#but somehow? the way it's woven into the chorus?

[funky-fox-fics]

Prompt: band

Late at night; Impulse and Skizz’s motley band (the ZITS band, they say) is practicing rhythm— staying in tune. Tango strikes the chord. Drums now; Impulse comes in quick. Their friendship is young. Zed comes in with vocals, strong, laughs a little as he sings. Skizz on bass. The music

quickens as they enter the chorus. It’s fast, their music— two line chorus, then straight back into verse. Their band began in the band room—Impulse remembers their laughs as they’d planned it all out; voices, hearts in rhythm as they’d woven together the future of their friendship. The chorus ends; Impulse picks up the pace, drums

faster (to pick up the tempo; it’s lead by the drums). Skizz hadn’t been good at bass, but his music had sharpened into mastery, and their friendship had forgiven it. There stood their band; both Skizz and Impulse keeping the rhythm, Four verses and a bridge. Zedaph laughs;

that’s just how he sings. Impulse likes it—his laughs soften each word he sings, unlike Impulse’s drums. In show he’ll be stoic, but here, their easy rhythm forgives him. It adds a sort of beauty to the music— that’s the important bit. Unprofessional, but this is a band which forgives these kinds of things—this friendship

forgives many things. This is a friendship which is somehow so young—Impulse laughs to think about them in that room, planning out the band. Tango’d walked in on him drumming, and still those drums keep them going. The beating heart—the music wouldn’t be the same without him, the sort of rhythm—

in both the band and the friendship, he’s the rhythm. While Tango’s the impulsive of their friendship— or mostly—Impulse keeps to the rules, keeps the music steady, keeps the tempo. And Skizz keeps, too, their laughs warm and kind. Another heart, in a way. Impulse drums on. And Zedaph leads them all, this wonderfully motley band.

Slowly, carefully, the band ends the song; Impulse’s rhythm on the drums ends too as they begin to talk. Their friendship is upheld as Skizz, talking, laughs. It sounds a lot like music.

(below the cut; an earlier, failed sestina that switched scheme halfway through, and a link to the site i used to determine the scheme of a sestina!)

(i used classicalpoets.org to figure out the scheme of the poem!)

(in this one, i switched to a circular sestina partway through. i also ended this one with a purist envoi rather than the more common envoi above.)

Late at night; Impulse and Skizz’s motley band (the ZITS band, they say) is practicing rhythm— staying in tune. Tango strikes the chord. Drums (Impulse’s) come in quick. Their friendship is young. Zed comes in with vocals, strong, laughs a little as he sings. Skizz on bass. The music

quickens as they enter the chorus. It’s fast, their music— two line chorus, then straight back into verse. Their band began in the band room—Impulse remembers their laughs as they’d planned it all out; voices, hearts in rhythm as they’d woven together the future of their friendship. The chorus ends; Impulse picks up the pace, drums

faster (to pick up the tempo; it’s lead by the drums). Skizz hadn’t been good at bass, but his music had sharpened into mastery. He laughs if you ask how he did it. He keeps the rhythm, the two of them do, in this cobbled-together band. Keeps the rhythm, too, in their friendship.

Impulse thinks about the start of the friendship; Tango’d nosed in while Impulse was playing drums and Skizz had been an acquaintance. The rhythm he’d practiced had spurred them to make a band since all of them were friends, all of them made music and here’s the bridge, slow, soft. Zedaph still laughs—

that’s just how he sings. Zedaph laughs like a bell. He’d been the last in the friendship, since they’d needed vocals and he’d liked the band— the idea of it, and the band itself. Liked making music. The bridge ends, they leap into chorus. Impulse drums like a beating heart, drums, keeps the rhythm

steady. So that’s his role? He keeps the rhythm— the beating heart. Skizz is the one who laughs and keeps them kind, Zed leads the music, Tango’s the smart one; but he is the heart, the drums that keep the song going, keep the friendship on beat. The tempo of the song, of the band.

The song ends; the rhythm slows. Impulse quietly laughs. The friendship still strong, despite the quiet of the drums. The band begins to talk, and it sounds a lot like music.

[anyways-wonderwall]

Album of the Week #68

Planet Her

(2021)

by Doja Cat

Overall Rating: 6.5/10

TL;DR: Probably an objectively good album, I’m just tired. Tired of hearing these singles that were drilled into my head, tired on the stupid one-liners, tired of the trap snare. While she has a fantastic singing voice and seems to be having fun, I’m too damn tired to have the enthusiasm rub off on me. 

(You know, I'll give her this, that is a badass album cover 10/10)

Every week i somehow get busier. When will it end

Overall Thoughts

As her albums become more refined, focused, and professional, her intent of writing about sex and womanhood becomes clearer. I think that Robert Christgau’s description of writing sex songs instead of love songs fits even more with this album. Every duet is about sex, every rap mentions it, even “Kiss Me More” which sounds like a lighthearted love song is incredibly graphic once you listen to the lyrics. I’m not saying this is a bad thing at all, it’s just fascinating to hear a whole album that has pop woven through it not mention love (I wonder what boomer Robert Christgau has to say about that). 

“Woman” starts the album off with a sensual tone and is I think the most creative and distinct song on the album. The rest kind of blend together and I think how overplayed some of them were on the radio ruined a few of them for me. I don’t think many of the songs offered anything unique or especially good, with a mix of predictable slow songs and rap songs that offer your standard sound board of effects and beats. The only real variation you’ll get is in a sometimes really good chorus or baseline, as she also offers about the same flow in every song. I think most of the album (especially “Naked” and “Need to Know”) fall into the category of “songs I’d dance to at a club and enjoy at the time but never think about again.” You need songs like that in your life, but that also means that I don’t have much of a desire to listen to this album in full again. 

In listening to her whole discography I’ve found that the one thing that Doja Cat lacks is being a good writer. Okay that sounds really harsh but I think her messages and themes are great, her ideas are solid and complex, she’s just really bad at writing well crafted, smart, and good lyrics. Often they’re stupid enough to border on funny which was fine in her early days but as she wants to be taken more and more seriously it just doesn’t really work. Often lines don’t rhyme or barely rhyme, the word play is stupid (“square like Madison”??? That’s dumb as hell), and when thing do flow and rhyme it feels like gibberish. I hope she gets better soon because if you’re gonna start billing yourself as a rapper (like she is in her newest album) you at least have to be able to write. Sure you can say the lines, but are they worth saying?

Part of me wonders if I’m especially harsh on this album because pretty much every song that was a single when this came out was so overplayed that it makes me genuinely angry to here. “Get Into It (Yuh)” is one of my least favorite songs of all time tbh, and if I have to hear that weird bird owl sound effect one more time I’m going to throw my headphones into the road. “You Right” is probably a good song objectively but I just find myself wanting to turn it off because its so boring to me, and the only song (other than “Woman”) that I find myself coming back to is “Kiss Me More.” 

You know, to end this review on a good note let’s talk about that song for a bit. It’s honestly perfect. I’ve had it stuck in my head for the past week but not in a dreadful way, in a “nodding my head and humming while doing the dishes” kind of way. The baseline is perfect, all the guitar parts are wonderfully catchy, SZA is fantastic in it, and its the perfect length. I’m glad the album ended with that song because I was at least left with a good taste in my mouth. 

Next week's review: Scarlet (2023) by Doja Cat

[muutosarchive]

arching back displays each curving bone of his ribcage. humanoid bones displayed with the heavy heave of his stomach, between the mirrored rack of frames. sweat dribbles down his chest, his stomach, his neck. practically steaming. (or is he?) -- his body truly a masterpiece, crafted over many hours by the skillful ghoul above. chisel in hand, evil intentions existing in his paternal vessel. multi-ghoul's hands clutch at his hair, woven into tight curls & flexing strong muscles. a sight the women would die to see. the ones who come to see those undulating hips every night, watching as he caresses guitar strings & sways like he was born to do so. multi-ghoul seemingly included backup dancing. beautiful & mesmerizing. & the muscles in his thighs are similarly tense. feet propped. & swiss whines.. though his body relaxes somewhat, when he feels azoth's intrusion into his head. red eyes snapping open, an unseen force seizing his pupils & squeezing them. red urgency screaming in his fiery iris. it's like time slows down to a stop. like the sweat pauses it's descent down his arched form. like his breath has stilled, though it's simply evened out. shallow. present with his pleasure, & somehow separated from sensations. just for the moment. praise surging through his body, like it's the track of a rollercoaster. steel, & shuttering with each twist & turn. calming him, like a boat in the unpredictable ocean. bringing him in, & anchoring him. whining like desperate dog. high pitched, with brows pinched so hard that the lines wrinkle it out. definition brought to his expression. he needs this. needs this focus drawn out of him.

he moans again. his hands leaving the desk, & traveling over his own body. lithe hips widening out into a broad chest. flat hands slowly exploring all along his frame, while he quietly (more-less), takes in the praise that's singing throughout his mind. acting like a drug, along with the lax press of his own skin. overstimulation dampened slightly, which allows his head to loll as he looks at various splits in the drywall or in stone. subtle imperfections in furniture. all in a daze. drunk, high, surrounded by the verbal affection. movements illuminated by the multi-ghoul's breathing. nodding his head, with his lips opened ever so slightly. nodding the moment he hears the instruction, when it returns. ever so dutiful. ever so eager, willing -- desperate to please. please him, please papa. please everyone. lips dopily hang open, eyes lidded. head shifting, eagerly. the second the opportunity is extended. though the extra projection? it causes swiss to whine again, almost in pain. hands sliding up his neck & into his hair, while he sings. "mmm, aw fuck." it's like the most overwhelming thing in the world. to feel the pride. literally know it, & be surrounded by it. tangible, swallowing him whole & making his entire body want to split into each individual strand of dna. chest wracks with a sob, as his lip wrinkles. a low cry forcing through his sternum. tugging on his hair & humming. pushing his hips up weakly to fuck lowly into the mercury ghoul's throat. pathetic, in the most loveliest of ways.

one elbows knocks, exhausted, against the wood. the other remaining the tug of his own locks, making of a chorus of sounds whilst the man talks to him with a mouthful. swiss props up, just to see the ghoul grin at him around his leaking prick. dancing in & out of his mouth, from between swollen lips. "fuck, - oh -" he's interrupted. the hand in his hair taking to curling digits into wood, before they find their way to the base of azoth's skull. palm resting against the back of it, to thrust deeper. head lolling backward, curls brushing the back of his neck with a pained moan. thumb curls against his head, when he begins to buck harder. knowing he has to be able to build up to burst, once azoth inevitably instructs him to do so. easing downward a bit more, & using the leverage to push his hips off of the table. smoke is streaming through his nose & mouth, by the time the ghoul's tail makes it to push tears from his eyes. & swiss responds by curling his own around the other ghoul's shoulders tighter. locking him there, & letting his spade rest along the collarbone. head tilted, to watch. nodding again, with another sob. perfect move to bring up the threat of disappointment. determination awoken, as he feels his balls tighten. the flesh beginning to tingle everywhere. to where even the slightest shift of the ghoul's tail, makes him cry out. wants to be a perfect boy. a good dog, a debased fuck-toy. breedable hole, perfect cock. pretty little body. weak enough to get trapped under hands.. thighs... "mmmmm, m'gonna cum, azoth." he whines, his head lolling once again from it's cant, to lean back. mouth hanging open... both hands shoot into the monster's hair, with core strength he didn't know he had holding him up. allowing him to fuck tirelessly into the other's throat. his entire body on fire, sweating profusely. surprised the other can even handle the hot touch of his volcanic skin, when he clamps his hands down. forces his cock into the tight channel of his throat. one only coming off to hold him up, when he does find his release. finding previously made footholds with claws, which hold him upright. as he jerks, & wiggles through another whiny & spending orgasm. surprised he even had any seed to shoot onto the other's tongue. hot, though his pre-cumming had likely lived on the other's palate long before now. [...] twitching thighs collapse, as well as the rest of him. slumping, with his hands held up weakly. trying to keep his back upward somewhat, whilst his chest heaves. head hanging, lazily. "fuck. m'surprised i had any more for ya', big boy." he reaches down and pats the ghoul's head twice in the afterglow. still letting his cock slide in the heat provided with shallow pushes. flushed, because while he wants the praise that comes with his deed - he doesn't wanna stress it. hind paw swaying side to side. "was your good boy, huh?"

With Swiss sprawled out on his desk like this, Azoth feels like a renaissance master, one of gli artisti patronised by the Medici in fifteenth century Florence, his masterpiece in Carrara marble splayed beneath him; it’s a study in anatomy, in the matrices of musculature that undulate and surge beneath him, every tendon drawn taut as a bow string, every joint intersecting like clockwork to set limbs squirming. The tremolo of Swiss’ voice is music to his ears, every rasp, every bleat, every unintelligible syllable that comes tumbling out of his slack jaws is like an unhallowed chorus venerating his name, and Azoth plays his body like an instrument. But the ghoul is not hewn from stone. His flesh is scorching hot like liquid magma, and fuzzed over with a thatch of singed hairs, blunted fangs click and clack as he gnashes his savage jaws, and talons carve deep channels into the backboard of the desk as he gropes about for traction blindly. Swiss bellows out like a beast as crafty fingers crook inside of him, like some woodland creature speared by a hunter’s harpoon, and Azoth can feel the throbbing of that monstrous member on his tongue as he advances towards that precipice, that rapturous peak just out of reach as he plateaus, his burly body still refracting - resiliently resisting Azoth’s exertions - and so he deploys a trick of his own.

Intertwined as they are, their souls in perfect synchronicity, Azoth can sense the shape of Swiss’ consciousness above him, like an ocean in tumult, a howling tempest thrashing against the shore, and the mercury ghoul dives into him. «You’ve been such a good boy for me. Cumming on command. Cumming over my hand, cumming on my tongue, cumming on my fingers, cumming from my mouth,» he projects his inner voice directly into the multi-ghoul’s mind. «Painting that gorgeous stomach with your seed,» and a charming chuckle escapes from Azoth’s subconscious, and echoes in the chasm between their minds. «All I want is one more… I want to taste you,» and Azoth projects his arousal through their clairvoyant bond, projects his pride in the other ghoul, projects his praise, the desire he harbours with near religious fervour — something he reinforces with his white hot gaze and the hollowing of his cheeks, shuttling Swiss’ cock into his throat with every duck of his head. «Then, I’ll make you mine. I’ll fuck you deep, and slow, so you can feel every inch of me. I’ll breed that perfect hole of you, fill you with my pups,” he blinks up at him wickedly. “Mate you. Imprint you. Make you mine…”

«All you have to do is cum,» he instructs, his tone strict — severe — like the snap of a whip. «Don’t disappoint me now. Be my perfect boy and cum in my mouth, fill my throat, let me consume you.» His tail snakes up Swiss’ body, over his quivering stomach, over his heaving chest, and to his flushed face where he sweeps the tears from his burning eyes. Engulfed in a haze of Swiss’ pheromones, huffing his arousal, he can feel his self control diminishing by the second, he’s high on Swiss; on his body, on everything the multi-ghoul is willing to give to him.

[tonyglowheart]

I feel like I see a lot of EN fandom preferring Xianyun out of the three Wangxians, and often cite the “if I can use my entire life to wait for you, will you be willing to glance back at me once?” line (which I think isn’t... exactly how I’d translate it, either, I think gravitydefyingtears’ EN tls make more sense to me) but actually, I think for me, Xianyun works the least, because it’s more of a meta song - a song someone would write about Wangxian - vs a song that I feel like LWJ would write about it? Especially if we think about when LWJ would have written it in canon. To me, it’s a very “13 years of inquiry” song, and actually there’s that line about ‘Inquiry as an attempt to release me of the worries’ in the lyrics lol

I think Wuji works as a very nice, like, poetic song that describes Wangxian’s dynamic overall without being overtly 13 Years of Inquiry, and the 煮一壶生死悲欢祭少年郎 (oof this one is rough to translate.. I’ve seen this editorialized all sorts of ways, but I think the more “literal” tl of “Preparing a jar of happiness and sadness of life and death to mourn/memorialize a young man” helps get at the idea of it) line always hits me about it.

But I still find the chorus of wangxian.mp3 to be superior.

原来陈情俱是旧人 撩动心事如何能避尘 与你一曲吹彻欢同恨 千帆过还天真

The translations I’ve seen of this have been. okay I guess.

“And so, this first love was all for you” I think is how I saw the first line translated. But what that doesn’t convey, is the 陈情 (Chenqing) embedded there, and also the complexity of meanings behind how chenqing can be interpreted. I think “old love” or “old feelings” is more accurate than “first love,” because I think if we are interpreting chenqing as old feelings, it’s more old as in of the past, no longer present, with maybe not necessarily any lingering sentiments. and “jiuren” at the end of the line here is “old acquaintance”? but can also mean old friend, ex-lover even. so I’d say it’s more saying “turns out these old feelings (chenqing) was my old friend” which. sounds terrible in English lmfao how do I explain the meanings and then actually get the words to cooperate non-terribly in a line... I guess my vibe here is more like “turns out what I’m identifying now as my old feelings, it was you all along” re: said old acquaintance? I love the wordplay here tho bc I’m still more convinced that WWX’s flute Chenqing is named for “to give a full account” and not for “old feelings” etc

the next line is line “How can I deny this burning desire?” from suibian subs’ tl. But again, I want to highlight that Bichen is embedded here, in its Daoist(?) usage of “avoiding worldly matters.” I think the line is more complex than just the short it, it’s more like “arousing the matters of the heart/with the matters of the heart aroused, how can I avoid worldly matters (bichen).”

third line is fairly straightforward. the suiban tl has it as “for you, I play a song of joy and regret,” but it’s more like... (tho the first one couple for, and not you, but if I weren’t overanalyzing it I’d assuming 与你 is with you, with 与 as a conjunction, not any other usage...) “with you, I blow/play a song which pierces through joy and hate/regret” which I think is very fitting for their relationship esp way back yonder in ye olde times of conflicted feelings and also the absolute thorniness that was between them pre-WWX death :’)

and the last line of the chorus. Always hecking gets me. bc “after a thousand crises, yet you remain innocent” does not BEGIN to cover the meaning of 天真 for me. tianzhen isn’t just “innocent” as in “okay turns out you’re not guilty of the crime,” but tianzhen is, like, the innocence of babes. that unimpugnible, unmarkable innocence of the absolute artless. It’s not...necessarily an idea imo that he hasn’t committed any crimes, but that he possesses that purity of heart and of spirit. “The world has turned a thousand times, and yet your heart remains pure.” And that always Gets Me

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Kassandra x Fem!Reader - The Most Peculiar Wingman

Can be found on AO3 here.

Summary: You recently moved into a new flat and you’re hearing some rather unusual sounds from your next-door neighbour’s abode. You’re worried the mysterious woman next door is involved in something dangerous. Kassandra is worried that you’re the landlord about to bust her for her lease violation.

(Sorry if you don’t like coffee and/or you speak fluent Greek.)

Word count: 2568

.

Damn, you’ve lucked out with your new flat. The area is pleasant, the décor is tasteful – the windowsills could use a bit more greenery, but you’ll get to that – and the letting agent wasn’t a dick. Zero hassle with bills, minimal scuffs on the walls…it’s bizarre how simple your moving process has been.

But nothing can be perfect, can it?

Over the few days you’ve lived in your new home, you noticed some rather disconcerting sounds coming from the apartment next door. Nothing that disrupts your sleep, thankfully, although your post-unpacking nap was interrupted by a very loud thud against the thin wall connecting the two flats. Thumps, crashes and very disgruntled cursing in a language you can’t quite place tend to crop up in quick succession once or twice a day. Today, though, the odd sounds seem to be omnipresent.

The strange symphony is starting to get alarming; you’re beginning to ponder if the seemingly perpetually angry woman next door is involved in violence…or, forbid, organised crime? That would certainly explain the forceful thuds and grumbling. God, what if she manages to rope you into her shenanigans? What if she is armed?

After a loud bang and an exasperated “oh, fuck you” reverberates into your apartment, you decide to investigate.

Anxiously, you pop on some slippers and step into the hall, locking the door behind you (‘I’m not about to get robbed less than a week after moving,’ you think to yourself, ‘Oh, shit, I need to get insurance…’). Stomach churning with speculation, you make the arduous four-metre trek to your neighbour’s door. Biting your lip, you rap your knuckles against the wood.

A chorus of panicked shuffling echoes through the door, causing your throat to tighten. Footsteps sprint from one side of the room to the other, the sound of shattering ceramic shrill against the heavy thudding. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” the woman hisses, muffled by the walls, followed by some shushing and the rattling of something metal. Who is this woman, what the fuck is she hiding, why am I doing this—

Suddenly, the door swings open, revealing…oh, wow.

Your neighbour is an amazon.

Flawless bronze skin, chocolate hair strewn into an unruly braid, tall and shredded with lean muscle. Her eyes are a gorgeous tawny brown, the split second of alarm disappearing from her gaze, replaced by a sparkle that makes your heart hammer against your chest. Very kissable lips upturn into a charming smile, bringing your attention to a small scar above her upper lip quirking adorably. A deeper scar sits on her nose, and the pang of anxiety returns, but your eyes need only flicker back to hers and it melts away.

“You’re not the landlord,” she says with a rich accent and curious lilt. Your cheeks feel warm.

“Uhm, hi.” You fiddle with your thumbs, mouth suddenly dry. “Sorry, I moved in a few days ago next door. I just heard some loud noises and was wondering if everything was alright?”

Lips curving furthermore, she braces her arms on the doorframe above and, fuck, are they nice arms. Sun-kissed, bulging against her white t-shirt, three gnarly rings cutting into her right bicep that just scream to be touched. Is this her distraction tactic?

“Oh, sorry about that. I hope I wasn’t too much of a disturbance?”

When you finally pry your eyes from her arms, a tiny smirk registers on her handsome face. Bashful, you stammer, “No, it’s fine. But, uh, what caused it, if I may ask?”

The woman cranes her neck to scan the hall. “Can you keep a secret?”

Mob boss? Arms dealer? Axe murderer?

Clearly, your nervous speculations are apparent, because her eyes widen slightly. “Don’t worry, lovely, it’s nothing dangerous. I just have a pet bird.”

Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, you run a hand through your hair. Just a bird. Just a bird. Her face relaxes back into a casual smile. A fresh wave of warmth caresses your cheeks at the name she gave you.

Chuckling, you joke, “Must be one big bird.”

“He’s…an eagle.”

You blink back your shock. “How on earth did you manage to get a pet eagle?”

She laughs, the melody warm and addictive. “Poor fucker followed me all the way from Kefalonia. I didn’t have it in me to say goodbye, even if it violates the lease.” Her tone is affectionate, despite her less-than-endearing name for the bird. Pushing back from the door frame – hands flexing wonderfully while she does so – she gestures for you to step in. “Come and meet him, if you’d like.”

Everything about this woman is so inviting, you can’t help but gravitate into her apartment.

“I don’t think I caught your name?” you ask shyly.

“Kassandra,” she replies, flipping the ‘r’ in her buttery accent. “And what can I call you?”

