#because good lord does he need to stay buried. for his sake

[mohavegecko]

ITS NOT JACK

[astaroth1357]

Yandere Demon Dating Game!!

Pick your sweet, sweet poison today!

Congratulations!! You, dear reader, have the exclusive opportunity to select a lover straight from the upper echelon of Hell! We've rounded up nine fantastic demon suitors all ready to take your hand for their own, completely stress free and with no awkward courtship! There is just one catch though, they already love you quite a bit… in their own demonic way. 

Please, browse our eagerly awaiting bachelors to your heart's content! Once you've made your choice, CLICK BELOW THE CUT to see who your new love gets to be!

Warning: Yandere Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Probably Some Implied Violence

All behavior described is for the purpose of fantasy and this is in no way an endorsement of performing any of this in real life!

Bachelor #1

Bachelor #1 could compare you to the moon and the stars but in his eyes not even those could compare to your radiance. You are the most precious being in existence and he’ll do everything in his considerable power to see your every need met! There’s not a thing between Heaven and Hell that he can’t provide for you and he’ll do so happily. You are, quite simply, his world.

But being a person’s everything can have some drawbacks… Bachelor #1 will only feel comfortable if he knows that you’re his. Really and truly in every way possible, and he’s not very used to rejection… at all. You won’t be able to overpower nor escape him, even if you could get some distance between you it’ll never last... Best resign yourself completely because he’ll own every part of you that he wants to... body and soul.

Bachelor #2

Bachelor #2 cherishes every bit of you and all that you stand for as someone truly without no equal. He’ll turn to you first on his rainy days and he’ll want to show you off on his sunny. He’ll never get enough of being with or worshipping you and only you. Flaws and insecurities be damned! He will love you with a depth that could rival the sea and a strength that even God couldn't break. He’d challenge anyone to try.

They’d all fail, of course. Bachelor #2 will know the most about you, even things you thought he never could… because he’s been following your every move. If he can’t be attached to your hip, then he’ll tail you like a shadow, keeping details meticulously stashed away in his mind.... Unfortunately, if you speak to anyone else that means he’ll know right away, and he’ll make it very clear how much he hates you giving your attention away so freely...

Bachelor #3

Bachelor #3's love is as pure and true as a fairytale. He wants nothing more than to shield you from all the horrors of the world, human or demon, and he's loyal to a fault. Truly, you could not be in safer hands. He'll do almost anything that you ask without complaint just to see you happy… He does so love to see your smile...

Now, Bachelor #3 would never hurt you, in fact, he’ll make sure that nothing ever will. Your smile is all he cares about and he’ll guard it with his life. So best keep that smile up because he won’t care to listen if he ever finds you sad. If you’re upset, then he’s upset, but he’ll express that through Pure. Destruction. It doesn’t matter who hurt you, you don’t get to stop him. You don’t get to argue. So just keep sitting and smiling for everyone else’s sake… Because if you’re smiling then you must be happy… right?

Bachelor #4

Bachelor #4 only wants you to see the best of him as he’d like to see the best of you! He sees within you more than just kindness, but a genuine potential to be everything he’s ever wanted. He loves you from the depths of his soul and he believes that you can do this! Though he may not say it, in his dreams, the two of you will be together forever. Happy and content no matter what life throws at you… but some things just take… adjusting.

Bachelor #4 wants only the best for you, you know? His words may sound harsh but he means well. He may lose his temper once in a while, but that’s just to make a point. He’d never hurt you, truly he’s never! But how else is he going to make you remember how much you need him? What about when you don’t listen?? Honestly, that independent streak of yours is going to have to go… Just follow the rules, love, please… This is all for you, you know?

Bachelor #5

Bachelor #5 wishes to discover all that he can about you, your every hope, dream, and interest. To him, you’ll be an endless fascination meant for his enjoyment alone. He’ll find every way he can to make you laugh or smile at a feverish pace and commit them to memory like it's etched in stone. He’ll never get enough of drinking in your reactions, truly you are a work of art!

But by every reaction, we mean every single one... Bachelor #5 wants to see it all, the good, the bad, and the genuinely harrowing. He’ll know your every hope as well as your every fear and will soak it in with delight all the same. It’s not his fault, love, really. When everything about you is just so captivating, how can he ever hope to look away? You’re strong enough to give him what he wants… aren’t you?

Bachelor #6

Bachelor #6 may love you quietly but make no mistake, the sheer intensity of his feelings are practically unrivaled by any other option before you today. He won’t be satisfied until you’re both seen as one whole, a package deal that no one would ever think to break. Life with him can be filled with nothing but softness and bliss, light touches and impassioned words, until the worlds fall down around you…

To clarify, the keyword here is “can.” Bachelor #6 will make one thing very clear, you are a package deal and that’s how you’ll stay. Where you go, he goes. If he doesn’t want to go, then you stay. Plain and simple. If you want to go, you stay. If others die, you stay. If the world ends, you stay. Even if it kills you, you stay. So why not just enjoy the bliss while it lasts?

Bachelor #7

Bachelor #7 wants only the best for you because he knows it’s what you most deserve. For anyone to catch his eye quite like you have, then you must be just that special and he’ll seek out every opportunity he can to make your life much sweeter. In essence, he’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could, including yourself, and he’ll take pleasure in making sure that your every need is met. You’ll want for nothing that you can have…

But you’ll never have your freedom back. Bachelor #7 sees no reason for you to be without him (however would you survive?) so he has it all planned out for you. You’ll be in the lap of luxury, the pinnacle of comfort, truly your new home is a magnificent gilded cage. He’ll treat you gently so long as you do the same for him. But even the nicest cages can be covered and forgotten if the owner so chooses… No matter how pretty their pet sings.

Bachelor #8

Bachelor #8 lives in worlds one can only dream of and yet you’re by far the best thing he could ever ask for. Try as he might, he can’t think of anything that really compares to you. Your magnificence is beyond the description of even the most skilled of poets… Truthfully, he hardly can stop thinking about you. You take up so much space in his mind that he can scarcely imagine his life without you in it...

So… he doesn’t. Bachelor #8 genuinely believes that you're the happiest couple in existence. Not, “you will be.” You are. And to his credit, his love is sweet and true even if he sees things slightly… obtuse. You won’t be able to reason with him because he buried logic a long time ago… He loves you and you love him, even if he gets upset, you love him. Even if he hurts someone… you love him. Don’t you?

Bachelor #9

Bachelor #9’s devotion to you will never be in question. He’s given himself to you wholeheartedly and would be thrilled if you were to do the same for him. He’s more than willing to throw everything aside for you and that’s not an honor he offers to anyone. Just know that he'll always be there to protect you and he'll do anything to prove his love to you… whether you know it or not.

And there's a good deal you won't know. Bachelor #9 will come across as the most heroic of the bunch, a true lifesaver, but don't be fooled. He isn't saving you from anything. Or, well he is but he’s behind the danger to start with. Not that you'll never know it mid-rescue, tucked up within his arms… you'll never feel safe without him. He'll make sure of that.

When you've selected your fine Bachelor of choice click the cut to see what lucky man you're taking home!

Bachelor #1: Diavolo

Aiming high aren’t we, reader? Congratulations, you’ve chosen the Prince of Hell! Being with Lord Diavolo will be a bit of a roller coaster so we hope you’re prepared. For as much as he has to offer he’s a little… demanding at times. Keeping up with a princely schedule will do that to a person. Just enjoy you gold and your gems when you can… you certainly won’t be getting much rest, that’s for sure.

Bachelor #2: Asmodeus 

So you’ve selected Asmodeus? Excellent choice, reader! Really, he’s among the safer options on this list as long as you don’t mind giving up some of your privacy. Well, okay all of your privacy but what’s yours is his and everything about you is his now. Please don’t get too upset, he’ll be nice! Just remember to keep those eyes where they belong, right~?

Bachelor #3: Beelzebub

It looks like you’ve chosen the ever-loyal Beelzebub! Wonderful selection, reader, clearly you care deeply about your own safety. We suppose the same can’t be said for anyone else, but hey? What’s a few black eyes and broken bones between friends? You can always stand to lose some family, can’t you? It’s all in the name of love after all.

Bachelor #4: Lucifer

Well, well reader, you’ve selected the eldest brother, Lucifer! You’ll be delighted to know that your new beloved will treat you as dearly as he would his own heart… so long as you follow his instructions and listen to his "advice." Even dogs can follow basic commands, so you can too… can't you?

Bachelor #5: Satan

Fantastic choice, reader! We're certain that you and Satan will make quite the happy couple! ...most of the time. He is a curious fellow and may need to "test" your limits from time to time but it's only because he adores you so much. No worries, it'll all be over soon… but then again, what is "soon" to a demon?

Bachelor #6: Belphegor 

Congratulations, dear reader, it seems you've picked the seventh brother, Belphegor! You can expect to spend long hours lazing with this dreamy demon, he'll want nothing more than to be around you… and he'll growl if you try to leave. Always remember, he'll make sure you stay in his bed one way or another...

Bachelor #7: Barbatos 

Very good choice, reader, picking the butler himself means you must obviously have some classy tastes. You really won't have to worry about much but… do you handle isolation well? Best hope so, he's a busy man and, frankly, you won't be going anywhere anymore.

Bachelor #8: Leviathan

Looking to make Leviathan's dreams of bliss a reality, are you? What a commendable endeavor, reader! We respect your choice. Though don't worry, you'll live up to his expectations. You don't get a say in the matter.

Bachelor #9: Mammon

A bit of a White Knight chaser, are you? Well your life won't be lacking excitement with Mammon! Back alley gangs, run away trains, suspicious fires, you name it and he'll be there for you. We're sure you'll be fine, you're in Mammon's hands! His very… "capable" hands. Why be concerned?

Did you make the right choice? 

Check out my Masterlist for other stuff I've posted.

[demonslayedher]

Buri-senpai~ it’s me again! It seems like the Kamado family was respected in town. How do you think the townsfolk would’ve reacted once they realized that Tanjirou hadn’t been visiting with charcoal, only to check up on the family where they see the wreckage. Perhaps Tanjirou had left a rushed note, noting how his family was attacked, how only he and Nezuko were alive, and how they won’t be able to visit for a very long time. If that’s the case, I don’t think Tanjirou will explain the cause 1/3

2/3 of the attack, but there’s a chance that Saburo would’ve eventually realized that a demon had attacked them. Also, side notes: if Kaigaku was still a demon slayer during the events of the red light district, do you think he would've heard about Zenitsu's contributions to the defeat of upper 6? I had read your amazing Ukogi fic and enjoyed the characterization of Kaigaku's crow embellishing his achievements as a slayer. I also enjoyed Matsuemon's fondness of Nezuko and it seems like

3/3 he was ‘conspiring’ (for lack of a better word) with Oyakata-sama behind the scenes, with how the events at Asakusa with Tamayo played out. I'm sure Tamayo's existence was pardoned by the Oyakata-sama of Yoriichi's time. Also, sorry for the length! I enjoy your input on everything!

Going to reply to this in a couple parts, but allow me to first borrow one of my LINE stickers to express:

I'll reply to the fic stuff under the cut, but I'm really honored by your close reading and consideration of one of my favorite fics, "The Legend of Ukogi." But first for your question about Tanjiro!

Honestly, I was surprised by the village's upkeep of their home, including nice new tatami and shelves which Nezuko noticed in the extended epilogue included the Volume 23 version of Chapter 204. I would had assumed they'd have a mess of a home to come back to (and wrote my canon diverent/continuation fic that way, for the first draft was written after Chapter 204's magazine publication but before Volume 23's publication). At least nowadays in Japan, uninhabited homes are often left as-is and fall to shambles, even in cities, causing problems for the neighbors as they become home to pests. Upkeep is an issue, and it seems unlikely the townspeople would had gone out of their way to keep the site of a tragedy so nice.

However, Gotouge seems to stress that the Kamado family, simply for being good people, were often humbled by being on the receiving end of such kindnesses. Even Sumiyoshi and Suyako were on the receiving end of this, as mentioned in a Taisho Secret in Volume 22, for having helped a local lord's wife and son while they were in peril without knowing who they were. Even though they tried to refuse reward, they made sure they had a nicely fixed up house anyway (side note, they moved in to Yoriichi's and Uta's abandoned house).

A sturdy house as returns for their kindness seems to be as much of a running theme in Kamado history as is Hinokami Kagura and making charcoal. We do see that Tanjiro is pretty popular among the townspeople and everyone knows they can rely on him, and if Tanjiro's highly biased word is to be trusted, Nezuko had a reputation as a local beauty. In good whether the little kids must had gone into town a bunch, and Tanjiro (and Inosuke's) continued charcoal business (despite the increasing reliance on electricity) in the Fanbook #2 extended epilogue shows that the Kamado family has always had a reputation for high quality charcoal. Certainly, they've been well-loved long enough that their tragedy would not go unnoticed.

As further evidence of this, in the Giyuu Gaiden, a hunter even notices that on a different mountain nearby there was a family of charcoal farmers slaughtered and a suspicious person in a half-and-half haori was seen around there. Clearly, the villagers were quick to notice the incident and start looking around for the man who might had done it!

But we're still left with the question of how quickly they'd have noticed the absence, how word got around, and just how much they knew. My initial thought in response to your Ask was "there's no way Tanjiro had time for that, he had bury his family and get Nezuko dressed and hurry and go!" but then again, this is Tanjiro we're talking about. Tanjiro who faithfully keeps a diary for Nezuko no matter how tired he is, and who faithfully keeps in touch with all his penpals even with all his demon slaying work to keep him busy. If anyone would had written a letter, it would had been him.

It's possible that his reasoning would had been for Nezuko's sake. Should word get around about the incident, and about Nezuko being a demon, people might suspect she was the one who did it. Even Tanjiro had to consider that possibility when he was first shocked by her transformation, though he had the evidence to clearly determine that she was innocent. So maybe if he did leave something, it might simply had been to inform people that Nezuko still needs help, and he's left to take care of her.

To the townspeople, Tanjiro's word is trustworthy. As soon as someone discovered the incident (and perhaps a letter), word would probably get around pretty fast, and if Tanjiro had circumstances that forced him to leave for Nezuko's sake, that implies that they might make a return once she was alright. That might be what inspired the townspeople, who cared for generations about their local charcoal farmers, to have their hearts wrenched with sympathy for the tragedy these two surviving children have been through, and to try to do what they can by taking care of the house while they're gone.

As for knowing if it was demons or not, it's possible only Saburo knew that. There's so much we don't know about Saburo, but my personal headcanon is that he lost his family to demons and was rescued by the Demon Slayers. While others might have been quick to blame the suspicious man in the half-and-half haori, anything said by Saburo, a man perhaps known for keeping to himself with a sullen personality, was dismissed or taken for mere superstition. Saburo, having told Tanjiro to stay with him that night, might had already felt something was off, and when the feeling kept bothering him, he might had gone to check on the Kamado family and been the first one to discover the massacre. Letter or not, he'd have known Tanjiro survived, and might had gotten there soon enough to trace the footprints to deduce to that one of the other older children must had survived too.

Now because of fic spoilers, Bird Fic commentary below!

As I was doing my best to make that fic fit alongside canon, I tried to consider where the birds might and might not been able to influence the events of canon, and that made Denroku (Kaigaku's crow) one of my favorite small bits to work with. Even though he never makes an appearance in the story (only mentioned as a slightly antagonistic bird), he struck me as having the most potential for influencing events.

Since we see a general pattern of the birds being very invested in the Slayer they work with, I imagined that Denroku would pick up on Kaigaku's ambitions. When he got in trouble for embellishing Kaigaku's achievements, that's when he tries the reverse, taking assignments into his own talons and leading to Kaigaku fighting an enemy out of his league. While most of the Kasugai-garasu would had immediately reported Upper Moon 1 so that a Pillar could be summoned, Denroku's underhanded drive to see Kaigaku promoted is what leads to a situation the Corp would had preferred to avoid.

And that brings us back to Matsuemon, who does his best to promote his underlings' achievements to get Tanjiro recognized as a Pillar. He is protective of Nezuko, having picked up on that from Tanjiro, but honestly, I had not considered Matsuemon leading to Tanjiro's encounter with Tamayo. Letting Oyakata-sama know about it, though, that does seem in character for Matsuemon, which we'll get to!

As for why Tanjiro encountered Tamayo so early on, I posited in this Ask that Oyakata-sama probably was hoping Tanjiro would make a connection with her. Gotouge has stated that the demon Tanjiro was sent to investigate in Asakusa was Tamayo. Like you, I assume that Kagaya's forefathers must had chosen to pardon her existence out of Yoriichi's good word for her, and we know from his later mention of her to Tanjiro and efforts to reach out to her later that he's probably always been curious about a way to gain her trust.

What probably gave him the idea to use Tanjiro, a kid with a demon sister, was Urokodaki's letter. We didn't hear the full letter read allowed at the Pillar meeting, but my thought is that Urokodaki wrote highly enough of Tanjiro that Kagaya was like, "aha! This is it! This might be the person who helps me gain Tamayo's trust!" and that was why he sent Tanjiro to Asakusa on his second mission. As for whether Matsuemon knew that or not, I suspect not initially, but he might had gotten aware of it overtime and been in on the loop of birds who know this but help keep it on the downlow, as per Oyakata-sama's request. Matsuemon might had also been given special instructions to report details to the Kasugai-garasu who initiated the personal correspondence between Oyakata-sama and Tamayo. Knowing this egotistical bird he probably would had loved to brag about it, but he's smart enough and respects the Corp mission enough to know when to keep silent about his achievements.

EDIT: Ack! I forgot to respibd to your Kaigaku question. I do assume Kaigaku was still a Corp member at that time and he probably heard and that it ticked him the hell off. Even if he didn't know the details, the fact that Zenitsu would had been credited with fighting an Upper Moon would tick him off with jealousy. Not to worry, Kaigaku, Upper Moon 6 is only the bottom rung of the Upper Moons. ; P

[shadyteacup]

Part two of Partners

Tw: None..only some fluff..

A plethora of muffled noises filled your ears. It felt as though you had been under water for as long as you remember, and had just peeked at the surface.  Your eyes were still closed, but you could see a white light above the surface. You push yourself to swim to the edge, towards that light. As you swam closer, the noises became clearer. Louder. It hurt your head. But you had to continue forward. So you pushed yourself to the surface.

Finally opening your eyes, it felt as though you had broken through the surface that was trapping you in a deep slumber. You were no longer under water. The voices became much clearer. You could hear multiple people. Some of whom you recognized.

You took in a deep breath, feeling the crisp air around you.

"Y/N?"

A silky voice said, right next to you.

You peered your eyes open a little more, fighting the sting of the brightness of your surroundings.

You could see a pale ceiling. And smell antiseptic. You were in the hospital.

Looking to your side, you were met with concerned brown orbs.

"Hey.." You smile at him.

All of a sudden, he hugs you. He buries his head in your neck, whispering an almost inaudible, "I almost lost you.."

You froze. You could smell his cologne. It was refreshing. Soft brown hair tickled your face as he stayed like that for a while. You didn't know what to do. You and Dazai have been friends for a really long time, and have hugged before. But this time it felt different. It felt deep and meaningful. You just stayed there, letting the feeling of his warm breath on your neck, his strong arms around your shoulders, and the concerned, timid tone of his voice sink in.

Abruptly pulling back, he stands up straight, facing away from you. Placing his hands in his pockets, he mumbles,

"I'll tell the others."

With that, he was out of the room in an instant.

You were so confused. Did he just hug you? Does he care about you? Did he fear losing you?

And what's this warm feeling? Do you like him?? Well, ofcourse you like him. But does he like you too?

"You're awake!"

Kunikida strides in, followed shortly by Yosano and Ranpo.

"I'm so glad!", Yosano says as she hugs you, kissing your cheek.

You hug her back, smiling at them.

"Hey, guys!"

Ranpo was quietly watching you.

"Hey Ranpo San.. "

He acknowledged you with a nod.

"Is everything ok??", you ask, worried about him.

His green eyes bore into yours.

"I was worried about you. Don't do that again. I missed you."

That was huge coming from him.

"Come here" you open your arms, inviting him for a hug.

You hugged the emerald eyed man child; Yosano forcefully pulling Kunikida along with her to join you guys. You lot bonded over a group hug.

"Y/N San!! Are you OK! I was so worried! I'm so glad you're awake!"

Atsushi rushed into the room, followed by Kyoka and Kenji, hot on his heels.

He and Kenji joined in the hug.The usually conserved Kyoka also jumped into the hug. You kissed their tiny heads, telling them how much you had missed them.

A few moments later, the president walked in, carrying a cup of tea for you. He said that he was glad that you were feeling better. The tea he had gotten had healing qualities, so he pretty much forced it down your throat.

"President, about the case.. What happened?"

The president filled you in.

The girl you two encountered, Sakura Yagami, wasn't the one that was kidnapped. She was an ability user who could mess with minds. She wasn't very experienced, but she had mastered the art of making her opponents see a different face when they saw her, making them believe that she was someone else entirely. Her height and build matched that of the girl that was taken. She used her ability to manipulate your mind, and make you believe that she looked like Aiko, the missing girl.

Sakura had used the help of light and shadows to mask majority of her features. Afterall, the ambush had taken place in a dark, abandoned warehouse, where there were no artificial sources of light. This resulted in half of her features being hidden in the shadows, making it difficult for Dazai, who wasn't affected by her ability, to recognize a different face. Most of the time, Dazai stayed behind Ito and Sakura, and hence never got a chance to properly inspect her facial features.

Meanwhile, Aiko has been kept in some hideout. The ability users will shortly be interviewed, and hopefully, the location of the missing girl will be known.

"I see. So she was the mastermind of the entire fiasco, not Ito."

"Correct."

The president then excused himself, along with Yosano and Ranpo, who had to carry out the interrogation.

Atsushi and Kyoka were forced out by Kunikida, who believed that they would only cause ruckus in here.

"Have you talked to Dazai yet?"

He asked you.

"Yes, and no."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I did get to say hi, but didn't get a chance to say anything more.."

"I see... He was very worried. The most worried, actually."

Oh?

"I'll go get him."

Kunikida left to get Dazai. He didn't return, only sending Dazai to the room.

Dazai walked into the room with a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.

"Y/N! Don't tell Kunikida, but I stole his glasses "

You giggled.

"You really don't change, do you?"

He grinned boyishly at you.

"Never!"

You hesitate to ask him, but you do anyways.

"Dazai, why were you so worried about me?"

He blinked for a moment, processing what you had asked him, choosing his next words carefully.

"Because you are a valued member of the organization, ofcourse!"

Your heart sank at his words. Maybe you had overthought. Maybe it was just one sided. You had always liked him. He had a certain aura around him that dragged you in. But you were never able to guage whether he liked you back. So you never said anything. You understood him, in a way. The darkness that he tries so hard to hide, is pretty easy to notice for you.

You have been through quite a lot, seen a lot, and have experienced a similar darkness. You used to be a part of that darkness too. But not anymore. Now, you were trying to heal. And so was he. You thought you understood him to a deep level, because you both were going through the same process; the process of healing. But maybe, you were reading a little too much. Maybe, there isn't anything in between the lines. Maybe, he doesn't get you, or maybe you don't get him at all.

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason!", there it was. Your own mask. Dazai was amazing at hiding his emotions behind a façade. But so were you.

"Ne, Dazai, what are you going to do with those glasses? Do you have anything planned? I want to join in the prank!"

You say, grinning at him.

He stays silent, observing your face.

"What are you thinking?"

He moves closer to you, seating himself on the chair next to your bed.

"Y/N.. I.."

His heart was thumping in his chest. It was beating so hard, he felt that at any second, it would jump out and start dancing on the floor.

He had seen your expressions just now. It was just for a split second, but you had let your guard down, and a variety of emotions had run through your eyes. He had seen that. He had seen the slight disappointment in your eyes when he had closed himself up from you.

