#But the strings persist - they stay the same. DO I HAVE TO SPELL IT OUT?? Siffrin is so tied to the piano in the ost and this is evidence f

[jchorsky]

Main theme of ISAT music analysis yaaayyyy yippieeee

big thanks to @ asterythm on discord for the music sheets i am forever endebted to you. here's their post with their stuff! GO GIVE THEM SOME LOVE DICTATION IS HORRIFIC. https://www.tumblr.com/starsalive/755820156323774464/isat-title-theme-piano-sheet-music-for-solo [somebody who actually knows what they're doing @cocoisindecisive responded with corrections, so the edits are gonna be in these brackets!! i couldn't leave this unedited because it felt wrong] Since they've only done the main theme, i'm just gonna pick apart that. Big fuckin text post + absolute raving and ranting!! please tell me there is a functional line break here PLEA

ISAT's OST is very economical in that it constantly reuses one central motif. I want to go on a very brief tangent to cover this motif because I feel like that's worth doing. ---What the fuck is a motif?--- i want you to repeat something with me, okay? deep breaths. A MOTIF AND A LIETMOTIF ARE NOT THE SAME. A MOTIF AND A LIETMOTIF ARE NOT THE SAME !!! PLEASE DONT USE THEM INTERCHANGEABLY MY HEART HURTS EVERY TIME !!!!!! thank you. so, a motif is a little piece of music information - usually a melody, but not always, i think? - that is reused and changed. It doesn't represent anything, really. That's the difference between it and a lietmotif - a lietmotif represents a person place or thing, and a motif just doesn't. ---Great, So what's the motif?--- it has two parts, this first part:

(this is repeated with the last 3 notes moved down a tone.) *[this is a LIE how did i think this, i literally just had to LOOK]*

this is the second part:

(which has the last part change a little bit when repeated in order to resolve.) There's some nice rythmn made with the dotted crotchet and the quaver, but nothing crazy like syncopation. It's mostly conjunct, but there's one or two little leaps in the melody. It's a fairly basic melody -- perfect for changing and adjusting to the needs of each piece.

this is used in every single track in the game! I'm not kidding, it's in every single one, try and listen for it! it's a very smart use of a motif. Onto the actual piece of music!

[to quote directly - "you dont mention that the "second part" of the motif is very similar to the first statement but with it's first measure having it's intervals being inverted (and the final eighth note keeping the pitch of the dotted quarter note). or that the second measure is again similar just that the missing C from the first measure is now the downbeat of this measure, and the B that used to be the downbeat is now and 8th note preceding the new downbeat. (plus the first statement of this second iteration changing the final three pitches so that its a stepwise walkdown from G to E)" - i knew something was different, just not what exactly, thank you for correcting me] --Main Theme--

It uses the motif as it's melody (see above), and while I won't cover that again, I will cover the harmony! The instruments are fairly simple, there's a chiptune piano and some kind of strings (?) helping with the harmony in the background. The two play together throughout.

While the key will obviously change between pieces and songs, harmony is a very important and sneaky way to hide meaning in a piece. Harmonies are also very hard and hurt my brain, so if i'm wrong feel free to tell me. (Also i hate reading bass clef)

[Dsus -> Esus4 -> G (kindanotreally) -> A sus4 -> A // ii -> iii -> V -> VI] A lot of suspended chords - suspended chords don't really hold on major or minor, so this leaves it feeling a bit unstable + airy. But, each suspended chord eventually resolves onto the major of each chord, so it still feels major. The thing that decides if a chord is major or minor is generally the second note in that chord - 3 semitones away from the first note on a major chord, and 2 on a minor chord. Suspended chords have the second note be either 1 (BUT IT'S NAMED SUS2????) or 4 semitones away (sus2 / sus4). This lets it dance around either, and it keeps tension until it resolves into either one. [ to quote directly again - "and then the chord progression you outline seems like gobbeldygook to me. measure 1's downbeat is not a Dsus chord, it's pretty clearly a power chord, and it leads into an F not an Esus4. measure 2 is mostly fine though, only think is that it is definitelly a G chord! if you wanted to be pedantic you could say it's a Gomit5 but i really wouldnt bother specifiying that and whoops your roman numerals are wrong! the big issue is that this 2 bar phrase DOES contain a tonic chord. in fact its the first of the measure! this is pretty clearly in D dorian, but i think you've confused it for C major since they share a key signature. but nope! given that correction and the ones above the roman numerals looks more like a [I -> III -> IV -> V]." YEAH IM REALLY BAD AT THIS I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY 😭😭]

[Dsus -> F -> G -> Gsus -> Asus4 (kind of???????) // ii -> IV -> V -> ii -> ii] this little countermelody continues (i'm not sure if it's because i'm looking at the piano version and OOPS it's too late now, or because there is just a countermelody. what am i saying this would be countermelody either way????) and layers quavers over a crochet and minim harmony. The harmony itself mirrors the same as before - loads of sus chords with occasional, brief resolutions to major chords. But, what's weird is that I haven't seen a single I / Tonic chord yet? there's not a single chord that's just the first note of the key. That's kinda weird - most pieces even start with that. There's something there - technically, we're not at the start of the journey, we're at the very end of it, the very end of this year-long journey that all of the character's have been taking. [ corrections: "closer with measures 3-4 its just that measure 4 is an an Asus4 to A and that adjusting for you being in the wrong key the chord progression is still that same [I -> III -> IV -> V]" ]

[Esus -> Gsus2 -> C -> Esus -> Gsus2 -> C // iii -> V -> I -> iii -> V -> I] WHOOPS I LIED. there's the tonic chord! there's C! There's a good reason for a tonic to appear here, though - we have a perfect cadence, and that is very interesting. Those roman numerals are about the placement of a chord within a key. kind of - it's important for stuff. A cadence is the harmonic ending to a phrase - in this case, a perfect cadence, from V -> I. This sounds "complete" to our ears, it feels like the piece could end there. what's weird is that it repeats twice, and keeps going on the second one. Furthermore, the melodic phrase is ending here, the motif is ending. This would be a far more "complete" ending if it stopped here. But it doesn't.

It changes from block chords to ostinatos (MIGHT BE THE WRONG NAME.), but each of these semi quaver / demi semi quaver progressions return back to one note while playing out a countermelody at the same time, still allowing for some kind of harmony. This change also builds up the pace in the piece, letting it build to the ending - this is the only thing that really drives the piece beyond this point, this building rythmn. Even then, it stops on this little crotchet chord! And then keeps going, into what is probably the most interesting part. [corrections - "a couple of things wrong with this one. first of all i analyzed the chords for measures 5-8 as [Fmaj7 -> Gadd9 -> Amin7 -> Cmaj7-> Fmaj7 -> Gadd9 -> E -> A] with roman numerals: [III-> IV -> V -> V/III -> III -> IV -> V/V -> V]. no PAC here! also, even if this was actually in the key of C major there is no V -> I in the bass and none of the soprano movement need to be an actual PAC. just a bunch of movements by fifth :]. you say the rythym is the only thing pushing the piece forward, and while it sure is definitely a fun effect that's building some nice tension the constant movement by fifth's is definitely also contributing to the tone. be wary of blaming an entire piece's success on one element!"]

[Asus -> Gsus -> G -> Esus4 // VI -> V -> V -> iii] In terms of intrumentation, something weird happens here - the chiptune piano falls away into a far more real-sounding one, while the strings stay the same within this section. in terms of harmony, again! tons of suspended chords, with one or two resolutions that keeps the piece feeling major. This cadence is. Weird. [V -> iii] isn't really a resolution at all, and as far as i could find it doesn't have a formal name the way some others do. some parts resolve (the E notes) but others don't, (the A notes), so it ends up feeling only half-satisfying. This makes sense - the music is gonna loop, because this is game music, so it does make sense to have it not resolve. But. It resolved perfectly eariler - we did have a perfect cadence. So then, why break into this tiny little two bar ending, that doesn't even resolve? That can smoothly go back onto itself, and also back into the beginning of the piece? This part is quieter, the demi semi quavers have rested back into minims, and it feels a little bit like an anti-climax to the build from earlier - it doesn't feel like a dramatic ending that the build was maybe working towards, more like a quiet moment. Despite that, the texture in this two bar section never thins - the piano is never left behind by the strings - the strings don't get quieter either, just the piano. Why is this two bar section here, then? Why end on this, and not on the part before? Two bars, huh. What a strange number to choose. [corrections - "chord progession is: [A -> G -> E -> A]. i'd argue that the previous secondary dominant to the A tonicized the A, placing us in the key of the domimant (A minor). so because of that i''d say the roman numerals are [I -> VII -> V -> I].

maybe pedantic but i dont think its actually that weird or bizzare of a choice for the chiptune melody to be replaced by an acoustic(-sounding) piano. the isat soundtrack consistently uses both acoustic and virtual instruments! this is just establishing that and letting the listener know to expect more of this specific element of the soundtrack. as title themes tend to do!

and the piece is quite resolved by the end actually. if i believed what you believed about the sheet music and never listened to the track i could see how i could think that, but giving the track a listen and using your ear to sus out details reveals how resolved it actually is!" thank you for the corrections im real bad at this]

[diodellet]

Sorry to bother you, but for your Valentine's Day event I wanted to ask Jamil and Leona with Prompt 15 please

💌Jamil Viper + Prompt #15 (Ranting about how insufferable they are, but your friend thinks knows otherwise. Bonus points if the subject of your conversation overhears Everything.) ++Reader is not Yuu, slight angst with a bit of comfort at the end

It was only something he said. Offhandedly, matter-of-factly, casually, all those similar words.

Aren’tcha happy to see your little fan?

…Not really. It’s annoying.

Then again, a sharp knife could still cut to the bone. Even in the hands of a careless wielder.

(Even if his cheeks warmed at the knowing glance that his clubmates gave him, seeing the flicker of hurt across your features sent a stab of guilt into his gut.)

Jamil scanned his surroundings. He last saw you duck into the hallway of the third year classrooms. Slowing to a walk, he considered your possible hiding spots. The ghosts kept staff rooms locked, laboratories and offices as well. In fifteen minutes, the doors to the classrooms would also be enchanted to keep from anyone entering. That meant—

…What was an empty coat rack doing here?

He walks past it, brow furrowing in confusion. Your—admittedly admirable—disappearance didn’t make any sense.

A potion? Your Unique Magic?

Just as he reaches the end of the hall, behind him, the telltale sound of a spell wearing off confirms his guess, revealing you in place of the coat rack. He half-expected you to turn and bolt.

Instead, your eyes turn glassy and tears slide down your cheeks.

At a quiet call of your name, you wave off the concern. “It’s true, I’m—I’m annoying, you don’t need to…to justify it.”

Your other palm is held out, stopping Jamil from approaching.

“I know, I should have talked to you properly and let it happen. I just… got scared.”

Jamil hated that, being scared. It led each careful and cautioned move of his. As much as he refused to let it step to the forefront of his mind, fear was a looming shadow. The calculated, sharp-tongued vice housewarden of Scarabia was born from a practiced skill in passing fear off as any other visceral emotion.

…Though you were annoying. Persistent. 

Always just a little out of reach.

His hand closes around your outstretched wrist.

The apology is worded perfectly in Jamil’s mind, but his throat refuses to cooperate. “...look, I didn’t…” When it’s just the two of you, he finds that he doesn’t mind being the sole recipient of your wholehearted attention. “As…as long as it isn’t in front of everyone, I’ll hear you out.”

Another tear rolls down your cheek, and your lips form into a shaky smile.

💌Leona Kingscholar + Prompt #15 ++Reader is not Yuu

“I don’t understand what’s his problem.” You wrench the locker open.

“Well, I am having a nice day, thanks for askin’,” Epel frowns, but doesn’t look up from folding up his training attire.

“Is everyone pretending they didn’t see me getting badgered on the field earlier?” Thank god, you still had band-aids. “Scoot over.” Epel makes space for you on the bench, winces when he sees the scrape on your leg.

“Yeah. This is what I get for trying to play and listen to the captain’s yelling at the same time.” You layer two band-aids. “I’m not even first-string, so why’s he on my case? He should be focusing on you and Ruggie more.”

“Hey!”

“In a good way! I just don’t get why he has to take his stress out on me.”

“I hear you.” He slings his gymbag over his shoulder. “I’d wanna stay and listen s’more but—” 

“Yeah, Vil would wring your neck or something. See you.” You’re focused on covering most of the scrape. Unsuccessfully.

Turns out you weren’t left completely alone.

Leona’s blocking your way out of the locker room. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Though he seems to always be frowning, you see a muscle in his jaw tense as you approach.

“...I’m guessing you heard that.” A part of you hoped that Epel would be forced to do penalties with you, he technically was a co-conspirator in your shittalking as the listener.

“Hmph, if you have such a problem with me running the team, then you might as well hand in your jersey right now.”

No way—is what you’d say if you had no shame. But you, mediocre as you are, fought tooth and nail for a spot on the Spelldrive team.

But he’s right. Your hand tightens around your bag strap, protecting its contents. The only marker of your effort. “I'm only…It won’t happen again.”

You’re burning. From shame, from frustration. Why would he take notice of you?

At that minute gesture, Leona steps aside. “Guess I was wrong to think that you could handle some tough encouragement.”

“Encouragement?” A satisfied grin stretches across Leona’s features. “No, no—training’s over. I don’t need to listen to y—this.”

“Now, hold on a second there.” It’s unfair how the authority in his voice is enough to pin you in place. “Next Monday, you’re running twice as many laps for warmups.”

a/n: ahaha this is sooo late... sorry 🙇‍♂️(girlie didn't think she'd struggle this much tryna figure out leona's character in a reader-insert way, this is my karma for making fun of housewarden stannies 🤧🤧) i hope it was an enjoyable read nontheless, i tried to spice up the interpretation of the prompt, make it a seat-grabber or sumn along those lines ahahaha NEways! have a (looks at scrawled writing on hand) happy summer! 💕💕

[aerosiderwrites]

Archery Practice ... Yandere Childe x Harbinger!Reader

warnings for genre typical portrayals of unhealthy relationships... ngl childe is kinda tame in this one tho

Word Count: 2k

Mid-evening tended to be an unpopular time to train. Most were having dinner, finishing their work day, and getting ready for as restful night as possible in the frigid climate of Snezhnaya. You typically would as well, but with a lot to reflect on and frustrated energy, you brushed off the snow on your person as you entered a Fatui training facility. You gave a quiet greeting to the guards who manned the building, who stood at attention at your arrival. You paid them no second thought as you began to navigate the pristine building.

You followed a path down the corridors you knew by heart, as even years before your ascension to being a Harbinger you found yourself here more than at home whenever your weren’t on assignment. Most windows into the various gyms were dark, and the ones with people in them had young recruits of little consequence to you.

You turned a corner when you heard someone calling for you. You processed the distinct voice as Childe, the most recent addition to the Harbingers. You ignored him, hoping that your increase in pace would not catch his attention. You mentally pleaded that he would avoid the archery range in favor of the other combat gyms.

He didn’t stop, as he never did, as his voice continued to come your way. You closed your eyes in weak attempt to hide your wince as he addressed you by name, by your real name, not your Harbinger title as the other nine would.

You stopped dead and turned to where he was trailing behind you and gave him your attention, unfortunately rewarding his bad behavior, “Titles only, Childe.”

“I wasn’t sure you could hear me” Childe responded, now standing tall right in front of you, his smile still the same, ignoring or otherwise completely unbothered by the standoffishness on your end. “I wanted to see if you wanted to spar while you’re here.”

Like clockwork. Every damn time you came in here and he was here too he’d ask. Each time you’d say no. Each time he’d hover around you until one of you had to leave. It had worked for the other Harbingers, as he now paid them no mind but for whatever reason, he still engaged with you. Tonight, you hoped your verifiable excuse and unfriendly aura would be the last straw for him.

“I’m just going to be doing target practice today,” you said, hoping to deter him. “I don’t want to do anything too strenuous today.”

“Oh you are? Do you mind if I join you?”

You blinked, “I didn’t know you knew how to use a bow,” you verbally dug your heels into the ground, even though you knew he could just walk into the range and practice along side you if he so wanted. There were no restrictions to who could use what when, but you desperately wished he would take a hint and leave you alone.

“I’ve been practicing on my own more recently, actually,” explained Childe, “And considering you’re the best archer among us, I can’t imagine having a better training partner.”

You narrowed your eyes at his compliment, while delivered earnestly, you couldn’t help but interpret his words as being subtly facetious. Since Childe sidestepped your frustrated hint with ease, you relented with a sigh, “Do as you please.”

The two of you headed to an archery range, Childe walking along side you, while you stewed in silent annoyance. So much for introspection time.

No one quite knew how to pester quite like Tartaglia. It was the popular opinion among the other Harbingers that the 11th was obnoxious. While you and your contemporaries preferred to work in the shadows and keep the often extreme extents of your servitude to your Archon hush-hush, Tartaglia, or Childe, as he preferred, ended up with a style that was far more akin to a performance. However, unlike most performers, he would make sure that his performance would be the last his audience would ever see.

You stopped in front of a door to the small range, opening it up unceremoniously, and Childe followed close behind. The room lit up, and illuminating the long room with three suspended targets, at three distances. Even with the unwanted company, you stretched and warmed up on autopilot, the silence between you and Childe surprisingly comfortable.

You glanced over, Childe having gone through his warm up routine faster than you. He had called his bow already, and you found yourself gawking at the absolutely abysmal posture he held as he aimed at the closest target, the one on the far left.

His shoulders were hunched and his bow hand gripped the bow in such a way that seemed entirely unsustainable. The arrow sat flimsy in his drawing hand, the only saving grace of the shot being the strength with Childe drew, which was borderline disturbing. You weren’t sure if he was showing off, or if he genuinely didn’t know to hold back.

You held your tongue as you watched him fire the shot, your eyes barely able to follow as the arrow swiftly embedded itself deep into the target, although the hit was only one by the smallest of margins

You watched him fire two more arrows, the second being a ring outside of the bullseye, and the third a near miss from the top. Both would be a challenge to pull from the targets as the fletching of the arrows were barely all that stuck out.

“See, I have a problem with being consistent in the hits I land,” Childe sighed, aware that you were observing, “What would you recommend?”

You took a deep inhale, “I think most children who pick up bows for the first time don’t have posture as bad as you.”

Childe flinched, his body language exaggerated, a pout resembling a kicked puppy having formed on his face, “Cut me some slack, I’m self taught!”

You remained unrelenting in your onslaught, “That’s obvious,” you scoffed, “You put way to much strength into the draw, especially when you can barely hold the bow itself. I’m amazed you hit the target at all.”

As as satisfying as it was to drag his form through the mud, Childe’s hurt expression only seemed to deepen, and you let yourself be worn down. “Draw the empty string, I’ll tell you what you need to fix.”

He did as you asked, and you rationalized to yourself that you were ultimately helping the Tsaritsa if you assisted Childe here. If he were ever stuck in a situation where he could only use a bow, you didn’t want him to be caught with his pants down. As invasive as he was, you didn’t want him to die or anything.

You lightly tapped his upper back, “Don’t hunch.” He fixed himself quickly. You moved his elbow up on his drawing arm, and went around to bend his elbow on his bow arm, going in quickly, and touching his as little as possible. You gave explanations for why each mistake would be detrimental for any kind of combat, and how to develop instinctive shooting, while making him maintain proper posture.

You were surprised how well he seemed to internalize what you explained, and you didn’t stop yourself from going into more detail than was feasibly retainable, but he stayed attentive, and showed a passion you weren’t expecting. You eased into a comfortable rhythm, and with rudimentary fixes, Childe was able to improve.

Time passed quickly, your engagement far more than either of you had expected. Childe had been trying to gauge you for a long time, but your persistence into giving him as little as possible became entertaining in and of itself. He enjoyed the open resentment of the other Harbingers, and before you had let your shell crack, he had enjoyed yours just as much.

Your patience with any mistakes was unexpected, your exasperation and irritation with his presence having dissipated entirely as you focused on helping him despite yourself. It was endearing seeing this side of you, a side that showed itself with surprisingly little prodding or string-pulling. It felt… natural, and unfortunately for you, it was also very endearing.

“Hey, [Y/N],” he started, interrupting a demonstration you had started about sights, earning a surprised look from you as he got your attention.

It took a split second, but you noticed he used your name instead of your title, your guard went back up, and you narrowed your eyes at him, “Don’t speak informally with me, use my title, Tartaglia.” You hissed out, using his official title instead of his preferred to emphasize your distance.

“Why? You can call me Ajax,” he offered, testing the barrier you set up. He hid his surprise when you hesitated, pursing your lips. He saw through how you tried to treat him apathetically, and forced yourself to be unkind to him. You were so much softer than you wanted anyone else to be privy to, and Childe was excited to exploit it.

In your own head, you had reached a conclusion that you weren’t sure he had reached, or if he even noticed in himself. You could have been way off, but as someone so at odds with his peers, seen as a tool by his superior, and feared by enemies and underlings alike, the pieces fit in your head and spelled out the fact that Childe was probably lonely.