Anything you fucking want. “(Y/N) is fine,” you manage, debating whether her flat is hot or your face is akin to a beetroot.

“That’s a lovely name. Suits you perfectly,” she winks. She saunters over to a shelf with a blanket hastily thrown over it. You can’t help but observe her firm-looking behind through her jeans. Kassandra tugs away the blanket, revealing a large eagle sitting grumpily in a cage. It remains put when she unlocks the cage, standing almost defiantly.

“Don’t be like that, Ikaros,” she chastises. The eagle – Ikaros – begrudgingly flies out of his confines, perching atop the sofa in the middle of the open-plan room. “He’s gentle, I promise.” You’re doubtful, but he isn’t making any sudden moves.

“He just likes winding you up?”

“Loves it,” she grins. “He’s a little bitter I put him on a diet since he was getting a bit fat. That’s why he’s been throwing some tantrums lately.”

You smile as she scratches the top of his head before heading to the kitchen. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Kassandra asks, giving you another heart-melting beam. “I have coffee, orange juice, I might have some tea somewhere—”

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.” She asks your preference and you state it, taking in the layout of her apartment. The place gave off a very homely, Mediterranean vibe, with warm colours and white furnishings. A few hand-painted ceramic vases were dotted about – maybe she did pottery – alongside some family photographs. Atop the dining table was a woven basket brimming with ripe fruits, as well as a laptop with a pile of messy papers next to it.

“Have a seat, get comfy,” she calls over the whirring of an expensive looking coffee machine. Shyly you take the chair by the unoccupied end of the dining table. Feeling nosy, you scan the documents by her laptop, but the handwriting was all in Greek.

A minute later, Kassandra joins you with a steaming mug in her hand. “Your coffee, madame,” she announces with a pantomimic bow, evoking a laugh.

“Merci,” you thank her. “How would I say that in Greek?”

“Efharistó,” she replies. You test the word hesitantly, wincing on the second syllable, making her laugh. “Not bad,” she chuckles.

“I butchered it.”

“Try it a little softer,” she smiles, lowering her voice, giving it a sensual cadence that made your head spin. Oh, she knows she’s attractive.

“Efharistó,” you border on whisper, gay little brain surging with the overwhelming instinct to do whatever she tells you.

“There we go!” The proud quirk of her lips is all you need to see.

Feeling your cheeks flush, you bring the coffee mug to your lips, hoping the steam from the beverage will help mask your fluster. You blow on the liquid and take a sip, immediately regretting the decision as you scorch your tastebuds, repressing the urge to hiss in favour of looking cool for the hot Grecian.

“Do you, um,” you start, ignoring the numbness of your tongue, “work from home?” You wave your hand at the paperwork by her seat.

“As often as my job lets me.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a museum curator,” Kassandra beams, evidently proud of her job. “A glorified history nerd who couldn’t be fucked with the extra academia, basically.” You snort against the mug, nearly spluttering coffee over her. Smooth.

“What time in history?” Her eyes sparkle at the question, passion shining through her irises.

“Mostly the classics, ancient Greece and Rome and all that. But I did my thesis on the evolution of weaponry.” You prop your chin up on your hand as she talks, eyes lazily focused on her lips. If not for the conviction in her tone, you would have zoned out and chased some daydream about kissing those lips. Kassandra reclines back in her chair. “Enough about me, though. Tell me about yourself.”

“You sounded really passionate, though. I don’t mind if you keep talking about your job.” God, you sound like a dizzy schoolgirl who’s hot for teacher. You scald yourself with another sip of coffee in reprimanding.

Kassandra’s eyes twinkle. “I don’t usually invite beautiful women into my home to ramble about cool swords.” You blush and set down your coffee.

The two of you talk for quite some time, getting to know each other, peppering in the occasional flirtatious remark. In her company, you somehow simultaneously feel comfortable and skittish. She’s so relaxed and easy-going, but her physique and seductive demeanour fills your stomach with butterflies.

An irritated squawk cut your conversation short.

Kassandra shoots Ikaros a look before turning back to you. “Sorry about him.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine, really. Damn… What was I saying again?” you ask sheepishly.

Squawk.

“Nevermind, I was probably babbling anyway,” you dismiss, sipping on your now cold beverage.

Kassandra chuckles softly. “Don’t be silly, you have the voice of an angel. You could read me the dictionary and I’d still be interested.” She probably said this to every woman she took a liking to, but you can’t bring yourself to care, far too flustered and feeling, for once, special.

Squawk.

Her eye practically twitches in anger as Ikaros flies over to the windowsill, makes unwavering eye-contact with his owner, and shits on the wood.

Kassandra looks like she wants to be euthanised.

“My god,” she mutters as you burst out laughing. She awkwardly rubs the back of her neck and grimaces, mouth parted as if trying to form some kind of apology for her eagle’s behaviour.

“I’m guessing you’re used to being the only one doing the flustering?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Her disgraced expression shifted back to a playful one. “If I say yes, do I sound like a whore?”

Grinning, you shake your head. “A little cocky, perhaps.”

“I’ll take cocky.” She winks and gets up. “Your coffee is probably cold, can I get you a fresh one?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.”

“The finest,” she smirks.

“Real smooth,” you roll your eyes, smiling regardless.

Ikaros caws from the windowsill, as if mocking Kassandra’s advances. Once again, her effortless charm dissolves into a look of frustration. She grabs kitchen towels and a bottle of disinfectant from by the sink and walks over to the window, nudging the eagle so he’d move out of the way. “Maláka,” she groans, cleaning up the mess from the surface. “Μη μου το χαλάς αυτό,” she mutters to Ikaros, earning a confused look. Kassandra sighs. “Usually I wait until after the first date before introducing a beautiful lady to this little shit. That way people don’t immediately think I’m just a weird bird lesbian.”

Testing the waters, you remark, “I happen to quite fancy women with an affinity for animals.” You bite your lip and add, “And, well, you’re…very attractive.”

Smugly, Kassandra finishes disinfecting the windowsill and walks to the kitchen with a little more vigour, your compliment proving to be an ego boost.

Once again deprived of attention, Ikaros decides to flap over and join you at the table. Instinctively, you flinch as the large bird flies in your direction, but all he does is stare at you, trying to analyse the stranger in his home.

“Does – does he bite?” you ask, hesitantly standing up.

Kassandra discards the kitchen towel in the bin, washing her hands. “No, he’s very kind to everyone who isn’t me.” She flashes you a wicked grin. “I only bite when asked.”

Stammering, you choke on air, struggling to find a response. Ikaros gives her a disappointed look.

“Shit, too forward?”

You shake your head. “Not at all,” you blush. “I’ve just…never met anyone quite like you before.” Ikaros seemingly gives you a judgemental leer, and you swiftly find yourself adding, “I-in a good way, that is!”

“Oh?” Her brow is upturned, her interest piqued.

“It’s…exciting.” The eagle shuffles towards you and nuzzles your hand, apparently deciding you’re worthy of his affections. The dark feathers atop his head are surprisingly soft to touch. Smiling, you give his head a few pats, inhibitions to the wind when cute little coos vibrate from his throat. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“I think it’s adorable,” Kassandra says softly.

You look up. “Really?”

“Really.” She joins the two of you and plucks a damson from the fruit bowl, feeding it to Ikaros while you pet him. “You’re the loveliest person to have ever set foot in this building, that’s for sure.”

Ikaros cocks his head in agreement. His beady eyes meet yours, damson juice dribbling from his beak. Do it, he’s silently telling you.

Screw it, let’s shoot our shot.

You clear your throat, mustering up some courage. “Are you free next weekend?”

Kassandra beams amorously. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” she grins. “How does dinner sound?”

Fuck yes. “Really good,” you blurt out excitedly.

“There’s this great Persian restaurant a couple streets over. I’ll book us a table?”

You gasp, having seen the building on the drive when you were moving in. “The place with the garden and the pretty lights, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sounds amazing.” Red in the face and heart pounding, your eyes dart about the apartment, fearing that you’ll combust if you look at Kassandra any longer. They settle on Ikaros, who gently butts his head against your hand, almost like a fist-bump. “Well, uh, I have a home insurance company to ring up, so I should probably get going,” you stutter.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Kassandra says, a tinge of disappointment in her tone. Ikaros squawks sadly.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for staying,” she winks. The eagle coos in agreement. You give him one last pat before walking to the front door.

“Oh, before you leave, there is something you should know…” Kassandra calls, moving over to you. She delicately takes your hand, frying your brain, and leans down to your ear. You feel faint. Lowly, she whispers, “…Our Hermes guy likes to drop-kick our parcels.”

Snorting, you look up at her in disbelief. I mean, what was I expecting? A kiss? Get a grip, woman. Kassandra laughs at your expression. “Use the amazon locker down the road instead.”

“You’re amazing,” you murmur, grinning. “I’ll probably see you before next weekend, but bye, I guess?”

“Chaire,” she bids softly, opening the door for you.

When the door closes behind you, you let out a ragged breath, excitement coursing through your veins.

You are so glad you moved here.

.

( The Greek clause is meant to say "Don't blow this for me" but I used 5 different translators and all 5 came back with slightly different things and I sort of ip-dip-doo'd it and chose one at random...sorry. )

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

perfect now - a close reading

only pure and true love for this one. it’s soft and sweet because the one he wrote it for is and needs cheesy uncool romcom soundtrack-worthy affirmations and it’s the most wonderful thing oh my the flurries 

some album booklet art for your viewing pleasure

((just a warning for below: while the lyric analysis was kept fairly neutral and close to the words and their meaning, more and more parallels did ensure me larrying out by the time the analysis kicked off so if you’re not into that, you can skip this one!))

⟼ check out @bluewinnerangel​ ‘s magnificent post with all the parallels to 1d/h&l bc it’s exhaustive and was a source for mine <3 thank you again for your service <3 bc this song really is a fanpiece of every song that has been important to them throughout their career so far, whether they wrote it or not, and it’s honestly kinda impressive

SUMMARY

you’re sad and i love you so much i will do anything to make that undone but while you’re sad know that i sill very much love you and you’re also strong enough to conquer all of this on your own but i’ll be by your side anyway

lyric breakdown ft. the many parallels, incl. little things, through the dark and wmyb

what this says about louis, his partner and the relationship he is in

never gonna dance again frenzy

identity 

louis is a marvellous majestic sonofabitch basically <3

walls, track 10

～ little things “you still have to squeeze into your jeans, but you’re perfect to me”

You don’t feel pretty and it’s hard to miss

You don’t feel pretty and it’s hard to miss

later lyric: “like a neon sign” - i see through you trying to hide away your insecurities

I wish that you could see my point of view As someone staring back at you

“you” is also staring at him, but perhaps is too insecure to realise how mutual the adoration is

i wish i could get you out of your own negative spiral and give you a look at yourself from my perspective

～ wmyb “everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but you” 

～ wmyb “right now i’m looking at you and i can’t believe you don’t know you’re beautiful”

～ little things “you never love yourself half as much as I love you, and you’ll never treat yourself right darling but I want you to. If I let you know, I’m here for you, maybe you’ll love yourself like I love you”

On Friday night when we’re all out I turn to you and you’re looking down And you don’t wanna dance I know you love to dance You never stop given half the chance

heavy echoes of kmm again, but the opposite: the “nightmare on the dance floor” doesn’t want to dance

when “you” is confident rlly not being subtle with who i think that is, they love to dance <-> tpwk “feeling good in my skin, i just keep on dancing”

“i know you love to dance” = i know what you love bc i love you

“given half the chance” 

～ tpwk “giving/given second chances”

given a chance tattoo, making another appearance (see below for more tattoo meltdowns)

Just keep your head up, love, keep your head up

term of endearment <3 

～ dlibyh

this album is full of encouragement to keep going and as much as it gives me life it ruins me 

Don’t hide away, don’t ever change

“be happy, proud”

～ “just hold on”

“pick someone who’s supportive”

Keep your head up, love, keep your head up Don’t look away, don’t look away

don’t look away from me

～ through the dark “and I can see your head is held in shame”

Cause everybody’s looking at you now, my, oh my

they have the stage to themselves / new career paths they’re doing on their own

could also mean ppl they’re going out with are looking at them, which “you” interprets as sth negative, which makes them self-conscious, while they’re actually admiring them bc they steal the scene

～ wmyb “you’re turning heads when you walk through the door”

I guess some queens don’t need a crown And I know why Even when your tears are falling down Still, somehow, you’re perfect now

“you” is royalty to louis, to put it simply 

they don’t need something on their head to make it known to everyone else - they’re a queen and everyone knows it

gendered: female - also used in drag contexts - the only time L has used any gendered word to identify his partner on the entire album (more on this below)

～ steal my girl "she's been my queen since we were sixteen" can't believe i forgot this one thank you @mortalenemiestolovers for reminding me!!!

～ falling

～ through the dark “you tell me that your tears are here to stay”

You never do, but if you asked me to I’ll tell the truth lying next to you

“you” never asks for affirmations directly, but by saying shit like their pants are too tight make it clear enough to L that they do need to hear once in a while that it’s not true

Cause you’re the only one when it’s said and done You make me feel like being someone 

Good to you even at your worst

～ always you

i love you so much you are a force of life to me, and even when you hate me i want more

～ drag me down “If I didn’t have you there would be nothing left, the shell of a man who could never be his best. If I didn’t have you, I’d never see the sun. You taught me how to be someone” (sung by louis first, harry second) 

～ through the dark “even if you scream and shout, it’ll come back to you and I’ll be here for you

You steal the scene and it’s unrehearsed

reference to working on a stage - their natural presence wins everyone over - that charisma is never manufactured

Don’t you wanna dance? Just a little dance I’ll never stop given half the chance

L keeps encouraging them, will also not pass by any chance to dance with them

Every insecurity, like a neon sign, as bright as day If you knew what you were to me You would never try to hide away

“it’s hard to miss”

L sees through them trying to hide their insecurities, pretend to be strong

～ through the dark “but I know you were only hiding”

SYNTHESIS

Perfect Now is not a fan favorite and I am so not here for that discourse, so please do not pester me with negativity about this chocolate drop of a song. 

As others have pointed out, the parallels with other songs written by Louis, Harry or for One Direction are extremely present. Especially Little Things is echoed loudly, but there’s so much more to be read, as you’ve seen. These are songs that are clearly near and dear to Louis, bc he wrote them or bc performing them was special, like with Little Things and What Makes You Beautiful. A lot of the same emotions come back in Louis’s writing, so much so that you can’t help but see the larger story behind it all. Throughout Walls you can hear him singing about not giving up and holding your head high despite hardships, and if you look back at his earlier writing, it’s always been there. Through the Dark is an early and striking example of this style of Louis song: you’re sad and i love you so much i will do anything to make that undone but while you’re sad know that i sill very much love you and you’re also strong enough to conquer all of this on your own but i’ll be by your side anyway 

basically through the dark’s chorus:

Oh, I will carry you over Fire and water for your love And I will hold you closer Hope your heart is strong enough When the night is coming down on you We will find a way Through the dark

It is very clear that Louis is faced with a partner - I can freely say it’s Harry now right? are the antis gone by now? i think so - that struggles with his body, with his identity, with how he wants to present himself vs how opinions on that might push him down and dampen his spirit. Louis, always the supportive boyfriend, then tries his best to make him see the light, while keeping that space for his sadness, his struggles, or their joint struggles. Accept the sadness but don’t lose your heart to it.

I’ve linked @bluewinnerangel​ ‘s post at the start of this post, but I need to stress how good it is once more as I also shamelessly insert a screenshot from it here bc it makes me feel a lot and summarizes perfectly just how deeply Perfect Now is woven into the history of their lives, relationship and especially “you”s/Harry’s personal struggle with their identity/body/confidence...

Because yes, i absolutely think these tattoos are being echoed in the song. “Never gonna dance again” as a lyric and then as a tattoo on Harry’s legs like shackles around his ankles represents the sensation of shame, of being stuck, bc of your desires, bc of your sexuality. Obviously we can never know why Harry got the tattoo, as in what experience pushed him to choose those lyrics or what exactly he recognizes in himself, but it’s safe to say it’s about the struggles of being queer and navigating relationships with that identity and with others.

Most importantly, the sense of shamelessly dancing, dancing like no one’s watching, dancing together with your lover, as a celebration of self, life, love, is the key here. Harry got that tattoo ages ago, at a time when he undoubtedly felt way more stuck. When he couldn’t dance freely the way he wanted to and with whom he wanted to. Perfect Now is a reminder to him, an encouragement to still dance if he wants to, no matter what people say or think. Significantly, then, Harry’s own Treat People With Kindness heavily features that same sentiment, but in an extremely positive light: i have found a place (in life and in myself) where i feel like i have given and was given second chances and now i dance bc i finally feel good in my skin.

Louis has obviously been there from the start, or at least from when or before Harry properly started experimenting with/questioning how he likes to present and how he identifies as. Before he ever dared to consider pulling on a pair of women’s skinny jeans, never mind a ball gown. Louis has seen him limit himself as well as being limited by others ofc and has always seemed to have been there, with a secure hand on Harry’s back, to encourage him. Even at a time when boys wearing nail polish or skirts was unthinkable. Just remember how much encouragement Harry needed when growing out his hair; Louis literally joined him. yes this might make me cry okay i need to stop bc i’m going off track and this is just becoming a larry breakdown while i was trying to hype up this beautiful song. 

What I’m trying to say is: Louis has always seen all of Harry. He’s always had his back, no matter what. He’s loved every part of him. And now, on a completely gender neutral album, in the sweetest, softest song off of the entire thing, Louis puts in the word “queen”, and that is so very deliberate it makes me want to scream. It’s Louis confirming his love again and again while affirming the multitudes contained by Harry, including everything involving his gender journey. brb crying

It’s a raw Louis, an honest, sweet, kind, loving partner, and both of them are fucking lucky to have each other, and I also wish that all of us end up in a caring and wholesome relationship like that. I truly do.

[gaiuswrites]

Only Memories Remain

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!Reader

Summary: I revisit a small town relic with you, as we have done before.

Rating: G

Word count: 590~

Tags/warnings: pining, emo, that wistful nostalgic feeling that tears me to bits

Notes: This is my meager (and very first!) contribution to Writer Wednesday. It’s totally stream of consciousness format idk. Did I write this on mobile in one go? Yes. Will it make sense? Probably not. I’ve written this in a different perspective than the usual, and although no names are ever specified, in my mind it is clearly about Frankie. Thank you for the inspiring photo @autumnleaves1991-blog and @clydesducktape​ :) enjoy hehe idk wtf this is x

Masterlist

Without a melody, tuneless, the afternoon slow dances into the night. The moon winks, hanging there in the black canvas, her craters coy, controlling the tides of my water-logged lungs lapping nervous against my canted chest.

Slogging through the endless pit of summer, tanned viewers sprinkled in their parked cars are bloated with heat and yet, somehow lighter too - buoyant - dangerous and teenaged, as if consequence can’t find us here, hide and seeking in the dark. I can feel the current of it, ripe in the air like static, live-wired and prickling my skin alight.

We sit in the bed of your truck like we used to - before - and I steal glances out of the corner of my eye to watch you watch the film and the stars and the old trees corralled tall around the screen like a Greek chorus—elms and pines that were born long before us and will be here long after, ancient and wise with evergreened patience, and it makes me feel sad in an almost unknowable way. Because I’m looking at you, the honey of your gaze, the succulent drip of it, and all I want is for you to see me.

We sit in the bed of your truck like we used to - before - and I am reminded of Coca Cola and red vined licorice and a childhood that fizzed by like a July sparkler—hot and burning and bright and then                        gone.

There are blankets woven around our legs, mangled and choked and messy, and they’re there because we want them, not because we need them—because we’re human and we want comfort and we’re scared, aren’t we - ultimately - and maybe we just want to cling on to soft things while we can. While we still can. 

The actors, those silver megaliths, are projected laughably large, and lightning bugs dance around the theatre in a trance. Blinking blinking blinking, happy too just to be here, and between their bursts of neon gold and the heat in seismic waves radiating from your all too familiarly foreign body, I do not catch a single line from a single scene. I feel abstract—scattered and calm and racing and present and I want to touch you. God, to lay a hand on that which I love— love, what an ugly harbored thing, making a traitor out of our bedrock— to feel your callouses and indented divots and raised scars. To play them, a needle in those grooves. To listen.

You like the movie; you’ve seen it— it’s a classic, you assured— and your grin broke the sun when you all but begged me to go with you.

It’s been years.

Let’s go, like we used to.                      Used to.

Your face, the excitement you wore in wreaths around your mouth, cracked open my heart like an egg. Defenseless, I am yolk-rich. I ooze for you. I run.

And so we sit in the bed of your truck like we used to - before - and my blood sings— for the past, for the future, for anything but the sluggish muck of whatever this present is—this suspended uncertainty where I am neither here nor there— and a smirk tickles your cheek, dimpling you right where I’d very much like to kiss, and you chide you’re not paying attention.

My chin nearly snaps clean off my neck, reflexive and vipered, as I return my focus onto the film where Tom Cruise is monologuing. I suppose it’s fine. He’s fine.

I don’t speak. I don’t say a word—can’t. My tongue has swollen, saliva cooling the molten want that’s pooled there. Heightened, senses made too keenly aware, I sear into the uneven ribbed panel, bones scorching into the metal frame. My ears burn, my lips burn from where I bite them, my cheeks, my jaw, the thump pulsing at my breast. I am set ablaze, embarrassed and poisoned with that loathsome myth named hope, and I burn and burn and burn for you.

/

tags because why not lol:

@pedros-mustache @krissology @letterfromvienna @heartsofbeskar @javierpcna @djarinsbeskar @keeper0fthestars @sharkbait77 @juletheghoul @chasingdreamer @helmet-comes-off @roxypeanut @lawfulgranola @day-off-inkyoto @javier-pena @pedrostories @librariantothejedi 

[glowingbadger]

You may have a little Lorenz Prompt as promised. As a treat. Here goes~

Lorenz taking thorough notes to surprise his s/o (is it the blog owner? the reader? some random character? It doesn't matter~!) with the most lovely, romantic date imaginable based around everything they like. He wouldn't put in this much effort to TRULY impress someone, but you're worth every step and more.

Enjoy where this takes your thoughts~!

(and pls don't eat it, Tumblr)

Y'know what, I've had a shitty day and I just finished writing some darker content- so I am going to ~indulge~. Normally I try to make my Reader character as broadly relatable as possible, but today we're going with MY preferences and interests because I WANT A NICE DATE WITH LORENZ GODDAMNIT

Lorenz (FE3H) x GN Reader - perfect date

Fluff - SFW

Today simply has to be flawless- the Gloucester heir will not accept any less. Not when it comes to you. Of course, Lorenz holds himself to high standards in all things, but the thought of providing anything less than perfection for you is one that pains him to even consider. Especially now that he'd finally gotten the courage- or, rather, found the right and proper time to ask you to spend the day with him.

You approach him at the Monastery gates not long after noon that day, and find your pace slowing as you eye him before he's noticed you. Without his usual elegant set of armor, you can appreciate the way constant marching and training has toned his slender frame- and appreciate it, you most certainly do. Though he soon turns to face you, and your eyes dart back up from a rather ignoble place to meet his instead.