Nobody understood him the way you did. Whenever he was having a bad day, you would always cheer him up. And not always in a traditional way, either. You could read his feelings. He felt like an open book when you were around. He couldn't hide his thoughts from you, even if he tried. You would accurately gauge what he was feeling, and do whatever you deemed would make him feel good. And it always worked. Sometimes, it was a random walk at 3 am, when he would text you telling you that he couldn't sleep.. Sometimes it was some stupid prank that you would devise, roping him in, and relieving him of the pent up stress he was experiencing. At other times, you would randomly show up at his house, carrying cans of crab, or bottles of sake and beer , distracting him from his dark thoughts. He didn't know how you managed to do that, how you always knew that he needed you, and what you needed to do to make him feel better. He really cherished having you in his life.

He had harbored a crush on you for months now. He hadn't said a word about it, fearing that all you felt for him were friendly feelings. He always held himself back, and had to control his urge to shout his feelings for you from the top of some building. He liked you so much, he knew it was love. Lord, you hadn't even started dating yet! Still, he knew he loved you. You are a unique, amazing person, and he couldn't imagine his life without you in it. So when you were hurt today, when you passed out from the pain, he almost lost it. He couldn't think straight. He doesn't even remember what he did afterwards. All he remembers is thinking ,'Please be ok, please be ok ' on repeat. His sole purpose was to get you to safety. When you had finally gained consciousness, he had let all his guards down. He couldn't help the overflow of relief that flooded his body at that moment. So he hugged you.

He thought that maybe this is the right moment to finally tell you how he truly felt. But what if you don't like him back?

No. He had seen your expressions. You could read him easily, but he could read you too. He knew now, for a fact, that you felt the same way. He had seen it on your face. But what if he's wrong?

Well, one must take a chance to know the result.

"I like you, Y/N."

He finally says.

You look at him wide eyed. Then start laughing.

"You're scaring me."

You wipe your tears.

"No, please don't misunderstand... I like you too! Oh my God, I was so worried! I thought you didn't like me back..."

You continued laughing. Dazai sighed in relief, happy to know that his feelings were reciprocated.

"How long have you liked me, Dazai?"

You ask him.

"How long have you liked me, Y/N?"

He countered.

"Ha! Don't turn the question on me! Answer me, first!"

Dazai stuck his tongue out, shaking his head like a child.

"No way. I bet you have been liking me for over a year now. I'm so charming, afterall!"

You gasp at that.

"Don't tell me.... you've been liking me for months now, haven't you!"

"Hah?? I never said that!"

"Oh, but you made it quite clear!"

"How so?!"

"You said 'you must've liked me for a year'!"

Dazai scoffed.

"That  doesn't prove anything!"

"It does! You tried to quote a time period greater than yours, to seem superior!" You exclaim, pointing your finger at him.

"It's simple psychology. You should know this by now.", you say smugly, smirking at him.

"You're a terrible person reader!"

"Seriously? 'Person reader'? Improve your vocabulary."

"Haah?! You tell me what it's called, then!"

"It doesn't matter what I say! You suck!" You stick your tongue out this time.

You two are children, I swear.

"I suppose you leave me no other choice."

Dazai smirks, leaning closer to you.

"Oh? And what are you going to do exactly? You lost. Accept it-"

He shut you up with a kiss.

Your face flushes a deep red, but you don't miss the light red that coated his cheeks.

"You're blushing!" , you say.

"That's funny coming from you!"

"I'm not blushing, idiot.. "

Dazai pinches your cheeks.

"Aww.. is my baby embarrassed?"

You push his hand away, annoyed at his antics.

"Oh my, you really are embarrassed! How cute of-"

This time, you shut him up. With a kiss. A slightly more heated one.

He just stares at you with wide eyes, a deep red tint on his face.

You smirk at him, proudly announcing your win.

You two continued bickering, until a nurse had forcefully shoved Dazai out, as he wasn't letting you take rest.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Aredhel, Reborn

This is a fragment that I started putting together a long time ago, and it stops in the middle, but my writing isn’t cooperating right now so I’m posting it as-is for @tolkiengenweek . It’s a sequel to my two previous Aredhel pieces (but not my Aredhel and E��l one, which isn’t in continuity with it). Hopefully I’ll manage to follow up on it.

********************

Aredhel leaves the Halls, permitted to return to life for no reason that she can comprehend. She has not sought mercy for herself, though she has asked it a thousand times for her son and been met with a deafening silence. She chooses to return because Fingon is doing so, and he might not be able to bring himself to go if he left behind both of his siblings as well as his dearest friend. Turgon should have returned - would have been permitted to return, yeni ago, not tainted by kinslaying as his siblings are - but he is being stubborn, out of some mix of reluctance to face the survivors of Gondolin and reluctance to face the Lord of the Waters.

They reenter life to be almost immediately caught in their father’s embrace. Through all that follows - returning to Tirion, reunion with their mother and cousins, an apology to the Lady Eärwen that clearly terrifies Fingon more than any battle he’s ever fought in - the world seems faded and distant to Aredhel, as though some part of her fëa had never left the Halls. She cannot stay in Tirion, she cannot seem to hold the thread of a conversation with anyone, even her parents and brother. She knows, distantly, that she loves them, but it all seems so far away.

Her aimless feet take her to Valmar, and she find herself at the one place in the Blessed Realm that is shunned by Eldar and Ainur alike, climbing from the foot of Ezellohar to the two broken skeletons that were once the purest light in the universe, and as she collapses to the grass she feels, for the first time, a connection with the world. How did you do it? she whispers. How do you continue when what you hold dearest has been turned to darkness and ruin and ash? And something connects within her mind, something that never did through all the years in the Halls, never did during her return to Tirion, though all the reunions and necessary, distant apologies. Her feet carry her south and east, to the seashore and the white city, the city of pearls.

She does not go to the throne room of the king and queen, but to the docks, cloaked and hooded and unnoticed, seeking for faces she remembers. She finds one, working, holding a small curved knife in her hand that she uses to shell oysters.

Aredhel raises her hood, sees the Telerin woman start at the sight of her, and falls to her knees. The knife stops its work, poised in midair.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…I wished to apologize. To say that I was wrong.”

“So? What does that mean? What will that mend?” The woman lays down the shelling-knife, goes to a ship, and picks up another meant for carving wood. She lays the blade to a piece of wood lying nearby and the hands, their movements so smooth and deft when shelling oysters, begin to shake, leaving jagged, uneven cuts, leaving it useless. “I built the ships your people so wantonly destroyed, shaped them as you Noldor shape steel, and now I live again, but that which gave me life has left me. We did not hoard them and hide them in vaults, we sailed them and lived aboard them until they were more our home than the shore, and all you left to us were blood and ash and tainted memories.” The tremors through her body come in waves now, and her voice is choked. “My life was the least of what you stole from me. And now you seek what? Absolution? Resolution? This does not end for me. Why should it end for you?”

Aredhel hunches in on herself. “I surrender. What would you have of me?”

“Why come here, and not to the king?”

Olwë wouldn’t do anything to me - for Uncle Finarfin’s sake, if not for my own. He wasn’t who I attacked. He wasn’t who I killed.

“I thought you had more right. I…I know what it is to be betrayed by one whom you trusted. I know what it it is to see what you love dearest cast into ruin. And if I had - him - apologizing to me, truly and sincerely, as I am to you” - her voice breaks - “I would bury a knife in his guts.” She is shaking. “I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. Only that I needed to do something. I surrender. Say what you want from me, and you will have it.”

The Telerin woman just looks tired. “I don’t want your blood. What use would that be? I don’t want you locked up. What good would that do anyone? You cannot give back what you have taken. You cannot restore what is destroyed.

“Leave us in peace. Go.”

Aredhel goes.

....

She flees to the wild lands she once loved, which no longer feel so narrow as they did in the years of her youth, before Gondolin and Nan Elmoth and the Halls, before she knew that duty was a chain and love was a chain. Fear, too, is a chain, as she find when she wanders into the woods of Oromë where she once hunted with her cousins and stops, trembling, as the treetops cut off the sky, frozen, her thought a thousand miles away in drowned lands where the forest went from wonder to horror to prison. She works her way stumbling back to the light, her arms clutching at branches and tree-trunks to pull her onwards, until she emerges again into the free air.

She goes, instead, to the open plains, where she can run and ride and hunt, and take joy in feeling alive again, with a heart that beats and mouth that tastes and limbs that ache. In time she returns to the forest, first to edges and sun-dappled clearings, later to the denser woods in autumn when the leaves turn yellow and brown and fall to create openings where light and warmth enters, and nuts and fruits and berries surround her at every turn. Regaining the woods in summertime takes longer, where leaves create deep pools of shadow, and it is longer still before she wishes to be in the woods after nightfall, looking up at the stars.

(She no longer wears white. She dresses in greys and browns and tans, and in plain or woodland she might be mistaken for part of the landscape.)

She cannot say, for certain, how much of her escape is driven by avoiding walls, and how much by avoiding people, avoiding the need to hear or speak of (or hear people deliberately and delicately not speak of) a son she cannot defend and will not condemn. Did she shun the woods because they felt a cage, or because it felt that at any moment a pale-skinned, black-haired boy might step out of them with a present for his mother of hazlenuts or newly-caught game or skillfully-carved wood? A boy who is gone, who is become something she cannot and will not name.

Fingon finds her, from time to time, with uncanny ability, though he was never her equal as a woodsman. They share meals, wanderings, conversations light or serious. He does not tell her to return, though he speaks often of their parents and at times ventures to say how much they miss her. She does not know how to explain. Fingon can feel that their positions, failing and pardoned and returned and grieving for the lost, are the same, but it does not feel so to her. He fell in battle, and with a host of heroic deeds to his name. Her father fell in combat, the greatest one in the history of Arda. She died because she trusted the wrong person, loved the wrong person, ran off, was irresponsible and impetuous as always, led an enemy back to the one safe home she still had; her place in the First Age’s history is the dislodged rock or careless shout that starts an avalanche. Turgon has never blamed her for Gondolin’s fall, but that is because she never spoke to him while they were in the Halls, never knowing what to say. I am sorry that my son existed? She isn’t. She isn’t. She isn’t. She is only sorry that his father orphaned him, left him alone among strangers in a strange city with no parent to guide him.

One morning she awakes at her campsite to find her father there, tending the embers of her fire. She does not know how he has found her; he is gifted in scholarship, in diplomacy, in governance, in craftwork, in all the arts of war, but not in woodcraft or tracking or the arts of the wildnerness (save, by necessity, of keeping thousands of people alive in bone-chilling, soul-numbing temperatures).

They speak a little of other things, of her life in the woods and his in Tirion, but he cannot long restrain the question he has come to ask. “Aredhel, can you not come home?”

She offers the easier explanation first, the other being too painful to place in words. “I don’t want to go back to be pitied as a failure.”

“We all failed, dearest. Every one of us.”

“You did not. Not like me. You died fighting Morgoth and every Elda and I expect every Vala respects you for that. Fingon died fighting a balrog. My younger cousins died in battle. Even the philosopher did better than me! I was one of the most eager to go, I killed people in order to go, atta, and I have nothing to show for it, no achievements, nothing to boast of, and I will not go back to be petted and pitied and patronized, I won’t -” and she knows she still sounds like a spoiled child even now, when the others have grown wise and thoughtful and penitent.

Her father simply looks at her, long and quiet, as if trying to perceive all the words she has left unspoken, and they finally struggle to her lips.

“I don’t want to know what they all think of him. I do know what they think of him. I don’t want to be consoled for what my son did or became by people who didn’t know him and can’t understand him, and to know they are thinking of it every time they look at me, I’ll hate them for it and it will break out and I’ll cause trouble for everyone again - ” she’s stopped looking at her father, not wanting to see in his eyes his opinion of such a grandson, not wanting to feel the wrath against him that would come from it. “Why does everything I love fall to evil? My son, Tyelko, Curvo, my - ” she cannot bring herself to say husband, “- him? Do I have no judgement, no discernment? Am I being punished? I loved him when he killed me, I love my son and my cousins yet, and I don’t want to explain or to justify or to live among people that hate them -”

She is weeping now, and her father pulls her into an embrace. “You did not deserve this, Aredhel. Not what happened to you, or what happened to your son.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet now. “I think, sometimes, it is all of a piece. If you do evil to gain something, whether it be ill in itself or not, it will burn you when you find it. As with my cousins and the gemstones. I killed to gain freedom from limitations or constraint, and when I took it it burned me.”

[mandoalorian]

I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Eight: Courage

Summary: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: canon typical violence

Word count: 5,000>

Masterlist 

Previous - Chapter Eight - Next

You awoke to the phone on the nightstand ringing. Maxwell groaned, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. You tiredly opened your eyes before taking the phone off the hook and holding it against your ear. “Hello?” you asked, your voice hoarse and your throat sore. It must have been the implications of yours and Maxwell’s actions from the night before. Max moaned and wrapped his large arm around your naked body, pulling you into his chest and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s me,” Diana snapped back quickly. “I’ve been calling your room for the past fifteen minutes. What’s going on?”

“O-oh,” you groaned, rubbing your eyes and pulling out of Maxwell’s grip. You sighed and propped yourself up on some pillows. “I’m sorry Di, I guess we must’ve slept through the phone call. I didn’t hear anything.” you admitted.

“Listen, we only have two days in Greece so if we want to find the dreamstone we have to work fast. Meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes or I’ll go without you. I already have a lead.” Diana instructed and you heard the phone slam back down on the hook with a ring.

You turned to Max who had fallen back asleep, his snores gentle and light as his chest slowly rose and fell with every breath. He was so peaceful. When he was asleep, it was one of the few moments where he wasn’t ridden with stress or anxiety. And you wished you had the rest of your life to admire his tender movements.

“Max, wake up, we have to go.” you whispered, shaking him gently.

Maxwell mumbled something incoherent and rolled over, resting his head in your lap. You smiled, feeling your cheeks heat up as he shuffled further into your body. You smoothed out his golden hair and traced the features of his face with your index finger. So beautiful. So perfect.

You imagined spending every single one of your future mornings like this, in bed with him, his face buried in your lap and his gentle snores echoing throughout the room. Your naked legs were tangled together and neither of you had ever felt so comfortable in your life.

“Max, baby,” you cooed, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss into his forehead.

“Mmm, good morning.” Maxwell grumbled, rubbing his tired eyes.

“We slept in,” you sighed, letting your hand trail down his body and lazily circle his tan chest. “Diana is waiting for us downstairs. We have to go.”

“I don’t want to,” he whined, almost child-like. “Wanna stay here with you- foreverrrr.” he purred, pressing a tired kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Maxie, please don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.” you hummed seriously, although you were trying to hold back a smile. If anything was going to wake Maxwell up, it would be that nickname. He opened his eyes and pulled off you.

“Okay princess, I’m up.” He said, running his hand through his wavy morning hair.

“Princess? I told you I’m not a-” 

“Think of it as a term of endearment, sweetheart.” he said, pressing a kiss into your nose. 

“Oh.” was all you managed to breathe out before his lips caught yours.

***

Just as she had stated, Diana was waiting for you in the hotel lobby, dressed fully in her red,  blue and gold warrior costume. It had garnered quite a bit of attention, but nothing Diana Princess of Themyscira wasn’t used to. 

“You said you had a lead?” you quizzed, quirking your eyebrow and taking a step closer to Diana.

“Yes, Dr. Minerva,” Diana said, immediately glancing at Maxwell who’s eyes had become comically wide. The name clearly meant something to him. It rang like alarm bells in his head. “Or Barbara, as myself and Max know her as.”

You turned to Max, confused as to why Diana was being particularly smug. She’d acted the same when she mentioned Barbara and Max back at the Smithsonian yesterday. “Who is this Dr Minerva?” you asked him, looking at him with the most innocent, doe eyes. Your voice was soft but riddled with curiosity. He wanted to tell you, he wanted to tell you everything it’s just… things were difficult. He’d done things with Barbara that he’d be afraid of you knowing; afraid of what you might think or if you will think any less of him. He couldn’t stand the fact you genuinely had no idea. It was a long complicated story. He hoped to tell you it one day - but knowing that you might not have much time left on Earth, was it really worth it?

“Maybe Diana is better off explaining.” Maxwell scrunched up his nose, dismissing your question. It brought back too many memories that Max would prefer to just ignore. Even though ignoring his past trauma was how he got into this mess in the first place. If he’d learned one thing from Diana, it was that he must face the truth no matter how difficult it may be.

“No,” Diana shot back, but her voice wasn’t laced with venom as Maxwell expected. “I think you’re better off answering this one.” Diana smiled a perfect smile. Maybe smug wasn’t the word to describe Diana’s demeanor, but she certainly knew something that you didn’t, and she was being particularly hidden about it.

“Well Max?” you narrowed your eyes. Why was he being so secretive? Who was this woman?

“Uh-,” Maxwell trailed off, avoiding all eye contact. He took in the features of your face, admiring your beauty with all he had and thinking about how he didn’t want to lose you. He loved you. And you deserved to know. If Max could open up to you about his childhood and about his pursuit of the dreamstone, he could tell you about his short-lived relationship with Barbara-Ann Minerva. “Shit, okay. I had been searching for the dreamstone for a long time when one day, a newspaper headline told me that there was a robbery at a jewellery store, and that the Smithsonian had all the stolen treasures. Including the dreamstone. So I went to the Smithsonian and requested to see Dr. Minerva because I did my research and I knew she was the fresh faced gemologist they just hired a week earlier. And she was… beautiful,” Maxwell seemed to get lost in the memory of her vibrant blue eyes and blonde wavy hair. His lips then curled into a frown. “But so ditzy... I saw straight through her vulnerabilities and insecurities in an instant and I used that to exploit her and get the dreamstone. I gained her trust when I told her I’d be donating to the gemology department at the museum, I charmed her at the charity gala and I wooed her in her office and took the stone.”

Maxwell seemed to gloss over the chain of events but it didn’t really matter. He’d explained what he needed to. You felt a pang of jealousy strike your heart at his revelation. You had been made aware from Mrs Stagg, Ted and Julianna, Diana, and even Max, that he’d done bad things and made terrible mistakes, but you couldn’t help but feel an irk over what had happened in Dr Minerva’s office. “Wooed her?” you quoted him, folding your arms over your chest. Maxwell blinked, but then sighed and reached out to hold your hand.

“Really?” Diana sighed. “That’s what you're focused on right now? Dolos lives. The God of Lies lives.” she shook her head in disbelief and you bit your lip, supposing that she was right. You had bigger things on your plate. You were a goddess for heaven’s sake, you couldn’t let the irrational human emotion of envy consume you. But you had noticed the way his face softened when he was reminded of Dr Minerva’s beauty. And you couldn’t help but feel the urge to know what exactly went on in her office, the night of the charity gala. After a brief moment of silence and exchanged glances, Diana opened her mouth again. “I had a contact in D.C., Babajide, who knew all about the dreamstone and the powers of the God of Lies. Myself, Barbara and Steve met with him when we found out Maxwell had become the dreamstone.”

“Hey- how did I not know about Babajide?” Maxwell frowned. He’d been researching the dreamstone for years and he’d never known of such a man. A man who supposedly had all the answers about the stone.

“Irrelevant,” Diana rolled her eyes. “Seriously guys, this is important. You need to pay attention.”

“I am!” You and Maxwell exclaimed together, in an unpredicted unison. Diana quirked an eyebrow and you felt a warmth cross your cheeks. Ancient Olympian tales would describe moments like that as soulmate-ism. 

“Babajide knew so much about Romulus and the exact dreamstone that Max got a hold of so I paid him another visit and found out he had knowledge on Dolos’ dreamstone too. Only…” And Diana let out a long sigh before pinching the bridge of her nose. “He told me that Barbara had visited him a day earlier, asking him of the same knowledge. ‘Asking’ is putting it nicely. Apparently Barbara was a menace and threatened Babajide. And Babajide told her everything he told me. It’s more than likely that Barbara is already here, in Greece, seeking the stone for herself.” 

“She sounds dangerous.” you said quietly. Maxwell held his head in his hands.

“I don’t think I can face Barbara again.” He said, shaking his head, fearful.

“Max I don’t think we have a choice. We have to get the dreamstone before she gets it. What do you think she’ll do with the stone once she has it?” you asked Diana.

“I can only imagine the worst,” Diana shook her head in dismay. “Barbara was complicated… she craved power just like Maxwell only… she had nothing to lose. I fear that she’ll wish to become the dreamstone.” As the word’s left Diana’s lips, Maxwell’s heart sank and he ran off, disappearing amongst the lobby crowds. “Do you think he’s okay?”

You stood for a moment, watching as his dirty blonde hair descended behind the grand staircase. No, of course he wasn’t okay, and you were the only one who truly knew how much this business with the dreamstone had affected him and harmed him. He had come so close to losing everything and so learning that Barbara might make the same mistake as he did, hurt him too. No matter what happened between Barbara and Maxwell, he clearly cared about her. “Excuse me.” you told Diana, following Maxwell through the crowds.

You just noticed him heading through an alcove and outside of the resort. He pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and stood by the pool, relishing the fresh air and trying to regulate his panicked, erratic breathing. “Max! Max!” you called after him, pushing past the people until finally you were by his side, grabbing his hand. “What happened back there?”

Maxwell said nothing, instead he just looked into the golden horizon. “Max?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” he told you. “You have Diana. What use am I?” 

“We need you Max,” you promised him, placing your hand on his cheek and gently turning his head so he was facing you. “I need you.”

Maxwell smiled softly and felt himself lean into your warm embrace. “I’ve never felt needed… or wanted… until I met you.” he confessed and you felt tears prick your eyes at his admission. You knew that feeling all too well.

“I know, me too. Back home, all the other Amazon’s were fighters and warriors… like Diana. But not me. They made me feel useless… like I had no point. Like I was a mistake. My mother would tell me that Zeus created me for a reason, just like all the other Gods and Goddesses, and that one day I’d serve my true purpose. That’s why I’m here today, with you. I already know that the years of humiliation and feeling like an outcast will be worth the few days that I get to spend with you, Max.”

Max sighed softly. “I never thought a Goddess could feel like an outcast,” he told you and you pursed your lips into a fine line, nodding in affirmation. “I’m sorry.”

“I think we have more in common that meets the eye.” you giggled softly, dropping your hand flat against his chest. Maxwell wrapped both of his big arms around you and pulled you into a hug.

“I think so too,” he agreed, pressing a soft kiss into your hair. “We better catch up with Diana then,” he told you, taking your hand. “Let’s put an end to this.”

***

You had been walking for miles in the blazing Greek heat. Maxwell had unbuttoned the top of his shirt and his collar was slightly wonky. His hair may have been disheveled and the blonde locks may have been sticking to the pearls of sweat that beaded along his forehead, but you still admired his beauty. He was truly wonderful. He was quiet most of the journey, and he didn’t have the agility or stamina that you and Diana had. Sometimes you’d have to take stops and have water breaks or toilet breaks. You tried to include him in conversation but his discomfort wasn’t lost on you. It was clear enough that his relationship with Diana was complicated, to say the least. Little did you know, the three of you were about to become a whole lot closer. You and Diana laughed and talked for hours, sharing stories about your time together on Themyscira.

“Zeus is my father. Zeus is your father. We’re basically sisters,” you nudged her, and she giggled. Maxwell scrunched up his nose. Sisters?! He ran a hand through his hair and continued to listen in your conversation. “It’s just unfair that you got to be Princess of Themyscira and I was stuck living a sheltered life with my mother.”

“It wasn’t always easy being a princess,” Diana scolded, but in a warm and polite manner. “It was all about duty. But hey- you’re a goddess, you know all about that.”

If Maxwell Lord had a dollar for everytime he thought he was in a fever dream… he might have been able to afford Black Gold Cooperative’s utility bill. He’d always been a realist. He’d never engaged in fantasy movies or novella, but there was something about overhearing a conversation between a Demi-god and a goddess that just didn’t feel real.

He knew it was. He’d seen Diana in action himself. Hell, he’d seen the powers you possessed. Albeit, when Diana mentioned how you possessed double her power, he was shocked to say the least. Diana could barely hold off Barbara in the White House but with you here? For once Maxwell finally felt hopeful. 