Realizations clicked together quickly upon this conclusion, but you kept them to yourself.

“I won’t,” you maintained, refusing to let up. You couldn’t stop sympathy and understanding from now changing the tint of your interactions or how you viewed them, but you didn’t have to let him know any of that. Childe wasn’t your business, no matter how much he wanted to be.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Childe cooed, holding back a patronizing urge to pinch your angry cheeks, “I just wanted to ask why you’re helping me, since you seem to dislike me so much.”

You shifted your weight where you stood, “I don’t think you’d leave me alone either way.”

“That hasn’t stopped you from ignoring me before.”

Resentment bubbled in your chest, “So you are aware that you’re a pest.”

“Only because I like you.”

You were baffled that he could just say something that familiar, and you hoped any warmth that showed itself on you wouldn’t be interpreted as anything other than embarrassment on his behalf. “Well, stop.”

Childe seemed more amused than anything at your words, it only feeding into his idea that you’re just playing hard to get, “Am I really so unlikable?”

“You have no idea.” Any understanding you gained during your interactions being emotionally tossed to the wayside as your couldn’t bring yourself to care about someone with such a deliberate lack of regard for boundaries.

You disarmed yourself and made way to the door, pulling it open only for it to shut fast before you could blink. Your eyes followed the gloved hand that slammed it shut, Childe now far closer than you have ever let him get before.

You didn't want to turn around, and when you did you found yourself regretting it. His eyes were cold, completely unamused at your intent to leave while he was enjoying your company so much. He didn't mind a chase, but he needed you to realize that he was serious, and very difficult to deter.

If being pleasant and fun wouldn't get you to loosen up, he could change his approach until you changed your mind.

It had been a very long time since you felt this small. You’ve always been aware of Childe’s strength, but at the end of the day, despite his irritating nature, he was an ally. Or was. In that moment you looked up to see his lighthearted facade disappear so completely, you understood that regardless of your allegiance to your Archon, he was a threat.

“Don’t go, I still have so much I’d like to learn from you, [Y/N].”

[rugbypolycule]

what more could you do

pairing: arisu ryouhei x karube daikichi

characters: karube daikichi, arisu ryouhei

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1788

summary: freshly dropped out of university and knee-deep in depression, arisu ryouhei breaks up with karube daikichi with no explanation. months later, unable to deal with the fallout, arisu goes to his apartment. wounds that have yet to fully scab over reopen.

ao3 link

Karube didn’t need Arisu. In spite of his poignant absence, the sun still rose every empty morning and set at frigid night. The cold still crept through the cramped apartment, through the creaking floorboards and in-between cracks in not quite sealed windows. The earth turned, it turned, and it turned without Arisu. In this, there was no argument.

So, Karube didn’t need Arisu. If the suffocating world outside his slowly encroaching walls continued its screaming persistence, then Karube too would refuse to bow out. He would grit his teeth, hunch his shoulders in his too-thin jacket, desperately not recalling an exasperatedly fond voice that would nag him to dress warmer. He would curse as he woke up to flecks of snow on his window pane and wrestle with his useless heater. He would not ache for the childlike wonder of someone who was no longer there.

Eventually, the snow would melt. The man who had left would take the rent money with him, and Karube would have to figure out where else he could take up space. Karube would go to work in a run-down bar in the sticky heat of the coming summer, cicadas filling the silence in his mind where a plan for the rest of his life should sit. Karube Daikichi would be, in all senses of the word, alive.

Even so, his chest was empty – so he filled it with tar. Karube was never particularly interested in smoking before the hole in his life abruptly dug itself. Now, the nicotine numbed the disquiet in his head, and his throat burned, and for a brilliant moment nothing felt real. For mere seconds, he could shed the sense of loss that hung around him like a bad smell. He tried his best to heave his heavy hurt out with every exhale, to no avail. He kept smoking, kept treading the smouldering ashes into the concrete beneath his boots outside his apartment building. Kept telling himself this was the last one, that this would be the last time he allowed himself to feel like this.

Eventually, the pack emptied. His hands trembled with it, fingers clenched around cool air. Pressure blossomed in the centres of his upturned palms, stomach knotted, the spaces between his ribs drawn tight.

He shoved his frostbitten fists in his pockets, steeled himself to face a space that was not his home. But as his eyes followed his cloud of exhale, they caught on a figure on the other side of the empty street.

Karube Daikichi realised he did not need a heart.

What was the point of a muscle which tore so easily? Which couldn’t regulate its sole function when it was confronted with such devastating eyes? His heart, this useless lead pump in his chest, that supplied blood to his forsaken limbs. To the legs that would halt for nothing tangible on this earth as they made their way towards Arisu. Like a pitiful asteroid in its hapless orbit around a star, Karube fell into place in front of the man who had left him.

‘Daikichi,’ was all it took to break him. To snap the thin wire that ran from head to heart, built to forbear embarrassment in times like these.

‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.’ His voice was abrasion in the quiet evening air. Arisu, tensed and taught, raised his hands in cautious surrender.

‘Sorry. Karube, then. Karube.’

There was always something wounding in the way Arisu said either of his names. As if it was something precious. As if he hadn’t swirled the taste of it in his mouth and resolutely spat it out at Karube’s feet. It made him feel untethered, strings cut all at once and without warning.

‘You kept paying the rent. You left, without telling why, and you never stopped paying the rent. Do you think I need your pity, Arisu? Do you think I need your father’s money?’

Part of Karube wanted to spit more poison at Arisu. To ask if living as a constant disappointment to his father was really so much better than living with Karube. To ask if he really did hate him that much, that he would run to someone who had never tried to understand him, who never tried to love him. Karube had given him so much love. Why did he throw it away?

‘It’s not pity. I would never pity you.’ Arisu’s speech was often soft and hesitant, but in this statement there was an unmistakable firmness.

‘So then fucking explain! You left, Arisu.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why do you keep apologising? If you’re really that sorry then just…’

‘Just what?’ And his eyes. Glassy with unshed tears and rimmed with red from many previous. Arisu was a man exhausted. That his spine was curled forward, that his shoulders almost grazed his ears made him seem smaller and more fragile than Karube had ever known him to be.

The useless muscle in his chest constricted itself again. Karube’s veins throbbed with it. Had he ever really known Arisu? Had he ever meant anything to him? He bit his tongue to stifle the pathetic question he so miserably needed to ask. But brittle eyeteeth could only do so much against a brain on fire.

‘It’s not fair. None of this is… is fucking fair, Arisu,’ and he makes a fist around the urge to reach out, to touch his frost-reddened cheek, to gentle a thumb at the thin skin of his eyelids. He buried such bile once again in the pockets of his worn jeans, glared at the pavement like it would fix any of this. And he had to clench his diaphragm, swallow once, twice, to kill the sob that clawed its way up his throat. He could feel Arisu’s stare itching at his scalp.

‘I’m sorry. I’m- fuck I’m so sorry, Karube. Please,’ and the waver in his words stuck like needles in his skin, ‘you have to know that I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’

And all too suddenly, a hand cupped his cheek. It was the cruellest thing in the world, the warmth of it. How Karube’s neck arched towards its softness, how Arisu’s palm was moulded to fit his jaw like they were fired in the same kiln, forged in the same fire. Who was Karube to stop it, when the seam of his lips smoothed ever so slowly against the length of Arisu’s thumb? How could he have halted the splintered shudder that parted his lips against the tendon of an unfurled fist?

Small, like the first patter of rain on a cloudy day, Arisu begged.

‘Won’t you look at me?’

Could he have? Was it possible stare bare-faced and guileless into the sun without burning? Karube was willing to go blind with it, if it was Arisu asking.

Some of Arisu’s tears had spilt, shimmering rivulets grazing his cold-stung features. Karube’s treacherous thumb carved its home in the hollow of Arisu’s cheekbone. Ridiculous. Both men, all fragile lungs and wounded eyes, stood holding onto one another as if he couldn’t quite believe he was real. As if the other would stay for as long as he was held.

Like breathing, like the most natural thing in the world, Arisu closed what little distance remained between them.

He kissed him, a whimper leaking from between the searing heat of their mouths. It was torturous, and roiling up the arched column of Karube’s throat came a smouldering ire. Arisu always did this, always dealt the blow while looking like the most injured person in the room. It made Karube want to hurt. Thus the kiss became more teeth than lips, a grab for purchase on whatever chilled skin was exposed to him. Karube kissed to mark, kissed to plea, kissed to hollow out a space for himself that had long since closed.

The inside of Arisu’s mouth was hot, and Karube was a man starved for warmth. His other hand settled, curling against Arisu’s jaw, and all at once Karube was cradling Arisu’s face. He crushed their mouths together again and again, lips stinging and teeth too blunt to cut deep enough to make it right. Karube’s rage rose like steam out of him in the slick kiss, leaving a gentle simmer deep down in his belly.

Arisu cradled Karube’s jaw like one would hold a baby bird. His fingers gentled against his jugular, feeling the searing jackrabbit pulse of his blood under the goose-fleshed skin of his throat. His chapped fingers ran feather-light up and down, ever-so-slightly grazing the beginnings of karube’s hairline. In days gone by, Karube’s favourite thing to do was let Arisu run his fingers over his scalp, working through the tangles in his long hair until he was satisfied. This caress now was more of an echo, ringing hollow in Karube’s chest. His lungs burned with it as he gasped for air into Arisu’s mouth, gasped for what he no longer had.

It was like being crushed.

Pulling away was like pulling glass shards out of Karube’s tongue. His lips stung and his eyes burned and his heart hurt.

‘Why are you punishing me for loving you,’ he choked out, mouth filled with sawdust, ‘why can’t I have you?’

The moment shattered, red string of fate slashed to pieces. Arisu recoiled and almost snapped back, spine ramrod, eyes red-rimmed and wild. The spell broke as Arisu remembered what he came here for.

‘I’m just here to drop off my key,’ he said, voice broken but tone flat as he could muster. Arisu was a different man with the same face, a crude impression of the object of Karube’s tragic affection. Nothing felt right in the cold street, not in Karube’s palm where the cruel metal of Arisu’s key was pressed, fingers moulded over it into a fist by Arisu’s pitiless hand.

‘Just like that.’ It wasn’t a question anymore. The air that had so violently filled Karube’s chest as they kissed had seeped out and then some, leaving him deflated and exhausted. What little hope he had left had been dying a slow death since Arisu turned the corner onto his street.

‘I’m sorry, Karube,’ and Karube didn’t doubt that he was in the slightest, no matter how much it made his ears burn and his pulse ache.

He replied, ‘thanks,’ as devoid of emotion as he could muster. Karube didn’t need Arisu. Not his hands nor his kiss nor his apology. Crossing the street and unlocking the door to the apartment he resolved to move out of as quickly as possible was as easy as breathing glass without choking. Karube didn’t need Arisu.

He didn’t look back.

[sincerelybluevase]

Careful, Madam Chapter Seven

A/N: Here it is, the final chapter! Thank everyone for being so patient with this one (the first chapter was published in June 2020, insane how time flies) and for the lovely comments; they mean a lot to me! For a gorgeous preview made by @thegirlisuedtobe, click here. Tagging @alice1nwond3rland, @need-not, @mlletina, @msmaryadmitrievna, @solattea, @halewynslady.

Maxim was the first to speak. “Steady, Mrs Danvers. You wouldn’t want to shoot me.”

Mrs Danvers did not waver. She held the gun steady. Not a muscle in her face moved so that she seemed hard and resolute to me, marble-made. “Let go of Mrs de Winter, sir.”

He released my arm with a theatrical motion, raising splayed hands in mock surrender.

“Come to me, Madam.”

I went so quickly I nearly stumbled. I wished to clutch her arm, to feel the reassuring solidness of her long lean limbs, but I was afraid of what might happen; I didn’t want to set off the gun by accident.

Maxim looked at us with hatred. His face had turned cold and masklike with it. “Now what?” he asked. “You’ll shoot me, Mrs Danvers?”

“I will if you force me, sir,” she said.

“And then what, Mrs Danvers? What happens then? Have you thought about that? Should you kill me, you will hang; the law won’t take pity on you for being a woman. They’ll string you up by that thin neck of yours until you are dead.”

“They won’t if they know what you are, sir.”

“And what am I?”

She glanced at me, at my reddening cheek. “A murderer and a wife-beater.”

He laughed coldly. “That’s no reason to shoot me, now is it, Mrs Danvers? I think you and I and the law can all agree on that.”

“It is if you provoked me, if you threatened your wife and unborn child, sir.”

The laughter petered out. Still he smiled, showing his sharp canines. “You’d have to aim well then, Mrs Danvers, and kill me with one shot, because if you leave me well enough to talk, you’ll be done for. Who do you think the police and lawmen will believe: me, a gentleman with an impeccable reputation, or you, a mad, old, sexually-frustrated maid with unnatural tendencies?”

I wished to speak so I could defend her, but fear held me in its grip, petrifying and silencing me.

Mrs Danvers set her jaw and tightened her grip around the gun. “I’m a good marksman, sir. If I aim to kill, I shall.”

“Perhaps,” Maxim jeered, “but are you certain? And are you absolutely certain that, even if you kill me, you won’t go to prison? They’re harsh places, prisons. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a cold, damp room, with only a strip of sky to remind you of what lies outside?”

Still Mrs Danvers held the gun steady, her joints seemingly locked into place. “Here’s what men like you don’t understand,” she said softly, “I gave the best years of my life to your first wife; I’m willing to lay down what years remain to me for your second.”

My love for her made a pain rise in my throat. I swallowed against the tears. I looked at Maxim, thinking he would refute her or curse at her. He did no such thing. Instead, he began to yawn, making a great show of it, his mouth opened so wide I could see the fillings in his molars. When he was done, his eyes watered. He brushed the tears away with a fingertip, then turned to me. “You shall stop this nonsense right now,” he said. He spoke as if I was a naughty child.

I shook my head. I could not speak.

A vein at his temple began to throb. I could see it jump around under the skin, writhing like a worm. “Oh, but you shall. You shall stay here, with me, and we shall forget this moment of madness. Mrs Danvers shall have to go, of course, no sane man would keep a housekeeper who pulled a gun on him, but I shan’t press charges. I’ll even give her a good reference. A woman with her qualities can work for any fine family in England. But you, my little darling, shall remain here, by my side, as my wife and the mother of my children.”

“No,” I whispered.

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I don’t want to stay.”

He laughed in disbelief. “You don’t want to stay? Do you understand what you’re saying? Before you met me, you had no friends or kin, money, no prospects. You were an old lady’s plaything, her little whipping boy. I raised you up out of darkness. I gave you a name, a house, a reputation to uphold. Without me you have nothing and you are no one, just a grubby little schoolgirl with bad nails and a name no one can spell. Do you hear me? You are nothing!”

“She won’t be nothing. She’ll be my mine,” Mrs Danvers said.

With a roar, Maxim lunged at her. She pulled the trigger, but he knocked the gun out of her hand. The shot went wild, the bullet damaging one of the plaster leaves on the ceiling, causing crumbs to rain down dryly. The gun fell to the floor, skidded, came to rest not a step away from me.

Maxim punched Mrs Danvers in the face, once, twice, thrice. Her head snapped back. She staggered. Blood poured down her mouth and chin. She made a soft choking sound, coughed. Drops of blood flew from between her lips.

“Stop!” I meant to scream it, but it came out as a whisper.

Again Maxim struck her. This time she stumbled and fell, her skirts billowing around her like black sails. He bent over her and continued to beat her. His fists came down on her face and throat again and again and again, dull slaps of flesh against flesh.

“Maxim! Maxim, stop! You’ll kill her!” I screamed. The sound carried, though for all the good it did, I might well have kept my tongue; Maxim continued to brutally, systematically beat Mrs Danvers. She tried to sit up to fend him off, but he pushed her down. Again she rose, again he beat her down.

As a child, I had witnessed our cat playing with a mouse. It would let it run, only to smack it down with its paw before it could get away. The mouse didn’t stand a chance, yet it persisted hopelessly, just as Mrs Danvers would persist in trying to sit up until she could rise no more.  

There was only one thing to do. I bent down and took hold of the gun. It was still cool despite Mrs Danvers’ grip. I raised it and found it surprisingly heavy for its size; it almost slipped out of my clammy hand. With one eye closed I aimed the gun at Maxim, but I was shaking and dared not fire for fear of hurting Mrs Danvers.

I brought the gun to my temple instead. “Maxim, look at me,” I shouted. “I’ll kill myself! I’ll kill myself and your unborn child if you don’t stop!”

He looked over his shoulder. His face was spattered with blood, his lip curled into a snarl. He let go of Mrs Danvers’ dress, causing her to thud to the ground, and came to his feet. “Don’t!” he said. “Don’t you dare!” He stumbled to me, his hands outstretched to wrest the gun from me.

I pointed the gun at him, closed my eyes, and shot.

*

All of this happened many years ago. My life now is very different from the one I led at Manderley. I’ve said goodbye to England and now have no estate to call my home, no husband to lord over me. Here, my name means nothing, and my face, once plastered over every English newspaper, is just another face, easily forgotten. No one need know that I once was the second Mrs de Winter, the one who everyone knows because she killed her husband. An act in which she was justified, of course, since he had murdered his first wife and now wished to kill her, too, before putting a bullet through his own brain, but that never made the case any less sensational. Whenever I think of it – which, when I am honest, is seldom but still too often for my taste – I can’t help but smile wryly. After all, there is a cruel sort of irony to the whole affair; Maxim killed Rebecca to safeguard Manderley’s reputation, but her murder proved to be the first link in a chain of events that would lead to a nationwide scandal. If I close my eyes, I can still see the reporters pressed against the gates, pen and notepad in hand, clamouring to see me.

There are no reporters in my new life. They do not know where I am, and to the local ones I am of no interest. I live in a cool little cottage, painstakingly paid for with the money I earn with my drawing lessons; I have given away everything I inherited upon Maxim’s death, for I never desired his money even before it became tainted with murder and madness.

Every day is much the same, but that I don’t mind. There’s comfort in familiarity, safety in routine, and after all that we’ve lived through, Danny and I have a certain hankering for comfort. Besides, raising a child together provides plenty of challenges and excitement, we’ve found.

Dear Danny. She’s wonderfully patient with me. I fear I am not always easy to live with. For all my efforts, I’ve not been able to banish the past completely. It still inhabits and possesses a part of me, one that I can fight when awake but must succumb to in slumber, so that, at night, I walk the grounds of Manderley once more. In my dreams, the house and grounds have fallen victim to rot and ruin. The lawn has gone to seed, sickness has turned the chestnut tree into a bleached husk, and the rhododendrons have reared to the fantastic heights of fairy-tale briars. The house itself sags to the side, its walls pockmarked by sour rain, the windows dirty and broken.

But for all its neglect, it is not uninhabited. I do not talk of the birds and bats roosting in the rafters, nor of the mice living underneath the floorboards and the silverfish who slowly eat away the wallpaper.

The library, with its masculine smell of leather and smoke and newspaper ink, is his domain in death as it was in life. There, he paces up and down, up and down. All that pacing has worn the carpet to threads. Each night I must go to him. It does not matter that I am unwilling; my mind and feet betray me, and take me to him. He knows that I am coming and awaits me with impatience, smoking cigarettes in quick succession, littering the ground with ash and butts. His face, once so handsome in a peculiar, medieval way, is ruined by the shot that killed him. It turned his left eye to pulp and smashed the orbital bones to pieces so that the area around the eye is curiously dented.

There must have been no time for Maxim to realise my betrayal; the bullet bored itself into his brain, killing him instantly. The Maxim of my dreams, though, gives me an amused, cruel little smile. Then – just as my life has become routine, my dreams have, too, and so this next moment never varies – he opens his arms to me. I don’t want to, but I must step into his embrace. He pulls me close to him until my head rests against his chest, against the fabric of his tweed jacket turned sodden by blood and the jelly leaking from his burst eye.

“My little love,” he murmurs as he strokes my hair, his breath stinking of the grave, “you didn’t think you’d ever be free of me, now did you? I shall never let you go.”

It is then I wake, gasping and sobbing.

Danny aims to soothe me, kissing my face and folding her long arms around me. I cling to her so tightly it must hurt. She’s no longer as strong as she used to be. No one would be after what Maxim did to her. He damaged her left eye to the point of blindness. During the years, it has turned milky white. She has taken to wearing a velvet eyepatch over it to keep out the light, for even the flame of a candle upon her left eye can trigger a mighty headache. Even covered up it pains her, but she never complains.

She holds me well after the shaking has subsided, kissing my hair. I kiss her throat in return, her chin, her cool sweet mouth. I always hesitate when I reach the scars Maxim left on her face. He embossed her cheek with his signet ring, the M and W intertwined. Yet whenever I hesitate, she brings her mouth to my ear. “No need to be careful, Madam,” she whispers, and then I know.

I have someone in this world to call my own.

I have someone to love.