"You're as radiant as ever, I see," he says with a warm smile. He offers you an arm and you take it, replying with a grin,

"You've already got me for the day, Lorenz, there's no need for flattery."

"'Flattery' implies a measure of falsehood," he says with confidence, leading you towards town, "and I could never bring myself to lie to one so lovely."

As your time together proceeds, you can't help but feel that, some way, somehow, Lorenz has some kind of psychic insight into your preferences. Everywhere you turn, whatever your heart could desire is immediately available and set before you with hardly any negotiation at play. At the first flower stall you find, Lorenz takes a moment to exchange words with the owner while you admire the sprawling array of colorful blooms; and by the time he's returned, he's holding a woven crown of delicate little white flowers. With an admiring smile, he carefully places it on your head, a hand trailing down a lock of your hair as he pulls away to observe you.

With a shy grin, you perform an exaggerated curtsy, prompting Lorenz to laugh fondly and take you by the hand. He twirls you slowly under his arm, watching you all the while, then says,

"They suit you every bit as wonderfully as I'd thought."

"They're my favorites," you reply.

"I know- erm, that is- I know of a superb bakery down the block this way," Lorenz seems a bit red in the face, but you chalk that up to nerves.

He's not wrong though- this bakery is something else. The selection and quality of ingredients is on an entirely new level compared to the Monastery's dining hall, and you find yourself overwhelmed even reading down the list of items posted to the wall. By your third pass over the full range of options, the words are starting to dance in your eyes- but a warm touch at your arm shakes your focus. Lorenz leans close to be heard over the rapidly growing crowd at the bakery's counter,

"Might I make a recommendation?" you nod, and he goes on, "I happen to have it on good authority that there's an item not included on this menu that you may like. It incorporates three different treatments of Brigid cocoa, if that is of any interest to you."

Your eyes light up and you can practically feel the rich sweetness across your tongue already.

"That sounds incredible," you reply, enraptured by the very thought. When you start to ask how he'd heard of such a thing, Lorenz has already turned to speak to the worker taking orders, and your words drown among the crowd of customers. The speed at which he acquires this mythical pastry only fills your mind with more questions. How did he manage to purchase an off-menu item so quickly? Wouldn't the cost of something requiring those many luxurious imported ingredients be astronomical?

But then, Lorenz returns to your side and guides you out of the crowded shop, and the sight of the delectable chocolatey treat in his hands dashes all other thoughts from your mind. He hands it to you wrapped in a handkerchief, and you can't help but immediately plunge in for a bite.

"Mmmm-!" you wear an expression of pure bliss as your mouth fills with sweet, savory chocolate, "Oh- Lorenz, it's so good!"

When you glance up at him, he's watching you with a strangely heavy expression. Once more, his fair complexion is painted a light red. You tilt your head curiously, and he seems to resurface from whatever thoughts had taken him for the moment.

"Here- you should try some," you break off a piece and hold it up to him.

"Are- are you certain? I had intended for you to enjoy it to your heart's content," he stammers out, evidently still a bit flushed.

"I want you to get to have some too. Please?" You hate to resort to puppy eyes with him, but it's hard to argue with the results. He leans forward and accepts the piece of pastry from your hand. You don't shy away from him in the slightest, and so a brief brush of his lower lip along the tip of your finger simply can't be avoided. Lorenz does his best to move past this without acknowledgement, and you two enjoy your treat together as you take in the bustle of the town around you.

The day continues in kind, with Lorenz apparently having painstakingly arranged every element of this date from start to finish. At a local seller of antiques and luxury goods, he secures permission to view and explore rare and dazzling paintings from around the world. Here, he's rather uncharacteristically reserved. Wandering the storage area like your own personal art museum, he watches you with evident warmth as you exclaim at the rich and varied pigments, the innovative expressions of human form, and so on.

After this, he brings you to a tavern at the far end of town, where he's reserved the second floor exclusively for you two to enjoy a quiet, intimate meal together. By this point, you've finally gotten around to considering just how much gold must have gone into this singular date.

"Lorenz," you say cautiously, "are you sure it's okay to go through all of this and spend so much just for-"

He raises a hand to cut you off, then replies,

"I assure you that it is," he takes your hand in his, holding it warmly from across your private table, "wealth has no value that we ourselves do not assign to it, and I have chosen to spend it on your pleasure. I can think of no greater use for a bit of coin."

The rest of the early evening is filled with pleasant chat and the occasional subtle sweet-talk. As you discuss everything you've seen and experienced that day, Lorenz engages you with surprisingly astute comments and observations. He's always at his best when he feels permitted to simply talk with you, as one person to another, free of the pressures and expectations of his birthright that he shoulders without a thought.

The sun is steadily lowering behind the hills and walls of the surrounding town by the time you make your way back together. As you walk hand in hand watching the Monastery gates rise ahead of you, Lorenz clears his throat abruptly and says,

"If I may steal you away for just a little while longer, there was... actually someone I thought you'd like to meet."

"Oh? What an honor," you say with a smile, "Do I get any hints?"

Lorenz gives a good-natured chuckle and says,

"Only that I think you'll get along splendidly."

And of all places throughout Garreg Mach's grounds, you begin to recognize that he is leading you towards the stables. You've met Lorenz's horse before- a lovely mare with a calm and agreeable temperment. If not her, then...

"Eloise?" Lorenz calls out in a gentle voice, "Eloise, come say hello- Ellie? Come now, don't tell me you've chosen tonight to become bashful..." at his call, a svelte black cat with delicate little white paws comes trotting out to meet you. Your heart positively aches and melts at the sight of her eagerly approaching Lorenz with clear comfort and familiarity.

"Lorenz, you... have a cat?" You say with obvious disbelief.

"She's one of the Monastery's strays, to be clear," he says, "She helps with the mice in the stables. Evidently, she had become quite fond of my preferred horse- and so eventually became fond of me as well."

Fond seems an understatement- she very clearly adores him. With a chorus of happy little mews, she circles his legs and rubs against him until he crouches down to offer her his hand. As he does, a shred of parchment flutters from his pocket onto the ground. Eloise targets it like a seasoned warrior and pounces at it with gusto. With a laugh, you kneel down to retrieve whatever this paper she's captured might be.

"Now Eloise, none of that- you must behave genteel-like with guests."

As he firmly lectures the cat, you glance at the paper in your hand. Nearly every inch of it is covered in an elegant, curling script that you imagine must belong to Lorenz. It looks like a... list of some kind. As your eyes scan down the page, you begin to recognize a pattern. Your favorite flowers, favorite desserts, favorite types of books and places around town- plus, to the side, the word "cats?" underlined several times. For a moment, you simply cover your mouth to hold in a snort of laughter. Then, you come to kneel beside Lorenz as he's failing to convince his feline friend to stop swatting at his hair.

"So- you've been taking very thorough notes lately." you say, nudging his arm playfully. He turns to face you with an immediate look of panic. Lavender eyes widen and glance down to the parchment in your hand, then back to you. He visibly deflates and says,

"Goddess- you must find me such a fool-"

You press your lips firmly to his before he can say another word. With a soft noise of surprise, his eyes flutter shut and he leans into your kiss. His lips are wonderfully soft, and the subtle scent of his cologne surrounds your senses as you tilt your head to seal your lips to his more firmly. You're not certain how long you remain like this, but only the dull ache of kneeling on the dirt and the incessant sound of Eloise bapping her paw against the paper in your hand bring you back to your surroundings. When you part from him, you brush aside the silky curtain of his hair to run your hand along his face, and say,

"I had a wonderful time today, Lorenz- and it means the world to me that you put so much thought into this. But next time, you don't have to study so hard, okay?"

For a moment, he seems speechless. Then, he gives a shy chuckle.

"You have bested me yet again, it would seem. How can I ever hope to become a man worthy of you when you are ever more lovely with each passing day?"

Eloise gives an insistent chirp and rubs once more against his leg, evidently tired of distractions from the attention she feels she's owed. Your smile widens, and you scratch her ear fondly.

"I think there's at least two of us who like you just as you are, Lorenz."

[spicycreativity]

Fantasy au moceit fluff, for the ask thing. <3<3

Thank you for the request! And sorry it took so long to fill 😅

I went with a Mushishi fusion. The simplest explanation of Mushishi is that mushi are creatures somewhat analogous to fae/faeries and tend to cause chaos when they interact with humans. So it's Japanese fantasy, but it's still fantasy!

I could go on a whole rant about how Mushishi is such a great reflection of Japanese cultural Shintoism and how Janus as a character rejects that and Patton embraces it, which is a fun juxtaposition because Janus is the mushi-shi in this story, but I won't 😇

Anyway! It's a little under 2k, CW for very mild body/eye horror (Patton temporarily gets afflicted with frog traits that affect his skin and eyes)

The steep mountain path was neither well-worn nor clearly-marked, the ground a uniform carpet of deep green pine needles dotted here and there with pinecones. Still, it was a path Janus could tread with his remaining eye closed. A few wooden signs still stood, though they were mostly grown over with moss. Janus let them be. Very few visitors came to this tiny mountain village, at least by this particular path. He was more interested in the chorus of frog croaks that grew ever louder the closer he got to the village. He thought, though it was hard to be certain, wispy and ephemeral as they were, that the mushi were increasing in density, too. This place had always been a hotbed for mushi, even without Janus' presence to draw them near. It was unusual, he reflected, to hear this many frogs this high in the mountains. The croaks were now a maddening constant, enough to make him wish that he only had one working ear, instead of one eye.

He guarded that wish carefully, in case any mushi with the power to make it come true were nearby. 

He made it into the village unscathed, pausing when he realized that the croaking had stopped. For the most part. He looked around, rubbing his face against the sharp, familiar bite of the mountain wind, cooled further still by the nearby presence of a lake. Now, only one plaintive croak reached his ears. He tried not to let his heart sink, tried not to jump to conclusions, though he set off for the house where his sweetheart waited for him with an uncharacteristic urgency in his movements. 

The life of a mushi-shi did not foster close relationships, and Janus had long since closed off his heart to new connections. Growing close was a one-way journey to becoming hurt, as he could never stay anywhere for long. Yet somehow, on a trip to a lonely mountain village, Patton had slipped through his defenses. They couldn’t be together, not the way they wanted, but they had promised themselves to each other. It was an easy thing for Janus to promise not to love another. The challenge had been in entrusting Patton with his heart. But he had gotten there in the end. In the absence of a proper wedding ceremony, they had simply taken a scrap of the other’s clothing as a token. 

Janus didn’t bother to knock on the door when he arrived. Patton’s door was always unlocked, unbarricaded. To Janus’ dismay, the croaking did not stop upon his arrival inside, and several mushi danced in the corners where the walls met the ceiling. “Patton, love?”

“Don’t come closer!” Patton’s voice was high, tight with panic. “Just wait a second,” he added in a pleading tone. “I’m glad you’re back, but--”

“Having trouble with mushi?” Janus guessed. The singular frog croaks had stopped when Patton spoke. “Please, do keep worrying about how I’m going to react.” he tugged on the scrap of cloth tied to the straps of his woven backpack. It was old and tattered now, no longer smelled like Patton or bore the pattern it had before.

“It’s just…” Croak.

Janus considered. Whatever mushi had latched onto Patton, it was probably affecting his appearance, hence the hesitancy. “Come on, love, let me see. I’ll have you cured in no time.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Besides, it’s not like I’m a paragon of good looks, either. Maybe we’ll match for a bit.” This was only partially true in Janus’ mind. His own looks were inoffensive, but strangers tended to shy away from him, frightened by the piercing gold and slitted pupil of his remaining eye.

It was silent for a moment. Then came the shuffle-scrape of bare feet on wooden floors. Patton appeared at the end of the hall with his head angled downward. Even still, Janus could see the patches of mottled brown skin on his hands and cheeks. Frog skin. “We do match a little,” Patton said, forcing humor into his voice. He came closer and lifted his head to reveal that one of his eyes was now golden, with a horizontal pupil.

“Oh,” said Janus, careful not to tease. “That’s not so bad.” He cupped Patton’s face, gently running his thumb over a slightly damp patch of frog skin. “You’re still beautiful, love.”

“But you can cure it?” Patton asked.

“Of course.” Janus smiled a little. He hoped it was reassuring. “You’ve been poisoned by a kaeru mushi.”

“Poisoned?” Patton yelped, and a little nervous croak escaped his throat.

Janus patted his cheek. “If only you knew a deeply intelligent, highly skilled mush-shi who could take care of that for you.”

“If only,” Patton repeated, widening his eyes at Janus. The effect was somewhat dampened by his frog eye, but only somewhat. It was still enough to send a wave of fondness through Janus’ chest.

"Come on," Janus said, taking Patton by the hand. He led Patton to the kitchen and set his backpack on the ground with a light thump. The tight weave was strong, but it was beginning to get creaky with age, and Janus made a mental note to see about getting a replacement. "You can take it as a tea, although the flavor is more savory, like a soup." He opened up his backpack and began to dig through it. The paper-wrapped vials rustled and clicked beneath his fingers, and a few specimens brought back memories of his recent trip. "Here we go." He held up the vial and showed it to Patton. "It does take a while to brew. I hope you don't mind being stuck like that for a bit."

Patton extended a hand to help Janus up and pulled him into an embrace, mindful of the glass in Janus' hand. "I already feel better now that you're here."

"You know me," Janus said, nuzzling Patton's forehead. "I live to serve."

It was meant to be sarcasm, though Patton refused to take it as such. "You're so selfless," he said into Janus' chest.

"Patton, love, you are the first and only person to ever accuse me of that." It was true. Janus' bedside manner was objectively abhorrent, his patience for stupidity and stubbornness nonexistent. Most villages regarded him as a necessary evil, rather than a presence to be celebrated. He pulled away before Patton could get it into his head that Janus needed comforting. "Let's get going on the antidote, shall we?"

Patton nodded. "There's a patch of snow out back," he said. "I've been fishing, trying to make the most of it."

"Fish soup?" Janus asked, putting the pieces together.

Patton nodded. "You'll have some, won't you?" He made a point of looking Janus up and down, and even the golden frog eye did not diminish his look of somewhat paternal concern. "You work too hard."

"Again, Patton," Janus said, turning to examine the cooking pot, "you are the only person who's ever said that about me."

"I think I would know," Patton said definitively, taking Janus by the hand to lead him outside.

They held each other while they waited for the cure to steep properly, Janus wrapping his arms around Patton and holding him close. He rested his chin on Patton's shoulder and watched the mushi dance around them. He found it hard to regard them as anything other than vermin, little nuisances who made his life worse. The world was cruel and arbitrary and mushi were no more than a reflection of that, but he couldn't help but resent the situation at hand. Patton didn't deserve this.

As though reading his thoughts, Patton nuzzled Janus' cheek. "Are they here now?"

"The mushi?"

"Mm-hm."

"Yes." Janus pointed even though he knew Patton couldn't see them.

"Describe them to me?" A principle difference between the two of them: Patton treasured every living thing. He never resented the bears that sometimes stole his fish, he never resented the deer when they ate the flowers he'd worked so hard to cultivate. He cherished them. He cherished mushi, too. Even now, when the poison coursing through his body was turning him into one (though Janus had decided not to tell Patton that, thinking that there was no sense worrying him when the cure was at hand).

"They're moving around a lot," Janus said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Though he harbored no love for mushi, he loved Patton dearly. "There's one that looks like a little octopus." Patton was not very well traveled, though he had gone to the ocean once. "And a few that look like worms. They're all glowing."

"They sound so pretty," Patton said, covering Janus' hands with his own.

"I'll bring you back some candles next time I go out," Janus promised, the idea occurring to him in one lightning strike. "And some lanterns made of colored paper. You can string them up outside."

"Oh!" Patton spun around to pull Janus into a proper hug, and Janus was careful not to stare at the frog skin now slowly-advancing down his neck. "That would be lovely."

"Lanterns are better than mushi, anyway," Janus said, his resolve finally cracking a little, "because they're actually useful."

Patton only smiled and brushed a few stray strands of hair out of Janus' face. 

It was around evening when Janus deemed the cure properly steeped. Patton made him sit down so they could eat together, smiling all the while, and Janus found any protest he might have melting away in the face of Patton's innocent kindness. It wasn't like the cure could hurt him, after all.

It took effect when they were washing the dishes with water Patton had carried in from a nearby stream. He stopped what he was doing and touched his face, already turning to Janus for confirmation.

Janus nodded, privately satisfied to see both of Patton's eyes back to their rich, deep brown. "Back to normal."

"Thank you, love." Abandoning the dishes, Patton pulled Janus in for a hug. His hands were wet, but Janus couldn't couldn't bring himself to mind the icy droplets that crawled down his neck.

Janus, who was incurably given to teasing, finally let himself off the leash. "Oh, don't thank me; it was for my own benefit. People would laugh if they found out I was in love with a frog-man."

"Oh, you don't mean that," Patton said. He had known Janus far too long, long enough that Janus no longer had to beat back the urge to flee like a startled animal in the face of such intimate knowing.

"You're right," he said, and he meant it.

[spell-cleaver]

DAY 16: WHUMPTOBER: A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day - Hallucinations @whumptober2020​

Considering the fact I’m doing three Xtobers, I think the fact that this is my first last post is both a surprise and a success!

Set, of course, in The Pirate Son AU - Find the masterpost here.

Ghosts were real. Living skeletons were real. The undead were real, apparently—at least, that was what Luke had inferred. He hadn’t actually asked his father for all the gruesome, grisly details yet; he hadn’t dared. But…

He remembered their first meeting. Three years ago.

He remembered how Leia had definitely shot Vader. Right through the heart.

But Vader had just stood back up and kept lumbering forward.

He hadn’t died.

Was he already dead?

Undead?

Luke had heard a thousand different sailors’ tales. He knew about Calypso, he knew about the albatrosses, he knew old-fashioned tales about women on board being bad luck—one he definitely didn’t believe, since having Leia on board, especially during a crisis, was the luckiest damn thing in the world.

He didn’t know this.

And… despite their tentative truce… He didn’t know how to ask.

Would his father reply? Would he tell him reluctantly; would he scoff and walk away, not deigning to inform his only son of that sort of thing; would he punish him for asking?

He didn’t know.

His father was so strange. The first time they met, he— he embarrassed him, beat him up, tried to kill him just for resembling the boy he’d thought his son might have been, and never once stopped to make the connection. Then once he knew the truth, he’d hunted him across the seas, fought him brutally in several battles, captured and killed his friends, beat him half to death… dragged him into a cell in his cold, wet clothes… invited him to a pleasant dinner with the intent of terrifying him witless… His crew had keelhauled him…

And then Vader had… reacted.

He’d treated him. And it had hurt, it had hurt like hell, but— but he’d treated him, he’d tried to save his life, he’d put him in a proper bed—or so that officer, Piett, had commented when Luke was first put in that bedroom after the hanging, and—

And that was something else, wasn’t it? The hanging.

Vader had offered him up to the courts and to Palpatine like meat. He’d been willing to watch him die. Then… he saved him?

What game was he playing?

Did Vader know what game he was playing?

Somehow, Luke seriously doubted it.

He was tense at the thoughts; his hands were all knotted up in the sheets of the bed Vader had given him, and he was shivering. The nightclothes he’d been given—a strangely white ensemble of a soft shirt and trousers—were hardly warm, but still… it wasn’t cold that he was shivering from.

To calm himself down, to reassure himself, he tried to start humming. The tune came easily, as did the words, playing at the back of his mind in a distant memory he hadn’t even known he’d had—

Something about the sea… and the moon sailing and cresting the waves, ever searching for her lost wife, the sun, who chased her round and round the horizon just as fiercely…

The tune calmed him. He smiled and decided—he might as well go and ask his father. He was feeling brave. He would still be awake; he was in the next room over. Luke pushed back the sheets and headed for the door, ignoring the fact that it was nighttime. The ghouls, or whatever they were, would surely be in full horror mode—but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The music soared in his head, a rising melody.

He fumbled for the door latch. It was locked—he frowned. That was… not exactly confidence inspiring, not if Vader wanted to invoke a sense of trust. It just took a whispered spell to unlock it, then the door slammed open, caught by a sudden gust of wind.

Luke shivered, squinting in the dim hallway, the lantern creaking as it swung with the ship, and stepped outside, humming to himself. His father’s room was to his right but as he walked toward it, he… kept walking. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to him right now after all. Maybe he just wanted to get some air.

He tried to avoid looking at the undead sailors under the moonlight, though he knew they were looking at him: he just made a beeline for the side, and stared out at the moon. It was as full and bright as a silver farthing and he smiled at it. The waves lapped against the side of the ship calmly, despite the rocks he could see jutting up nearby—there was an island over there, or more like a sandbank, just within swimming distance, and when he heard—

He stopped humming for a moment, but the music carried on. It sailed through him, as familiar as his bones, and he knew that voice, from something beyond memory—it was smooth and intimate and he’d heard it, muffled; he knew the presence that came with it—

He started singing again, though he didn’t know the words; they came to him as if in a trance, as if his mother herself was teaching them to him…

And that was it. Wasn’t it?

That… that was…

Of course.

If his father was alive—why couldn’t his mother be?

“Mother?” he called, almost under his breath. “Mother!”

The song rose and he sang along—it was coming from that island over there. He frowned and squinted, and he thought he could see a pale woman standing on the shore. He saw her mouth moving, imagining he could here her calling, Luke, Luke, thought he heard cursing but then there was only the music.

He needed to get to her. The song rose in urgency. He needed to—

He put his hands on the side of the ship and made to jump up, to jump off, to swim—

And someone wrapped their arms around him and yanked him back.

“No!” He kicked, snarled, but the arms around his chest were like immovable steel bands. “No, let me go, let me go, I need to—”

“You need to stay in your cabin and stay out of trouble,” Vader snapped. He constricted his arms so tightly that Luke couldn’t breathe, but he kept humming even without air. He couldn’t stop. “Oh, God, I thought the lock would be enough—”

“Let me go! That’s my mother out there!” Luke struggled and fought, he bit his father, he—

Vader’s grip slackened with shock. “Your mother?” he asked, whispered, but Luke didn’t answer. He broke free, staggered away—and before Vader could grab for him again he seized the edge of the ship and jumped overboard.

“Luke!”

The water was freezing, like a shock to the senses, and for a moment he wondered what the hell he was doing, why he’d gone for a midnight swim instead of staying cosy in his bed—then he heard the singing again, filtered through the water, and glanced around. It was all a deep, deep blue under the moonlight, bubbles fizzing around him like boiling silver, and the melody woven through it all like lace. He was enraptured.

He couldn’t breathe but that didn’t matter—he kicked forward, desperately, but not for the surface. He could surface later, but first he needed to get to his mother, whose shimmering figure he could just see through the water, above the waves…

There was a crash, a splash. Luke kept kicking forward, kept swimming, for all that he blinked, and he was getting dizzy. Bubbles fizzed behind him again but he took no notice of them, headed straight for those sharp rocks up ahead, like the deadly spires of some dark, underwater palace. He needed to—

A hand closed around his ankle and yanked him back.

