such rutting good aim. Damn her magic for not working. Damn whatever strange substance had been on that arrow. She struggled to hide the irritation she knew would only further worry the girl. This particular habit, Rowan liked to call "negative-ruminations."

She could almost hear his scolding voice...

You're doing it again, Aelin. Just breathe. And think about how irrational your line of thinking is.

"The rutting buzzard can go to hell," Aelin muttered.

The tightening grip around her hand made her aware that Evangeline was in fact still there.

"What did you say?" the girl asked.

"Um..." She struggled to find a suitably evasive answer. "Oh, look! A portal!" Aelin yanked suddenly on Evangeline's arm and stumbled, sending them hurtling forward into the blinding light.

#

She couldn't help but feel she was missing something.

The world was black, then stark-white. Vaguely, Aelin thought of the unadulterated white of the Stag's fur, of Terrasen, of peace... That was why she started when a plethora of blurred rainbow colors pierced the foamy calm. Consciousness brought about a pounding headache, and with it, the sound of voices.

"Should we shoot?"

A male.

A second said, "Not until the High Lord gets here."

"But our orders—"

"Were to wait for the High Lord's command," the second interrupted harshly.

If Aelin hadn't felt as drunk as that one night as Dorian's, she might've told the bossy male just where he could shove his attitude. Blinking rapidly, she groaned and ran a hand through her snarled locks of hair and frowned at the dirt that smeared across her palm.

And no bathtubs in sight.

"She's awake, sir!" the first male said, voice pitched high.

"I can see that, moron." Dripping sarcasm.

A jolt went through her as she realized what her initial unease had been caused by. "Evangeline," she murmured under her breath.

"She's speaking!" The voice had far surpassed the bar of "male tenor," and Aelin thought perhaps he would've made an impressive opera soprano in another life.

"Yes, I can see that as well—"

Patience worn thin, Aelin glanced up sharply, pushed into a seated position, and said irritably, "Would you two shut up?"

They did so, promptly. But it didn't matter much, as the swell of gathered soldiers were parting around the hulking shape of a man in gleaming armor.

Fae, she corrected herself as his face came into view. Delicately pointed ears, a mane of golden hair framing a sharp jaw and emerald eyes.

Aelin found herself nodding vaguely as he assessed her in much the same way. "Not bad," she said. "Not bad at all." A tilt of the head as she squinted. "Though, you could do to lose a few inches on the hair. It makes your nose look wider than it actually is."

The Fae blinked. His lips tightened, but he took no notice of her comment.

She didn't like that.

"I am Tamlin," he said in a honey-dripping timbre. "The High Lord. And you are trespassing on my territory."

Don't trust him.

The voice was fleeting, a brush against her ear, and she kept her face blank even as wary surprise curled in her breast. Instead, she gave him a sweet smile, refusing to give in, to even stand up in front of the brute. "Oh, really?" she asked. "And just what is this territory?"

He straightened, and it reminded her of a bird puffing its plumage during courtship. "The Spring Court," he said proudly.

"Spring?" Aelin snorted. "That's not very original, is it? I mean, you might as well name your sword Wind-cleaver, or something equally as stupid."

Tamlin spluttered. "I am High Lord—"

He has the one you seek.

"Of the Spring Court, I know." She waved a hand in front of her face. "Now," finally she stood, "If you'll excuse me, I do have somewhere else I need to be."

I'll be waiting, the tendril of dark touched her consciousness again. I will protect her.

You'd better, Aelin growled back, even though she was positive the thought fell on empty ears.

It took much longer than she'd anticipated for Tamlin to come to his senses. Longer still for his sentries to process his command to "Seize her!"

Aelin took specific delight in fleeing a mob set on killing her, and only her. There was something so much more invigorating as opposed to other kinds of mobs. Perhaps it was the fact that she was the lone target, that she had to keep an eye over her shoulder for stray arrows, or maybe it was that the surprise on their faces was so much more pronounced when they were beaten.