As you furthered deeper into unknown plains, a sudden coldness enveloped you all. It was like a dark, enigmatic spirit ghosting between the three of you, and just like everything else that had happened over the past four days, it couldn’t be explained.

“Do you feel that?” Max finally asked, breaking his silence as he folded his arms over his chest. A shiver raced down his spine as Diana increased her pace and approached the forbidden tomb. “Look at this place. She took us to an ancient burial site, it seems. Like ancient Greek ruins.” he told you, scoping out the place.

“I feel that, yes.” you hummed, your mind wandering the origins of the cold air. Diana’s cries alerted both you and Maxwell as your heads both snapped in her direction and watched her push an enormous boulder away from the tomb, revealing an opening.

“Are you as strong as that?” Maxwell asked, his mouth gaped open in shock.

“Stronger.” you winked before taking his hand and dragging him towards Diana.

The cold spirit then enveloped you, Diana and Maxwell, whispering words of admission, encouraging you all to come forward. “Don’t you think it’s a trap?” Maxwell asked once you were deep enough in the cave that you had hit a point of no return. Even if it was a trap, there was no going back now. You were faced with two path-ways.

“The Sword of Athena is this way,” Diana pointed to the right pathway, otherwise known as the pathway she stood before, and then she pointed her other finger to the left pathway, “and Dolos’ dreamstone is that way. I say we split up and rendezvous here. Maxwell, come with me.”

“Wait what?” Max asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” you told Diana firmly. “He is coming with me.” “You really think it’s wise to let Max Lord accompany you to get the dreamstone?” Diana quizzed quietly, stepping closer to you and breaking any distance. Her dark eyes flicked between you and Maxwell. “After everything he’s done.”

Diana’s hiss was quiet, but not quiet enough to go unnoticed by Maxwell. He knew he wasn’t going to do anything. He was a changed man - but the realization that he’d have to prove to the people he hurt that he was changed, suddenly overwhelmed him. He’d have to prove himself to Diana, and even prove himself to Barbara before he could put all this behind him. There were still steps Max Lord had to take in order to gain full closure of his trauma.

“I trust him.” you said through gritted teeth. Maxwell felt a wave of relief. You were so pure of heart. So angelic. You took his hand, nodded goodbye to Diana, and guided him through the left path-way.

“How much further?” he asked. You had been walking hand in hand for around five or ten minutes, only your lasso of Hestia illuminating the cave. Before you could reply, you felt the walls and ceiling of the cave begin to vibrate and crumble. “What’s that?!” Maxwell asked again, this time panicked and looking around erratically.

“We might not have much time.” You said, feeling your own heart rate increase speed as anxiety settled in you.

Something wasn’t right, that much was clear. You tightened your grip on the businessman’s hand and began to run, pulling him with you. Within seconds, you had reached your destination. Maxwell was heaving and panting but he straightened up and fought for composure when he noticed a dim, amber light illuminate your skin. It wasn’t your lasso of Hestia… not this time. He slowly looked up and followed your gaze, gasping when his eyes set on the dreamstone.

You had completely frozen up, struck by awe as you took in the beauty of the citrine stone which stood erect on top of a Greek pillar. “Wow.” you mumbled, swallowing the hard lump in your throat.

The stone was practically identical to the one Maxwell had utilized just a week ago, and just seeing it again, in its full glory, sent electric bolts of dread through his body. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t do this. Not again. Being in the same proximity as the stupid stone that had ruined everything sent Maxwell into his fight or flight. “I can’t- I can’t do this.” Maxwell shakily declared, his coffee coloured eyes glazed with panic.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, taking both of his hands and coaching his breathing. “Let me get the stone and we can head on out of here.”

Maxwell closed his eyes and nodded. If you could trust him, he could certainly trust you. You brushed a chaste kiss against his lips and pulled away from him. It only took a few steps on your approach to the stone before the walls began to crumble again, even more so than previously, and the ground beneath you began to split.

“Shit!” Maxwell cried as he stared at the crack in the floor between you both. It was deep and only getting deeper. If you didn’t run now, you might have gotten separated. He called your name, terror rampant in his voice. “Hurry!”

As you were about to grab the stone. A voice stopped you. A voice that Maxwell thought he’d never hear again.

“The stone belongs to me.” she said coldly. You huffed and opted to ignore the grave voice, taking the dreamstone from the pillar before spinning around on your heel and turning around.

And when you saw the sight before you, you dropped the dreamstone and let it fall to the rocky ground beneath you. Trepidation consumed you and suddenly, it felt like your whole life was on the line. “Maxwell!” you cried, your hand immediately dropping down to your lasso and curling your fingers around the rope. You scowled angrily, your gaze flicking between Max and the woman who was holding him by his neck.

“This- this is Dr. Minerva!” Maxwell choked, tears streaming down his cheeks as Barbara tightened her grip around his throat. Her once blonde hair was white and knotted, and her black kohl eyeliner smudged down her cheeks. Her tights were ripped and a sleeve was missing from her Cheetah print fur jacket. She is not at all how you’d imagined her.

“Let him go!” You begged as anger swelled in the pit of your stomach. “Let him go now!”

Maxwell’s eyes squeezed shut and he let out a groan, his knees wobbling as he struggled to even stand up straight. It was only Barbara’s strong grip of his neck that was keeping him upright. He was hurting. The love of your life was in pain.

“Give me the stone.” Barbara growled.

You picked up the dreamstone and passed it her way. She took it, willingly and let go of Maxwell, throwing him to the ground. The glint in her eye as she analysed the citrine was enough to terrify you. You ran to Maxwell’s side, dropping to your knees and nursing his body.

“Hey! Max, are you okay?” You whispered, smoothing out his hair and running your fingers along his face. He nodded wearily, rubbing the scratches on his neck from where her sharp, cat-like, fingernails had dug into his skin. You helped him to his feet and swung an arm around his body to support him.

“Barbara.” he called, gaining the attention of the doctor.

“No,” you chastised Max. “Don’t. There will be another opportunity to get the stone.” But he wasn’t going to give in that easy, he had to play his cards right. Luckily for you, manipulation was one of Maxwell Lord’s most tactful skills.

“Barbara, did we end things on a bad note? I must admit, I thought we had something special… me and you.” Maxwell said, his voice hoarse. He pulled out of your arms and sluggered towards the gemologist, who had finally looked up from the citrine stone and towards the businessman. For a split second, you saw a glimpse of humanity flicker in her eyes.

“You renounced your wish,” Barbara said, her grip on the stone as tight as ever, but her heart ached as Maxwell approached her. “You were weak. The dreamstone deserves to be with someone like me.” Even her words sound forced and unnatural - like they weren’t really coming from her. Had she not renounced her wish? You wondered what she had even wished for. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Maxwell coaxed. He had gotten so close to Barbara, he was able to cup her face and rub the height of her cheekbone with his thumb. It was an action he’d performed on you many times, but even watching this play out, with your own two eyes, you could tell it was different. It was colder and more forced. He had that fake television smile, not the smile you had been blessed to see so many times. “I just hoped things could’ve been different between us.”

“Max, what are you saying?” Barbara asked, goosebumps lacing her arms and you noticed the way her grip on the dreamstone loosened under his touch.

“Everyone has something to lose,” Maxwell whispered. “I could have all the power in the world but it would mean nothing to me if I lost Alistair, my son. Tell me Barbara, does that really make me weak?”

Barbara considered his words for a few moments. “No.”

Maxwell nodded. “What do you have to lose?” Maxwell whispered, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Barbara sniffed, a single tear dripping down her cheek. She was once so warm and compassionate, so friendly. There was one thing. Only one thing she thought about losing.

Just then, the dreamstone slipped from her grip as the lasso of Hestia curled around it and pulled it away from her. But it wasn’t your lasso.

“Diana!” Barbara gasped, her face hardening as she quickly and fiercely wiped her tears away. “That dreamstone belongs to me!”

“I can’t let you do this Barbara!” Diana cried. “This has to end now!” You and Maxwell ran towards Diana and she passed you the dreamstone. “Get out of here!” I’ll hold back Barbara.”

You handed Maxwell the dreamstone and equipped your own lasso, circling it around until it wrapped around a rocky ledge at the end of the cave. “Hold on to me. One hand around me and keep tight a hold of the stone!” you commanded as the walls of the ancient temple began to crumble around you. Just before you set off, you saw the silver gleam of Diana’s sword of Athena as she wielded it before Barbara.

“Shouldn’t I hold on to the lasso?” Maxwell asked, sliding an arm around your waist and holding the stone tight against his chest. 

“Just trust me!” You shouted over the loud rumbling around you. You gripped on to your lasso firmly with both hands before shooting off in the air.

“Whoa!” Maxwell screamed, squeezing his eyes tight shut the second his feet left the ground. “Are we flying?! Are we flying?!”

You giggled as your bodies glided through the air. Max might have been holding on to you for his dear life, but somehow he knew he would be okay. That he’d be safe and you wouldn’t let him get hurt. You rapidly approached the entrance to the cave and used the last of your might to safely land. Maxwell had no time to catch his whereabouts when his feet hit the ground, as you clipped your lasso back to your belt and ran with him to the edge of the ruins.

You hadn’t been in there too long, but by the time you had exited the ancient temple, it was already nightfall. You looked back and there was no sign of Diana. She must have still been in there with Barbara, and you wondered what was going on. 

When Maxwell held the dreamstone, he felt opportunistic. He could make a wish. He had the possibility to make a wish again and have a do-over. He knew where he went wrong last time. He could make it right. He could wish for you to stay… and for you to live a peaceful, happy life with him and Alistair. He could wish to win the custody case. He could wish for so many things. But it was the softness of your touch which interrupted him from his intrusive thoughts. The way your fingers gently grazed across his knuckles and you held his hand.

“We have to destroy it now.” you whispered, looking into the glowing citrine rock. 

“We?” Maxwell questioned. His eyes were dark and wide. “We don’t even know how.”

“Only the truth can destroy the lies. But my mother said I had to believe in love. Love would destroy the stone. Truth and love… truth and love…” you chanted as you tried to piece together the puzzle.

It suddenly hit Maxwell like a ton of bricks. “True love,” he said out loud, his gaze flicking from the dreamstone to you. “True love will destroy the stone.”

It made more than sense, and Maxwell had worked it out on his own. “You’re right…” you whispered. You squeezed Max’s hand and then reached over to the dreamstone. You placed your hand on the stone, and the tips of your fingers touched the tips of Maxwell. As you both held the stone together, the magic began to work and the stone  grew hot and tingled your skin. Very soon, Dolos’ dreamstone - the final dreamstone - fizzled away into a pile of glittering dust and blew away in the cool Greek wind.

You and Maxwell both stood there in silence, still holding your hands out, but this time there was no dreamstone. You had done it. The dreamstone had been destroyed. The God of Lies was dead. It was over. 

“You did it,” Maxwell was the first to break the silence. “You destroyed the dreamstone.”

You had both been thinking the same thing. The fact you had both placed your hand on the dreamstone and that your combined energy was enough to disintegrate the possessed rock. True love. It was hard to know what to say. Of course you were in love with Maxwell Lord, and knowing that pretty soon you’d have to leave him, made your whole body ache to the core. And Maxwell felt the same about you. He’d never been this happy in his life - but spending his days with you and Alistair felt so special. You were his guardian angel, sent out from Themyscira to aid him and help him. To rescue him. How could he not love you? But still, neither of you said anything. How could you ever tell him that you loved him when you were going to leave him? It would only make things harder when it was time to go. You winced and blinked away unshed tears.

“No,” you whispered, turning to look into Maxwell’s honey coloured eyes. “We did it.”

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[phantaloon-books]

Alright I got a couple comments asking for a continuation so here's part 2 of neil finding out the feds were onto smth when they recommended witness protection program

part 1

(Also thank you so much, I genuinely didn't expect such a good reception, everything I write is purely self indulgent)

Andrew is gonna fucking lose it. It's been over three weeks and not a single word from Neil fucking Josten. He's never hated him more, and this time he means it when he says hate. Actually he's not sure he hates himself or Neil more, but he feels hatred and rage and that's what matters. But of course the rabbit just left. Once a rabbit, always a rabbit.

He wanted so desperately to believe that, that Neil chose to run, that he chose to leave him them and keep running because that's what he knows best. Even if believing Neil chose to leave hurts him more than he'll ever admit, it's the best thing to believe. It's best to believe that Neil left than to believe something happened. It's best to believe Neil grew tired and bored of him them than to listen to the worry and dread Andrew's been feeling for months. It's best to believe Neil didn't want him than to let himself think of worst case scenarios.

But he can't make himself think that Neil left willingly and because he wanted to (and not it's not because he wants to believe that Neil wouldn't leave him). Neil would never run without his things, not without his stupid binder and money and contacts, not without clothes or any resources. If he ran away he would do it properly. He wouldn't leave with running clothes and his stupid flip phone. And most importantly Andrew knows that Neil has been restless lately. He's seen the way Neil checks every corner or every place, observes the people, looks for threats. He'd left those habits behind, so something has to have happened. Neil didn't just leave him.

The best thing is the other foxes aren't convinced Neil would run either. He had no one to run from, and he had a family now. And even if he was feeling overwhelmed or anxious, he would have come back. He wouldn't have taken three weeks. So they know, they know, Neil didn't leave because he wanted or needed to. And they're all anxious as hell about that bc if he didn't leave where is he?

They narrow it down eventually, and conclude that he got in a fight and is dead in a ditch somewhere, he had an accident in a coma in a hospital somewhere, he somehow got lost and/or lost his memory, someone killed him accidentally or not and his body is buried somewhere far away, or he's been taken. And Andrew cannot take the stress that he doesn't know where the fuck Neil is any longer.

He almost killed Kevin and several federal agents when Neil went missing for a few hours. This time, he hasn't tried to kill anyone yet but that hasn't stopped him from tearing every dorm apart and the stadium and the police station and the hospital and getting in fights with the FBI. He's desperate enough that he called Browning, hell, he's desperate enough that he contacted the Moriyamas, which wasn't a pleasant experience, but Ichirou had promised Neil protection and this definitely called for mafia intervention. So far neither the FBI or the Moriyamas had helped - yes they had, they informed him regularly that they were looking for Neil, but they had nothing, no clues no trails, and Andrew couldn't believe their incompetence, like for fucks sake the Moriyamas were yakuza, they ought to know what could have happened to one of their most valuable assets. And anyway if he ran, and wasn't taken, they for sure would be behind him, looking to kill him of course, but they still couldn't find him.

Andrew hasn't tried to kill anyone yet but he will soon if he doesn't find Neil, and he's sure he will start with himself. He can't remember the last time he slept or ate well, or went to exy practice, but he doesn't care. He can't care until he knows something. The lack of knowledge is driving him crazy. At this point knowing that Neil is dead and has been rotting in the countryside of Poland would be better than not knowing anything.

He hates this so much. He hates Neil for disappearing. He hates whoever went and got him. He hates the Moriyamas for not being able to find him and not keeping him safe in the first place. He hates himself for becoming so attached. He should have known better. He knew better. He knew it was a bad idea to feel all the things he feels for Neil, especially because it's Neil, the unpredictable rabbit. But he fell for the fake hope that they would make it, that he wouldn't be hurt again, that Neil would stay. He knew letting someone in again could kill him. He knows that if they don't find him, it will. He can't keep going like this. He was stupid enough to feel hopeful, but he won't be able to live once the hope dies.

He's laying in Neil's bed. He knows it's pathetic, but frankly he doesn't care. Everyday is worse than the last one. He's slipping and when he falls it's game over, he's going to make sure of that. If Neil genuinely cared, he'd be pissed at Andrew for even thinking about this. No he'd be upset, but not pissed, about the fact that he's considering taking his life over this. But he opened the door to feelings, and he won't be able to cope with them and he won't be able to close that door again. He's giving up.

Faint buzzing interrumps his thoughts. Someone's calling him. He couldn't stomach the runaway song that matched with Neil's but he couldn't stomach changing it either, so he leaves in on vibrate now. He looks at his screen. It's an unknown number. Most likely the FBI or the Moriyamas or a random police station ready to take him out of his misery and just tell him they found Neil's body. The code says it's from Minnesota. He considers not answering, but he might as well get over it.

He flips the phone open, "I only care about this if you are from the FBI or the literal mafia, so if you aren't from either, feel free to hang up." The other line stays silent for a few seconds, but when he looks at his phone, it's still going. The person didn't hang up. He doesn't have the patience for this. "I'm just gonna hang up then-"

"Andrew, wait." It's barely a hesitant whisper. The voice is absolutely shattered, rough and hoarse and very painful-sounding. There's wheezing too and labored breaths. But god. No matter how wrecked he sounds, he'd recognize that voice anywhere. In half a second he's up and falling from the bed in his haste, alert at last. He can't believe it. He wants to but he doesn't want to believe the call is real.

"Neil? Neil is that you?" He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but the thought dies quickly. There's no way, no way this is real. A sob breaks through the line, and oh it sounds so full of pain and fear.

"Andrew, I-I need you to stay safe. I don't know if they're coming for you, for the foxes. I need you to find a place where you're safe. Call Browning or Ich- the little Lord and make sure they can protect you guys for a while."

Okay that's definitely Neil even if he didn't answer the question. And Andrew's heart is going a thousand miles an hour, he doesn't feel his body anymore.

"Neil where are you? I'm coming to get you, I'll call Browning but where are you?"

"'Drew," another sob, and this one manages to break Andrew's walls more than than the whispered 'Drew', "promise me you'll stay safe, don't come looking for me, you can't take them down, please don't come looking for me."

The exhaustion and terror in his voice doesn't sit well with Andrew. The Neil he knows is not this. "For fucks sake Neil just tell me where in Minnesota you are, I'm coming to get you."

"No- no you're not, I'm not calling you because I want you to come. I just need you to promise you'll be safe."

"Neil who took you? Where are you? I can send the FBI or the japanese shits over, I swear to god I can send them to come get you if you just tell me where you are and who took you. I'll - I'll try my best to keep the others safe, but who took you?"

"I'm sorry, Andrew, I- I didn't mean to, please believe I didn't mean to leave, they- some of the Butcher's pals found me, I'm so sorry- I put all of you in danger again."

"Okay, that's something we can work with, now where are you Neil?"

"Andrew-" his breath hitches, he gasps and whimpers, "I'm so sorry, I have to go, I need to leave Andrew. Please stay safe. Look I- I love you okay? I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier."

"Neil wait don't hang up-"

And the line goes dead.

The world is falling apart, collapsing all around Andrew. He's numb but he feels encompassing terror. He can't feel a thing, he can't think. He was so close. It feels like Neil just slipped past his fingers, like he just let go of Neil and let him fall to the darkness. He thinks he may be falling too. He needs to call Browning. He does it instinctively, he doesn't register he has his phone to his ear until the FBI agents voice is calling to him. He also goes with what he's gonna say with the same instinct he pulled in Baltimore, knowing he can't mention certain mafia.

"Neil just called me, I have no idea from where, I have no idea how he got a hold of me, he didn't say a thing, he refused to say a thing other than we're in danger, the foxes, and that whoever took him will come for us- oh and apparently it's someone involved with the Butcher."

How he managed to be as apathetic and unattached to everything he said is beyond him. But whatever he says and whatever Browning says, FBI agents are now guarding them in the locker room of the Foxhole Court, with mattresses and mats laid down on the floor. and he doesn't know how they got here and he's cuffed all over again, but this time to Renee even if he doesn't remember being violent. Even the stupid rookies are here, looking extremely panicked and terrified despite most of them not giving a fuck that Neil was gone just hours ago. The other foxes - Neil's family - are pressing Andrew for answers, but he can't deal with anything at the moment.

He needs to call Ichirou too. That's the call that matters, because that's the call that can bring Neil home because he can't do that himself while cuffed to Renee and being guarded by the fucking FBI. He somehow convinces the agent to let him make a call, to his therapist he says, to grant him privacy even if that's utter bullshit. He's dragging Renee into the eye of the storm but oh well, why did they cuff him to her in the first place, it's not his fault. He calls the Moriyama representative he's been dealing with and thank Renee's god the woman answers.

"I need to talk to- to Lord Ichirou, it's about Neil Josten's whereabouts, I got important information about him." He can feel both the condescension from the other end of the line and poorly veiled shock from Renee. "I know where he is, I know about who's got him, I need to talk to Lord Moriyama."

He isn't sure how he managed it. He doesn't know how he convinced them to let them talk to their mafia boss, or how he's able to keep his cool for long enough to actually talk to the man himself. He thinks having Renee there, who asks no questions and keeps her hand on top of Andrew's with no hesitation, is part of the solution but he's not admitting that. Either or, he talks to Ichirou (he can't deny he's not terrified of messing up with the man who keeps Neil alive, but he's not admitting that either), reminds him of how Neil is important to the Moriyamas, both as an exy player and as a Wesninski, and how Neil, Kevin and Jean are loyal to the Moriyamas, hints at how Ichirou promised protection. He has perfect memory, but he will never remember how he convinced Ichirou Moriyama to send people to Minnesota and look for him all over the state and surrounding states, all he knows is that Ichirou stuck to his promise, all is good, he didn't fuck up.

Weeks pass again, nothing happens. There's no news from the Moriyamas, the FBI keeps telling him they're doing what they can. Andrew is done. No one came looking for them at least, which is nice bc they didn't die but it doesn't feel worth it when Neil wasn't back. He feels stupid for hoping he would come back safe and alive. The Moriyamas might as well have killed him for being such an inconvenience. Things are going to hell. Andrew was an idiot for falling so hard for Neil Josten. It was a mistake. He should have known better.

His anger is gone, and numbness has settled. It was becoming a habit for him to remain lying down most of the day. It was also becoming a habit for the foxes to take care of him when he did this. He can't even bother to shower if someone doesn't remind him every day, or eat, or drink water for that matter. He's a mess and he would be incredibly embarrassed if he cared a little, but he's slipping and he doesn't mind falling. Nothing is fine. Until it is.

It comes in the form of a text one morning, while he's lying on the couch in the living room. An unknown number again, New York code, and it only reads, "Threat has been dealt with - I". And what the fuck does that mean. It tells him absolutely nothing. If Ichirou bothered to text him he could at least be clear as to what the fuck that meant. Was Neil even alive? There is a soft knock at the door. Of course, someone bothers him when no other fox is at the dorm. They couldn't ditch every class to make sure Andrew didn't combust spontaneously.

He truly doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to go answer the door. It's too much a bother. If it's someone important they'll either knock again aor shout for him to open up. He curls up in bed. He honestly wants to disappear. There's another knock, a little harder than the first. But there's no voice, no demand, no nothing. Maybe it's a Moriyama. Maybe he'll feel so disrespected or whatever he's gonna barge in and end his misery. Whatever. "Fuck off", he shouts from the couch, hoping for the best. There's another knock, for fuck's sake, can they just walk in already? Another, and he's up. Pissed and going for the door.

"Fucking hell, what do you want?" His anger is back with a passion, and he's practically stomping to the door, throwing it wide open, "Just barge through the fucking door, and get it over with-"

He has to stop exploding when people don't answer to him right away. Maybe he should work on his patience. Because frankly it has been working against him at the worst times. No it's not his fault. It's the idiot's fault for appearing at out nowhere and stealing his breath away. Everything is Neil Josten's fault.

"Hey Drew," said idiot's voice is impossibly more hoarse than when he called him before. Andrew can't tell if his heart is beating too fast or not at all. He thought he was a mess, but Neil looks like he's been through hell and back. Well, he's been through hell and back too many times before, but he's never looked this bad, and he was a mess after Evermore. His face is beaten so badly, so swollen, if he didn't know him and those stupidly blue eyes so well. Even his eyes are different, there's no spark, they're dull and hazy. He's wearing a large hoodie and sweatpants, so Andrew can't see the damage beyon his face, but at least his hands remain okay, there's no new damage. "Looks like I still have it in me to leave you speechless, huh."