“No!” he shouted, and coughed as water rushed into his mouth, every movement muffled and quiet around him. He opened wide eyes to Vader’s furious face and gasped—choking and coughing again—kicking back, kicking him—

Vader held fast to him. Luke’s struggles got him nowhere.

They got him pulled up, up, and Luke sucked in a breath of night-cold air with something that mingled between relief and disappointment. He shuddered as the music got louder, even more beautiful, and he cried out when Vader’s grip kept him from swimming for it. He needed to go, he needed to see her, he wanted his mother.

He wanted to hug her and hear her tell him it would be alright and know that it would be. He wanted a parent who would love him unconditionally, who wouldn’t hurt him, who would actually protect him. He wanted to be held and appreciated as a son, not as an asset or a powerful sorcerer or a wayward pirate; he missed Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen, he missed Ben, he missed his family, and if his mother was actually still alive, if she’d just been lost, if she hadn’t died, not the way everyone else had, then he could still have that—

“Luke, snap out of it!” Vader was shaking him, splashing seawater in his face as they kicked, tread water. Luke scrunched his eyes shut. “That’s not her, that’s—”

“My mother is there and if you’re not going to be a decent parent you can at least let me go to another one!” Luke shouted, eyes open again, trying to splash Vader back, trying to kick away, but Vader growled and suddenly Luke was immobilised, magic turning him as stiff as a board; Vader grasped him before he could sink or float away.

“That’s not her, your mother is dead, Luke, there are sirens in these waters and they are clouding your mind—" He tilted his head up to sailors watching them on the deck, rolling out a ladder for them to get back in. “Don’t just stand there, get the pistols and bows, shoot them!”

There was a chorus of yessirs and Luke screamed when he saw the arrows fly, his gaze riveted to the figure on the sandbank as blood erupted around her, as the arrows and bullets flew and she fell—“No!”

“Luke, Luke, no, don’t look at that, look at me—”

Luke tried to shake his head, the only part of him that he could move, tried to gasp out his hatred and denial and pain but Vader just grabbed his face and turned it back toward him. He pressed his forehead against his; stared into his eyes.

“Luke,” he said. “Luke, they’re sirens, that’s not her, she’s dead—”

“You don’t know that! You— she’s right there, you’re killing her, let me go—”

“She is dead! That’s not her and I know it’s not her because she is gone!”

“You don’t— stop—”

“She’s gone, Luke, that creature is using her face to sully her further—”

“No, no, no, you can’t know that—”

“I can.”

“She’s not dead!”

“She is dead!” His voice cracked on the last word. “She’s dead, Luke, stop this at once, stop being a fool, I know she is dead—”

“How could you possibly know for sure!?”

“BECAUSE I KILLED HER!”

The arrows and bullets rained and the siren’s song stopped.

Luke gasped, eyes blowing wide, suddenly so, so aware that it was cold. It was frigid, he was shivering—his teeth started chattering—and he tried to huddle closer to his father for warmth, but he couldn’t move and the motion just bobbed him under instead. Vader cursed, and then the bind on his limbs was gone, and Luke tried to come closer, but Vader had no body heat to speak of. He wasn’t mortal.

“What…” Luke whispered; suddenly, he was ready to cry. Tears were hot, and they spilled out over his numb cheeks so fast they left tingling tracks in their wake. “What… what happened…”

“I knew that mortals were susceptible to a siren’s song in the way that my crew is not, but I had underestimated the effect it would have.” Vader was grim. “I had thought the lock on your door would be enough, until I saw you on the deck—”

“No.” Luke shuddered, teeth clattering in his mouth in an uncomfortable way. “No, I meant… what happened… with her.”

Vader went silent. He put his arm around Luke’s shoulder, and started kicking, bringing them both back to the ship, but he said nothing.

“W— what— happened,” Luke got out, “with you?”

The curse.

Luke’s kidnapping.

Padmé’s death.

Everything.

What had happened?

“I… did not want to discuss your mother so early,” Vader admitted begrudgingly.

“D— do I not— d— deserve to know?”

“No. You do. And I will tell you, once we are in dry clothes.” They reached the rope ladder and Vader pushed Luke ahead of him, helping him wrap his stiff, numb hands around each rung to start off with. “But I was afraid you would hate me even more than you already did.”

I don’t hate you, Luke knew he should say. But he couldn’t, because it wasn’t true.

Instead, he just allowed Vader to push him up. He shook so hard on the climb that he nearly fell off several times, but the crew at the top hauled him up, and then that officer—Piett?—was helping him onto the deck, was letting him lean on him, was guiding him back to the room. He handed him a towel and left him alone.

Luke sat there for a while, and it was a long time before he used the towel to dry off anything more than tears.

[sometimes-love-is-enough]

I MEAN IT GAVE ME CHILLS IN A GOOD WAY. and also it would be hilarious to write imo; just these 6 dudes that all look the same and just made up A Guy.

“Thomas,” Roman announces quite suddenly, with a triumphant gesture that manages to inadvertently sweep half of the script drafts off the couch in the process.

“I still can not believe we’re doing this,” Virgil says.

“Oh, you’d better believe it, Way Down Gay-destown, ‘cause I just got the perfect name for him. Thomas. That’s his name – Thomas Sanders.” Roman pauses, and wiggles his fingers a bit. “Thoughts?”

Remus perks up. “Oh, our fictional character has thots now?”

“Crawling all over him like weevils,” Virgil nods.

“I thought we were calling ourselves ‘Sides’,” says Janus.  

“Guys, please,” Roman begs.

“Thomas sounds good to me,” is Patton’s opinion. “It’s nice and friendly, and also it has two syllables, like the rest of us! It kind of fits in like that.”

“It is a surprisingly apt name, especially when you take into consideration that Roman most likely did not know of the linguistic root when picking it,” Logan muses.

Remus waves a hand lazily from where he’s draped backwards over the couch, writing Transformers inflation porn on the notes app of his shitty phone. “Uh, noparoni, falsehood, all that jazz. I was watching. He went on babynames dot com and everything for this.”

“...What he said, yeah.”

“Ah, yes, babynames dot com, the internet’s premier and leading source for all accurate name derivations,” comes the dry response.

“Thomas means twin,” Roman says. “It means twin, and it’s funny because we all look identical! It’s like another layer of meaning! A fun little injoke, just for us.”

“Yes,” says Virgil, “you’re right. We need many, many deep layers of meaning and in-jokes woven into the shared identity we’re crafting as part of Roman and Remus’s wild, spur-of-the-moment internet scam.”

“How dare you,” Roman objects loudly, flailing so suddenly that he nearly falls off the couch. “This is polar opposite of a scam, we’re – we are merely taking advantage of our uncanny shared appearance to... share joy amongst the humble Youtube vlogging community! And perhaps show off. Just a little. But to say that it’s a scam – ”

“No, this is definitely a scam,” Janus says. “I mean, look at us. We’re inventing an entire person for internet clout.”

Patton looks like he’s having second thoughts about this whole thing. “I’m having second thoughts,” he says. “Like, on an ethical, moral sort of level, is any of this... really a good idea?”

“People invent other people for shittier reasons all the time, I think we’re fine,” Virgil says. “I mean, look at internet catfishes. Or every male fiction writer with a very obvious and creepy fetish. Or J.K. Rowling.”

“J.K. Rowling doesn’t exist?” Janus says. “Excellent. We won, boys.”

Roman grabs a pen and scribbles it into the notebook, next to a hasty little stickman doodle of an average-looking guy and a list of qualities and attributes and skills. “Well, all that aside, nobody seems to have an objection to this, so Thomas it is! Thomas Sanders. Thomas I’ve-Just-Realized-He-Needs-A-Middle-Name Sanders.”

“Thomas F Sanders,” Remus suggests.

“The F stands for ‘Fucking’, doesn’t it,” sighs Patton.

“Well, yeah.”

“Way to go for the low-hanging fruit, dude,” Virgil says. “Okay, put a pin in the middle name for now. Our collective brainchild has a name, so... that’s something. I guess.” He grabs the notebook from Roman and squints down at the short-ish list they have so far. “Any more character traits we wanna give this guy?”

“Intense love of Disney films,” Roman says.

“We’ve already got that; you suggested it about five times already.”

“Maybe he can play the ukulele!” Patton suggests.

Virgil nods, and starts to write it down before stopping abruptly. “Wait. Can any of us play the ukulele?”

Silence.

“He can only have traits that we already have,” Virgil reminds them. “That’s the whole idea. We’re derivatives of him.”

“Well, I’ll work on the ukulele thing,” Roman says decisively. “Put it down anyway. Anyone else?”

“He can’t cook to save his life,” Janus says.

“Catholic guilt,” Logan provides, with a little wince and a slight adjustment of his glasses. “It provides a good base for many of the plotlines we wish to include in this, I believe.”

“Give him a huge dick,” Remus says.

“Remus,” Roman growls.

“Just a humungous badonker of a penis. He beats his meat and the entire earth rumbles.”

“Remus,” Patton groans.

Remus grins. "He’s packing some real chunky meat down there. As in, his drill is a five star excavator. A proper manmade wonder. It's the kind of meal you get a prize for finishing. A bridge between two warring nations. And the girth! God had to resize the Earth so the radii wouldn't match. You can use his cast iron pelvic greatsword as a radiation shield in Chernobyl. His – "

“Remus, weren’t you listening? We’re only giving him traits that we already have,” Virgil says, looking Remus dead in the eyes. “I’m not going to let you misrepresent yourself like this.”

The room almost immediately erupts into a loud chorus of enthusiastic oohs. Quite a few people throw things at Virgil, who lets out a snort of amusement and ducks to avoid getting nailed in the eye by a stray television remote control. Remus just cackles.

“We’re going to have to tone back the dick jokes, probably,” says Janus with some regret, once everybody calms down a bit. “Don’t want to get demonetized within the first few weeks.”

“Well, Remus already broke the Youtube demonetization speedrun last week, so at least we know what not to do,” Patton says absently. “The real question is, though – who’s going to actually play this Thomas person?

“Don’t look at me,” says Janus. “I’m looking forward to getting the play the villain for once.”

Patton points at him, mock-glaring. “Hey, don’t think you’re missing out on a redemption arc just because you like the evil aesthetic!”

Janus lets out a little affronted hissing noise at that, but doesn’t actually object.

“Well, I’m not shaving my moustache for any of you fuckers, no matter how much internet clout we’re gonna get for it,” Remus declares.

A quick, meaningful glance is exchanged between the four remaining people in the room.  

“Leave me out of it,” Virgil decides.

“I don’t really mind, either way,” Patton says.

“In that case, I shall arm-wrestle you for the honor of portraying our glorious, talented and entirely fictional centre of being on our upcoming Grammy-award-winning sixty-part webseries,” Roman declares, flexing dramatically.

“Which may or may not be a scam,” Logan says.

“...Look, are we doing this or what?”

“Absolutely.” Logan places down his book, and shrugs off his jacket. “I should warn you, however – I am what I believe is colloquially referred to as ‘absolutely fucking ripped’.” He breaks out into a surprisingly wicked smile. “Roman, let me be clear. I am going to be the one to portray Thomas Fucking Sanders, our beloved nonexistent media superstar culmination-of-our-collective-selves. And I am about to flat-out destroy you. Let’s go.”

There’s a beat of silence as everybody stares at Logan. The stares range from impressed to terrified to obviously horny. All of these are equally valid emotions to be feeling, because Logan is ripped, and somehow none of them have ever realized this before.

“Well, before we do that, give me five minutes to make popcorn,” says Janus. “Because I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

[language-of-love]

nostalgia... (rated E, 1974 words, also on AO3) Future fic with two very happy husbands finding an evening to reconnect.

.......

A muffled beat and an array of approaching voices break the silence of the store and he swivels on his heel to peer outside the front window to see a small group of teenagers making their way along the middle of the street. One of them has a string of rainbow colored lights woven between the spokes of her bike wheel and another has a strobe light on her handlebars seemingly flashing to the beat of the music blaring from her iPhone. They are all talking and laughing all at once as they make the most of one of their last late summer nights before school starts up again and careless nights with friends will become few and far between. He’s reminded of the group of idiots who had shoplifted from the store all those years ago and smiles at the memory, thankful that David’s self esteem has strengthened some since then and he no longer seeks validation from undeserving people. At least, he’s gotten much better at it anyway.

Just thinking about his husband makes him eager to see him and Patrick refocuses on his straightening so he can lock up and head home. He’d texted him earlier to see how the vendor visits went and got a thumbs up, so he hopes that means David will be waiting for him when he gets there. While most of their vendors have set up online accounts, there are few who are still off the grid, meaning one of them has a monthly task of dropping off checks, or sometimes cash, to the farms and homesteads on the outskirts of town. David usually volunteers, which initially surprised Patrick, but it didn’t take long for the pieces to fall into place. As much as he complains about how off-the-beaten-path some of their town’s residents may be, David loves visiting them, loves tasting their food and fawning over their diverse and unique artistry. And while he might never admit it, he knows they love seeing him, too. Patrick knows this for a fact as he’s seen the disappointment on more than one of their faces when he stops by instead of his husband. David has convinced himself he’s an acquired taste, but that hasn’t been Patrick’s experience. The man collects people wherever he goes, including Patrick, his biggest cheerleader and president and CEO of the David Rose fanclub.

His cell phone vibrates on the counter and he makes his way over, twisting a few bottles and lotions to their correct positions on the way.

Seeing “are you coming home soon?” from David has him smiling at his phone screen and he feels his belly swoop a little in excitement. It surprises him, not because he doesn’t still love seeing his husband, but because they’ve been in a bit of a cool phase these past few weeks. Not for any reason, really, and not that it’s been a problem, but they’ve just not been super physical with each other. They still kiss every night after their “I love yous” and again in the morning with their coffee and tea, but there’s been a lack of initiative from both of them for anything more. Still just as connected as ever though, solid, so solid that Stevie has commented that they are entirely too functional and it’s making her uncomfortable. Seven and a half years of marriage and he couldn’t be happier. So it’s not something he’s worried about, but he’s definitely noticed.

This feeling though, he loves it. A little light headed, unfocused, and warm, and all he can think about is getting his hands on his husband as soon as humanly possible. He quickly texts David back to let him know he’ll be home in a few minutes and has the door to the store locked and he’s in the car and driving in less than two. As he pulls into their driveway, he can see a glow illuminating their back lawn and figures David must have set up for dinner out there, so he walks around the house instead of going through the front door.

What he sees almost brings tears to his eyes.

David has the back porch lit up in strings of fairy lights and edison bulbs, citronella torches and candles in a variety of lanterns. He can hear the soft strum of Patrick’s favorite singer/songwriter playlist coming from their outdoor speaker and the distant hum of his husband’s voice as he sings along from their kitchen through the screen door. It’s not that David isn’t romantic, because he is, but this is so unexpected that Patrick is rendered speechless.

Somehow he gets his feet to move further along their grass and up the back steps, making sure to make some noise on the creaky wood so he doesn’t sneak up on his husband too badly. David must hear him as he’s peeking his head out the door just as Patrick’s at the top step, smiling widely with a mischievous gleam sparkling in the dark depths of his beautiful eyes.

“What’s all this?”

David just shrugs and Patrick huffs out a small laugh, still a bit overwhelmed and needing to release a few long breaths to ease the ache in his chest. It’s a good ache, a really, really good ache. As soon as he’s close enough, he’s pulling David towards him by the hem of his sweatshirt and whatever half-hearted complaint his husband was about to profess about the garment is silenced by Patrick’s mouth. For a second or two, he just reacquaints himself with David’s breathing, gently trapping his bottom lip before letting it go and switching the angle of his head so he can do it again. When David’s hands at his waist clench a little, he knows he’s on the right track. Making sure to have his hand behind David’s head before he backs him against the door jamb, he finally gets a taste of his mouth with his tongue and their bodies automatically stretch to align.

Temporarily shelved passion is unearthed and their kisses turn molten, all hot breaths, wet lips and urgent questions asked and answered and it takes no coaxing at all to lead a very willing David upstairs to their bedroom. He only fully realizes just how on the same page they are when he’s got David pressed against the mattress and he’s looking down at his face as shadows dance across his skin from the candles perched on every available surface.

“Were you planning on seducing me?” he whispers, taking David’s hands in his and dragging them up and over his head on their pillow.

“No.”

His husband isn’t even attempting to sell that lie, with his tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he widens his hips a little so Patrick can sink in between his legs.

“But if you’d like to seduce me, I’m fully prepared for that outcome.”

Nudging his nose, Patrick presses a smile against David’s lips, fully intending to banter back about what he could possibly mean by that (he knows), but gets lost kissing him instead, in the taste of his mouth and the heat of his tongue and the familiar contours of his lips. David’s fingers tighten in the space between his and Patrick groans in appreciation into his mouth, torn between wanting to kiss him all night and this deep pull in his gut for something deeper. The need to feel David’s skin against his hits him the same way a nostalgic song does when it comes on the radio, this bone deep knowledge of every note and chord and the anticipation of wanting to get to the chorus, and he unfurls his fingers from David’s so they can take their time undressing each other in the candlelight.

Finally bare, David’s loving and urgent hands linger over Patrick’s slightly untoned belly, kissing the small pooch there before making his way up to nose at the skin along Patrick’s ribs. It tickles and Patrick retaliates, quickly pushing David onto his back and kissing him fiercely, taking advantage of the dazed state left behind to slide down his body and happily bury his lips in the now salt and pepper flecked perfection of David’s happy trail.

“I’m married to a silver fox,” he jokes as he dips his tongue into David’s belly button, a remark that earns him a playful tug at his ear even as David’s long leg traps him in place. David’s hand moves to his hair and he threads his fingers through the short strands and Patrick leans into the touch, welcoming the gentle tugs as he ventures further down to kiss the warm crease of David’s thigh.

He makes up for lost time worshipping all of David’s sensitive places, his mouth, tongue and eventually lube-slicked fingers bringing David to the edge and back until his husband’s pleas go up an octave and he knows what they both need. With his arm holding up David’s knee and his lips ghosting his open mouth, he finally comes home. The same love that has them kissing each other goodnight before bed guides their bodies in this moment, too, the same ease and knowledge that they are safe and so deeply loved. They give and take until it’s too much and they both need release, slick limbs rearranging until Patrick’s nose is buried in the sweaty nape of David’s neck as his hips drive his husband’s long and beautiful body deep into the mattress.

When David turns his head on the pillow so he can cry out as he comes, Patrick buries himself deeper, the fiery tendrils of his own orgasm spreading quickly as his husband’s ass clenches around him. Leaning down, he buries his face next to David’s and whispers how much he loves him, over and over as he pumps his hips quickly, finally coming with a groan and an amused smile as David mumbles something incoherent in response.

The small of Patrick’s back is screaming at him and he’s completely out of breath, so he collapses on David’s back, inelegantly spent but unwilling to disconnect. David’s hand reaches back for him, finding the back of his neck and tugging as if he can somehow bring their bodies closer and it just makes Patrick want him again, all night, forever. He has no energy left, but he kisses David’s back, and his shoulder, then his cheek, and finally the corner of his mouth as David twists around in a position that just cannot be comfortable. They both laugh as they scramble to rearrange themselves, both pulling at each other’s backs as they face one another on the pillow, lips like magnets as they breathe into another series of kisses.

Patrick’s far from being able to go another round, but when David slips a thumb between his lips to wet it against his tongue and that same thumb slides between them to toy with Patrick’s nipple, his brain short circuits a little thinking of all the ways his husband plans to rouse him.

He loses count at six.

Eventually, they make it back downstairs for a very late, but perfect dinner outside amidst the fairy lights, exchanging heated looks full of all the things they’ve done to each other over the past few hours, touches lingering until he ends up in David’s lap and they makeout for a while before Patrick’s yawning into David’s mouth. It earns him another tug to his ear and some performative huffs and puffs, but he does all of the cleaning up from dinner to make up for it.

Tucked into bed to sleep, on fresh sheets and back in their everyday pajamas, Patrick leans in for his “I love you” and goodnight kiss and David reciprocates, smiling against his mouth just like the night before and all the nights to come.

[shotosprincess]

When he loves me — Iwa ♡︎ Oikawa

LISTEN TO: “ CLOUD 9 “ — BEACH BUNNY

ART: UNKNOWN ( i found it as a sticker on picsart since i couldnt find any good iwaoi screencaps so if yk who the artist is plspls lmk !! ty !! )

｡･:*:･-: ✧ :,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

pairing: iwa x oikawa

summary: iwa shyly plays oikawa a song he wrote on a whim ,, and years later ,, after they fell apart ,, oikawa attends one of iwa’s concerts and hears their song,, the song,, once more .

genre: angst + fluff !! <3 ugh i love oikawa my bby but i absolutely love him and iwa together sm too ajjdjjf

a/n: 3am writing for comfort innit (•̀ᴗ•́)و smhsmh it’s lowkey so dramatic ?? idk why i was feeling so melancholic ?? but i live for the yearning anyways lmao <//3

“ Hey...wanna...hear something I’ve been working on? “

Iwa’s voice shifted to one of a far softer tone, unusually uncertain of himself as he gripped the bedsheets beneath him in an anxious hold, turning away from Oikawa whilst a deep vermillion blush tainted his shy-stricken face.

The hazel-haired setter lifted his mouth into a gentle smile, skin mirroring a similar red to Iwa’s. His head lolled to the side, and Iwa swore he felt something flutter within him. The fist which he clutched the bedsheets within closed even further.

“ Sure, Iwa-chan! “

A hard gulp. Iwa swallowed his nerves down, fingers hovering over the strings of his freshly-purchased guitar, hesitant. Trembling, even.

Light wisps of brown swept just over Oikawa’s eyes as he put down the volleyball he had been mindlessly spinning, and covered Iwa’s hands with his own. He looked up with a reassuring grin, deepened-honey gaze colliding with one of the enchanting midnight sky.

“ It’s okay. It’s just me. But of course, you don’t have to play if you don’t wan— “

Iwa swats his hand away. “ Of course I wanna, dumbass! “ He barked.

With a frustrated huff, his fingers find a home amongst the sound as they begin to delicately strum the translucent strings. His eyes fell closed, lost in the music, albeit fairly cliche, as he wordlessly played the song which was most special to him.

For what reason it held such a cherished place in his heart, he did not know. Not truly, at least. Admittedly, he had written it purely on a whim, clutching onto the fleeting remnants of a foreign euphoric high. The crazed rush of fingers furiously clacking against the keyboard filled the silence of his room, lasting well into the evening. He had so much to say, so much to express, and yet it was only through the words appearing on the screen in which he could ever hope to communicate it.

He had never even planned on sharing it. After all, it was merely a crappy, rushed song put together purely by the rawness of an unknown emotion, and during ungodly hours of the night out of all times. It was nothing special, really.

To him, at least.

And yet in a hushed, timid tone, he began to sing:

“ I don’t wanna seem the way I do...but I’m confident when I’m with you... “

Oikawa’s lips parted in sheer awe. The delicate swirls of the instrumental blended flawlessly into the angelic quality of Iwa’s singing. His muscles tensed. He shook it away.