With a wild grin, Aelin pivoted on her booted heel and let out a shrill laugh. The frontal line of men skidded confusedly at her abrupt halt, then seemed to come to the unanimous conclusion that they were fighting an idiot, and there was no reason to question good luck. As they approached, her grin only broadened, and some had the good sense to look nervous.

Her magic burst forth in a furious explosion. Fire licked at the edges of open forest, and a wall of solid flame hurtled towards the oncoming traffic. They didn't have time to scream before her crackling power met their flesh, scorching bone and peeling skin. She was in Fae form suddenly, sprinting back the way she'd come, through the chaotic rows of shrieking males and past a blur of golden hair and tanned skin.

"Get her!" Tamlin boomed, but Aelin only smiled wider.

#

Somewhere deep in the forest—that is, deeper in the forest—an ashen-haired Fae male rested his aching everything in the safety of a tree. It had certainly been a pain to climb to even the lowest branch, what with his aching everything. The male ran a hand through his hair, scanned the horizon with onyx eyes.

The jump to another world had been terribly painful, near fatal if his battered body was anything to judge by. Deep fatigue had settled in his bones, but he fought it desperately. Danger could be anywhere, and though his arms were limp, his heart sputtering to keep up with the amount of energy drawn—

Fenrys grunted as he leapt from the tree.

His Queen needed him.

[sissypan]

Audience with the Queen

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful red dragon who lived happy in the celestial realms. He was a cheerful dragon and everyone liked him very much. All dragons and the other creatures of the celestial realms sought his company in feasts; the dragon played the most beautiful songs at the harp and he told the most imaginative and fascinating stories. When dragons were going to celebrate the Feast of the Stars- their most important celebration of the year- the red dragon was the first one to be invited. The Emperor of the dragons sent him the invitation with his personal messenger and he asked the red dragon to sit at his table, which was a great honor for any dragon.

The celebration was very successful - as always. When they had eaten and drunk, the son of the Emperor asked the red dragon to play some music for them. And everybody agreed- it was time for the dragon to play some music.

Only a blue dragon, who was the best friend of the red musician, had noticed that his friend was not as cheerful as he was usually. He sat silent during all the feast; he barely touched his food. He drank a lot, he did not say a single joke and he looked extremely miserable all night. At the demand of the son of the emperor, the blue dragon had a bad feeling. But he could say nothing, so he just waited with the others that his friend starts playing his music.

Usually, the music of the Red Dragon was enchanting beyond anything that words can describe. It was as if the moon and the stars were singing a heavenly melody.

But that night, the music of the red dragon produced neither rainbows nor singing stars. It was sad ; it only was about unhappy dragons who lost their little ones and dragons who lost wars and unhappy lovers who were betrayed or abandoned and could not overcome their sorrow. The red dragon was a talented musician. His sad music had as much effect as his cheerful melodies. Soon , all the guests were feeling so sad that one would think that they were celebrating a funeral- not a majestic dragon feast.

The Emperor was very angry. “What is this?” He shouted and red, purple and orange flames came out of his mouth. “Is this your idea of a joke? I don’t appreciate it at all!” He called his guards and ordered them to throw the red dragon in a dark cell. In a few days, he would order his execution, all dragons knew this.

Disaster could not be avoided; when the emperor was angry, it was almost impossible to bring him back to reason. Also, even though many dragons were sad for their red companion, his music had made them so sad that they could not find anything to say to defend him. Only his friend, the blue dragon, stood up. “Majesty, I think that there is something wrong with my friend,”he said. “He has not been himself since the beginning of the evening. He said nothing out of respect for you- he did not wish to ruin your celebration. But whatever is tormenting his heart came out with his music. I call on your mercy and your wisdom and I beg you humbly to give him a chance to express himself, to explain what is wrong. If he does not convince you, you have all rights to kill him and nobody will object to this.”

The king was not very happy. But it must be said to his credit that he was a fair sovereign. Also, he had not drunk too much so his judgement was not blurred. “Very well, “ he said. “I will hear your friend tomorrow. But if he does not have a convincing explanation for his behavior, I will have you both killed.” 

The next day, the two friends went before the emperor and his councellors. “I am listening to you, “said the king, red flames coming out of his mouth. “Don’t forget that your lives are at stake.”

