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systlinsideblog · 3 years

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Part 6

There was a terrible disorientation, darkness, pressure, and then he was lying facedown on something soft. He flinched as a familiar weight thunked against the back of his thighs; his shield. His sword was still in hand; he was gripping it tightly, out of pure instinct.

Somewhere above him was movement, and the sound of a sword being half drawn, and then a gasp. He recognized the distinctive traits of all three; and decided to simply lie there a bit yet. He had a raging headache suddenly, and there was no danger he could think of that could possibly get through his wife to harm him.

“Foicatch!?” She sounded shocked. There was a soft thump as Ice hit the soft rugs beneath them, and then hands on him, on the back of his shoulders and on his cheek. “Beloved?”

“Fuck.” He said into the carpets. With some effort, he pulled himself up to his knees and took a look around, instinctively taking in his surroundings and the lay of the land.

A tent of some sort, on a wooden platform. A wagon, most likely, judging from the slight give and sway. A large camp, from the noises outside. The tent was rich; gold and jewels glittered in lamplight, and the pallet he was on was of rich, soft carpets and furs. He did not recognize any of it, but was again not surprised. Gods played games with his wife’s life, and wherever she was he knew in his bones that she’d soon rise to the top.

Quite suddenly, arms were around his neck, and Systlin was clinging to him in a bone-creaking embrace. He started, surprised; she was normally a reserved woman, but now she was acting as if she’d not seen him in weeks.

“Sys.” He said weakly. “Sys. Darling. What…”

“Is Senna all right?” She pulled back and stared at him, her eyes bright, desperate. “Is she all right?”

“Of course she is. You saw her half an hour ago.” Foicatch rubbed at his aching temples. “What the fuck was that?”

Her whole body seemed to relax, almost slumping with abject relief, and she pulled back a little, but left one hand on his knee. “For me,” she said. “It’s been three months.”

He blinked a couple of times. “What.”

“Three months.”

“How…”

“The Lady.” When he’d been a boy, he’d never dreamed that he’d ever hear someone make such a matter of fact sort of statement about the Lady, Mother of All. Let alone that he would be married to that person, and that such a statement would make utter sense. “We’re on a world called Gor.” A slight pause. “’Catch, love, you’ve no clue how happy I am to have you here. This place is a shithole.”

“It can’t be that bad.” He waved a hand around at the tent. “This seems nice.”

“I had to kill three thousand men to unfuck this one tribe.” She said bluntly. “And it’s still not really done; that was just lancing the boil. ’Catch, the men of this world are slavers. All of them, from what I can tell, or at least most. They keep women as sex toys.”

Foicatch stared at her for a solid minute or so, appalled.

“What.” He finally managed.

It took her half an hour to fill him in on the details. By the end, his headache was fading, but a second one was threatening on his heels. He’d gotten to his feet some time back, and he was incandescently furious and pacing the tent. (The Ubara’s tent. He felt a flash of pride, at that. Of course she was Ubara; queen by her own hand within a day. He’d expect nothing less of her, and marveled, again, that such a woman as her had chosen him.)

He stopped his pacing long enough to touch her face, to brush her plait back. “You said you killed three thousand that first night.”

“Yes.” She said. The word was a flat statement of fact.

“You must have used your power.”

“Yes.” Again, a statement of fact.

“Are you all right?” He asked it softly. She never admitted to anyone else save Sura the cost of her gift for Breaking, the strain it caused when used too much. But he knew, because she trusted him.

“I am.” She covered his hand with hers. “I told you once; it gets easier to restrain it, with practice. And I’ve had a lot of practice. And the women…” She looked off, at the tent flap. “They’re remarkable. All they’ve been through, and survived. Many are brilliant, and funny, and kind, and fierce. They’ve not let me stew alone.”

He nodded, relieved. Do not let her be alone, Sura had told him once. Sura, bright, brilliant Sura, who’d realized before anyone else living what Systlin was, that there’d come a Breaker strong enough to break even her curse to her will.

They stood there for a moment. She stepped into his arms, and leaned against his chest. He looped his arms around her waist, and let her take comfort as long as she needed it.

At last, he said “So you’ve been gone months, but it’s been but moments at home.”

“Thank the gods.” Systlin’s voice was muffled by his chest. “I’ve been so, so worried, about you and Senna.”

“It’s reasonable then to assume that however long we take here, little or no time will have passed at home.”

“Thank the gods.” She said again, fervent.

“Well.” He said. “We might as well make a proper job of it then. Why don’t you show me around, Ubara?”

He was a very tall man, broad and muscular and strong, a fighting man in true. He wore a sword and shield with the air of a man long accustomed to their use. His eyes were green, and sharp. His hair fell to his shoulders, caught back in a leather tie. His beard was braided into a short plait bound in silver.

This is a proper man, I thought, but then to my horror I saw the glint of silver in his ear.

A man….a man, a fighting man! Had allowed his ear to be pierced! It was shameful, beyond shameful.

The she-sleen emerged from the wagon behind him. She said something, and he turned to listen. I realized that the ring in his ear was a twin to the silver one she wore, and in a flash realized that this was her mate, the one she’d claimed to be bonded to.

He laughed at something she said, and she grinned at him.

I thought that I had seen the she-sleen fight, that day she had slain Kamchak, Ubar of the Tuchuks.

