#because that day has been tainted with another tragedy for us

[court-of-constellations]

there's just something about identities.

you lie as you breathe, weaving the illusion into reality until not even you know what's real and what's not. you start believing you truly are who you pretend to be, until the two of you are so deeply intertwined that it's impossible to separate fiction from fact.

you discard names and faces as needed, move on to a new life and a new opportunity, but you cannot forget what brought you to this point. you will not forget, because if you forget, then that time and place will be lost forever. if you forget, then there's no reason to keep going.

you really did think you were them. you delighted in their joys, mourned their losses, let their goals and beliefs shape you into who you are today. your entire sense of self has been built on them, on who they once were. but they're gone. and you are nothing but a pale imitation of their light.

you know you're not them. you could never be them. you think their loved ones know it too, but they can't face it. you're a liar, a fraud who has taken their place, but even that is better than admitting that they're really gone. that their light was snuffed out long ago, and this twisted version of them is all that remains.

you can't escape who you once were. your sins taint everything you do, your inner darkness pervades every inch of the life you've carved out for yourself. and every lie you speak, every false tale you tell in order to keep this new life, it's all just another weight on your shoulders. you will never be able to truly escape, and you know you deserve it. there's nothing that has happened to you that wasn't entirely your own fault.

you live only for their sake. they are the only thing you have left. you've destroyed anything else you could have had, all to protect them. they are everything to you. they have to be. you must live for them, die for them, offer up everything you are at their altar, because if you don't and they lose, then what was it all for?

you live and die and live and die again and again. you will never be granted the sweet embrace of death for long, for there is something twisted and broken in your very soul that spurs you ever on. you have to find something to cling to, something that will never die. your other half is with you always, until they're not, and you know you'll be reunited in the next life, but you're still alone now. madness threatens to consume you whole, so you throw yourself into blood and death in the hopes that it will keep the monster at bay. you are a broken vessel, a tool for others to use as they wish, and it has been so since before you ever came into this world. you attach yourself to one of the worst monsters of all, for they will protect you and stay with you, for they are the only trace you can find of the mother you lost so long ago.

you are not real. you were never real. you are simply a reflection, an ideal of someone in some long-forgotten land. your wishes, your hopes, your dreams, none of it mattered. the malice that threatened to tear your mind to shreds was manufactured, made to make their mistake disappear. you are not real, your life was a lie, your entire world was just an experiment to see if they could. you are not real, nothing was ever real, and now it's all destroyed.

you are not yourself. who you were is gone, your past self entirely erased. you are just your title now, a false prophet. you are revered as you sit atop your throne of lies, and your true name is never spoken- not even by yourself. still, you hold it close to your chest, clinging to those days when you were still free. you are trapped within a gilded cage, a puppet to be played with as they please. are you even human? or are you just a broken doll, without a heart and without any true life?

who are you? you cannot remember. there are so many people you could've been, so many lives and stories that might have once been your own. your story was always a tragedy, and it is only a matter of discovering which tragedy it was. you don't know if you want to remember, or if you'd rather forget. you don't know anything.

there's just something about identities.

[itsjaywalkers]

Hi! If you had to assign Ancient Greek myths (or myths of another kind) to each of your fic couples, which ones would you choose? (Very curious what you would choose for Jegulus vs pandalily vs bartylily etc.)

hi nonnie!! sorry it took me a few days to get back to u, but u sent such a good and interesting question i had to . properly think it over before i gave you a reply!! i even discussed it a bit with my best friend, even tho her knowledge on the topic of the marauders is limited to what i've told her + the couple of fics i've convinced her to read lol

anyways !! i used to be a mythology nerd so this ask genuinely made me swoon !! thank u for sending it and encouraging me to rant about both my fav ships AND greek myths <3

for jegulus i feel like it's a bit obvious.. they're so orpheus and eurydice coded.. to me.. it's all about devotion and being incapable to accept a lost love or move on and yet not being able to save the other person, or bring them back, bc it's been doomed since the start. but it was still beautiful while it lasted, and any of them looking back is proof that the love was there in the first place, and that it mattered!!

i could also see them as pygmalion and galatea (shout out to my beloved mil !!) bc i feel like their dynamic, especially in a canon context, is a lot about . them idealising each other in a way . about loving each other bc of what they represent . regulus has james in a pedestal, he sees him as this beacon of good and kindness and he loves him because of that. always from a certain distance, knowing it's bound to end at some point bc he's rotten and he isn't allowed to taint something as perfect as james. not like he'd want to, anyway. and james !! he sees regulus as something beautiful but broken that he's meant to fix. he thinks that if he treats him well and loves him right, reg will change and will choose him exactly like sirius did. he thinks he can mold him in what james thinks is the best version of him, bring out the good he's sure hides somewhere deep inside of reg. ultimately, they're both wrong, and are basing their love in what's simply an ideal etc etc

for pandalily.. they're the amazons <3 powerful warrior women who rejected and rebelled against a men-dominated society <3

they're also very scylla and charybdis coded to me.. two terrifying monsters in the mediterranean sea.. ships being forced to navigate between the two creatures and it almost always ending in tragedy.. their relationship + love is very . monstruous and twisted, in the best way, because they embrace each other's ugly sides and encourage them. they love each other not in spite of them, but because of them. they love violently and intensely, and what might seem grotesque and dangerous and plain wrong from an outsider's perspective it just . works for them . they're happy in that chaos and destruction <3

i could also see them as alcyone and ceyx, mostly in the sense of being this arrogant couple who dares to compare themselves to the gods and ends up being punished for it, because i feel that's very accurate to the version of pandalily i have in my head. also alcyone killing herself after ceyx died, ready to follow him anywhere, even to the afterlife??? that's pandalily. they wouldn't be that . upset or devastated about it i don't think, but the point is that if one of them dies, the other is killing themselves right after, no questions asked

as for bartylily.. it can only be hades and persephone to me.. persephone being demeter's precious sweet daughter and hades being the king of the underworld, always an outsider even around the gods. her having so many suitors but hades being the most persisting one.. softening around her and being utterly fascinated by her freshness and her beauty.. resorting to kidnapping her bc he knew her mother would never approve of their union.. persephone eating from the pomegranate and ending up bound to the underworld.. her being the emobodiment of spring but also becoming the queen of the underworld.. idk i feel like the duality is very . lily . (or at least it's very my lily) and this being such a controversial myth, with so many ppl arguing about if persephone truly ended up falling for hades or if the time she spends down there with him is always against her will, if she was tricked into eating the pomegranate seeds by her husband or if she did so willingly, etc etc, it all fits bartylily incredibly well!! i'm also personally very fond of the story so that's always a bonus

[horizon-verizon]

At the end of the day, Rhaenyra went down in history as a traitor and dismissed as nothing more than a usurper and a pretender. Even her own sons didn’t move a finger to give her a place as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in history. In The World of Ice and Fire, Yandel doesn’t give Rhaenyra a chapter for her short-lived reign while he does give one to the similarly short-reigning Aegon II. In The Princess And The Queen, Maester Gyldayn exalts the Blacks and her children’s qualities (even the Velaryons) while still disliking her. And no other Targaryen that we know of has been called ‘Rhaenyra’ because the infamy she gained has tainted the name for future generations. Planning lavish feasts for herself and her son while King’s Landing suffered under her crippling taxes. A cartoonish villain with staggering, jaw-dropping incompetence and stupidity.

Pfft.

You: "At the end of the day, Rhaenyra went down in history as a traitor and dismissed as nothing more than a usurper and a pretender."

LINK AS ANSWER (merely one of many posts I wrote regarding biased maesters, unreliable narrators defined by misogyny and ambition; how Viserys failed her; men and women who wanted to seize power for themselves and used Rhaenyra's social disadvantages being a woman in a patriarchal world; etc.....each post is linked to another, earlier post regarding this topic)

You: "Even her own sons didn’t move a finger to give her a place as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in history"

LINK AS ANSWER

You: "In The World of Ice and Fire, Yandel doesn’t give Rhaenyra a chapter for her short-lived reign while he does give one to the similarly short-reigning Aegon II. In The Princess And The Queen, Maester Gyldayn exalts the Blacks and her children’s qualities (even the Velaryons) while still disliking her."

Other than me already giving the links to other posts above to my answers to these thoughts (bc you're just that unoriginal)...

that was decided by a group of mostly men who do not and never would have cared to inspect a woman's trials and tribulations, esp after seeing how they "reasoned" out Baela being Aegon III's heir by basically saying she is too disobedient and nonconforming of sexually-and-psychologically constraining gender norms used against women so men like these can more easily control them ("The Hooded Hand"):

and clearly:

All the reasons they listed out had more to do with how much of a hand they themselves could have in how the dynasty would look for their own interests rather than anything that reflects on Baela's character...which was actually very solutions and clever as well as brave and self-determined without being oppressive towards the little guy. Stuff very good in a ruler. Baela had all the makings of a good ruler...but she is passed over for superficial and sexist reasons hinting they wanted her to act "like a good girl". So that means that Rhaenyra was not hated or excluded from some lists of Westerosi rulers for her personality, not competency or performance as a ruler. She's excluded bc the maesters and lords and septons all agreed that they must maintain the primacy of male primogeniture.

Now Rhaenyra towards the end became a tyrant, but she wasn't always that way as I already said in many posts. Yes, she was already likely elitist but 1) this doesn't mark her as different from most everyone (nobles) around her, so why do people single her out esp when Alicent, Aemond, and Aegon all performed heinous deeds themselves unprovoked? 2) She became the worst version of herself after losing several things AND trying to "get her lick back" in trying for her throne.

In lieu of all these, it is very clear that the main problem Rhaenyra had & why she found so much trouble and tragedy just trying to become queen was bc people took advantage of the fact that she, as a woman, was not given the grace nor confidence of leadership as men get. Men like Maegor I, Jaehaerys I, Aegon the son of Aenys, Aenys I, Aegon IV, etc.

You: "And no other Targaryen that we know of has been called ‘Rhaenyra’ because the infamy she gained has tainted the name for future generations."

Basically already answered this.

You: "Planning lavish feasts for herself and her son while King’s Landing suffered under her crippling taxes."

LINK AS ANSWER (Scroll down to where I requote "Rhaenyra instead planned a lavish induction")

Also, Aegon built two golden statues...in wartime...this also took money.

You: "A cartoonish villain with staggering, jaw-dropping incompetence and stupidity."

Well, that honor more goes to Aemond, who literally decides to kill both grown men and children in the open yard of their former castle to make a point about his own strength and later takes one of their bastard relatives as his war prize/sex slave despite him killing another of their (alleged and who he thinks bc Harwin is told to be the parent) relatives for being a bastard...Lucerys. Also for not going down to fight with Criston when Criston advised him to join Daeron & the Hightower host, joining strengths so they could then retake KL. Aemond openly refused, saying he saw that as the "coward's" way and that he didn't want to share the glory with either of his brothers. So he just stayed back at Harrenhal with Alys until he flamed down several riverland towns and villages hoping to draw any black out to meet him in a "glorious" battle. Also, the same guy who got tricked easily by Daemon into leaving KL and making the greens lose KL.

[televinita]

Am listening to Taylor Swift music again, and have been seized by the need to talk through some of her older albums -- favorite songs, personal history, whatever comes to mind. Maybe in yet another attempt to try and figure out my overall fave / ranking of them as a set? No real order is planned for this so I thought I’d start with this one, because I realized I actually hadn’t listened to it in quite some time.

(I don't really know what this mini-project is going to be but I’ve been noodling on it for a few nights and now seems as good a time as any to share.)

Background/Overview

When it was new -- and a 2010 Christmas present for me -- it was my favorite of the three, but now I'm not sure. The thing is that it has several songs I like better than the entirety of Fearless (except for #1 fave Change), but it also has a handful I find less interesting compared to that one’s “13 track listings, stars beside them all” success, and I can’t decide how to weight that. It does absolutely have the prettiest cover and booklet, though.

Songs

Ask me my favorite song on this album and I’ll say without hesitation Long Live. I don’t think that will ever change; it’s in my all-time-faves across her whole discography. The twin/companion piece to Change, it never fails to make my heart sing. It came out after I was an adult but it still makes me nostalgic and occasionally teary as hell for high school. Bonus association: this was my mental soundtrack for the end of Glee season 3 too (”for a moment, a band of thieves in ripped-up jeans got to rule the world").

Runner-up faves are Haunted, which really lives up to its name (Wuthering Heights-haunted style, maybe... between the electric guitar tearing open the scene and the chimes, the instrumentation is epic; this may be the only song that actually loses emotional impact as an acoustic/piano version), Better Than Revenge (which is my not-even-that-guilty pleasure and I will JAM OUT to it to this day; "no amount of vintage dresses gives you dignity" is SAVAGE and I love it), and The Story of Us ("looks like a lot like a tragedy now" is one of my favorite quotes to bust out in episode reviews about ‘ship destruction, or was when I still did those), which is similarly jam-out-worthy. Ooh, and Sparks Fly is one of those songs where I'm like, "WHY wasn't this a single, it's so good." I’m actually always kind of surprised that one isn’t the album opener; “my mind forgets to remind me you’re a bad idea” is my anthem for giving shows/ships/characters/episodes way more chances than they deserve. (Grey’s Anatomy. We’re mostly talking about every time I dip back into the Grey’s Anatomy waters). In slow-songs-I-like territory: Enchanted, which is frankly too pretty for the person it’s actually about (but helpfully easy to apply to anyone and relevant to every listener’s life). And Back to December, which suffers rather unjustly from my knowing that it’s about The Boring Taylor, because I used to automatically skip it about half the time, yet every time I actually listen to it I'm shocked to realize it’s way prettier than I remember. Both musically (when male vocals...enhance?? a taylor song??) and lyrically.