The red ragon humbly bowed at the sovereign. He apologized about his behavior. “My story is not long, Your Celestial Majesty, “he said. “Sometime ago, I was playing music in the woods. I heard a sound behind the giant trees; when I looked, I saw the most beautiful she-dragon on the seven kingdoms. Only the beauty of your Imperial wife, the Celestial Empress can be compared to hers. She was listening to my music and when she became aware that I saw her, she was about to run away. But I held her back and we sat there and we talked. And I found out that not only was she beautiful, she was also clever and well versed in music and poetry and sciences and other arts. I could not believe that such a creature was real, Celestial  Majesty. I thought that only in my dreams and my music had I made up someone like her. I fell in love with her. Never before had I experienced such a strong feeling nor do I think that I will feel something like this again.”

“My poor friend,”said the Emperor. “Now I understand your distress... But what happened then? Did this formidable lady abandon you? Did she lie or cheat on you? Females , my friend....They are not reliable, you must know this.”

“So have I heard too, Celestial Majesty,”replied the red dragon in a sad voice. “But here, nothing of the sort happened.My beloved neither cheated on me nor betrayed me. I cannot complain of any treachery or wickness on her behalf. On the contrary, she has always been loving and quite patient with me.”

At hearing this, the emperor produced a terrible storm. He always produced thunders and storms whenever he was upset. This helped him calm down; it also hid his discomfort from his subjects who happened to be present. “But then, why are you so sad? Why all the gloominess, the bad mood- why that gruesome music? I can still hear it and my heart aches...”

“Please forgive me, Celestial. This is something...beyond my forces. She is not at fault- it is just me...I always wonder if she will keep loving me. I tell myself that this is too good to last. Also...she is so clever, so beautiful, so brilliant in almost everything. I believe... There are times I am convinced that I...I am not good enough for her. She deserves better and I am sure that she will get much better. Oh, how sad and frustrated I am when those thoughts torment my sould, Celestial Majesty. The torment that my gruesome music afflicted upon you and the other guests is nothing compared to what I go through. I feel as though I were in that terrible place where dragons are said to be tortured for the evil things they did...”

The Emperor said nothing. Only a thin blue smoke came out of his mouth. He sat and pondered at the words of the red dragon. But his friend, the blue dragon, bowed discreetly and asked for permission to talk. The emperor nodded and the blue dragon turned to his friend. “How can you even think of such terrible things about one you love and who is in love with you? First of all, this splendid creature chose to be with you. What reason do you have to think in such a negative way? You certainly have much worth and we all know this. By thinking so as you do, not only do you wrong yourself, you also do the one who loves you a big harm. Did you ever think how unhappy she would be if she knew your thoughts? It is as if...I don’t know how to say this. It is as if you did not trust her. This is a dreadful thing to do to one who loves you.”

The red dragon lowered the eyes and looked at the clouds below them. “Do you think I don’t know this, my friend? I spend as much time blaming myself as I spend in sadness and gloominess. I curse myself too, but all is to no avail. The dark thoughts always come back and...” He pauzed for a few moments. “The worst is that my doubts make me angry, and I take all my frustration on her,” he said in a low voice. “I become furious with her for no reason. I am unpleasant. I blame her for silly things. Sometimes she says nothing, sometimes she is angry, but deep inside my heart, I know that she is only sad. Very sad and I am the cause of all her sadness.”

“Tell me, what could I do?” shouted the red dragon and such was the dismay in his voice that the emperor decided to forgive him. “What can I do to be happy with my beloved?” But neither the emperor, nor the members of his council nor his good friend, the blue dragon had an answer. They just remained silent and embarrassed searching for something comforting to say, but they could find nothing.

“I think that I might have a helpful idea, “said an old dragon wizard. He was sitting quietly in a corner, smoking his pipe and producing all sorts of weird figures with the smoke that came out of it. Nobody had noticed his presence, probably because the strange smoke figures that came out of his pipe made him invisible. He could also keep very quiet, and he often attended councils unnoticed. But when he spoke, everybody , even the emperor, turned their heads to his direction to hear what he had to say. The old wizard was highly respected for his wisdom and he knew more than any other dragon in the kingdom.