I had not. Not truly. I had realized, of course, that she had been toying with him, toying with a Tuchuk, known as the fiercest and cleverest of warriors. But I had not known, not really, what she was.

I stared as she sparred the man…her husband, it still was a thing of horror to think of bedding such a woman, but if there was a man to master such a woman then I could believe it of this man.

He was magnificent. It was hot; he had stripped to his waist, baring a marvelously formed body to the sun. There were scars here and there, showing that he was a fighting man and had won many battles. His eyes were fierce and keen, and he wielded that metal shield and his sword as easily and lightly as if they were wooden toys, muscles rippling under taut bronze skin. He was fast, as fast as a snake, and his footwork was superb. Any city would have been honored to have a fighting man such as he in their ranks; I am man enough to admit that in battle he could have bested me, and it would have been no shame to lose to such a superb warrior.

But then there was her.

He was magnificent, the pinnacle of what a fighting man strives to be. And out of the three bouts I saw them fight, he lost two.

He was fast. But she was like the speed of a falcon bound into the body of a woman, and made the swordplay look almost as a dance. She would, I thought, have been magnificent in dancing silks.

She flowed like water around strikes. She was, quite nimbly, never where a strike seemed to go, and used her blades with the precision of a physician excising a tumor. Her stamina seemed boundless; indeed, even under the heat of the sun she was not even sweating.

The first match ended after what seemed an impossibly long time to hold out against either of those displays of masterful swordsmanship, with his sword at her breast. My heart soared; surely, I thought, now he would put her in her place, teach her what it meant that he was a man, and she but a female…

But it did not happen. She laughed, and he grinned, a brilliant flash of white teeth.

“See what I mean?” She said, and rolled her shoulders, stepping back. “I’ve needed this. There’s no one here who can really test me, and I’ve been getting sloppy.”

The comment stung; she’d faced the whole of the Tuchuk, and me, a warrior of Ko-Ro-Ba!

He snorted. “The Lady should have brought Stellead here if that was what you needed; a training dummy and someone to teach.”

“Hm.” She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye that shocked me; it was playful, and warm, and very unlike the coldness she usually showed. I wondered if there was a slave under that armor after all, but then of course that could not be; no self respecting man would let a woman who was his slave on the couches and in the furs carry on so in public. “No, I think I’m glad. You are much better looking.”

“Well.” He smiled again. “With all due respect to your lovely and very terrifying aunt, I must agree.”

There were more like her? The thought was horrific. But then they crossed swords again, and I could only watch.

She won that second bout, and the third. At the end of the third, they were staring at each other with a particular heat in their eyes that I knew well; I have seen lust, in many forms.

I was shocked again when she grasped the end of the short plait of his beard, pulled his head down with no great gentleness, and kissed him as thoroughly and passionately as a slave girl might.

I had thought that she must be frigid, in denial of her own womanhood, wishing to be a man and putting from her head all thought of licentiousness and lust. And yet here I saw her, dusty from the training ring, her sword still in her hand, still as unyielding as steel, her movements and body language all sureness and authority, and kissing like a passion slave.

It was shocking, as well; she was demanding of him, not begging, and instead of silks she was attired entirely unflatteringly in leather and wool. And yet somehow the magnificent warrior seemed as enthusiastic about this embrace as a Gorean man with a pleasure slave at his mercy.

She pulled back, but did not let go of his beard or break eye contact. “My tent, I think.” Her voice was all anticipation. “You can leave the boots on.”

“Only if you leave the sword belt on.” He took her hand, and they were gone.

A wagon is not really the most sound-proof of dwellings. Out of some terrible fascination, I drifted towards the wagon of the Ubara.

The noises were loud, and enthusiastic. They lasted quite some time. At times, it sounded as if a pitched battle was taking place within the wagon. It was, indeed, some hour and a half before the she-sleen emerged at last from the wagon. She looked quite pleased with herself. Her hair had been freshly plaited, and she was wearing new clothing. She headed off again towards the training fields, humming some tuneless little song to herself.

Foicatch exited the wagon some time later. He looked the way that a man only does after he has been well and thoroughly pleased. He had put on a tunic, but it was not laced up the front, and his magnificent musculature was still visible through the thin cloth anyways. He was eating a sar fruit. There were imprints of small, even teeth several places on his neck, I saw, and scratch marks down one forearm. He seemed equally pleased with himself.

He saw me staring, and gave me a wide grin. It was quite a smug grin.

“Jealous?” He laughed quietly, drew another sar fruit from his belt pouch, and tossed it my way; I caught it on reflex. “Can’t say I blame you. She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” He looked off in the direction of the practice rings, his expression fond.

“I would think,” I said. “That in going to bed with such a creature, you would risk death should you be found wanting.”

“Oh.” His grin grew wider. “Well, that’s gotten around already? It’s true, actually. She does kill lovers she finds unsatisfying.”

“Foicatch!” A sharp voice, as the she-sleen appeared again, and shook her head at her mate. “You are terrible.”

“Likes to nail the skulls up in the bedroom, just for motivation to any new ones.”

“Foicatch!”

“What? I’m only adding to your legend.”

She rolled her eyes, and gave him a look that was both fond and exasperated. “Terrible.” She vanished back into the wagon. “The council will be here soon to discuss strategy for gathering resources on the migration route. There’s many small towns and cities along the way, and I don’t intend to leave a single whip unburnt in our path.”