Andrew takes a deep breath and he sighs. And his heart breaks. Neil. Neil. Neil is here. Andrew wants to craddle him and hold him and never let him go again. He doesn't care if it's soft, Neil is here. He raises his hands, frames Neil's face like he has before. He presses a hand to Neil's neck, looking for a pulse, and he finds it. He's alive.

"Neil," he breathes, and he feels. He feels. "You're alive, I thought, you-"

They're both silent. Andrew doesn't notice when Neil raises his hands, framing his own face. They've been here before.

"I'm not leaving you, I promised right? You're not getting rid of me that easily. "

He hates feeling this much, "You've got some explaining to do, but- it can wait."

"That's good yeah, because I'm not sure how much longer I can remain conscious and the Moriyamas weren't the best at patching everything up, so I'd really appreciate it if you call Abby."

He doesn't trust himself to open his mouth, so he guides Neil inside, holding on to his hand like a tether. Neil deflates, he grimaces as Andrew helps him to the couch. He's obviously hiding something below the clothes. Andrew stands to call Abby, but Neil grips his hand tightly. When Andrew looks up, he sees the fear and exhaustion he heard on the call weeks ago. Neil isn't able to keep up the act of being okay for long.

"Stay, pl- just," he looks away, and Andrew doesn't know how to feel about the pause, he didn't say the word, "can you stay?"

And he does. Things aren't fine. Neil is a mess. So is Andrew. They have to work through stuff. Andrew clearly has to work on the apparent dependancy issues. But they'll have time now. Neil is safe. He's alive and safe. He lost consciousness not long after he sat down, but Abby, Wymack and the foxes are on their way. They're not fine. But Neil is lying next to him, and he isn't gonna let him go again. They'll be fine.

[tenacious-minds]

“Hanguang-jun can’t stay.” Wei Wuxian says, again, mostly to himself, as he picks A-Yuan up to rest on his hip.

The kid is crying, now, as he cranes his neck to catch sight of Lan Wangji, still lingering on the path.

Wei Wuxian does not look back. He cannot, afraid, terribly, that if he does, he will never be able to look away again.

Lan Wangji, in the darkness of the burial mounds, is like the rising sun. Beautiful, and so, so warm. He is the coming of the new day, the thawing of the ice on Wei Wuxian’s fingers and cheeks from what feels like an eternity crouched on his single plank bridge in the dark. Light-bearing lord. Lan Wangji is the only light Wei Wuxian has seen in a long time.

“Gege,” A-Yuan starts, fingers clenching tighter in Wei Wuxian’s robes, but he stops on a sob, little voice cracking. “Gege.” he cries again, but this time he sounds like he’s begging, pleading, with Wei Wuxian to stop or with Lan Wangji to come back he isn’t sure.

Wei Wuxian slows his stride to a stop and pulls away far enough to see A-Yuan’s face, which is blotchy red and creased with dispair. He clucks his tongue, “Oh kiddo.”

He says, but he doesn’t know how to continue, doesn’t understand why he’s so devastated in the first place. Before today, A-Yuan had seen Lan Wangji exactly once, and from a distance great enough that Wei Wuxian is sure, nearly a year later, that he could not possibly remember. Wei Wuxian does not think, from what little he has learned of children, that this is the expected reaction for a three-year-old to have in this situation.

He thinks Granny would know if this is normal, but Wei Wuxian can’t make himself move for A-Yuan tears. He’s frozen in sympathy and terror, frozen in his own yawning grief in the absence of Lan Wangji’s warmth.

A-Yuan, after a moment of quietly attempting to stifle his sobs, appears to give up, and buries his head in Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, rubbing his face along the coarse fabric and, Wei Wuxian presumes, wiping his snot off there. For some reason, that little action, something he never would have done in his own childhood, breaks his heart.

“Aiya, A-Yuan. Come now. It’s gonna be okay.” but he sounds wrecked, even to himself, and A-Yuan just cries harder, shaking his head.

“Gege is sad,” he says, in that little boy voice, like he’s just intoned the greatest wisdom; like everything should make sense. “Xian-gege is sad,” he says again, and then, “Rich-gege made Xian-gege smile, and now Xian-gege is sad again and you’re both gonna leave.”

And, oh.

Oh.

He can’t- Of course, that’s what’s wrong. Of course, this sweet little kid is so upset because he’s worried about him. Worried that his Xian-gege is gonna go back to hiding in the dark cave where he’s not allowed to go.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he’s sitting on the ground, A-Yuan in his lap, tucked right up under his chin. He doesn’t even really remember sinking to the ground, just knows that he’s here now and that he’ll have to get himself under control if he wants to make it back to the village.

“It’ll be alright,” he says and thinks that maybe he’s talking to himself as much as he is A-Yuan. “I’ll be alright.”

He starts rocking them back and forth, slowly and rhythmically, until A-Yuan’s tears stop, and keeps going even after A-Yuan’s head droops heavy on his shoulder in sleep. He feels unsteady, but the warm weight of a child in his arms, in his lap, grounds him.

And then someone is lifting A-Yuan out of his arms and hauling him to his feet.

A-Qing, he thinks and doesn’t register that Wen Qing is never this warm, not this tall and solid against his side when she carries him back into demon-subdue cave after a night of calming resentful spirits. But Wen Qing is the only one who ever carries him home.

He wakes in a bed.

It is, decidedly, not his own, because it is not a slab of rock draped in blankets.

There is a hot, small weight pressed into his side, and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it is A-Yuan. Perhaps he snuck in late at night? But, no, Wei Wuxian has already established that this is not his cave.  Or was he too distraught to be separated from him? He rememebers crying. He remembers gentle fingers prying A-Yuan sleepy grip from his robes, he remembers-

His eyes fly open.  

Lan Wangji is kneeling next to the bed, head pillowed on his arms, and large hand clasping A-Yuan small one where its cradled against his sternum.

Something in his chest cramps at the sight. It hurts.

Wen Qing chooses that moment to clear her throat. Quietly. Which Wei Wuxian appreciates. He’s not sure he could handle it if Lan Wangji were to wake up right now.

“He’s been there all night.” She says, without looking up from the stack of papers balanced on her lap.

There's a small desk against the far wall, but she’s pulled the chair out so she can see them. This is her room, he realizes, and almost launches himself upright in the next moment when it occurs to him that that means this is her bed. He doesn’t, of course, becasue A-Yuan is sleeping, deep, even breathes ghost across his neck and the small, child like snores are adorable.

He also does not want to wake Lan Wangji, but that is neither here, nor there. A-Yuan is sleeping and that is excuse enough.

Wen Qing sounds amused when she says, “He insisted that you sleep in a bed when we showed him the cave after he carried you both back.”

“He WHAT,” Wei Wuxian yells, and then flinches and lowers his voice, reaching around to pet A-Yuan’s hair and the clasped hands of the two sleeping figures. He is not thinking about it.

“He what,” he whispers this time, twisting his face into a suitably exaggerated expression of outrage. “Wen Qing I'm so sorry, he shouldn’t have done that, kicking you out of your own bed.”

“Wei Ying, for god's sake. I offered it. You needed a good nights sleep. I do not begrudge you one night of comfort and warmth and a bed not steeping in the resentful energy of that damn pool.”

Wei Wuxian frowns at her, real this time. “Did you sleep?” he asks and flushes when her gaze softens in fondness. He hates it when she looks at him like that, hates it when she’s anything but exasperated at him. He hasn’t done anything to deserve her kindness or respect. Hasn’t done anything to deserve the soft expression she reserves only for three other people.

“Yes, Wei Ying. I slept. I borrowed A-Yuan’s bedroll from granny since he’s sleeping with you- do not even start. It was perfectly comfortable and very warm. You know very well his bedroll is the best one in the village.”

He doesn’t say anything, just turns his attention back towards A-Yuan, petting his hair. He looks so peaceful and soft in sleep, young in a way he isn’t when he’s awake. He’s lived through far too much for someone so young, and sometimes, when Wei Wuxian looks at him, he sees someone far older.

Wen Qing sighs, “I’ll go get you some breakfast.”  And leaves.

The door clicks loudly when she closes it behind her, and Lan Wangji stirs, drawing his hand off Wei Wuxian’s chest first  before opening his eyes.

He focuses back on A-Yuan, tucking his fingers out of the cold, brushing loose hair away from his face.

Lan Wangji remains silent for a long moment.

“Wei Ying,”  he whispers, and Wei WuXian has to close his eyes.

He thought… He  had thought that yesterday would be the last time he heard his name in that voice. He’d been prepared for it. But hearing it now was…

“Wei Ying.” He says again, and this time, it doesn’t sound like an opening, it doesn’t sound like anything. Just his name; a prayer, maybe.

He breaks.

“Lan Zhan.”

And then he’s crying, quiet, stiff, but hot; like a burning iron has been shoved through his eyes… through his heart.

Lan Zhan does not react, he simply exists beside him until Wei WuXian can breath again, and then he gently, gently, takes back the hand that Wei WuXian had pulled from his grasp.

[tsushimanoonryo]

Drabble: Chiyoko pt. 3

Kazumasa had been true to his word and began to treat Chiyoko with a little more respect. However, in the seven years that had passed since then, Hiroto could tell that his friend still had warmed up to the idea of marrying his little sister. 

At eighteen, Chiyoko had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, but she still had an eccentric streak. She’d stopped chasing bugs and animals, thankfully, but she preferred to be outside in nature when most women of her class would be inside reciting poetry or perfecting their other artistic endeavors. The one time she was meant to be outside was when it came time to practice wielding the naginata. Samurai women were expected to use it to defend their homes when their men were at war, but Chiyoko was always conspicuously absent for those training sessions.

Kazumasa was not keen on marrying a woman who could not defend the Sakai estate while he was away at war.

“You know as well as I do, these rumblings in Yarikawa are going to come to a head soon,” Kazumasa hissed as he fussed with the haori himo of his wedding kimono. “Do you think Castle Shimura and the Sakai estate will be safe? If you do, you’re a fool. How is Chiyoko supposed to defend herself if she can’t tell one end of her naginata from the other?”

“She would be welcome to stay with my mother and my wife,” Hiroto said. “And stop fiddling with that.”

“Your mother is old and your wife is pregnant,” Kazumasa hissed. “How much help are they going to be?”

“My brother’s wives will be with them also,” Hiroto reminded them. “She would not be left alone.”

“Even so,” he said. “My estate would be. It’s shameful, knowing my wife won’t be able to defend our home when the time comes for it.”

Hiroto shot him a warning look and that shut Kazumasa up immediately. Although he didn’t look happy about having to hold his tongue.

“I understand your concerns,” Hiroto said. “And when you are her husband, you can bring this up with her. But until then, do not make today hard for my sister. Let her have this one day of happiness.”

Kazumasa still didn’t look pleased, but he stood up straight and took a steadying breath.

“I suppose I can do that,” he said. “For you, my friend.”

“And for her.”

“Yes,” Kazumasa said glumly. “And for her.”

………………………………………………….

Usually there was much more fanfare to these things. The wedding procession was small, consisting only of the immediate family of both the bride and groom. Although Hiroto had downplayed it when talking to Kazumasa, the Yarikawa threat was a lot worse than he’d let on. Both families agreed that the wedding was necessary to seal their alliance, but that it needed to be small so as not to draw attention.

It is a shame, though, Hiroto thought. Chiyoko really does look beautiful today.

Truthfully, he could not see her face because of the wataboshi. But even so, she cut a fine figure dressed in a stark-white kimono, intricately embroidered in white and silver thread with floral motifs. The only bit of her that was visible was her pale white hands, clutching her ceremonial fan.

Chiyoko was led out to meet Kazumasa by the Shimura women. She kept her head down as she walked, careful not to show her face to anyone until her intended had seen it first. Hiroto watched as she approached the groom and finally lifted her head to meet his eyes.

The change that came over Kazumasa was visible to everyone in the bridal party. Whereas before he’d been sullen and dour about this wedding, he now looked utterly bewitched. His eyes seemed to glaze over momentarily and once clarity returned to them, a flush crept up his cheeks.

“Lord Sakai is blushing,” a voice near his left elbow said. “I didn’t even think he could.”

Hiroto turned to find his wife Yua standing at his side, gently rubbing at the swell of her stomach. Hiroto felt a wave of affection wash over him as he saw her, but willed himself to only give her a brief smile. A samurai was in control of his emotions after all; it wouldn’t do to appear a lovestruck fool at someone else’s wedding.

“I didn’t think he could either,” Hiroto admitted. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Does my sister truly look that beautiful?”

“She does,” Yua said. “Much more beautiful than I did at our wedding.”

“Impossible,” Hiroto said. “I married the most beautiful woman on the island.”

“You’re biased because I’m carrying your son inside me,” she said with a laugh. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“You really think it’s a boy?”

“Your mother said I’m carrying the way she did with you and your brothers,” Yua said. “It has to be.”

Hiroto knew it was foolish to hope. There was no way for sure to know until the baby arrived, but even so, he smiled at the thought that she’d give him an heir within a year of marriage. Not that he had much for his heir to inherit. As the jito’s fourth son, there wasn’t going to be much left for him to inherit.

………………………………………………….

The procession from the Sakai estate to the temple at Omi Monastery was slow going, although the distance wasn’t that far. They were supposed to be inconspicuous, but even so, it seemed Lord and Lady Shimura wanted everyone in the village to see their daughter marrying the heir to Clan Sakai. They chose the most circuitous route to the temple, using the excuse that this was the “most auspicious” path.

Half-way there, it began to rain and the procession nearly stopped. They would have, had Chiyoko not finally spoken up.

“You’re going to ruin your kimono,” Lady Shimura argued. “And then you won’t be able to give it to your daughter when she marries.”

“I won’t have a daughter,” Chiyoko said defiantly. “I’m going to give Lord Sakai a son. I’ll have no need for this stuffy old thing after today. And we’re almost to the temple.”

Lady Shimura looked to Kazumasa, silently pleading with him to talk some sense into his future wife. But Kazumasa was, for once in his life, silent. He kept looking at Chiyoko like she was some sacred object to be worshipped. Not the girl he’d been complaining about having to marry less an hour before.

“Seems there is a fox wedding today too,” Yua said from his side.

Hiroto turned to look at her, brow furrowed in confusion.

“It’s a sunshower,” she said, gesturing to the rays of light showing through the droplets of rain. “Isn’t that what the old folktale says? When it rains while the sun is out, a fox is having a wedding.”

Something bothered him about that. Hiroto vaguely recalled a memory from his childhood that he had buried deep within himself. Something about a fox cub that had been dying on the outskirts of the forest..

“I can’t remember if it’s supposed to be good luck or not,” Yua said, tapping her chin as she thought. “I hope it is.”

“I hope so too,” Hiroto said, withdrawing from his reverie. He suddenly felt very strange and wanted to get out of the rain. “I hope so too.”

………………………………………………….

They had mostly dried off by the time the ceremony was over, although Chiyoko’s white kimono was forever ruined by the rain. No one seemed to mind, though, as the mood grew quite jovial once the sake started flowing.

“You’ve changed your mind about Chiyoko, I see,” Hiroto said to Kazumasa once they’d gotten a moment to themselves.

“I can’t remember why I was so against this whole thing,” Kazumasa said, speech slurred slightly with drink. “Look at her, Hiroto. Isn’t she lovely?”

Now that the wataboshi was off, Hiroto could get a clearer look at his sister. She was lovely, especially the way his sisters-in-law had done her hair and cosmetics. But she didn’t look that different from how she normally looked. He didn’t know why Kazumasa was so smitten. But he supposed he’d rather that than have him complain about Chiyoko all night.

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” Hiroto said. “And I’m glad you made today nice for her.”

“I’m going to make every day nice for her if I can,” Kazumasa said. “I’m going to break things off with Tsuna the first chance I get. I’m done with other women.”

“The sake’s gotten to your head, my friend,” Hiroto laughed.

As much as he would have loved for Chiyoko to be the only woman in Kazumasa’s life, he knew the way of the world. And he knew how Kazumasa liked to carry on at the teahouse.

“I mean it,” he said. “Maybe all men feel like this on their wedding day. But right now, if she asked anything of me, I’d give it to her. Anything.”

Hiroto thought back to his own wedding day. His had been an arranged marriage and he hardly knew Yua when they were wed. But in the year since, he’d grown to care for her very deeply. He would give her anything she asked for. Within reason. But that feeling had come in time, after he’d really gotten to know her.

“I think,” Hiroto said tactfully. “That you should perhaps have some water for a bit.”

“Ha!” Kazumasa laughed. “Afraid I’ll not be able to perform my duties tonight when I bring Chiyoko back home to my estate? You dog.”

“That’s not at all what I was implying,” Hiroto said. “But now that you mention it…”

[lordoftermites]

The Fox & the Thornbush | Part 3

Pairing: Roiben x Kaye Rating: M for violence and bleedy bits Summary: This is it. The Undersea Attack. Maybe eventually I'll go back and do more with it but. This took... a lot to write and honestly I can't even write a summary for it. I'm sorry in advance.

part 1. // part 2.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

Kaye hadn’t believed him then—or, more despairingly, she had believed him, and was just far too willful to listen.

Even after the coronation in Elfhame, when Balekin had slaughtered near to every member of the royal family in a coup to usurp the throne, Kaye had persisted. She left her coffee shop, her dreams, abandoned her life in the light of the mortal world to live with him in the damp darkness of the Palace of Termites.

For her sake, Roiben had tried to convince himself that it would be a good change. That it was true—he had grown weary of having to steal away like some thief in the night to see her so sparingly, only to come back to a cold bed under a cold hill, alone.

After a while he began to believe that, perhaps, now that Kaye was at his side, within his reach at all times, that the frigid ache in his chest would abate—that he could finally be content.

Perhaps faeries couldn’t speak a lie with their own mouths, but Roiben had been telling himself untruths for longer than he could remember.

Kaye rolls over onto her side, burrowing farther beneath the coverlet. Her wild hair splays in lush, green tangles over the pillow. She sleeps soundly, verdant lips parted, once in a while letting out a small sigh here or near-inaudible word there. Roiben watches her from his place on the bed—their bed, he reminds himself—as though if he were to look away, she might very well disappear with one of those sighs.

He’s been awake for hours now, ripped from yet another nightmare, his chest heaving, his stomach threatening to upend the acrid bile in the back of his throat, while morbid death stares burned behind his eyes. They were the spectres of his sins, reminding him the blood on his hands has not, and shall not, wash away.

At least, this time, there had been no screaming.

A lock of deep green hair lies across Kaye’s face. It flutters slightly when she exhales, only to fall back against her lips. Her nose crinkles in her sleep, disturbed and perhaps dreaming of something else. Roiben reaches to brush it away but stops himself short, his fingers hovering mid-air. He ought to let her just sleep, he knows.

Yet, before he can convince himself not to, he’s leaning down, brushing the hair back with his mouth instead.

Kaye stirs and makes a light, disgruntled noise, until she seems to realize what’s happening. Then she’s lazily kissing him back, pressing her lips against his, parting just enough for him to sweep her mouth. One of her hands comes up to rest on the nape of his neck, her long fingers tangling in the hair there. Roiben sighs against her lips at the feeling; it’s light and comforting, warming that chill in his bones she alone has ever been able touch.

As often as he scorns himself for giving in to her decision to stay here permanently with him in Faerie, it’s selfish moments like this that he wouldn’t have her anywhere else. He can face the demons waiting in his nightmares—so long as she’s with him.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Kaye says drowsily, black eyes fluttering up to his, lidded with sleep and something else. Roiben hovers over her, grinning. “What was that for? I mean, not that I mind or anything.”

He shakes his head, still unused to the lightness of his newly-cropped hair. “A compulsion, I suppose,” he answers, and lowers himself again to bury his face in the crook of her neck, breathing deep the scents of moss and clover. He can’t quite bring himself to admit aloud that it was more to solidify her presence—to give himself physical reassurance that she isn’t part of a cruel trick his mind so often played on him.

Kaye strokes the back of his head gently, as if she already knows, as if perhaps she too needs the reminder that neither of them are made of phantoms and longing. Roiben kisses the column of her green neck, an arm curling under her, pulling her closer and yet still not close enough. She tilts her head with a soft hum of encouragement. “Whatever it is, I could get used to waking up like this.”

Her hands slide over his shoulders, down his bare arms, along his spine. Roiben shivers and shifts his weight, caging her body beneath him. His mouth drifts along the line of her clavicle to the base of her throat. One of his hands slips under the coverlet to the silklike flesh of her thigh, drawing it up to bracket his hip, while his lips brush against the flushed swell of her chest. Kaye’s hushed sighs as he arches against her spark a flame behind his navel, galvanizing him into urgent desire.

What he wouldn’t do to just simply stay here with her forever, to revel in her touch, her warmth, her love. Let the crowns decay. Let the duties and the demands and the courts crumble to nothing; let him be only a knight and a man again, to be content. Unburdened.

As if the fates decided he needed reminding of his reality, a light rapping at the door to his chambers breaks through their intimate solace.

Roiben ignores it at first, tells himself whatever it is will go away. Surely a herald, one of his knights, or even his chamberlain can handle it—not every small thing ought to be a king's concern, especially not when his council members are already far more inclined to do his duty for him. He doesn't cease his kisses, and instead channels into them the denial of obligations and the desires of his soul. His fingers grip Kaye's thigh tighter in desperation, attempting to tether himself to her and this moment alone. Leave us, his mind pleads. Find another doorway to darken.

But the knocking comes again, this time carrying a touch more confidence and urgency.

Suddenly furious, unfulfilled, and ultimately defeated, Roiben growls against Kaye's skin before pushing himself up. She watches him with heady eyes, seeming just as exasperated at the interruption as he. Her hand lingers on his arm. "Just tell them to fuck off," she suggests, though it's half-hearted. She knows as well as he does that it's very seldom anything he can simply wave or wish away.

"If we're fortunate," he sighs, bending down to give her one last kiss and then forcing himself to rise from the bed, "it will be nothing but our breakfast.” In a moment, he’s crossed the room and wrenched the heavy door open. Ruddles himself is there, hand raised as though he had just been about to give another, less-timid knock; he lowers the hand, and himself before Roiben, bowing low enough that his nose might brush the floor if given another half inch.

“My King,” the hob greets in his usual rasp before straightening. He seems to realize his king’s half-naked appearance and forced even breathing, but carries on. “I apologize for the disturbance at such an early hour, but I assumed you would want to be informed we’ve had a messenger come and go without our receiving him.”

Propping an arm against the door, Roiben barely suppresses a roll of his eyes. “It is not an uncommon thing for a courier to go missed.“ He knows his tone is clipped, but he doesn’t bother to correct it. “Why does this time require my chamberlain coming to my private rooms, when clearly whatever message left was not of enough import to be received in the first place?”

That seems to bristle the hob, who takes a rather deliberate, offended breath through his sharply-pointed nose. “Because, the message was left while the entire hill slept,” Ruddles answers gruffly. His brows are furrowed as if there really is something to be worried about, and his sovereign is, as usual, too unconcerned. “No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did they witness his departure.”

It’s Roiben’s turn to frown. That couldn’t be right: since the rebuilding of the Palace of Termites, they had sentries posted through dawn and dusk, and as many guards patrolling the hill. Surely someone ought to have seen this phantom envoy. Foreboding gnaws at his gut; he doesn’t like mystery, and he likes even less when that mystery involves his playing the part of the ignorant fool.

“What was this message? Did you bring it with you?”

Ruddles shakes his tawny head and wrings his hands. “It was a parcel, a large one, addressed to the Lord of the Court of Termites. We left it where it was found—” he pauses, the troubled expression on his face doing nothing to quell the rising uneasiness Roiben feels—”in the throne room… more pointedly, on your throne.”

A deliberate act, and a bold one. The thought of it sets Roiben’s teeth on edge. “I see,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, deliberating.

From behind him, Kaye yawns. Roiben turns back to look at her, where she’s stretching and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, green hair falling over her shoulders. Just the sight of her, wrapped in his spider silk coverlet and little else, makes him ache with longing. It takes everything he can muster not to bolt the door in Ruddles' face.