“Far away from our land, there is a big, enchanted forest,”said the old wizard in a dreamy voice. “In this forest lives a elven queen, who is said to be a great sorceress and one of the wisest creatures in the world. I suggest that you go and visit her. The journey is not easy and it is perillous too. And you have to wait a long while to have an audience with her. But it is all worth it- she is the only one who can help you sort out your problem.”

The red dragon thought about the words of the wizard for a while, with great attention...

He thanked the Emperor, the wizard and his good friend the blue dragon. He flew on a huge cloud above a mountain and he spent the night thinking...

By the sunrise, he had taken his decision. He went to see the old dragon sorcerer and asked him where the Enchanted Forest was exactly. Then without a word of explanation, without saying good bye to his friends or his beloved, the red dragon, filled with determination, blew a huge red flame to greet the sun and to show that nothing would stop him, and he flew away from the Celestial Dragon Realms so fast that after a few seconds he was invisible to any dragon of the kingdom; it was as if he had vanished into thin air.

The dragon was flying for so long that he finally lost count of time. He flew above the clouds that shape-shifted as though they were a mere world of illusion. He flew above the magic mountains that had all the colors of the rainbow by the sunlight. He passed above the realms of the storm-wizards, and flew above the City of Dreams. And not once did he stop to one of those lovely places- not even to have a glance or stay there to have some rest.

At some stage, the red dragon became tired...He had the weird sensation that his wings were becoming too weak to bear him and to heavy for him to bear. He knew that it was time to go down. He had just passed above the City of Dreams, and he regreted to not have landed there he had heard that there were all kind of superb things to discover. Now, it was too late anyway. The red dragon focussed on the ground and he started his descent, progressively slowing down his speed.

There was a lightning and a strong thunder roar. Before the red dragon had time to realize what happened, he was taken into a whirling storm. In other circumstances, the dragon would have fought and maybe he would even have been able to escape the tempest. But exhausted as he was, he had not even the force to properly control his wings.

As he was whirling, he suddenly felt a strong pain on his chest, as if a lightning had hit his heart and now his chest was burning like fire...He shouted a cry so loud that it could have woken up a human city. But here the thunder roar was so much louder that his shout was almost not audible.

Sinking into unconsciousness, the dragon stoped fighting. Transported by the whirling storm into which he was captured, the dragon was falling so fast that he would certainly crash heavily on the ground and his bones would be scattered all across whatever land he was flying over before the tempest broke.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

[onthehill]

putting the text here because I don’t trust Medium won’t die and I want to keep this text.

Member Feature Story How London Became a Playground for the Rich London is often hailed as globalism’s great success story. So why does it feel like it’s falling apart?

Henry Wismayer

Nov 28

When I think about that morning last summer, when London awoke to television images of a West Kensington tower-block engulfed in flames, there’s one interview I can’t get out of my mind. A young man told the BBC that the fire felt like a predictable moment: the culmination of years of being made to feel like the city wanted them gone.

“[They] put them shoddy plastic things on there that set alight because they want more reasons to knock these blocks down… I’m not even so sure that was totally an accident,” he raged, as if some cabal of corrupt councillors and property developers had thrown a lit rag through the letter box. It was a crazy notion, issued in the heat of fury and grief. However, in the days that followed, as we began to learn about the truth of the fire last June — about the inferno that fed on cheap flammable cladding and about the confluence of municipal neglect, outsourcing, and value-engineering that permitted 72 people to die in their homes — it was easy to feel sympathy for the man’s sense of victimhood. For the outside world, the Grenfell Tower fire was a horrifying tragedy and a blight on the conscience of those who let it happen. But for many Londoners, it exposed something rotten in the marrow of London itself. For us, the fire was an instant and terrible symbol of a city in a tight spiral of dysfunction, where the ideas that once sustained it are breaking down beyond repair. It is no longer possible for a lifelong London resident like me to pretend that the city is a united, happy, and enviable place. In the 18 months since disaster befell the Lancaster West Estate, the condition of the British capital has seldom been out of the national conversation.