“And before you ask,” Foicatch said, as she vanished. “Yes, we’ve been married for thirty years.” A self satisfied grin. “Take from that what you will.”

I stared at him.

“What? Shut your mouth before a bird nests in there, man.”

“You…” I struggled for words. “But you are…you’re a red-blooded fighting man!”

A slight shrug. “Last time I checked, yes.” He finished the fruit.

“And you let your woman be…that?”

“Ah.” His expression shifted in a moment, going dark. “Right.” He gave me a disgusted sort of look. “To begin, there’s nothing on this world or any other that could make Systlin be anything but whatever she wishes to be; she’s herself, and that is why I love her.” The frown deepened. “Just because you lot on this world can only handle women fawning at your feet and fearing for their lives if they say one word against you, doesn’t mean we’re all such cowards on all worlds.”

That struck me deeply. I am many things, but a coward I have never been! I am a fighting man of Ko-Ro-Ba! I am a fighting man of Gor, where the strong rule!

“I am no coward!” I hissed, and had taken a step towards him before I knew it.

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced, and was entirely unconcerned at my anger. “Right. That’s why you keep women in chains.” He straightened a bit. I am a tall man, but he was taller, and I had to look up to stare angrily at him. Quite suddenly, in a flash, I wondered if this was how a slave girl felt, before a warrior such as myself, having to tilt her head back to look up at him. “Just because none of you can get a woman without buying her like a horse, chaining her to your bed, and beating her into submission…On my world, such a man would be ridiculed at the least and most pathetic of men.” A pause. “Well, and then executed. But also ridiculed.”

I stared. I had never heard it put so. “They are just women. They deserve no better”

I saw the blow coming, and moved to avoid it, but he was terribly quick and I was still recovering my full fitness since my broken leg. The strike across the face was sudden and sharp, and to my humiliation I realized that I had not been struck with a closed fist, as befitted a warrior, but backhanded like I was a misbehaving slave.

“Did that hurt?” His voice was low, and I realized that he was terribly angry. “Would you like it, to spend your life cringing, waiting for that at any moment because you did not stand correctly? It is braver, I think, to survive such a life than to be the monster who holds the other end of the chain. You are a coward, Tarl Cabot, and every man on this world is a coward if he thinks as you do. If you are afraid of women holding any role but your slaves, that is your failing, not that of men of other worlds.”

He spat in the dust at my feet. “Systlin said the men of this world were awful.” A shake of his head. “I didn’t realize how very much she was right. Go. Get away from this wagon. If I see you again today I might have to throttle you to death.” He turned, and ducked once more into the tent.

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

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New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 3

A/N As promised, Jamie returns in this chapter. He has an appointment to keep, after all. Because I can’t think of anything more creative, this chapter is entitled “Second Appointment”. For previous chapters, your best bet is to check out the story on my AO3 page.

The week both crept and flew past, like one of those dreams in which she ran until her lungs burned, but never managed to get anywhere. Kinetic motion trapped in amber. Claire never did tell Geillis about her excursion to Corstorphine Hill over the weekend, embarrassed by how it had ended.

And now it was Thursday. She’d opted for a protein smoothie for lunch, a meal with no chance of leaving leafy residue between her teeth. It was likely wasted vanity. As two o’clock drew near, she bargained with herself to abandon any hope she may be harbouring. Jamie Fraser had shown no interest in participating in the psychiatric process during his first appointment. Fraternal obligation had brought him to her office once, but he didn’t strike her as a man who yielded the reins of his life easily. It wasn’t likely he would return.

When it came his distinctive knock, crisp and insistent, caught her unawares, even though she’d just been staring at his name in her planner. She hastily pushed the items on her desk to one side, patted uselessly at her curls, and called out for him to enter.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Beauchamp,” he greeted cautiously. “Miss Duncan told me tae come straight in.”

There was something different about him today. His clothing, certainly. Instead of casual wear, he wore trousers and a button down, wet splotches over the shoulders attesting to the fact that it had begun raining again. And while he still took up an inordinate amount of space in her small office, he seemed... diminished, somehow. A paler echo of the fireworks display of his first visit.

“Of course. Please have a seat, Mister Fraser.”

“Jamie, if you will,” he corrected as he settled gingerly into the armchair. “Mister Fraser was my Da.”

Something about his tone and the fact his laser blue eyes wouldn’t meet her own as he spoke the words caused her to lean into his statement.

“Did your father pass away recently, Jamie?”

A moment, an indrawn breath of panic, and then it was cleverly masked with a wry glance.

“Aye, last year. An’ yer no’ very subtle, doctor.”

“I didn’t realize subtlety was called for,” she parried. “You made another appointment, and I specialize in grief counselling. Why else would you be here?”

Despite the fact that it wasn’t productive from a psychiatric point of view, she enjoyed his reluctance to hastily expose his inner demons. Too often, her practice required her to work carefully in order to avoid shaping the pliable emotions of her patients. While obviously hurting, Jamie had an unflinching, unalterable quality that she admired. Not to mention that the intellectual game of cat and mouse they were playing was wildly stimulating.

“I suppose I enjoyed our conversation,” Jamie teased. “An’ Miss Duncan’s shortbread.”