As far as the other singles, I kind of killed Mine for myself with overplay, but I do think it's one of the strongest singles she's ever released...and as I’m listening to it now, I think it might be back! What good music, what a sweet scenario, and how much do I love the “brace myself for the goodbye / ‘cause that’s all I’ve ever known...” part.

Mean is fun and deservedly sassy, although it too is recovering from overplay (with the added demerit of being covered in the worst, least appealing possible way on Glee and feeling tainted forever. Once upon a time this was in my top 5 for the CD). Speak Now is fun too, but also...damn, so much more juvenile and mean-spirited to me now than Better Than Revenge. You don't help a dude ditch his bride at their wedding! If he shouldn't be marrying her you talk to him BEFORE THE CEREMONY???? I have definitely lost enchantment with this one over time.

One I don’t know how to feel about: I have to be in the right mood for the song so I don’t always let it play through, but as a late bloomer homebody and perpetual looker-backer, the second half of Never Grow Up really kicked me in the heart when I first heard it. I thankfully never ended up having to experience this, but "here I am in my / new apartment in the big city / they just dropped me off / it's so much colder than I thought it would be / so I tuck myself in, and turn the nightlight on" really described all my deepest fears about graduating from college and still brings a twinge at the mere thought.

On the downturn: unpopular opinion but while Dear John is full of great lyrics, it’s just so damned slow that I skip it almost every time. I’m really hoping it gets reinvigorated by a Taylor’s Version, because whenever I give it a chance, I just end up freshly disappointed by the wasted potential.

Innocent is slightly more compelling music-wise, but still rather slow and often skipped, not least because it just...feels weird. Uneven. There are some great lines and a good idea buried in here, but with its history and context it's so patronizing even when I’m on Taylor’s side that it ends up cringe.

Meanwhile, Last Kiss doesn't even exist to me. It covers the same criminal territory as Back to December but it's EVEN SLOWER. Bonus Tracks I didn't hear them until the end of 2012 and even then only as standalones on Spotify, separate from the album associations, I absolutely love all three, more than the last 5 or 6 above in fact. Ours is the companion piece / sequel to "Mine," If This Were A Movie is sweet, and Superman is so cute and catchy.

[we-are-the-multitude]

Solar's story can be considered a trans allegory (or just a queer allegory in general). This is less of a headcanon and more of an analysis but if the shoe fits!

Am I saying Solar himself *is* trans? I mean... that's my headcanon because I love projecting onto my favorite blorbos, but it probably is really up for interpretation. I've wanted to have an excuse to talk about this for MONTHS, so if I get too rambly, I'm sorry.

We meet Solar as just Good Eclipse, and we can tell his life sucks. Stuck in a body that isn't really his own, just a modified version of the Sun he came from, and with a Moon who is definitely abusive. Abusive family members and toxic households are sadly common factors in the trans experience. I have yet to meet a trans person who's had their entire family accept them because while our stories should not be defined by tragedy, it's a sad truth that they often contain it.

So anyway! Solar's going through the motions, trying not to hate himself, and then he meets Lunar. Someone who shows him kindness and appreciation and care, who also happens to have a bit of gender fuckery going on and is open about it! Lunar uses he/they pronouns and is not ashamed about it and I love that for them!

And then Solar meets our Moon (I will switch between calling him just Moon or New Moon depending on context) a few months - maybe a year in universe - later, the Moon who's also kind and caring and isn't an abusive piece of shit. And while he isn't trans (canonically. headcanon wise, all my blorbos are trans, and that includes Moon), he's canonically on the aro/ace spectrum. He's queer and doesn't shy away from that fact!

Finding other queer and trans people who are safe, who are *kind,* is a big part of trans culture. Found family is a popular trope among queer people for a reason. And at this point, Lunar and New Moon *are* Solar's found family. People he cares about, and who care about him.

Then, after Eclipse gets killed for the last time (lets goooo), we don't see Solar for a while. And then we do. Solar's in a new body, but it still doesn't *fit* him. It's kinda how it feels when a trans person first starts trying to present their desired gender. They're body is becoming more and more their own, but it still feels *wrong.* Like a rubix cube that isn't fully solved.

And, most importantly, he's been kicked out of his dimension. Threatened with violence for just living his life (because how DARE he not want to die, how rude /sarcastic) and having to run to the first place he thought would be safe. To our Sun and Moon's dimension. To Solar's *found family's* dimension. Again, another sad truth of the trans experience. Having to run away from toxic situations. Getting kicked out by family that doesn't think our existence is worthy. Having to find the people who we know accept us and pray they'll take us in.

And, New Moon picks him up from the ballpit and lets him stay. Solar found his family and can begin rebuilding. Literally, as barely a month or two later the daycare gets BLOWN. UP. and he fixes it in, like, a day. But also figuratively. Because... what now?

And then we get to my favorite part of this analogy! When Solar actually *choses* his name to be Solar. He feels his original name - his deadname, if you will - is tainted, and he wants something new. Something that feels like him and god if that feeling does not feel familiar as a trans man myself.

And even how people treat his new name afterward! New Moon says Solar's name the first time with such care and love because he wants him to know that he accepts him and appreciates him. Earth asking for clarification because she doesn't want to get it wrong. Sun saying it over and over before entering the daycare because he doesn't want to forget and accidentally deadname his friend.

It's all very relatable if you have a friend who's trans or just trying out a new name.

So, Solar has a name and a home and a body he's learning to tolerate but... what now? What can he do? What is his purpose?

Another fun thing about being trans is after transitioning you don't really know what to... *do* after. You got all you want, so what's next? What is your purpose after becoming who you truly are?

Solar doesn't know. He still doesn't really know, but he's trying new things. He's getting into different video games, working at the theater, and helping New Moon with whatever experiment he has planned. Solar is becoming his own person and figuring out who SOLAR is and that is the biggest part of the trans experience to me.

And then the bitch from his original dimension came back.

Yep! Solar's Moon's back, and he's pissed. Toxic relatives always seem to find a way to pry their way back into our lives somehow, and this is no different.

But instead of backing down or folding, Solar does what he always has. He stands up for himself. He fights for his existence and his right to *live,* and as his Moon continues to belittle and deadname him, Solar doesn't try to correct him because sadly, you can't argue with someone who doesn't respect you in the first place.

So, Solar kills him. Effectively cutting his influence off, and it *hurts.* Cutting off - or in this case killing - a toxic family member or friend is hard. Because they're supposed to love you, right? They're supposed to care about you. But they don't, and that is the hardest lesson for young and even older trans and queer people to learn.

But Solar picks himself up. And he moves on. Because he deserves to live, and that is the QUEEREST FUCKING THING HE COULD HAVE DONE BECAUSE WE DESERVE TO BE HAPPY, DAMN IT! WE DESERVE TO LIVE!

*ahem* Sorry for rambling, but yeah! Solar is trans propaganda. Here's some mini headcanons for making it this far. As a treat:

Solar can't sit normally. One leg is always over the arm rest or his head in his knees, or he's sitting backward or *something.* It's just not normal sitting.

Solar is neutral about Christmas, but when Mariah Carrey comes on, you bet your ass he's singing along at full volume, much to Lunar and Moon's suffering.

If he could drink coffee, he would go out of his way to avoid Starbucks coffee just so he could brag about it.

He and Moon are queerplatonic. No, I will not be elaborating.

Hey! Umm, can y'all give me your headcanons for Solar from the Sun and Moon show? I'd just like to see them, no matter how weird you think they might be! Here are a few of mine:

☆ Solar might have claustrophobia

I honestly do think that he might have some sort of claustrophobia. I'm basing this off of two things that happened in the lore vids:

In "Eclipse MOVES IN in VRCHAT," when Moon says that he could convert one of the party rooms into a temporary living space for Solar, Solar says "I'm more uh... I don't really like rooms." I know this was probably a bit overlooked, but on my second re-watch I noticed it, and an idea started forming in my brain-

Another example is in "Eclipse has a NEW IDENTITY!? in VRCHAT," where as he and Moon walk through this long, horrendously yellowish-orange hallway, Solar says "I hate this room. This hallway." This could be taken as to how empty the hallway is (As Moon comments) or to how it reminds him of a Half Life 2 map. (I think that's what he said-) Again, this could be easily ignored, but it just adds to my little theory~

One more thing is just something I speculate- he might have claustrophobia from some kind of trauma from his old dimension, specifically from the Moon that he lived with. I think that his Moon was highly abusive to him, and I can imagine him being put into a similar situation as Sun, where his Moon trapped him in a magical barrier, and left him there alone for an unspecified period of time. I can also imagine Solar just generally being trapped in a room/isolated, because Moon didn't know what else to do when Solar first... appeared? I guess? In his Sun.

Also, he'd probably try to hide it because he thinks it's stupid.

☆ Solar is an insomniac

I honestly think that he just has a hard time sleeping, his brain is just running around everywhere 24/7- (Damn he's pretty relatable)

He will literally run himself into the ground before taking a break/resting. In "Eclipse has a NEW IDENTITY!? in VRCHAT," Moon calls him an "insane motherfucker" when he admits that he fixed the Daycare, Theater, Gift Shop, and more, in a week. A WEEK. Then after a tour and some talk, he passes out from running out of battery, due to being on 1% charge. He's overworking himself. He needs sleep.

HE SOUNDS ABSOLUTELY EXHAUSTED IN "Lunar and Earth's GROUP THERAPY in VRCHAT," LIKE BRO- He said he was working on 2 separate things, both for 5 hours straight- He really needs to sleep- get him a beanbag or something-

Also, this could be another trauma-related thing, where he just doesn't feel safe sleeping, or he has nightmares. However, this is probably just me overthinking and reading too much into this situation.

When he DOES fall asleep, it's usually in the most arbitrary places ever. At the desk in the daycare, in one of the play structures, etc. I... have a feeling that he's probably fallen asleep on that green little mat/platform thing in the ball pit before. Or just literally in the ball pit itself.

☆ Solar's just generally insecure about his looks

Looking like the OG Eclipse model, he probably has some issues with what he looks like, and is most likely frustrated about how people keep mistaking him for Eclipse.

Also, coming back to the whole "his dimension's Moon giving him trauma" thing. His Moon probably called him a lot of things, all of them horrible. Solar keeps mentioning how aggressive and angry his Moon was, so again, it would fit the profile.

In "Lunar and Earth's GROUP THERAPY in VRCHAT," When Solar talks about him working, Earth says "That might have something to do with you not feeling like you fit in." Please, he needs comfort and more therapy-

☆Solar is touch starved

Do I even have to explain?

Also, I feel like even though he IS touch starved, he doesn't... realize it, exactly. He has really closed off body language (For some reason I can imagine that his idle pose/stance is having his arms crossed) and is just generally unsure about how he should properly show physical affection.

Do you know what I mean? Like, you think you just don't like physical touch, but it just turns out you were full of anxiety on how to properly show it that when somebody DOES end up giving you a hug or something similar that the realization just... hits you? Really hard? (Dear Stars this is over-specific am I ok???) Solar might also be comfortable with one person/small group of people actually touching him. Or if people ask. (Ok I need to shut up, now I'm just projecting my personal experiences into my headcanons for him-)

This could also be attributed to the insecure thing but eh.

Quick thing I'd also like to say, his model, (or "suit," as they call it in the show) is slightly different from the other's, because as his dimension's Moon stated, it was an older model that never got used. I think it's just lankier, skinnier, and maybe has a tail, as these features were being experimented with for the newer daycare attendants, the ones who actually got used (Solar's dimension's Sun and Moon.)

(Note: I might edit this post as things change/lore vids drop!)

(Damn, this turned into a whole-ass essay-) So yeah! If you've made it this far, thank you, and if you have any headcanons of your own that you're willing to share, please do! I'd be delighted to see them!

[martsonmars]

Write for fifteen minutes on your COTTA and then share your favorite line because I’m feral for this concept!

Thank you for forcing me to work on this, my friend. @carryonthroughtheages is getting close!

I started writing one of the scenes I was looking forward to the most, which is inspired by this episode:

Alexander went to visit Queen Sisygambis [the mother of Darius, the Persian king Alexander just fought against and (momentarily) defeated], together with his dear friend Hephaistion. It is said that Hephaistion was taller and more handsome than Alexander and since they were dressed alike, Sisygambis prostrated herself before him instead of Alexander. Hephaistion immediately stepped back and the Queen Mother’s attendants pointed toward Alexander. This was quite an embarrassing situation and with Persian court rules being very strict, one can only imagine what must have gone through the poor woman’s mind. She made a new start and did obeisance to Alexander, who may have been secretly amused by the confusion.