As with most topics of commentary in deeply divided post-Brexit Britain, London tends to be presented in binary terms — either paradise or hellhole, depending on your point of view. To idealistic liberals, it remains a cradle of tolerant coexistence, the place where multiculturalism works. The rainbow city that would have given Donald Trump hell had he dared to show his face here. To hysterical conservatives, by contrast, the city is “Londonistan” with a Muslim mayor, benighted by terror-attacks, no-go zones, and spiralling crime. In April, when the press marked 50 years since the Tory firebrand Enoch Powell made his infamous “Rivers of Blood” speech on the apocalyptic dangers of multiculturalism, there were many who pointed to this year’s escalating murder-rate as evidence of Powell’s prophecy come to pass. The truth, of course, is somewhere in between. London is not a Powellian Gomorrah. But it is no longer possible for a lifelong London resident like me to pretend that the city is a united, happy, and enviable place, either. The questions that surfaced in the aftermath of Grenfell haven’t gone away: Why did this tragedy hold such terrible resonance? Why, for millions of us, did anger about the circumstances surrounding the fire transcend its immediate context, feeding a growing sense that London no longer functions for the good of the people who live here due to forces far beyond its citizens’ ken and control? The young man’s rage was for the victims still burning behind him, but it was a rage of which many of us shared a fragment.

For decades, London’s rare achievement was its mixed-income communities. These came into being thanks to a post-war history of town planning, which set out to ensure that no area of affluence could become an island, aloof from the hoi polloi. Some of the resulting mix was deliberately engineered, and some of it was accidental. In recent years, however, it has been plain to see that this covenant — which envisioned people of different means and walks of life living in the same communities as neighbors — has started to crumble. In my other life, I do occasional work as a landscape gardener, tending the lawns and flower beds of south London’s more affluent inner suburbs. Last month, a neighbor wandered up to me to bitch about the homogenization of her neighborhood. Next door to where I was working, a newcomer to the street had commissioned an overhaul of their recently acquired semi, and the excavation conveyors were churning all day long, puking up London clay to make space for a new basement. “When we moved here 40 years ago, I was a junior legal researcher, my husband was an assistant lecturer,” the neighbour said, over the din of the machinery. “This road was all teachers and police officers. Public servants. Now it’s just bankers, bankers, bankers. What the hell’s happened?”

Ask any cynical long-term Londoner, and they’ll likely offer up any number of answers to this question. The erosion of London’s social-housing stock, which once inoculated the city against the creation of rich and poor ghettoes, is certainly one. The increasingly globe-trotting tendencies of the super-rich is another. Disproportionate city incomes have furnished a portion of residents with the financial leverage to re-fashion an area overnight if a neighbourhood happens to become popular with a certain well-monied milieu. Meanwhile, the suburban dream, which only 20 years ago still lured people out of the inner city, has long since expired. Together, these processes have combined with London’s chronic housing shortage to transform vast swathes of the inner city over the past decade.

To walk through certain parts of London today is to enter an eerie dystopia of late capitalism run amok. All over town, from Battersea to Stratford, vast welters of towers are in the throes of construction, invariably encircled by billboards depicting attractive white people at rest and play. But longtime Londoners know from experience that these towers are not really homes to be lived in but bricks-and-mortar commodities, investment opportunities that until recently were seen as safer than any government bond. If you ever find yourself walking through developments that have been recently finished and sold, you’ll discover street-level plazas devoid of people or even much evidence that many people are ever here. Meanwhile, in the golden postcodes of Westminster, Chelsea, and Kensington, the streets of old money have become a magnet for global capital of dubious origins. A government report published in May said the city was awash with “dirty money.”

In her 2017 book Big Capital, Anna Minton described this scramble for prime London real estate as the catalyst of a “domino effect,” whose effects ripple outwards across the capital and beyond. “The super-prime market displaces established communities to new areas, driving up property and rental prices elsewhere,” she writes. “And as current policies are geared to attracting foreign investment and building luxurious apartments rather than affordable homes, there is nothing to act as a counterweight.”