With an awkward squint that she imagined was meant to be a wink, her patient rose to investigate the current offerings on her tea table.

“Och, petit fours!” he exclaimed with childlike glee and perfect French pronunciation. “There was a café none too far from my flat in Paris tha’ made these. I’d often grab some on my way tae the office.”

He returned to the desk with a small plate of the pastries, pushing it towards her as he settled into his seat.

“No, thank you. I’ve just eaten.”

Like a searchlight, his bright eyes didn’t miss much. He glanced significantly at the half-empty plastic smoothie container to one side of her desk. Rather than chide her for her austerity, as Geillis frequently did, he instead made a show of biting into each of the four little squares until there was nothing left but crumbs. Her stomach muttered in complaint.

“What did you do in Paris?” she asked as he finished his snack with a contented sigh.

“Oh, a wee bit of this and that,” he demurred. In response to her exasperated look, he continued, “I started out at the Bourse. Futures, options, arbitrage, that sort of thing. I have a good ear fer languages, sae from there I went into foreign exchange. Import export, and the like.”

“You’re a financier?” she asked, somewhat more incredulous than she ought to be. She wasn’t certain what she had pictured James Fraser doing for a living, but greasing the wheels of capitalism definitely wasn’t it.

“Was,” he corrected. “I quit an’ came home tae Scotland last year.”

“When your father died,” she guessed.

“Aye.”

She once again had the sense of standing in front of a locked door that Jamie had no intention of opening. Rather than hammer uselessly on its stubborn surface, she nimbly diverted the conversation sideways.

“What do you do for work now?”

A slow blink followed by a dawning smile indicated he was aware of her stratagem.

“I’m a carpenter.”

It was rare for Claire to be truly surprised by people. She made a living reading their unspoken cues. Twice in the same conversation was unheard of.

“A carpenter?” she repeated as though she hadn’t heard him perfectly well the first time.

“Aye. Like Jesus, ye ken?”

With a quicksilver grin, Jamie launched into a description of his current occupation, which involved the making of reproduction antiques and custom pieces for clients around Scotland. She realized with a start that she’d read an article about his business in a popular local magazine.

International financier. Self-made entrepreneur. Tall drink of water. James Fraser had a lot of things going for him. And yet here he sat, paying her by the hour to listen to him avoid talking about whatever hardship had befallen him.

She mentally composed a list of the topics he was deftly avoiding with his charming anecdotes. His father’s recent death. The reason behind a radical change in career. Living in the city on account of unspoken ‘family obligations’, even though his verbal reminiscence of the Highlands was so poetic it damn near made her cry. There was something raw just below the surface of his nonchalance, and her innate curiosity cried out to find out what it was.

“You told me last week that your sister, Jenny, insisted you attend counselling. But you said that you’re handling matters fine on your own. Can you tell me why your sister believes otherwise?”

It might have been amusing to see such a large man squirm in different circumstances. His left hand furrowed through his hair, setting the autumn waves on end. His mouth, so recently relaxed and mobile as he eagerly shared the details of his craft, froze in a pained frown. She considered whether she had pushed too hard too soon.

“I gave a lot of thought tae what ye said when we parted last week,” Jamie began at last. “Tae be honest, it haunted me. Jen kens me better than anyone, an’ while I like tae complain tha’ she meddles where she doesna belong, the truth is she’s truly scared fer me. An’ even if I dinna agree tha’ my lifestyle is cause fer concern, I owe it tae her tae try tae sort myself out. I owe her far more than that,” he finished with a rueful shake of his head.

“What kind of lifestyle has your sister so worried?” she probed.

“Whisky, women and song,” he quipped, before adding, “Weel, I canna carry a tune, but twa out of three isna half bad.”

He tried to smile away the awkward tension that descended on the office, the air ripe with unspoken words. Claire felt disappointment whirlpool in her gut. Just another charming rake, after all. It really shouldn’t matter, and yet somehow it did. More than she dared to admit.

“Yes, well, the road of excess leads to the palace of consequences, ” she sniffed at last, angry at herself for sounding like a schoolmarm. What a bore she must seem to him, with her regimented behaviour and rigid morals.

Jamie rose abruptly, and for a half-second she imagined he might lunge at her, or storm from the room. Instead, he spun around to face the door. Without a word, he untucked his shirt and began to expose his lower back.

Claire was momentarily stunned silent. Just as she managed to draw a deep enough breath to censure Jamie for his highly inappropriate strip tease, the golden velour of his lower back transformed without warning into a furrowed landscape of scar tissue, ripples and craters left by some massive trauma. The air left her lungs on a questioning sigh.

“I ken all about consequences, Doctor Beauchamp,” he stated. “I live with them every moment of my life.”

Her fingers found the knotted skin, surprisingly warm and mobile beneath her touch. A shiver shimmered over the unmarred muscle of his flanks.

Before she could find any appropriate words of apology, the office door opened and Geillis stuck her head in. She barked a cough upon seeing Jamie’s state of undress and Claire’s position, leaning across her desk. Doctor and patient jumped apart like opposing magnets.

“Sae sorry for the interruption, but yer three o’clock is here. Should I tell her ye’ve been... delayed?”

Jamie muttered an obscenity under his breath which Claire whole-heartedly seconded. There was no way Geillis wasn’t going to be utterly insufferable about this.