What the hell is this? Was he...nervous? No, no, it can’t be. This is Oikawa-fucking-Tooru we’re talking about!

He could do nothing but stare intently in a silent adoration as he allowed his heartbeat to meld with the smoothness of the melody, sweeping him out of Iwa-chan’s bedroom and into a whole other universe entirely. One where there exists no pain, no sadness, no fear. One where tears dried before they could even splatter upon the ground. One where everything was happy and perfect and...good.

—

IWA

Five years have passed, yet I miss him all the same. If anything, the ache has only grown to, somehow, prove itself increasingly unbearable over the time we’ve spent apart. My stare falls upon my guitar. Not the new one, which is this modern, flashy model with a bold red design, but my first-ever guitar, boasting its worn-out strings and dulled body. The hole in my heart digs itself impossibly deeper.

We had dated not long after that night—the night I played my song to him, and suddenly it became our song. We would whip it out like a handy party trick whenever we’d hangout with the rest of the team, and it was...nice to say the very least. Well, while it lasted, of course. Highschool love, teenage love, is constantly fleeting. Temporary. That was my philosophy at least, until Oikawa Tooru appeared and changed everything. I disregarded every sense of rationality, and all for the blissful rush of romance which he offered. The sneaking out, the small notes snuck into each other’s lockers, the way he draped his jacket over me when I got cold, the tender kisses shared in a darkened room.

I loved it. All of it. And when I lost him, I missed him too. All of him.

I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised, though. After all, teenage love is but a transient feeling, is it not? I had to drill the reiteration of my old motto back into my head when we split, so that I may never allow myself to yield to the temptations of love, or at least the attractive promise of one, ever again. Eventually, we had to go our separate ways. He pursued volleyball, and I chased relentlessly after a different growing passion of mine, though honestly rather unexpected; music.

And now here I am. Sitting backstage at my own show, waiting patiently for my cue. My foot taps a random rhythm against the floor as I mentally debate with myself whether or not my choice for the opening song truly was the best option.

I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?

He might be watching.

Fair, but would he even recognize me? Does he even remember me at all? I mean, it’s been so long...

I think he’d remember something as sentimental as the song you first played him. I mean, you were the first guy he ever dated.

Yeah, keyword: “ dated “. He’s probably moved on by now.

Shit, do you think he’s found someone new already? What if he brought them to the show?

Nah, nah. That’s highly unlikely. Impossible, even. The latter, that is. It’s not exactly that popular of a show.

Right, you’re right. So there’s nothing to worry about. Hakuna-fuckin-matata, right?

I suck in a sharp breath as the lights come on, laughing dryly.

Hakuna-fuckin-matata.

—

OIKAWA

My hands fiddle with one another as I push my way past the busy crowd to find a spot amongst the front row. A cheery girl with astonishingly-saturated red hair and an almoat-overwhelming brightness about her, greets me. I scoff, amused.

A fangirl, no doubt. Charming.

“ Oikawa! Ohmygoshohmygosh, Oikawa Tooru!! Hi!! I’m—I’m— “

I glance at the front row, which is only a few steps away, as her blubbered words start to blur together. I laugh.

“ A fan, right? Want my autograph or something? A picture, maybe? “

Her eyes light up vastly and she begins to bounce up and down with the same enthusiasm I’ve noticed to be common among practically all fangirls.

“ YES! Ohmygosh, yesyesyesYES!! “

My grin widens as I click my blue pen, which I carry around for autographs ( oh, the pains of being famous ), and hurriedly sign my name on her collared shirt. It was a fairly pretty garment, I’ll admit, but at this moment I didn’t really care, and I’m sure neither did she, judging by the way she squealed excitedly and took a spam of what had to be a million-and-one selfies with it.

I finally find a place among the jumping people at the front, taking in the atmosphere. The lights dim, and brighter white ones turn on in their place.

The show is about to start.

—

IWA

“ Hey, everyone. I— “ The mic whines with feedback. I wince, wrapping my free hand around it and trying again.

“ I’m—I’m opening with a song that’s very dear to me. I wrote it way back in highschool, but it’s always stuck with me, kinda like a safety net...of sorts. I uh, hope you enjoy. “

Shit, why am I being so damn awkward? I’ve never been this awkward before a show. Maybe it’s because of that damn opening song. Oh well. Too late to back out now.

Irritated, I push the thought away, wetting my lips as the drowning claps and whoops from the crowd cheer me on. My hand hovers just over the strings. It’s shaking. No matter. I close my eyes, and imagine him holding them. Him encompassing my hands within the warmth of his, just like he did all those years, which were now lost in the past. Him looking at me, him telling me it’s okay. Him.

I breathe all my nerves out.

Him.

And I begin to play.

The awkwardness melts away almost instantaneously as I pour every dripping ounce of my heart out into the song, the music swelling wildly with every emotion I had forced in for the dreariness of these five years. My eyes shoot open when the chorus hits. I feel like I’m king of the world.

I catch a familiar set of eyes. Richly brown. Deep.

Oh shit.

My breath hitches when I realize who they belong to; Him. His. He-

No, no, it couldn’t be. Could it?

It felt too real, as if I’ve somehow managed to reduce his very existence to nothing but romanticized self indulgent daydreams of what we once had, woven into the vast vagueness of song lyrics with a naïve hope of what could’ve been. And now here he was, at my concert of all places, for god knows what reason. The colourful lights fell upon his face in the most flattering manner, though admittedly I suppose anything would be flattering on him either way. But under this light especially, at my concert, he looked nothing short of perfect. Of lovely.

But of course he was. This was Oikawa-fucking-Tooru, after all.

The chorus hits with a sharp accent. I belt with all that I am, for the boy who took a rough sketch of a dream and made it reality, for the boy who found an unmatched sense of home among those of his highschool volleyball team, for the boy who wound up so foolishly falling in love with his best friend. For him, for my fans, but most of all, for me.

“ But when he loves me, I feel like I’m floating, when he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody— “

I maintain eye contact with him. It’s scary, burning holes into my tattered soul, which I had pieced together so carefully with cathartic lyrics scratched into the pages of creased notebooks. I’m secretly scared that his gaze will somehow break it all down again. But that’s when I finally understand; it’s him. This, this song, it’s about him. It’s always been about him. There will be no one else, could be no one else for me. That...sheer elation, the unfiltered emotion which sparked this song to begin with—I understood now. That was love. More specifically, love which my chest held for Oikawa. It’s as if I’ve been harshly disillusioned to see what I’d been unconsciously denying all these years, seeing him here. It’s always been Oikawa. How could I not have known? After all, I’m constantly recalling the day he held me in a tight embrace after one of our best matches, happy tears staining my damp jersey as he whispered in my ear the praise I’ve subconsciously always wished to hear.

“ You did good. “

Though it seems painfully mundane, simple to anyone else, it was...different, coming from his lips, hearing it in his voice. I took that compliment and kept it close to me for all eternity, immortalizing it within the varying notes of this song. I stare right back at him with a newfound fervour, an unknown intent, a epiphanic strength.

“ Even when we fade eventually to nothing, you will always be my favourite form of lovely. “

His eyes widen.

—

OIKAWA

My heart clenches as Iwa freely powers through the rest of the song. But during this moment, it feels as though it was created solely for us. As if the universe, as if fate itself had decided that despite the harshness of this world, and every little force fighting to keep us apart, this one moment, if anything, was ours. Truly ours. Our song, our moment. Ours. Time suspended itself indefinitely as the onyx hearth of his gaze finally met with mine. Unexpectedly enough, it stayed there.

And everything fell into place.

The song didn’t take me to a paradise without tears, or pain, or sorrow anymore. It took me to a place with Iwa in it. I realize now that...I want the tears. I want the pain. I want the grief. I want the good and the bad and the light and the dark, so long as I can have Iwa there with me through it all. I want him. All of him. I’ve want to love him enough to love his “ unglam “ moments and his admirable aspects all the same. I want to be there with him through every body-wrecking tear, every hearty laugh, and every glimmer of happiness. I want to be able to see the face he makes during a scary movie, to open an umbrella for him during the rain. I want to see the sunlight glow upon his cheek, I want to count the stars with him until I fall asleep. I want everything about him, for to me, he is everything. And it’s this song...this damned song which brought it all back.

It was ours. And I realize now...it was about...me. I mean, I’ll admit that I’ve always been a little more on the conceited side, but how could you deny it? It had to be. It had to. Had to. I wanted it to, at least. I wanted it to be about me so desperately, it sent a cold pain through my chest. A single, lonely tear falls down my cheek as the crowd around me erupts into a sea of laughter and off-tune singing from the audience.

What if it wasn’t? I mean, you guys broke up. You told him you moved on. Yes, it was a lie to lessen the pain, but he didn’t know that. What if it was about someone else completely and you’d just been an idiot this whole time? What if—

The concert comes to a close much faster than I thought it would, much faster than I would’ve ever wished for it to. I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m thinking, but my legs move before I even have a chance to question them. I’ve always been one to think before acting, hence why I’m such a star on the court, but this time, my emotions seem to be taking over. I don’t know what’s come over me, what this unusual, hot feeling is. It’s exciting and intimidating all at once, and I hate it because I know what it must be. In a hot flash, I find myself standing at the door of Iwa’s changing room. How many bodyguards I must have recklessly shoved out of the way to get here in the blur of adrenaline, I don’t even want to begin to think about.

My hand freezes over the door. “ Iwa “ is engraved in bold gold letters with a deeply-etched star sticking out at the bottom. Taking a deep breath, I knock frantically.

“ I-Iwa-chan? It’s uh...it’s Oikawa. “

—

IWA

I pause in the midst of buttoning up my shirt. A solid three are left undone. But his voice...how could I ignore it? Ignore him? I haven’t heard his voice in what feels like eternity, but I’d be kidding myself if I had said I’d forgotten it. The constant yearning was always so irritating. Such a pain. At least it made for decent music, I mean, I’ve been booking shows. But alas, one problem before another.

“ O-Oikawa? “ I slowly pace to the doorknob as I twist it open.

Holy shit.

It is him after all. He hasn’t changed a bit. He remains the charming, handsome man I remember him to be, even after all this time has passed.

“ How’d you get—why are you here? “

“ Iwa, there’s...there’s just...there’s something I need to ask. “

“ Huh? “

“ That song...our song.... “

“ Shit, right! I, uh...sorry. I didn’t ask you about it because I honestly didn’t expect you to show up at all. It’s been what, five years? “ I stumble subtly over my words, rubbing the back of my neck.

He turns away sheepishly. Almost...longingly, even.

“ Yeah...it has. “

He clicks his tongue.

“ Who, uh...who was that song about? The curiosity’s been eating at me. “

A heat rises to my cheeks. A pause.

“ I—It—Ugh, fuck it. “

I’ve never been the best at talking directly to Oikawa, not since I realized that what I felt for him extended to something past the bounds of friendship. So I decided to do the only thing I knew to do in that moment—show him instead.

My lips crash against his as he slams the door behind him. The palpable tension between us is shattered immediately, and everything is faded out into insignificance. All that matters is the man in my arms, the man I’d been longing so desperately, so hopelessly for all this fucking time. I kiss him against the smoothness of the door, hands immediately trailing to his soft locks. I twirl and twine them as I see flashes, bright hues of heaven itself. His lips upon mine are the most perfect fit. His touch is painfully intoxicating, and I show him, wordlessly, with an unparalleled fervour—just who the song was about. He melts into it, matching my energy with a foreign sense of passion.

—

OIKAWA

“ Do you think...the universe is gonna try to separate us again? “ I ask softly, voice barely even a whisper. Tears wet my lashes at the very thought of being without him again. For those five years, though I was living my dream...it didn’t feel complete. Not without him. I blink them away aggressively, focusing on the night sky above us. My head is resting in his lap, and we’re simply...existing together beneath the curtain of darkened pools which hung above our twined bodies.

Iwa strokes my hair nonchalantly as he interlocks his fingers with mine. “ Of course. It always will. But we found each other didn’t we? And even after...even after this life has passed and we’re reduced to nothing but ash, I’m convinced we’ll meet again. One way or another. “

He tucks a straying tuft of hair from brushing my lashes.

“ Even then...even then you’ll still be my favourite form of lovely. Or whatever. “ He scoffs at his own over-poetic response, looking away with a tiny smirk.

“ Okay, Mr. Songwriter! “ I tease, nudging his side in a playful manner.

He rolls his eyes, bending down to kiss me once more.

For the first time in a long time, I feel complete. I’m on cloud 9.

[notapaladin]

they say before you start a war (you'd better know what you're fighting for) (redux)

“I will just expand Acatl’s part a bit,” I said. “I’m not totally thrilled with the ending,” I said. “This will be a quick project,” I said.

FIVE THOUSAND WORDS LATER...y’all get this. Tizoc successfully executes Acatl during Harbinger of the Storm, and Teomitl will do anything to bring him back. Including hand over his own soul.

Original version here.

Also on AO3.

-

His knees hurt, and the stone under them was cold. It was an absurd detail to focus on when he was bound hand and foot with the executioner looping a garrote around two meaty fists next to him, but that was what stuck in Acatl’s mind. He was going to die, and his knees hurt. And, to add insult to injury, he was going to go to his death with his hair badly in need of a wash and something stuck in his back teeth. He prodded it with his tongue. It didn’t help at all.

He took one deep breath. Another. Any one could be his last. He was careful to keep them deep and even; he would not die sobbing and hyperventilating, begging for mercy. Though it be jade, it is crushed; though it be precious gold, it crumbles. For we do not live forever on this earth, but only for a little while.

A hand in his hair yanked his head up, and the cord came to rest loosely around his neck. He took another breath. Mihmatini. Teomitl. I’m sorry.

If only he’d had more time. His siblings would mourn him, he knew, but they knew he loved them. He’d said all he needed to say there. Teomitl was a different story. When he’d first agreed to teach him the magic of living blood, he’d never expected to feel so strongly for him. True, he’d grown fond of him quickly, but that had been very nearly against his will. His heart had been locked up so tightly for so long that the first crack in the stone had felt like the walls of the Sacred Precinct crumbling around him. At first, it had been terrifying. Over the past year, however...

Well. He didn’t think he could rightly call his feelings fondness anymore. Teomitl was stubborn as a rock and prickly as a cactus, but more and more Acatl had felt something soften like wax in his chest whenever he looked at him. Pride? Affection? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it made his heart beat faster. That Teomitl’s radiant smile always brought an answering one to his own face. That when Teomitl looked even the slightest bit disappointed, the urge to pull him into his arms was near-overwhelming. That Teomitl was the most beautiful young man he’d ever seen. And now it would forever be a mystery. Now he would die, and Teomitl would never know that he might...he might...

His heart hammered against its prison of ribs, twisting nauseatingly as the realization struck. I might be in love. And I can never tell him.

Now his eyes were burning with unshed tears, and he forced them back with pure effort of will. This was a good thing. Teomitl was his student, a dozen years his junior, and courting his sister. There was no way he’d react well to learning his teacher had conceived a passion for him. He would die before he could be tempted to reveal what he’d learned and ruin the relationship they’d so painstakingly built. Teomitl would never be burdened with that knowledge. If he survived this, he would marry Mihmatini without guilt, and they would have a dozen children. Acatl could picture them now.

“And so the traitor falls.”

Oh, Duality preserve him. Instead of trying to fill his mind with calming thoughts of his family or his god, he was going to spend his last moments on earth listening to Tizoc gloat. Of all the indignities heaped upon him, this was one he knew he didn’t deserve. Somehow, he found words enough to snarl, “Hurry up.” It came out as a slurred rasp.

Tizoc smirked at him. He shut his eyes, but he could still hear the smug glee in his voice. It made him want to be sick. Throwing up on Tizoc’s sandals would even be satisfying; too bad the bastard was out of the likely splash zone. “And which of us is on his knees, priest? Which of us has betrayed the Mexica Empire with his words and deeds? It surely isn’t me; you know I’ve always worked for the good of Tenochtitlan, despite your efforts to obstruct my path. I do hope you’ll find an ample reward for your pains in the hereafter.”

There was more after that, but Acatl wasn’t paying attention. The cord was starting to draw tight. One more breath. Another. The darkness behind his eyelids was starting to flash. Another breath—no—he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t breathe. He bucked and jolted instinctively, eyes fluttering open in time to catch blurred images of Quenami and the She-Snake watching him; if he’d had his hands free, he knew he would be clawing his fingers to ribbons against the tough cord.

I can’t—

He needed air. He needed air and there wasn’t any, he was choking, he was going to die—

It wouldn’t be Tlalocan that awaited him, he knew, despite the manner of his death. A High Priest could go no other place than the realm of their patron. After this, he rather thought it would be a relief. At least in Mictlan, he could rest. Lord Death was always fair. Lord Death would let him fade the way his body was stubbornly refusing to.

No. It’s over. It’s over. I’m—only hurting myself—

His eyes snapped open as a twist of the cord sliced into his throat, feeling the sting and the trickle of upwelling blood. The sun blazed down, bathing the courtyard in light. For a moment, he could focus—there was Tizoc smirking, and there was Quenami with a twist to his mouth—but then the darkness flooded his vision again, and though he kept his eyes open he saw nothing.

This was it, then. He thought he should probably be afraid; maybe it was the lack of air that was making it so difficult for him to struggle. His limbs felt like stones, the hammering of his heart echoing like a drum through his ribcage.

The cord bit deep, but it no longer hurt.

He couldn’t feel his own limbs or heartbeat anymore. Soon, he couldn’t feel the cord either. Here at the end, there were no prayers to Lord Death he could offer. But then, he’d be seeing Him soon enough. He hoped Ichtaca wouldn’t be too overworked.

As he faded, he thought he heard the ahuitzotls’ song. And then...

Darkness.

&

Acatl’s knives burned at Teomitl’s hips, sending bile up into his throat and frozen emptiness down into his stomach, but they hadn’t yet damaged Huitzilopochtli’s wards woven over his skin and so he welcomed the pain. It was agony, but it spurred him onwards. He couldn’t afford to slow down or lose his focus, not even for an instant. Even that much of a delay would be too much time in which Acatl was in mortal danger. If he was late...

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was late. Part of him cursed Nezahual; if he hadn’t run out of power merely getting them out and finding them a boat, they’d have Quetzalcoatl’s magic to speed them on their way. Southern Hummingbird blind him, they’d probably even be safe by now. He could at this instant have been on a boat to safety in Tlacopan or Texcoco or gods, anywhere in the sea-ringed world as long as Acatl was in his arms. Instead there was only him and the ahuitzotls, who were still fast on land but not fast enough. He wished desperately that he’d been blessed by Mixcoatl instead, Lord of the Hunt, but there was no helping that now.

Instead, he prayed to them all, hoping desperately that fervor would make up for not daring to stop and offer his own blood. Gods, please. Please, I’ll build so many temples, I’ll cover you in gold, the blood of eagles, the hearts of jaguars—just let me save him.

They didn’t answer. He kept running. Down the corridor, through one room and another, turning when the sparks of Acatl’s knives sang close, close, and then he was bursting through the entrance curtain and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t move.

There was his brother, smug grin slipping into surprise as he registered the interruption. There was Quenami, backing away with his empty hands raised as though that would save him. There was the swirl of a black cloak around the far corner—the She-Snake, fleeing like a coward. There were even a few guards, looking panicked as they drew their weapons. And in the center of the courtyard was the executioner loosening his garrote to let Acatl fall bonelessly to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing. Dead. Dead. He didn’t need the rattling chill of the knives to tell him that.

No. No. Nonononono—

Teomitl’s mind was a whirlwind of horror and pain, but he’d been in enough campaigns now that his body knew exactly what to do. He couldn’t feel his hands, but that didn’t matter.

He drew his sword and opened himself to Chalchiuhtlicue’s power.

It felt like being at the bottom of the lake; it always did, but this time the water numbed him. He saw the world through lake water, through the eddying rush of a streambed. His heart pulsed like ripples on the shore. When he breathed, he tasted algae; inside his head, the ahuitzotls’ song rose in a chorus, threatening to drown out his thoughts.

In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we hunt In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we consume...

He sucked in a hard, painful breath and wrestled them back into submission. It had been harder since Axayacatl’s death, when his world had tilted; now that it was entirely inside-out, shattered irreparably, it was nearly impossible. He might not have managed it if he hadn’t given them their favorite command. Kill. Kill them.

They leapt to obey. He was only vaguely aware of their rush forward; the executioners and guards screamed as his beasts descended on them in a flood of snapping teeth and grasping claws, but he didn’t bother pitching in. The ahuitzotls had them well in hand. He tasted blood in his own mouth, felt the slick red heat of flesh tearing under his own claws—no, hands. He had hands, and they held a sword. And he had a job to do. The rabble didn’t matter. Even when one took a swing at him, he parried it without looking; all his attention was on Tizoc.

Tizoc, who had just slain Acatl. Tizoc, who was unarmed. Tizoc, who was trying to speak, as though anything he said could possibly bring Acatl back, could undo what he’d done.

“So you have betrayed me!” It sounded like it was coming from underwater.

It was just possible that, if he’d been contrite, he might have earned a few more seconds of life. Unlikely, but possible. But this? This—vindication, as though he was saying he’d been right, and he’d die being right? Teomitl inhaled sharply, feeling it scorch his lungs. “No.”

And then he swung his sword in an upward arc, feeling it cleave flesh and bone; something snapped off in Tizoc’s sternum on the way to the heart, but that was alright. He’d fix it later. Hot blood sprayed his face as Tizoc screamed and screamed and screamed, and some knot in his chest eased. Now I’ve betrayed you. It would take him a good, long time to die.

He turned away, lifting his head. The executioner and both guards were down, ahuitzotls feasting messily and adding the stench of entrails to the heavy odor of blood. They’d left a space around...around Acatl, and ice threatened to flood his veins. I’ve failed. Acatl, I’ve failed you. He wanted to crumple in on himself, wanted to curl around Acatl’s corpse and weep like a child. If he’d been minutes earlier, Acatl would still be alive. Avenging him, killing Tizoc—he knew, deep in his soul, that Acatl would have urged him not to. He would have urged him to consider the strength of the Mexica Empire and his own safety. Now he never would again. Grief rose like knives in his throat.

But he couldn’t give in to it, not yet; there was one foe in the courtyard he hadn’t yet accounted for. He could just make out Quenami huddling frozen and wide-eyed half behind a pillar, frantically trying to trace a glyph on the ground. He recognized the words of a spell on his lips, but that didn’t deter him. It would never be cast. He remembered the sight of a blade at Acatl’s throat with a sharp, sick swell of rage. Quenami had had the nerve to smile when dragging Acatl to his death. Teomitl would carve that smile from his face.

Water flowed around him even this far from the lake, washing Tizoc’s blood from his skin and lending him speed as he charged, sword raised. Quenami was frozen in fear, he could simply cleave his head from his shoulders and that would end it—

Again, he was too late. The strike slammed against glittering golden wards raised in the nick of time; as they spiderwebbed, a wordless scream tore its way free of his throat. His ahuitzotls screamed with him, abandoning their meals to circle this new target. He swung again, and the wards broke.