It was here that Alexander pronounced the famous words: “Never mind, Mother, for he too is Alexander.”

Under the cut because it's longish (you ask for a line and you get the whole thing) and unedited.

I glance at Simon, my eyes huge with disbelief. The woman's still crying prayers and promises of obedience at my feet, as if I'd ever lay my hand on her. As if I'd ever touch a person who has no fault in this war. As if I was the person who holds her destiny in his hands. As if I was the one she should be pledging her allegiance to.

I expected Simon to look angry, affronted that his great deeds aren't enough to make people recognise him—it's getting harder to see the truth behind his eyes, these days—but his lips are curved in a smirk, and his amused expression melts the heaviness in my chest. I take a breath.

The woman must have noticed the silence in the room, the kind of silence that only precedes tragedy and pain, because she lifts her head and looks at me. Then at Simon. Then at me again. I step back, and one of her servants whispers something in her ear.

Realisation dawns on her as if she'd just heard her death sentence, and my heart clenches when I see her scramble to her feet and throw herself in front of Simon. She's crying, not yelling just because she's lost all her strength, begging him to forgive her.

“Sire, Sire, Sire, you must excuse me, I never meant to disrespect you, I—”

She's hurt. She's lost everything. She's kneeling in front of the man who just defeated her son. Who'd kill her son if he had the chance.

Who could kill her right now just because she believed I was the great Simon.

Simon, I think, and I hate that I don't have faith in him anymore. I don't trust him to remember the golden-haired boy who wondered why a man should have the right to decide if another person should die or live. I know he's buried that boy when he buried his father. Before that, even. When he would've given up his humanity to make his father look at him as if he was more than a faulty weapon. Simon, there's no glory in this. No glory in turning your wrath upon an innocent woman.

But he's not angry. He's not. He's not lost. He's still there, even when he's clothed in gold and heavy silks, even when the blood of the battle is still tainting his hair.

“Never mind, Mother,” Simon says, a hint of his old smile finding its way to his sunburnt face. It's soft, welcoming, and for a moment I almost believe it. That this is right. That this is good. That our dream is still worth believing in. “You were not wrong, for he, too, is Simon.”

Half of my soul.

She kisses his hand, but he's looking at me, his eyes fierce and fiery and so close to what they used to be.

Two parts of the same being, separated by the gods and fused back together.

Whole, again.

I look away.

[troquantary]

Edward Cullen: That Boy Ain’t Right

So I was doing a reread of @therealvinelle 's collection of Twilight metas, as one does, and in "Edward, Denial, and a Human Girlfriend" she mentions that she doesn't believe Edward is sane. I thought, "ha, yeah, he's definitely not," and also, "but wait, what does that mean exactly, please say more about that." But since she's already inundated with asks, I've decided to use my own head-muscle and explore this idea. (TL;DR: I start out more or less organized, synthesize some points Vinelle has made across several posts (and have hopefully linked to them all where relevant but please tell me if not), touch a little on narcissism, then take a hard left into the negative effects of being a telepath.)

Just a couple things to note at the outset, though. Theses have been written already (probably) about Edward as an abuser. Edward being insane doesn't negate that at all; he's definitely an asshole and just...a disaster of a human being. (I find it more funny than anything, but YMMV.) I'm also going to try to avoid talking specifically about mental illness and how it relates (or doesn't relate) to abusive behavior -- that's territory I'm not really equipped to discuss, like at all. My starting point is "Edward has a deeply warped perception of reality," not "Edward has X disorder."

So: deeply warped perception of reality. The evidence? Goes behind a cut, because my one character trait is Verbose.

Vinelle provides a great example of it in the post linked above, which I'll just quote because she does words good: "[Edward] keeps acting like his romance with Bella is a romantic tragedy, and all the cast of Twilight are actors on a stage making it as sublime as possible." Edward's the one to pursue Bella, but he does so with the full belief, from the very beginning, that it will never last; Bella will "outgrow" him, go on her human way, and he can spend the rest of eternity brooding magnificently over his too-short romantic bliss. [Insert premature ejaculation joke.] Turning her is never an option, even though Alice, Noted Psychic, says that romancing Bella will either end with her dead (exsanguinated) or dead (vampire).

This framing, where he's a dark anti-hero in love with -- but never tainting! -- the pure maiden and eventually leaving her in a grand, tragic sacrifice to preserve her soul? It's fucking bonkers. Bella isn't a person to him in this scenario. As Vinelle points out, Bella's never really a person to him at all; he falls in love with his own mental construct, cherry-picking from what he observes of her behavior and her responses to his 20 (thousand) Questions to convince himself that she is the ideal woman.

Bella's not the only one who gets the projection/cardboard-cutout treatment. Edward sees everything and everyone through a highly particular, personalized lens. He filters his entire reality, which we all do to an extent, but the thing with Edward is that he starts with his conclusions and then only pays attention to the evidence that supports those conclusions. Often that evidence consists of what he admits in New Moon are only "surface" thoughts -- but recognizing that limitation doesn't keep him from taking those thoughts as representative of what people are. Edward then becomes absolutely convinced by his own "reasoning" and won't be swayed from what he has decided is Objectively True. It's obvious with Bella; it's also painfully obvious with Rosalie. (Vinelle explains this and brings up Edward's raging Madonna/Whore complex in the same post, so refer to that again -- she's right.)

He also catastrophizes. Everything. Bella's just vibing in her room, rereading Wuthering Heights for the 87th time? She's gonna be hit by a meteor, better sneak into her room while she sleeps. Bella's going to the beach with the filthy mundanes their human classmates? She's gonna fall in the ocean. Jasper's cannibal pals are stopping by for a visit, but know not to hunt in the area? DISASTER, DEFCON 1, ALSO FUCK YOU JASPER FOR EVEN EXISTING IN MY AND BELLA'S SPHERE YOU UNSPEAKABLE BURDEN. Edward must believe that Bella is vulnerable and in near-constant peril, to support the reality he has created in which he is the villain turned protector and maybe?? hero??? (!!!) for his beloved. So when the actual, James-shaped danger arrives, he goes berserk, snarling and flipping his shit and generally not helping the situation. His fantasy demands that Bella remain human, so instead of doing the very thing Alice, Noted Psychic, assures him will neutralize the threat (and not just a threat to Bella, either, but to Bella's family and any other human James might decide to include in the "game"), he vetoes it immediately, no discussion. Bella Must Not Turn, and he sticks to those guns despite James nearly reducing her to ground beef, despite leaving Bella catatonic with depression (but human! success!) in New Moon, despite Aro's order and his family's vote and, let's not forget, Bella's clearly and repeatedly stated desire to be a vampire. It's going to happen. But he doesn't accept it until Renesmee busts out of Bella like the Kool-Aid man and the poor girl's heart finally, unequivocally stops.

Sane people don't behave this way. I don't want to slap labels on Edward, but I can't help but note that he comes across as highly narcissistic. He's the only real person in his universe, the lone player among us NPCs. That probably has a lot to do with him being frozen in the mindset and maturity of a seventeen-year-old boy, but I think it's also just...him, on some fundamental level. His failure to connect with others and recognize them as full, independent beings with their own wants and priorities isn't like Bella's failure -- she's badly depressed. Edward is...something else, and I get the sense that his sanity has been steadily deteriorating over time. And a cursory google of narcissistic traits turns up some familiar-looking stuff. He's self-loathing, yes, but also grandiose; he hates himself for the monster he is (and hates most vampires besides Esme and Carlisle for their monstrosity, too) but still feels superior to humans, to the extent that he felt entitled to human blood and resented Carlisle for depriving him of his "proper" diet. He eventually returns to Carlisle, but he's far from content -- the beginning of Midnight Sun finds him in a state of ennui, bored and dismissive of (if not outright disgusted by) everyone around him, that has apparently persisted for years and years. He doesn't play the piano, he doesn't compose, he doesn't enjoy anything...at least until Bella comes along and then he becomes obsessed to a disturbing degree with her and his new, romantic tragedy spin on reality.

[Next-day edit: I’m not sure where else to fit this in, but the way Edward casually contemplates violence against people who have, at best, mildly annoyed him is...chilling. I have a hard time writing off his strategizing how to murder the entire Biology class as a result of bloodlust -- it’s so calculated, nothing like the blackout state of thirst Emmett describes when he encountered his own “singer,” and that is probably the default for when a vampire is extremely thirsty. But even ignoring the Biology class incident, Edward still does things like consider, with disturbing frequency, how he might grievously injure or kill Mike Newton, all because...Edward considers him his romantic rival (despite Bella barely giving the kid the time of day). He thinks about slapping Mike through a wall, which might be an amusing slapstick image, except as a vampire Edward’s actually capable of turning this boy’s skeleton to a fine powder. So it’s, y’know, kind of sick when you think about it.

But even worse than that, when Bella tells Edward about how she flirted with Jacob to get at that sweet, sweet vampire lore, Edward chuckles and then, after dropping Bella home, flippantly observes that now that the treaty’s broken, why not genocide? I’m not even kidding, it’s right there in Midnight Sun; he seriously thinks about the fact that he’d be technically justified now in wiping out the entire tribe because a teenager tried to impress a girl with a spooky story. That is fucked. Remember, Edward was there with Carlisle when the treaty was first established. He knows how remarkable it is that they even came to a truce in the first place, that it was only ever possible because Carlisle is...well, Carlisle, and that it marks a pretty significant moment in supernatural history. He doesn’t care; he doesn’t respect it, or he’d never think something like “Ha ha, if I went and killed them all, I wouldn’t even be wrong. I mean, I won’t do it, but I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be wrong.”

Again: not the thought process or behavior of a sane person. (Or a person that respects life in general -- sorry Carlisle, big L.)]

Finally, whether he's a narcissist or not, I think the fact that Edward has constant, unavoidable access to everyone's thoughts is a powerful contributing factor to his instability. He can tune out the mental noise to an extent, but he can't stop it -- so he comes to rely on it like another sense. This causes issues with disconnect and lack of empathy, of course, but there's another facet to this shit diamond: he's basically experiencing a ceaseless flow of intrusive thoughts. His narration in Midnight Sun suggests that he "hears" the words people think, can "see" what they visualize in their mind's eye, and can sense the emotional "tone" and intensity of their thoughts. Therefore, perceiving Jasper's thirst through his thoughts makes Edward more aware of his own, "doubling" the discomfort. This would be a lot to deal with even from just his immediate coven members, but Edward gets all of this pouring into his head like a firehose on a day-to-day basis because the Cullens live right alongside humans. I know Meyerpires have galaxy brains or whatever, but that's a ton to process.

Besides the compounding effect on his own thirst when he "feels" the thirst of others, Meyer never suggests that Edward has difficulty separating his own thoughts from other people's; even when he was newly turned, he recognized Carlisle's "voice" in his head as Carlisle's. That would create a whole different host of issues around identity, but it looks like Edward's escaped that particular torment. However, I can easily imagine that what he does experience is just shy of unbearable nonetheless, with an eroding effect on his sanity over decades. He can't sleep to escape it; he's on a dishwater diet and probably (like the rest of his family) experiencing a perpetual, low-grade physical discomfort due to his thirst never being fully satisfied; and he's around far more people than is the norm for vampires -- even discounting all the humans, his own coven is unusually large -- meaning more noise.

Honestly, it would be weirder if he were all there, considering.