“Mister Fraser was just leaving, Geillis.”

With a lewd wink and a nod, the door closed.

“Look, Jamie...” she began just as he apologized. “I’m sae sorry, lass.”

They both laughed nervously. Jamie finished tucking his shirt into his pants and turned to face the desk.

“I hope this willna cause ye any difficulties with Miss Duncan,” he began, eyes wide with concern.

“No more so than usual,” she sighed. “Geillis is a good friend. She just... doesn’t know when to quit, sometimes,” she explained.

“Sounds jus’ like my sister. Perhaps we should introduce them.”

She smiled, struggling to find something else to say to move past the moment. She could hear Geillis and her next patient conversing just outside the door. There was no time left for subtlety.

“Will I see you again next week, Jamie?” she asked, giving up on finding a more oblique way of phrasing the question that was reverberating through her mind.

Jamie’s bashful smile dipped towards the floor, causing his hair to fall in front of his eyes.

“Aye. I’ll even keep my clothes on, if ye ask nicely.”

It was that smile, that hair, those eyes, that carried her through the rest of her week, aloft on the anticipation of something utterly forbidden.

#my writing #outlander

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captain-tch · 4 years

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Battle of the Bands (Modern AU)

You're a drummer in the Scouts, a band taking the town by storm. A certain bar owner is one of your biggest supporters.

Being a drummer in the Scouts was a dream. Music was your passion, and being able to create it for other people to enjoy was exhilarating. Their applause was your drug, and you were hooked. It was even better sitting in the back. Your shy personality suited being a drummer, hiding behind the band whilst you played to your hearts content.

Hanji on the other hand, was the complete opposite. They basked in the spotlight, their voice nothing angelic but charismatic enough to grasp the attention of the audience, and their wacky personality the winning ticket to fully absorb them in the music.

Erwin was the biggest surprise to most people. Looking at him, you wouldn't expect him to be the talented guitarist of the soft rock band Scouts, with his blonde hair and blue eyes. Yet every time he held a guitar in his hands, fingers caressing the strings in a melody that hypnotised anyone who would listen.

Somehow though, it all worked. As a trio you worked in harmony to create some of the best music the town had heard in years. You were quickly becoming known in the area for your live performances, and the original songs the band performed went down very well with the crowds. Of course it did help that the crowd had had a few beers by that point, but praise was praise.

"Y/N," Erwin pressed his hands against your drum kit, leaning close to you. His eyes were lit up with an excitement you rarely saw outside of the band room. "You're going to love the new music I came up with. The strumming nearly broke my fingers but its worth it."

"Your sacrifice is noted." You give him a small smile, tapping at his hands. "Now get your filthy hands off my drum kit. I want these looking brand spanking new for tonight."

The door slammed open, Hanji making a grand appearance. In their hand was a tray holding three coffee cups, the liquid nearly spilling over with Hanji's enthusiastic movements. "Who's ready to take over the world?"

You shared an exasperated look with Erwin. "Hanji, how much coffee have you had this morning?"

"I haven't stopped shaking for 4 hours but that's fine." Hanji waved it off, once again nearly forgetting about the cups in the tray. They swore, righting themselves quickly and passing the drinks out.

You nodded your thanks, gingerly taking a sip of the hot drink. "Do you think its a good idea to have more?"

"Y/N's right, you've got a problem."

Hanji shrugged off your concerns, slapping their hands on their thighs. "How you guys feeling about tonight?"

"We've practised every night for over a month. I'm certain we can win this." Erwin knocked back his coffee in one gulp, winking at both Hanji and yourself. "We haven't lost one yet."

"But there's always a chance we could."

Hanji wrapped an arm around your shoulders, shaking you. "Have a little faith Y/N."

"I'm just being realistic." You rolled your eyes, shrugging yourself out of Hanji's grip with a bright smile.

"If you play anything like you usually do, we'll win for sure." Erwin shone a charming smile at you, one that would cripple the knees of any onlooker. To the surprise of many you were immune to his charms. Having spent hours practising in the band, and nights out clubbing together you saw him more of an older brother than a romantic interest. And after you'd seen him vomit into your hat and pass it back to you, a nervous smile on his face, you definitely harboured no romantic feelings.

"Lets practice and find out," Hanji suggested, absentmindedly stealing your remaining coffee and draining the contents. You chuckled to yourself, used to her antics by now.

You all agreed, conversation quickly being swapped for the fast pace of the music.

Your hands wouldn't stop shaking. You'd tried everything - deep breathing, a drink - or three - you'd even tried running outside to burn off some energy. But the car park of the cramped pub didn't offer much in the ways of a running track.

"You okay?" Erwin sidled up next to you, taking the quaking glass out of your hands. You'd forgotten you even had it.

Giving him a small smile, you nodded, gulping nervously. "I always am."

"I know you, you're always jittery before a gig." Erwin looked at his guitar, the sound technician beckoning him over. "Look, I have to do my sound check, but once I'm done we'll complete our pre-show ritual." Clapping a firm hand on your shoulder, he gave one squeeze before leaving.

Sighing, you picked up your drink from where Erwin discarded it, taking a large gulp. It took everything you had not to spill the liquid all over yourself. Your heart was racing a million miles an hour and the churning in your stomach had you convinced once the show was done you were going to throw up.