[guqin-and-flute]

Holding Me Holding You [Ch. 2]

[Beep beep, are you ready for some 3zun Raise Jingyi AU angst? So. This will be at least a few chapters more, going up through Xichen deciding to keep A-Fu, writing to the rest of 3zun, probably even them meeting A-Fu so...no idea how long that will take. This is significantly more angsty than And A-Fu Makes 4, so just be ~*aware*~]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Ao3]

Sleep proves to be nothing more than wishful thinking.

He’s startled from a doze by the unknown child coughing, then Lan Fu squirming under his chin, groggily beginning to rouse at the disturbance. Lan Xichen simply takes to walking a slow circuit in the early morning chill of the room, feeling half sunken behind his own eyes as he strokes their backs, letting the rhythm of his own steps suffice as a focus for an imperfect meditation. 

His core feels like a bowl scraped empty. His body is stiff, his head dull and full as an old silver teapot covered in patina. Every place his skin had torn or split or blistered in the Battle is pulsing with aching tendrils of pain in time with his heart, healed or not. 

It’s alright. There is a space to be made between his mind and his body’s pain--there always has been. The children are quiet and Wangji is breathing. That is all that is necessary in this moment. 

The doctor finds him still circling slowly sometime past 5 am, when everyone else is beginning to wake again. The haggard bruising of his eyes tells Xichen that he has also not found sleep for the past 2 nights either--not since the bodies and the wounded had begun to pour into the Cloud Recesses. His quiet examination of Wangji is long and troubling and Lan Xichen must tuck his terrified heart back from his face at the news that he is healing slowly. Very slowly. Xichen leaves him and Wangji’s mystery child in the doctor’s care with the instruction that they are to be kept together.

He doesn’t know exactly who this boy is or what his brother had been thinking--

No. No, that’s not entirely true. He knows what--(who)--Wangji had been thinking about. The only thing. And so he can guess who this boy is. Or at least what he is to Wangji. Xichen will not take anything more from him than he can help. He can give him this. He can do this much for him, pitiably small as it is. 

(He had done this. He had let this happen. He had done this to his brother.)

(And Wangji had fought against them.)

The hurt between Xichen and Wangji, what they had done to each other, all those choices they had each made in these past few frantic, blood soaked days is as messy and tangled as anything. But through those knots shines a certainty of what he knows will come--what has always come. What will always come. He loves Wangji and he will do what he must in order to to keep him safe. 

Xichen does not know if he himself is a strong enough tether for his brother to want to stay alive, right now. 

That’s alright. It can’t be helped. 

He takes Lan Fu to the Hanshi to nestle on his unused bed as he changes his own rumpled clothes and performs his daily ablutions mechanically. Then steps out into this new day, misty and cold, inextricably woven into the last by dismally weighty tendrils of dread and lack of sleep. As he does, he is aware, distantly, that it is odd to carry around a child that is not his own while he attends his duties. However, nothing about today is anchored in the same reality that existed before Wei Wuxian’s rampage. The Cloud Recesses smells of blood and death, and every once in a while, low, muted wails break the compulsory quiet that usually reigns. He is sending groups to attempt a cleansing of the Nightless City--to lay to rest any Clan members lingering beyond death and bring them home; writing orders for more medical supplies; compiling lists of the dead. There are even more than last night. 

Besides the unreality of it all and the fact that no one even bothers to look askance at the strange sight of the childless young Clan Leader toting a sleeping child, Lan Fu is quiet when he wakes. He blinks around in a daze, absorbing his surroundings with a dull sort of disbelief, but he maintains his silence. Even when a passing outer disciple, a mother with her own toddler helps Xichen to fashion a sort of sling around his back that allows the boy to peep up over his shoulder, he simply stares with glassy eyes, fists like little burrs in Xichen’s hair. 

The only noise he had made was when the mother had offered to take him with her, so Xichen wouldn’t have to bother. Xichen hadn’t even moved to take her suggestion and Lan Fu had hidden, burying his face in his shoulder, making distressing whimper-moaning sounds, voice still hoarse. It had made Xichen’s stomach lurch sickeningly--the wounded noises, the knowledge that the boy understood, to a point, what was going on, but not enough to know what was going on. Xichen had smiled and politely thanked her, but declined. The company of his solid warmth on his back was soothing, anyway. If Xichen was wanted, why add another suffering voice to the despair that lay so palpably over everything? If he could be a comfort to at least one person, why would he not give them this? It was alright.

He makes sure to give him little snacks over his shoulder from time to time between meals, little biscuits and carrots, heedless of the crumbs that sneak their way down his collar and into his hair. It even reminds him to eat. Eventually. For efficacies sake if nothing else. 

The day remains grey. Wangji and the child remain unconscious. Lan Fu remains silent; through meals, through fumbled changing of underclothes, through meetings and letters and endless walking. Xichen’s head and neck slowly suffuses with a deeper, persistent ache, like slowly rotting wood. Like the dull crush of being far below the surface of the ocean. 

He does his best to attend to the wounding he has somehow allowed to befall his already weakened Clan. He knows it’s not enough. 

When darkness comes some hours or eternity later, he finds that Lan Fu has fallen asleep in the sling already, little head lolling around over the lip of it, mouth open. It seems needlessly cruel to subject him to waking up with a stranger in a strange place and so he takes him back to the Hanshi. You, too, are a stranger, he reminds himself as he carefully unties the bundle from his shoulders, rolling them to assuage the ache carrying it without rest has settled into the already abused muscles. 

A stranger stranger, then. He brushes a little flyaway wisp back from where it sticks to the child’s eyelashes and stares at his sleep-slack face. Alone in this world and he doesn’t even know. Of course, he would be taken care of, he would not be abandoned by his Clan. But it isn’t quite the same. Xichen knows this. Knows the hole parents leave in one’s life, like an organ cut out, a tooth improperly removed. Aching, always. “I’m sorry, little one,” he whispers, thumb stroking over his soft cheek. 

Lan Fu sucks in a deep breath, but doesn’t wake.

Xichen slides his bed so it is tucked into the corner of his room, one side flush with the wall and settles the boy in a little well of wadded up blankets nearest to it before wearily sinking in on his other side as a buffer to the edge. Sleep pulls him under with insistent little hands at the edges of his consciousness, but the hyperawareness of the small presence next to him keeps him from completely submerging. Every toss and turn has him surfacing groggily to re-remember. Thin, fractured visions have him surfacing in a muzzy panic--awful things where he loses the child in the folds of the blankets. Or out the window. Or finds him crushed into some sort of horrible jam across the wall. Or--

A quickly cresting wail shatters the night, wordless and lost and immediate, right in his ear. Xichen’s head is pounding like someone is hammering nails into a coffin, and he sways upright in the blackness, gathers Lan Fu up, mumbles tumbling from him blearily. “Shh, shh. ‘S wrong? Lan Fu, shh, shhh….”

“Niaaang!” 

Xichen’s stomach drops abruptly at this shattered sob, sick ice creeping through his blood. The room’s darkness is slowly eaten away by the light of the moon through the window screens and Lan Fu’s tears shine silver as he wrenches himself away from Xichen’s chest, face contorted. “Niang? Wanna niang!” Insistent. Pleading. Desperate.

“Listen--” he whispers, voice cracked, dragged deep by exhaustion, the lingering burn of resentful energy and smoke in his lungs, but this seems to panic the child further and he lets out a scream.

Swiftly, Xichen spells the talisman for silence, sends it to the corners of the room, encapsulating this grief as the boy squirms and rolls and flails, kicking his feet as he tries to worm his way off the bed. Xichen catches the back of his shirt and lowers him down to the floor so that he doesn’t hit his head, but this assistance is met with even louder shrieking and furious jackknifing of his whole body. 

“Niang!! Niang!!! Niaaang!!”

Is it rage or fear? Sorrow? They nest so closely together, it’s almost impossible to tell. 

“I’m sorry--”

Every time he speaks, Lan Fu gets louder.

Every time he tries to lay a hand on him, the edge of his wailing becomes more hysterical and ragged and so Xichen must sit, letting him writhe on the floor in grief and helpless pleading. Wanting his mother. Begging.

I cannot be the one that you want. I cannot be the person who can help you.

He swears he can smell blood, but there is nothing on his face, nothing on the child, he checked, despite his ferocious fighting. The tension in Xichen’s jaw is strung up through his temples and down his neck like some sort of awful instrument, ready for his misery to be plucked like a guqin string. 

In the end, he lights a lantern far from dangerously swiping limbs and sits on the edge of the bed next to him, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, simply whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” low enough that it doesn’t drive his wailing higher.

There is no sense of time when the world is just cascading screams. Xichen knows this, has learned it again and again in the War and this last Battle and now in the room with this child that he cannot help even a little bit. It could have been half an hour, it could have been the entire night. All he knows is that, eventually, Lan Fu’s throat becomes unable to sustain his screams and he lays panting and whimpering, shaking all over as he stares up at him with huge wet eyes. “Niang,” he croaks. “P’ease.”

At this tired, despairing plea, as though he is somehow willfully keeping her from him, Xichen’s eyes and face grow hot, his nose prickling dangerously and he kneels down beside the child. Your mother died fighting. She died in pain. She was so brave. She can’t come back. He can’t say any of these things. Carefully, he puts a hand out and rests it on Lan Fu’s stomach, heaving with shuddering breaths. “Little love,” he whispers. “I would bring her if I could.”

“Wanna.”

“I know.”

“Wanna,” he insists, face crumpling anew, but only with exhausted tears. No more fight left.

“I’m sorry. I’m here.” Xichen holds out his hands; an offering, a question, and Lan Fu rolls over onto his face, away, and sobs quietly into his rug.

You are not the one they want.

All at once, a winter morning invades his memory. The first snow, fluffy and white and charming. It coated the world like frosting, dotted against the dark trees like little floating stars. Bundling winter cloaks on the bench next to him, gathering of stories and scrolls--carefully hand lettered calligraphy, the painting of a waterbird in the cold pond, a memory he wanted to share. Little sweets he had saved. Waiting by the window, fresh air stinging his nostrils and nibbling his fingertips, watching for A-Zhan’s telltale form trotting back from his class so they could leave together. A-Zhan never ran, but he always hurried on visiting days. Xichen had grinned to himself--had been A-Huan at the time, had helped brush the snow from his shoulders and hair, warming his chilly pink cheeks with his palms.

There had come a heavy hand on his shoulder. The grim line of his Uncle’s mouth. His smile falling away. The excitement and wonder with it. The warmth of being held and known. Words could make holes in you, he found. Could make the snow just snow and the cold just cold.

A-Zhan had been confused but kept silent and nodded at the explanation, because that’s what he did. That’s how he was good.  

A-Huan hadn’t been confused. Had been the one to put the cloaks away. Had been the one to lead A-Zhan to his room with numb hands and sit on the bed and woodenly try to explain words like ‘never’ to someone who had only been alive for a few years.

A-Zhan had wanted to go, was frustrated at the time wasting. He never liked change. Liked his schedule, liked the rhythm. He wanted to go see their mother already. A-Huan didn’t know how to make him understand that they were never going to be able to again.

He still doesn’t.

[beauregardlionett]

this poem is my confessional (loving you isn’t a sin)

AO3 Link

A/N: big shout out to my man @sadwizardvibes for the inspiration AND for writing me a fucking song to go with this piece thanks for fueling my beauyasha brainrot man <3

If she was honest with herself, giving Beau that poem had been entirely an impulse decision. Yasha had told Jester she would work on it—which she did—and that she would find a special moment for it. But most of the moments she shared with Beau were special to her, so that didn’t exactly narrow things down. She cherished every conversation and tried her hardest to keep Beau safe. Especially after the events at the chantry, Yasha appreciated every moment she got with Beau.

So, she had handed the paper over and prayed she didn’t embarrass herself.

Beau had seemed flustered, touched, and Yasha had wanted nothing more than to kiss her then and there. But she had held back, because she wanted Beau to at least read the poem before anything else happened.

And then all of that insanity with Vess and Molly—no, Lucien—had happened, and Yasha found herself grateful nothing else had transpired between her and Beau. She hated to think the memory of their potential first kiss might have been marred by the events following.

Regardless, they were underway toward Aeor; the snowy landscapes were taxing, endless, and a little boring. Supposedly it was a good thing they had encountered none of the foretold beasts, but Yasha harbored a lot of pent up frustration and nerves. It would be nice to have something to take that out on.

At the end of their second day, Caleb set up his tower. He ushered them all inside to a haven of warmth and stained glass they were becoming steadily more familiar with. Dagon seemed understandably impressed with the magical structure and grateful for the guest room he was directed to.

Usually they would gather up for dinner together, but there seemed to be a silent, unanimous decision that exhaustion took precedence. They retired to their various rooms with yawns and quiet ‘good nights’, safe for the time being. Yasha lay on her back on the cot in the room with the floral mural. She traced an absent gaze over the patterns, identifying flowers in her head and hoping it would lull her anxious mind to sleep.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Molly—Lucien—and what they would do when they caught up to him. Yasha couldn’t stop thinking about Beau, about the poem she carefully tucked away to read later. Yasha couldn’t help but remember of Zualla as she stared at the flowers on her wall.

There was a knock at her door.

Pushing to her feet after a moment, Yasha walked to her door to poke her head out. She was confused about who might be at her door at this hour until her eyes found Beau fidgeting on the other side of the threshold.

“Hi,” Beau mumbled, hands behind her back.

“Hi,” Yasha breathed back, opening the door a little wider. “Are you okay? It’s late.”

“Yeah,” Beau said, voice pitching up a little at the end in a tell Yasha quickly realized meant she was nervous. “Yeah, I just uh…”

Yasha raised an eyebrow at Beau’s nerves, unused to a Beau who floundered. She realized in the second before Beau pulled the piece of parchment out from behind her back what this was about. The Aasimar flushed pink and her eyes flicked to the ground, embarrassed.

“This was…really beautiful, Yasha,” Beau mumbled, fingers fiddling with the edges of the paper. “But I uh…I noticed this.”

Yasha chanced a look up, Beau extending the paper and pointing to a tiny note scrawled in the bottom corner. She had forgotten about that.

In her messy, cramped handwriting, Yasha had scrawled the word harp? She had been considering turning her poem into a song, because it was always easier for her to express things through music. Plus, she knew that Beau enjoyed her music, so why wouldn’t she put it to chords? But Yasha ended up pushing the idea aside. It was one thing for Beau to like Yasha’s wordless performances, and a whole other for Yasha to direct poetry with music toward the woman of her affection.

“It was…just an idea,” Yasha said with a half-hearted dismissive gesture.

“Would you play it for me?”

Yasha felt her cheeks grow warmer, more red than pink now. But before she could give it too much thought, the Aasimar felt herself nodding. She stood aside and let Beau into her room, leading the monk back into the chamber painted with flowers.

Beau sat cross-legged on the floor across from Yasha as the Aasimar tuned her harp. She took a little longer with the task than strictly necessary, just so she could freak out in silence.

Of course, she had prepared chords for this, because she had run with the idea. But Yasha shied away from it, losing her courage. Music was something that had helped Yasha heal, a meditation in her own way. It brought her peace and offered her an outlet for emotions she didn’t quite know how to express. So, to have Beau sitting before her, eyes trained solely on Yasha, was intense and nerve-wracking.

If Yasha had learned anything, though, it was that she could trust Beau. The monk had been looking out for her, and for the entire group, since day one. Before Beau had trusted any of them, she had still been looking out for them. It was something Yasha admired about Beau—her capacity to care and to love despite everything she had been through. Beau inspired Yasha to keep fighting.

The least she could do was play this for her.

She didn’t need the parchment back. Yasha had spent hours pouring over the words and the chords to make sure it sounded perfect.

Oh, oh Beau, I’m grateful for you.

You waited while I wandered,

While everyone was wondering

If I’d ever come back, you stayed true.

Her voice faltered slightly at the start, uncertain and underused, but she persisted. Beau’s eyes on her simultaneously made her nervous and strengthened her resolve.

Oh, oh Beau, you mean so much to me,

I’ve lost so many people,

I cannot fathom losing

The woman who has loved so fearlessly.

Yasha rarely sang. She used to sing for Zualla in those quiet stolen moments years ago. When they were out in the fields alone, walking or hunting or just existing to stare at the stars. She sang once for Molly, both of them a little past tipsy after a good night for the circus. He had told her she possessed a voice fit for performances, but Yasha had waved him off.

Her voice was sweet, higher than her speaking voice because she sang from her nose and her head. It threw most people for a loop, but Beau merely sat there and stared. Her blue eyes were wide with awe, lips slightly parted. If Yasha didn’t know Beau couldn’t be charmed, she would almost think the monk under a spell.

And I’ve ambled and trekked over miles and miles,

Every step lead me straight back to you.

You gave me the space to learn where I belong

And I’ll tell you right now, it’s the truth.

It was almost like nothing else existed. Yasha’s fingertips buzzed against the taut strings of the harp, her voice vibrated in her chest, and Beau’s eyes stayed fixated on Yasha’s face. This was all that mattered right now, and Yasha couldn’t think of what existed before this, or what might exist after.

Oh, oh Beau, the one I’m thinking of,

I want to hold your hand and

Stand quietly beside you.

I want to confess, you’re my love.

The last strum of her harp faded into silence, and Yasha reveled in the peace vibrating through her veins. She had rarely known stillness like this before discovering music.

Beau sniffed, and Yasha twitched as she startled, eyes snapping up to Beau’s face. The monk still stared at her, eyes wide and watering.

No one’s ever written me a poem before. Yasha remembered the soft-spoken admission as a tear tumbled down Beau’s cheek. She guessed without asking that no one ever sung for Beau before, either.

“Yasha…” Beau breathed. “That was incredible. Your voice…”

The Aasimar ducked her head, not even trying to suppress the smile pulling at her lips. Beau’s awe was so genuine, Yasha barely knew how to face it head on.

“I didn’t know if you would…y’know want to hear it like that. Or if you would just rather read it,” Yasha rambled, running her fingers with absent focus up and down one string on her harp. “So…yeah, I mean, it’s a song, too. But it was originally a poem. For you.”

“Yeah,” Beau’s voice cracked. “I don’t—Yasha, that was…incredible. You’re incredible. You wrote that? For me?”

“Of course,” Yasha said, looking up again with a small frown. The note of disbelief in Beau’s voice upset her. Why wouldn’t she write a poem for Beau?

“Thank you,” Beau said, her voice overflowing with an emotion Yasha could empathize with, but couldn’t name.

“I am glad you liked it,” Yasha said as she set her harp aside. She didn’t know where to go from here. Jester had said Beau was waiting for Yasha to make the first move, and this…was this enough? It felt weird to question that kind of thing because Yasha had been married before. Theoretically, she should know how to do this. But then again, everything she and Zualla had done had been in secret. Yasha never learned how to express affection for someone openly.

And knowing what she did about Beau, Yasha figured that the monk had no better clue in any of this than she did.

“Maybe uhm…” Yasha started, but stopped. She didn’t want to mess this up. “Maybe after we finish this job…we could, y’know…get dinner? Just us?”

Watching a slow smile spread and pull at Beau’s lips was like watching a sunrise. It began slowly, a little hesitantly, colors bleeding into and washing away the darkness of Beau’s uncertainty. It was a gentle harbinger that lasted a lifetime in no time at all. Then, between one blink and the next, the sun. Beau grinned with wild abandon, lips pulled wide to reveal her teeth, and eyes scrunching at the corners with the force of it. Yasha’s heart went giddy in her chest at the mere sight of Beau’s joy.

“I’d like that,” Beau whispered. There was the same quiet, awed excitement in her voice from when she first received Yasha’s poem.

Yasha’s cheeks hurt from how hard she was smiling. “It’s a date.”

[yukimoji]

Moonlit Encounter ( Young!Giyuu x Young!Reader)

(so, this one shot is based on Kan Gao’s “To The Moon”, in which this story basically goes along with “To The Moon”s iconic childhood scene. I love Giyuu, I love “To The Moon”, and I’m super bored so why not? quick warning that this fic is all over the place so I apologize for the errors and questionable narrative lmao. also, kind of ooc giyuu but it’s giyuu before all the angst so;;; )

Total words: 3586

Genre: fluff, but with tiny bit of angst in the end

!!SLIGHT MANGA SPOILERS!!

Throughout the local village, warm lights fell as people walked about, laughing and dancing to the content of their hearts. The event was indeed a blast, with music being played all around and the wonderful aroma of food being served. This was a time of celebration for the villagers, as a large festival was held to celebrate the village’s goodness and prosperity.

A young child raced around and explored every little aspect that the festival has to offer. She felt a bubble of curiosity in her, as her eyes gleamed with obvious excitement to see what’s next in store. Her (E / C) eyes will filled with evident enthusiasm, while her (H / C) hair was brushed with a cool breeze. A smile never left her face, as she continued to run across festival’s never ending booths and stalls.

In the meantime, a tall, beautiful girl walked along, taking in the village’s refreshing sights. It wasn’t often that festivals were held, but it seemed as though this was the biggest festival the village has ever hosted to date. Her deep, ocean-blue eyes looked around, and she was somewhat surprised to see the sheer number of village booths and activities present.