And even though I feel like I lost a sense of structure around where I started ranting about telepathy, I've written like 1.5k words about Edward fucking Cullen and I think that's enough for one post.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 301: All My Todorokis

Previously on BnHA: We learned that when a bunch of superpowered villains are suddenly set loose with nobody around to stop them, things get fucked pretty quickly. Old Man Samurai and a bunch of other useless people decided to make “I pretend I do not see it” their new mantra, and resigned. Endeavor had a moment of despair on account of being crushed by the guilt of having ruined the lives of himself, his family, and basically everyone else in the entire world. For various reasons the heretical notion of “person who has done bad things feels sorry for doing them” sent fandom spiraling into a meltdown, so that was fun. The chapter ended with the entire Todoroki clan descending upon Enji’s hospital room to have a dramatic chat about Touya and All That General Fuckery.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi is all “here’s the story of how Baby Touya slowly went insane trying to win his father’s love.” It’s a tale full of subverted expectations and heartbreaking inevitability, and also like twenty panels of the cutest fucking kids who ever existed on planet earth, who are so fucking cute that I can’t stop thinking about their cuteness even with all of the horrifying family tragedy unfolding around them. It is absolutely ridiculous how cute they are. Touya is out here pushing his tiny body past its limits because he inherited the same obsession as his dad and neither of them can put it aside even though it’s destroying them, and yet all I can think about is Baby Shouto’s (。･o･｡) face. Anyways what a chapter.

so I have to confess that even though I managed to avoid being caught off-guard by the early leaks, the number of people reblogging my Endeavor posts from earlier this week and using the tag “bnha 301” kind of gave me an inkling that this chapter will include more Tododrama lol. that said, I don’t know anything else about it, so we’re still good spoiler-wise

AHHHHH FLAHSBAKC AHHHH. omg I know I typoed the shit out of that, but I’m just going to leave it lol I think it’s fitting

holy shit holy fuck. so this is Rei and Enji’s first meeting, then??

yepppp, oh shit

so wait, I know this is not even the slightest bit important, but are they meeting at Enji’s home or Rei’s? because I always figured that Enji was the one with the super-Japanese aesthetic, but maybe that was Rei’s side of the family all along

(ETA: from what I found during my very brief google search, omiai meetings are often held at fancy hotels or restaurants, so maybe that’s what this is.)

there’s such a period drama feel to this setting. like it’s so outrageously formal fff how can anyone stand this kind of atmosphere though seriously

OH THANK GOD

I mean they’re still stiff af but at least they’re not rigidly sitting in seiza and staring at each other unblinkingly anymore lol. Enji’s actually got his hands in his pockets now. why is this somehow almost cute

oh damn it’s the flowers

Rei seems so subdued and it’s so hard to get any idea of what she’s actually thinking. I want to see her side of this dammit

but anyway, so at least from Enji’s perspective it seems like even though the marriage was arranged and he picked her because of her quirk, he still loved his wife and wanted to do right by her. the fact that he was watching her and noticed that she liked the flowers, and remembered that detail for all these years -- there’s a reason why Horikoshi’s showing us this. we know what’s going to happen later on; we know how much fear and violence and breaking of trust is coming up ahead, and while it may seem like this scene is serving to soften Enji’s character further -- which to be fair it is -- it also helps drive home the full impact of his abuse. that it’s so terrible not only because of the trauma of the abuse itself, but also because of the way it retroactively destroys all of the good things as well. this could have potentially been such a sweet scene, but it’s inescapably tainted by the knowledge of what’s to come, at least for me. and that’s just brutal

anyways, shit. is the whole chapter going to be like this?? feel free to toss in something I can actually make a joke about sometime, Horikoshi

oop, back to the present

omfg lol

“are you all right” “NO I’M NOT ALL RIGHT WHAT THE FUCK.” “oh, right, because of all the stuff that’s happened with me abusing you and you having a mental breakdown and being hospitalized for ten years and then our son coming back to life and killing thirty people, right, right. I almost forgot.” whoops

omfg you guys I’m loving this new and improved steely-eyed Rei. I’m loving her a lot

and what do you mean “part one” fkjds how long is this going to be. TOO MUCH DRAMA FOR ONE CHAPTER TO HANDLE

oh, hello

yeah I’ll say you did. didn’t seem to bother you much at the time, though

HMMMMMMMMMMMM

Dabi Is A Noumu intensifies even further. anyways though would you fucking look at this boy lounging on this moth-eaten couch doing his best DRAW ME LIKE YOUR FRENCH GIRLS impression wtf

Dabi what if you actually had killed him??? what would you feel?? satisfaction?? regret?? anything at all?? tell me your secrets goddammit

who are you talking to buddy

Fuyumi-chan, Natsu-kun (is it common for brothers to address each other as -kun?? can’t recall seeing that in many other anime, but hey), and “dot dot dot,,,,,, SHOUTO” lol thank you so much for this bountiful heaping of Tododrama Horikoshi we are blessed

AH, WHAT DID I SAY THE OTHER DAY

ULTIMATE MELODRAMATIC THEATER CHILD. “I’M JUST GOING TO LIE ON THIS COUCH SHIRTLESS AND ALONE AND MAKE SPEECHES TO MY FAMILY MEMBERS WHO AREN’T THERE AND SAY THINGS LIKE ‘WATCH ME IN THE PITS OF HELL’ WITH A STRAIGHT FACE BECAUSE NO ONE’S THERE TO JUDGE ME.” WELL JOKE’S ON YOU MISTER CHATTERBOX BECAUSE I AM IN FACT JUDGING THE SHIT OUT OF YOU LOL

(ETA: and on a more serious note, it’s interesting to see that “look at me”/”watch me” theme being used again though, because we see that same sentiment uttered repeatedly by the younger Touya in the flashback. well kid, you definitely got your wish at last. don’t know what else to say.)

OKAY HORIKOSHI HAS DECIDED THAT’S ENOUGH FUN, TIME FOR MORE FLASHBACKS

oh my sweet precious lord

just as cute as we left him. giving us a child this cute when we all know full well what’s going to happen to him is just unspeakably cruel though

HOMG

I’m fucking speechless. you broke me, congratulations. what am I even supposed to do with this

I can’t get over this. moving forward my life will be split into two distinct parts, B.P. (Before the Pout) and A.P. (After the Pout)

and meanwhile there’s ALL THIS BACKGROUND ANGST BUILDING UP, AND I CAN’T EVEN FOCUS ON IT. Touya’s arm and cheek are covered in bandages (I’m guessing this is shortly after that “ouch!” panel we got some chapters back), and Enji is deliberately avoiding training with him because he doesn’t want him to hurt himself further. I can’t fucking get over the irony that all this time everyone thought Touya had died because Enji pushed him too far in his training, and it turns out that it’s the opposite -- the tragedy ultimately happened because he didn’t want to push him. but I’m jumping ahead of myself though I guess

by the way,

remember this?? just wanted to remind you that it exists just in case you forgot

so now someone is talking and basically saying that Touya is the exact opposite of what Enji was hoping for when he decided to start playing with quirk genetics

-- okay hold up

...lol no, never mind. for a second I thought “holy shit he looks kind of familiar WHAT IF IT’S UJIKO OMG” before I remembered that Enji would have recognized him during the hospital capture mission if that was the case. so NEVER MIND, PROCEED

IMAGINE THAT, ENJI DOESN’T QUITE SEEM SATISFIED WITH THIS SUGGESTION OF QUITTING NOW

(ETA: how the fuck did this man go around saving 62 towns in a single day what even is All Might.)

[clicks tongue several times] trouble a’brewin’

MEANWHILE BABY TOUYA HAS UNFORTUNATELY INHERITED HIS DAD’S STUBBORN STREAK

KLDIHWOEIJFL:KSDJ

!!!!!!!!!!!

oh my god. oh my god. what is this chapter. WHAT IS IT

so now Touya is all “YOU JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND MY MANLY DESIRE TO BURN MYSELF ALIVE” well you got her there champ

THEY’RE TOO CUTE. OH MY GOD. HIS FURIOUS LITTLE TEARS. HER CHUBBY LIL FACE. HIS STUBBY LIL FISTS. SOMEONE HELP ME

also are they just home alone lol or what. “hey Touya, you’re what, like six now?? do us a favor and look after your baby sister for a couple hours for us would you? make sure not to set yourself on fire or anything.” WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG!!

now it’s nighttime and Enji and Rei are arguing, presumably about his decision not to train Touya anymore

whew. okay. so, a couple of things here

1. first of all I think this conclusively shows that Enji really was trying to do the best he could for Touya. he stopped training him as soon as he realized it was hurting him, but Touya was still determined so he tried to make it work anyway, and even visited doctors to try and figure out if there was anything they could do. then, once they were absolutely sure that it wasn’t going to work, he tried multiple times to explain to Touya why they had to stop. he didn’t just abandon him out of the blue, which is really important to note. “no matter how much I tried telling him...”

so yeah, that debunks another common fandom accusation. so by the time he finally makes this decision, which we all know is going to turn out horribly, it’s basically because he’s already tried everything else he could think of. which, by the way, still doesn’t mean he handled this right. but at the very least he was taking Touya’s feelings into account and he was trying, and he didn’t just abruptly toss his son aside (at least not yet)

2. buuuut, then there’s this panel right below all that

which is the other side of it. if he’d just quit like the doctor person advised him to, that would have been the end of it. Touya would still have been upset, but he would have eventually gotten over it and the family would have moved on and possibly even been happy. but what happens next happens because Enji can’t let go. he still has this maddening urge to surpass All Might, and so he and Rei keep having more children, and then Shouto is born, and Enji finally has a kid he can start projecting all of his hysterical ambitions onto once again, and everything starts spiraling out of control soon after

though p.s. none of that is Shouto’s fault though!! he’s one of the few good things to come out of this whole mess and I’m very happy that he exists. the tragedy is that his dad fucking lost his mind over his quirk and fucked everything up. but that’s on him, not Touya or Shouto

anyways, SLKFJLSHGLKJL

I CAN’T FUCKING TAKE THIS YOU GUYS??? LOOK AT THAT LIL BUTTON OF A NOSE??? I’M LOSING IT HERE???

AND TOUYA JUST SEEMS DEVASTATED OMG

because children aren’t stupid, after all. he understands that his dad is still looking to surpass All Might. and so he feels like a failure, and feels like his dad is trying to replace him because he wasn’t good enough. and even now, isn’t that what the adult Touya is trying to prove?? that he was good enough after all?? “I’ll show you what happens when you give up on me, dad”?? “I’ll show you what I can do”?? fuck my life fuck everything

AND YOU CAN SEE THE TOLL THAT IT’S ALL TAKING ON REI GETTING WORSE AND WORSE AS WELL OH GOD

really nice touch here with the panel outlines becoming all shimmery from the heat of Endeavor’s flames (and/or becoming more unstable as the family gets closer and closer to their breaking point). but man, Horikoshi I can’t handle this, please show us more cute kids or something I can’t

GKELKWFJLDKSHFLKL

WITTLE BABE. BEEB. BUBS. SMOL. lkj; oh ouch a piece of my heart just detached and latched onto him huh look at that

TODOROKI “I’M SO SMALL AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT’S GOING ON AND I DIDN’T ASK TO BE HERE” SHOUTO AHHHHH

crazy how they all just seem to know right off the bat lol. kid doesn’t even have object permanence yet, let alone a quirk. but do they care?? IT’S THE HAIR, RIGHT. WE’RE ALL THINKING IT, I’M JUST GONNA COME OUT AND SAY IT. they knew the minute they looked at him lol

AND MEANWHILE TOUYA IS OFF HAVING UNSUPERVISED TRAINING/CRYING SESSIONS IN THE MOUNTAINS OR WHATEVER, AND, UH OH

are those blue flames yet?? they seem pretty close

(ETA: this is one of the few cases where the manga being in black and white is infuriating lol.)

OH MY GOD AND STILL

so it’s not like he was so disinterested that he didn’t notice what was happening, and he was still trying to stop it and get through to him. trying to reassure him that it wasn’t the end of the world and there were other things he could do with his life, but this one particular thing just wasn’t going to happen

fucking hell. it’s agonizing seeing how close they actually were to fixing it. if he’d only said the right words, or if he’d realized at this point how destructive his obsession could be to his kids, and backed off from putting that same pressure on Shouto. we came so close to possibly having a happy ending

AND ALSO THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING BUT PLEASE LOOK AT HOW TOUYA IS LIKE THREE AND A HALF FEET TALL AND HIS DAD IS LIKE NINE AND A HALF FEET. Touya barely comes past his knees flkjlkg. the Todoroki household must have been so filled with like plastic stepstools to reach the bathroom sink and all the little baby toothbrushes, and baby gates to keep the kiddos out of the important grown-up rooms and stuff. and also days-old half-empty cups of water and stale crackers and hot wheels and my little ponies strewn everywhere

“BUT EVERYONE AT SCHOOL SAYS THEY’RE GONNA BE HEROES” a wild Deku parallel appears?? how bout that

I know this is like a pivotal moment in the Todo Tragedy and all, but fucking look at this lil dumpling

“sup bro, it’s me, the manifestation of your fears of inadequacy and lack of fatherly affections. a GAAA. ba-baAA-baa [gurgling baby sounds]”

OHHHHH IT’S THE SOUND OF MY HEART BREAKING OH NO

HE WANTS TO BE LIKE YOU ENJI. good lord somebody please just get this family some therapy

“DAD YOU IGNITED IT IN ME” flkjslkj nope, nope. not ready for this pain here

baby Shouto, would you like to weigh in on this affair? “DA!! ba-ga-daaa, [pacifier chewing noises]” oh my, you don’t say. so insightful for one so young

OH MY GODDDDDD

IT’S SO DRAMATIC BUT ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT ARE THE SHOUNEN WOOSH LINES SURROUNDING FOUR-MONTH-OLD SHOUTO LOL HE WAS LIKE THIS FROM BIRTH OH MY GOD I AM DYING HELP

SHOUTO YOU’RE RUINING THIS ENTIRE CHAPTER!?!?!

“yo, the fuck kind of family was I fucking born into” oh, son. if you only knew. IF YOU ONLY KNEW!!

(ETA: lmao I got so distracted by the ridiculous cuteness that I glossed over the fact that Baby Touya seems to possibly be aiming at him?? it’s hard to tell because he’s also super out of it from heatstroke and may just be losing control in his attempt to show off his upgrade.)

ANYWAY THAT’S THE END EXCEPT WHAT’S THIS LAST LINE OMG

ffffff. and we’re in for ANOTHER chapter of this next week?? MORE drama?? MORE BABIES?? MORE OF EIGHT-YEAR-OLD TOUYA’S SLOW DESCENT INTO MADNESS. MY HEART CAN’T TAKE IT, BUT ALSO YES PLEASE SIGN ME UP

[certainlybyitslast]

“You can’t judge a book by its cover.  But you can by its first few chapters, and certainly by its last.”  -Red

What does this last chapter tell us?