She squints at him, as if attempting to focus her vision or read his thoughts, tilts her head in a question. Roiben tries a casual smile and holds up a finger, before turning back to his chamberlain. “Gather Dulcamara and Ellebere,” he instructs. “See if either of them know anything. I’ll meet the three of you in the throne room presently, and we’ll see just exactly what gift our shadow messenger has left us.”

The hob gives a shallow bow and backs away before turning on his heel and setting back off through the corridor. When Roiben closes the heavy wooden door, he leans against it momentarily, breathing a long sigh that does nothing to relieve any of the pressure in his chest.

How exhausted he is of intrigues and suspicions, of forging treaties that seem as stable as a thread stretched above a candle flame. Roiben himself feels like that thread—fraying at both ends while trying to hold his kingdom between his teeth, at any moment about to burn up with the burden of it all.

Take this from me, he had once thought, after his coronation as the Unseelie ruler. I do not want to be your king.

Now, he had two crowns, each heavy as a boulder on their own. Together, they are a mountain, and may very well crush him beneath their weight.

“What was that about?” Kaye’s voice calls from the bed. Roiben moves from the door and crosses the room to sit beside her. When he goes to kiss her cheek, he takes a selfish moment to breathe in the smell of her again, something to take with him. “I’m not entirely sure,” he replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I expect nothing but trouble, as usual. But I won’t be gone a moment—” he leans in again, grazing his lips against her neck with a promise—”and when I return, we can forget them all again.”

Before he can lose himself, Roiben pushes off of the bed. He pulls on a fresh set of clothing—a simple black tunic with trousers to match, and a pair of boots. From the chair beside his bed, he takes up his curved sword and straps it to his waist. Its weight is one he is used to, cold and secure at his hip.

With an apologetic glance back at Kaye, who shoos him with a small wave before shuffling back under the coverlet, he slips through the door.

Dulcamara is perched on the dais when he arrives in the throne room, clad in her beetle-black armor, polishing a dagger while her pink glare remains fixed on the throne. She stands when Roiben enters, however, and gives him a small bow of her head; as reverent a gesture as he likes, if he must be revered at all. “The hob is off searching for Ellebere,” she tells him in her gravel-scraping voice. “Must we wait for our curiosities to be sated?” Her head bobs in the direction of the throne.

As proficient a knight as Dulcamara is, her impatience often wills out, even when it comes to the one she serves.

Roiben shakes his head with a snort. “I suppose it isn’t a requirement,” he admits, stepping up onto the dais. “Though I doubt Ruddles will be much pleased when we solve the mystery without him.” Even so, eyeing the parcel, Roiben finds himself every bit as curious as he is wary.

As Ruddles said, what’s been placed on his throne is no small thing: it covers nearly half the seat itself, dome-shaped and wrapped in a cloth of deep blue velvet, tied together at the top with golden string. It certainly looks like a gift. Yet, as Roiben reaches out to take the small slip of folded parchment resting beside it, his title addressed in a dark blue flourish across the front, an icy dread seeps into his bones. When he opens the letter, he has to clutch the arm of the throne as the dais pitches up to meet him.

From behind him, Dulcamara’s voice seems distant, distorted. “What does it say?” Without turning, Roiben holds the note out to her, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow—or tear his gaze from the parcel. His hand trembles as he reaches to undo the string, to look upon what he already knows lies inside the elaborate wrapping.

“‘Let us see how easily you unwind the wire of your own cage’,” Dulcamara reads. “What sort of riddle—”

“It is no riddle.” He's clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. His hand goes to grip the blade at his hip. “It is a threat.”

Unwrapped and glinting in the candlelight, just as he remembers, is the gilded birdcage that once held his friend and subject, Lutie-Loo—the very one he freed her from in Balekin’s office less than a year ago. Roiben had made a fool of the would-be king then, promising fealty when he’d already sworn to Prince Dain. Now it would seem his trickery is finally being repaid.

“Dulcamara,” Roiben starts, whirling around, “we need—”

An eruption of sound outside the throne room cuts off whatever order might have given. Before either of them have time to move, Ellebere barrels into the hall, sword in one hand, the other covering his side. Blood and dirt streak his pale face, only adding to the intensity of his frantic expression. “The Undersea,” the knight stammers, “they’re here. They’ve been here.”

Ruddles’ words echo dully in Roiben’s mind. No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did anyone witness his departure.

As Ellebere clambers up onto the dais, Roiben is reminded with a turning in his stomach of the last time he saw the knight in such a state, when Silarial made her move on the court. They had nearly been destroyed because of his underestimating and overconfidence. Has he once again brought ruin to his people? To…

“Kaye.”

The brugh swirls around him. His breath is trapped in his lungs.

As a swarm of bodies pours into the hall, the sharp clashing of metal against metal resounding through the hollow hill, Roiben can see none of it; only Kaye’s face, bloodied and lifeless.

Dead, because of him.

Something solid shoves into him, nearly knocking him to the ground before his legs catch him. Jolted back to the present, he jerks his head up just as Dulcamara brings her blade down in an arc across the front of an advancing selkie; the faerie crumples at her feet, black blood spilling onto the already gore-stained floor of the dais. It had gotten that close, and Roiben hadn’t even seen it. Dulcamara whips around to look at him, pink glare ablaze. Before she can scold him, he shakes his head and grips the sword he can’t remember drawing.

“I have to get to Kaye,” he shouts above the skirmish, already retreating down the other side of the dais, cutting through another Undersea soldier as it hurtles toward him. He is already charging down the hall before she can protest or follow, fear propelling his steps and his blade.

The battle seems to be more focused on the throne room, thankfully; Roiben is stalled only once, by a selkie warrior wielding a longsword of shark bone. Though he takes a slash to the thigh, the other faerie is not nearly as fortunate. He falls to his knees, clutching the gaping hole in his chest when Roiben withdraws his blade.

Biting through the searing pain in his leg, Roiben pushes on, repeating silent pleas that he not be too late.

As he comes to the door of his chambers, a fresh wave of glacial panic seizes him; the door has been thrown wide open and is hanging from the hinges. From the other side he can hear crashing, breaking. A struggle, and then a scream.

Kaye is screaming.

Roiben never feels himself move. He sees nothing but the flash of his sword, slicing through the gray-blue neck of an Undersea knight; hears nothing but his own cry of wild rage, his own deafening heartbeat in his ears. In less than breath, both Kaye and her attacker lie on the floor in a pool of mingling black and crimson.

It has happened, yet Roiben cannot shake the fog of unreality that strangles his breathing, weakens his legs, clouds his vision. His sword falls from his hand, and he collapses to his knees beside Kaye. He stares down in horror at the deep red gash from her throat to her sternum. Someone is sobbing. Blood streams from the wound—too much. There is too much blood.

He pulls her into his lap, holds her gently, covers what he can with a trembling hand. Dark, ruby warmth spills through his fingers and over his wrist. “Kaye,” he chokes, reaching to touch her cheek. His fingers are wet with blood and he has to brace against the sick twisting of his stomach.

Her black eyes are wild and unfocused, but she finds him. Grasps his arm desperately, gasping. She opens her mouth to speak, the beginning of his name on her ashen lips, but it comes out a fearful, small sound, and she doesn’t finish. Roiben strokes her hair and hushes her softly, bringing a kiss to her cool, damp forehead. When he pulls back, the unhinged terror in her eyes burrows like a dagger into his heart. “It’s...“

It’s going to be alright, he tries to tell her. The words will not form.

He cannot force back the sob at realizing why he can't say it. It could be a lie, and Kaye might die right here, in his room. In his arms. Dead before their life together had barely begun. Dead because he hadn't been fast enough. Because he had allowed it—because he had caused it.

Roiben can console himself no more than he can console her.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

[sabraeal]

Seven Swipes for Shirayuki, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

Written for @fade-touched-obsidian‘s birthday, which was....nearly two months ago. BUT IT IS DONE NOW, and quite frankly two months is better than some of my other late-birthday posts 🤣

The sedan is stifling.

It may be the luxury size, purchased through the deep pockets of the Wisteria’s business accounts, but the real leather interior presses in too tight, crushing her beneath the weight of her choices. This is what Shirayuki’s leaving behind: plush seats and plastic dividers, penthouse views and double ovens, the sort of security only money could buy.

She’d never wanted it; it had all just come part and parcel of being with Zen, the baseline for orbiting in the same stratosphere as his social circle. None of it had ever felt natural; guilt dogged her every time she slipped into the back seat of an empty car instead of the front, every dish left in the sink for the cleaning service smacked of superiority, and having a doorman--

Well, she’d been late to more than a few galas because she got caught up chatting. It was rude to just blow by someone without even a hello, and if Antonio had a new picture of his granddaughter, she couldn’t possibly pass without a coo or two over the sweet Sharpei of a baby his daughter, the light of his life, had given birth to.

Haruka had frowned at that one, digging the corners of his mouth to new depths as he told her, one is not late to a charity gala because they are indulging The Help.

Shirayuki tightened her arms around her diffenbachia, burying her face in its spotted leaves. It’s so clear now, so obvious: she was never going to fit in. There was never going to be room for her in Zen’s life. She was never going to be able to turn off the parts of her that saw other people as people; even if she could, she would never want to. Not even for him.

The radio flicks on, the smooth strains of Clair de Lune tumbling through the air, making the cab lighter, more spacious.

“Debussy?” she hums, the diffenbachia rustling with her curiosity. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a classical lover.”

Obi huffs, affront entirely feigned. “I’m a man of many depths.”

Shirayuki lifts her head, looking at the console’s digital display. “It was a preset, huh?”

His mouth twitches. “It was a preset. I thought you might like it better than smooth jazz or whatever else comes standard with wood interiors.”

“Probably.” She shifts back, removing her whole head from her leafy escape and settling it on the rest. It’s fine; she’ll be fine. Maybe it took six years to figure out what she should have known in six months, but she knows better now. No compromising, not like...that. Not with how she lives her life.

“So.” Obi’s gloves tighten on the wheel, leather creaking against leather. “You’re single now.”

Shirayuki nearly drops the whole vase. Not that it has far to go from her lap to the floor, but her plants have been shaken up enough the past few days. “E-excuse me?”

“For a whole--” he checks the dash with a grin that can mean nothing but trouble-- “forty-five minutes.”

“It’s been a week,” she reminds him primly, squeezing the diffenbachia for support. “Ever since--”

(”I can explain,” Zen says, fingers spiking runnels through his hair. “I wanted to do this in person--”)

“Sure,” Obi interjects smoothly. “But it’s only been forty-five minutes since you moved out of your sugar daddy’s apartment.”

“Zen was not my-- my--” the sedan is soundproof; Obi informed them all of it the moment he’d driven it off the lot, even if the way he said it had made Mitsuhide snap his name like a whip crack. She lowers her voice anyway. “Daddy.”

Obi’s hum does not fill her with confidence.

“He was only seven months older than me!” she huffs. “It’s biologically impossible for him to be a big brother let alone a-- a father.”

“Daddy is a state of mind, not an age gap. Though I’ll grant you--” his teeth flash, quick as a bear trap-- “boss doesn’t have much of that going for him either.”

It would undermine her point entirely to start arguing this one-- lord knows she doesn’t have a single horse in the race on how daddy Zen is anymore, if she ever did-- but her gut instinct is to hunker down on this hill and die on it. One she stifles successfully.

It’s not her job to staunchly defend Zen Wisteria anymore, and certainly not from Obi. And to be fair, out of any of them, she trusts Obi to have the most sense of...daddy, whatever that may be. Hopefully, he’ll never enlighten her.

“I didn’t take any of his money.” Every word tips stiffly from her tongue. “Nothing...personal. Only what was given to me as an employee.”

Beneath his shades, Obi softens. “I know that, Miss. I wasn’t trying to say...” He sighs, leather gloves flexing on the wheel. “That wasn’t my point.”

Her fingers ease where they splay over the pot. “Then what was?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. His mouth twitches at a corner, and--

“Isn’t it about time to find a new one?”

“You know,” Obi hums, fumbling with the guest house keys. “You can’t ignore the question forever.”

She squints up at the sky-- it’s a pure blue here, not covered with the haze that settles over most of LA, the one way to tell they’re no longer in the city anymore-- and sniff, “I think you’ll find I can.”

“Come on, Miss.” With a bump of his hip, the door swings open, the bags dangling from his shoulder helping it complete its arc instead of clapping back on him. Because it’s not a thin little beach screen, made to shiver open at the slightest touch, but a solid, weighted thing, made to hold up against everything but an LAPD battering ram. And maybe even then.

Shirayuki spares it a concerned glance, nearly missing as Obi adds, “You need to secure your future.”

“I thought that was what I was doing,” she mutters, toeing off her tennis shoes by the door. “Or am I working for Izana for my health now?”

Obi clucks his tongue, unceremoniously dropping their bags in the hall. “Well sure, but you should be doing it the fun way.”

Her eyebrows climb up the short jaunt to her hairline. “Am I to take it that the ‘fun way’ is on my back?”

“Can’t think of many things that are more fun,” he laughs, like she should know, like at her age this is an experience they must be able to share. She pads down the hall after him, shoulder rounding over her cross arms. Clearly she’s had the opportunity. Six years in a relationship; anyone else would have, but--

“At least,” he continues, words scattering her thoughts like crows on a wire, “you should be able to live off being pretty.”

She coughs out a laugh. “I think you have to be a good deal prettier than me to manage that.”

He hesitates at the end of the hall, natural light limning his long limbs, making him seem taller, broader than he is. His head turns, just enough to catch her in one eye, and the look he rakes up her--

“Maybe in this town,” he rasps.

Her hands fall numb against the twill of her trousers, and she begs them to do something, anything but lay there boneless; to reach out the scant space between them--

But the moment’s gone, quick as it starts.

“Ooh, look at this,” Obi says with a whistle. “There’s a kitchen.”

“The apartment had a kitchen too, you know.”

Obi barely looks up from the drawer he’s inspecting, fussing with something that looks both like a corkscrew and a garlic press. “Yeah but this one’s bigger. It’s got double ovens.”

“We already had double ovens,” she deadpans. “There’s only two of us, we don’t need a kitchen the size of--”

“Ooh,” he sighs rapturously, “there’s a gas range and a cook top.”

“What?” She scurries over beside him, playing a hand on the cold metal. Opa would have killed for a set up like this. “Oh, now that can make a lot of pancakes.”

“And bacon,” he adds, giving it a solid tap. “And check out that view.”

His arm snakes around her shoulders, turning her. “Wha--?”

Oh. Oh.

“The beach,” she murmurs, watching the surf crash against the rocks, right at her feet. Or beneath her feet, from how the cliff is shaped. “It’s right down there.”

“I bet it’s private,” Obi murmurs, voice rumbling against her ear. “Except for paparazzi and their telephoto lenses, of course.”

She waves him away, like a horse does with flies. “Beaches are public property, and trying to restrict access is wrong on an ethical level, never mind that--”

“Right, but consider,” he hums, batting away her hands and her protests, “that you don’t have to share it with anyone else.”

Well, he does have a point there. “But public beaches always have the best snack stands.”

“We can just bring our own snacks.” He waggles his eyebrows. “You could have one of your weird little veggie boards down there because you can just carry it.”

“There’s nothing weird about enjoying vegetables.” Her elbow prods at his side; it’s solid beneath the cotton of his button-down, barely flinching even when she nudges him square in the oblique. “You just have the palate of a kindergartner.”

Obi presses a scandalized hand to his chest, silk tie rumpling askew beneath his palm. “Please, Miss, you wound me. I select my snacks with no personal regard for health or authority, which is fourth grade at least.”

She bats away his hands to slip her fingers around the knot, tugging it straight. “You’ll eat hummus.”

“Because it tastes good with pita chips. Now, Miss...” He casts a quick glance toward the second floor, mouth already twitching. “Do you think our rooms are adjoined?”

Shirayuki blinks, trying to imagine a purpose for it. The guest house itself was mystery enough-- after all, any business partner Izana wanted to impress would stay at a property of their own, or failing that a hotel, somewhere they could guarantee no Wisteria would be listening when they went to decompress from the day. And a personal guest of Izana--

Well, all his family lived within driving distance. And his friends were...few and local, if his soirees were any indication. “Why would they be?”

“For old time’s sake.” His smile’s all trouble as he saunters to the stairs. “Just like Tanbarun.”

“Hopefully not just.” Although Shirayuki can firmly say that having the breaks cut at Vitsjo was the worst experience she’s ever had with a millionaire, a double kidnapping ranks somewhere in the top ten. 

She nearly says so; the quip is hanging at the end of her lips, poised to jump. But she glances up first, just in time to see every muscle in Obi’s body gone stiff, his jaw locked tight and his gaze a hundred miles away.

No. Five years. His body might be here with her, standing in a guest house the size of her childhood home, but his mind is back there, in a room that’s empty and a balcony door hanging on its hinges.

“Obi...” she breathes.

His body jerks, like someone’s yanked all his strings, and when he turns his smile hangs wrong from his mouth, never quite reaching his eyes. 

“I hope the beds are those big fuck off kind,” he says, words hurtling from him joylessly. “That seems like His Majesty’s style. The kind that can fit five people and all their emotional baggage.”

His knuckles are white where they wrap around the wrought-iron banister, clenched so hard she’s sure black will flake off when he moves it. She takes a single, painful step toward him. “Obi...”

“Oh dear,” a voice hum, pleasant and smooth like suede. “I’m so sorry to disappoint.”

Haki Arleon-- no, Haki Wisteria now, leans in the doorway, smile just as radiant as when all her billboards. “But they’re only kings.”

(“So when are we going to meet the lady of the hour?” Obi asks, tie already loose around his neck. His waistcoat’s still neat, pressed so it clings to the narrow curve of his torso, but his jacket’s well on the way out the door. It hardly makes sense; that’s what he wears usually, easy as breathing, but with two drinks in him it hangs limp on his shoulder, just asking to slide off them. “This mystery Mrs Wisteria.”

“Future Mrs Wisteria,” Mitsuhide corrects, tugging at his cuffs. “And you’re not strictly supposed to know that. This is just Ms Haruto’s retirement party.”

“Right, and her retirement plan is grandkids,” Obi huffs, scanning the ballroom. “So where is she? I want Miss to start murmuring to me about Punnett.”

“I would never.” Shirayuki wobbles on her heels-- too tall, but Kiki said that anything less than three inches would be informal in this crowd-- relaxing when Obi’s hand grips her elbow. “Besides, Punnett squares only work for Mendelian traits. Once you get into eye color there’s at least eight known alleles involved--”

Obi’s hand slides to her back, hot even through the silk of her dress. His eyes are the same, that molten honey they melts to when he’s been frequenting the open bar and-- and maybe it’s about time she quits her cosmopolitans too, if she only feels steady holding onto the hem of his waistcoat. “Save the pillow talk for the bedroom, Miss.” 

Her teeth snick shut. She can’t remember what she was about to say anyway.

“If you’re so interested in seeing her--” Zen jerks his chin over to the head table where Izana sits, Haruto radiant beside him, wearing an inoffensive smile-- “she’s already over there.”

Obi cranes his neck-- well, they all do, but he’s the least subtle about it, not even trying to cover his gawking. “It’s all just some old fogies your family does business with and-- no way.” His head swings back, eyes round as saucers. “Are you kidding me?”

Shirayuki squints, and the blonde head to his other side resolves into a pretty woman, her smile twice as bright and a hundred times more genuine. It’s her the men are flocking around tonight, but she hovers at Izana’s side, a hair’s breadth away from touching. “Oh, isn’t that the woman who was running the funding drives at Lilias? Ah, what was her name...?”

Gold eyes fix on her, no longer molten honey but hard flashes of coin. “Haki Arleon?”

Silly of her to forget; she shook her hand and everything. “Oh! Yes, that sounds right.”

Kiki shakes her head. “Only you, Shirayuki...”

“Wha--?”

“That’s Haki Arleon,” Zen tells her, as if Obi hadn’t said it already. “She’s--”

“The top of Maxim’s Hot 100,” Obi offers, followed by Mitsuhide’s stern, “Obi!”

Zen sighs. “She’s Hollywood royalty.”

“One of the most famous actresses of the last decade,” Kiki continues at her blank look. “She won an Oscar at sixteen...?”

“Oh.” She certainly looks magazine perfect now, every fold of her dress laying just right along the curves of her body, not a pinch of mascara out of place. “I don’t really watch movies.”)

That Haki Arleon is not the one that stands before her now. Though to be fair, she’s not the same Shirayuki Lyon she was then, either.

“You’re here.” America’s Sweetheart slumps across their spotless hardwood floor, flopping onto the sectional. “Finally. Save me.”

(”Is this where you ask me to sign an NDA?” The limo’s hardly pulled away from the curb, but Shirayuki’s temper is already boiling, rattling the top of the pot. “Do I need to sign an affidavit to say nothing happened between us? Should I send the Inquirer a note about how I no longer exist?”

Izana hums, his annoyance a dangerous buzz beneath his tongue. “There’s no need to be quite so melodramatic, doctor.”

“Isn’t there?” She rattles the tabloid in her hand, every word from her mouth so waspish it could sting. “This is your work, isn’t it? You’re the reason--”

He leans, one long-fingered hand plucking the paper out of her grasp. “There are reasons more innumerable than I can mention as to why the future folded out into this particular pattern, but if you are accusing me of holding the scissors to my brother’s apron strings in order to gt my way, I must gladly disappoint you.”

Her whole body aches from the rictus she holds it in. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that I did not ask you into this car to talk about my brother’s inability to properly navigate his love life,” Izana replies, sour, one leg crossing sulkily over the other. “I asked you here to offer you a proposition.”

She takes in one deep, steeling breath, then another. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not interested in any of your--”

“It is a professional proposition,” he informs her swiftly, nipping her complains in the bud. “I would like to hire you. For...in-house care.”

“Are you ill?” For how much rage had been rattling in her bones for the last half hour, it’s strange how quickly it evaporates in the face of her concern. “Does Zen know? No, is it your mother--?”

He raises a hand, quieting her. “No, not me, nor my mother, though I appreciate your concern. It’s...” Izana may have his reputation as a man who mountains find impassive, but for a moment she sees it, true fear flashing across his eyes. “...My wife.”)

There is no photoshop perfection as Shirayuki kneels in front of her, fingers pressed to the racing pace of her pulse. “Are you sleeping?”

“A little.” Haki squirms under her touch, her body angled as much away from her as she can manage. “Some. Barely.”

“But you’re tired?” She’s wan underneath her natural tan, the sort of stark white that says anemia. Already Shirayuki’s riffling through panels in her head, wishing she had a phlebotomy department at her fingertips. Then again, maybe she does; she’ll have to ask Izana just how much medical care will be magically available to her. “Have you been keeping anything down?”

“Hm...” She coughs, delicate. “Yes?”

Haki might win awards for her acting, but it will take a better liar than that to fool her by omission. “Have you been eating?”

America’s Sweetheart gives a very unphotogenic grimace.

“I had a yogurt.” Shirayuki sits back, waiting for the list, but it doesn’t come. Instead Haki just slips from her grip, palms pressing into the cushions as she strives for a casual lean. “And some of that tea you sent me. That stuff’s been great.”

“Oh, that’s just-- it’s ginger tea.” She sits back on the cassock, waving off her praise. “With some lemon and a few other things. Nothing special.”

“Miss is being too humble,” Obi rumbles from his corner, slinking out to perch on the sofa’s arm. “She stayed up all night making that stuff.”

“It’s important to get the proportions right,” Shirayuki informs him, prim. “Both for effectiveness, and preg-- er....”

Haki’s brows raise, and for a moment, she looks just like her cover on Vogue, arch and pleased. “Well, I see that cat’s out of the bag.”

“Ah...” She sheepishly rubbed at her cheek. “Izana did mention it...”

(”You understand nothing I tell you can leave this car, correct?” Even in his vulnerability, Izana is implacable; an unmovable edifice between her and his loved ones, as unnecessary as it is. “We had only just heard the heartbeat before this all started, and if word were to get out and we...she...”