With her, was a small boy that resembled the girl, hugging her close. He glanced around the village and it seemed so different from what he was used to seeing! He never really saw the village when it was energetic, and with all the commotion going on, he was a bit hesitant to explore. Anxiously, he holds the girl’s hands even harder, as he begins to feel even more overwhelmed by all the lights and music all around him.

There were activities and games everywhere. As much as Giyuu loved to spend time with his big sister, the large crowds seemed to scare Giyuu. Throughout the whole festival, all Giyuu could do was tightly grip on his sister’s hands as they walked around, exploring every inch and crevice of the lively village.

As they roamed around, the siblings were able to check out the variety of stalls and attractions the festival has to display. With any passing booth, Tsutako would be willing to take part in the tasks of the activity, and somehow she would always have a reward or two. It wasn’t because Giyuu was terrible at the games, he just couldn’t find the events as fun.

However, because of the persistence of his sister, he decided to play at least one game. The challenge wasn’t that difficult, because it just involved attempting to hit as many wooden figures that resembled demons. Nevertheless, he won and got an adorable little wooden fox figurine.

It’s cute, he must admit.

Yet after too much wandering, he was weary of the never-ending aisles. The crowds became even bigger, which did not comfort Giyuu one bit. And although he would love to be in the company of his sister, he just wanted to escape to a quieter area and just play around to his heart’s content.

Suddenly, he hears the laughter of young children, and he looks at the source. He sees kids smiling and running around in a field, conveniently located in a location that doesn’t seem to have booths and stalls surrounding it. When he continued to observe them, he just felt like he had to play with them. Argh! They seem to be having so much fun!

“Onee-san?”

The girl’s eyes looked down, and she smiled at the sight of her younger brother holding her hand. She bent down, and ruffled his Raven hair that paralleled her own.

“Yes, Giyuu?” She asked the boy. Giyuu proceeded to point at a group of children laughing and playing.

“Tsutako-nee.. if it’s okay with you, can I play with them for a little while?” The boy looked up, his own set of bright blue eyes pleading at his sister.

Tsutako looked at the children in the field, and oh, how much they looked to have so much fun! It pulled on the strings of her heart. She took one last look of the field were the children were playing, and deemed that it was safe enough for Giyuu to stay in.

She faced her little brother. “Okay, you can go. But remember, don’t wander too far or you’re going to get lost!” She warned as the boy’s eyes widened in glee.

After which, Giyuu kisses his sister in the cheek and hugged her good-bye. Tsutako looks at her brother running in the direction of the group, and giggles softly. Then, she picks up the irresistible scent of seafood present in the area. Her pupils dilate as her mouth gradually waters from the aroma of her favorite, Simmered Salmon with Daikon. She checks at her brother one more time, before she heads off to the seafood stall.

As Giyuu arrived, he was greeted by several kids. He seemed to get along with one particular boy, a boy who had Peach-colored hair, and a scar on his cheek that travelled close to his mouth. He and the other kids played a lot, and Giyuu loved every moment of it. Heck, he might have even accidentally bumped onto a toddler, but when that toddler fell down, his warm, big, red eyes just looked at Giyuu and started to giggle uncontrollably. Giyuu had to repeatedly apologize to the toddler’s kind parents, but other than that, he was having blast.

Yet all good things have to come to an end. Little by little, after playing so much, the kids began going back to their parents and guardians at the festival. After a while, the peach-haired boy also left, having been picked up by a man wearing a Tengu mask.

Giyuu was left alone in the field. He didn’t want to leave, not yet, at the very least. The village was still busy, the festival still drawing huge crowds. He sighed as he looked around, while sitting on one of the swings. As he scanned the area, he notices a clearing heading towards somewhere. He starts to wonder where the path leads. He might have been to this village countless times, but he never even noticed the path until now.

Giyuu’s curiosity gets the best of him as he stands up, and heads towards the path. He takes one last look at the village, then proceeds to walk into the pathway.

As he ventures further, it does not take long as he arrives at a new destination. Although the village isn’t really that far, he seemed to have arrived at a cliff’s edge. His breathe hitches as he looks above and sees thousands of stars just shimmering and twinkling in the night sky. Wisteria trees was abundant in the area, with it’s leaves gracefully dancing in the cool evening breeze. Lush, Green grass covered the dirt below him, little streams of water flowed around, and tiny flowers bloomed all around.

Truly, it was a sight to behold.

Near the cliff side, was a large trunk that was suitable for sitting. Giyuu approached the trunk, and made himself comfortable. He looked at the night sky once more, and was awestruck from it’s beauty.

“…Whoa.”

Giyuu was absolutely flabbergasted. No words could describe how beautiful the scenery was.

However, Giyuu snapped back to reality when he heard soft footsteps approaching from behind. Giyuu stood up, and slowly made his way towards the source of the sound. As the footsteps grew louder and louder, Giyuu was greeted with a pair of ( E / C ) eyes.

She was a child. A girl with hair (H / C) and ( E / C ) eyes! The moment she and Giyuu met each other’s eyes, she was surprised, and a blush crept at her (S / C) complexion, which seemed to glow in the moonlight.

“We could be the same age.” Giyuu thought. But before he could say anything, the girl bowed deeply and scurried to leave. Absentmindly, he yelled out to the girl;

“Wait! Don’t go!”

The young girl turned around and faced the boy in front of her. Her eyes locked with his once again, ( E / C ) hues reflecting the starry night sky. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know this was your spot.” she uttered and looked down in embarrassment.

“My spot? Oh no! I didn’t want to hog this place all for myself!” he explained himself, sweat falling from his forehead.

The girl relaxed, her lips tugging into a warm smile. “…Are you here to watch the stars?” she asked.

“Are you?” The boy raised an eyebrow.

The girl just nodded and approached the trunk, with the ravenette doing the same. As they sat together, their eyes slowly looked up to watch the sky.

“Just look at ‘em…” Giyuu sighs as he gazes at the night sky fondly.

The ( H / C ) haired girl glances at Giyuu, a curious glint present in her eyes. “Did you know there were many lights in the sky?” She asks.

“Yes.” Giyuu hummed in response.

“Oh… Uh, I did too.” The girl’s eyes widen, and proceeds to chuckle awkwardly.

Giyuu smiles softly, before facing at the girl beside him. “Do you come here often?” He asks.

The girl just shrugs, and grins at the boy. “I only discovered this place just now.”

Giyuu hums. He wonders, why did the girl stray away from the village? “Not a fan of the crowds?” He enquires. The girl pauses for moment, and slowly nods in agreement. Giyuu chuckles a little, and looks down;

“…Me neither.”

Silence ensued after that, but not the defeaning kind. As both kids stargazed the heavens above, sounds of crickets and running water flowing  seemed to make the moment all more peaceful.

Giyuu was the the first one to break the silence. “You know… you haven’t even told me your name.”

The girl just shyly lowers her head. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

The boy looks at her in confusion. “Why?”

The girl just stares at Giyuu, eyes never leaving for a second. She breaks her gaze and bashfully looks down. “People say that it’s too common.”

Giyuu’s eyes widen and he tilts his head. “Surely, it’s not unusual like Giyuu, right?”

“How do you even spell that?” The girl raises an eyebrow.

The blue-eyed boy puts his hand on his chin, in a thinking manner. “It’s hard for me as well. Though, it has kanji for heroism, loyalty and courage.”

The girl pauses, and asks; “Do you have courage?”

Giyuu is taken back. He’s looked up, thinking for a moment. Did he have any courage? Did he have heroism? Loyalty, huh? Was he even worthy of such a strong name?

The girl sweats profusely, and tries to break him out of his existential crisis. “Im sorry! I shouldn’t have asked that!” She bows down repeatedly, startling the poor boy.

Giyuu waves his hands in reasurrance, trying to calm down the ( E / C ) eyed girl in front of him. “No, no, it’s okay! I never really gave my name much thought, and I was just surprised! That’s all!”

After brief moments of constant bowing and nervous hand waving, they resumed their sightseeing.

Giyuu glances at the girl again, and asks; “What’s so wrong with a common name?” The girl just looks ahead, and just shrugs in return.

Giyuu faces the sky once more. “It’s kind of like those lights in the sky. They all look the same here, but it doesn’t make them any less pretty.” He says, a soft smile evident on his face.

It was the girl’s turn to be surprised. A deep blush crawled to her face, and shakes her head furiously to calm herself down. Pretty? Did he really mean that? Or was he just being nice with her to avoid hurting her feelings?

“…I suppose.” She utters quietly, and looks up to the boy.

“It’s ( Y / N ).”

Giyuu’s expression lit up, and gave her a big smile. “Nice to meet you, ( Y / N )!”

The ( H / C ) girl averts her eyes and thinks for a moment. She then changes the topic to avoid further shame.

“What do you think those stars up there are anyways?” She begins, making Giyuu remember the time where his sister read him a book that contained some random facts about stars.

“My sister said that they’re giant burning spheres of gas.” He answers, chuckling from the fond memory.

( Y / N ) stares ahead blankly. “Oh, I bet she’s just making that up.”

Giyuu becomes overcome in disbelief. What? Tsutako? Lie to him? Why?

“Why would she lie to me?” Giyuu’s voice quivers, trying to process the idea that his big sister could’ve had lied to him.

The girl sighs deeply. “Because, y'know, that’s what grown ups do. They make things up. Like Santa, Kitsune, demons… stuff like that.”

Giyuu says nothing. He looks straight ahead, processing what ( Y / N ) just told him. Yes, Santa and the infamous Kitsune could’ve been made up, but demons on the other hand? He wasn’t so sure himself. The old villagers tell stories man-eating demons roaming around at night, and the tales of Demon Slayers protecting human lives who emerged since the first demons appeared centuries ago. She had a point, he thought.

“Have you… ever made a fox out of stars?” The girl asks.

“Like a constellation?” Giyuu raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Um, of other things. Never tried a fox though.” The boy replied, ocean-blue hues tracing out the stars, making small little animals and shapes from it.

The ( H / C ) girl goes silent, ( E / C ) eyes gazing longingly at the shimmering lights. “…Do you want to make one?” She suggests.

Giyuu’s mouth morphs into a big grin, and he nods excitedly. “Yeah, we’ll make the bestest constellation ever! Let’s see who makes one out first!” He challenged ( Y / N ), a mischevious glimmer present in his eyes.

The ( H / C )nette glances at Giyuu, lips tugging into a small smirk. She returns her vision to the bright moon above, and hums in agreement.

“Okay, we’ll start in three.”

“Three, two, one, aaaand sta–”

“I see it.”  The girl simply announced.

Giyuu sweats. How did she see one so fast? He didn’t even get the chance to find one himself! No fair!

“Er… Where?” he enquires.

“In the sky.” She smiles softly. Giyuu gave out a deadpan look.

“Um, but where in the sky?” He asked, one more time.

“Think big.” The ( E / C ) girl replied vaguely.

“Eh..” Giyuu scratches his head in confusion.

“Bigger than all the others.”

The girl’s hints confused Giyuu even more. He stared harder, trying to make out even the slightest sign of a fox constellation. Then, it hit him.

“Wait a minute… WAIT A MINUTE!!” “I SEE IT!!”

( Y / N ) chuckles softly at the boy’s outburst. “Tell me what you see.” She requests.

Giyuu enthusiastically raises his arm, and points at the night sky above. “There, right??? There’s two ears, three whiskers, and it’s head!”

“What else?” The girls asks.

“And there… there’s it’s two arms and feet!” Giyuu continued.

“Yes. What else?”

“And.. And the moon!! The moon is it’s big, round, belly!”

After that, both children broke out in laughter, their voices filled with happiness echoing through the luminous horizon. It truly was a wonderful moment for Giyuu and (Y / N). When they calmed down after minutes of delighted laughing, a grin never left (Y / N)’s face as she proceeded to admire the giddy boy in front of her.

He was really something special.

Giyuu turns and ponders at the girl. He was wondering if she enjoyed any activities, because they were at a festival. “Have you ever checked out any of the festival games earlier?” he asks. (Y / N) responds by shaking her head. “No, I haven’t. While I liked to see how different the village looked, I’m pretty much too clumsy to win a single game. Have you?”

“Yeah, I did.” he responded. “Oh, have you won anything?” she further inquires. “Uhm … I’ve earned this little figure of a fox.” The girl’s jaw drops, and pleadingly she looks at Giyuu. “May I see it?” Giyuu flashed the girl a gentle smile “Oh,sure!” as he proceeds to rummage his kimono, and taking out the wooden fox.

The ( H / C ) haired girl takes the fox figure from his hand and admires it for a little while. “I wish I could win one for myself..” She sighs deeply.

Giyuu looks at her with admiration, as she proceeds to appreciate the figurine. Suddenly, he heard his sister’s voice yelling out to him.

“GIYUU?!”

The blue eyed boy jumps in panic. “Eek! That’s Onee-san calling!” He exclaims frantically. ( Y / N ) glances at him, and sheepishly hands the fox back. “Here.” She smiles sadly.

Giyuu looks at her, and noticed that the girl took a liking at the little fox. “You know what.. keep it. It’s yours.” He grins brightly, giving the girl a thumbs up.

The boy’s kind act startles little ( Y / N ). “Mine?” Uncertainty evident in her voice. Giyuu simply chuckles and nods in response. “I can always get another one.” He reassures the girl.

The girl gratefully looks at the boy, before asking him one final question. “Would you be here next time?”

“Yes. Will you?” Giyuu almost instantly responded, and hopes for a similar answer from ( Y / N ). After all, he enjoyed every minute he spent on that breathtaking Cliff side, and particularly the time he spent the adorable girl in front of him.

He would love to meet her again.

“Yes.“ 

Giyuu’s expression lightens up at her response. “Same place, Same time?” he suggests.

“Yes.“  She grins.

In newfound happiness, the boy jumps around. He then starts to go back to where he came from, but before he could take a step forward, ( Y / N )’s voice calls to him.

“What if you forget.. or get lost?” She asks nervously.

Giyuu turns around, and meets her gaze with confidence. “Then we can always regroup at the moon, silly!” He winks playfully. “Right on the fox’s tummy!”

“GIYUU!”

“Coming!” he shouts in response. One last time, he glances at the girl and waves farewell. He leaves the area hurriedly leaving the young girl dumbfounded.

( Y / N ) returns her gaze to the moon above. She blushes as she thinks of Giyuu, gently stroking the wooden fox she had grown to love. She thought about how she bonded with the boy, and how wonderful her time had been with him. She looked down, and bashfully chuckled. Oh, how excited she was to see him again.

–

Since that night, the girl kept her promise, and every new festival, she would always return to the cliff side. Although with the rise demon attacks and the growing risk being alone at night, the sight of Wisteria trees always protected ( Y / N ). However, every time she came, there was no sign of Giyuu.

But that’s okay.

She’s sure he would return the next time around. That’s because he promised. Because she promised.

Weeks turn into months. Months turn into years. Despite the constant waiting, she would always return without fail. As the seasons changed, so did she. From a young girl filled with energy, she blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Even with the changes all around her, she still loved everything the same. Like her beloved fox figurine, despite being all worn out, she still continued to take good care of it despite it’s age.

Throughout the local village, warm lights fell as people walked about, laughing and dancing to the content of their hearts. The event was indeed a blast, with music being played all around and the wonderful aroma of food being served. This was a time of celebration for the villagers, as a large festival was held to celebrate the village’s goodness and prosperity.

However, a young woman overlooks the boisterous events happening in the festival in favor of walking down an all familiar path, into the Wisteria filled sanctuary she loved during her childhood.

( Y / N ) takes out her precious fox figurine as she sat down, as she is reminded of the fond memories she had experienced here. The sound of the crickets, the flowing water, and the gentle brush of the soft breeze tickling her senses. The moon even seemed to be even bigger than before. She sighs, as she closes her eyes and travels back to that night.

The night she spent with Giyuu.

Her thoughts were cut-off short when she heard rustling and footsteps from behind her. The woman turns around to face the source of the sound, but her eyes begin to water and tears started to fall down as she stared at the man in front of her.

He looked different, of course. He grown a lot taller, he might’ve even gained a little bit of muscle. He sported some kind of uniform, that he wore underneath a mismatched Haori. Despite of the threat of a katana hanging from his hip, the ocean-blue hues and the dark raven locks he possessed was enough proof that it was truly him.

The man hurriedly runs up to her, engulfing her into a tight embrace. The moon’s rays cascaded down to them, stars brightly twinkling and glistening just like that night many years ago.  

After years of waiting, they’ve finally reunited. Under the fox’s bright belly, nothing can separate them anymore.

[selinakidreams]

Junk of the Heart

this was inspired by this song and a personal experience that i could have only wished ended like this. side note: i thought kiri would b ideal for a first fic post bc........... i wuv him a lot nd i couldn’t get this scenario out of my head; everytime i hear this song i think of him singing it so there u go <3

paring: gn!reader x kirishima eijirou

band member au! so no quirks

genre: fluff

warnings: none, good ol ushy gushy self indulged romance 

Word count: around 3.3k

You were surprised that exhaustion hadn’t taken over your body yet. 

The day was a non-stop escapade of the mundane and the irregular; all in the same day, you went in and out of different big cities, to having afternoon coffee followed by going back to the apartment you were staying at to nap, to visiting a local rose garden, to drawing with chalk on the sidewalk of your friend’s house post potluck. You were only visiting for the weekend so your friends were going to make the most of it. 

By the end of the night, you somehow found yourselves waiting in line on the side of a cozy neighborhood venue to try and get concert tickets to an already sold out show.

You didn't really know what was going on, not that you minded; the motto for the weekend was “go with the flow”. However,  the spontaneity of randomly going to a concert where you don’t know who’s playing has peaked your interest. You’ve never done it before and once the idea had time to marinate in your mind, your heart was set on getting those tickets. 

Waiting for 30 minutes for the tickets seemed like nothing until whispers of, “they’re not giving out any more tickets!” And “they’ve officially sold out!” came trickling down the line, causing your heart to falter. 

Groups in front of you started leaving and your group moved to take their place. “Did you want to see if we could finesse our way in?” Said one friend. “Doesn’t it seem pointless, though?” Responded the other, yet your group remained in line. You didn’t want to leave, there was something in your gut telling you not to, but you were starting to doubt the probability of actually getting in.

Everything next happened in an instant. 

Somehow, you and your friends managed to get up to the window selling the tickets and talk your way into getting in. It didn’t seem like a miracle more along the lines of sheer dumb luck, they just happened to find more tickets- but you didn’t dwell too much on it, you were already inside enjoying the vibrations of the live music moving through you. 

Lights were reflecting off of a giant disco ball, bouncing in every which direction, exposing random people in the crowd. The lights on stage only added to the different colors brightening the dark expanse. Bodies swayed close together as the next song started calmly. 

You had been off to the side, waiting for your closest friend to come back with the drinks she offered when you guys were first greeted by the bass and guitar. The rest of your friends had gotten lost in the crowd, but you didn’t mind. The scene you were taking in felt surreal. You had never seen complete strangers come together in a way that it made it seem like they’ve known each other for years because of good music. 

As your friend made her way through the crowd with two cups in hand when the band announced that it was going to be their last song for the night. You looked up at the members on stage; you had been paying so much attention to the experience as a whole that you hadn’t even seen the band actually playing. 

The first person that caught and kept your attention was the man in center stage. Bright red spikey hair with ruby red eyes to match, and a toothy grin. A white electric guitar with a red strap hung on his sizable shoulders. He looked like the physical version of the music he was playing; a plain black fitted t-shirt tucked into his loose blue jeans with holes in the knees. His black converse seemed worn out, like they’ve been on so many adventures, this night on stage being one of them. 

You tried to look at the other members but your gaze always shifted back to him. 

Now with a sweet alcoholic beverage in your hand, you were pulled to the barricade by your very persistent friend. You heard her say something along the lines of, “you look like you’ve witnessed a miracle! We need to get closer!” 

Nobody seemed to mind your friend’s pushiness to the front, everyone there was just enjoying the show had to offer. 

“Before we get on with our last song of the night,” the red head chuckled at the immediate chant of boo’s that rang out, “we figured we ought to introduce ourselves!” His smile showered over everyone in the crowd. He leaned into the mic stand as his big hand loosely covered the secured mic, “in the back, and away from people where he should be,” a melodic laugh rang out as he looked to his annoyed band mate, “is our drummer, Bakugo Katsuki!” The audience was greeted by an eye roll and a curt wave and gave back an applause. “Next we have our all talented bassist, Jirou Kyouka!” She ran her pick over the strings, you felt the vibrations through your whole body and decided to let out a laugh, joining the others in letting out a loud “wooop!”.

“And on the keyboard, we have the electrifying  Kaminari Denk!” A wink and finger guns were shot out and in response, a few girly giggles could be heard throughout the cheering room as well as a few squeals. Kaminari threw his head back and put his hand over his heart.