When a city changes this fast and on such an inhuman scale, it is impossible to live here without feeling unmoored. The sense of apartness precipitated by these developments is in large part architectural. London used to be a low-slung city, but many of these luxury towers are vertiginous and imposing, dwarfing the besieged remnants of what came before. But arguably more significant than this aesthetic discordance is the social upheaval it augurs. As more and more towers have gone up, so too have socio-demographic lines that once felt blurred become abrupt and partite, as the runaway cost of housing manoeuvres people into economic enclaves, and poverty is pushed outwards into peripheries and ghettoes of disadvantage. Traditional places of commonality, where shoulders rubbed, have been replaced by pockets of consumption. High-streets that once displayed a multifarious range of shopfronts and establishments have evolved to reflect more stratified times: the poorer areas with their betting shops and pawnsters, the wealthier ones lined with estate agents, restaurants, and prim cafes. Our civic spaces and landmarks have been commodified as cash-strapped councils look to make up budget shortfalls by monetizing their assets or repurposing public libraries into private gyms.

Boundaries, both physical and social, have started to rise across the city. Now, the streets feel more fractious as established communities dissipate. People in their 30s, unable to afford the cost of raising a family here, are starting to leave in droves. And we who remain are left with a curious sense that we are an inconvenient vestige of a city that no longer exists, like obdurate stone buildings amidst gleaming pavilions of glass and steel. Today’s London remains successful in many ways: as a summer playground for the super-rich; as a giant laundromat for the global kleptocracy; as an iconographic background for tourist photos and the glossy pages of a Hong Kong realtor’s brochure. But as a constellation of neighborhoods? No longer. Certainly not so much as before. Quickly — almost too quickly to track — London’s covenant is coming undone.

The trauma this has imposed in the places where the last dominoes tumble is all too easy to ignore. The most obvious victims of rising housing costs and hollowed-out communities — the minimum-wage workers trundling in from distant outskirts to service the offices, the growing number of homeless in doorways, the social-housing tenants relocated into cramped temporary accommodation when the bulldozers move in — remain largely voiceless. Their abasement, like so much of that which afflicts the London underclass, is hidden away in the backwaters, in food banks concealed behind council estates or displaced out of town. But to focus exclusively on these ostensive miseries is to miss a wider, more inchoate, malaise — a sense of a city adrift, changing in ways its residents don’t condone and feel powerless to prevent. We have become a paradox: the progressive city nostalgic for the past. This more universal condition can be best described not as displacement but dislocation. It’s the feeling of being abruptly estranged, be it emotionally or physically, from your existing state or place. Cities are always transitory, prone to endless flux, but when a city changes this fast and on such an inhuman scale, it is impossible to live here without feeling unmoored.

Yet for all that the anger that this transformation of London has surely engendered, protest remains in short supply. For the majority, it seems, vast, anonymous cities can seem governed by an irresistible determinism, as though their evolution were ordained by Newtonian law. This sense of fatalism does not tend to energize vigorous resistance. In addition, so much of our yearning for the London we’ve lost seems ostensibly counterintuitive. The city I grew up in was hardly an urban paradise. Many of my most vivid memories are recalled with a maternal hand at my back, ushering me past scenes of a recessional metropolis, rendered in grey. London then was a place where cardboard shanties still proliferated beneath the Southbank undercrofts, and grifters peddled ersatz perfume from splayed suitcases in the West End. The air was tubercular, the Thames flowed an effluent brown, and every road seemed strewn with litter, chewing-gum, and dog shit in varying stages of putrefaction. But still I yearn for that time before the city was cleaned-up and prettified, before the pigeon-feed sellers had been turfed from Trafalgar Square. The other day I saw a car with a bumper sticker that read “Make Peckham Shit Again,” and I couldn’t help but smile. We have become a paradox: the progressive city nostalgic for the past.