For once, Izana Wisteria flounders, at a loss. “It’s rare for a fetus to fail after seven weeks,” she offers, biting back the actual number. Five percent only seems low to people already in the other percentile. “A miscarriage--”

“Can’t ever get out.” He huffs, agitated. “I am aware that you do not follow celebrity gossip avidly, but my wife...”

Shirayuki had always been under the impression this had been an arrangement, something forged from good business sense and perhaps a hint of mutual trust. They’d grown up together, after all-- at least that’s what Zen whispered in her ear at the wedding, watching them sweep across the floor. But now--

Now he falters again. “Every moment of her life has been for public consumption, even her grief. I won’t give them this.”

If it were anyone else, Shirayuki would lean forward. She’d put her hand over theirs, giving a comforting squeeze as she told them just what they needed to hear, the way they needed to hear it. It was her gift, after all, knowing how to tell both the best and worst of news.

But instead she looks at him, steel in her spine, and tells him, “You won’t have to.”)

“I take it the vomiting is still frequent, then?” Shirayuki takes in the dark circles around her eyes, the dull sheen of her skin. “Even though you’re not eating.”

She at least has the grace to look abashed, caught out like she is. “I am...it’s just better when I don’t.”

Her palms tap absently on her knees, fingers wishing they had a keyboard to key entries into while she thought. “We’ll have to go over your full medical history before I make any recommendations, but you need fluids-- plenty of them.”

“I drink--”

“No, I mean IVs,” Shirayuki clarifies with a shake of head. “We’ll have to call the hospital, see if--”

“No hospitals.” Haki stares back at her firmly, unmoving. “That’s how the tabloids find you.”

“Izana mentioned that too.” She sighs, rubbing at her forehead. “We don’t really like doing IVs out of the hospital without some support staff, but I might be able to get someone to come out...”

Haki waves her hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Just ask for what you need, and Izana can get the hospital to make it happen.”

Oh, how she’d love to be a fly on Garrack’s wall for that conversation. “We’ll see. Until then, let’s just make sure you’re comfortable.”

Twelve hours later, Obi closes the sedan door after Haki, making sure the bucket is appropriately situated in her lap. “Comfortable, huh?”

She sighs. “It was a nice thought. You can get her to the hospital--?”

“Well.” His teeth flash white under the lamps. “I certainly know the way.”

[justaghostingon]

Forgotten Alters Part 2

Buried Secrets

As the Academy readies itself for the Hunter’s big festival, Gyrus gains the chance to learn a secret about the god and himself.

The courtyard of the academy was bustling with activity. Magicians and casters of all types ran back and forth, some balancing gigantic barrels of paint, others with ceremonial white robes to soak in glowing powder so that no one got shot, and even someone driving a whole herd of wild boars through the center, fattened and grunting and ready to be doused in bright greens and yellows for the festival’s Great Hunt. 

Gyrus dodged around a stray boar, tripping backwards until he collided someone soft. He looked up to see the familiar face of his astrology professor frowning down. 

“Gyrus,” Professor Iro sighed. “Where have you been?”

“I was double checking some of the preparations for the release of the boars,” Gyrus lied through his teeth, not wanting to explain how he’d gone to his secret altar, again, to wish the Hunter good luck on the Great Hunt. He hadn’t been there, which Gyrus really ought to have predicted. The hunter might occasionally masquerade as a priest in Gyrus’ company, but he no doubt had better things to do to prepare than accept the well wishes of a random mortal who kept stumbling into his hidden altar. 

That didn’t stop the disappointed drop in Gyrus’ stomach at the empty altar though.

Professor Iro’s sigh brought Gyrus back to the present. “That’s priest work boy,” he grumbled. “Don’t go doing their job for them. They do little enough as it is.”

“They lead the Hunt!” Gyrus protested, feeling slightly offended on the priest’s behalf. “It’s their job to make sure that everyone has a good time, and that all the boars get caught!”

Professor Iro snorted. “Yeah, theoretically. All just an excuse to Hunt these so called ‘Great Beasts’ and try to imitate their god’s own Great Hunt,” Professor Iro waved a hand at the boars in the courtyard, now being sprayed with the bright green paint. “We’re the ones who actually have to create these ‘great beasts,’ to match the Great Traitor’s monstrous form,  and guide the less experienced hunters to a good catch while the priest frolic in the forest.”

Gyrus looked down at the ground, cobbled stones splattered in glowing emerald paint. The academy did put a lot of work into preparation for the Great Hunt, from painting the boars to guiding the poorer families towards the fattest finds. Still, “At least we’re not in charge of the cooking.” The feast afterwards could last for days, and the smell of blood and grease clung to the priest and peasants for ages after they prepared their kills. 

“Hunter grant us small favors,” Professor Iro muttered. “That reminds me,” he gave Gyrus a peircing look. “The headmaster wants to see you.”

He does?” Gyrus jumped. Running an anxious hand through his hair. “What for?”

“Not sure.” Professor Iro shrugged. “I’m just the messenger. But it sounded important. So whatever it is,” his hand squeezed Gyrus’ shoulder, “make the astrology department proud okay?”

“Of course,” Gyrus gulped. Mind racing. What had he done lately that would warrant a call from the headmaster himself? Was he going to get a reward for his latest project? But why a call to the office? Usually rewards were offered in big ceremonies. This sounded more like a reprimand. Or discipline. But it wasn’t like he’d done anything bad recently. Or anything worthy of reward either. Just his last paper on the Hunter... Oh no. 

“You okay there Gyrus?” Professor Iro’s brow furrowed. “You look kinda pale.”

“I’m great!” Gyrus pulled his lips into a terrible approximation of a smile. “Which way to the headmaster’s office again?”

“It’s in the west wing. Behind the big gold doors, where it’s been since day one.” Professor Iro raised an eyebrow. “Gyrus are you sure you’re okay?”

“Completely!” Gyrus began to back away. “See you at the Hunt!” Not bothering to see Professor Iro’s reply, he took of running west. He needed to find out what the headmaster knew, for the Hunter’s sake. He’d trusted him, Gyrus flashed backwards to their meeting, months ago.

----------

“You’re back,” The Hunter’s voice caused Gyrus to whirl around, the picnic basket of Mandu nearly falling from his hands. The god was leaning against the entrance, effectively cutting out Gyrus only exit. An ethereal light from outside bathed his skin and made him seem to glow. Or he was actually glowing. He was a god after all.

“You’re here!” Gyrus gaped. He’d been so certain the Hunter wouldn’t return, he so rarely manifested twice. Unless - “I’m not going to do the project!”

“Huh?” The Hunter cocked his head, stretching his arms up above his head. “Why not? Seemed like you were pretty excited.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to hurt your...I mean I don’t think the Hunter’s going to like it if I broadcast this failed duality everywhere.” Gyrus glanced at the shadow burns on the wall.

“It’s just a school paper.” The Hunter rolled his eyes. “No one’s going to be consulting some apprentice caster’s first year paper for the next great religious guidelines.”

“Final year” Gyrus corrected, then shoved his hand over his mouth, realizing he’d just contradicted a god.

The Hunter merely raised an eyebrow. “Still an apprentice.” His eyes roved over Gyrus’ body, taking in his tense shoulders and his hand over his mouth. “Relax.” His voice softened. “You’re not gonna offend the Hunter. I’m a priest. I would know.”

Oh so he’s still pushing the whole human thing? Gyrus thought to himself. Ok. He could work with that. “I guess I’ll trust a priest’s word,” he smiled. “But if I’m failed for blasphemy, I’m saying I got it from you.”

“Fair enough,” the Hunter shrugged. His eyes fell on Gyrus’ picnic basket, and flashed bright blue. “Is that Mandu?”

“Yes,” Gyrus lifted it up, watching the hungry god with slight amusement. “Do you want some?”

“If you insist,” the Hunter waved a hand, trying to appear indifferent. Gyrus giggled.

-----------

“There you are Gyrus.” The headmaster stood up as Gyrus burst through the golden doors. 

“I can explain!” Gyrus cried, and the headmaster raised an eyebrow.

“I should hope so.” The headmaster smiled. “Considering this work on the Hunter’s possible connection to a star god is quite ground breaking.”

Oh no. It was just as Gyrus feared. “It’s just a theory!” He held up his hands. “I’ve not got that much evidence, and...” The headmaster held up his hand, and Gyrus’ jaw snapped shut. 

“Modesty is a virtue Gyrus, but not in academia. As it stands, your paper qualifies you for a very special duty for the Great Hunt.” The headmaster smiled, warm and inviting.

“It does?” Gyrus shifted from foot to foot. He’d never heard of any special duties involved. Was he going to have to guide some one important? He hoped it wasn’t the lord. He couldn’t stand that guy.

“Yes.” The Headmaster moved from behind his desk. “If you’d follow me, I can fill you in on the details as we walk.” He moved to the side to open a simple looking brown door off the side of his office. Gyrus hesitated, confused. This all seemed far too convenient. The Headmaster paused. “Gyrus,” his voice held a note of steel beneath the surface, and Gyrus felt his body jump to comply before he told it too. 

The hallway they stepped into was neat and well kept, with other little wooden doors lined up along the way, like any other hallway in the academy. Gyrus’ shoulders relaxed at that. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him.

“...truly excellent work,” the Headmaster was saying, “how did you figure it out?”

Gyrus jumped, nearly tripping over his feet as he tried to figure out what the Headmaster was asking him, and what he was supposed to say. It was probably about the paper, he thought as he tugged at the edge of his shirt to buy himself some more time. But he didn’t want to explain about the altar, or about meeting The Hunter. He knew if he did it would be covered in scholars and magicians and priests. Call him selfish, but he didn’t want to share. Not yet.

“It was just a feeling,” he said instead. “The Hunter likes the stars.” 

“Does he now?” The Headmaster’s eyes narrowed, giving Gyrus a searching look. But Gyrus wasn’t paying attention, mind drifting to the first time he stayed over night at the altar. 

--------------

“Tell me about the stars,” The Hunter leaned back against the alter, looking upwards through the natural window to his constellation above. A stain of purple on his lips from the berries Gyrus had brought to spice up their daily picnics.

“What?” Gyrus blinked at the man across the picnic basket from him, hand halfway to the berries inside. “Why?” Surely the god knew everything already. If anything, Gyrus should be asking him that. There were so many secrets to the stars he’d love to know more about.

“You’re studying them aren’t you?” The Hunter said with a shrug. “Tell me about what you’ve learned.”

Well, if he insisted. Gyrus sat up, wiping the berry juice on his pant leg. “Stop me if i bore you,” he advised, knowing how long his rambles tended to run. The Hunter gave a nod, and that was all Gyrus needed to launch into a long lecture about astrophysics and the value of science in magic, a subject that only Professor Iro truly seemed to appreciate. The Hunter’s bright blue eyes focused on his face, sharp and interested, and never once did he interrupt him, even as the stars above faded to the blush of dawn.

-----------

 “Tell me, What do you think of the Hunter Gyrus?”

“I think he’s amazing.” Gyrus’s cheeks reddened at the daring of his own words. Hardly a normal thing to call a supposedly distant god. He hoped he didn’t come off sounding like a zealot or a priest.

“He is indeed.” The Headmaster’s voice is solemn. Gyrus glanced up at him, wondering if he’d met the god too, or if he was secretly a zealot. “Do you know why the academy is in this forest?” 

“Because it was a good place to build?” Gyrus asked, absently noting they were coming to the end of the hallway.

“No.” The Headmaster shook his head. “Because before we served The Hunter, we served his duality.”

“We what?” Gyrus stopped short. “Why doesn’t anyone know about this?” Surely this myth was preserved by the hunter’s priests, if it was still so relevant to the time. Unless... “Did I stumble on a Mystery?” Gyrus groaned. Everyone knew how protective priests were of their more sacred texts. If he’d accidentally found a secret from one of those, he was facing a severe scolding at best, and an indictment into the priestly order at worst. 

“Yes,” the Headmaster nodded gravely, and Gyrus’ heart sank. “But not for the Hunter’s priests. No. This is a Mystery of our own academy. A Mystery that today you are privileged enough to learn.”

“So you know which god the duality was.” Gyrus felt his curiosity bubbling up inside him. “And you’re going to tell me?” Induction into the priests would bore him to tears, but induction into the academy’s own staff? That was a dream come true. 

“Yes.” The headmaster stopped in front of the last door, solid Iron carved with an intricate designs of the Hunter among the stars. “Behind this door lies a secret we’ve guarded for a millennia. And today Gyrus, may open it.”

Gyrus reached to the heavily bolted handle, pulling the polished brass forward with a click and stepped inside.

The room was dim, and he blinked as he moved forward into the amphitheater, towards the only light streaming from a skylight four stories up. Was it that far to the surface? How had they gotten so far under ground? As Gyrus eyes adjusted, he realized they weren’t alone. Rather several people stood on sloping marble steps above them, cloaked in the shadows of the circular room. Gyrus turned his head to the center of the room, where a shallow pool lay at the bottom of the circular steps, water perfectly still, reflecting the image of the carved glass, above, the only light in the room. An eight pointed star.

“The Loadstar.” Gyrus’ legs gave out from underneath him as he gazed downwards at the symbol in horror. The great traitor himself. “But... no...” The Hunter wouldn’t. Not with him. 

“I’m afraid so.” The Headmaster said, and Gyrus heard the audible click of the door closing behind him. “Back before his fall, the Loadstar and the Hunter were in a duality, and to commemorate the occasion, the Loadstar placed the Hunter’s constellation in the stars. A trick, to distract the Hunter from his true intentions. Much like he used his patronage of our early institution to go behind the backs of the gods and plan his atrocities.”

“I don’t understand,” Gyrus shook his head. It was to much, to soon. The Hunter with the Loadstar? The academy serving the enemy? Nothing was making sense. Gyrus’ head was spinning. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because the Hunter took up our patronage from his duality, saving us from disgrace and destruction for one reason alone.” The headmaster lit a torch with magic, casting his face in shadow. “That when a human student with green hair and a love of the stars inevitably showed up and started asking questions on truths he shouldn’t know, we’d turn him over to the Hunter.”

The headmaster touched the torch to the ground, setting a ring of fire blazing around the circular room. In the new light Gyrus saw the faces of board members, professors, even Professor Iro stood among them, jaw set and eyes hard. 

“I don’t...” Gyrus shook his head, trying to make sense of the words coming out of the Headmaster’s mouth. “You think I’m the Loadstar?” That didn’t make sense. Gyrus clutched his chest. He was Gyrus. Just a normal human. A normal human who ate lunch with a god sometimes. But a normal human nonetheless. Wait. “The Hunter,” Gyrus gasped out. “The Hunter can vouch for me.” The Hunter wouldn’t have been so kind when he’d stumbled on the altar if he were his enemy. He couldn’t have known who he was and not told him. Right?

-----------

“You need to be careful,” the Hunter said, Mandu untouched at his feet.

“What?” Gyrus looked up at the Hunter, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” The Hunter bit his lip, frustration in his voice. “This shouldn’t be the first time. But it is. Someone’s been interfering.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Gyrus shivered. If the god was worried, then whatever it was must be dangerous. “What should I be looking for?”

“I don’t know that either,” The Hunter shook his head. “Just promise me if something happens, you’ll come here. It’s safer. Probably.” He shot a dark look at the shadow burns on the wall.

“That is not very reassuring,” Gyrus admitted. And the Hunter glared. “But yes!” he raised his hands in defeat. “I’ll come here.”

--------------

Yes. The Hunter would save him. He'd told him to run to him. He wouldn’t shelter his greatest foe, nor his treacherous ex-duality. A strange confidence filled Gyrus as he raised his head to smile at the Headmaster. “ Summon the Hunter, he’ll clear up this misunderstanding.”

“We aren’t summoning the Hunter,” The Headmaster frowned. “Our reputation would never survive. To serve the Loadstar before his fall is one thing, but to attract him again and again as our academy always does? No. The priests would have us completely disbanded for heresy. There’s only one solution, which has served our founders for a millennia.” One of the professors threw an ax in the air and the Headmaster caught it with one swift motion. “We are going to kill you Gyrus, before the slumbering god awakens within you.” He raised the ax above his head.

The ax sung down and instinct took over. Gyrus dodged sideways, scurrying up the steps and away from the ax’s swing. He looked back for the exit, but the fiery cycle had sealed it off. Above him the professors began to press forward, weapons glinting in the light, and Gyrus took a step back down the stairs to avoid them. 

“You’ve got no where to run,” the Headmaster said, taking another swipe at Gyrus head. “Just surrender and I’ll make this quick.” Gyrus ducked, turning to run, but the amphitheater had nowhere to go. The headmaster chuckled behind him. “You don’t have to die by my ax,” he offered. “We’ve got fire and water too. Although I’d say my ax is probably the quickest.” Gyrus shook his head, picking up speed as he hurried around the edge of the pool. But the sloping steps were not made for running, and his foot slipped, sending him sliding down into the pool below. 

He screamed, kicking outwards as the dark water closed over his head, swallowing him. He tried to swim, but the water folded unnaturally around him, like a tongue dragging him downwards. Malevolent and cold. He looked back at the light of the stars, swimming above him through the murky water. Was the hunter’s constellation above? Or the loadstar? He wasn’t certain. His last thought as he faded to black was if the Hunter would miss the Mandu he couldn’t bring to the altar.

-----------

“Do you want to live?”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’ll die here. But I can save you. You can save you. Do you want my help?”

“Yes!”

“Say it!”

“I want your help!”

The world flashed white.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 15: Midnight Manhattan]

A/N: Hi y’all! Thank you so much for your patience and support. I think it’ll be worth it...this chapter has something you’ve been waiting for. Only three more chapters left after this one! 💜

Chapter summary: A family visit turns awkward, Chrissie loses her cool, Roger and Y/N have a difficult conversation, John tells the truth.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies, miscarriage, cute kids, drama, angst, more drama, more angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh​@deakydeacy​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

They say losing a child will destroy a marriage, and you’re sure that’s often true; but it didn’t destroy yours.

Roger is the only one who can truly understand—who can feel that same aching and eternal, ravening absence in his bones—because he’s the only one who lost her too. He mourns with you, he stays awake through long nights with you, and when the future seems too oppressively bleak to imagine he drags you back into the light with tired daybreak smiles exchanged over mugs of tea and songs plucked on his acoustic guitar by the roaring fireplace, stories and jokes, walks through the green trellises of Hyde Park and the marble halls of the British Museum filled with ancient treasures stolen from Egypt and India and the Yucatan Peninsula, Italy and Greece, leaving craters of hollow memory littered across the planet like the imprint of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

Together you bury her ashes in the garden behind the Surrey house. John brings you a pot of white calla lilies, and when the weather warms you plant them beside the small black stone carved with two names you never speak: Joan Aurora. Together you watch the blossoms grow up and grow old and wither back into the earth like everything does when the clock runs out, when the universe claims back the debt of life we borrow thinking that we own it. And through it all Roger is so persistently kind and patient and present that you’re willing to try for another pregnancy, despite the odds stacked against you like moving boxes, despite the crushing heartache that another loss would entail; despite your fearful, growing suspicion that in both casinos and the genetic lottery, the house always wins.

It never happens again, and you reach a sort of peace with this; but it’s a peace that makes you feel small and immaterial, like when you think too much about how vast the universe really is, like when you wake up restless before the dawn and wander out onto the cracked cobblestones in the garden as the sun burns the darkness off the world from east to west, watching the stars as they vanish in a sky bloodied with another world’s light.

A year passes, and then another, and then another; and every February 15th John sends you a new pot of white calla lilies to plant in the garden where other people’s children play.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, look, look!” Laszlo frenetically waves a crayon illustration in front of your face. On his head is the hat you knitted for him, green and featuring a large white L and with sprigs of fluffy brown hair like John’s peeking out around the edges. “I can draw like Daddy!”

It’s November 24th, 1981, and Queen is in Montreal. The band is playing two sold-out shows, one tonight and one tomorrow, and Brian and John have flown in their families for one last visit to tide their wives and children over until the touring break at Christmas. Laszlo is six years old now, Anna nearly five, Lena three, Antoni—fast asleep and presumably dreaming of such complexities as Hershey’s chocolate bars and Care Bear plushies—two; and there have been no additional Deacon children, a fact which seems to be the source of some disharmony between John and Veronica. What Laszlo has drawn with his rainbow of Crayolas most closely resembles a very chubby banana, but with black spots like a Dalmatian’s.

“Oh my goodness, you’re a young Picasso!” you exclaim. “It’s amazing! It’s a...it’s a...a...” Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. “It’s a...giraffe...?”

“Yeah!” Laszlo confirms, grinning.

Oh thank god.

“Very impressive,” John tells you. “I would have guessed pineapple with leprosy.”

“It’s not a leopard, Daddy,” Laszlo says seriously.

“Yes of course, I didn’t say leopard, I said leprosy, which is entirely different—”

“It’s not a leopard!” Laszlo insists.

“You heard the kid, Deaks,” Roger says, winking. “No leopards. Come over here, kiddo, let me see the nice giraffe...oh yes, it is so obviously a giraffe, you can tell by the expertly placed spots...”

“You’re so good with them,” Veronica marvels, perhaps not quite approvingly, noting how Antoni is dozing peacefully against your chest, a red hat stitched with a massive A snug over his jumble of auburn hair. “He never sleeps for anyone. Not even me.”

“Being comfortable to nap on is one of my many talents.”

“It’s true,” Roger notes, smiling, combing through the knots in his brittle bleached hair.

“No, no, no, don’t try to be modest, you’ve always been fantastically good at caring for people. I remember Brian was half dead when you brought him home from that hospital in Boston.” Chrissie is sitting on the floor of the dressing room with Anna and Lena, helping to facilitate a glamorous wedding for Barbie and Ken. Teddy and Evelyn, both four years old and with massive mops of dark ringlets, are scribbling on coloring book pages of screeching dinosaurs and plunging prehistoric comets above tangles of jungle treetops.

“Hmm,” Veronica agrees lukewarmly. “You’ll be a wonderful mother to your own one day.”

You wince, bite your lower lip, peer down at Antoni’s pacific little face. His eyes, when they’re open, are a greyish blue like John’s. Chrissie kicks Veronica’s ankle and glares at her. Brian glances over from where he’s tuning his Red Special, one rangy leg propped up on a chair.

“Not so sure that’s in the cards,” you demur.

“Keep praying, dear,” Veronica offers. “The Lord will provide in his own time.”

You blink at her. She stares pityingly back with infuriating, weepy eyes. Everyone is suddenly very quiet, except for Freddie; he starts humming Another One Bites The Dust and taps his white Adidas sneakers in rhythm.

“What uniquely helpful advice,” you reply.

“Well, surely one doesn’t need biological children to be fulfilled in life,” Roger tells Veronica lightly, like it’s a warning.

She looks thunderstruck, like this is such a novel concept, like Roger just shared with her the secret to time travel or immortal life. “Perhaps not, but you know...it’s so terribly important for most women.”

“How feminist,” Chrissie quips, lighting a cigarette, flicking the ashes away irritably.

John leans into Veronica. “Stop it,” you can just barely hear him say.

“It’s interesting you would bring up timing, Veronica,” you observe. “We were all so discrete about yours.”

Freddie snorts, tries to pretend it was a sneeze, smooths his moustache as he studies himself in the mirror.

“I’m just trying to help, love,” Veronica claims innocently. “All this can’t be good for you, this ceaseless globetrotting. Almost never waking up in the same place twice. The stress of it!”

“What do you want her to do?” Roger snaps. “Sit at home nine or ten months out of the year and, what, scrub the windows until I come back? Take up watercolor painting? Knit the world’s largest quilt?”

“I’m just saying that less physical and emotional strain might help with the situation.”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor, right?” Roger flares. Chrissie kicks Veronica again.

“People should spend more time close to home,” she continues, undaunted. “There’s nothing more important than family. Look at me, I should have another on the way by now, but the band’s schedule is simply murderous...”

“Trying for a football team?” you inquire. And in the same moment you realize: This isn’t about me at all. This is about her and John.