“And me? I’m Kirishima Eijiro on guitar!” You could hear the swarm of girls that cheered overpowering the crowd as well as thunderous hollers from a few guys,

‘Pretty popular,’ you thought, taking a sip of your drink. Of course he was popular. His smile was contagious, full and bright. You could see the happiness illuminating his eyes, the crinkles by the corner of his eyes showed he truly couldn’t be more content than in this moment.

Bakugo spun his drumsticks and began playing a beat as Kirishima began to talk,“ We had a fuck ton of fun tonight, thank you for having us. We hope you give the same amount of love to the band that hops on the stage next.” he said, the smile never leaving his face. He adjusted the ear piece before finishing with, “But as for us, this song is called Junk of the Heart, let’s go Bakugo!” And just like that, they dove into the song. Kirishima began strumming to Bakugo’s already given beat.

As Kaminari hit the keyboard, the stage lights changed drastically. All of a sudden there was no color on stage or bouncing off the walls, beams of golden light shot out from behind them, giving them the look of angels. The space got significantly darker; you had no choice but to look at the band in front of you. 

Backlit and beautiful, it was as if you were actually hearing them for the first time.

“See I notice nothing makes you shatter, no no, 

You’re a lover of the wild and a joker of the heart,” Kirishima looked out onto the faces that were close enough to see. He loved seeing how invested people got- to see how music can bring people together and create a bond. It made him feel like he was at the top of the world.

You thought to yourself as you watched him sing into the mic, “He looked so god like, it was ironic that you were looking up at him.”- that was until your gaze was met with his. He stopped the wandering gaze; it seemed as though his eyes got bigger than before, which didn’t seem possible. His eyes were already so round and curious, but making eye contact with you brought a different kind of wideness. 

When he sang, “But are you mine?” it seemed like he was asking you.

“I wanna make you happy, I wanna make you feel alive.” 

Your body and your mind felt disconnected. You couldn’t decode any messages that were being played through your head, all you could feel was the beat of the bass match up with your heart. 

“I wanna make you happy 

If you’re a good girl tonight.” He sang to you before looking back at the rest of the crowd. It looked like he had just broke out of a spell.

“Y/n? Y/N? Was he looking at you?? Do you know him?!” Your friend's voice came into light.

And for the first time in the whole day, when the trip’s motto pushed itself into your head, you waved it aside. 

You looked at your friend with a determined smile before leaning into her and yelling out over the music, “No, I don’t know him but I sure want to. After the song, I’m going to make it so there’s no way he could possibly forget the girl in the crowd.” 

Your friend, stunned at your decisiveness but loyal, slowly began to nod. She reached for your hand and wrapped your pinky in hers, then slowly got back into the groove of the song by spinning you around. 

“Let me make you happy, I wanna make you feel alive at night,” Kirishima sang on, grin growing as his eyes wandered back to the spot you were in. Something warm bubbled in his chest.

‘I want to dance with them’ was the first thing he thought when he saw you smiling in the dim lighting, hips swaying with hands in the air, and not a care to be found.

Finishing off the song, the lights faded to black for a second before the room became a tad brighter yet still dark enough to leave the haze of the concert euphoria just a little longer. 

Kirishima bolted. At the speed of light, he handed his guitar to a snickering Denki before navigating his way through the maze of the backstage and into the crowd. So many heads to look over and so many gazes to catch, but when he caught yours, everything simply melted away. Time didn’t stand still, yet making his way over to you seemed like it was one of the easiest things that he could do. 

“I’m sorry but I really need to hear you say something,” Kirishima said loud enough when he approached you, trying to ignore the intense gaze of the person standing next to you. 

You didn’t really know how to respond- to you, everything happened so quickly. You could only tilt your head in response, to which you felt a jab in your ribs. 

“Please just say my name. Not Kirishima but please call me by my first name in the next sentence that leaves your lips.” He said with a hint of desperation. It was almost like he was hoping your voice was a song he could listen to on repeat- that your voice was something he could eventually turn into a song.

You took a slow deep breath and let it out, there was a self-put urgency to have the next sentence you say mean something. 

“I feel like…” you began to say, and paused when you saw his features change to something you couldn’t quite describe, “... watching you perform on stage is something I could do… more often… Eijirou.” 

Something made his eyes twinkle. Maybe it was a trick of the light or maybe you just imagined it, but it made your heart race just a bit faster. When would it reach the finish line?

He let out a breath you didn’t notice he was holding; his chest slightly contracted.

“Just as I thought, your voice is beautiful a-and so are you.” He sighed. “Can we step outside for a second? I promise you it will only be a second. It would be rude for me to take you away from your friend for the rest of the night.” He smiled at your friend for a second. You were a bit stunned; first, the compliment that tugged at your heart a little too hard and now the decency to respect that you came here with your friends. A true kind hearted man.

It took you a second to reply but before an answer could even leave your lips, your friend yanked you towards them. Kirishima’s ever wide eyes grew again but showed no signs of leaving. 

“Listen, this is all up to you,” your friend whisper-shouted excitedly in your ear. With impeccable timing, live music started playing. 

“Anyway, what I was saying was,” your friend stated a little bit louder so you could hear her over the music, “it’s your choice! If you feel comfortable with hanging out with this dude for the night, do it! This is your trip, do what you want and have fun. Regardless, you know where we are and where we’re staying. Just text me and let me know.” She pulled away, waiting for your response. You smiled and mouthed, ‘I’m gonna go’. She showed her delight by pulling you in and leaving with the final note of, “stay safe,” before disappearing into the mass of bodies, probably to go look for your other friends.

You turned to Kirishima before taking his forearm, noting that it was one of the fittest ones you’ve ever laid hands on, and headed out of the venue.

The temperature drop was a bit of a shock but you held your composure as a wave of goosebumps washed over your body. 

You spun around to face the guitarist, only to be greeted with a shyer version of him. It seemed his sheet of confidence went hand in hand with the warmth from inside. As soon as he stepped out, it was instantly ripped away by the cold.

“I- um, well.. may I ask for your name?” He stuttered out, realization hitting you that you never even said your name. You felt your cheeks grow hot before stepping closer to him and whispering your name then taking another step towards him. The nippy air seemed to have the complete opposite effect on you.

At this point, your chest lightly brushed up against his as you looked up at him; his gaze fidgety while yours is sturdy but kind- set eyes flickering from his ruby reds to his plush pink lips. 

You chose not to question your boldness as you pushed yourself up to the tips of your toes.

He had approached you with such determination, you might as well match his energy. 

With your chest fully pressing into him now, you carefully watched his reaction to see if there were any signs of discomfort before slowly draping your arms around his neck. Even on your toes, he was still a head taller than you. 

“Kirishima, what is it that you wanted me to come outside for that you couldn’t do inside?” The teasing whisper dripped from your lips. 

It was as if he was visualizing the words you were saying, his sight trained on how your lips moved.

“Can I kiss you?” He matched your whisper, his head already slightly dipping in to ghost his soft lips over yours while his large palms fell to your hips, invoking a ripple of heat to coarse through your body. 

It was up to you, the fate of the evening was in your hands. Whatever you wanted to do, Kirishima would do as long as he was with you. 

“You can…” you began as you moved to play with his surprisingly soft hair, “walk me to where I’m staying, and maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you.” You innocently giggled as you slowly lowered yourself against his broad chest and pulled away completely.

Kirishima’s dazed expression stayed only for a second before he slightly shook himself out of it, a renewed shade of red dusted on his cheeks.

Another giggle escaped from you before whipping out your phone and texting your friend about the newly made plan; red eyes plastered on you and following your every move. 

You slid your phone into your back pocket and scooped up Eijirou’s hand, relishing the size difference, and started walking.

The walk held the best kind of conversation: the kind that consisted of everything and nothing at all. You two were taking your time, walking around local parks and goofing off by performing air guitar and dancing around to no music. He talked about how his band started and how he discovered his love for making music. You talked about how you were visiting your friends because they moved away for college and you couldn’t bear to not see them for another few months. At that you saw his open figure slightly deflate. 

“So you don’t live around here?” He muttered, unconsciously gripping the energy of the lighthearted conversation downwards, but you stopped it before it could get to the point of no return. 

“I’m transferring here.” You said with a promising smile, Kirishima returned the action with a full blown grin. The topic took a turn for the happier as you two chatted about random thoughts and valid opinions. 

Inevitably, the time came where it was you two standing in front of your door, spare key in hand with the outside light illuminating the mirroring soft expressions. You stepped closer, recreating the exact actions you did in front of the venue, and this time when he asked to kiss you, your response was nonverbal. You took his lips with yours at first with a peck. The delicate sound of you pulling away only lead to a deeper kiss, one that made his planted palms uproot and wrap you up entirely in his embrace. Your tongue danced with his; The closeness and warmth had you sighing against his mouth. You slightly pulled away, watching a thin trail of saliva leave you two connected before leaning back in for another peck. To that, he loosened his hold without actually letting go.

“Can I see you before you go back?” Kirishima’s voice was breathy and low, a really good combination for him. 

“Give me your number and we’ll see.” You replied, trying to compose yourself. He chuckled before fishing out your phone from your back pocket, giving your ass a little squeeze in the process. A squeak instinctively left you as you watched a smirk form at the corner of his lips. You refused to look at Kirishima as you put your thumb on the home button to unlock it, your cheeks were too red. 

He added his contact with a red heart next to it, ‘ironic’ you thought. 

The goodbye was drawn out; a lot of lazy pushing away and pulling back in, in addition to feverish kisses and roaming hands, but that all came to an end when you finally pushed the key into the lock and twisted it open before quickly shutting it, leaving Eijirou outside begging you to come back out. 

“No because soon enough I won’t be able to resist you and I’m going to tell you to come inside and stay the night- which would not be cool to my friends,” you laugh as you hear a huff on the other side of the door. 

“You’re right… and I really want your friends to like me…” he trailed off, letting you ponder what he meant for a second. 

“Okay can you just open the door one more time please?” So you did. You were greeted by a sweet and soft kiss, reminding you of a dessert that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

“Goodnight Eijirou.” You whisper before closing the door gently.

Replaying the gushy romantic events that took place that night, you took it upon yourself to text him to write a song about you- playfully of course. The charming red cherry on top of a perfect Hallmark-movie-type of night.

He ended up taking it seriously,

and performed it at the next live show you went to, a few months after you transferred. 

And it was that night, when he bounded through the crowd to find you yet again- 

instead of asking to hear your voice, he asked to hear your answer on being his romantic partner.

[1337wtfomgbbq]

First Year: 1969

Had anybody told him that he would be getting a letter in early 1969, being delivered by a man in strange robes telling him that he was a wizard and he would be going to a school called 'Hogwarts' and learn how to use magic, Sean would have asked if they were dropped on their head as an infant too much.

But it all became horrible reality as the man, Professor Ivan Dreyfuß, who taught Ancient Runes and Alchemy at Hogwarts as he explained, told him he would be taking him to London to a place called Diagon Alley, where he would be able to buy the stuff he needed for school.

What followed was a lengthy discussion between Sean, his older brother Andrew, his mother and Professor Dreyfuß about the following proceedings.

As it turned out Sean's best friends, Liam and Odhran, who lived in the same street as himself, had both also received the same letter as he himself.

That was why Professor Dreyfuß took all three of them, plus a parental guardian, to Diagon Alley to get their school supplies.

//《••》\\

Sean still wasn't sure if the whole thing wasn't an elaborate joke, up until he stepped foot into Diagon Alley.

Unless they were all having the same dream, they were all getting books filled with spells and instructions on how to brew potions.

„Alright, this is real after all,“ Sean mumbled once he saw the wand that chose Liam, as Ollivander had put it, spray a plume of water.

His own wand, blackthorn with dragonheart string if he remembered correctly, spurted some small fireworks once Sean swung it as Ollivander instructed.

Odhran's parents stared in pure amazement at the cloud of green clovers his wand produced.

Their way to platform 9 ¾ on September 1st that year was just as surreal as their visit to Diagon Alley. This time however, Andrew and Henry could tag along.

Andrew wasn't really that impressed, promising him that he would be holding the line at home, while Henry was utterly fascinated by the hogwarts express and wouldn't stop asking their mother if he couldn't go to hogwarts as well.

„But I want to go too. Please, please, please,“ Henry begged, and their mother smiled and layed a hand on his shoulder.

„Maybe you'll get a letter too when you turn eleven,“ she said. Six year old Henry looked as if he couldn't wait to grow older.

A family shuffled past them, an older bloke and a boy that looked to be their age.

The boy had dark brown hair that was all curly and brown eyes that made Sean's stomach do a backflip as they locked eyes.

The boy smiled at him before being herded off by his mother, another family walked past them having Sean loose sight of the boy.

Liam and Odhran showed up a moment later and made him forget about the boy.

They hurried to board the train. An older girl had told them they would be leaving the station soon.

Sean promised his mother he would be writing, since Professor Dreyfuß had told them Hogwarts had a whole fleet of owls the students could use to stay in contact with home.

Henry hugged him and made him promise to write about the school, while Andrew patted his shoulder.

Once on the train he, Liam and Odhran got into a compartment, only for Odhran to promptly offer a fellow first year a seat.

He turned out to be from Derry as well; his name was Shain.

But they didn't stay in their compartment for long, as a plan had formed in Sean's mind.

They were already four first years that were from Derry, and, as it turned out, all of their families were also involved with the IRA. Who knew, maybe there were more.

And Sean turned out to be right, as they found Ryan and Thomas, who were also from Derry. Thomas had even went to the same primary school as them, they just hadn't been in the same class, but Odhran remembered him being pretty good at football.

Sean also remembered Andrew mentioning a boy he hab been in a brawl with british soldiers with, his name had been Doxey.

The world was a pretty small place indeed.

//《••》\\

„What is that? IRA?“ a voice said just as they were in conversation about the current state of affairs in the Bogside.

Sean turned his head towards the source of it. It was a rather short girl with dark blond hair that stood in the open doors of their compartment.

She wore those robes the wizards had been wearing in Diagon Alley, so she was probably not from the muggle world as they were.

„I wouldn't know what it concerns you,“ Odhran snorted, prefering to ignore the girl. But she was oddly persistant.

„But you're talking about it so heatedly,“ she said, leaning more into their compartment, „It must be something important.“

If Sean didn't knew better he would have said her mouth was salivating at the prospect of gaining some gossip.

He got up. „You should leave,“ he said.

Standing so close to her he realized that he was towering over her, she had to tilt her head back to be able to look him in the eyes.

„But-“ she started as Sean pushed her out of the doorframe.

„Now,“ he hissed. She looked quite surprised and about to open her mouth again as Sean bodily turned her and pushed her down the hallway. „Goodbye,“ he said, quickly adding, „Go follow them,“ as he saw a boy with hair as bright as a beakon and a boy that looked like military school further down the hallway, „maybe you can annoy them.“

The girl stumbled off as Sean gave her a shove and immediately as he turned back he was faced with another new face.

„You know, you don't have to squeeze all of you into one compartment,“ a boy with golden blond hair said. He had a pretty thick scottish accent.

Sean had been about to groan in annoyance, thinking the boy would be as nosy as the girl, but sighed in relieve instead.

The boy had to be a first year as well, as he looked to be around their age.

He also wore one of those robes the girl had worn. But unlike hers the boys robes weren't black, his were of a dark maroon color. The remainder of his clothes also looked strangely old, like something from photos of people from the 19th century.

That reminded him, he had risked a look into his 'history of magic' book, and spend an entire evening reading about the goblin riots.

„What do you care?“ Odhran snorted, at the same time as Thomas said, „It's alright. We don't mind.“ They stared at each other.

And Sean remembered how this awkward timing had sometimes ended with Odhran and Thomas in a scuffle that needed to be broken up by one of their teachers; and them getting detention for it.

Sean chuckled as he remembered that, and so did the boy in the doorway.

„Well, alright,“ he said, „just thought I'd offer some of you a seat. Lewis said those compartments only hold four people.“

„No complaints here,“ Shain said and he and the other boys shrugged their shoulders in agreement. It was a bit crammed but they could manage.

„Well, Lew always liked to tell bullshit,“ the boy snorted, which made Sean perk up.

„Your brother's already going to hogwarts?“ he asked, his interest spiked.

The boy nodded, raising a brow as Sean leaned against the wall next to him, crossing his arms. „Do tell.“

„I don't know how much is there to tell,“ the boy said, „Everybody knows about hogwarts, right?“

Sean shrugged and the rest of the boys also looked rather lost.

The boy's eyes widened. „You're all... muggle borns?“ he asked.

„If that means we had no idea we were wizards, then yes,“ Ryan said and the rest of the boys nodded as well.

//《••》\\

The boy, who turned out to be named Aaron, got extremely excited and soon they were seven boys in a compartment for four.

Aaron spend the remainder of the train ride telling them all sorts of things about the wizarding world, hogwarts and quidditch.

„So it's kinda like basketball but on brooms,“ Liam mumbled through a mouth full of pumpkin pasties they had gotten from the sweets trolley.

Aaron, trying to contain a chocolate frog, looked at him confused and the frog managed to jump out of his hands and onto the ground. „What's basketball?“

„Doesn't matter,“ Sean said, waving his hand dismissively, „Football is the only important thing.“

„What is football?“ Aaron asked, and now it was the boys that groaned.

„There is so much we can still show you,“ Odhran grinned, laying an arm around Aaron's shoulders, who looked at Sean with a confused expression that only grew once he saw Sean patting his trunk with a broad grin.

„I hope you got no cat in there,“ he said warily and Sean laughed.

„Of course not, just a football. My mom wouldn't have a cat in the house, she hates them.“

Aaron nodded. „Any of you got an owl?“ he asked once Odhran let go of him.

All of them shook their heads. Thomas' father wasn't too sure about having an owl at home, while Sean and Liam couldn't affort one.

„I have one,“ Aaron said proudly. „An eagle-owl.“

„Wow,“ Odhran said, sounding unimpressed. Ryan and Thomas on the other hand asked to see the owl later on.

//《••》\\

They continued talking about quidditch and football and what was happening in the wizarding world vs in the muggle world.

It was strange for the boys to think that Aaron had no idea what was going on in Northern Ireland, just as Aaron couldn't believe they didn't knew a thing about the blood purity movement around he who called himself 'the dark lord'.

„It's so stupid,“ Aaron said. They had all changed into their school robes once Aaron's brother Lewis had showed up and told them they would be arriving at hogwarts shortly. „If we hadn't mixed with muggles we would've gone extinct long ago.“

„At least we would've gone extinct with grace,“ a voice said.

The voice belonged to a girl. With her dark hair put into a tight bun and her nose held high she shoved Ryan out of her way. „I wouldn't want your dirty blood.“

„They surely don't want your blood either,“ Aaron hissed at her, but the girl didn't seem phased.

She snorted her disdain and strutted off and out of the train.

„I swear this whole blood status thing is totally bonkers,“ Liam said as they made their way out of the train and onto the platform. Aaron nodded avidly.

They watched as the rest of the new students pooled out of their compartment. They were about to follow the older students as there was a loud, booming voice calling over the platform that made many of them flinch.

„Firs' years to me!“

It was a giant man in a furry coat who was holding a lantern and waving them towards him.

„Come on,“ he yelled, „we don't have all evening. Let's get to the boats.“

„Boats?“ Thomas asked, sounding frightened. He apparently didn't like riding boats.

The whole ride over the lake that he spend in a boat with Sean, Liam and Aaron he wouldn't stop shaking,

Thankfully the ride over the lake didn't take long and Aaron assured Thomas over and over again that this was the only time they would have to cross the lake like that.

Thomas still breathed a sigh of relieve as he was finally on firm ground again.

The whole lot of them followed the giant man, up an awefull lot of stairs towards the castle. It seemed to go on forever until they finally managed to reach the top of the stairs and an entrance to the castle.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @thelightofthebane!

Happy holidays to you and I hope you like this! Anyways, I've always had a penchant for Magnus as a god and this is the closest I got to lmao

Read on AO3

*****

The Universe Doesn’t Love

The universe doesn’t love.

It exists, an omnipotent bystander. A guardian of some sort, and watching over the goings on of one hundred billion galaxies, two hundred fifty billion stars, and three trillion planets makes it easier for on objective approach. If the cosmos is the physical, tangible thing of all that exists, the universe is its sentience. Two things, completely different but just as the same.

The universe looks within itself and sees everything ebb and flow by some meticulous design. The universe may be old, just as old as the cosmos it governs, but it is not <i>the being</i> above all. As all encompassing as it may be, the universe is still predetermined by a power even greater than itself—chance. 

If the universe believes in something, it’s chance. The coming about of all the forces in existence to bring about <i>something</i>. It is how the universe and the cosmos itself came to be. Just the small particles that happen to be the foundation of <i>everything</i>, decaying and combining as the entirety of this mass become colder and colder and colder and then—first light breaks through. It could’ve not happened that way. One seemingly inconsequential thing could have changed in the most minuscule of ways and everything would have been different.

Chance is powerful. It sits on a throne above the universe, seemingly invisible, but starkly everywhere.