Quenami’s voice wavered—rank terror, not the ripples of Jade Skirt’s magic in his ears. If Tizoc’s death throes hadn’t died down to gurgling whimpers, he might not have heard it. “My lord...Teomitl-tzin, please!”

Please, he says. Rage threatened to choke him. Only his own self-control kept his hand steady, but the obsidian edge of his macuahuitl was pressed into Quenami’s neck just shy of drawing blood and it was extremely tempting to press harder. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated.

No, that was a lie. He knew why. Because Acatl, damn him, would have cautioned him against reckless slaughter. Would have warned him about the boundaries, about the safety of the Fifth World, about the godsdamned star demons trying to devour them all. If Coyolxauhqui truly was controlling them somehow, they would need the High Priest of Huitzilopochtli no matter what he’d done. But Acatl wasn’t here anymore to gainsay him, was he?

Would you have listened if Acatl had begged for his life? If he had asked to be spared, before you slew him? “Why? Why should I let you live?” His hand was still steady, but his voice shook. He would not cry in front of this bastard, this dog’s son who had torn his heart from him. He would not. Acatl is dead. He is dead, and it’s because of you. I will carve out your heart for his funeral pyre.

Quenami swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. Blood trickled down his neck from where the edge of the sword bit into his flesh. There was fear in his face, yes, but also a stone-hard resolve. “I can bring him back.”

He took an unconscious step backwards, feeling the edges of his grief crumble under the first light touch of hope. If he’s telling the truth. If...I could have Acatl back...

“...Speak.”

&

Quenami spoke. Indeed, once he was no longer in immediate danger it was difficult to get him to stop. There was a ritual, apparently; a secret passed down through Huitzilopochtli’s clergy from one High Priest to the next. Often it involved making a body of maize and amaranth dough, but given that Acatl’s remains were all in one piece they would be able to dispense with that step. All they would need to do—a trifle, really—was go down into Mictlan and convince Lord Death to relinquish Acatl’s soul. The hardest part would be opening the way, for which Quenami ordinarily required the other High Priests. Given the present circumstances, Ichtaca and the Guardian of the Duality would need to stand in for Acatl—Ichtaca for his connection to the underworld, and Mihmatini for raw power.

Mihmatini. Thinking of her brought another pang to Teomitl’s heart. They’d made plans to send her away for her own safety, but she hadn’t left for Popocatepetl yet. She would have to be informed of her brother’s death and the part she would play in his resurrection. Teomitl doubted it would comfort her much. It certainly wasn’t comforting him.

Acatl was dead. Teomitl had slashed the bonds around his cold limbs and closed his sightless eyes with shaking hands, cursing himself all the while that this was the tenderest touch he could offer, here where it no longer mattered. He should have spoken up when he had the chance, but what had he done instead? Picked stupid fights, clung blindly to his faith in the older brother who had once been admirable, failed to see the kind of man Tizoc was until it was far too late. If this works, he thought, I will lay the full truth of my heart at your feet and beg for your forgiveness.

Other people handled the cleanup after the slaughter, but that wasn’t Teomitl’s concern. He stood on the sidelines and watched as they gathered up the bodies and cleaned up the blood. There were questions. The She-Snake and the rest of the council showed up to answer them, with many sidelong glances in his direction. He hadn’t yet bothered to wash the blood from his skin. It seemed unnecessary.

Eventually Nezahual strode in, directing his warriors to place themselves at Tenochtitlan’s disposal. As he strode over to Teomitl’s darkened corner, Teomitl looked up from his idle study of the tops of his sandals to meet his eyes. Certainty filtered through the numbness. If he gives his condolences, I’m going to stab him.

“Teomitl.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t.” Not that he’d had enough bloodshed—Acatl was dead, he could float the city on a lake of blood and it still wouldn’t be enough—but if this worked, Acatl would probably be upset with him for maiming an allied Revered Speaker. Even if it was terribly, terribly tempting.

“I wasn’t going to.” But the way Nezahual’s eyes widened suggested he’d been thinking it.

“Good.”

Unfortunately, Teomitl’s curtness didn’t make the little bastard leave. No, instead he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Is it true what I’m hearing? That Quenami can restore him to life?”

His heart gave a hard, painful lurch in his chest. He’d been trying not to think about that. Quenami had sounded so certain, but what if that was only self-preservation? What if he was only telling Teomitl what he wanted to hear? No, he thought finally. He wasn’t desperate enough for that. At least, not after Teomitl had taken the sword away from his throat. “He says it is.”

“Hmm. Hmmm.” Nezahual glanced away, stroking his chin. Teomitl forbore mentioning that it was an incredibly stupid-looking gesture on a youth who couldn’t grow a proper beard yet. Finally, he looked back at him and in a quiet, serious voice asked, “Can I help?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?” You had your chance, and your strength ran out when you might have prevented this. Do you think I’ll let you fuck it up again? Somehow, he managed to keep that behind his teeth.

Nezahual hesitated. “...I confess to feeling...somewhat responsible for Acatl’s current situation. I would not have this drive a wedge between us.”

Teomitl sucked in a hard breath. “No.”

“No?” He tilted his head like a snake, eyes just as cold.

Maybe it was stupid of him to rebuff him. No, he knew it was stupid, and he didn’t care. He could apologize later when his chest wasn’t full of knives. Right now, the idea of spending any more time in Nezahual’s presence made him want to kill something. Mihmatini and the priests would be strong enough. They’d pull Acatl’s soul out of Mictlan themselves. “You’ve done enough,” he spat.

Before it could deteriorate further, he spun on his heel and stalked away. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He picked up the pace, almost running through the palace. Servants and nobles alike took one look at him and nearly dove out of his way—a good thing, because he wasn’t stopping. Anger and grief turned a tight whirlpool in his chest, keeping him on his feet. If he stopped to dwell on it, he would fall apart. He couldn’t do that yet. When Acatl is alive, he thought. When he breathes again, I’ll let myself remember this day.

Mihmatini waited for him in the Duality House. He was struck by how normal she looked, surrounded by slaves and underlings. The sun shone down upon her, clear and bright—it was a beautiful day, when there should be storms to match the one in his heart—and she wore a sleeveless blouse embroidered with flowers. Looking at her, he might almost think the world was alright again.

“I...” he began, and stopped. Just that one word was already bringing tears to his eyes.

She got to her feet, searching his face for something she didn’t find. Her own expression crumbled, but her voice was shockingly steady as she asked, “Acatl?”

He shook his head mutely.

“...So it’s true,” she whispered, and threw herself into his arms.

He held her tightly enough that it had to hurt, but she only wrapped her arms around him and shook silently, without tears. Somehow that made it worse; if she’d sobbed, he might have been able to wipe them away and feel a little more useful. Instead he buried his face in her hair, shut his eyes, and focused on his breathing. In. Out. In again. Slowly. No hyperventilating, or he would be the one weeping. And if he started, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop. Again he reminded himself, Not yet.

Finally she sucked in a noisy breath and released him, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with the back of her hand. I should have taken Tizoc apart piece by piece. Out loud, he said, “We need to talk.” Her entire body jolted, and he belatedly thought he could have phrased that better. “It’s not bad. It’s about—him.” He still couldn’t manage Acatl’s name.

She inhaled slowly and nodded, meeting his gaze. “I’ll take you to a private chamber. Follow me.”

He followed.

The room she led him to was bare and impersonal, with a colorful pattern on the wall he was far too unfocused to make out. The only thing that mattered was the expression on Mihmatini’s face—grief-tight, with eyes like flint. He couldn’t find words at first; when he did, he was surprised at how steady he sounded. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. “Quenami says he can be brought back. There’s a ritual. To—to pull his soul out of Mictlan and place it back in his body again. We need you.”

She stared at the floor. He saw her fists clench, knuckles going white in the folds of her skirt. “And you trust him?”

“No.” Not even as far as I can throw him. He took a breath and continued, “But it’s all we have. I...I was too late to save him, Mihmatini, I saw him fall.” Then his voice did break, and he shut his mouth before it could turn into a sob. Acatl’s skin had been so cold.

Mihmatini closed her eyes. “How...?”

He saw it again in his mind’s eye, that horrible ring around Acatl’s throat. The words floated up from far away. “...The flower garland.”

She took a slow, deep breath. He felt the magic of the Duality pulse within her, the thread connecting them flaring up like a line of fire. “Acatl wouldn’t want anyone to go through that. But if this fails...if it’s some sort of trap...I’m twisting the rope around Quenami’s neck myself.”

Some things never changed. He found he could breathe a little easier. “It won’t fail. It can’t. But if it does, you’ll have to. I killed the executioner.”

“And your brother.”

There was no judgment in that voice, but he felt something twist in his chest anyway. His nails bit into his palms as he snarled, “Acatl died of Tizoc’s—of his paranoia and incompetence! He killed him, as surely as if he’d done it with his own two hands. I’d do it over and over and be glad about it!” The emotion was too much. He had to shut his mouth, chest heaving. I wish I’d taken my time about it. See how many parts I could remove before he died.

Mihmatini was watching him, eyes shrewd. “You love my brother, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

For a shameful heartbeat, he thought of lying. Like a brother, he could say. Or, Of course, he’s my honored teacher. But he knew there was no use—Mihmatini’s words and tone had made it all too clear that she’d looked at him and seen straight to the core of his heart. He couldn’t deny it. Not when Acatl was dead and she was here, waiting for him to speak truthfully. He could give her nothing else.

Dropping his gaze to the mat and feeling his face catch fire, he whispered, “...I do. I’m sorry.”

She frowned at him. “For what?”

The question was so unexpected that for a moment all he could do was gape at her. Horror. Anger. A broken heart. He’d expected any one of those reactions. There was simply no good way to tell the woman you might marry that you were in love with her brother, not and still keep her in your life. And he liked Mihmatini—as a friend, if nothing else. He’d been looking forward to marriage and raising their children together, even though the secret he’d harbored would surely tear them apart if he let it slip. But she’d neither struck at him nor burst into tears, and so—at a loss for words—he spluttered, “I—you—he’s your brother—”

She sat back. Whatever she saw in his expression made her face relax into something less precarious than it had been. “I can share. If you think you can make him happy.”

“...I can try.” The wise thing would probably be to reassure her that she would always have the first place in his heart, but he wasn’t sure if that had ever been true. A sizeable chunk, certainly. But the first place had been reserved for Acatl since the moment the man had first bandaged his wounds after a lesson, hands cool and gentle, and he couldn’t see that changing. Acatl made him want to be stronger. More patient. Better. The least he could do in response would be to gladden the man’s heart. Once it beats again.

The frown was back. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I. Uh.” The vow he’d sworn suddenly felt like a much more uncertain thing. There’s no way he feels the same. Does he? What if he hates me for it? But Mihmatini knows her brother; she wouldn’t suggest if she thought it would bring him pain... He chewed hard on the inside of his gold lip plug, but for once the action didn’t help.

By the way she looked at him, his distress was obvious, but her voice held no pity or scorn. Thank the gods. “You should.”

He squared his shoulders and met her eyes. “I will.” They would bring Acatl back. He would breathe again, smile again, walk under the sun with his family again. And Teomitl would lay his heart at his feet, and if he was fortunate—please the Duality, let him be fortunate!—Acatl would pick it up. He refused to favor the idea of any other outcome with so much as a passing thought.

“Good.” Now she was almost smiling, and some pain-tightened corner of his heart relaxed. “He deserves that. He deserves...so much.” For a terrifying second her voice sounded watery, but then she squared her chin and added, “But you’ll do.”

It took a moment for him to register it as a dry attempt at humor, and the chuckle that came out had more in common with a sob. Oh, Mihmatini. What would we do without you?

She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. “Take me to Quenami. Whatever this ritual needs, I’ll do it.” After a moment she added, “And please don’t let me kill him until after we’re done.”

That settled it. If she’d still have him after all this, he was definitely marrying her.

&

The ritual needed a great many things. Acatl’s corpse needed to be washed and laid out—straight, not curled for a burial—and a suitable space prepared. Mictlantecuhtli’s temple handled that, watched over by a gray-faced and nearly silent Ichtaca in full regalia. Not Acatl’s, thank the gods, but something with almost as many owl feathers and clicking bone beads. Slaves brought the beasts they would need to sacrifice; Quenami moved gingerly among them, tallying cages of owls and hummingbirds and a huge, ill-tempered heron. Mihmatini carried armfuls of flowers for the Duality, the orange of marigolds and the red blossoms of plumeria the only color in the room.

Teomitl had never been in the temple’s innermost sanctum before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about his surroundings when a single wrong move might put Acatl beyond his reach forever. He stood by, forcing himself not to fidget as the fog of centuries of Mictlan’s magic sizzled against his skin. It very much did not care for the residue of Huitzilopochtli’s wards, even though those had been ritually removed to make his job easier. Across the room stood Neutemoc, who hadn’t spoken a word since arriving with Mihmatini nearly an hour ago. At least there was one other person who would much rather be fighting a dozen star demons at once than standing here waiting. There was very little he could do; it was up to Quenami to sacrifice the hummingbirds and trace the glyph for Four Jaguar while Acamapichtli did the same with the heron and the glyphs for Four Water and Four Rain. Ichtaca, knife in hand, took care of the owls and Four Wind. Four glyphs for the worlds that had come before, and living blood to bind them all into the spell. Finally Mihmatini stepped forward, slashed her earlobes, and added her blood and the flowers to their work.

Quenami had the job of cutting a circle into the floor to enclose the space. He paused, gaze sweeping the room—how dare he, they couldn’t afford to waste time—and lighting on Teomitl’s face, heedless of his furious glare. Someone had bandaged the cut on his neck. “Only one of you can go into Mictlan. This is not my realm, and I cannot widen the path. It can’t be Ichtaca; he needs to hold the way for us here.”

Teomitl didn’t need to think about it. “I’ll go.”

Another voice echoed his; confused, he looked up to see Neutemoc take a step forward, face set with grim determination. He met Teomitl’s eyes as he continued, “He’s my little brother.”

“He’s my—” Friend seemed inadequate, teacher too base. Beloved was something he couldn’t allow himself to think lest he break. It was easier, safer, to reach for other justifications, and they came easily to him in the memory of Mazatl’s curious hands and Ollin’s gummy smile. “What of your children, if this fails? Will you leave them orphans? Stay here, and let me bring Acatl-tzin back.”

Neutemoc studied him for a long moment, searching for something in his face. Eventually he seemed to find it and stepped back with a satisfied nod. “You’d better.”

As Quenami knelt to close the circle, Teomitl moved to take his prescribed position kneeling by Acatl’s head. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t bear to see that face waxy and still, not now.

A dog’s throat was slit, and the hymns began. He let the words wash over him; as the chants rolled on, the world around him started to fall away. Mindful of instructions, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the temperature drop. The air took on the stale smell of a thousand years of dust and the reek of decay, acidic emptiness scouring the back of his throat. He had a moment to be glad he hadn’t eaten anything, and then his head was swimming too much for him to think. The only thing anchoring him to life was his heartbeat, steady and strong.

Beat.

Beat. He was weightless, floating.

Beat.

A cold, wet nose nudged his palm, and he opened his eyes to a field of black stone, gray dust, and a sky precisely one shade lighter. The dog that had been sacrificed was sitting in front of him, tail sending up little clouds every time it thumped. There was wet crimson blood in its yellow fur, colors leaching to gray in light that seemed to come from nowhere and cast indifferent shadows.

It trotted off. He followed.

He very quickly lost track of how long he’d been walking. There were no landmarks here; he was walking the same path Acatl’s soul had walked at the moment of his death, and a High Priest didn’t have to contend with the rivers of blood and plain of knives that the common rabble did. Part of him was disappointed, for at least it would have been some measure of progress. The rest of him knew he wouldn’t have made it through so much as an overly deep puddle. He’d thought carrying Acatl’s knives was bad, but it was nothing to actually walking through Lord Death’s realm.

The air sapped all joy and hope from his soul, leaving only the grim certainty that he had to keep going. Even anger was too much effort; the heat of it was simply no match for the gnawing emptiness in his chest and the tremor in his limbs. Tears welled in his eyes, but he was too listless to blink and let them fall. Cold seeped through his veins and slowed his heart.

At least he could still feel it beating. He could take some comfort in that. Acatl, wait for me. I’m coming for you.

The dog seemed to know where it was going. Though obsidian shards bit through his sandals and bloodied his feet, they left no marks on its paws. He kept walking, one foot in front of the other; blood was a small price to pay for Acatl’s soul. He would offer his heart if he thought it would help. There was nothing else he could do for him now.

But oh, he was so cold. He was cold, and shivering sounded like too much work. Maybe he should rest for a while—yes, that sounded like a wonderful idea. There was a rock up ahead that had twisted itself into something vaguely like a tree, perfect to lean on.

He staggered towards it, slipping in his own blood, and fell facedown in the dust. It hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to care; the relief of letting the earth support his body was too great. Acatl could wait a little longer, surely. Surely...

Teeth fastened in his wrist, pain jangling up his arm. His eyes snapped open on instinct, free hand going for the sword he wasn’t wearing before he realized it was the dog tugging pointedly at his forearm with a growl that seemed to say, If you aren’t going to walk to Lord Death’s throne, then I will drag you there. It let him pull his arm free and stand up, but kept up its low, discontented rumble.

He felt like growling himself. Fool that I am, how could I have forgotten? I can rest later.

They walked on. His wrist throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, tethering him to the world and to his mission. He would not fail. The road stretched on before him, and all he had to do was keep walking. One step. Another. Another. His sandals were soaked with blood, making him slip; annoyed, he kicked them off and continued on. He’d walk forever if he had to.

And then the ground shifted, warped, folded, and he stood before a dais made of bones where the world was filled with rot and ashes.

Somehow, he’d expected a temple; instead, Mictlantecuhtli’s and Mictecacihuatl’s thrones looked as though they’d grown out of the ground. Bundles of femurs formed the low arms, and the seats were made of a collection of pelvises bound with curved jawbones. Lord and Lady Death lounged side by side, watching him with an expression of amused indulgence on their sunken, skeletal faces. Like I’m a dog that might be taught to perform clever tricks, he thought without much heat. He knew he should probably bow. He couldn’t make his knees bend.

Mictecacihuatl tilted Her head, studying him. “Well, well. What brings you to Our throne, little mortal?”

He’d never been good at speeches. It was something he’d been meaning to study, especially if he meant to move up through the ranks, but now there was no time. Besides, if They were like Acatl, They’d appreciate plain language more. “Acatl-tzin. Your High Priest. Where is he?”

“Ah.” She met Her husband’s eyes, and they shared a long look. She settled back on her throne, a fan of scapulas sprouting up behind Her, and said, “We have taken him into Our home, as is Our right and privilege. He has assumed his proper place at the foot of Our throne.” She gestured expansively, and he followed the movement to something he hadn’t noticed before.

There, just in front of and between the two thrones, was a tiny, fluttering moth under a thin dome of dust and air. He felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Acatl.” A wild thought seized him—grab him and run—but he knew he wouldn’t get far in Mictlantecuhtli’s domain. He’d be lucky even to feel the brush of wings against his skin.

He spun back to meet the gods’ gazes. “My Lady, My Lord, please reconsider. The Fifth World needs him back. We can’t—” The star demons. The boundaries. My empire. “We’ll fall without him.”

“Worlds have fallen before.” Mictlantecuhtli drummed His fingers on the arm of His throne, bone clattering on bone. “We have endured. We will always endure. Why should We give up such a loyal and well-beloved High Priest only to run the risk of him being killed again?”

Because I won’t let it happen again. Ever. He blinked dry eyes, feeling them prickle with dust. His eyes darted to where Lord and Lady Death sat on Their thrones, desiccated fingers almost touching. Even in their most formal attitudes, They leaned ever so slightly towards each other. Slowly, the words came to him. “Of all the gods, You know love best. My Lord...if My Lady were taken from You...”

“All existence would know My wrath until She was returned.” Mictlantecuhtli’s voice had all the finality of the grave, and Teomitl watched as His hand moved to cover His wife’s. “And is this why you are here, begging for Our priest’s life to be restored? For love?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I never got to tell him.” It came out in a breath, barely audible over the breeze.

The gods shared another long look. Teomitl didn’t dare move. He willed his heart to beat quieter, lest it disturb them. The gulf in his chest howled.

Finally, Mictlantecuhtli spoke. “We will release him into your care.” Teomitl thought His skull face was attempting a smile. It was a terrible thing to see on a face that was mostly bone and dried skin. “But there will be a price for you.”

“I’ll pay it.” Here, at last, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Whatever You want of me. Anything. My heart? My body? My life? It will be Yours. Just let me walk with Acatl out of here, let me set him back in his body and tell him how I love him.

“Brave boy.” The ash rose, nearly blinding him; when it cleared, the little moth was fluttering gently in front of his face. “You may take Our High Priest’s soul, and settle it back in his living flesh, and it will be like he never died. But upon your death, though you may die in glorious battle, you will take his place here.”

He cupped his hands around Acatl’s soul, feeling its tiny feet alight on his fingers. His heart felt full to bursting. He is here. He’s here. We did it. “As you wish, My Lord—my Lady.”

Mictecacihuatl snorted, waving Her hand. “You have what you came for. Be off with you, feather of the Hummingbird.”

Feather of the—? “Wait,” he began, but before he could even formulate a question there was a quincunx shimmering into being under his feet. For a long moment he knew nothing, was nothing, and then he was falling through ash again and back into the temple sanctum.

Beat.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he was present in his own skin. It felt too warm and too tight after his sojourn in Mictlan, breath rasping through his lungs, but he was kneeling by Acatl’s head and holding his soul in his hands so nothing else mattered. He could die immediately, and still nothing else would matter.

No, that wasn’t true. He still had to tell Acatl how he felt.

“Did it—?“

“Teomitl!”

He ignored the outcry around him. Instead he lowered his hands to Acatl’s mouth, letting the moth fly out to brush against Acatl’s lips where it disappeared in a brief, soundless burst of air. For an excruciating moment nothing happened, and despair threatened to drag him under. Is there more? Have we failed after all?

And then life flooded Acatl’s skin, and he took a slow, shallow breath.

Teomitl wanted to cheer. He wanted to sob. He wanted to curl up around Acatl and go to sleep for a month. He did none of those things. Acatl’s face was practically in his lap, filling him with so much tenderness he thought he might die of it; before he could even think to remember his audience, he reached down and cupped Acatl’s cheek, revelling in the warmth of living blood under his hands.

Thank the gods. Thank you, Lord and Lady Death, for this gift of Acatl’s life.

Things started to move quickly after that. Acatl was borne on a stretcher to recuperate in the palace, where the She-Snake had arranged for a team of Patecatl’s priests to meet him. Teomitl wondered if they’d be any use or if they’d just stand around making concerned noises; being brought back from the dead was surely not common enough to warrant a page in their codices. He supposed that if nothing else, they could do something about what promised to be some truly spectacular bruising on his throat. He wanted to go with him—surely he couldn’t be expected to leave Acatl alone, no matter that Mihmatini refused to leave his side—but when he tried to stand up he almost fell over, and Neutemoc had to help him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he muttered, face burning.