While I know we have another season to go, to watch our beloved characters mourn, change, and ultimately grow, this was the last chapter of “The Blacklist” as we know it.

This last chapter (this season) was at times: confusing, exciting, heartwarming, confounding, frustrating, and heartbreaking.  I’m still wrapping my head around it.

To the fans: I am sorry.  I got into this show this year.  I am heartbroken.  I can’t imagine what fans, who invested eight years, blogs, fics, lives, into this show must feel.  I ask myself, “do I wish I had never even seen this show at all?”  It’s easy to wish the pain away.  But when the pain dies down, something good must have come from it all, right?  It changed us in some ways - maybe confidence, maybe wardrobe choices, maybe friendships, along the way.  There were good stories in there through the years to inspire.

To the writers and producers:  In the wise words of Ron Swanson, “Don’t confuse drama with happiness.”  Don’t confuse high drama with good storytelling.  Don’t confuse the fact that the fandom is engaged and talking about that finale as if you have done a good job (the alternative being a flat, predictable end). Yes, you moved people, most to tears.  You broke their hearts.  You told a tragedy.  You also made your fans question the last eight seasons, and their role in it.  You didn’t inspire us with this last chapter.  You made us ask ourselves, “was it all a lie?”  Meaning, was our investment in this story all for naught?  I’d be willing to bet the majority of your female audience needed to see Liz Keen in their lives, needed her bravery, vulnerability, and ability to pick herself up and dust herself off and try again.  If what we ultimately get at the end of this show is Reddington’s redemption, that’s not enough.  We needed to see the female win something.  She lost.

Raymond Reddington said, “Value Loyalty Above All Else.”  What about the die hard fandom?  What did their loyalty get them in the end?  Where was the show’s loyalty to its fan base, still hanging on after all this time when others stopped watching?  One thing I came to love about this show very quickly, was how smart it was - it didn’t pander to the audience; there was no contrived, hokey crap.  Giving your fans a satisfying ending, does not mean it has to be puppy dogs and rainbows.  It doesn’t have to be a zero sum game.  The storytellers here decided to write the tragedy, because not all stories have a happy ending.  But after the year we’ll all had, a little ray of sunshine wouldn’t have been so terrible.

I came to this show this year, drawn in by Keenler.  I realized this love story was a C storyline, and would not get as much screen time as I would like (or it deserved), but week after week I craved more of it.  I jumped head first into the deep end.  The finale was heartbreaking.  I never cry.  I cried through the episode, I sobbed afterward.  I sobbed the next day and the next.  I can’t re-watch that last scene; I can’t listen to that beautiful music composed specifically for that scene.  It’s too emotional.  I can’t re-watch those beautiful Keenler scenes, like the Wing Yee dinner in the office.  Now, it’s tainted.

Individually, the characters on the show are great, but we found out this season that the spark of the show, Megan Boone as Liz Keen, is what ignited the story in each of them.  Yes, we will tune in to Season 9 to initially watch Ressler (I could watch Diego read the phone book), but it was Ressler as he related to Liz that made his character come to life.  Every look he gave Liz, every hero moment, was in relation to her, how it advanced their characters’ relationship from one of mistrust to complete trust.

I don’t think I will ever understand the business of show, the sausage making, the deals, the games they play.  I wish those nuts and bolts of the business didn’t interfere with the storytelling, but we all know they do. 

I have to thank Alyblacklist and her tumblr for EVERYTHING.  She fueled this fire for me.  I hope she gets some closure - the powers that be should recognize that.

I will continue to wrap my head around the “why” of it all.  I will tune in to Season 9 to see how they explain some things or at least talk through the hurt (at this point I don’t care anymore about the mythology - too little, too late).  I hope people continue to post good stories from the show - BTS, bloopers, actor info and news - those things act as a salve for the wounds left by the finale.

[kallypsowrites]

Soulmates in the Grisha Trilogy

Someone sent me an ask asking ‘how did Leigh make the darkling and Alina perfect but connected opposites and not make them endgame (Or something to that effect, I may be screwing up the wording), and then in my tiredness this morning, I deleted it accidentally.

BUT this does bring up a topic I’ve wanted to discuss in the Grisha trilogy--namely the concept of soulmates. (Spoilers for the trilogy!)

Funny thing is, while I LOVE it when characters are paralleled, foiled, connected etc, I’m not automatically sold on the concept of soulmates for one very important reason--it often takes choice out of the love story and makes the end a foregone conclusion. I don’t like it when a love is predestined or certain. Soulmate concepts are only good to me when there’s a twist on it or something that keeps them apart. They gotta fight for it or, better yet, they have to choose it.

With the Darkling and Alina, there is a twist. They met at the wrong time. The Darkling has lost much of his humanity over the years (classic symptom of immortality) and he is bad at the emotions. And then, shortly after, they are ENEMIES. It’s a great, tragic ‘we’re meant together but the timing sucks’.

And honestly, I would be fine with that sort of relationship. I like tragedy. I like pain. And I acknowledge that in order to make Darklina endgame, Leigh would have had to write a very different book 2 and book 3. It was possible after book 1, but once book 2 happened, the Darkling was locked into endgame villain and their relationship was destined for tragedy.

What weakens this is her constant waffling on whether or not they are actually soulmates or whether or not there was real feelings, because on one hand she’s CLEARLY written that their are, but on the other hand, is her main heroine TAINTED if she had real feelings for the evil man? Corrupted? Terrible? You can only have one love, kids. One soulmate.

And here is where the stumbling block happens. She tries to make Mal Alina’s soulmate.

Now if I shipped Malina and I were writing them, I would have embraced the fact that Mal and Alina are NOT soulmates. This is a classic ‘predestination vs freewill’ dilemma. Like “yes, the fates are SAYING that this person is my other half and we are connected. But ultimately, it is my choice and I choose you.” That’s powerful. It’s powerful to say ‘my personal feelings are more important than any sort of cosmic connection and this is my choice at the end of the day’. Now I don’t ship Malina, but it seemed like Leigh might be setting herself up for that kind of dichotomy.

She does not. Instead, Mal’s an amplifier and soooomehow this connects him to Alina? I still don’t get why because Alina is not connected to Morzova’s amplifiers until she claims the stag. She’s someone who happened to get light powers and that’s not inherently connected to the amplifiers. Plus its confusing because the stag already further connected Alina and the Darkling? So your muddling your soulmate connection there.

This kind of plays into why the ‘Mal being an amplifier’ twist is bad and I’ll have another post on that. But Mal’s powers and Alina’s have never been paralleled or connected. They won’t be unless she claims him as an amplifier. And I still don’t buy the explanation of ‘Mal and Alina being close and in love drew the amplifiers’ because it does not fit with the magic system lore or anything else. Especially not with the stag. MAYBE with the sea whip because she already had one amplifier, but I don’t think a one time only connection qualifies as ‘soulmate magic’.

She uses this new thing about them being soulmates to claim that ‘even if they were raised in different circumstances they would have found each other’ which...no. Obviously they’re not the pair that’s connected and able to talk even at a distance and the way they were raised is actually EXTREMELY key to why they grew close. And she uses it to claim that Alina has only ever loved him. The stuff with the Darkling wasn’t like...real. Again. You can only love one person. Loving multiple people makes you bad :)

The thing about Malina is that ‘soulmates’ is not what draws people to them, at least from what I’ve read. People are drawn to them because they grew up in similar circumstances and when they were orphaned and alone, they had each other. They like them because they choose to be together. Not because of any destiny. Trying to make them ‘soulmates’ as opposed to just, you know, people who chose to be together, removes some of that agency from both of them and undercuts the ship. Because when it tries to do what Darklina does (the connection, the soulmate thing, the parallels) it PALES in comparison. I think she knew Darklina was popular so she tried to make Malina more grand at it just fell very, very flat.

So no, I’m not surprised Leigh didn’t make Darklina endgame. There’s was a tragic soulmate connection. But I will always be annoyed that she tried to invalidate their connection by proposing that Mal was ALSO connected with Alina and also the only one that mattered. It confused world building, character and themes, and was just very unnecessary.

[thechaoticfanartist]

Youth by Daughter + Grim and Anakin parallels

Shadows settle on the place that you left

Our minds are troubled by the emptiness

The Jedi Temple was the place that they left. Once it was full of light and now because of Order 66 it has been tainted by the darkness. Anakin's mind may not be troubled by the emptiness of life within the place he once called home, but Grim's mind is. There used to be so much life within the Jedi Temple and now it is gone.

Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time

From the perfect start to the finish line

Grim and Anakin's relationship was great at the beginning. They were close friends and Grim couldn't help but see Anakin as a brother, and Anakin saw the padawan as his little sister. As the war went on their friendship began to grow weaker as Grim avoided Skywalker knowing who he would become. At the finish line of the war Grim saw Anakin as dead, for all that was left was for him to become Vader. 

And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones

'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs

Setting fire to our insides for fun

On Mustafar all that is left is fire. In the end Anakin is destroyed by the flames.

Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong

The lovers that went wrong

Anakin was afraid to let go of Padmé and fell to the dark. Ahsoka had to leave the Jedi and Grim let her go.

We are the reckless, we are the wild youth

Grim and Anakin are both young and wild, and tend to be reckless and impulsive, never listening to their Master.

Chasing visions of our futures

Anakin has visions of the future that Grim knows of. Both of them wish to change this future for the better and to save lives. Chasing after the future in vain hope that maybe it can be changed. For the future isn't set in stone, yet tragedy seems to be destined for the two of them.

One day we'll reveal the truth

After the war  - if they hadn't failed. Both of them had planned to reveal the truth. Anakin would leave the Jedi to be with his wife, and Grim would tell the Council everything that would've happened and she would no longer hide the fact that she was from another universe.

That one will die before he gets there

On Mustafar Grim goes to kill Anakin. She is determined to kill him before Obi-Wan gets there. To end Vader before he can take any more lives. Anakin fights back against the padawan, also determined to kill her. Both thinking the other will die. Anakin doesn't know that Obi-Wan is coming but Grim does and she wants to make sure Vader is dead before he gets there. Or she might die before he gets there. In the end neither of them die, but Grim does lose an arm before he gets there.

And if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones

'Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone

We're setting fire to our insides for fun

Seeing what happened at the Temple broke Grim. She wasn't in the light, even standing by Obi-Wan and Yoda's side. She slipped into the darkness and her grief was replaced with anger and hate. Anakin's fear had long since turned to anger. The anger in their hearts matched the flames of the world around them as they faced each other on Mustafar.

Collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home

It was a flood that wrecked this

The "flood" here is Order 66, and their home is the Jedi Temple. Everything is gone and has been erased and the pictures of memories that existed for so long have been destroyed by the darkness.

And you caused it

And you caused it

And you caused it

Anakin caused the massacre at the Temple. Even if Grim wasn't there for it she saw the aftermath and she knows he caused it. Sidious may have given the order but Anakin chose to follow. He caused it.

Well, I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette

I'm a lifeless face that you'll soon forget

In the end both of them die on Mustafar. Anakin Skywalker died long ago. Grim was fighting a ghost and she knew that in her heart. He was just a lifeless face, and Grim was left as a silhouette who had lost it all after Order 66. She had lost her family from Earth and now she had lost her family from Star Wars and in that grief she turned to the darkness.

My eyes are damp from the words you left

Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest

Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest

After Mustafar all Grim can think about are Anakin's screams. They haunt her every moment, knowing she could have stopped it. Knowing also that it could have been her and that Anakin could have chosen differently, chosen the light still. 

And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one

'Cause most of us are bitter over someone

Setting fire to our insides for fun

To distract our hearts from ever missing them

But I'm forever missing him

Grim mourns everyone. The Jedi. The Clones. The Light. All gone, as she tries so hard to distract her heart from missing them. However she will always miss her family, even the brother who betrayed her. She will miss Anakin Skywalker forever.

And you caused it

And you caused it

And you caused it

Anakin Skywalker made the choices he did in the end. Grim Kennet never spoke up. She lives with the guilt, and believes she caused it even if she never did the actions or spoke the words. The blood is shared on both of their hands. They caused it.

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 17

Prompt: truth serum (alternate prompt 1)

Read on AO3

Unpleasant Truths

Anakin opens his mouth to say something but is immediately interrupted.

"Nope," Obi-Wan says with a swift shake of the head that makes a tendril of hair fall into his face. "Not a word, Anakin."

"Oh come on, Master."

"Not. A. Word."

"Do we have anything better to do?"

"Well, no," Obi-Wan says, and then cringes. Anakin has a feeling that wasn't the answer he wanted to give.

Anakin and Obi-Wan sit in adjacent beds of the med bay aboard The Resolute. There was only one private exam room left for them to take up, so they opted to share. While they aren't particularly hurt-- no more than any usual battle-- they were captured and exposed to a particularly potent truth serum. Nobody is really sure what to do with them. Least of all, one another. Anakin supposes his former master figured the lesser evil was to lock them in a room together-- no secrets accidentally being revealed to those without clearance.

However, they don't know how long this serum is supposed to last. They're waiting for Kix to come back with bloodwork.