It is when the universe is deciding how close to brush a meteor to the atmosphere of one of its minuscule planets called earth that chance exerts its power. The universe peers into the galaxies, solar systems, planets it governs, deeper than it usually does when making decisions like this, and somehow, a human stands out from the rest. 

A minuscule thing. A singular cell in the body of a cosmos that is billions of years old. Shining brightly like a beacon, the mere existence of him telling the universe to do <i>something</i>. 

<i>Feel something. </i>

The universe resists. Earth is small, barely there, inconsequential. There are five hundred different earths spread across a hundred billion galaxies, and this specific one is decaying fast, anyway. There’s no point. 

But the beacon is <i>ethereal</i>, his soul singing like something begging to be found. The universe doesn’t even think this human know within himself what his soul have been wanting so strongly.

The universe doesn’t love. It’s too subjective, too human. 

But—maybe it would like to feel. 

It plucks the soul and ushers it softly, changing the angle of his trajectory. It takes a star and breaks it apart to its fundamental elements—hope, joy, peace of mind—and drapes it over this one human soul. It gives him a chance at contentment.

And the universe, for once in it’s billions of years of merely existing, watches with anticipation.

The universe watches as the human draws his arrow, feet drawn shoulder-width apart, right hand pulling the string of his bow taut, left hand shakily holding a bow that’s far too big for him to use. 

It is in the middle of watching two galaxies come into collision with each other (always a beautiful sight to behold, and the universe almost always watches) when it notices the tremble of the human’s hands against his instrument of choice. Curious, it abandons Helena and Messir’s bright coalescence and focuses on earth instead.

<i>I can do it</i>, the human boy whispers to himself, <i>I can do it. </i>

If the universe could smile, it would. It feels how much the boy loves his bow and arrow, like it’s an extension of his heart from behind the ribcage of his chest. He grips it the way a musician would hold his violin, lovingly, endearingly. To the boy it is an instrument, not a weapon.

The human takes a deep breath, his exhale passing and brushing the hand that softly rests against his mouth. Seconds stretch as he waits quietly, patiently, until time finally tips and his fingers gently loosens its soft hold.

The arrow sails in a slight curve, the stored energy from the full drawn bow propelling it forward like a missile seeking its target—and then it lands, aim terribly off. 

The human lowers his bow, taking stock of his failure, shoulders sagging minutely. Dejection fills the color of his eyes, and it changes the way he holds is body. He is so young, yet carries the weight of the world, the universe thinks. It feels something stir in its center, an emotion that he’s seen on many humans before. It’s a deep ache, sullen, heavy, like a sorriness that is hard to shake off.

<i>Oh</i>, the universe realizes, remembering the word from a conversation he unwittingly overheard from two humans walking the street of Florence, <i>Pity</i>. 

The universe is just about to revel in the feeling of it when it sees the human suddenly holding his head high, already nocking another arrow onto his bow, and aiming for another. The disappointment that seemed to permeate his eyes just a few seconds ago gives way to brazen determination, like there’s nothing in existence that could stop him from making this shot. The universe regards the boy and his unyielding persistence, agape. It feels wonder within its very center.

The human doesn’t make the next shot.

Nor the next. 

Nor the one after that.

But the he continues on. Over and over again, refusing to give up.

And the universe stays and watches over him, hopeful.

An arrow flies across the room on the fiftieth try, and lands, dead center.

The universe stirs, the realization of it dawning on it slowly but surely. 

The human stares wide-eyed at the arrow impaled on the bright red of the target, unbelieving. A small laugh bubbles from his chest, rising like air to his throat, and it escapes into the air, light and musical, tired and relieved. He shoots both hands into the air in rejoice, jumping up and down, <i>yes, yes, yes, I did it! </i> If the universe could jump around in joy it would, but it can’t, so it makes the northern lights in Churchill dance in the sky instead. 

It flourishes joyously, akin to a galactic version of an unbelieving laugh.

The universe decides never to feel pity for this human again. 

This human has a strong heart. 

There is no need for pity. 

The universe finally hears the name it’s been hoping to find.

<i>I’m Alexander</i>, he says, hand outstretched, and it meets the hand of another boy, blonde, blue eyes. Jace, the other says. This other human’s soul also sings, but differently. There’s something about this chance meeting that feels cosmic, that feels like it’s exerted by the powers of chance, and the universe wonders whether Alexander and this boy are two halves of a whole. Their souls both want to be found, and maybe, with this machination of chance, they already have. 

The universe is introduced to a new human emotion that day.

Heartache.

The universe doesn’t understand much about humanity.

Humans have been fortunate enough to sit at the pinnacle of evolution, and this has made them smart. Sentient. Self-aware. They are also tightly governed by time, yet another concept that they’ve made for themselves. They have many systems of belief that it’s impossible to take stock of it all. The universe doesn’t fully understand spirituality, and it is completely lost on the mechanics of religion. It doesn’t appreciate prejudice, and abhors disparity. Class systems, colonization, slavery, warfare—all concepts it could not parse through if it could. It has witnessed civilizations wipe each other off the face of the earth in defense of principles that is intangible, non-existent, human-made. For a while, the universe looks at earth and only sees the muck of disaster and despair. 

Until it doesn’t.

Until the universe looks deep enough to see pockets of goodness where malevolence exists. People fighting for the good of other people. Community in the face of tragedy and catastrophe. A high school student helping his neighbor carry groceries from her car. Big and small acts of kindness that doesn’t take away the bad, but dilutes it. The universe appreciates this in humans. 

For as much as they fail, they try.

They try to be good. 

Alexander, despite the poison of his parents, tries to be good, and the universe sees this so starkly in the way his soul gleams like the sun of a solar system. He is fiercely protective of his sister. He is the catch all to the mistakes of his adopted brother. He is sacrificial, almost to a fault. And the universe knows Alexander is not immaculate, but despite what has been ingrained into him by his environment, he truly tries. 

<i>This is as much as I can go</i>, the universe hears Alexander say, breathless, like he’s been running, <i>I can’t take you any farther than here. </i>

The girl looks back at him with fear in her eyes, the seelie markings along her neck glinting in the moonlight. <i>Why did you help me? </i> 

The forest sings as Alexander keeps his silence, thoughts swirling in his mind. He finally answers.

<i>You are not your parents</i>, he says, and says so like he plucked the words out from his very own heart, <i>their sins are not yours. And I won’t see you burn. </i>

The girl mourns, shameful in the way she hangs her head. 

<i>You’re just</i>—Alec struggles, eyes glassy, <i>you’re just a child. How can I let a child die? </i>

They both stand there in the dark, grieving their own losses, of childhoods taken by circumstance, of parents who wants to see their offspring molded in their image. They look at themselves and find a person they don’t even recognize anymore.

<i>Go</i>, Alexander finally says, sniffing.

The girl passes the back of her hand against her cheeks. <i>How about you? Won’t they punish you? </i>

Alexander shakes his head, smile bitter on his lips. <i>I’m used to it. </i>

The thank you Alexander gets is not through words, but through magic, a soft spell draped over his body like a veil. He stares agape, wondrously watching the golden wisps flutter around him. 

<i>One day, you will not be used to punishment, but love</i>, she murmurs, an incantation akin to a prayer. Alexander feels it curl like tendrils into his heart, where it makes its home. With a final parting smile, the girl runs as fast as her feet can take her. 

Just as she disappears into the other side of the woods, he hears the footsteps of the soldiers who have been on their tail since they broke out of the guard. He doesn’t see them as much as he feels the brute force on his arms being wrenched behind his back, wrists bound by cuffs. 

<i>Alexander Gideon Lightwood, you are under arrest for insubordination</i>, one of them says. Alexander doesn’t say anything. He already knows the punishment that fits the crime, knows the runes that will be used to coax out discipline in young mutinous shadow hunters. 

<i>One day, you will not be used to punishment, but love. </i>

Alexander holds onto those words like a life raft.

The universe is a billion years old. 

It has seen civilizations rise from the earth and crumble into dirt. It has watched as stars are born and reborn in endless cycles of gaseous nebulas collapsing and contracting. It has seen the birth of language, time, physics. Only the universe knows what the cosmos sounds like, and the sound is the most beautiful thing in existence. 

(Alexander <i>screams</i>, the sound of it ripping through Alicante, past the atmosphere, through the vastness of space. It ripples through the cosmos and the cosmos shudders in response, like it hasn’t heard a cry so desperate in a long time.) 

The universe is a billion years old, but all it could do is listen as the human it treasures cries out in pain, the markings on his arm glowing like molten lava under the touch of a silver device. It mourns and grieves and weeps at the sound of the strongest heart cracking at the pith. Its stars burn a fiery red, galaxies crumpling in frustration, comets streaking down the atmospheres of planets like tears. 

The universe is a billion years old, omnipotent, all encompassing, but where it matters, it cannot do anything. It breaks apart stars in search of relief, angles trajectories of everything and everyone that is intertwined with Alexander’s pain, tries to unravel time and push it forward to just make it all end. Nothing works.

The universe uses its last bargaining chip. <i>Make it stop</i>, it calls to chance, <i>I’ll do anything, please. </i>

Chance sits on its throne, absolute, all encompassing. It says simply, no.

The universe grieves. <i>Why him? Why out of everything and everyone, why him? </i>

<i>You ask me this as if there is a reason</i>, chance says, unfazed, <i>there isn’t. You know there isn’t. </i>

If the universe could cry, it would. 

<i>And you? </i> Chance asks, <i>why him? Why out of everything and everyone, why him?</i>

The center of the universe burns brightly, warmly, in contrast of how it feels.

<i>His soul sang to me, </i> the universe softly says, <i>in a cosmos with a hundred billion galaxies, in an earth with seven billion people, I heard him calling out. </i>

<i>His is the soul that made me want to find mine. </i>

The universe softly watches.

It watches as Alexander moves through the motions of the life that he has, his environment trying to shape and mold him into what it thinks he should be. His mother gives him stern looks more than she gives him a warm embrace, and his father chants <i>you need to be better</i> with every missed arrow and every clatter of his blade, like an incantation meant to change the son that stands before him. The bow and arrow he has once regarded dearly as an instrument is now just a weapon. There is no music in the way he nocks his arrows and draws his bow string. There is just stinging, unrelenting silence.

The beacon of light that once called out to the universe grows weaker as time passes, and it becomes harder and harder to find Alexander in the throng of seven billion people.

The universe mourns this. 

It mourns Alexander like a human would mourn the death of family. It has known that chance can be cruel, and it has always accepted this fact objectively, but Alexander is different. The universe breaks apart its own stars and blankets Alexander’s soul with as much hope it can find. It tries to reach out, call out using the same beautiful sound that the cosmos makes, but space is vast, and the music it plays is not made for human ears. 

So it finds Alexander in ways it could. 

It becomes the earth underneath Alexander’s feet, giving him stable ground to stand on in times of uncertainty. It becomes the grass that cradles his back as he rests under the shade of a tree in the rare moments he has for himself. It becomes the rays of sunlight that slips through the foliage, gently touching the lines of his eyes. The crosswind that mistakenly pushes his arrow off course. The water that embraces him as he washes his face of the blood and ichor that clings to him after a long hunt. 

The universe finds Alexander, and tries with all its might to fend the darkness away, strains itself to listen for the call of his soul, but the shadow is strong, and the sound is soft. Alexander slowly loses himself in the protection of his Lightwood name; his parents’ beliefs become his, their prejudices his prejudices, their words, his words. Years of punishment, verbal and emotional, finally taking in its toll.  It hurts the universe to see him like this. 

The universe cradles Alexander’s head, the bark of the tree that it is strong and sturdy. Its leaves sway gently with the wind that sifts through the hilltop. Alicante sprawls out below him, like a reminder of what he’s supposed to be.

The universe whispers, and it knows Alexander can’t hear, but does anyways. Its own words murmured through the mouth of a seelie girl Alexander once saved. Seelies, so akin to nature, hears the universe like no other creature could. The universe couldn’t help but take the opportunity. 

<i>One day, you will not be used to punishment, but love. </i>

Alexander breathes, and the universe takes the carbon dioxide for itself and returns to the earth, oxygen. 

<i>Don’t lose yourself, Alexander.

I can’t lose you. </i>

The universe comes to consciousness, and just like it does every time, looks within the same spot in the entire cosmos, past bright stars, ringed planets, slow moving, sunflower shaped galaxies, to find the one human that is more luminescent than all of these bodies combined. It searches for the beacon of light that has served as the universe’s guiding star, the lighthouse by the sea.

The universe sees seven billion people.

But it doesn’t find Alexander.

That day, the universe feels something it’s never felt before.

Loss. 

<i>How do you decide what is meant to happen and what isn’t? </i> The universe asks Chance, its words quiet, lost.

Chance swirls where the cosmos is empty, imbuing its entirety with its will. <i>I don’t. </i>

The universe shifts, its center plunged in darkness, barely burning. <i>The forces that come about to lead to something, there must be some orchestration to it. There must be some things that you meant to make happen. </i>

Chance brushes against the andromeda galaxy. It speaks bluntly, like it knows what question the universe really is asking. <i>Alexander Lightwood was lost because he became lost. Do not try to find something to blame for his misfortune. </i>

<i>Alexander is good. His heart is good</i>, the universe says hotly, <i>and there are humans out there who is equally good but their circumstance twist them into something they never want to be. Should we not give them a fighting chance?! </i>

<i>No.</i> Chance firmly says, <i>this is what humanity is. Existing in their circumstance and still being the best version of themselves they can be. That is how they advance. That is how they learn. And you and I, we are nothing but the things that turn planets and collide galaxies. </i>

<i>Then I don’t want to be just this</i>, the universe says, and if it had lungs it would be breathless, if it had a voice, it would splinter, <i>I’ve lived a billion years. </i>

<i>I didn’t think, I didn’t feel, I just</i>—the universe is filled with desperation—<i>was. </i>

It regards Chance, gently, softly. <i>Until him. </i>

<i>You and I, we’ve existed side by side for a long time, </i> the universe says, and it carries within it a decision made, <i>And you are the closest thing I have to a family, </i>

It seems futile using such human concepts on a being that has been alive since the birth of the cosmos, but it’s the most fitting word the universe could find. 

<i>Closest thing I have to a friend. </i>

If Chance could sigh it would. It is despondent with its reply, like it already knows what the universe will ask of it. <i>What is it you want? </i>

The universe musters all its courage, remembers the determination it sees in the archer boy who shot an arrow fifty times. The universe looks at an earth with teeming with seven billion people, the one it needs lost in its current. 

<i>Let me go. </i>

Chance stills.

<i>I don’t want to live a billion years</i>, the universe says, the words brighter than Milky Way, <i>I don’t want a thousand lives. </i>

<i>I want one. And I want it with him. </i>

Chance regards the universe quietly.

The universe is a billion years old. 

Or was a billion years old.

It opens its young eyes to a world it doesn’t know. It has a mother, a father, a small wooden hut in the middle of a field, and it knows its been dropped in a time too early. So it—<i>he</i>—lives his life, trudges through the muck of human existence, battles his own demons, suffers through his own scars. He lives years and years and years of his life, one that is longer than what most people have, waiting for Alexander. He is not omnipotent anymore, and so the bright beacon of Alexander’s soul is lost to his human eyes, and the song if his soul is nothing but silence to him.

Sometimes he feels like losing hope.

Sometimes he finds souls that he thinks could measure up, but never does. 

So he waits, and waits, and waits, and waits.

Until one day, a familiar face passes him by, almost undecipherable in the darkness of the club. His heart, the one that he now has, the one that beats a steady rhythm against his ribs, thrashes in its place with a force comparable to two galaxies colliding. He is breathless at the sight. He has finally found home. 

He doesn’t see Alexander for a while, and he aches, but he has waited for five hundred years. 

He can wait a few days more. 

When they finally cross paths, Alexander knows nothing.

He knows nothing of how far this being before him has come to see the color of eyes. He knows nothing of the hundreds of stars it has broken apart just to see an end to his pain. He knows nothing of the billions of years of existence he has turned his back on for a humble fifty years with him. But the universe knows. That’s all that matters. 

“I’m Magnus.” The universe says, voice almost a whisper, like there’s nothing more wondrous in the cosmos than the person before him. He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head softly. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

Alec, for some reason, finds himself smiling for the first time since Clary Fairchild imposed herself into his life. It’s an awkward, disjointed smile, but he smiles anyway, eyes bright with muted elation he’s never felt before. The usual sirens that blare within Alec’s mind when faced with strangers—thus potential threats—remain quiet. There’s something about Magnus that makes Alec want to divulge himself fully. 

Magnus feels safe. Familiar. 

Like he’s known him all his life.

He remembers familiar words, like it’s whispered to him by a memory so long ago, when he looked at the mirror and saw a person he was content to be. <i>One day, you will not be used to punishment, but love.</i>

So he fumbles with the string of his bow, oddly happy, and takes a leap of faith.

“I’m Alec.”

The universe doesn’t love.

Or it used to not love. 

Now it does, truly, deeply, quietly. 

And Chance, for once in it’s billions of years of merely existing, watches with anticipation.

[outshinethestars]

How about... hmm. Platonic Suki and Zuko, for number 10? Or, if you'd rather, number 25?

Notes:  The guzheng is a traditional Chinese musical instrument.  I changed it to gujung to fit atla spelling conventions.

“Teach me how to play?”

Suki stiffened, her hands stilling on the gujung.  She hated that Zuko could sneak up on her, and she couldn’t even call him out on it, because she was pretty sure he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

“I mean, you don’t have to!  You play really beautifully, I’d be happy to just listen.  I mean you don’t have to let me stay.  I could just go now, um.”

Suki sighed.  It was weird to think he’d once come and terrorized her village, that he was the Prince of the Fire nation, an ominous spectre of power and violence, a fearsome warrior.  It wasn’t even that any of that wasn’t true, and it wasn’t exactly that she was willing to let her guard down around him these days either, it was just that, as it turned out, he was also.  So awkward.

“Sure,” Suki said, “I’ll teach you.”

Zuko slipped out from under the trees, shadow-like to sit beside her.  It was a clear night, the moon was full and bright, the ocean waves crashed softly against the shore, and a gentle breeze brought the scent of it to where she sat on a low cliffside.  It was the sort of night she could almost half believe she was home, a good night for quiet and solitude and reminiscence.  Or that had been the plan, anyway.

“Here,”  Suki said, “like this.”

Zuko turned out to be a fast learner.  He wasn’t a natural, exactly, but he was persistent.  He never managed to follow her instructions flawlessly the first time, but he never made the same mistake twice.  He was surprisingly gentle with the instrument, and after a while, relaxed in a way she hadn’t ever seen him.  

“You’re good at this,” she said.

“Thanks,”  Zuko said, ducking his head.  She couldn’t tell in the moonlight, but Suki would be willing to bet he was blushing.

“What made you want to learn?”  Suki asked,  “It doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”  It didn’t.  Zuko was so loud and violent, so blunt and forceful, at least when he wasn’t jumping out at her out of nowhere on his stupid silent feet.  And it wasn’t that the gujung can’t be that, it’s not a quiet instrument, exactly, and it has so much passion in it.  But there is a certain tranquility that it embodies, even within the chaos.  It is an instrument that expresses deep emotion with restraint, elegance, dignity.  It has a deeply civilized sort of wildness about it, a oneness with the world around it that is calm and contained.  But here, in the clear night air, as he plucked a little fumblingly at the strings, Zuko seemed to fit. As though maybe he belonged here, with the music and the gentleness, and it was the world and his life that had pushed him unnaturally into the mould of a person who shouted in order to be heard, who rushed heedlessly into violence.

“My mother used to play,” Zuko said,  “I always sort of wanted to learn, but I never got a chance.”

“How about you?” he asked a few moments later,  “It doesn’t really seem like your sort of thing either.”

“My father taught me,”  Suki said.  

Her father had died nearly four years ago now, but she’d kept practicing, mostly to remember him by.  She and her father had never really understood each other, but they had loved each other very much.  They used to be all each other had.

Well, after he died she had the warriors.  He wouldn’t have approved of that.  He had supported her as a little girl, fierce and determined to grow up to protect her people, who thought about almost nothing but fighting, but he hadn’t liked it.  Her father was a pacifist at heart, contemplative.  His passion was for philosophy, learning, nature, and beautiful things.  He loved music most of all.  He understood that sometimes violence was unavoidable, but did not believe in centering your life around it.  Despite all of that, though, he would have been proud of her if he could see her now.  She was coming to understand what a precious gift that was.

As the sky began to grow gray with dawn, Zuko said, “The others will be waking up soon.”

Suki nodded, “Same time tomorrow then?”

Zuko looked surprised, but then he grinned, “I’ll be there,” he said.

[snarkeater]

Good company

Tarn gets his first clue that, maybe, tackling personal challenges solo isn’t the only option.

Nickel told him once – on the one occasion where he'd lost enough of his wits to somehow think it both wise and necessary to acknowledge it out loud to someone aside from his own reflection – that the best cure for addiction is to keep good company.