Neutemoc squeezed his shoulder, a brotherly gesture he’d never gotten from his own brothers. His eyes were suspiciously wet. “You brought my brother back. I should be thanking you.”

There were still too many people around. He couldn’t fall to pieces yet. “I won’t accept it. Anyone would have done the same.”

Neutemoc gave him a dry look so reminiscent of Acatl that he felt his throat close up. Before he could do or say anything else emotional, he shrugged off his hand and left. Star demons or no, he needed to be out in the sunlight. He needed to remind himself that he was alive, that they’d won at least this small victory.

The sun fell across his shoulders like a warm blanket, and he soaked it in with his eyes closed for a long, blissful moment. Here, there were no star demons. Here, there was no yawning chasm of power in the Mexica Empire. Here, he didn’t need to worry about consequences or the things he had left to do. Tizoc was dead, and Acatl was alive. The sun woke answering warmth in his blood. He could pretend he was free.

Then he opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky. The clear blue sky, with not a single errant star piercing through the fabric of the heavens. His mind went blank in shock. We don’t have a Revered Speaker. Nobody should be channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power in the Fifth World right now. This shouldn’t be happening.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, and took a second look. The sky remained clear. He squinted, trying to see if the tiny pale speck was a star or—no, it was just a cloud. The sky was still clear, and now his temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.

Footsteps behind him announced Quenami’s presence before the man spoke. “Well. Congratulations, my lord.”

He resisted the urge to whirl around and strangle the man with his bare hands. There’d be no point to it now that Acatl was alive. “Mn?” He didn’t mean to make it a question, but even for him Quenami was being obsequious.

Quenami chose his words with the air of a man picking his way through a field of obsidian knives. “Acatl has been restored to life thanks to you, and it...appears...that Huitzilopochtli has taken a liking to your bravery in walking into His enemy’s domain. Allow me to be the first to greet my new Revered Speaker-in-waiting.”

Oh. He stared down at his hands, seeing for the first time the faint tracery of gold glimmering over his skin, the warmth that he’d thought had just been the sun. In a manner of speaking, he’d been right. The Southern Hummingbird’s blessing. Is this what Mictecacihuatl meant? As he turned the idea over in his mind, his fists clenched. If the gods were choosing him for the office, then he would be worthy of it.

He would start by being honest. With himself, with Acatl, and with those less deserving.

“If you ever again address Acatl-tzin with less than full respect, Quenami, I will cut out your tongue.”

&

Darkness.

Pain.

It was the first thing that greeted Acatl as he swam up from the depths of unconsciousness. Everything hurt. His joints throbbed, his skin tingled, and his back ached. And his throat...his throat was the worst. It felt as though it had been squeezed shut, so sore and swollen that even breathing was agony. He lay flat on his back, staring at the inside of his closed lids, and tried to remember why that should be. The last thing he could recall with any certainty was the sham of a trial Tizoc and Quenami had put him through, where he’d been unable to mount even a few words in his own defense without drooling like an imbecile. And then...

The verdict. The flower garland. The courtyard. The ahuitzotls singing to him.

Teomitl.

He tried to stir, but at first his limbs refused to obey him. Alright then, he thought, small steps. Though it felt like moving an entire mountain, he could wiggle his toes. His fingers were next. His arms and legs felt constrained by something, but as he shifted he realized why. Instead of his own thin reed mat, he was laying on at least two thick new ones, and someone had covered him with a light cotton blanket like an invalid. He should have been sweating in the summer heat, but there was a chill sunken into his bones. The last thing he remembered was the garrote cutting off his breath. Swallowing brought a spasm of pain, a dry clicking noise, and the realization that he was desperately thirsty. “Mngh...”

“My lady? He’s waking.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Mihmatini. She was safe, then. Whatever Tizoc had done, it hadn’t touched her. He thought she must be close by; he could hear the rustle of her skirts and smell the faint piney scent of copal incense. The small hand laid on his forehead was reassuringly warm. “Acatl, can you speak? How do you feel?”

“Grmngh.” He swallowed again. With another monumental effort, he wedged his eyes open. Mihmatini’s face swam into focus above him, pinched with worry but blessedly not bearing any injuries he could see. She’d braided her hair at some point, but now the simple plait was in disarray. The dark circles under her eyes looked bruised in the dim afternoon light, and there was fresh blood beading at her earlobes. I must be in terrible shape. “Sore,” he croaked, and then, “Water...?”

Water was brought, mixed with fresh-tasting medicinal herbs. He tried to push himself up and failed; his muscles were like softened rubber trying to move the cold, solid rock of his own flesh. Mihmatini’s hand at his back molded him into a more or less upright position so that he could drain the cup offered by a slave he recognized as Oyahuaca, ignoring both women’s concerned glances until he was hydrated enough to speak without feeling like he was gargling knives. It helped a little. Not much—gods help him, he was still so damnably weak, and his throat was in agony—but a little. He could think now, and with thought came questions. “What...what happened? Where’s Teomitl?” The ahuitzotls were singing. I know I heard them. Where they are, Teomitl wouldn’t be far behind.

Mihmatini shot a sharp look at Oyahuaca. “Fetch the Revered Speaker while I fill my brother in on what he’s missed.”

He heard the words, but they seemed to be slow in assembling themselves into a coherent sentence. The Revered Speaker? What did that have to do with Teomitl? Gods, he prayed they hadn’t elected Tizoc while he was indisposed. He couldn’t see that going well for anyone, not with that man’s paranoia given free reign. And Teomitl would surely be furious if that was the case, which wouldn’t improve the situation. He’d been in enough of a temper recently that Acatl really didn’t want to see what it looked like if it got worse. That wasn’t even mentioning the star demons. Was Tizoc even capable of channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power? Somehow he doubted it, Master of the House of Darts or no. It would be just my luck to survive a garroting and immediately have my soul eaten by a star demon, he thought sourly.

It wasn’t until Oyahuaca rose and left at a pace that wasn’t quite a run that he managed to say anything. “Mihmatini.”

She took a deep breath, staring down at her hands. “Do you remember the courtyard? The—the flower garland?”

He nodded dully. It wasn’t likely he’d ever forget. His knees throbbed, a sense-memory of cold stone and naked fear. Of searing pain and darkness and the knowledge that he would die with things left unsaid. Knowing that he now had the chance to say them didn’t bring him any comfort. It wasn’t as though he realistically could, not if he expected a favorable outcome. “There were ahuitzotls.” And then there’d been nothing else. He’d blacked out, probably.

“Well.” She took another breath, hands clenching into fists. “The ahuitzotls were too late. You...” Oh no. There were tears in her eyes. “Teomitl arrived in time to see you die.”

No. His chest felt suddenly too tight, his hammering heart the only thing he could focus on. As if in a dream, he looked down at his hands and knew she was telling the truth. If he engaged his priestly senses, he could see the ghostly tendons and bones under his skin. The dry, cold, acidic emptiness of Mictlan gnawed sharp and vicious at his stomach, too close to the surface. He felt colder than ever. “I...”

I died. I died, and yet I am here. He sucked in a slow breath, tasting ash and herbs and cold water. Another breath brought the sour stench of the sickroom. He’d died. He’d died, and somehow he’d been brought back. Somehow he was here with a pounding heart and aches in all his bones, the pain further proof that he yet lived. Mihmatini sat close enough that he could feel her warmth; when he sniffed, the mingled scents of her perfume and a distant kitchen filled his nostrils. Someone was roasting chilies, and it made his stomach growl lightly. Alive.

Mihmatini was still talking, and he struggled to keep up with it. “He killed Tizoc on the spot. He would have killed Quenami, too, if that dog’s son hadn’t led the ritual to bring your soul back from Mictlan. After...after that, apparently the Southern Hummingbird made it known in no uncertain terms who He was choosing to wield His powers in the Fifth World, so the rest of the council elected to instate Teomitl as Revered Speaker.” She swallowed. “You’ve...you’ve been unconscious for a week. You missed his coronation.”

What?!

Teomitl was Revered Speaker? That was... Acatl shook his head in disbelief. He’s too young was his first thought, but immediately he knew that was wrong. He certainly wasn’t too young to take prisoners in battle, to be personally chosen by Huitzilopochtli. To be the man Acatl realized, with a sinking heart, that he was definitely still in love with, because the idea of Teomitl wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown and still calling him Acatl-tzin, still looking to him for guidance, was doing something very strange to his emotions. He thought he might laugh. Or cry. Either was a distinct possibility.

It was too much. Mind spinning, he grabbed one thing out of the swarm of questions thronging his mind to focus on. He couldn’t handle politics now, not in the state he was in, but the workings of even the most esoteric magical rituals were refreshingly familiar. Even if they involved—ugh—Quenami. “Lord Death should not have released me. So...how...?”

A faint smile crossed Mihmatini’s face. “You should ask Teomitl about that when he arrives. He’s been very worried about you, no matter how many of us tell him that you’re recovering well. If it wasn’t for his coronation, I really don’t think he’d ever leave your side.”

He felt himself blush. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

She snorted and gently shoved at his shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m sure I’m not! He loves you more than he does me.”

He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. He sat in silence for a moment, willing the words to make sense. Mihmatini had to have said something else—meant something else. When she didn’t follow up with any sort of clarification and he realized she was looking at him for a reaction, he found his voice cracking in shock. “He—what?!”

“You heard me.” And now she was unmistakably smiling. For the first time in his life, Acatl wanted a cup with something significantly stronger than water.

It didn’t seem likely that he’d get it. She was still looking at him, seemingly happy as anything, and she’d just told him that the man she was courting was in love with him. He didn’t need to pinch himself—he was in quite enough pain that he knew perfectly well he had to be alive and conscious, thank you very much—but it still didn’t seem real. He couldn’t be that fortunate. He’d made his peace, hadn’t he? He’d determined already that he would go to the grave with his feelings rather than ruin the relationship Teomitl and Mihmatini were building.

Except he had gone to the grave. And somehow—he was not giving Quenami all the credit, he flatly refused, a man had to have some limits—he’d been pulled out of it. And now Mihmatini was telling him that Teomitl had been worried about him. That it had taken the long, painstakingly involved rituals of a royal coronation to pull him away from Acatl’s sickbed. That he loved him. “But you...he...” At a complete loss for words, he gestured in the air between them.

She shrugged carelessly. “Oh, the wedding is still on. We were waiting for you to wake. But I’m not first in his heart, and that suits me fine.”

He swallowed, another grinding flash of pain. Belatedly he remembered his water, and took a long gulp before answering. “...If you’re happy.” Regardless of whether she was the Guardian of the Duality or Teomitl’s wife, she’d always be his little sister. Her happiness was far, far more important to him than his own heart. Even if it seemed, amazingly, that he had nothing to fear.

“I am.” Her grin made her whole face glow. “And you?”

“What about me?” She didn’t know. He was entirely sure she didn’t know, not when he’d only realized it himself moments before he died.

She swatted him again. “Tizoc is dead, you’re alive, and you very definitely have the favor of our new Revered Speaker. The boundaries are safe. The star demons aren’t a threat anymore. I’d say that’s plenty enough to be happy about.”

He had to sit with that for a moment, still clutching his empty cup in both hands. She was right, of course. He was alive. They were safe. Teomitl was Emperor now, and he was no paranoid coward like his brother had been. No, instead he was brave and strong and whip-smart and he...Mihmatini said he might... Gods, he thought dizzily. He had thought there was no chance. He had died thinking there was no chance.

Mihmatini was looking at him. He choked out a grunt. It was the closest he could get to an actual response.

Someone was sprinting down the hallway outside. It was all the warning he got before the entrance curtain was yanked aside so roughly that it nearly came off its hanging rod; the cacophony of bells that announced the intrusion nearly drowned out the cry of, “Acatl-tzin!” that accompanied it. Teomitl stood in the doorway for a moment, relief plain on his face and the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown equally plain on his head.

Acatl couldn’t look away. He’s been crowned. He is my Emperor now. And he still...he still calls me Acatl-tzin. He wanted to laugh for the sheer joy of it.

Mihmatini rose gracefully, but the smile she turned on Teomitl had an edge to it. “I’ll leave you to talk.”

&

After Mihmatini left, all Acatl could do was stare at Teomitl. Absurdly, he thought, He looks the same. The same lean, solidly muscled build, the same nose and eyes, the same little scar on one elbow where a training sword had caught him as a child. True, his cloak and sandals were rich turquoise, his earrings and lip plug were jade and gold, and there was a slender emerald rod piercing his nose, but his face hadn’t changed. It was still open and guileless, every emotion writ clear. He loves you, Mihmatini had said. Acatl thought he could believe it.

Slowly, carefully, Teomitl sank down next to his mat. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Acatl’s face; for a moment Acatl thought he was going to reach for him, but he seemed to think better of it. “I...how are you feeling?”

How am I feeling, he asks. Again he thought he could laugh, but there was no joy in it; under his skin, dry dust rustled like paper. His bones still ached. Even with the blanket over him, there was a chill clinging to his skin. The words were out before he could stop them, more acidic than he’d intended. “...I’ve just been dead, Teomitl. How do you think?”

Teomitl jerked back, glaring at him with more hurt than anger. “It’s a valid concern!” He swallowed once, visibly, and added in a softer voice, “We weren’t sure when you’d wake.”

There was a tremor to the words Acatl really didn’t like, and Mihmatini’s words crossed his mind again. She’d never answered the question of how he’d returned. Part of him didn’t want to know. He was alive, wasn’t he? Let the details rest. But if Teomitl had done something...ill-advised to bring him back, then it was his responsibility to help fix it. Even now that Teomitl was Revered Speaker, it was still his responsibility. He took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt so much anymore. “I’m just glad to be able to wake at all. Mihmatini told me that Quenami provided the magic, but how...?”

Teomitl dropped his gaze, but his voice was firm; his shoulders rolled as though he was preparing for a fight. “...Someone had to go into Mictlan. I volunteered.”

What. The words crystallized in his mind, horror slicing like swords. It’s one thing for me to go—I am Lord Death’s servant! But Teomitl, sworn to the Southern Hummingbird and Jade Skirt, walking through enemy territory—for me—

“Lord Death was...willing to release your soul to me.”

He forced himself to breathe. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. For Teomitl to walk back to the Fifth World with my soul... With dread gripping his heart in eagle claws, he forced out, “What did He want in exchange?”

Silence. Teomitl closed his eyes on a long exhale.

“What did He want, Teomitl?!”

“Mine!” Teomitl’s eyes snapped open, filled with an anguished emotion Acatl couldn’t even begin to unravel. His fists clenched, white-knuckled, as he caught Acatl’s gaze and held it; he was stunned to see tears in his eyes. For all that, his voice held steady with barely a waver. “I offered Him my soul in exchange for yours, and He accepted. When I die...I’ll go to Mictlan. And it will be worth it, Acatl-tzin, do you understand?” He raised his voice right over the feeble noise that escaped Acatl’s lips. “It will! Because I lied to Tizoc, you’re mine, and I couldn’t let you die!”

Horror—he did that for me, gave up all hope of the Sun’s Heaven for me—almost threatened to swamp him. Teomitl was a warrior. He was the Emperor. He deserved an eternity by the side of the Sun, and he’d thrown it all away for him. For a poor priest from a family of peasants.

“I’m what,” he choked out. “Teomitl, what were you thinking?!”

“You heard me!” Teomitl snapped, making a furious stabbing motion with his hand.

His heart felt as though it had, impossibly, migrated up into his throat. He could barely speak around it. “But I...but...” Your soul. The place in the heavens you deserve. Even Tizoc might go there, if he died with a weapon in his hand. And you never will.

Teomitl had clearly decided there was no room for remorse or second-guessing himself. He raised his voice to a snarl. “No buts!” He jerked his head to one side, eyes shutting too slowly to stop the trickle of tears down his face. Acatl felt his heart crack in two at the sight. It was worse when Teomitl scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a hand, made a horribly wet throat-clearing noise, and bit out, “You’re the most important person in the world to me, Acatl-tzin.”

Helpless, he reached for him—and stopped. No matter how much he wanted to pull Teomitl into his arms, he had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well. “I’m not—” He stopped. Started again. “I’m just—”

Teomitl looked up, glaring at him through reddened eyes. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. Your life is worth more to me than anything else.”

Including your brother. He didn’t say that. His own eyes burned. “Mihmatini told me Tizoc-tzin is dead.”

“He is.” Teomitl’s voice was striving for neutrality, but there was too much bitter fury still lingering in it for it to ring true. That, and he still sounded close to tears.

Acatl had to swallow tears of his own and wished for more water. “By your hand?” He found he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Yes, brothers should stand by brothers, and unquestionably that precluded murder. On the other hand...well. He could admit to a certain petty vindictiveness. Tizoc had executed him for a crime he hadn’t even committed. That certainly deserved death in return.

“I had to,” Teomitl said simply. Now he sounded steady, but his knuckles had gone white where he’d grabbed a fistful of his jade-beaded cloak.

“...Why?” But even as he asked, he knew the answer. The knot in his chest started to loosen, and he found he could breathe.

Teomitl recoiled, staring at him incredulously. “For you, you fool!” It came out ragged, raw. He had to take a breath before continuing, “I saw you and—Tizoc tore my heart from my chest when he killed you, Acatl-tzin. I returned the favor.”

Oh. Oh. Mihmatini was right. By the Duality, she was right. And so was Teomitl; he was a fool, because he’d thought he could possibly have hidden how he felt. There would be no hiding this. His heart was hammering so fiercely he could feel it in his fingertips. He was still exhausted, still sore from his encounter with death, but that didn’t matter next to the cataclysm of emotion swirling through him. It was for me. He went into Mictlan for me, slew his own brother for me. Because...

It still didn’t seem possible. He was no great warrior or dazzling beauty. He would bring no glory to his clan. He could only hope to be a good man, to serve the gods and the empire well. And yet somehow, he’d earned a place in Teomitl’s heart.

“...Teomitl.” It seemed to be the only word in his reeling mind. He realized he was leaning closer, that it would be so easy for him to close the distance between them, and only just stopped himself in time.

Teomitl swallowed convulsively, dropping his gaze. Even in the dim light afforded to them, it was easy to see him turn a dull, dark red. “I—” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Acatl’s and squeezing tight. “Acatl-tzin. Acatl.”

He’d never heard his name like that before—harsh and desperate, unspoken emotion ringing through it like bells. It made his heart skip a beat, and for a moment he could barely breathe. “Are you not...?” The Revered Speaker, he wanted to say, as far above me as the sun in the sky. But the words lodged in his throat and stuck there; helpless, he gestured to Teomitl’s turquoise adornments with his free hand. The other one was still held firmly in Teomitl’s grasp, making it easy for him to tangle their fingers together. Whether you are or not, I’m yours.

It must have been the right thing to do, because Teomitl was looking at him again. “Yes. But...” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Acatl’s focus followed it. “To you, I want to be Teomitl.”

He wasn’t cold anymore. Warmth pulsed through him like another heart, and Mictlan’s chill had never felt farther away. “And...” The words were out before he could call them back; maybe it was a stupid question, but he had to know. He had to be sure, before he did something he might regret. There were many different ways to love, and it was entirely possible that what Teomitl had said and what Mihmatini had heard were two entirely different things than the emotion coursing through him now. “Is that all you want from me?” Please say it isn’t, he thought desperately. Please say I’m not the only one willing to follow anywhere this leads.

Teomitl’s thumb smoothed over Acatl’s fingers, very nearly distracting him from his words. “No,” he said simply.

Now he knew he wasn’t breathing. Teomitl’s hand on his was his greatest anchor to the earth. “Ngh?”

Teomitl smiled, brief and radiant, as his gaze drifted pointedly to Acatl’s mouth. “When you are well enough, I’m going to kiss you.”

It was a simple statement of fact—the sky is blue, Grandmother Earth is hungry, I am going to kiss you. Acatl took a moment to breathe, feeling the foundations of his world lift and resettle themselves to account for this new version of reality. His limbs still felt too heavy and his throat was a dull-edged sword of pain, but none of that mattered. Teomitl had brought him back to life, saved the Fifth World, loved him.

He tilted his head and leaned in, the clearest invitation he could give. “...I’m well enough now.”

Teomitl closed the distance.

He’d thought about what kissing Teomitl might be like. He’d been ashamed, yes, but Teomitl was an attractive youth who smiled easily and his vow of celibacy didn’t make him a eunuch. He’d imagined something rough and passionate, maybe a little clumsy in his eagerness. He’d imagined more teeth. He hadn’t imagined soft, gentle lips pressed to his, coaxing his mouth open. He loves me. It was the easiest thing in the world to relax into it, letting the arm Teomitl slid around him take his weight as he kissed back.

From there it was only natural to pull him close in return. Acatl rested a hand at his waist, revelling in the heat of the smooth skin there and the small, soft noise Teomitl made into his mouth. It almost sounded surprised, and he couldn’t help but smile. Did you not think I wanted to touch you? Oh, but it was too difficult to kiss someone when you were smiling, and soon he had to pull away. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

“Acatl.” Teomitl was smiling too; they bumped noses, and Acatl had to suppress a little bubble of laughter. “You don’t know how happy I am right now.”

“I think I can guess.” He ran his fingers lightly over Teomitl’s side—too lightly, evidently, because it startled a squeaky, adorable giggle out of him. He hadn’t realized Teomitl could laugh like that. He certainly hadn’t realized the man was ticklish. Now there was no use suppressing his delight, nor the grin that threatened to split his face.

Teomitl’s eyes narrowed warily, but without any real heat. “Do not. I swear to the Duality, I’ll take back everything I just said.”

He decided to be merciful, smoothing his hand over the skin instead and watching the delicate little shiver that resulted. “You won’t. You never break your word.” He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Teomitl loves me. I love him in return. That will never change, not in this world.

“Mm.” Teomitl kissed him again, brief and sweet. “No, but I wouldn’t mind the chance to say it again properly.”

“Properly?” He’d done an excellent job of expressing his feelings as far as Acatl was concerned. There was surely no chance of him misunderstanding kisses like that, not when they were still making his skin tingle.

But apparently Teomitl disagreed. He blushed again, averting his gaze. “This isn’t how I wanted to say...any of that,” he muttered. “I had plans. And besides, I was hardly sure you were going to listen!”

He felt like he’d been stabbed. How long? How long was he carrying this? And I was blind. I didn’t even realize what was in my own heart until the last moment. Duality curse him, he’d been a prize idiot. “Teomitl...” he murmured.

Teomitl glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. There was the faintest hint of a rueful smile on his face. “I thought for sure it was doomed,” he muttered. “That I’d have to take it to my grave. I thought I didn’t have a chance.”

Acatl was already shaking his head. Or rather, he shook his head once; continuing the motion reminded him he’d been recently strangled, and his neck muscles had opinions on that. “You thought wrong. I...” But he stumbled over the words, flustered.