Or throw up now.

"Don't vomit on my bar. I just cleaned that."

You scoffed, eyeing the dark haired man before you. "I'll try not to, Levi."

"You better do more than try." He scrubbed at an invisible speck of dirt on the counter. Even though his eyes weren't on you, you felt every ounce of his attention. "Any reason you look like you're going to re-create the scene from the Exorcist?"

"The usual." You fiddled with your fingers, dusting over the callouses lacing them. Music bore its scars.

"There's no reason. You're not terrible." The tips of your ears burned at his words. You were used to praise, your irrational thoughts twisting them to be insults. But coming from him? Something felt sincere about his words. It might be because you felt a sort of closeness with him. He was the first bar owner who signed you up, having full faith in your music ability. He never complained about Hanji's large personality, or Erwin's tendency to be overly public with his affection with someone he had met that night.

He'd witnessed all of the bands highs and lows. He always sat with you at this very bar, and he always was the first one to speak. In fact, you were fairly certain you were the only person he attempted to strike a conversation with without prompt. Those chats meant the world to you. Every time you sat at that bar your heart beat slightly faster and your palms sweatier.

So yeah, what he said caused a blush to spread over your face.

"Thanks Levi." You flashed him a smile, feeling the butterflies in your stomach easing slightly. He didn't respond, acknowledging your words by lifting his eyes from the task at hand and nodding at you.

"Y/N!" Hanji shouted, even though they were half way across the room. "We need you for your sound check."

Without a word you shuffled off the bar stool, made your way to the drum set and sat down. You noted the grubby fingerprints on your drums - you were going to kill Erwin. Picking up the sticks, you rolled them in your hands, spinning and twirling them.

At the command of Hanji counting down, you smacked the sticks together to the beat, all nerves melting away as you pounding the drums, let the cymbals shrill out. The world around you disappeared as you punched out the beat of the song.

Levi looked up from where he was cleaning, drawn to the sudden increase of noise. His eyes were instantly captivated by you. Your body moved with the music, a serenity on your face he had never seen before.

You were magnificent.

He couldn't comprehend why you were nervous at all. Those drum sticks were like an extension of your hands, the movement so natural it took him by surprise. You were so ingrained in the music you didn't notice how everyone in the room stopped to watch.

The song ended, and Levi couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. He enjoyed their music - in fact, he normally hated rock but something about the Scouts spoke to him. He wasn't a big music lover himself and apart from the money earned from holding a live band, he normally had no ulterior motive.

But now he realised he might.

Something flickered in his chest as he watched you twirling the drum sticks absentmindedly in your hands, talking with earnest with Erwin and Hanji. Even from half way across the room, Levi could hear Hanji's side of the conversation.

"You're fantastic!" Hanji's hands moved with such ferocity that they clashed with the cymbals, a chime echoing in the air. Hanji was unfazed, carrying on with their zest like they usually did.

You only nodded, a slight turn to your lips as you took in what Hanji said. Suddenly a laugh burst out of you. There was nothing sweet about the noise - in fact, it sounded more like a witches cackle than anything - but still it was like music to his ears.

"Hey, bossman!" Hanji gestured to Levi. He didn't try to hide his distaste for the nickname. "Want to join us in our pre-show ritual?"

"I'm not a part of the band."

Erwin chuckled, striding towards Levi. "You're an honorary member."

Nonchalant, Levi shrugged, joining the trio. A slight red tinge had blossomed across your cheeks.

"What is it we're doing?"

"Ssh," Hanji placed a finger to their lips. "Its a secret."

Rolling his eyes, Levi followed as the trio pushed through the back door of the bar, ignoring the distinct smell of rot and screeches of cat fights. They made their way to a pair of ladders propped against the side of the building.

Levi frowned. He'd never seen them before.

You noticed his confusion. "The ladders are ours. We bring them to every gig."

You acted as if that provided all the answers; it just gave Levi more questions.

The trio carried on as normal, climbing up the ladder and reaching the top. You all paused when you reached the roof, looking over the town from a entirely new perspective. You wondered if this was how birds felt.

"Its beautiful." You whispered.

Levi looked at the trio with a brow raised. "Is this it?"

"That's not what we're here for." Hanji smirked, a mischievous look in their eyes. Without warning, they opened their mouth.

And screamed.

The sudden shrill noise sent Levi's hands to covering his ears, staring at the insanity that was Hanji. He was about to question it, not having realised you and Erwin were unbothered, when more noise joined Hanji.

Both Erwin and you had your mouths open wide, screeching and hollering so loud Levi thought he'd go deaf.

After what felt like a million years the noise stopped. You gasped for breath, a brilliant smile on your face.

"Isn't that going to affect your gig?"

Erwin brushed it off, winking in Hanji's direction. "They already sound like a dying cat anyways, might as well have a good reason."

"Oi," Hanji exclaimed, smacking Erwin upside the head. "I'd like to watch you hold a note as long as I can."

"And I'd like to not hear your voice crack."

Erwin and Hanji started play fighting, much to Levi's amusement. You stood back, snorting at their childish antics and walking straight past them.

"Can you guys do that after the show?"

"Sorry Y/N."

Without a word you all retreated from the roof, walking back into the bar. Levi followed them wordlessly, taken aback by what had just happened. You laughed at his awestruck face, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Welcome to the band."