Profoundly baffling, the comment was immediately dismissed as a bit of worthless tripe, or – depending on his mood from one day to the next, when the thing would weasel its way back to the forefront of his mind – a damning judgment spoken out of turn, meant to insinuate unkind things about their comrades that the minibot had no business insinuating, whether disingenuously or not.

Either way, much as it's traveled in and out of his active memory since she initially shared it with him, Tarn's never found any truth in Nickel's suggestion – much less any practical application for it.

Take now, for instance; choosing to seek Kaon out this evening was a very deliberate act on Tarn's part, achieved with the singular goal in mind of providing him with a distraction – and not just any distraction, but the most complete of distractions available to him while aboard the Tyranny.  With more surprises to offer than the combat simulator's most advanced routines – and with a far better view for the time spent – surely, Tarn figured, an engaging conversation with Kaon would do the trick.  And if it didn't, well...  He could always direct irritation at the Pet (slim chance of it not being around for the event, after all), or focus on the music playing in the lounge, vaguely uncomfortable the entire time because Vos' definitely turned up the heat again and it's making him feel...  A bit off, maybe?

But, perfectly crafted as the distraction might be, it isn’t working.

Kaon hasn't stopped talking since they sat down, but Tarn's been quiet long enough that he can't recall the last thing he said.  Sitting across from the other mech, Tarn idly rotates his empty glass with a single claw, twisting it this way and that in the shallow pool of liquid collected under the base.  Kaon is animated – his face, his hands, all of it, exactly as Tarn anticipated – but the steady stream of words spilling out of his mouth may as well be in some long-dead and impossibly obscure tongue for all Tarn's capturing of them.  Optics focused on a spot of unsightly rust nestled between the interrogator's left thumb and forefinger, Tarn wrestles with a frequent and persistent mental visitor.

The visitor in question has come to remind him – again, as abruptly and as urgently as it has each time it's done so today, and yesterday, and the day before that also – that he's missing something, and that he needs to get it back.  The something is at his core, set deep under all of his plating – blackened and spent, he imagines it now, having seen countless like it with his own eyes enough times to have the crispest of mental images.

A useless husk—

Tarn resists the urge to touch his chest plate, unwilling to give the visitor any more sway than it already has over him.  He's already personified it – the incessant need; now, that particular battle was lost so easily and so early on after his reconstruction as to be downright shameful.  The insidious influence doesn't deserve any further victories over him, but...

Damus, Tarn mourns, never had these problems.

How long has it been, Tarn succumbs despite himself, since his last transformation cog replacement?  Four weeks?  Closer to six?  Six is...

Kaon's dialogue and the surrounding lounge firmly relegated to the background for a spell, Tarn anxiously tongues the rough split in his lower lip and spins – once again – the same string of thoughts around in his head that he's been spinning around since he burned out his cog and failed to transform three days ago.

He can't ask Nickel to replace it – she won't, it's too soon since the last time.  He could press her, but he'd rather not; she's made her opinion on the matter of his excesses abundantly clear, and there's no sense stressing their relationship over it.  At least not now.  They could make an emergency trip to Messatine, but that would be a waste of fuel, and of the team's time...

But then again, if he can't transform, he's a liability – a weakness – and he can’t do that to his team.  Right?

It’s unacceptable.

Tarn's optics abandon the rust spot on Kaon’s hand and slide down to stare, instead, at the smooth edge of the table closest to him; under the table and secondary in terms of interest, the Pet's tail swishes happily between his knees, slapping each of them over and over again as, across the way, its master rubs at its jaws.  The swishing would drive him crazy if he wasn't already being driven crazy by something far more distracting.  By comparison, the Pet is only a mild irritant.

The more he spins the poisonous thoughts around, the more real the need becomes.  The itch becomes an ache, the ache a craving, and the craving – the craving becomes cause for Tarn to fancy himself deprived of something fundamental to his being.  Such a simple, basic pleasure it is to transform...  The rush... It's so satisfying, so empowering, so exquisite.

How much longer, then, Tarn despairs, can he allow himself to be denied that joy?  That right?

Spark coiled tight and internal heat gauges rising more rapidly than they would if Vos' ambient temperature proclivities actually had anything to do with it, Tarn begins to panic – quietly, without moving, and completely unbeknownst to his conversation partner.  The poisonous thoughts spin faster, and the visitor's whispers continue to urge him to take action.  Any action. He needs to do something about this now. Right now.

Now!

Stiffly, under compulsion, Tarn starts to get up; as soon as his aft's cleared the seat, however, Kaon's voice catches his attention, pinning him in place mid-motion:

"Where are you going?"

Tarn looks up at once; puzzlingly, Kaon doesn't look alarmed – just curious.  Struggling for several seconds to break through the mental fog that’s flooded his processors, Tarn fails to come up with a response to the question – for himself, or for Kaon.  Baldly disarmed, he simply stares back, stuck and embarrassed by his apparent transparency.

The dead end is potently sobering.

Without a word, Kaon bends down to rub at the Pet – effectively giving Tarn space.

Across the table, the fog clears from Tarn's mind almost as quickly as it came, but uncomfortable thoughts linger behind; if he can't keep the visitor out – if he can't control his addiction – then he's no better than any common beast, organic or otherwise, both slaves in equal measure, as far as he sees it, to their biology or memetic ancestry.  Lesser beings.  Pathetic.

And Tarn is more than that.

"Go, if you need to," Kaon says eventually, angling his helm up and laying his hand on the table in front of him, "or stick around."  He smiles, one side of his mouth curling upwards a bit more than the other.  It's different.  "I suspect you could use the latter, though, and...I really don't mind repeating myself."

Ah.

Tarn's optics stay locked on Kaon's face for just a klick longer, internalizing the sincerity there, and in that instant something finally falls into place – something about Nickel's suggestion from way back.  About keeping good company.  Frankly, it's amazing it never occurred to him sooner...

It was never about anything so simplistic and shallow as distraction.  It was about trust, and support – things they have as a team, but as individuals...?

Humbled, Tarn sits back down.

Beasts can’t learn, but Tarn does not classify himself a beast.

"I'll get us another round."  Kaon says and scoops up their glasses.

[officialleehadan]

Herbs and String

When Raeca saw Brendis again, he was dressed in robes from the desert, and for once, he wasn’t bleeding.

On reflex, she went for her growing collection of poisons, and their antidotes. If she couldn’t see what was wrong with him, there had to be something she couldn’t see.

“Raeca, Raeca I’m fine,” he laughed and caught her hand before she could make it to the locked little cabinet. She stared at him, now more alarmed, because ‘I’m fine’ on Brendis almost always meant ‘I’m dying but don’t want to admit it’ “Really! I don’t have anything worse than bruises, I promise!”

Raeca eyed him suspiciously, because the only time she ever saw Brendis was when he was halfway through Death’s door, and she had to drag him back to the living.

He didn’t look injured.

When she cast her magic around him like a net, she discovered several new charms, they ‘felt’ like Haroun, which was surprising, but good to see. Fortunately, it turned out that Brendis really was fine for once. His bruises were minor at the worst, and looked very much like someone had thwapped him with a staff at least once.

Haroun, no doubt.

And to think the pair of them thought they were enemies. Really. Men.

“You really are fine,” she said with some surprise. “Not that I’m not glad to see, you, but why are you here?”

“I brought presents!” he said cheerfully, and pulled several small wrapped packages out of his pack. “You’re always taking care of me and you never ask for anything in return.”

Raeca tilted her head, but took the presents as he pressed them into her hands. When she pulled away the wrappings, she discovered bottle upon bottle of rare desert herbs and oils. The sort of thing that never came as far north as their own capital, let alone her little village.

“These are worth their weight in rubies!” she yelped when she started reading labels and realized precisely what he had brought her. “Brendis, I can’t accept this!”

“Of course you can,” he said, and took the precous bottles out of her hands to be put away. “You’ve put me back together a dozen times, and managed to get me and ‘Roun talking again for the first time in centuries.”

“That was you,” Raeca protested, still staring at the wealth of new components and medicines. “And I’m a healer. I take care of everyone who comes through my door.”

“That’s the healer in you,” Brendis said, smiling softly at her in a way that did something funny to her heart. “But I don’t know anyone who could scold me, and chase Haroun around even knowing who he is, and come out of it having somehow healed the bond between us.”

“The only thing wrong with your bond was you both being stupid,” Raeca told him bluntly as she herded him outside towards her garden and the warm, sweet-scented herbs that grew there. Beyond the garden she had four hives of bees, all buzzing excitedly at the height of summer. “If you stopped to talk it out, you would have settled things years ago.”

“But we didn’t,” Brendis persisted, and held a basket for her as she cut handfuls of herbs for drying. “I don’t even know if we could. It seemed that every time we tried, every time we were somehow on the same side, something would happen to rip us apart again.”

“Haroun says it’s Calliope doing it,” Raeca pointed out, her hands full of heady rosemary and lavender. “I don’t know what to think.”

“I don’t either,” Brendis admitted quietly, and sat nearby as she worked. “I wish I could say I don’t believe him, but there are things… my memories aren’t straight, you know? I remember people, but I don’t always remember when I met them, or which life it was, but Calliope, she always knows.”

“Does she remember before you?”

“Usually. It’s the prophesy that triggers the memories of Before. The first time we hear it, we remember. Because she’s usually born noble, she hears the songs and legends before I do. I don’t know about Haroun.”

“He carved a message to himself in the Mage Academy.” Raeca actually knew the answer to that one. She was well into Haroun’s journals. “For when he starts his magical training. Everyone reads it, but the message only means something to him. As soon as he sees it, he knows where to find his journals.”

“Figures that he’s all organized about it,” Brendis complained, but he was smiling. “I should have known. Anyway, I’ve never asked Calliope how she does it. She gets… very uncomfortable when we talk about our prophesy. I learned to leave it alone.”

“That doesn’t seem healthy,” Raeca murmured. “But you aren’t sure? About what he says I mean?”

“It was one thing he said that struck a little too close to home,” he said, and came over to help when Raeca started binding bundles of leaves with string to dry. “About Calliope.”

“Oh?”

“That she’s jealous.”

“Oh.”

That really wasn’t a surprise, honestly. Raeca had seen it for herself in the possessive way the queen talked about Brendis.

He was always hers, and the queen didn’t hesitate to make that point painfully, pointedly, clear.

Even to Raeca. Especially to Raeca, in fact, for all that she came at the topic more delicately than she could have.

It was true that Raeca was a little bit in love with Brendis. He was easy to love, especially like this, calm and cheerful in her garden.

“Well,” she said, and let that thought go into the gentle summer breeze. There was no point in hanging up her hopes on a hero who already had a Destined Love. “Can you ask her? I mean, she wants out of your prophesy too, right?”

“I don’t know,” Brendis said quietly, and stole a few more ties for the herbs. “She’s never been… I don’t know. The Temple worships her, and she always seems to hesitate when the prophesy comes up.”

“You think maybe she likes the power?”

“I think I can’t say that she doesn’t and that’s what makes me wonder. She’s killed Haroun often enough, and never showed him mercy, even when she could have.”

“Is immortality that heady?”

That got a snort of laughter out of him, and he shrugged off his long robe. “I don’t think so, but I’m usually born poor, and spend most of my time dying for the cause. You know the oldest I’ve ever been was thirty-four?”

Only six years older than he was now. Barely old enough to settle down and have some peace. “Really?”

“Mm. I outlived the other two that time. It was three- no four, lives ago. I don’t even know who died first. One of them managed to collapse the castle, and they both died before I could get to them.”

Raeca looked down at her herb-stained hands and let herself grieve for them. All three of them. No one deserved that kind of tragedy. “But you lived?”

“I made it eight years,” Brendis said, and smiled fondly at the memories of that life, years long past. “Eight years of quiet. Just hunting monsters. The occasional bandit band. I built a house.”

“Is it still there?” It had been a long time, but it was possible. “Your home?”

“No,” his smile got sad around the edges again. “By the time I came around again, it was gone. Burned, like all the other places I’ve loved.”

Like death, fire haunted him. Sometimes, especially in their earlier lives, it was Haroun’s work.

Now she was beginning to wonder. Too many things just didn’t add up. If it wasn’t Haroun killing Brendis, it had to be someone else, and there was only one person who had the very long memory needed for that sort of grudge.

There were people in this world who could fight, and win against immense odds.

Raeca wasn’t one of those. She was one of the people who helped her hero stay sane while he battled against evil, and fought to find some sense of home.

Some battles couldn’t be fought with a sword.  

“Come inside,” she said, rather than voice that particular thought. If she said it out loud, it would be real, and if it was real… “I was planning to make soup, but if you go get me a bird, I’ll make us a proper dinner.”

 +++

Never Free:

Round and Round Again

Mistaken Step

Spinning Wheel

Stronger Together

Tea and History

Girl Talk

History Past

Dizzy Spell

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Fantasy Masterlist

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[thewildheroine]

Fly Away |Twenty-Five|

Warnings: Injury (pretty severe), medication use (opioids), sickness/vomiting, angst. 

Word Count: 3.7K

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

A/N: Really quick I want to say how thankful I am to all my followers who were patient while I was on such a long hiatus. It’s so nice to have just come back and to already be receiving your guys’ encouragement again. As always I hope you enjoy this next part!🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

|Masterlist|

|Part Twenty-three|  |Part Twenty-Four|  |Part Twenty-Six|

____________

Gently, I tilt the mug in my hand back and forth, making the hot green liquid twirl. The string holding onto the bag of leaves inside is wrapped around my fingers, tightening and loosening consistently. Without much thought, I take control of the steam rising from the porcelain and start making intricate designs with it. Next to me, Peter is carefully holding my free hand to ensure that I don’t experience any more pain.

During our escape, when I used Peter’s web shooter, a ligament in my wrist tore, preventing me from moving it as much as I would like. That’s one of five things Stephen identified that I was suffering from. The others being a twisted ankle, a bruised diaphragm which has caused bruising on some of my upper torso, a concussion, and a fractured collar. Three of those were consequences of being tossed through the portal at thirty or more miles per hour and landing hard. The other was caused by the spell the zealots used when they arrived at the base. Strange explained that the only reason I hadn’t experienced pain sooner was because of all the magic flowing through me.

Strange’s cloak has draped itself across my shoulders, acting as a guardian for me against the thousands of zealots who wait beyond the bulwark the relic’s master has created. It has also turned itself into a sling for me while Stephen tries finding me something else to keep my collarbone from becoming even more troublesome. Before I’m able to lift the mug to my lips on my own, the Cloak of Levitation wraps one of its corners around the handle and raises it to my lips. I chuckle lightly, fearing to much laughter may cause more pain in my abdomen, and accept the gesture.

“Thank you,” I say after taking a small sip of the tea. It slips down my throat smoothly, bringing relief where there used to be pain.

“How,” Peter begins shaking his head in disbelief, “did you manage to get this hurt.

“Believe it or not, when you don’t have an increased healing rate on your side you tend to procure a lot more injuries,” I retort without swiveling my head to look at him.

“I got that but this,” he drones, “seems like a little much, don’t you think?” I shrug and wince, the movement causing a sharp pain to shoot through my chest. Peter stops wrapping the elastic bandage around my wrist, his eyes scanning every inch of my collarbone to make sure I didn’t make the fracture worse.

“Don’t worry Peter,” I reassure. “I’ve been through worse.”

“I know you think that makes this better,” Peter states and goes back to tending to my sprained wrist, “but it really doesn’t.” While he’s pulling the bandage around my thumb I steal a peek at him. Peter’s hair, which is usually combed neatly, has turned wavy atop his head and strands have fallen over his eyes. For the first time, I see how rigid he is, like he’s on constant alert. The hairs on his arms a standing straight up, always reminding him of the dangers outside.

“Sorry,” I mumble, averting my eyes from him before he can look up at me. For a second I can feel Peter’s warm brown orbs on the side of my face, trying desperately to see through me, to see through the fog that’s filling me up. His eyes drop though, telling me that he can’t read me right now.

“Here,” Stephen suddenly announces as he enters the living room. In his hands, he’s holding a black sling and a pill bottle. When he’s close enough I read the label. Opioids.

“I’m not taking those,” I assert. Stephen ignores me though and shoos the cloak away. Although it releases my arm it still remains on my shoulders, keeping its position as my guardian. I glare on as Strange gently pulls the sling around my arm and shoulder and straps the two ends together. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the slight shaking of his fingers even as he works so diligently.

“You need to,” he finally replies. His voice is patient as are his eyes. “They help with the pain, Y/N.” I scoff and shake my head. All three of us are silent a moment, the air becoming thick with anxiety and frustration.

“How’d you do it?” I whisper, changing the subject. “How’d you trick everyone?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he tries.

“Sure,” I hiss back. “You just accidentally made me believe you were dead.” Strange bites the inside of his mouth and steps backward. Maintaining eye contact, he takes a seat in an old yellow chair that has been marked with black ink stains.

“However hard it may be to believe, that is the truth.” He leans forward a bit. “You didn’t see it all, Y/N, but you’re the reason I am okay.” I say nothing in return. “When your consciousness went to protect me it gave me enough time to use the time stone by acting as a shield.” Suddenly, something hums inside of me. I feel a pulse of energy race through every nerve in my body, like the mention of an infinity gem has filled me up with magic.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I reason. “If you used the time stone to reverse what happened to the Sanctum doesn’t that mean you would’ve bought more time for us too.” I look to Peter who seems to be thinking just as hard as I am about the situation. “It would've turned back the clock on everything if you used it all of the sudden like that.”

“Well I did something to,” he moves his head side to side, debating internally on how to phrase his next words, “enhance the spell.”

“Strange?” I grumble.

“It wasn’t anything that would ruin the space-time continuum hopefully,” he explains.

“Hopefully?”

“All I did was combine the spell that summons the mirror dimension and the spell that reverses time to save the Sanctum and send the zealots away. You don’t need to worry.”

For a moment I’m at a loss for words. My brain tries to reason, tries to explain why that can’t happen. It goes from place to place, summoning up information from old books my father had me read until they were branded into my mind. I open my mouth to say something to refute his claim but no words come out so I shut my mouth and swallow.

“That’s possible?” I say quietly, more curious than ever about magic. In front of me, Stephen shrugs smugly, a proud smile plastered to his face.

“There’s a reason I’m in line to be Sorcerer Supreme, Y/N.” I scoff again, only this time it doesn’t hold the same venom as before.

“But then-” Logic stirs up a mess in my mind again.

“Then it should have targeted all the zealots and sent them to the mirror dimension,” Strange finishes and I nod in agreement. “I could only use it at a small scale before passing out. That’s why I didn’t come help you two. Even when I was retaining a little consciousness I could barely manage to cast a good illusion on the Sanctum.”

“How much energy did you have to harness?” I ask curiously. Again, the Cloak of Levitation lifts the steaming mug to my face so that I can take another sip.

“Most of the energy in an entire dimension.” I choke on my tea right away, making the liquid burn more than heal. Pain shoots straight through my diaphragm and sternum. The bruises and cuts ache and all I can do is groan at the intense pain. Tears rim my eyes that have begun burning just as much as everything else.

“Y/N,” Peter calls before hastily giving every injury a once over. “Are you okay?” he asks, fear edging his voice. I nod and sit back up, directing my attention to Strange.

“You have got to be the biggest idiot ever,” I growl in a raspy voice. “That could’ve killed you.” Stephen doesn’t retort though. His attention is on my pain just as much as Peter’s is. I catch the way his hand instinctively goes to grab the narcotics. Flicking my wrist despite the pain, I send the bottle shooting across the room. It smacks right into a wall and little blue and white capsules go flying.

“No,” I reassert to him. Stephen doesn’t look at the pills. The only evidence he needs to know that they have been scattered all over the floor is the sound of them rolling around. His eyes stay on me, resembling the same look he had to the first time we met. Annoyance and fatigue all wrapped up in his calm irises.

“Peter,” he says. Next to me, Peter’s head reluctantly turns away from my stiff body and towards the sorcerer across from us. “Could you start running a bath for Y/N?” Peter looks from Stephen to me and then back to him before nodding. His presence on the couch suddenly disappears when he stands and walks down the hall.

“I can’t take those, Stephen.” My mentor rolls his eyes and gets up. His tall figure trudges towards the pills so that he can start picking them up.

“Can’t or won’t?” he wonders calmly.

“Can’t,” I declare confidently. He turns towards me just enough to make eye contact.

“Why?” he continues. I hiss to myself, wishing that he’d just accept what I’m saying. Although he doesn’t use his words to push any further I can feel his persistence in the air, floating around like some sort of disease.

“Because I need to be able to fight.” Stephen chuckles while walking back towards his chair, the pill bottle in his scarred hand again. One of his eyebrows is raised out of immature amusement that makes anger boil in my throat.

“Fight?” he questions. “You think you’re going to be able to fight better by not taking medicine?” I roll my eyes and look away.

“I think they’ll make me weaker,” I tell him, my voice purely monotone out of fear that if any emotion is there Strange may use it against me.

“And why can’t you be weak?” His voice, although stern as ever, has an uncharacteristic softness thriving within it. For a moment I believe that it may be pity. Then my mind jumps to worry, or sadness, or sympathy but even those don’t seem like the right word. It’s a tone I’ve only ever found in ancient dreams which I let go of a long time ago.