Freddie is still humming, modelling his Superman tank top and tight white jeans in the mirror, cinching and re-cinching his belt, sliding a red sweatband unto one wrist. The kids—all except the unconscious Antoni—are giggling and pushing each other around on the slippery linoleum floor, seemingly oblivious. John whispers something to Veronica, his face dark and furious.

“John should be home more,” she bursts out. “For me, for the children—”

Roger scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For christ’s sake, lady, he’s not your bloody lapdog!”

“You don’t really need him,” she protests, almost pleads. “He’s just the bassist, he thought this would be a hobby to fill his time on weekends when he was in school, he didn’t sign up to live this way and Queen could find another bassist and you don’t need him—”

“We do need him! He’s not just some bassist! He’s a genius and he’s irreplaceable and there’s absolutely no Queen without him, we swore to it, I’d leave if he ever did!”

“You did what?!” Brian exclaims. Freddie hums louder, stomping his sneakers to the beat, mock-boxing with his reflection in the mirror. John raises his eyebrows at Roger as if he had assumed Rog wouldn’t remember that, assumed he had never really meant it. Roger, flushed, fumbles with his lighter and finally lights a cigarette on his third attempt.

Antoni stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and Chrissie swoops in to take her turn holding him. She bounces him on her hip as she sashays around the dressing room, casting fierce scowls alternately at Veronica and John and Roger.

“You don’t understand,” Veronica hurls at Roger, lashing out like a cornered animal, her voice raw and splintering. “You’ve never sacrificed anything. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of just falls into your lap. No heartache. No consequences. You don’t know what it’s like to be one of the people who get burned.”

“You don’t know anything about me—!”

“Look, I get it,” you tell Veronica. “You want John to yourself. Anyone would. You want a normal life. But that’s the tradeoff when you love someone brilliant, isn’t it? You have to learn how to share them with the world. Because the world is so much better off with them in it.”

Veronica glowers, venomous and spiteful. She’s wearing makeup tonight, quite heavy makeup; she’s started doing that with increasing frequency. “I have no intention of sharing a husband the way you’ve had to.”

Roger stands, stalks to Veronica, towers over her, blows smoke into her stunned face. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, so the children won’t hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Okay, darlings!” Freddie flits over, pulls Roger away, fluffs his hair and straightens his black smock-like shirt as Roger glares around Fred’s shoulder at Veronica. “Fabulous. You look like a ten-year-old about to make a papier-mâché vase for his mum in art class. I adore it. Off you go.” He pushes open the door to the hallway and shoves Roger through it.

Roger nods for you to follow him, and you do.  

John frowns as you pass him. I’m so sorry, that expression says.

You shake your head in reply. Not your fault.

Roger slips his arm around your waist as you disappear into the hallway with him.

“That fucking miserable, judgmental, delusional, dogmatic bitch—”

“Shhhhh.” You cup his feverish cheek with your left hand, weighty with the ruby ring he gave you four years ago in New Orleans, and yank the white bandana out of his back pocket with your right. Then you knot it around his neck, smiling. “There. Now you look a little more rock and roll.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks in disbelief. “How are you not mad?”

“She’s clearly very unhappy. I feel sorry for her.” You tug on the bandana gently, fondly. You can hear Chrissie chastising Veronica behind the closed door of the dressing room. “Don’t let it ruin your show.”

“No, I would never.” But his eyes are still distant, unsettled, anxious in a way that is rare for him. “You are a freakishly good person, you know that?”

“I try. Don’t forget to smile so I can get some good pictures.”

“Oh, I’ll smile plenty. Just like this.” A grin splits through his face, and the Roger you know and love is back: bright, triumphant, flashing the daggerish points of his canine teeth. Then he draws you into him and kisses you, his rough hands in your hair, his lips smiling against yours. “Love of my life,” he whispers, rather pensively.

He shakes out his right arm—the one with the jagged scar along the soft vulnerable underside, the one he broke in a stairwell in Yokohama in the spring of 1975—and stretches the hand a few times. And you find yourself wondering, as you always do when he seems distracted like he does now, before he starts staying out late into the night, before he starts coming home drunk or high or not at all: Is he getting bad again? Is he?

I would never have to worry about that if I had married someone like John.

You fling that thought, that inconvenient and perpetual thought, back into the shadows where it came from; like a pebble tossed into the misted tree line of a forest, like a shell pitched into the sea.

“Rog, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off like a blade.  

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s someone screaming out in the hallway.

You reel out of bed in the darkness, step into your slippers, yank on your fuzzy white robe. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:11 a.m. Roger and Brian had stayed for one more round of drinks at the club when you and Chrissie left to go back to the hotel, Chrissie to relieve her nanny from kid duty, you to quiet a budding headache. You note—with a vague, drowsy sort of dread—that Roger is not in the bed beside you, his hair a disheveled blond mess peeking from beneath the covers, snoring softly, his calloused hands outstretched towards yours. Beyond the door there are earsplitting clashes of broken glass, thumps and pounding footsteps, people shouting. And now you can recognize Chrissie’s voice, shrieking and wrathful: “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve really done it, you’re going to fucking kill her!”

You throw open the door to see Roger crouched against the hallway wall, covering his head with his hands; he is surrounded by shards of glass, tiny hotel shampoo and mouthwash bottles, Bibles ripped from nightstand drawers. He’s dripping with what smells like a combination of every kind of alcohol you’ve ever tasted, and maybe some you haven’t as well.

“I wish she’d never fucking met you!” Chrissie screams, launching a bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar in her room at Roger. It explodes against the wall just above his head, and glass and vodka rain down on him. Brian is unsuccessfully attempting to coax Chrissie back into their room as she ignores him. “I wish she’d never stepped off that fucking plane because the day she agreed to come to London with you was the worst day of her life!”

“Will you stop?!” Roger yells. “Jesus christ, Chris!”

“She saved you,” Chrissie hisses, landing an elbow into Brian’s gut and sending him flying backwards. “She saved your life and this is how you repay her, you disgusting degenerate bastard!”

A bottle of Captain Morgan hits the wall and detonates two inches from Roger’s face.

“What’s going on?!” you shout at Chrissie, your arms crossed over your chest.

A few rooms down the hallway, a door opens and Freddie wanders out in a pink kimono. After a moment, John and Veronica appear from their own room in their pajamas, rubbing bleary eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I phoned my mum and guess what’s on the cover of the News Of The World this week.” Chrissie points at Roger. “Go on. Tell her. Tell her what you did.”

He knows; he doesn’t say anything, but he knows. You can see that he does. It’s lurking in the shallow cerulean pools of his glistening eyes like a shadow, like a ghost.

“What did you do?” John asks him, mystified.

Roger doesn’t answer. He’s looking at you, at Chrissie, back to you. It isn’t often that Roger is fearful, acutely and bone-rattlingly afraid; but he is now.

“Fine, you don’t want to own up to it? I’ll do it. I’ll tell her, you coward.” Chrissie spins to you. “Dominique Beyrand is seven months pregnant.”

I’m surrounded by goddamn mothers. “Okay. Good for her.”

Chrissie waits for it to hit you. And then it does.

Oh. Oh.

“Bleeding christ,” you hear Freddie sigh, rubbing his forehead. Veronica covers her gaping mouth with one pale hand, and she doesn’t look smug or vindicated or condemnatory; she looks terrified. John is watching you, you can see him on the periphery of your vision; you are dimly aware of him edging closer as you gaze at Roger, your eyes wide and blurring with tears, your throat burning.  

You can’t understand it, can’t imagine it, and then suddenly you can: his fingers threading through her glossy black hair, his lips skating over her neck, promises whispered through nightscape phone calls, haphazard lies whispered to you; reckless, small-boned, doe-eyed children with Dom’s olive skin and Roger’s sharp little canine teeth.

This is the part where I wake up. This is the part where it turns out to be just a hellacious dream.

But you don’t wake up, because this is real.

“Oh,” you exhale, brainlessly, helplessly.

Roger doesn’t sputter some desperate apology, he doesn’t beg you to forgive him. He stares at you with huge, starry blue eyes, booze dripping from his hair, surrender etched into the concave slump of his back and shoulders.

You ask him, already knowing the answer: “It’s not just a fling, is it?”

“No,” he replies miserably. “I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

You nod, those first hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “Okay,” you concede, your words brittle and fracturing. “I’ll file as soon as we get back to London.” File for divorce. File this entire misadventure away in my mind as a horrific and juvenile mistake. Shred the good memories into oblivion so I can’t remember how alive he once made me feel.

That seems to bother Roger, jolts him into urgency. The white bandana is still tied around his neck. “You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you fucking joking?” you pitch at him. “Are you not done humiliating me yet? Am I not ruined enough? Do I somehow still look remotely whole to you?”

John’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t,” he tells you gently.

Roger begins: “I never wanted to hurt—”

“But you did,” you seethe, tears slithering down your face. It’s sinking in now, it’s becoming real, it’s materializing from years of gnawing distrust into fact. They were all right about him. They were always right. John’s arms circle you, holding you back as you struggle against him. “You fucking did and I forgave you like an idiot just so you could prove to me over and over and over again how exceptionally little you cared.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You’ve done enough!” Chrissie roars at him. Brian wrestles a bottle of Don Julio out of her grasp. “You deplorable slut, can’t you see that you’ve done enough?!”

Freddie approaches Roger, dusts the glinting flecks of glass out of his hair, wrenches him staggering to his feet.

“Come on,” John murmurs, towing you towards your room. Veronica is tracking him with blazing eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go ahead, Roger!” you shout as John drags you away, as Roger is corralled into Freddie’s room. “Get clean for her, get clean for her children, tell her she’s the love of your life and marry her and give her a ring but don’t forget to remind her that none of it means a single fucking thing—!”

John stumbles with you into your hotel room. He slams the door behind him, and the world goes deathly quiet. You reel aimlessly, collapse onto the edge of the bed, dazed, staring at the bland landscape paintings on the wall, ticking down the mental list of things you’ll need to get from the Surrey house: photographs, paperwork, John’s sketches, the conch shell from Ostia.

What about the calla lilies? What about her grave?

And there’s another list as well, whether you want there to be or not; a list of things you’ll never feel again.

His teeth grazing my knuckles, his palms cradling my face, his raspy voice as he writes songs on quiet nights, the way he loved our daughter, the way he sets souls alight like wildfire.

John just stands in the middle of the hotel room, heaving in ragged breaths, his hands on his waist. And for a long time, neither of you speak at all.

“Do you want me to stay?” John says finally.

“You can’t,” you reply, thinking of Veronica and the children.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m fine. I want to be alone.”

He comes to you, lifts your chin with one careful hand, touches his forehead to yours before he leaves. “You are never going to be alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear the key clatter in the lock, and your hotel room door creaks open. You’re laying on the floor after Queen’s second show in Montreal, staring blankly up at the ceiling, counting the black dots in the tiles like stars, imagining constellations of monsters and heroes and doomed love.

John appears above you, his brow furrowed. He shuttled all of Roger’s things to Freddie’s room after you packed them up this morning, then he took Roger’s key. “What are you doing?”

“Fantasizing about my own death.”

He checks his watch. “Will you be done in twelve minutes?”

“What happens in twelve minutes?”

“We have to leave for the afterparty on a yacht.”

You groan, sitting upright, rubbing your sore and sleepless eyes with the heels of your hands. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t have it in me tonight. I can’t mingle with all of those obnoxious music industry people. ‘Yes, hi, hello, yes it’s true, I am the sad barren soon-to-be-ex-wife, oh what a charming nineteen-year-old model mistress you have on your arm there, I too was once young and desirable and disastrously stupid.’”

He smiles. “You’re still somewhat desirable.”

“Thanks.” You reach up, take his hands, let him help you to your feet.

“You realize if you don’t go I’m going to have to hide in the corner and compulsively eat miniature quiches all by myself.”

“Your enchanting wife isn’t attending?”

“She wanted to stay with the children. Also, she hates me.”

You chuckle. “She doesn’t hate you. She passionately does not hate you, which is the problem.”

“So you’ll come with me.”

You mull this over. “Can I get so drunk I forget I exist?”

“Sure. If you promise to stay near me and away from the water.”

“Yes, I suppose that you, as a convicted felon, would be high on the list of suspects if I was to go overboard.”

“Losing you would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Who would I call to post my bail?”

You laugh as you beam up at him, knot your fingertips through his hair, see your silhouette reflected in his greyish eyes that today remind you of storm clouds, of torrential autumn rain, of thunder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to your torturous yacht party.”

“Aww, what a tragedy, being forced to enjoy all the trappings of stardom” John teases, and then you can see the regret wrinkle across his face; because people don’t joke about things like tragedies around you anymore.

“It’s a hard life,” you agree. “But it feels a little easier when you’re around.”

You slip into a dark blue dress and heels and your bomber jacket that doesn’t match at all. John meets you in the hallway in a black suit. You share a limo with Brian and Chrissie, who chatter nervously about anything they can think of that doesn’t involve Roger or marriage or children or love. Bri points out constellations through the open moonroof as frigid Canadian air pours in and rattles your dangling diamond earrings, whips through your hair. John smooths the runaway strands, rests his arm across the back of your seat, smiles in a tranquil sort of way and actually appears to pay attention as Brian narrates the stories of the stars and their celestial families: Pegasus, Aquarius, Pisces, tiny Triangulum, the lightning strike zigzag of Lacerta, Perseus.

“You look gorgeous,” Chrissie tells you, and she seems to mean it.

“Thank you,” you reply politely. “If only I was also French and fertile.”

The yacht is docked on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, an island of roaring laughter and music and twinkling strands of lights in an ocean of night. John leads you onboard, waves at the photographers who douse you in flashbulb luminescence, stands with you by the railing at the stern of the vessel as it pulls out into the river. Periodically some palpably accomplished stranger will appear, shake John’s hand, start asking him about You’re My Best Friend or Another One Bites The Dust or Under Pressure; but mostly the two of you are left alone. You drain flute after flute of pink champagne as John nurses his Manhattans, debating the merits of the various appetizers; you—ever the proud Bostonian—are partial to the bite-sized lobster rolls, while John prefers the Swedish meatballs speared on puzzlingly tropical toothpick umbrellas.

Roger is on the yacht too of course, and every once in a while you catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his blush-colored polka dot suit, hear his voice carried on the cold November wind; and you ignore this as much as you can. Twice he starts migrating towards you, and you and John pretend not to notice, dart through the crowds to the other side of the boat, your hand clasped in John’s as he weaves relatively anonymously through ballgowns and suits and reporters’ microphones. And he peeks back at you, grinning, and says: “I bet you’re thrilled no one knows who I am tonight.”

Chrissie steals you away briefly to keep her company when Brian gets snared into an excruciatingly dull interview about Queen’s next album; and when Brian comes to collect her, John greets you with a fresh glass of champagne in one hand and his fourth Manhattan in the other.

“You better make sure you don’t go overboard, Mr. Deacon,” you say, taking the champagne flute and resting your forearms on the yacht’s railing as waves break against the hull. Freshwater mist peppers your cheeks, your collarbones, the backs of your hands. Through the speakers pluck the opening notes of Hotel California. “Oh god. This song.”

“Fond memories?” John asks with a smirk. “That whole night is a blur to me.”

“It makes me think of sharks for some reason. And the Olympics.”

“It makes me feel...” He considers this. “Overwhelmed with self-loathing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the least loathable person I’ve ever met.” You sip your champagne, gaze out into the moonlit currents that run from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean, to the shores of every place you’ve ever called your own. “How long did Dante live in exile from Florence?”

“Twenty years.”

You whistle. “That’s a long time to be away from home.” The fingers of your left hand clutch the railing, which is gold and sturdy and stingingly cold. “I feel a little like him sometimes. Except as you get older, home starts to feel less like places and more like people.” You twist off your ruby ring, glance down at it fleetingly, and toss it out into the glistening black waters of the Saint Lawrence River.

John looks over at you. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s really over.”

“And how are we feeling about that?”

“Relieved. Petrified. Exhausted. Mostly I’m just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Why? None of it was your fault.” You sigh, shake your head, peer out into the river, into the night sky, into the stars. “Maybe this is a good thing, you know? A blessing in disguise or whatever. I can move on knowing I did everything I could to salvage the marriage. I can be free. No more waiting up at night for someone who isn’t coming home. No more searching through pockets and suitcases for white powder or used needles. No more News Of The World headlines.”

John is still staring at you.

“What?” you ask, smiling warily.

He downs the rest of his Manhattan, twirls the glass as the ice cubes clink against each other. Finally, he says: “I could have given you a very different kind of life.”

Your lips, slick with gloss and tingling with sharp carbonation from the champagne, part to ask John what he means; but then you know. Your voice is a quivering, astonished whisper. “It was about me. You’re My Best Friend.”

“Yeah, it was. And most of the others were too.”

It was about me. All those years ago, that song was about me. And it still is.

“John...”

“I watched you fall in love with Roger, watched him fall in love with you. Watched this agonizing fucking dance that you do...he can’t give you what you want, you can’t be happy with less...and I just kept waiting to wake up one day and not want you anymore. And it never happened.” He laughs, briefly, bitterly. “I mean, for christ’s sake, I refused to propose to the mother of my child until I was sure you’d stay with Roger because I thought...I thought...you know, maybe. Maybe one day you’d change your mind. And I wanted to be there if you did.”

You gaze at him, soaking him in, unambiguously aware that there is no part of you that is afraid, no part of you that is shuddering or surrendering or apprehensive; there is no instinctive chorus begging you not to fall in love with him. There’s no sensation of falling at all. It feels like you’re somewhere you’ve never left.

“I know that next to someone like Roger Taylor I don’t look like much,” John confesses. “That I don’t feel like much. That I don’t light anything up the way he does. And if you can’t imagine a future with someone who isn’t him, someone who isn’t like him...then I completely accept that. But you’re always going to feel like home to me.”

You’re My Best Friend. You And I. Spread Your Wings. In Only Seven Days. Need Your Loving Tonight.

They were all about me. They were always about me.

“John...”

You don’t know what to say. You know exactly what to say.

From the crowd, a man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and holding a Cuban cigar bellows for John. He whirls, offers a shy wave, trots over to say hello. But as they discuss concerts and albums and tours, John’s eyes meet yours through the sea of strangers and cigarette smoke, through the shifting shadows cast by flickering incandescence and moonshine.

And you watch him as the constellations and all their stars rage above, the same stars that in the time of Dante sailors read to point them home.

[eorzean-partners]

“No. We’re not mercenaries, and this is a mercenary job.” 

Souji pauses, hand out as he reaches for the bottle of sake to pour more; he raises his eyebrow as well, Yosuke’s tone taking him by surprise. He’d expected some dislike, but not outright resistance…

“We’re not, but it’s not like we’re storming a camp or fighting a war. Come on, partner. This is mostly subterfuge and infiltration, and you know we’re both good at that from all of the ruins we’ve investigated. Maybe it’s not our favourite type of job, but it’s a job, and one that’s likely to put  us in good graces with the officials here. We’d be fools not to do it.” 

Across the table, Yosuke winces as memories long buried start to bubble up; shaking them away, he crosses his arms. “I don’t like it.” He knows he’s already said it, but he feels like it bears repeating. “It reminds me too much of my days in the guild. This job wants scapegoats, not heroes, and I don’t like being expendable.” 

He’s not wrong, and even though Souji still doesn’t quite understand the vehemence that the brunette seems to have against it, he has to agree that this is a far cry from their usual work, and it doesn’t feel like the kind of job he wants to take-

-but if they want to stay in the east, to actually be able to gain enough funds and clout to have a home base that isn’t just an inn room, then something is going to have to change and this is the only option they’ve been given. He sighs. They’d been in Kugane for a little over a month now, and apart from a handful of cargo guarding and unloading jobs, there hasn’t been anything for them - partly because they’re foreigners, and partly because they don’t have the funds or resources right now to get out of the city. It was a miracle that the Sekisegumi had even had this option the last time he’d visited with his daily plea for work,  even if the terms - “failure is not an option and if you do not succeed you will not be rescued” - were far from those he would have picked himself.

“Look, I understand, and I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying that there isn’t a better option for us, and I don’t think there’s going to be, not for staying here. Would you rather go back to Ul’dah, or to Ishgard?” He pauses for a moment, looking down into the cup he’s holding. His temper is threatening to get the better of him - as it always does when he feels like he’s certain of something and needs to convince others - and he takes a deep breath. His goal isn’t to coerce Yosuke, even if he is disappointed that it’s this much of a disagreement between them.

The rogue, for his part, stays quiet - clearly unhappy, and clearly focused on his own thoughts - and Souji leans in to get Yosuke to look at him. “Look. I know this makes you uncomfortable, and that’s not my intention. I’m going to take the job - we need this if we want to stay in Hingashi and travel further, to Doma and the Steppe - but I’m not going to be upset if you pass on it.”

Yosuke grits his teeth at this - he knows his partner can be stubborn, but sometimes he thinks he’s still learning the extent to how stubborn he can be - but he also recognises that there is no ill-will here, and even if his partner is frustrated (they both are), he’s not making it personal, and the brunette appreciates that. Dinner stretches in silence, and as they finish up, he sighs, setting down his own cup. 

“I’m going, too. We’re partners, and I’m not going to just stay behind.” ___________________________________

They make their way back to the Sekisegumi officer after dinner; they’re both a little grim, but the officer isn’t much better, and once they agree to take the job he exhales, beckoning them into a closed room to give them the details. Souji had heard some of it - there were rumours about the coup at the daimyo’s castle, after all, which is why he knew it was an opportunity for them - but the extent of the situation has not gotten out yet - and it’s this information that makes Souji finally understand just why they were chosen and why “failure was not an option”.

I knew the anti-foreign sentiment had strong roots in some of the factions of the city but I did not expect them to go so far as to attack Kugane castle during peacekeeping talks… going so far as to take the daimyo prisoner and use him as a hostage to demand that Hingashi be permanently closed to foreigners.

Stepping outside, he and Yosuke find a corner where they can talk without interruption or eavesdroppers. “I hate to say it,” Souji says, slowly, “but we’re perfect for this job. We’re foreigners ourselves, so they can disavow any knowledge if we fail, but if we succeed we’ll be the final nail in the coffin in favour of the foreign delegations - foreigners coming to the aid of the captured Lord of Hingashi. You know, if this works… we will probably be able to procure unquestioned rights to take jobs here, and might even be able to net ourselves a place to stay out of it.

Shrugging, Yosuke still looks uncomfortable, but he can’t deny that Souji’s got a point - and he doesn’t want to leave any more than his partner does. “Well, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to give this our all. We’ll go in at first light tomorrow and we only have until nightfall, so we’ve only got one chance to get this right. Let’s take that map of the castle they gave us and get started planning.”

[reallybadfeeling]

My Obikin Playlist Masterpost Part 2

Not that anybody was really waiting for this, but here is the second part of the playlist with an explanation for each song. If you are interested in reading my rant on the first 20 songs, you can check the post I made last week HERE.

Without further ado, I'll leave you to my rant for songs 21 to 40.

☙ ✤ ❧ ☙ ✤ ❧ ☙ ✤ ❧ ☙ ✤ ❧ ☙ ✤ ❧ ☙ ✤ ❧

❧ One in a Million - Midnight to Monaco

Tears fall like acid rain and it burns me through the skin It's taken everything from me, I've lost my innocence The bats brings the night today, watch them turn the sky to black Like a gun that fires that sound again Frightens me until the bitter end I can't keep holding on And I hide away I need it to keep me from breaking down And I'm under Baby I can't carry on, dead and I've been buried on Baby, I was one in a million Even if our love was strong, take me down and let it fall Baby, I was one in a million And I was holding, burning, waking, turning Tasting blood and losing time I want to get a hold of myself Baby, I was one in a million [...] And I need it to keep me from thinking I won't find my wings no more

This entire song is about how someone's life gets absolutely destroyed by drug abuse. Or at least, that's how I always interpreted this. But drug abuse always makes me think about any kind of obsessions doing exactly the same thing. So I love this song for Anakin in particular. That "I was one in a million" giving me this "Chosen One" vibe. Like he got lost on the way to what he was supposed to be, and now that he's fallen he has no clue how to get back to what he was supposed to be, that one in a million.