"How will we know when it's worn off if we don't ask questions?" Anakin suggests. Obi-Wan doesn't look in the least bit amused.

"Because I know you. You're going to ask about things that amuse you or that you want to be nosy about," he raises an eyebrow. "Isn't that right?"

The knight swallows hard, the truth on the tip of his tongue. Of course, he is powerless in preventing it from slipping.

"Yes," he mutters.

"So no talking. We will wait for labs."

"You're no fun," Anakin lays back on the bed and points over at him. "And you know I'm telling the truth about that."

They sit in the prescribed silence for an hour or so before the door opens and Kix comes strolling in with a datapad and a set of IVs.

"Hello generals, how are we doing?"

"Not ideal," Obi-Wan says.

"Bored," Anakin chimes in. Kix looks a tad caught off guard-- maybe not used to them answering so truthfully about their condition. His brown eyes flicker between them before he decides to just give them the report.

"So the good news is the serum appears to be non-lethal. We just have to wait for it to filter out of your systems."

"I assume there is bad news then?" Obi-Wan asks.

"Well... the problem is, it embeds itself into the brain and spinal fluid. I have no way of knowing how long it will be in effect without doing an unnecessarily invasive procedure."

"Well that's..." Obi-Wan trails off, glancing at Anakin. "disappointing."

"Do you have a guess on how long, Kix?"

He seems to wager this in his head. "Six hours? More or less."

Great. There goes my afternoon.

Kix excuses himself, promises to return if they learn anymore. As soon as he's out the door, Obi-Wan lays back, letting his head fall against the pillow, and lets out an exacerbated sigh. Anakin can feel him in the beginnings of meditation, the Force around them drawing into his presence and making it shine like a beacon. And then it releases, and Obi-Wan groans again.

"What's wrong?"

"This blasted drug is muddying up the Force. I can't concentrate."

"Oh no, you might have to spend the next six hours actually conscious," Anakin rolls his eyes.

"Meditating passes the time."

"Talking passes the time."

"Anakin," he sighs.

"Oh yes, what a tragedy to spend time with me."

The Jedi Master looks at him now, his eyebrows knit together. "I like spending time with you, Anakin. Do you think I don't?"

"Well... yeah."

"What could make you think that?"

He bites on his tongue, knowing fully well it won't help a thing. "You... dismiss me. Or seem annoyed by me. Or... I don't know... treat me like I'm still a little kid."

The truth falls heavy between them, and suddenly Anakin wishes they'd stuck to the code of silence. Obi-Wan's face shifts into something that he can only categorize as devastation. Even though it's true that he feels that sometimes his master wants nothing to do with him, he never wanted him to know that.

"Anakin... I'm sorry," he says softly, his eyes trained intensely on him. "I didn't realize..."

"Obi-Wan, don't apologize. I guess... I wanted what you and Qui-Gon had." He remembers fondly the brief memories of a young padawan Obi-Wan and his master. The little looks they had that meant more than they seemed. The inside jokes and synergy when they fought alongside one another. Anakin thinks he and Obi-Wan have some of that. They are two parts of a deadly machine on the battlefield, and they share their own little jokes but sometimes there's just this disconnect. Like he trusts him with his life, but not with the secret of his wife. He doesn't think it's supposed to be this way.

But surprisingly, Obi-Wan stiffens at his comment. Anakin wonders if the serum also makes his body language more readable because he's never seen his master so expressive. "What Qui-Gon and I... Anakin when you told me you thought I didn't like spending time with you, it made me worried that I had grown to be too much like Qui-Gon."

"What do you mean?"

He stares off into space a moment. Obviously fighting against the serum, which only makes Anakin more worried about his answer. Never has he ever heard a bad word about Master Jinn, so he isn't sure what it could have been.

"Qui-Gon and I... had a rocky relationship. He didn't want another padawan, but Yoda was quite insistent. He took me, it was a long time before he accepted me."

"Then... how did you become his padawan?"

"I... well to make a long story short I was willing to detonate a bomb that would kill me but save the agricorps settlement, and I suppose he took that as reassurance I wouldn't let him down," Obi-Wan presses his lips together. "Too bad he was wrong about that."

Now Anakin is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his master with confusion. "What do you mean he was wrong?"

"Well, I did leave the order shortly after, which thoroughly shattered his expectations."

"Wait, what?" There is just... so much to unpack in the few things he just revealed. But Obi-Wan looks at him with a face that pleas him to stop. So Anakin relaxes, holding in the urge to ask more questions. "Will you tell me about this when we aren't under truth serum?"

"Yes," he answers. Definitively. Without hesitation. So Anakin nods and sits back on the bed, his head still whirring with questions.

"Can I... ask why you felt Qui-Gon didn't like you? I always thought-- I don't know, that you guys were a team."

He crosses his arms over his chest, focusing on an invisible spot on the ceiling. "We had different ideas of how to do things. That's why Yoda wanted us together. I was an angry and headstrong youngling, and he was a rebel the council needed to find a way to reel in."

Anakin scoffs. "You? Angry?"

A small smile appears on his face. "I packed a nasty right hook in my initiate days. So when I was faced with a Master who disregarded the rules, I assumed the role of the logical rule follower."

"And then you never gave up that role."

"I had punk for a padawan, what else was I to do?"

Anakin looks down at his lap, a small smile on his face.

"Is this why you don't talk about your padawan years very often?"

"The memory of Qui-Gon is... painful. As are many of the experiences I had as a child," he winces.

Well, this is depressing, Anakin thinks, wishing he could ask more but he knows it would be wrong to do so. The mystery of Obi-Wan's past has suddenly been blown right open and he isn't quite sure what to make of it. Left the order? Denied by Qui-Gon? In his head, he had this image of his tiny master, fresh-faced and spouting off Jedi Code at every chance.

"Why does nobody ever talk about that stuff?" Anakin asks, wondering how he's gone over a decade as a Jedi without hearing a word about his master's unusual apprenticeship.

"It wasn't widely known. The council and a few others," Obi-wan stares at him, sadness in his eyes. "But there is no honor in tainting the reputation of the dead."

"But you..." Anakin lets out a shaky breath. "I talked about him all the time. And you never told me?"

"Qui-Gon... was your hero. He saved you, and I- I didn't want that to change for you," he pauses, his face paler now. "Anakin, he wasn't a bad man. He was great Jedi, deeply caring for others and a fantastic master-- I have no doubt had he lived, you two would have made a powerful... and troublesome pair."

Anakin isn't sure what to say about it. He is ashamed of the number of times he was mad at his master and wished a different reality for himself. He doesn't even know the entire extent of whatever Obi-Wan is referring to, but somehow he just... knows.

He's heard rumors before. The story of the Jedi Master who gave up his padawan to train a new initiate he thought was promising. The padawans considered it a horror story to tell when they snuck out of their rooms at night to walk the darkened halls. It took Anakin longer than he's willing to admit to realize the story was about him and Master Jinn's dismissal of Obi-Wan. The way Anakin remembered it was he declared Obi-Wan ready to be a knight and that he would then be free to take Anakin.

Apparently, that wasn't the case. He didn't understand the gravity of the gesture then, and never really thought about it too hard after.

But now... now he thinks about that story again-- that apparently Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had issues in the past-- and maybe there was a lot more there than he even knows.

"When this is over, will you tell me everything, Master?"

"No," he says. No hesitation or waver in his voice.

"No?"

"There are some things I can't tell you."

"But why?"

To Anakin's surprise, he chuckles. "I am allowed my secrets, just as you are allowed yours."

This, of course, sends Anakin into a bit of internal panic. Is he just assuming I also have secrets or... does he know?

"I guess... that's fair."

"When this is over we will rest, and then I will tell you some things about my apprenticeship. And you may ask whatever questions you have then."

He supposes that's good enough. The nice thing about truth serum is he knows Obi-Wan isn't making empty promises. They leave things there for a while, Anakin falling asleep for a bit, and when he awakes, it's Obi-Wan who is surprisingly dozing off. Five hours pass. Anakin has moved to the end of Obi-Wan's bed to lay diagonally across it on his stomach, and Obi-Wan sits cross-legged against the headboard.

"Have you ever been in love, Master?" Anakin asks, looking up expecting a slap to the back of the head for such a question, but instead Obi-Wan smiles a little bit.

"Would it surprise you if I said yes?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, it is."

Anakin blinks. He had his suspicions, but to hear it aloud...

"The Duchess?"

"Yes."

"And others?"

"A few."

"A few?"

He chuckles.

"To love is not prohibited, it is to put such love ahead of one's duty."

He's never thought about it like that.

"Have you been in love, Anakin?"

"Yes," he says. I'm in love, he thinks to himself.

Obi-Wan hesitates a moment, looking down at him with uncertainty that Anakin thinks he knows the source of. He supposes it's only fair, he's dug into his past relentlessly the past few hours but... his wife isn't just his past, she's his present. His future. Though a part of him wants to tell Obi-Wan about her more than anything, a part of him also knows that his knowing will put him in a horrible position with the council. The secret will undoubtedly come out, and he will be expelled from the Order or be forced to give her up. And nothing can make him give Padmé up.

"Padmé?"

Anakin looks at him. The neutrality of his face just makes him more nervous. He looks his former master dead in the eye.

"Padmé and I... are only close friends, Master."

Obi-Wan nods. Anakin hides his stress by burying his face in the comforter.

Well... looks like the serum has worn off.

Anakin decides to wait another half an hour before he lets Obi-Wan know that, though. Just to be safe.

[chibi-tsukiko]

🏮🌬 Myya 🏮🌬

Another OC from my story Wretched & Divine

(2 more to go! & these characters have more complicated backstories so the summaries might be a bit longer. Sorry in advance! 🙈)

In the story, there are the children of the light who are considered blessed beings, their decedents(Azeneans), the Nulls (or humans), the children of the damned who are considered tainted because they are furthest from light, and their decedents(Dreles). Both the children of light and the children of the damned are born with magical capabilities. Their decedents are not born with magical abilities, but can instead, use forms of alchemy or wield magically enhanced weapons or talisman.

Myya is an Azenean. She is taken to a Null orphanage after her parents are killed by demons. One day, a man, who calls himself a ‘magician’, comes to the village. Myya, finds herself enamored with him. When the village uncovers the stranger's true identity they chase him out. That night, demons attack the village. Myya, not wanting a repeat of her parents tragedy, attempts to fend the demons off herself. She and the town are saved by the stranger. In the end, however, the village blames the stranger for their misfortune and chases him out again. Myya, confused and outraged by the village's ungratefulness, follows the stranger and begs him to take her along with him. He eventually agrees & takes her as his apprentice. After three years, he disappears without a trace, leaving Myya a pair of twin fans which he enchanted to control the wind. Since then, Myya has continued her studies and has been working as a healer in another town. She’s made the quite the name for herself and is ready to give the stranger what for when their paths cross again.

You can check out her character sheet below! ⬇️

I know this isn’t my normal TSC art & OCs don’t get too much attention, but I hope you guys like him! 🙈 (if you’d prefer not to be tagged in art that is not TSC related please let me know & I’m sorry in advance!)

Tag List : @littleturtle95 @tobeornottobetequila a @morgnstern @zfoxdraws @magnuslightwood-bane @bookworm-jedi @magnus-the-maqnificent @banesbitch @fair-but-wilde-child @beclynn-herondale @khaleesiofalicante @lizlightwoodherondale @my-archerboy @youngreckless @thomaslightwood @runecarstairs @high-warlock-of-brooklyn @panicatwallmaria

[gentlemancrow]

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately??  Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist.  SO HERE YOU GO!  Read it here or head on over to AO3 below!  And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings!  Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world.  A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could.  Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn.  He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever.  And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders.  Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition.  He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine.  They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect.  They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities.  Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.  

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon.  Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on.  This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art.  That was the least of it.  He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.  

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer.  Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner.  He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound.  He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth.  It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing.  Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal.  A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered.  Or so he thought.  Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him.  It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn?  Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up.  Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes.  Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay.  Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me.  LOOK at me, Jon!  Stay with me!  Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command.  He had never once said please because it was never an option.  Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right.  Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon.  I’m still here.  I’ve got you.  I’m going to fix this.  I’m going to get us out of here.  We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist.  Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead.  It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later.  Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home.  Not him.  He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful.  No not him.  Not The Archivist.  How could he have ever known that?  Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind.  A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses.  And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too?  Would not night still come and the stars still shine?  The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway.  Something that nourished and guided and warmed.  Not the moon.  Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness.  Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered.  How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?  

He could see the weight of it so clearly now.  He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last.  Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash.  With Martin’s help of course.  Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet.  But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester.  The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea.  Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever.  He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always.  It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’  Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot.  Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another.  Together.  That was the deal, right?  You don’t get to back out now.  No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him.  Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness.  Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story.  Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets.  Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding.  When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box.  His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something.  Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said?  Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night.  Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars.  It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey.  It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility.  It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone.  You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark.  Like it’s bleeding.  Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from.  Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it?  This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply.  He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing.  I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card.  A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um.  Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually?  I don’t know.  Sorry I-  This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking.  Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any.  Not in this universe or any other.  Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking.  If… I bought one.  And wore it.  Sort of like.  Um.  You know.  Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life.  And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him.  He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper.  They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them.  Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter.  It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it.  It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other.  Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things.  Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding.  Just so everyone could have something they liked.  And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’  

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white?  Or one of each?  I don’t know… does it really matter?  And were these engagement rings or wedding rings?  I don’t know.  Neither?  both?  And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now?  Fiancé?  Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions.  There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much.  The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again.  So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.  