Meanwhile, apologists for the turbo-charged gentrification of inner London exonerate its degradations with mealy mouthed bromides about “market forces” — just another ineluctable reality of late capitalism, like sweatshop labour and high-street homogenisation. Things we grumble about on social media but, for the most part, can’t bring ourselves to protest over because to protest would be like screaming at the tide. Our sense of disquiet at the changing cityscape fades imperceptibly into London’s background ennui, lumped in with tube strikes and traffic jams and all the other unavoidable exigencies of urban life. However, when you consider that millions of Londoners have profited from those “market forces,” what is happening in London start to feel less like a cosmic inevitability and more like a deliberate and concerted human effort. As the tsunami of foreign property investment has increased demand for a stagnating supply, those of us who own homes have seen their value rocket. In recent decades, owning a London home has become the U.K.’s easiest path to fast cash. This is London’s guilty secret: that so many of us have suckled on this indemnity that we cannot admit its inherent madness, that it is a time-bomb that must explode, taking with it a million shattered dreams.

The 2016 Brexit vote has exposed the intractability of these hypocrisies, as the predominantly left-leaning city finds itself in a Faustian pact, at once lamenting the financial sector’s malign influence but terrified at the implications of its potential evacuation. As Britain’s appeal to investors continues to be undermined by a lack of post-Brexit certainty, recent reports indicate that luxury properties are struggling to sell. Suddenly, an economy predicated on casino banking and rentier capitalism feels frail and dysfunctional, one fiscal paroxysm from catastrophe. “It is strange, the bustle,” wrote Sarah Lyall in a New York Times article on post-Brexit London last April. “Construction crews are still putting up buildings, monuments to London’s future, as if nothing has changed. But you can hear faint footsteps, too. Banks, investment firms and other companies are making contingency plans to move elsewhere, if necessary. What then?”

Against the backdrop of atomisation and uncertainty, it’s perhaps little wonder that these anxieties have begun to manifest in the city’s darkening mood. Londoners used to laugh about the inaccuracy of our irascible reputation — of London as a snarky town where dour commuters wouldn’t stop to help a lost tourist. This wasn’t true, not really. But now the streets feel angrier, more riven. A city of blithe coexistence has become a city of sneers. Are we really surprised? Looking on, as your home gets taken away from you by forces you don’t really understand and that you feel powerless to resist, there is a point at which dislocation transmutes into nihilism and rage. Suddenly, each new skyscraper feels like an act of violence; each house renovation in the stomping-grounds of our youth becomes a desecration. Wealthy newcomers appear not as new neighbors, but as colonizers; hipster beards and vintage shops become hallmarks of an enemy within. Each appropriative bar or café, simulacrums of the melting pots they supplanted, becomes a reminder that London’s hallowed diversity, to many of the city’s residents, is merely ornamental — a desirable backdrop so long as it doesn’t press too close.

Often, when I feel this resentment brewing, I remind myself that I am getting older, and that chagrin over rapid change is perhaps as much a product of sentimentalism as it is legitimate dismay at social dysfunction. Until an inferno in a north London tower-block shakes you from the stupor, reminding you that the cost, for some, is all too real.

On the road in south London where I grew up, from the top of its steepening hill, you can see one of the broadest views of the British capital for miles around. On clear days, it presents a crenelated horizon of the whole city: from Wembley’s arch in the far northwest, past the stretched pyramid of The Shard and the jumbled towers of the Square Mile, to the more angular ones of Canary Wharf, looming over the estuarial Thames. London looks extraordinary from up here, immortal in its way, a proving-ground for the western dream of unending growth. Every time I look at the view from the upstairs window of my mum’s hillside house, I spot some unforeseen concrete core, the spinal column of a future tower, inching into the sky horizon. Yet this scene that once evoked wonder now elicits bitterness and foreboding about the future. If I pick up some binoculars, I can see Grenfell Tower far to the north: that burnt-out sepulchre where so many died in their homes, gasping for air. And when people ask me why their pyre became such an emblem of modern London, I just say, “Look around.”

We live in a place that knows only the price of bricks and has forgotten the people who give them value. This fucking city has betrayed us all.

written by Henry Wismayer Essays, features and assorted ramblings for over 70 publications, inc. NYT, WSJ, WaPo, Nat Geo, Vice, Vox and TIME: www.henry-wismayer.com.