I swallow down the pain and hurt and cast my gaze down. “Because I need to fix this…. Because this is my fault,” I admit finally. When Stephen doesn’t ask for more I go on. “Every minute I go through this process of trying to pinpoint the exact moment I caused all this. I’ve gone back to so many different things, Stephen. When I saved that kid, when I killed that sorceress, training with you guys, joining you guys. I’ve thought back to messing with my magic and lineage, going to the park to meet Peter and so many other things.”

These memories keep coming to me. Ones I’ve spent years keeping out. My first kill, my first spell, my first step. I’ve thought of-” I stop myself before I continue. I question whether this is something I want to take out of the closet. Something I want to reveal to Stephen. “When I created the-the fourth Sanctum.” I can’t muster to courage to look at him.

“It was a month after my dad left me and I was suffering. I was alone and hungry and I needed some sort of hope. I needed my parents,” I confess. “One day I used my powers to try and bring them back but something happened. I was never able to figure out what until my dad told me.” Strange still doesn’t speak. “That’s when I realized that everything- everything I have ever done… it was all wrong. It all contributed to the undeniable evidence that this is my fault. I created the place that was every sorcerers’ Achilles heel. I brought the zealots right to the few people who could stop Dormammu. My life is the reason all of this is happening.”

I take a break finally to wipe at the small tear that had fallen from my eye. It rolls down my thumb, creating a shiny line of salty water. Strange still doesn’t speak to me and I finally force myself to look up at him. His expression hasn’t changed. He still has that same, absolutely unreadable look.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he begins in a soft voice, “that maybe none of this is your fault?” I can’t help the sarcastic laugh that comes out of my throat.

“You can’t be serious,” I reply.

“But I am.” Strange stands from his spot. He tosses the pill bottle back and forth in his hands. “It wasn’t your fault for wanting to please your father by doing what he asked. It wasn’t your fault for being lonely and wanting your parents back. It wasn’t your fault deciding to live at the base when that was the only place you knew you had. Your father’s faults are not your own, Y/N.” I’m shocked to see Stephen extend his hand towards me again, the pill bottle patiently waiting.

“You are a good person, Y/N,” he proclaims. “A hero. Me, the Avengers, Peter, and everyone who has ever had the opportunity to truly know you are proud. So take the damn pills.”

I look up at Stephan, as intrigued as a person can get. Still, I try to read him and understand the absolute kindness and care he is showing me. I come up with nothing except for more confusion though.

Hesitantly, I raise my bandaged hand towards the orange bottle. Strange watches attentively to be positive that I’m not casting some sort of illusions. There’s no point in trying though. He sees right through every trick I’ve got.

“Fine,” I mumble and snatch the bottle away from him. I think he’ll look victorious the moment I do, but Strange still only has the soft expression that I can’t recognize. “As soon as I’m even a little better we are saving them though.”

Stephen smiles and nods. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.

____________

Warm water covers my body. Suds create beautiful, swirling designs in the tub that curl around my legs and arms as though the four limbs are apart of the art. The single mirror here is covered in a thick layer of steam that blurs anything that happens to be reflected in it. A green bathrobe that looks like it has been taken straight out of a hotel is hanged on the creaky door.

While I took my sling and bandages off I still force myself to keep my arms in the same position, knowing by now that moving them will just inflict even more pain upon myself. However, I do feel the medicine kicking in. My injuries feel much better now. The pain in my collarbone and chest has turned to subtle aching I expect to go away in no time. On the other hand, I feel like someone keeps running knives through the inside of my stomach just for the fun of it.

I push away the thought before I can linger on it too long and pull out the tub’s plug. As the drain swallows the soapy water, I step out carefully not to slip on the neatly arranged tiles. Five injuries are already enough.

Thankfully I manage limping to my robe before I can suffer from any more mishaps. Tugging it on I find myself appreciating the warmth.. The sleeves hang five inches past my wrists so to accommodate I carefully roll them up, still making sure to mind my collarbone and hand. Then I look at the bandage and sling, both of which lay aimlessly on the toilet seat.

I try and think of how to get them both off without assistance. Testing to see if that’s even a possibility I move my shoulder a bit. The moment I do pain bolts through my bones.

Then I decide to use my magic. Slowly, I begin stirring it up inside of me, pulling as much energy as I need from the world to control both items. Blue magic slithers from my fingertips, acting on little command. A small grin splinters across my lips when the light lifts my sling into the air, the bandage not too far behind. Both coils work simultaneously; one wrapping the bandage around my wrist the same way Peter did and the other sliding the sling on.

Once they’re done, the coils fizzle out. The sparks jump onto the ground and I stare on happily. When I do though, I feel my stomach contract again, signaling to me that the nausea I was suffering from minutes ago has worsened.

I stumble to the toilet, knowing full well what’s coming. Again my stomach convulses and I feel hot, acidic bile being forced up my throat. Before it can happen again though, I slam open the toilet and cough up the very little food I’ve eaten the past day. Once that’s gone all that’s left is acid that burns my already sore throat on the way up. My aching hands cling desperately to the toilet bowl as more and more is released from inside of my body. After a few minutes I start to believe that it may be slowing down, but then I feel my abdomen shudder, sending needles through my diaphragm and pushing a choked gasp from my mouth along with even more vomit.

Then there’s a knock. “Y/N?” Peter’s voice calls from beyond the bathroom door. I open my mouth to respond but instead more of my insides spill out. He calls once again, but this time I don’t even bother lifting my head from the toilet.

Behind me, the door opens and I listen as Peter immediately races toward me. His hands comb through my hair, pulling the wet strands back to keep them from getting dirty from my own puke. Peter’s other hand goes to rub my back, drawing wide circles over my aching back.

After what seems like hours of spewing everything that was in my stomach into the toilet bowl I moan tiredly, lethargy sweeping over my weak body. Peter’s hands remain comfortably wrapped around my waist as I twist a little to look at him. My lashes are awfully heavy and the sleepy tears collecting over my eyes has turned Peter into a warped, blurry mess.

I shake my head and laugh sadly. Peter’s blurred face tilts before I see a tan figure reach towards my face and brush one more strand of hair away.

“How unlucky do you have to be to end up loving me,” I comment randomly, another low laugh coursing through my raw throat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asks. I can’t help but start crying at the innocence of his sweet, kind voice. The way it wraps me up in a blanket of security.

“You,” it comes out more slurred than I hoped it would. “Peter Parker, you thought you were getting-”

“I knew what I was getting,” he interrupts softly. I shake my head and place my bandaged hand on his smooth face. While my fingers are there they trace the line of his cheekbone, his jaw. They curl into his hairline, wanting so badly to feel something as soft as his voice.

“No-no you didn’t. Peter,” I explain, “you thought you were getting the girl who saved a little boys life. Not the girl who is probably the most damned-by-god person out there. Not me, not me. You deserve so, so, so much more Peter. I know that because I love you,” I admit through slick tears. “I love you so much, Peter Parker. You’re my hero. You’re the first person I loved and who loved me back and you deserve so much better than me.”

Peter is silent for a moment and I begin fearing in the part of my brain that’s still wide awake that he may actually be considering it. Tears spill from my reddened, sore eyes silently now.

Finally, Peter leans forward and presses a kind kiss to the middle of my forehead. His hands hold the bottom of my face tight, his palms curling around the line of my jaw to make sure I don’t run. When he breaks away he places his head against mine. I look into his blurred eyes as he looks into mine. I wish I could make out every detail of his brown irises like I usually can. In an attempt to do so I call upon memories in which we were close like this. Ones where I can see the deep lines running away from his pupils. Ones where the sun shines down on him, turning chocolate to honey.

I beg for those memories but my mind is rattled and messy and all I can think of are feelings. The winter breeze leaving a moment so that the sun can curl around us. The pads of his fingers falling up and down my arms. My heart, racing in my chest, anticipating his next move, hoping for everything he has to offer.

“When will you realize,” he wonders to me, his voice small yet so impossibly powerful in my mind, “I just want you. I love you.” Then my tears are falling rapidly, ruining my vision even more as he pulls me closer. Fatigue slips further and further into my mind so that I barely feel the way he scoops me off the ground. My legs instinctively wrap themselves around his waist to keep from falling. Peter cradles me while he steps out of the bathroom and into the dimly lit halls.

I tuck my chin into the space between his neck and shoulders and whisper right into his ear, “Why?”

“Because you’re my hero,” Peter declares.

Then sleep takes over and I go numb.

____________

A/N: Fun fact: no one will be getting a break until the final three chapters. Sorry.🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤 

Comment below or send me an ask if you would like to be tagged.🖤🖤🖤

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[jennycalendar]

imperfections (53/?)

read it on ao3!

GOD. OKAY. i am two chapters ahead and have officially entered the section of the fic that uses canon as more of a suggestion than a direct plotline. look forward to some messy family drama and a lot of emotional conversations.

not that this chapter has a shortage of that either, tho.

By the time Buffy returned from her usual patrol, the Scoobies had found a handful of articles on fear demons, as well as a few books detailing how to stop them. The only problem with this, however, was that none of the fear demons described were as subtle or as insidious as the situation that was happening in Sunnydale.

“There’s always the possibility that this really is just Sunnydale paranoia going horribly wrong,” Giles was saying as Buffy entered.

“Oh no,” said Ms. Calendar. “No, no, no. Remember what you said in the hallway? You said I’m always right about everything and you should listen to me.”

���Jenny, your argument is the most convincing one,” said Giles, looking up from his book with a tired frustration, “but even after countless hours of research, we’ve found little to no evidence that would support demonic involvement.”

“I might have to poke a few holes in your argument there, Giles,” said Buffy, striding up to the table. “What do we know about these kids?”

“What?” said Giles, setting his book down.

“Facts,” said Buffy. “Details.”

“They were found in the park,” Willow began helpfully.

“No,” said Buffy. “Where do they go to school? Who are their parents?” She paused, looking around, and saw that her instincts had been correct: not a single one of her friends had an answer to give her. “What are their names?”

“My mom’s been talking about those kids nonstop,” said Cordelia uneasily. “But she’s never once mentioned any names.”

“It never came up,” said Faith. “At all.”

“I assumed someone else had the details,” said Giles, looking bemused. “I suppose I never really…”

“We need info,” said Ms. Calendar. “Willow, pull up some newspaper articles, see if anyone ID’d the kids.”

“On it,” said Willow obligingly, taking Ms. Calendar’s place at the computer.

Ms. Calendar stepped up to Buffy, giving her a small, tense smile. “How’s your mom?”

“Well, let’s put it this way,” said Buffy, her stomach twisting at the thought of some of the things her mom had said, “I sure as hell hope that it’s some kind of fear demon pulling her strings.”

“Two Children Found Dead, Mysterious Mark,” Willow read aloud, then frowned. “No, wait, that’s from fifty years ago.”

“Keep going,” Xander added.

“Wait,” said Giles. Then, in a very different tone of voice, “Jenny, Buffy, come here and look at this.”

Exchanging a puzzled look, Buffy and Ms. Calendar obliged, stepping up to peer at the computer screen. From behind her, Buffy heard Ms. Calendar’s low whistle, and found herself extremely agreeing with the sentiment. “Those are the same kids,” said Buffy. “How are those the same kids?”

Willow loaded up the next page. “1899,” she read, eyes wide. “Utah. Rural Community Torn Apart by Suspicion.”

“A hundred years ago?” said Giles, confused. “How is this possible?”

“Oh, it goes way past a hundred years,” said Ms. Calendar suddenly. “Willow, can you scoot?” Willow scooted, and Ms. Calendar took her place, typing furiously. Information flew across the screen faster than Buffy could keep track of it.

“Jenny, would you mind slowing down a bit?” said Giles, leaning over her shoulder.

Ms. Calendar stopped on a German article. “1649,” she said with satisfaction, then squinted at the print. “My German’s a little rusty. Rupert, can you…”

“Of course,” said Giles, tilting his head and reading the article himself. “It was written by a cleric from the Black Village. He apparently found their bodies himself. Two children…”

“Greta and Hans,” Ms. Calendar finished, at which point she and Giles exchanged a Look.

“So they have names,” said Xander. “That’s new.”

“Do you think—” said Giles.

“Greta and Hans,” said Ms. Calendar with meaning. “Hans and Greta.”

Buffy cleared her throat. “Anything you guys wanna share with the class?” she said.

“Some folklorists believe that certain regional stories have very, ah, literal antecedents,” said Giles.

Buffy blinked.

“Fairy tales are real,” said Ms. Calendar.

“Hans and Greta,” said Faith, and then her eyes went wide. “Oh, shit.”

“Jenny’s paranoia theory was entirely right,” said Giles proudly, knocking Ms. Calendar’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Ms. Calendar. “I kinda thought that whatever we were up against was using the deaths of those kids as a way to screw with the minds of people in the town. From what we’ve found out, it looks very much like the demon is the kids.”

“It feeds on our darkest fear,” Giles added. “Turns peaceful communities into vigilantes.”

“And the leader of those vigilantes is my mom,” Buffy finished, horrified. “We have to talk to her!”

“I’ll go with you—” began Ms. Calendar.

“Absolutely not,” said Giles. “You’re already on their witch list. I’ll go with Buffy, and you—” He hurried to a stack of books on the table, pulling one out and handing it to her. “Chapter seven, I think,” he said. “It should make the demon appear in its true form. I’ve supplies at home in the study.”

“Cool,” said Ms. Calendar, and gave him a quick kiss. “Beep me when you need me, ‘kay?”

Giles gave Ms. Calendar a worried smile in return, then turned to Buffy. “To your mum’s, yes?” he said.

This was when Michael from Willow’s coven tumbled in, sporting a black eye and a bloody lip. “I was attacked!” he gasped.

“Oh, no, by who?” Willow gasped, hurrying forward to support Michael.

“My dad,” said Michael miserably. “Him and some of his friends. They’re taking people out of their homes—talking about a trial at City Hall. They got Amy.”

“Giles, we have to get to my mom,” said Buffy.

But Giles’s eyes were on Willow and Ms. Calendar. “Anyone who’s even close to being a witch, stay here,” he said sharply. “Jenny, that goes for you too. Don’t go home, don’t get anything, just—”

“Oh, you are not pulling this!” objected Ms. Calendar, infuriated.

“Jenny,” said Giles. “There is a stark difference between me being overprotective and me making sure the angry mob doesn’t put you on witch trial.”

Ms. Calendar opened her mouth, glared, and shut it. “Fine,” she said. “Fine!”

Giles muttered a few words, and the books once again vanished, leaving only the book in Ms. Calendar’s hands. “We’ll get to Joyce and get the spell together,” he said. “Stay safe.” And with that, he hurried out of the library, Buffy at his heels.

So absolutely nothing went according to plan.

“Buffy,” Willow was saying, her voice squeaky and urgent. “Buffy!”

Buffy stirred, wincing. Her head ached, and were those ropes digging into her stomach? As she opened her eyes, she was met with an angry mob, all of them holding torches and surrounding…oh no.

“So they got to the library,” said Ms. Calendar helpfully, her voice thin. She was tied to a stake at the far end of the room. “Can’t wait to tell Rupert all about how his bright idea ended up with us all tied to stakes. You know. If we don’t get burned alive.”

“Great pep talk,” said Amy sarcastically.

“Hey, B,” said Faith from the stake next to her. “Think Cordy and the guys got away, if that helps.”

“Not really,” said Buffy, wincing. At the front of the mob, she saw her mom, looking impassively up at her. “Mom!” she called. “Mom, you don’t want to do this—”

“When has it ever mattered what I want?” said her mom matter-of-factly. “All I wanted was a happy, normal daughter, and I got a Slayer.”

“Torch,” said Mrs. Rosenberg helpfully, handing Buffy’s mom a torch.

“Can you get loose?” Faith asked Buffy.

“They tied me pretty tight,” Buffy answered, but struggled anyway. The ropes didn’t loosen. “Willow, Ms. Calendar, you guys got any witchy tricks up your sleeve?”

“I’m a theorist!” Ms. Calendar burst out.

“And the most I can do is float pencils,” Willow added, sounding miserable about it.

Buffy’s mom had lowered the torch to the kindling, and a fire was beginning to start around them. “We need an exit strategy,” said Buffy through her teeth to Ms. Calendar.

“Working on it!” Ms. Calendar seemed to be trying to jostle her pager free. This only kind of worked. It did fall out of her pocket—and right into the flames. Ms. Calendar cursed violently in a language that Buffy didn’t know, which made more than a few torches turn in her direction.

That gave Buffy an idea. “That’s right!” she shouted at the crowd. “Be afraid! Be—uh, be very afraid, for if we die, your souls will be—”

“Cursed!” Faith chimed in. “Totally fuckin’ cursed and shit!”

“Maybe don’t yell at the angry mob, kids,” said Ms. Calendar tensely. “Really didn’t work in Salem.”

Amy then attracted a significant amount of attention by turning into a rat, scampering free of the fire, and running from the stake-burning.

“She couldn’t have done us first?” Buffy said indignantly.

Faith was still playing up the curse angle with a ridiculous amount of enjoyment for someone who was being burned at the stake. “Yeah, you in the back!” she was shouting. “You’re gonna have, uh, boils! Don’t look at me like that, you know where they’re gonna be—”

“Maybe we should leave,” said the subject of Faith’s curse in a high-pitched voice.

The air in front of Buffy’s mom shimmered, and then those two little kids were standing in front of the stakes. Oh, great,thought Buffy.

“But you promised,” said one.

“You promised to kill the bad girls,” said the other.

“Mom, dead people are talking to you,” Buffy persisted. “Do the math!”

“I’m sorry, Buffy,” said her mom placidly, like Buffy wasn’t a hair away from being really on fire.

The doors opened, and Giles, Xander, Cordelia, and Oz all hurried through, none of them noticed by the angry mob. Oz made a dive for the fire hose in the corner, Giles started getting his supplies ready, and Xander and Cordelia hovered apprehensively at the back.

Oz broke the glass. This got the crowd’s attention. “Stop them!” Joyce shouted, right as Oz turned the fire hose in Willow’s direction. Giles was frantically reciting in some language that sounded kind of like German; Ms. Calendar seemed to be trying to shout over the angry mob and correct his pronunciation.

“This is a mess,” said Faith conversationally to Buffy. “You wanna get milkshakes after?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Buffy without thinking, then stopped. Blushing, she glanced over at Faith (who was giving her a small, crooked smile), not quite sure what to add as a qualifier. It’s not a date, she thought, but…honestly, she kinda wished it was. It felt weird to hammer home a point when it wasn’t a point she really wanted to make. And what did that mean for her and Faith, if—

Buffy’s semi-panicked thoughts were interrupted when the two kids morphed into one giant, terrifying demon, provoking screams from the now-much-less-angry mob and a relieved grin from Giles. Buffy’s mom blinked, then stared. “Oh my god!” she gasped. “Buffy!”

“Protect us!” the demon rasped. “Kill the bad girls!”

“You know what?” said Buffy brightly. “Not as convincing in that outfit.”

Rupert and Joyce freed Buffy first, careful to make sure the dead demon didn’t topple over and fall on all of them. Then Joyce went to untie Willow, Buffy untied Faith, and Rupert untied Jenny, who spent most of the process making cheerful jokes about A) bondage and B) I Told You Staying In The Library Was A Bad Idea. It was perhaps a mark of how exhausted Rupert was that he didn’t really argue with her; Jenny made a mental note to kiss him silly before bed. That usually helped.

Willow’s mom had left.

Jenny noticed this fact because, as she was rubbing the rope burn on her wrists, she saw that Willow’s gaze was directed towards Joyce and Buffy. Joyce was whispering half-sobbing apologies and kissing the top of Buffy’s head; Buffy was snuggled in her mother’s arms, smiling softly.

“Hey,” said Jenny, sitting down next to Willow on a patch of charred straw. “You okay?”

“She burned me at the stake,” said Willow quietly. “And I know Sunnydale’s weird, I know she won’t remember tomorrow, but…Buffy’s mom at least remembers right now, you know? My mom isn’t gonna hug me and kiss me and put burn cream on the places where my sneakers melted weird—”

“Let me see those sneakers,” said Jenny immediately.

Willow’s mouth trembled. Without a word, she stuck out her feet; there were indeed a few places where the tips of her sneakers were made of strange, liquid plastic. “They don’t hurt that much,” she said. “But they still hurt. And it’s not even that she doesn’t notice, Ms. Calendar—she’s just not there.”

“Let’s go home,” said Jenny quietly.

“I don’t wanna go home,” said Willow, her voice wobbling.

“Not to your mom,” said Jenny, feeling suddenly very grateful that she and Rupert had sprung for a house with an extra bedroom. “Rupert and I have more than enough space at our place, remember?”

Willow nodded, then tucked her face into Jenny’s shoulder. As Jenny carded her fingers through Willow’s hair, she noticed something else: Joyce, still hugging her own daughter, was giving her a small, approving smile over Buffy’s head.