An hour later the gig was in full swing. You could barely believe that an hour ago you were quaking with nerves, your body now alight with excitement. This is what you love. The roar of the audience surrounding you fed your addition, driving your high as your poured more energy into the beat.

Sweat had long since broke out on your neck. You were gasping, sucking in as much air as possible before you next had to provide backing vocals. With your slick skin acting as a glue for your clothes and your shining face, you were the picture of exhaustion.

Levi didn't see that though.

In the brief moments where he was able to stop and watch, he was captivated by you. He saw someone who was so striking it was hard to take his eyes off them. He saw their passion in the way you beat the sticks against the drums, or how your entire body danced to the music.

It was no surprise that the Scouts won the Battle of the Bands. Their competition had been meek, the audience quiet as a mouse in comparison to how they reacted with the Scouts. Yet you still had a look of wonder on your face as your band took to the stage to accept the win, Hanji giving a short speech and you bowing to the crowd.

He wasn't entirely sure how it all led to you sitting at the bar, a cup of tea cradled in your hands as Erwin loaded the car with your instruments. Hanji was busy talking animately to someone on the phone, every now and then looking over at you and giving you a thumbs up. Usually this was something you all did together. Tonight, you two were alone. Either way, however you two ended up in this situation, Levi wasn't complaining.

"Thanks for the tea." Your voice was raspy. Providing the backing vocals and your pre-gig ritual had not been merciful to your throat.

Levi nodded, tinkering behind the bar as he completed the lock up procedure for the night. The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, relishing each others company. You happily sipped at your tea, thankful that Levi had put a touch of lemon in to soothe your throat.

"You guys looking to book another performance?" Levi stopped for a moment, pulling his diary from under the counter. "I might be able to fit you in the next few weeks."

"We're actually putting the band on hold for a while." Levi stared at you, brows raised. Taking this as a sign to explain, you carried on. "Erwin wants to focus more time on training for the army, and Hanji is getting ready for a study year in Japan."

"And what about you?"

You shrugged. "Business as usual for me."

Levi saw the way your shoulders drooped, eyes darting to Erwin and Hanji for a moment. He could already tell you were going to miss them.

"No plans at all?"

"Boring, I know." You laughed. It was your way to cope - that was clear as day.

Before he could second guess it, his words slipped out. "Why don't you help out here?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You can help me book new talent coming in. With the Scouts on hold I need someone to fill in the Friday night spot."

The band would never be split up. You'd stay in contact. You three had always been together, and it didn't matter in what way. Whether you were miles apart or only spoke once every three months, you were going to be friends for life.

Hanji and Erwin were going on their own separate paths. Maybe this could be yours. It wasn't what you had pictured, and you had no idea where it would lead.

There was something exciting about the unknown.

"Okay, when do I start?"

#attack on titan x reader #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman #erwin smith #hanji zoë #attack on titan fanfic #modern au

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crystalirises · 4 years

Text

The Final Answer (36 Questions AU 6/13)

Sixth Part.

WE BOTH

It was just his luck. Fundy grumbled as he helped Dream place torches around the dining room, a strike of lightning having taken out the power before they could begin the questions. Fundy rubbed at his elbow, feeling the chill that seeped into the room. Dream walked past him, humming under his breath as if he was enjoying every second of the situation.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was all a part of your plan.” Fundy grumbled beneath his breath, scowling as he glanced down at the empty table. This sucked. This sucked. This sucked. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU━

Dream glanced towards the fox hybrid’s direction, placing a torch on the wall as he did. He felt a smile tug on the edge of his lips, “Fundy, I wouldn’t manipulate the weather for something life this.”

“How can I trust your word on that?” Fundy thought about it, realizing how suspicious it was that everytime he and Dream went on a date, the sky would be clear and the weather would be the best it’s been in days.

“…I suppose you just have to.” Fundy rolled his eyes at the answer, settling back into his chair as Dream finished lighting up the room. He looked down at the bottle of wine on the table. He shouldn’t…

“Like I trusted you these past few years? I wonder what doing that got me, hm? Oh, wait.” Fundy narrowed his eyes at the blonde in front of him, holding back the urge to kick Dream’s leg underneath the table.

“Fundy, I― You know I― I didn’t lie about everything―”

“Well with you, I can’t really tell. You’ve lied to me. A lot.” Fundy huffed, clawing at the edge of the table as he heard the other chair scrape against the wooden floor. He could feel Dream’s eyes on him, but he kept his attention to the wine bottle at the side of the table. He needed a cig. He shook his head. No. No. No. What would Niki and Ranboo think?

“You… You literally said to the entire world: ‘I don’t care about anything in this world, except for a child’s discs’!” Fundy raised his arms in the air, frustration seeping into his voice. Seriously, imagine hearing your “loving” husband proclaim to everyone that he cared more about some random item - that wasn’t even his to begin with - than you.

“If I recall, this happened at the same time where you called me ‘your bitch’.” Dream felt a scowl form on his lips. It shouldn’t have upset him, but it did. He expected the others, of course he did. But his own husband actively insulting him while Tommy threatened to burn the remains of his dead horse? Fundy knew how much he loved Spirit, and yet he― “I know we promised that no matter what political agenda we chose, it wouldn’t ruin our relationship, but he threatened to burn Spirit’s remains. Fundy―”

“You broke that promise the moment you gave Wilbur the fucking TNT.” Fundy slammed his hands against the table, the wine bottle clattering to the side, though it didn’t break. He felt his heart burning with rage, a low growl ripping through his throat as he tried to contain his anger. That promise. That fucking promise. A promise made by a newlywed and naïve couple who thought they held eternity and immortality in their hands.