“Hm?” He was acutely aware of the way Teomitl froze, watching him.

Well, there was no stopping it now. And it was the truth, besides. “I love you,” he blurted out.

Teomitl went spectacularly crimson, but Acatl didn’t have much time to admire the view because then they were kissing again. It was still slow and careful, but this time Teomitl shifted to lay them both onto the mat and that turned out to be considerably easier on his sore muscles, not to mention giving him an excellent chance to skim a palm all the way down the exposed skin of Teomitl’s side. Teomitl hummed into his mouth, an intoxicating noise. “Mmm...”

Even when he broke the kiss, he didn’t go far. He didn’t want to. “Does that mean you believe me?”

Teomitl’s smile was like a sun rising. “You’re right. Mictlan might have my soul, Acatl, but my heart is yours.”

He’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten. He closed his eyes, unwillingly assaulted with far too vivid memories of the cold and the darkness and the dust. But he still tasted Teomitl’s mouth on his when he licked his lips, and that helped to banish it a little. “I still cannot believe you did that,” he muttered.

Teomitl held him tighter, huffing out an annoyed-sounding breath. “I had nothing else to give. Oblivion is worth it as long as I can spend my life with you.”

He inhaled sharply. “Oh, Teomitl.”

There was nothing for it but to draw Teomitl in for another kiss, this one deeper; as hands found his hair, his own dug into Teomitl’s skin. After a second’s worth of surprise, Teomitl returned the fervor with a growl. There were the teeth he’d been wondering about, and he welcomed them. If he’d had the energy—if the Revered Speaker could be assured of any privacy at all—he would have allowed himself to crave more. Since they couldn’t, he settled for catching Teomitl’s lower lip lightly between his teeth and thrilling in the soft gasp before he pulled away just far enough to breathe, “Then I hope we die on the same day, in the same hour. I won’t let you walk through Mictlan alone.” Not again, at any rate.

Teomitl grinned at him. “It will be a good journey.”

Upon their deaths, they would both dissolve into dust at the foot of Lord Death’s throne. But here and now, they were alive. Acatl found he was looking forward to that.

[inexorableblob]

Twist and Shout, Tear it All Out

For @flashfictionfridayofficial​ I’ve got a long-winded one this week.

Twisted Dreams was the winning selection, I don’t know that I voted for it, but I certainly could have done so, and it’s a fitting combination with something I’ve been wanting to write.  This is probably going to get edited instead of used directly, but it’ll probably work as a rough inspiration.

Word count:  Close to a thousand!  Ok, technically over!  What are you going to do, edit them down for me?  

Content warning:  It’s some freaky dreams, seriously.

The stone is cold and damp under my bare feet, rough steps leading down, a winding tunnel spiraling into the depths.  It should be dark, but I can see, I can see myself, the ragged, torn, and dirty clothes I am wearing, the hair on my head shaved off, the sharp steel knife held in my hand, the pained look on my face as I finally reach the bottom, a narrow gash that I struggle to slip through, feeling the rough edges tear at me as I slip within.

The cave is vast and open, yet somehow confining, as if its curving walls were pushing down towards me.  A breeze touches my body, like a warm breath on my skin.  Sand covers the floor, white and powdery, tiny clouds kicking up as I stride through, heading for the center, where I can see a pillar jutting up, reaching to the heights of the ceiling far above, and as I close, I can see a creature tied to it, a cord of red rope holding it fast even as it strains to escape.

I see it now, a black furred animal, with little white horns on its head, hooved feet digging into the sand, a tiny thing, desperately afraid, bleating raggedly.  Tears form in my eyes, and I snatch it up, grabbing at it with my free hand, pulling it close against me, feeling it shudder as I hold it tightly.

In an instant, I know why I've come here, the purpose of my journey, the reason for being in this place.  With my other hand. I raise my knife and slice it across the crimson rope, cutting through its woven strands until it breaks.

The bundle in my arm makes a noise, I look down, and its skin is falling away, dropping off in little pieces that break off and fade away before they hit the ground.  Now I'm holding a baby, an infant child, that looks up at me, with eyes that are filled with fire, and I blink my own eyes open, looking around.  

My grandparents's house.  The living room.  Right, I had fallen asleep on the couch late in the night, sometime after we had arrived from our long drive.

I struggle to get up, the blanket wrapped tightly around me, my legs are stiff and sore.  Too long in the car yesterday, I can barely stand as I put my feet on the floor.  I'm wearing socks.  White ones.  Faded red pajamas.  It's cold, I can feel the chill seeping up through the floor.  Winter.  Right.  It must be around the holidays.  I look around, seeing nobody, I'm all alone.  Unless there is somebody in the kitchen, perhaps.  I can hear noise, not talking, not from the radio, but a clattering noise of pots and pans being banged around.

I enter the room, my grandmother is standing in her blue robe by the stove, hunched and bent over, head covered against the chill, ears pricked up.  

"Weren't you dead, Grandma?" I ask, curious about her presence.

She turns and looks at me, her eyes yellow and teeth sharp, tongue lolling out.  Clearly she is alive and seemingly healthy, fit as a wolf.  Perhaps I was mistaken about the date.  I only remember her funeral, not the year itself.  I don't know anything else to relate to it.  

"What are you cooking?"  is my next question, I know she used the wooden stove regularly, but I had no idea about the food she prepared.  Not a single meal made by her hands could I recall.  

Grandmother bends down and opens the oven, inside a roasting pan I can see somebody, a person I should know.  No, not one, not two, but three of them, all somehow familiar, but I cannot name them, cannot even tell if they are men or women.  I bend closer to look, hoping to recognize them, and then I feel a push on my back, shoving me into the blistering inferno.

It's hot, too hot for me to stand, I have to take my clothes off before I burn, but as I strip naked, my shirt top covering my sight as I begin to remove it, somehow I feel something stinging me, biting on my back.  I remember when a tick had done so, the icky feel of finding it latched onto my skin, the days it took for the wound to heal.  

I struggle to reach behind myself, to pull it off, but I stumble into the reach of the people in the pan, and they grab at me, holding me down.  

A trumpet plays, sounding odd, sharp shrill notes.  My eyes open again, I look around, this is an odd place, full of little machines that flash and chime, making a terrible cacophony of light and noise.  I try to speak, moving my tongue but no words come out of my mouth.  

My breath is not my own.  A tube hisses as it pushes air into my lungs.  I must have been sick.  In an accident.  Injured somehow.

I can't move my head, but something moves into my line of sight, standing to the left. A glowing figure in a white coat, crowned with a cap of brilliant silver hair.  The twin serpents of the caduceus twisted in a pattern across the sleeves. A physician. A healer.  A sage.

A cup of water is put to my lips, and words come to me, not spoken, but heard like a chorus of thousands singing to my soul.

"Partake of the cup, and heal thyself, be rid of all that burdens you."

The words tempt me, the water is clear and pure, the promise of salvation freely offered.  But I cannot drink, I look at the being before me, and my eyes say what my mouth cannot.  Defiance, even in the face of an angel's loving grace.  

The cup is taken away, and instead warm fingers touch my eyes, closing the lids, and I find myself in darkness again, steps leading down once more, the knife back in my hand, this time, this time I will remember why I’ve come back here.  Why I still need to return.  It’s the only way to get answers.

[mythopoeticreality]

The Road Goes Ever On- Chapter 6

Ayyy! Two Chapters within a week! I’m on a roll!^^ Nah, but I really enjoyed writing this one (Fairies are always fun to write) and I hope ya’ll like it just as much as I do! :)

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/56544772

Chapter 6

He recognized those horns. The same sound that called him from his dreams. Huan’s ears, too, pricked at the sound, and Tyelcormo pulled himself straighter, eyes snapping in it’s direction.

That bone-stirring rumble of an uncountable herd stampeding towards you. The whoops and taunting laughter carried on the air. The haunting moan of the horn, and the baying of the hounds, oddly seeming to grow more echoing and distant as they grew the nearer. But it wasn’t the strangeness of any of it that got to Tyelco. No, of course not. Rather, it was that he knew these sensations, that they were as familiar to him as the the feeling of his own stride or the sound of Huan’s panting breaths.The air nearly pulsing with a heartbeat of its own, feeling sharp as it came into the lungs, and he could nearly feel the powerful muscle of the horses beneath him as they crashed through the trees, coming nearer. To ride and feel those horses break into a run, it was like an awakening. It was to come alive again. That was what a Hunt was, chaos, noise, life, driving onward. Always onward.

And he could feel that pulse now, even from the ground, even separate from them. It called, yet at the same time it repelled. It prickled at the skin, electric. Made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end -- an echo of the ecstasy he felt riding amongst Oromë’s folk. He could feel his muscles pulling bow-sting taught, ready to leap off in a run. Out of his own control it was instinct, the very air whispering to him, Run, now, Run! You are prey now, even as it also called, Come join us! Ride with us! Let us take you away to be a part of our company…

Tyelcormo licked at his lips. Gave his head a sharp shake. No. No. What was this? He had to focus now. He was out here for a reason. Tyelpë. They had to find Tyelpë.

But the night air was stirring, cool and sweet in his lungs and tasting of something he both knew and didn’t. It was as though every star in the heavens had turned it’s eyes upon him and every tree in the surrounding forest was calling for him in the hissing clatter of their leaves.

It was the flash of his father’s knife in Telperion’s light that brought him back. That had Tyelco reaching for his own . It felt safer somehow, more grounding. Like the only solid thing in the world at that moment.

“That will not serve you here. Put it away.” The stranger’s voice. As calm, as firm, as cool as ever. It was the same bloody trick that Curvo used so often, one that had always escaped him.

Atar only scoffed at this, and Tyelco only found himself grasping all the tighter to his own blade. “What? So that I may fall to the same foe that has stolen my grandson without a fight? That I might --”

“Atar, I do not like this.” Curvo. Atar cut himself off to listen. “Something is coming this way, it feels almost planned. What if we were brought out here to meet whoever comes?

At this Atar’s eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening to a needle point. “Is that what you want? Is that why you brought us here? To hand us over to these beings...Servants of Melkor or--”

The stranger sighed, the tone of his voice making clear that he’d said well enough before, “I do not know who this ‘Melkor’ of yours is.”

And here it was Tyelcormo’s turn to scoff. Unwise, perhaps to antagonize their only lead on his nephew’s whereabouts, but it was either to focus on the obvious lies coming dripping from the man’s lips or to that chorus of carried on the wind, intent of drawing him into the deep shadows of the trees.

He needed...he needed to focus. Atar and the Stranger were still talking. Well, they were not talking at the moment, but the stubborn looks traveling between them communicated well enough Atar starred the man down, but his gaze was met in equal measure.

“You do not wish to cause offense. Put your knife away.” The stranger, this Raven King murmured.

A Moment passed, then a moment more. The thunder of Horse’s hooves grew the nearer and the blazing white flash of the hound’s bodies could be seen through the trees. Beautiful creatures, Tyelco could not help but think.

Finally, grudgingly, Atar shoved his knife back into its scabbard again, barking something back to Tyelco and Curvo.

“Atar, why...” Curvo was arguing. Tyelco wasn’t paying attention.

His mind was spinning, edging towards that familiar wild high that he felt every time his horse plunged into a gallop, every time the chase was on. The world itself felt almost unreal somehow, like a sheet of rain that could be blown aside with a strong enough gust of wind. And his nails clawing into his palm, the solidness of the knife handle he held was all that kept him clutching to reality…

Come join us! Come ride with us!

“No!” It came out a strangled shout, and Suddenly Tyelco was aware of a pair of dark eyes boring into his own.

The Stranger’s head just canted to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. Tyelco’s feet remained rooted to the spot, and even as this Raven King approached, the hunter’s own gaze kept flickering back over the stranger’s shoulder, off towards the trees and the ever nearing company.

The stranger’s gaze darted down to Tyelco’ hands. He murmured something to himself, Tyelcormo couldn’t quite catch it. “Clever instincts…” He would have guessed the words were, if forced to it.

The man’s hands came up, were wrapping around Tyelcormo’s own fingers. Tyelco flinched back. Huan snarled. But the stranger remained, prying open the elf’s hand with a surprising gentleness as he slipped the blade up and into Tyelcormo’ grasp.

He spoke...words Tyelcormo couldn’t quite wrap his mind about, cold and ringing as the hammer in the forge, and a shooting pain --as though the steel of the blade had buried itself into the flesh of his hand -- pierced through Tyelco. The world flashed white for an instant, and it felt as though he could barely move for the agony of it.

When his vision cleared, he was staring into the Raven King’s eyes once more.“Remember your purpose here.” Was all the man said, before stepping away again, and turning back to face the Hunt now gathered all before them.

They were a troop of wild figures, some clad in clinging garments of tattered furs and leathers, and iridescent feathers, others in tunics and robes woven from...from things Tyelcormo couldn’t recognize --or rather he could but to say it aloud would be utter madness! Autumn Evenings and Forest Mists…

At their head rode their leader, his hair a wild mass of curls who’s color brought to mind nothing so much as autumn leaves and leaping sparks. Wide-shouldered and tall, with eyes that danced with reflected torchlight, he seemed to Tyelco’s eyes so sharply cut out from the shadows that surrounded him. His mind couldn’t help but travel to the golden-warm light of the campfires of those nights he spent camping out with Oromë’s hunt, of the laughter and joy of his own companions as they sat ‘round, figures emerging from the obscurity of those surrounding shadows into the flickering light. The echoes of that laughter played at the edge of his hearing now, while in his chest rose that restless joy, and more then that. That fleeting sense he got when sitting beneath the wide field of stars above, or when riding along the roots of the Pelori, and seeing the mountains tower above him. And all of that wrapped in the man who stood before them, who’s eyes were raking over both he and Huan.

Celegorm found himself standing straighter, feeling that gaze on him. And in snaked that thought, whispering at the back of his mind, Yes, I could follow him…

A jolt. A piercing, spasming agony stabbing through his hand, flashing white again before his eyes. His ears rang, as though he were entering Atar’s forge.

“...With friends this time as well I see!” The Huntsman’s voice, reaching him as his vision cleared. Speaking to the Raven King. “And were you not just warning us of the dangers of such things?”

Tyelcormo blinked, both breath and body shaking. His eyes dropped down to his hand, still grasping that knife blade...but still whole….

He shook himself, trying to push off the half-formed thoughts still drifting through his mind. Tyelpë. He was out here to find Tyelpë.

There was a low, questioning whine from Huan. “Are you alright? What did he do to --”

“No, No, I am...fine. Fine.” Tyecomo felt off to even be saying it somehow. But..he was. His mind in fact felt far clearer than it had before…

And now, thinking on it, there was something about the question the Hunstaman asked that Tylcormo did not like, not with the way the Huntsman was looking at them, sizing them up like harts for the kill.

~*~

It was not a question the Raven King himself much liked either. A trap, either to expose hypocrisy on his part, or to feel out whether these men here, these ‘friends’ as the Huntsman -- Sacha was the name he used here -- called them, were free for the taking. There was no good answer of course. There rarely were in such situations. And so John said nothing, simply shrugging the words off as though they were nothing, not even worthy of his consideration.

To this, Sacha simply laughed. He quickly shook his head, swatting aside his own words as though they were so many buzzing flies. “Oh, but no matter, I certainly hold nothing against you. Is that Prince Fëanáro I see?” He leaned forward on his horse, eyeing John’s guide, before slipping down and striding nearer.

The Hound lept, suddenly between the Sidhe and John’s guide, leaning down low, teeth bared as he snarled.

In surprise Sacha stepped back, his eyes wide, yet in a moment he was laughing once more. “Ah! And one of Arōmēz’s mighty hounds as well! Which means…”

He was gone, suddenly there behind John, standing there before the Rider, lips curling into a cat’s grin. “The third one, the hunter. And a handsome one he is, as well…” Sacha reached up, as though to brush his hand along the Rider’s jawline, but the man stumbled backwards.

John’s guide-- Fëanáro, apparently -- nearly growled. “Get away from my son.”

Blunt, perhaps too much so, though here at least John could not fault him. The man protected what was his. Would he, himself have not drawn such a line just as clearly?

The other son -- the father of the boy who was missing, that was -- was bristling by now, reaching again for his knife, and the hound was now wildly barking, readying itself to pounce on the Sidhe.

By the time the Hound bounded forward though, even as the missing boy’s father had freed blade from scabbard, Sacha was gone, once more standing before Fëanáro. A brief drama was quickly unfolding across his features. His brows shot up, and he looked at Fëanáro as though he’d just been shouted at by an ant-hill he’d kicked over (truth to tell, he likely would have been less surprised by shouting ant-hills). That surprise lasted only a moment though, before his expression morphed into a wide grin.

“Ah! You must forgive me!” The Sidhe said, hand to heart and bowing his head, “To speak of you without speaking to you! How rude indeed! I had no idea that you might understand, however! And, of course, young Starling here” He gestured back towards John at this, as John gnawed at the inside of his lip, forcing down rising irritation, “Does not speak Quenya.”

With the sort of whimsicality that could be posessed only by one of the Sidhe, Sacha immediately brightened then,“But that is no matter now, of course. Though I must admit I am rather surprised at running across you out here! Should you not be in Tirion, astounding all with your latest creation?”

There was silence in that first moment, as Fëanáro stood there, blinking. Just trying to trace out just how the conversation had found itself here. Despite himself, The Raven King could not help but find himself just slightly amused by it. Going by the expression the man wore, it seemed Fëanáro was not often one to find himself dumbfounded. All through the Huntsman’s speech he’d looked suitably unimpressed, and now that the Sidhe was here speaking to him as though they were old friends?

“And who are you to ask?” Fëanáro asked, finally finding his voice.

Painfully blunt, and with a Prince’s pride.. The Raven King sighed from where he stood watching. He should expect no different of course.He should have recognized it from the first. The man had the pride of a King’s son, after all -- and there shone a sign one could spot whether it was Faerie, England, France or Scotland who’s earth they stood upon. No, the Raven King knew the air royalty carried about it by now. He was unsurprised.

He was not pleased with it -- neither that pride nor whatever rash actions would be taken to soothe it. But he was unsurprised.

And now, before things grew too out of hand, it seemed he would have to intervene…

“He is a Sidhe Lord,” John interjected, “and perhaps one of the mightiest within the regions of Faerie that border your realm.” Perhaps the flattery would mollify Sacha. He was hoping at least the words would give the Prince hint enough to get him to stop talking.

“Quite. Who am I indeed!” Sacha scoffed, turning back to John, “I would advise you against taking with you such an ill-mannered creature --”

“What did you just--”

The rest came out a strangled sound, leaving Fëanáro wide eyed and clutching at his throat. His sons were shouting, just behind John, rushing towards their father as he gasped and mouth working, yet no sound emerging.

“Really now!” The Sidhe rolled his eyes, and he let his hand fall back to his side and turned to John, saying so casually, “I am half tempted to kill him, you know. The night’s hunt has been frustrating enough as it is.”

The tension in the air suddenly increased a thousandfold, underlined by a low snarl from the hound, as it’s master’s eyes flashed.

The look alone that the Raven King gave the Sidhe was a warning in and of itself.

“Oh, you know I would never. There are laws and customs, after all, and I am no barbarian! They are yours, these Elves, and I would not interfere!”

The Raven King responded with a low hum. “Yet all I have seen would suggest otherwise.”

Sparks lit in Sacha’s eyes. “Oh, is that so, now? Is something amiss, young Starling?”

A shrug was all the Magician gave in reply, as his gaze glanced back over the Huntsman’s shoulder. “You are missing two amongst your number.” He murmured.

“Hrmmm?” The Sidhe’s brows shot up and he glanced backwards. “Ah! So it seems!”

“Who is it?”

“Come again?”

“Who left?”

“Why, Starling, What interest you seem to be taking in the going on of my court!”

A faint smile just touched at the Raven King’ lips. It was not a pleasant smile. “Should I not? I came here in hopes of solidifying an alliance with you, after all.” The rest of that sentance, ‘I should hate to leave instead an enemy.’ was left to hang silently upon the air.

There was a moment, just briefly, where Sacha held the Magician under his gaze, regarding him almost thoughtfully.

“I have had some trouble in keeping track of Tethil recently. He has always been one of my more flighty companions, of course, and since his cousin arrived in my realm for a visit…?”

“Cousin?”

“Oh, I forget his name...some young Lord or King from the other side of Faerie, nearer to your own realm I believe...”

“I see.” Nearer to his own realm...huh, well it seemed now this short detour was now spanning across Faerie...

“If either have crossed you, I should like to know about it.” Sacha went on. The corner of John’s lips quirked upward at the tone in his voice. If they were crossing him, they were endangering this alliance for their Lord. Getting in his way. And that, John doubted, he would appreciate much at all.

“Perhaps I shall leave it to you then. For now however…”

“Yes, you must find them, I suppose?”

“Indeed. Better luck on your hunt, Sacha”

“And I wish you the same on yours, Starling.”

And with those words the Huntsman turned and mounted his horse again. Heels digging into the magnificent creature’s side, he urged it onward, plunging into the night air, cloaks and manes swirling and snapping behind them as the shining company thundered past.

Even before the distant rumble of hooves against the hard packed earth stopped echoing in the Magician’s bones, he was turning to face the other three. They had already gathered together, each with a face like granite as they stared John down

“Enough of this.” It was the Rider who spoke, standing nearest to John. “what was that? You owe us something of an explanation. We go no further with you until we know just what is going on.”

Until you know what happened to you… John could not help but think. The man was still grasping onto his knife blade, only sliding it away, back into it’s scabbard once he realized that the Raven King was indeed looking. It had been a patchwork of a spell, that he knew. He’d not had enough time to do the magic properly of course, to call upon the bees and the moon --if she could even hear him here! But it seemed it had served him well enough, in the circumstance.

Nail his hand with an iron nail so that he shall not raise it to do the deceiver's bidding.

Or, well, a hunting knife could serve just as well in a pinch.

“Then that is your choice to make.” The Raven King replied, quite simply. Fëanáro and the lost boy’s father were now turning, wide eyed, on the Rider, clearly with something to say for themselves about this. Why would they not have? They were the ones who needed his help, after all.

The Rider simply smirked, however, nodding back towards the Trees. Out of the corner of his vision John could just catch the motion of white flapping wings. A hoot as the bird settled on a nearby branch. “Yes, and I am sure Lady Varda will be glad to hear that you have gone.”

Clumsy. But it was a start now…

John canted his head to the side, brows edging up his forehead.“I owe it to you, is that so?” he repeated.

“Yes.” The Rider insisted, staring stone-faced right back at John.

“No. I owe you nothing.” Indeed considering what he had just saved the man from it rather seemed the other way around. But John gave a shrug and there was a short pause. The Raven King raked his eyes over the Rider, and the missing boy’s father beside him. “That said, I will tell you, if only to prevent any further foolishness along the way.”

At this the Magician’s eyes fell squarely upon Fëanáro, who opened his mouth to protest --only for silence to emerge.

“Now,” the Raven King said, crossing his legs beneath him as he sat upon the forest floor, looking as at home in that very spot as he might have upon a throne, “Where shall I begin?”