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense.  He could breathe again.  There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen.  He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long.  Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t.  There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin.  It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again.  He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon.  STOP.  It’s over.”

And he’d stopped.  He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken.  It wasn’t over.  Not for him.  He finally understood.  It was still there.  The Eye.  It always had been.  Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched.  Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see.  And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me.  I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear.  That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but...  Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit.  It’s just a scar now.  That’s all.  Just like the rest of them.  Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive.  And you are not The Archivist anymore.  You’re just mine.  My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find.  His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was.  And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it.  So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know?  The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not.  What was the word for it again?  A placeholder?  Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo?  Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah!  That’s it!  We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things!  That’s all.  Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something!  We’ll figure it out together.  Alright, love?  I promise you.  It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him.  They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved.  The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap.  Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit.  Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least.  They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty.  He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library.  But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings.  He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise.  He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes!  It’s perfect, right?  I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing?  I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant.  Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really.  It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars!  This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more!  Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds?  Wormholes or whatever?  Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone?  Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before?  Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them!  This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope.  Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow.  Tomorrow had been a lie.  As had been the next night.  In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night.  He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe.  It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness?  Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy?  Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross.  Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon.  I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire.  What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed.  He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire.  Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light.  A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens.  It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back.  There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now.  Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure.  He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing.  Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep.  To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon?  Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see?  How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide.  They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above.  Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed.  Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.  

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter.  All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity.  The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so.  Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin!  Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin!  Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this!  Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that.  Or so he’d thought.  It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all.  All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens.  He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love.  Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously.  “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original.  It was the point of the story, after all.  Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction.  Patently Greek.  But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head.  If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become?  Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own.  He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after.  A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars?  What happened to heroes left behind?  Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder.  He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer.  He’d always known.  He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time.  That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else.  Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place.  He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night.  The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation.  Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest.  He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something?  Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars.  And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look.  I love you.  So much.  You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times.  While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot?  How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What?  No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin?  I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes.  Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea.  He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much.  Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh!  Oh, um, well-!  Ahah, that is to say- Uh.  There is a reason for all this.  It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have.  B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea?  And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually...  It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars.  Let’s get that clear.  But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well.  There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it?  Did you find something?  You saw something?  There’s been a sign of The Fears?  Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What?  No!  No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it?  Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you?  Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin!  If you would just listen to me!  I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice.  Something nice for you.  And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are!  I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst!  No please!  Don’t let me spoil it.  Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey.  Hey, Jon.  Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry.  I love you.  You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is.  Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were.  So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.  A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us.  And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that.  But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that.  It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork.  And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess?  We both know what they mean to us.  It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point!  You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin.  I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything.  I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me.  I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that.  Maybe not.  But you deserve one.  And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case.  You deserve it.  All of it.  Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations.  You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me.  You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings.  All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that.  And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way.  But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right?  No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter.  Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything.  That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many.  You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin.  I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke.  The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please.  Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things.  I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar.  I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist.  And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that.  For all of it.  For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you.  But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done.  B-But now I finally realize.  You’re right, Martin.  You were always right.  It doesn’t matter.  Those things are all just… things.  I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive.  It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again.  We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive.  We fought to live, and live together.  So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life.  That I want forever with you.  S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking.  Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it.  I mean obviously no one can own a star.  Just the rights to name it?  It’s a thing you can do online.  I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest.  I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars.  I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up.  Right then and there.  It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs.  He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too!  See?  So, it’s official, at least?  The Jon-Martin star.  Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal?  Our real names?  I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us.  Not really.  So…  I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before.  Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh!  Um, also I-I got us a binary star.  I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two?  But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter.  They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe.  Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night.  Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation.  Heh, you know?  But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all.  Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think.  Our story.  A-And who knows?  Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us.  They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do.  We do, and I want to end it right here, right now.  With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek.  Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin.  P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight.  Martin… Martin, don’t you see?  These are my wedding vows to you.  This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’  All at once.  This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time.  M-Maybe I wasn’t before.  Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after.  With you, Martin.  If you’ll have me.  If I haven’t-“

He would never finish.  In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips.  He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms.  Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat.  Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry.  I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh.  Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you.  I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin.  I want to be yours for the rest of my life.  I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know.  I’ve always known.  Oh god, you do know that right?  I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say.  I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are.  Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me.  Never because you didn’t love me.  Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything.  After we fought so hard to escape fear itself.  That I almost let it truly win in the end.  That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls.  His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead.  An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight.  You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box.  Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did!  Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark.  Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment.  I would have done much the same.  I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me.  Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this.  And it would have just been simple.  To the point.  Just… Will you marry me?  So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight.  It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself.  Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I?  It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom.  I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much.  But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one.  But I did want to surprise you.  I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later?  If you want to, of course.  I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that?  A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart.  It was comforting, okay?  I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it.  I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it.  Never needed to.  I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight.  Jon wept.  He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words.  I-It was… so beautiful.  You’re so beautiful.  Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright.  I’m the words guy.  You’re the emulsifiers guy.  Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of!  Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit.  Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should.  I don’t see why not.  Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do.  And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his.  They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward.  They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it?  This is us, we’re forever, no matter what.  We did it.  And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again?  You put us in the actual stars.  I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord.  Of course you are.  But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me.  Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world.  I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him.  The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time.  Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon.  And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-?  Which part?  The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right.  Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding?  Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time.  That’s all.  Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho!  Two space related idioms in one go?  What a rare treat!  Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens.  They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold.  They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close.  They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-!  Y-Yes!  Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit.  Oh!  And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne.  They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments.  They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it.  They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all.  And that one was their dot.  The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song.  They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them.  They’re like… like old friends.  Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t.  And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be?  Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know?  They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden.  Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe.  If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner.  It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede.  You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

[ibijau]

I blame @nillegible who dropped this amazing concept on the xisang discord,  then wrote a wonderful take on it and said it was fine if I played with it as well

Nie Huaisang wasn’t supposed to be in that part of Carp Tower, which was precisely why he was there. Nobody ever came around there anymore, not since Jin Guangyao had so virtuously turned his back on the demonic cultivation his father had encouraged and allowed to fester inside his sect.  Nie Huaisang had come there a few times during his days of investigation, never finding much of interest. He had figured out that it was the quietest place in all of Carp Tower, though, and he had often escaped there when forced to be in Lanling yet needing a moment to compose himself… and even now, with Jin Guangyao dead months ago, it was hard to keep his cool in enemy territory.

It did not help that Jin Rulan, after inviting him to Carp Tower to discuss new terms on a number of old treaties between their sects, had suddenly been taken by an emergency he could not explain. He had asked Nie Huaisang to stay as his guest until the matter was settled, promising it would be quick.

That had been over a week ago.

Nie Huaisang, this whole time, had done his best not to snoop around. It was no concern of his if Jin Rulan had to deal with emergencies, he refused to get involved unless he was invited to do so. The temptation was there to find out, certainly, but… Nie Huaisang was tired of other people’s secrets. So to avoid finding out anything, he mostly spent his days wandering in the gardens, or seeking peace in this abandoned part of Carp Tower. It was so quiet here, he could almost pretend that everything was fine.

The quiet was broken after he passed the door of a little building, and heard a shout.

“Uncle Nie!”

Nie Huaisang startled, and turned in the direction of the voice. He saw a child running his way from inside the building, the sight pulling at a heart he thought he no longer had. Without thinking, Nie Huaisang fell to his knees and opened his arms wide, letting the child throw himself at his neck before pulling him into a tight hug.

“Uncle Nie, you’re here!”

“SongSong?” Nie Huaisang gasped.

Before he could even fully process how impossible it was for that child to be here, more voices rushed their way. Still acting on instinct alone, Nie Huaisang stood up again, keeping the little boy in his arms. It was a relief when he saw Jin Rulan and Wei Wuxian rush out of that same building, meaning he probably wouldn’t have to fight after all. 

Wei Wuxian seemed to have less amicable thoughts about him. He frowned deeply when he saw that Nie Huaisang was holding the little boy so closely, and pulled out his flute as a quiet threat.

“Nie zongzhu, put down that child,” he ordered.

“Wei gongzi, I don’t think I could even if I tried,” Nie Huaisang retorted, feeling Jin Rusong’s grasp on him tighten, the little boy curling up against his chest in terror. “SongSong, have they scared you very much?”

“He says he’s LingLing,” the child muttered, pointing an accusatory finger at poor Jin Rulan who looked quite in shock over whatever was going on. “He’s not, LingLing is little like SongSong.”

“And you don’t know the other man either, so you became scared?” Nie Huaisang asked, smiling when Jin Rusong nodded and hid his face against his neck. “So my clever little SongSong decided to run for it. What a clever boy! Well, it’s lucky you found me. You know me well, right SongSong?”

The little boy relaxed a little, clearly happy to be receiving praise. He was always such a sweet child who soaked up affection like a sponge. Nie Huaisang used to adore him and to spoil him rotten whenever he could, even after having realised he would need to orphan him someday. He had cried for days after Jin Rusong had died, and again when he had understood why the child had died.

Or appeared to die, as seemed to be the case. The little boy in his arms was warm and very much alive.

“Put him down,” Wei Wuxian ordered again, glaring at Nie Huaisang.

“No, I won’t. Not right away. Hey, SongSong, it’s fine, these two are not bad people. They are my… they are uncle Lan’s friends. And we both know uncle Lan would never be friends with bad people, right?”

If the other two startled at those words, Jin Rusong eagerly nodded, and dared to glance in their direction with less fear.

“He’s not LingLing,” he insisted, pointing again at his cousin.

Jin Rulan, usually never showing any emotion but haughtiness or anger, made a grimace of anguish at the accusation. As was to be expected. He’d been young when Jin Rusong had died, but the two cousins had been raised like brothers, they had been so close before tragedy struck.

“I’ve told you, you’ve been very sick, A-Song,” Jin Rulan explained, taking a step toward his cousin and the man holding him. “I’m Jin Ling, I’m just… I’ve grown up a bit.”

“I don’t like it,” Jin Rusong retorted, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t like you. I want my mommy and daddy. Uncle Nie, take me to mommy!”

Nie Huaisang froze, that simple demand knocking the breath out of him.

It had been natural to pick up Jin Rusong and to comfort him, like something out of a memory, but suddenly reality caught up to him. He noticed the way Wei Wuxian looked at him with suspicion, with hatred almost, his posture ready for a fight. He saw the fear in Jin Rulan’s eyes, how he was clearly desperate to come steal back his cousin from the man who had…

Ah.

Nie Huaisang smiled as he knelt down again, trying to push the child away from him.

“SongSong, I think you should go with your cousin, actually. Look how strong he has become, don’t you think he’ll take good care of you?”

The more Nie Huaisang tried to free himself, the harder Jin Rusong clung to his neck, desperately clawing at him so he wouldn’t have to let go, leaving red lines on his skin.

“I don’t know them, I don’t know them!” he wailed, spilling heavy tears. “Uncle Nie, I don’t know them, stay with me! Take me to mommy!”

With a sigh, Nie Huaisang gave up for a moment and allowed the little boy to curl up again against him, his tears calming quickly. Earlier it had made him feel warm and happy to have this child in his arms. Now, it only amplified the hollowness in his chest, reminding him of things he used to have.

Watching them intently, Jin Rulan tilted his head before looking at Wei Wuxian.

“Maybe… if A-Song trusts him… You said it’s best if he stays calm for a while, right?”

Wei Wuxian’s frown deepened. His posture remained tense, but he nodded slowly.

“If Nie zongzhu is willing to help. Though I wonder how much of a surprise this situation is to him?”

It was Nie Huaisang’s turn to frown, though he made efforts to keep his body relaxed so he wouldn’t stress out poor Jin Rusong.

“If I had known that SongSong was alive, I would have made different choices on certain matters,” he stated in as pleasant a voice as he could manage. Jin Guangyao would still have needed to die, that had never been negotiable. But if he had known that Jin Rusong had survived the attack on his life somehow, then he would have been more careful of Qin Su’s well-being. In fact, Nie Huaisang would have kept certain things secret, so his nephew wouldn’t have to live with the infamy of his father’s sin. “I am willing to help though, if I’m allowed.”

Jin Ling and Wei Wuxian exchanged another look, before the young sect leader took another step toward Nie Huaisang and his cousin.

“A-Song, if Nie zongzhu comes with us, will you listen and be good?”

“I want mommy,” the little boy replied.

“Mommy can’t be with SongSong at the moment,” Nie Huaisang explained, glad for once that lying had become so easy to him. “Neither can daddy. But I think LingLing has important things to say, so why don’t we go back inside and listen to what he has to say?” Jin Rusong shook his head, looking ready to cry again. This called for desperate measures. “I’ll let SongSong play with my fan,” he offered. “Today, it’s one that has birds on it.”