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❧ Losing My Religion - R.E.M.

The lengths that I will go to The distance in your eyes Oh no, I've said too much I set it up That's me in the corner That's me in the spotlight Losing my religion Trying to keep up with you And I don't know if I can do it Oh no, I've said too much I haven't said enough [...] Every whisper, of every waking hour I'm choosing my confessions Trying to keep an eye on you Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, fool [...] Consider this the hint of the century Consider this the slip That brought me to my knees, failed

Another classic song that is in basically any ships' playlist. And it fits so much with unrequited love (or pining in general). How can I not think of Obi-Wan trying desperately to be a good Jedi while he's well aware of his feelings for Anakin?

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❧ Hurt Me - Lapsley

Can't look at you the same way, anticipatin' heartbreak And I know, and I know, and I know I'm puttin' on a brave face to meet you in the same place And I know, and I know, and I know Gotta let my mind find another space 'Cause I heard these scars never go away And now I'm runnin' out of ways to numb the pain So if you're gonna hurt Why don't you hurt me a little bit more? Just dig a little deeper Push a little harder than before [...] Like breathing underwater, what's the law and order? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know You're sitting in a corner, hiding til it's over And it shows, and it shows, and it shows Buildin' up my walls just to tear them down Tell me that it's love, force me to drown Buildin' up my walls just to tear them down Tell me that it's love And I thought you said you still loved me [...] And I'm counting down the seconds that we have I can see the end in sight, at last So if you're gonna hurt me Why don't you hurt me a little bit more?

This entire song makes me think of one of those situations where both of them are pining and convinced that the other is about to tell them something that would end up breaking their heart. Basically first half is Obi-Wan knowing from the start that they won't work, maybe because he thinks Anakin is in love with Padmé and that's what Anakin wants to talk about; second half is Anakin, sure that Obi-Wan would deny having feelings for him because of how much he loves being a Jedi so he tries to be a better Jedi for the sake of Obi-Wan. Because I love the trope of both of them being too oblivious to realize they are in love.

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❧ The Shelter of My Love - Astropol

When you have nothing to lose No one dear and no one to care for Non one sees you but I do I'll take you in I won't let you go Oh the middle of the night Black as tar and eager to hold you Just as pretty as my love Just as hungry Just as eternal [...] When you have no bridge to burn No place to go, no place to return to No one loves you like I do I love you [...] When you have nothing to lose And nightfall comes, eager to hold you No one loves you like I do I love you I love you, I love you Oh shelter of my faith All the peril, all the weight Mighty glorious The shelter of my faith Oh shelter of my trust All the longing, all the lust God will help you if you lost the shelter of my trust

I'm perfectly aware that this is a song about faith. It's basically like a call to pray because even when you are lost the one person that will always be there for you is God. BUT, this actually works pretty well for the Jedi Order too. And if we think of how Anakin joined the Jedi, how he felt like the only thing he would lose is his mother, it kinda makes sense with these lyrics. And even Obi-Wan: he was given to the Jedi when he was so young that that's the only life he knows. At the same time, it can be about Anakin and Obi-Wan finding that solace in each other too, because sure, the entire Order is there to support them. But it's almost like it's their last option to them, because when in need the first person they go to is the other.

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❧ The Night We Met - Lord Huron

I am not the only traveler Who has not repaid his debt I've been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met And then I can tell myself What the hell I'm supposed to do And then I can tell myself Not to ride along with you I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met When the night was full of terrors And your eyes were filled with tears When you had not touched me yet Oh, take me back to the night we met

You should know me by now. If a song that is basically perfect for Obi-Wan post RotS, I'm gonna find it. And this one is just PERFECT! Like, Obi-Wan absolutely feels like he owes something to the universe because he is the one who failed Anakin, who allowed him to fall. So I imagine him wanting a do-over, a chance to stay away from Anakin so that Anakin can be better and his own heart can't be broken in such a terrible way. Basically, this is also perfect for a time traveler Obi-Wan trying to fix things from day 1.

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❧ Danger - JKAY feat Shola Ama

I'm a million reasons in And I'm going out on a limb But I can't, no I can't deny Cause I, I fell in love with danger And I think I found a stranger in you The boy that I knew, left me torn into two And I don't know what to do

Nothing fancy about this one, just Obi-Wan realizing there is a wild side to the cute, totally unable to flirt young teenager he took care of for so long. Basically something to write smut on. You all know you need these kind of songs too. (And I picked the acoustic version because it gives me more soft love-making vibes, but the original one is perfect for a more passionate kind of mood).

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❧ Amandoti - Giovanni Lindo Ferretti

Loving you makes me weary, guts my insides (It’s) Something that feels like laughing in tears Loving you makes me weary, it makes me sorrowful What can you do (about it), that’s life That’s life, my (life) [...] Loving you comforts my sleepless nights It’s something that replaces old dead flames Loving you comforts me, it gives me joy What can you do (about it), that’s life But (that) life is my life Love me once more, do it softly One year, one month, one hour (Do it) Hopelessly Love me once more, do it softly Just for an hour But let it be forever

I was forced to put the live version from the original composer in the playlist, but a couple of weeks ago I posted a link to Maneskin's cover of this song (which, isn't on Spotify). You can check it out HERE, with a full translation of the lyrics (yes, Italian songs will always be a thing for this playlist, get over it). Like I said in the tags of that post, this is just another one of those songs that give me post RotS Obi-Wan feels. Just him all alone and heartbroken wishing he could feel Anakin's love just once more. Simply perfection.

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❧ Lemon Eyes - Meg Myers

Hush now baby, there's no need to cry Let me wipe away those lemon eyes All your worries, such a waste of time You can't even see how much you're mine You're so bitter, bitter, bitter, yellow Settle, settle, got to settle down, okay Listen, listen, you listen, yellow It's a killer, a killer, a killer jealousy Lemon eyes, you're mine Yellow eyes, all mine I bet you wanna walk away, run away, look away, turn away Honey you can't hide Lemon eyes, all mine

Do I even have to explain this? It's basically perfect for all of Anakin's issues with jealousy, but with what yellow eyes mean in this fandom it could absolutely be about Sith!Anakin. It's just such a fitting song for these two, with Obi-Wan trying to reason with a very unreasonable Anakin... (And I might have anonymously suggested to someone to listen to it as a good song for their fic. *coff coff* @tennessoui *coff coff*)

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❧ 10 Years - Daði Freyr

We've been together for a decade now Still everyday I'm lovin' you more If I could do it all again I'd probably do it all the same as before I don't wanna know what would've happened If I never had had your love I didn't became myself before I met you I don't wanna know what would've happened If I never had felt you love Everything about you, I like We started out so fast Now we can take it slower Love takes some time Takes a little time, so take a litte time As it ages like wine [...] And just when I thought that my heart was full I found place that I never explored You're so fascinating And I can't remember the last time I was bored [...] How does it keep getting better? Everyday our love finds a new way to grow The time we spend together Simply feels good We got a good thing going

How could I not put this song in this playlist? Like, it can literally be about how in the many years together, their love for each other grew and grew, and changed to get better with time. But it can also be just Anakin and Obi-Wan in an established relationship, since this is technically a song about a ten years anniversary. I just LOVE IT. It's super sweet and we all need fluff sometimes.

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❧ Different Kind Of Love - Kid Runner

It was always you there Dancing towards me Grabbing both my hands like Here we go, here we go again Maybe it was destiny We were so familiar But you caught me staring And I don't know, I don't know, I guess [...] And when you're near me I can't help but be under your spell Can I make you believe you're the only one I need? [...] It must've been something A switch in my brain It kept me in motion It drove me insane It must've been something Something you said You're pulling me under Holding me close Inside my head Oh, it's a different kind of love And when I see your face I know, I know You got me going Oh, and this could be enough I'm dreaming wide awake I know, I know

Classic friends to lovers AU song that works wonders with Anakin's kind of love, all obsessive and stuff. Definitely can picture teen Anakin pining over Obi-Wan to the tune of this, all awkward boners at absolutely inappropriate times and Obi-Wan never truly pointing it out, because he doesn't want to make Anakin even more uncomfortable.

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❧ Ruthless - GIRLI

Home? What's that? I got a doll's house with a few cracks Grew too tall, now I'm poking out the attic My feet are in the basement 'cause I never wanna hack it Life, what's that? Life, what's that? [...] Take my soul, Take me down Take me back to the beginning of this when I was still innocent Me, sorry who? I'm a kid in a grown-up suit Looking in the mirror tryna figure out who's Banging on the glass 'cause they're tryna break through Is it me? Is it you? Think it's me, wish I knew Take me, use me, screw me over Play me like I like losing Trip me, trick me, drug me Say you love me but you like cheating You're the only one to blame You made me this way Guess that's why I'm so damn Ruthless You made me, you made me You made me ruthless You made me, you made me You made me ruthless Only way to do it When you break me and I lose it Oh, you made me You made me so damn fucking ruthless [...] Yeah it's tragic All the bad bits Made me so damn ruthless No, it's not me I don't wanna be Ruthless

Being a woman, I know perfectly that this song is about how sometimes women have to grow up to be mean because of all of the abuse they go throw in their life. But I kind of see Anakin as this person that would absolutely blame everyone else for his fall to the Dark Side and this works so well! Like, the doll house is a metaphor for how the Jedi Order was supposed to be his home, but in the end he felt like he was used, like the Jedi told him they loved him just to trick him into doing whatever they wanted, basically cheating him of a simpler life with his mom. And even the looking in the mirror thing could be when he's already in the Vader suit and he doesn't know if Vader is what he was supposed to be all along or somewhere inside him there's this young innocent child trying to get out. What can I say, most of the times I have Obi-Wan feelings. But every once in a while I find something twisted enough to give me Anakin/Vader feelings too.

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❧ All or Nothing - Wild Youth

I remember when we were younger We used to stay up late We used to watch the sun go down, the sun go down Yeah at night I, I think about ya How I spent so long living without ya You're all I need, the air I breathe So hold tight, I'm coming 'Cause it's all or nothing I'm a million miles away and I feel so low I've been driving all night just to get back home to you To you See the sunrise, it's a classi break Driving down roads that I used to take with you With you Every streetlight, new horizon Start to wonder if you realise Oh, we were vain, was more than friends So hold tight, I'm coming 'Cause it's all or nothing

Okay, this is kind of perfect for a very specific kind of AU. Like, the "they used to be childhood friends, then got separated by life, but they were always meant for each other, so after meeting once by chance after years separated, they can't go back to their life, they have to stay with the other" kind of specific AU. The song might work with how the Clone Wars kept them separate too, but... yeah. It's kinda specific. Sorry not sorry.

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❧ Someone Like You - Noah Kahan feat. Joy Oladokun

Guess I'm a mess now Lost with my head down I haven't heard from you in weeks You must have left town I can't go back now And all that I have now Are those feelings I felt Knowing that no one else can bring them back out And I've been trying to find a silver lining But I can't But I can't Now that I can't hold you I wish that I had tried to Do more not to lose you Now that I can't find you Because the second you left, yeah the voice in my head screamed "What did I do?" Now you're gone and all I want is someone like you

Once again, ignoring that this is a song about a couple breaking up after one of the two cheated because this is also perfect for Anakin confessing his love for Obi-Wan as soon as he's a Knight. He was sure that would make Obi-Wan accept his love and try to get in a relationship, instead Obi-Wan panicked and asked to get sent as far away from Anakin as he could. So of course Anakin is filled with regret about his confession.

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❧ Big Boy - Charlotte Cardin

Maybe if I spell it out Big boy will take me on proper You nailed my heart to your wall You never dusted off after [...] Maybe if I'm a broken wing Big boy in my nest You nailed my heart to your wall And disposed of the rest of me With your push and shove Like what's love ain't love But it's love to me My boy is not a man yet My boy is not a man yet But boy do I love it when you kiss my neck Oh boy last night was perfect You're changing my mind Like what's mine ain't mine Be mine to be Maybe if we try again Big boy we could have it my way You nailed my heart to your wall But it was damaged anyways

Another song to write smut to, but smut with feels. Mainly Obi-Wan's, that maybe feels like Anakin played with him just so that they could sleep together, but never actually tried to put a pin on what their relationship is supposed to be after. And Obi-Wan realizes that part of the reason is that Anakin is still so young and maybe he's the one that made a mistake. Like, he's not even sure that what he feels is real, but he still keeps following what Anakin wants because what is the alternative after all?

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❧ Home with You - Marie Dahlstrom

Happy to be home with you Happy to wake up with you Even after all that you've benne through Happy that you feel the same Hope that I can ease the pain Happy to come by 'Cause you just give me life And I love spending time with you It's easy when I want you like that I don't regret it even if you might think That I've got Plenty other reasons in my head Plenty other questions still unsaid Nobody knows where you'll go but I'm here [...] I don't understand it all Still I will accept your flaws Just the way that you're accepting mine No, I'm not really one to judge We can laugh it off because It's just one life for you and I and I know [...] Feels so good when it's You by my side I could just stay all night I could just stay all night I love the things you do Nobody knows where we'll go but I'm here Baby, whenever you need me Baby come over, baby come over Whenever you need I will always be by your side

This song can honestly fit multiple things. It can absolutely be Obi-Wan accepting that Anakin reaches out for him only in certain situations and him always being open to it, no matter how their relationship isn't really the traditional kind of relationship (like, a friends with benefits kind of deal). But it can also be Obi-Wan and Anakin getting together when Anakin is already Vader, so Obi-Wan is slowly falling to the Dark Side too. You can also just use this as another song to write soft love making too since it's so slow and soft. Or just do whatever you want with it.

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❧ Hands Tied - Beatrich

You got me home sick for your arms The arms that keep me close But you just slip though my fingers Like I'm tryna catch a ghost I'd travel to the moon and back For you and all that you could say is That you didn't ask for that You'd never ask I'd travel to the moon and back For you and all that you could say is That you didn't ask for that You'd never And you stand there Looking at me with my hands tied And how foolish Foolish of me to let this one slide I'm terrified The roots are way too deep And there is no way out You just stand there Looking at me with my hands tied

Huge vibes of Anakin being mad in love with Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan pushing him away because he sees Anakin as a brother, not as a lover. And there's all kind of pining from Anakin because of the unrequited love and he tries to do crazy stuff for Obi-Wan hoping he will fall in love with him but it fails... Yeah, that's the angst that hurts in the best way! (But, you know, can totally be reversed to Obi-Wan in love with Anakin in a canon scenario with Anakin married to Padmé.)

❣🅞🅑🅘🅚🅘🅝❣

❧ Same Bed - Lola Young

I'm too quick to judge, too fast to fuck If we're lonely and I'm No good in love, 'cause the last time I ended up a little dead inside Sorry I lied, I do not want you, no Sorry my pride's a little too high To let you know I cried when you said you had to go, baby [...] (whispered) Fuck then, don't do this to me now Don't say my name when you're talking to me Don't say we're on the same page Don't look away when you walk into me I like the pain, I like the pain I'm making it hard for you to move on And be lonely 'cause I'm So good with words that the last time I broke his heart [...] I got a bit drunk yesterday evening and I Told you some things I didn't mean, oh did I? Hate it, I hate it when I get complacent I love it when you pull that face and we make mistakes Utterly wasted And wake up in the same bed In the same t-shirt I told you I loved you in The same regrets Like wearing the t-shirt I told you I love you in [...] I only like you when you're naked At least, that's what I proved to myself Can't make a fool of myself, baby God, it's so frustrating, making such a fool of myself Gotta make do with myself, baby I only like you when you're naked At least, that's what I proved to myself You make a fool of myself, baby Let's overcomplicate it, maybe just lose ourselves

Back with the complicated relationship and the angst. Can see this in a canon compliant AU with both Anakin and Obi-Wan not really wanting to admit they are in love with each other, but somehow they always end up sleeping together, and telling the other how much they love them just to regret all of it the day after. Basically making things complicated for no reason other than Obi-Wan not wanting to break the rules/his belief that he's meant for infinite sadness, but also because Anakin can't give up on this twisted love despite how much it hurts him and being petty in trying to make Obi-Wan suffer just as much.

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❧ Ghost - Harper

Not putting lyrics here because this entire song gives me Obi-Wan on Tatooine post-RotS vibes. Like, he's literally on the planet Anakin came from, there to protect Anakin's kids. OF COURSE he sees Anakin's "ghost". Like, he sees so much of Anakin in Luke when he grows up. And it feels kind of fitting as a punishment for Obi-Wan to be slowly going crazy because he keeps being haunted by this image of Anakin around him. Literally this line: "why you gotta make me weak to make me stronger". That's Obi-Wan trying to get over this love for Anakin and realizing that he has to mourn and suffer before he becomes stronger and able to get free from this ghost's hold. (But, you know, Anakin's ghost might even be actually Anakin, in a scenario where Anakin is actually trapped inside of Vader and trying to get free by reaching out to Obi-Wan for help.)

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❧ Qualcosa di Grande - Cesare Cremonini

What happened, you changed You are not the same Or are you still the one That grew up with me What happened, you ran away And with you so did my life I searched for it, I searched for it But I found it only in you There's something important between us That you can never change Not even if you want to But there's something important between us That you can never forget Not even if you want to What happened, you fell You fell too low and now you try to climb back up But it's a struggle you don't want [...] What happened, your light Your light is obscured By someone that I know And that took you away from me What happened, your star Your star eclipsed And now (I dare you to) shine from the darkness without me

Yet another song that gives me RotS feels. It's obviously a break up song, a song about regrets and struggling to move on. So of course in it I see Anakin falling to the Dark Side and Obi-Wan trying to remind him of what is between the two of them so that Anakin comes back to him. (If you want to read the complete translation, you can check it out here.)

❣🅞🅑🅘🅚🅘🅝❣

❧ Dark Side - Phoebe Ryan

At your worst, you're the best Baby I don't want another version, no Hard to love, hard to trust But don't change Don't be a better person for me 'Cuz I'm in love with your dark side I'm in love with your dark side So don't turn on the light [...] Even if it hurts, I want you heart Even at your worst, I love you hard If you wanna keep me, go too far

Another song that is more of a both!Sith AU but also something Vaderwan would work honestly. I like the twisted nature of this kind of love so much in fics. Can absolutely works with any version of Anakin or/and Obi-Wan being the bad guy in the story.

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All done! All 20 new songs I added to the original playlist explained away. Like last time, I hope you find any of this entertaining or useful. If any of this inspires your creativity, don't be shy and tag me on your stuff. I'll gladly read it/watch it/enjoy it.

[hobbitsetal]

“Give all you have and follow Me”

Dear anon,

You asked me, in the course of asking about another of Jesus’s parables, “also when he says that you cannot be a desciple without giving up everything we own.. like are we actually meant to give up everything we physically own?”

Since you asked about a parable in Luke, I’ll quote Luke’s account of this interaction also. Google tells me it’s found in Luke 18:18-30:

“And a ruler asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” And Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone. You know the commandments: ‘Do not commit adultery, Do not murder, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Honor your father and mother.’” And he said, “All these I have kept from my youth.” When Jesus heard this, he said to him, “One thing you still lack. Sell all that you have and distribute to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” But when he heard these things, he became very sad, for he was extremely rich. Jesus, seeing that he had become sad, said, “How difficult it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God! For it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.” Those who heard it said, “Then who can be saved?” But he said, “What is impossible with man is possible with God.” And Peter said, “See, we have left our homes and followed you.” And he said to them, “Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the kingdom of God, who will not receive many times more in this time, and in the age to come eternal life.”

The question, I think, is “is it wrong for a Christian to own things?”

The short answer is “no.” The longer answer is you have to use Scripture to interpret Scripture; that is, passages like this one have to be understood within the greater context of Scripture as a whole. What else does the Bible have to say about owning things? and particularly about Christians owning things?

I’ll pull out a few things from the New Testament for you, since one might perhaps make the argument that Old Testament wealth was under the Old Covenant and not the New Covenant.

Joseph of Arimathea comes to mind. He was a wealthy man who gave up his tomb to bury Christ’s body. Nowhere in the text does anything indicate that Jesus had a problem with him being rich. In fact, because he was rich, he could afford a tomb.

Acts 4:34-37 illustrates the Christian attitude toward possessions well, I think:

“...and there was not a needy person among them, for as many as were owners of lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold and laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need. Thus Joseph, who was also called by the apostles Barnabas (which means son of encouragement), a Levite, a native of Cyprus, sold a field that belonged to him and brought the money and laid it at the apostles’ feet.”

But does this mean we must sell what we have and donate it to the church? Well, no.

Further on in Acts, 16:14-15 to be specific, we learn of a woman who took the apostles into her home. “One who heard us was a woman named Lydia, from the city of Thyatira, a seller of purple goods, who was a worshiper of God. The Lord opened her heart to pay attention to what was said by Paul. And after she was baptized, and her household as well, she urged us, saying, “If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come to my house and stay.” And she prevailed upon us.”

Nothing is said of Lydia selling her home or her business. Purple, in Biblical/Roman times, was a very expensive dye, so mentioning that she sold purple goods was a way of saying she was rich. And she used the wealth to practice hospitality and to give the apostles a place to stay. She’s never mentioned again in the Bible.

There’s also James 4:13-15, one of my favorite passages:

“Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit”— yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.”“

James doesn’t condemn people for trying to make money; he reminds them that everything we have comes from the Lord.

So. I could go through more passages, but I’m trying to condense a book into a tumblr post, so let’s just summarize how I understand the Bible’s teaching on owning stuff overall and Jesus’s point in this passage.

The rich young ruler came to Jesus asking what he could do to earn salvation. Jesus reminded him that no one is good and reminded him of the Ten Commandments, to which the ruler answered that he’d kept all of them.

That’s a heck of a claim to make. James says, “For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become guilty of all of it,” and Paul says something similar in...Romans? Personally, I fail the First Commandment daily: “Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.” 

You wanna know how many times I fail to prioritize God as I should? Enough times to make me grateful that He is a God of grace.

Yet Jesus doesn’t call him out on the height of this claim. He doesn’t even choose now to elevate the Law as He does in the Sermon on the Mount, when He equated hatred to murder. (I’m screwed on that count.) Instead, He tells the ruler that the only thing he needs to do to be righteous, to earn heaven, is to give up his wealth.

Jesus is God. God knows all things, including our thoughts. I’m convinced that Jesus knew already how the ruler would respond to this challenge. He knew that the ruler loved his wealth and what he had more than he loved and desired God.

That’s really it, anon. What do you love most in this world? What are you willing to give up for the sake of the Lord? If obeying God meant breaking up with your s/o, would you? If obeying God meant telling the truth when it would hurt you to do so, would you? If obeying God meant sacrificing some creature comforts?

There’s a pastor named Brad Bigney who preached a sermon series and wrote a book, both titled “Gospel Treason.” Bigney defines idolatry (or having a god before the Lord) as “anything you are willing to sin to get, or you are willing to sin to keep.”

If being rich or owning something is more important to me than anything else in the world, that’s a problem. That is a sin. That is what Jesus condemns in this passage.

Everything we have, from the breath in our lungs to the money in our bank account to the people in our lives, is a gift from God. Everything we have ultimately returns to God. There’s nothing wrong with me having money. In fact, it’s a very good thing that I do because I’m able to use that money for God. This isn’t my money; it’s God’s money. So when I make decisions about what to buy or not buy, I make those decisions to honor God to the best of my ability.

My parents bought a boat and a vacation home. They’ve used that boat and that home to bless other Christians: to take them out on the bay and to give them a beach getaway that would otherwise be too expensive. My parents have used their wealth and their physical possessions to feed souls and bring rest to the weary.

Nice clothes, books, quality furniture: there’s no sin in having these things. Indeed, owning something that will last for many years is usually a wiser use of money than buying something cheap that will need replacing, though it’s not always a feasible choice for people.

It always comes back to the heart: what do you value? What do you trust? Are you secure because you have money in the bank? Or are you secure because you trust Jesus when He says He will provide for what we need?

If you lost everything tomorrow and you were out on the street with the clothes on your back, could you say with the apostle Paul, “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.“?