Jin Rusong considered it for a moment. It used to be a game between them, Jin Rusong so fascinated by the pretty fans, Nie Huaisang desperate to protect them from clumsy and occasionally sticky hands. It used to make Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao laugh to see the two of them play fighting over fans.

It was odd to think of Jing Guangyo and Lan Xichen laughing, after everything.

But for Jin Rusong, those memories hadn’t been tainted. So he did not hesitate very long before nodding eagerly. It took a bit of a balancing act, but Nie Huaisang managed to pull out his fan of the way without having to put down the child. It made his heart clench to see with what care Jin Rusong slowly opened that fan, the shining smile on his face as he discovered the painted birds. It really was more than Nie Huaisang could handle so he turned to look at Jin Rulan and Wei Wuxian, fearful he would start crying in nostalgia otherwise.

“How is this possible anyway?” he asked. “I was there when… I was there. I saw it happen.”

“We’re not sure how exactly he did it,” Jin Rulan explained, motioning for Nie Huaisang to follow them back inside. “But A-Song has been kept in stasis all this time while uncle tried to find ways to heal him. He… there was something wrong with A-Song’s heart, so it was the only way uncle could keep him alive until he found a cure.”

Once they were inside, Jin Rusong’s attention drifted away from the fan for a moment, the child shivering in fear in Nie Huaisang’s arms. Not without reason. Not only was that building a medical practice of some sort, but in a corner stood the terrifying Ghost General himself. Well, he scared Nie Huaisang and Jin Rusong anyway, the child because he could probably tell this person wasn’t quite alive, the adult because he knew what that man was capable of, even if at that moment he looked all sorry and pitiful. 

It puzzled Nie Huaisang at first that this fierce corpse should be there, until he remembered who his sister had been. Medical miracles might have run in the family.

“Well, SongSong and I are listening,” Nie Huaisang said with a polite smile. “Why don’t the three of you explain this situation to us?”

Jin Rulan nodded, and took a deep breath.

“So, I was going through my uncle’s belongings a few months ago when I found this journal he kept. I couldn’t quite believe it at first, but I found another secret room and inside…”

[wlntrsldler]

unrequited (draco malfoy/ cedric diggory series)

PROMPT: You and Cedric grew up together. After the tragedy of the Triwizard Tournament, you’re left feeling empty without your best friend. Draco Malfoy steps into the picture. Will the feelings be reciprocated? Or will it be unrequited?

WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, angst, fluff, sadness???

PAIRING: draco malfoy x reader and cedric diggory x reader; hufflepuff reader

WC: 2.1K+

UNREQUITED MASTERLIST

UNREQUITED PLAYLISTS (SEND ME SONGS!)

-

PART 16

“Malfoy is a Death Eater.” 

Harry’s words made your heart drop to your stomach. It’s been two weeks since the Katie Bell incident and Harry’s grown restless. He sat beside you, Ron and Hermione sitting in front of you, as Harry told you about his suspicions about Malfoy. Your eyes flickered over to the Slytherin table, watching the blond boy pick at his food. He looked thinner, almost ghostly, as he ignored the chatter of Pansy to his left. 

You looked down at your hands, hiding your face as Filch walked up and down the Great Hall trying to spot anyone who wasn’t sitting with the correct house. You gulped, “What makes you say that?” 

“Harry’s been talking rubbish since the start of the year, you see,” Ron rolled his eyes, stuffing his mouth with dinner rolls. “He’s gone mad, I say. He truly believes Malfoy is a Death Eater.”

Harry lowered his head, growing impatient with his friend. Scowling he replied, “He is. I swear it. His father is one so it only makes sense.”

“Not everyone is their father,” you responded, not having the courage to look at the boy in the eye. You scraped your plate with your fork, an unpleasant sound emerged, making Hermione take the utensil from your grasp. “Sorry.”

Hermione shot you a worried look, “I agree with Y/N. He doesn’t seem like he is.” 

“Then what else could he have been doing at Borgin and Burkes?”

“Shopping for furniture?” 

“Miss Y/LN,” you turned around at the sound of your name. Your cheeks flushed red as Professor Sprout stood behind you, head tilted in confusion. “Shouldn’t you be sitting with your house?” 

“Well, I-”

She shook her head, twisting her body to the side before pointing you to the direction of your house’s table, “Go on.” 

Sighing, you got up, leaving your unfinished dinner on the table. The trio waved their awkward goodbyes and watched as you miserably sulked all the way to the table where you felt the most unwelcomed. Once you sat, you couldn’t help but look for the blue eyes you’ve grown to love. Draco was staring at his forearm, tears pricking his eyes. You wanted nothing else but to hold him and tell him that everything would be alright, but even you knew that those words would be a lie. You don’t want to lie to him. 

Draco stood up abruptly, the entire Slytherin table coming to a halt. Everyone watched the Slytherin Prince frantically look around the Great Hall, all eyes boring into his being. His eyes were bloodshot red, chest rising rapidly up and down. He backed away from the table, locking eyes with Harry from the other side of the room. Then without another word, Draco ran out the opened doors, with Harry trailing after him, not far behind. 

It took you a minute to regain your sanity, watching the scene unfold in front of you as murmurs from everyone in the Great Hall began to heighten. The professors were arguing about who would be the one to follow the two boys, afraid that something big might ensue. You mumbled an excuse to your table, who didn’t even notice your presence, before you ran after the two boys. 

You heard their rushed footsteps. Then you heard heart wrenching sobbing— one that was too familiar. You swallowed back your tears, hiding behind the wall that separated you from the two of them. Water was running, almost touching the tip of your shoes from behind the wall. You peeked, concern overflowing in your body. Draco looked at Harry, eyes pleading hoping that he’ll see that he didn’t want to do this. He had no choice. 

You tried to look to see if he had the ring on his finger, but to no avail. You couldn’t see from where you stood. All you could do was hope that he would see how you still thought of him. 

“I know what you are.” Harry’s voice dripped with venom, his wand raised at the ready. He glared at Draco, who was shaking under Harry’s intense stare. 

As Draco was about to respond, a flash of yellow light caught his attention. From beneath his white button up, the ring rested on a chain that he tucked away. A piece of you. The last piece of you he had left. A small smile played on his lips when he finally looked up. He could die happy at this moment, that’s all he thought about. He could die the most horrid of deaths; he could die at the mercy of Harry Potter; he could die right now because he knew you were still thinking of him. 

So he gave up. 

Draco didn’t reach for his wand when he stood in front of Harry, vulnerable and unarmed. He could’ve easily drawn his wand and commenced a duel. He could’ve easily fought back but if he were to win, or even if he were to merely survive this altercation, meant he had to complete a mission he was not suited to fulfill. Merlin knows what they would do to you if he failed to kill Dumbledore. At least in his death, he knew that his family would not touch you. You would be no use to them anymore. 

When Harry pointed his wand at Draco, he watched the blond boy’s eyes flicker behind him, focused on something else. Harry allowed himself the luxury to turn around, sensing that Malfoy was not a threat, and saw you. You emerged from your spot from behind the wall and stood behind Harry, feet in the midst of the puddle that surrounded the bathroom. You stood idle, staring straight ahead, looking at Draco who calmed upon seeing your figure alive and well in front of him. 

Draco made a move to retrieve the ring from inside his shirt, movements mimicking the movements of one who might draw their wand. Harry saw his arm move, eyes quickly diverting his attention back to Draco. Afraid that Draco might cast a spell, Harry acted out of instinct. His words slipped out of his lips faster than you could stop him. 

“Sectumsempra.” 

You ran past Harry, falling to your knees as you cradled Draco’s bleeding body in your arms. The boy who cast the curse paled, looking down at his hand as if he were the one to be cursed. He gulped, hand covering his mouth in disbelief. You sobbed as you held Draco’s limp body, the water that was once clear, now a sea of pink. Draco’s blood stained his white shirt and within the rips of the fabric, you saw a piece of the ring poking out. It was a glowing yellow, merely a blur with the tears that hindered your eyesight. 

“Draco, my darling, I’m here,” you murmured, eyes not leaving his face. You didn’t bother to get up when you heard the footsteps approach you. You didn’t flinch when the tainted water splashed upwards, mixing in with the water from your tears. You only held on tighter when you heard your name being spoken from someone’s lips. “I’m here, Draco.”

Snape looked down at you, eyes showing signs of grief. He gulped as he watched you hold Draco’s aching body, reminding him of himself all those years ago when he held Lily’s corpse. Snape switched his attention to Harry, glaring at the boy before telling him to leave at once. He then took a hold of you and Draco, and led you to the hospital wing. 

You sat beside Draco, not once letting go of his cold hands. Snape watched from the foot of the bed, vastly ashamed that he did not realize that you were in love with the Slytherin. He cleared his throat, “He’ll be alright.” 

“Okay,” your voice was hoarse, likely because of the sobs that you produced the entire way through. You didn’t look at Snape, focused only on the boy that you loved, pale and nearly lifeless in front of you. 

Your memories, your worst fear, began to creep up on you. The way Draco laid in front of you reminded you so much of Cedric. His body unmoving, hair sticking to his forehead, and the coldness of his skin. All you could do was pray to whatever higher power there is in the universe for Draco’s eyes to flutter open and reveal the blue of the vast ocean that you’ve fallen in love with, and not the cloudy grey that Cedric’s revealed that day. 

“You should go and rest, Miss Y/L/N.”

“I’m quite alright here, thank you,” you answered harshly, still not showing any signs of moving from your seat. 

“Miss Y/L/N,” Snape’s voice was stern, but he wasn’t angry. He was worried. His tone made you look up at him, confused as to why he began to care for you all of a sudden. “I must insist that you leave. Lucius Malfoy is on his way here and I know Draco would not want you to be caught by his father.” 

You let go of his hand, instantly missing the feeling of his skin against yours. You nodded, placing a soft kiss to his temple before getting up to leave, “Thank you for warning me, Professor.” 

“I’ll let you know how he’s doing.” 

“I’d greatly appreciate that.” 

“Oh and Miss Y/L/N,” Snape called after you as you were half-way out the door. “Mr. Malfoy has signed up to do something that I fear may destroy him and I’m sorry to inform you that he’s done so in order to keep you safe.”

Your heart sped up in your chest, fingers gripping the doorknob tightly, “What do you mean, Professor?”

“Mr. Malfoy is in love with you, entirely,” he replied, taking over your spot beside Draco, “And if you, by any means, feel the slightest bit of affection towards him, I suggest you let him know before it’s too late.” 

You stared at him, unsure what to say next. You watched Snape lean back on his chair, looking at Draco’s wounds from a distance. The candle that was burning beside Draco’s bed cast a light on his face, color beginning to come back. You sighed in relief when you saw his lips twitch. Although you knew Draco wouldn’t be able to see it, you thought of him— a short flash of yellow illuminating the room for a second. Snape couldn’t help but smile softly at the gesture, impressed by your ability to charm things so well at your age. 

“Miss Y/L/N.”

You froze. The voice was directly behind you, his breath almost tickling your skin. You heard Snape get up from his chair, clearing his throat, “Miss Y/L/N, we can talk about what you can do for extra credit at another time. Thank you for speaking with me today. See you tomorrow.” 

You nodded, hands shaking as you pushed the door open for Lucius’ arrival. “Right, the extra credit. Thank you, Professor.”

Lucius watched you scurry down the hallway. He entered the room, his cane clicking against the floor. He sat on the other side of his son, sneering at the obvious injuries. He scoffed, “He should’ve been more careful.” 

“It’s a difficult curse to counteract.”

“Really?” Lucius sounded unconvinced, watching as his son grimaced in pain as he prodded at his injuries. “How do you know?”

“I came up with the curse.”

“Well, I stand by my original statement.” 

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Lucius’ slight jab, turning his attention to the recovering boy. He noted that his wounds were no longer bleeding, which was a good sign. “I don’t think he’s ready yet, Lucius.”

“He needs to be, Severus.”

“But he’s simply not.” 

“Frankly,” Lucius spoke, tone irritated. He stood up from his chair, feeling like he’s already seen enough. “I don’t understand your concern. And I don’t appreciate your candor with the girl. She must not know and you definitely have no right telling her. Unless, of course, you’ve turned your back on the Dark Lord?”

“How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” Snape spat, getting up to be eye level with the wizard. 

“Your intentions… they’re questionable, Severus.” 

“They’re not for you to question. You are not who I serve, are you, Lucius?” 

The air was thick. Lucius stared at Snape, eyes lit by anger. He shook his head, stomping away with his cane in his grasp. As the door slammed with a loud boom, it shook Draco awake. His eyes blinked a few times, lips parting to take a deep breath. Snape heard the boy cough, immediately reaching over to offer him a glass of water. After taking a sip, Draco held the ring from inside his shirt. 

He looked at his professor, “Is Y/N safe?” 

Snape stared at the shut doors, heart growing heavy as everything daunted him. The war is coming and he’s playing both sides. He nodded, “For now she is.”

Those words were enough for Draco. He let his tiredness consume him, hoping that his slumber would last his lifetime and he would no longer need to fulfill his duties. 

TAGLIST:

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READ ABOUT MY UPCOMING FRED FIC HERE!