“You… Y-you took my dad away, Dream. You took him away… and I never got to say I was sorry.” Fundy could feel the tears in his eyes, the burning ache in his chest as the memory of his father’s death flashed through his mind.

Dream kept his mouth shut, the soft sobs of his husband tearing a hole into his heart. There was nothing he could say. There was nothing he should say. He had wanted Manburg gone, wanted Schlatt gone. Wilbur was his vassal, a worthy man to his cause. How was he to know that the man would choose to die?

“I need a moment.” Fundy stood up from the table, his feet dragging against the floor as he walked out into the hallway. He swallowed down the bitter guilt that gnawed at the back of his throat as he shuffled towards one of the cabinets that occupied the small hall. He gripped the wooden knob, pulling the drawer open as he fumbled for a familiar box in the cramped space.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Fundy opened the box, eyes glazing over as he saw those white sticks inside. He needed it. He really did. He needed something to help him cope. He can’t deal with Dream alone.

Dream stayed silent as he watched Fundy disappear into the hall, gripping the glass of whiskey in his hands so tightly that he feared it might break into shards. He poured himself another glass, begging for his mind to succumb to a haze of euphoria and giddiness. They’d been making progress… but now… He sighed.

He coughed, choking as a familiar scent of smoke reached his nose. He placed the glass down, gaze snapping towards the hall as he caught a glimpse of Fundy’s tail disappearing to the right. It wasn’t the smoke of a fire. It wasn’t the stench of flint and steel. It was the scent of nicotine that stained the air. His head spun as he cautiously walked towards the hall, peeking around the corner. He felt his heart clench in his chest, a burning ache as he watched a small flicker of light and gray smoke dance within the darkness.

He trembled as he held onto the edge of the doorway for support, his fingers clenched against the frame as he watched his husband indulge himself in a vice he’d never thought Fundy would have. Not after… He held back the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. What the fuck happened in New L’Manburg these few weeks? He tried to shake himself from the mist that clouded his mind. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t watch this happen. Not to Fundy. He knew Fundy wanted space… but he had to stop this.

Fundy took a long inhale of smoke, the gray circles floating in the air in front of him as euphoria filled his veins. He moved his hand to take another, but a hand clamped down his wrist. He looked to the side. Dream’s bright green eyes stared back at him through the dark. He shivered at the worry in those eyes, a worry he hadn’t seen in weeks. He didn’t think he would ever actually see them again. He let Dream drag his raised hand away from his mouth, let him pry his stiff fingers off the stick of white.

He barely registered the creak of the front door, the harsh rush of wind that scratched against his cheek. He barely heard the distinct sound of boots crunching against until it was gone, along with the chill of the storm outside. Fundy blinked, eyes focusing on the chest in front of him. He coughed, backing away from Dream as he headed back into the kitchen.

“Sorry. You didn’t come here for that. We should go back―”

“I came here for you, Fundy. You matter.” Dream trailed after his husband, nearly bumping into the fox hybrid as Fundy turned around to face him. He reached out a hand, hesitating as his fingers hovered to cup Fundy’s cheek. He settled on placing his hand on Fundy’s shoulder instead.

“You matter to me.” They both heard the crack in Dream’s voice, the sincerity within his tone. Fundy nearly leaned into his touch, but he didn’t. He shook his head, as if telling himself he couldn’t.

Fundy didn’t say anything, his voice lost as he headed back into the kitchen. He needed to make dinner. He heard Dream settle in his previous seat, the tell-tale screech of a chair scratching against the floor.

“So… that second question…?”

“Hm. Right.” Fundy didn’t glance up, gathering raw meat from his storage. He hoped his food supply didn’t go bad…

“Question 2. ‘Would you like to be famous? In what way?’” Fundy laughed at the question, like he did during the first time he asked it. It was a stupid question to ask Dream of all people.

“I’m already famous.” Dream fiddled with the glass of whiskey in his hands, setting it down as nausea settled into the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t bring himself to indulge… in that. He took to watching Fundy scour through the kitchen, “I wouldn’t want to be famous again. At least not in this way… you?”

“If I could be famous… I’d want to be famous for something. Something worthwhile. Something… cool.” Fundy snapped his fingers together, slightly ashamed that he couldn’t think of anything specific.

Dream watched as Fundy scampered around the kitchen, holding… very questionable meat. He winced, hoping that Fundy wouldn’t be too pissed off if he chose not to eat anything for the night. His husband’s answer… hasn’t changed, despite everything he’s done for his country, “Fundy, you’re already cool.”

“Oh… uh, thanks.” Fundy stuffed the meat into the furnace, busying himself with his thoughts as he tried not to swoon at the compliment.

“Next question?” Fundy refused to glance up, knowing that Dream would catch the hint of red in his cheeks. It wasn’t his fault that he easily clung to every compliment he got, even if it was from his ex-husband.

“Question 3. ‘Before calling someone on the communicator, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

“I only rehearse if Wil’s on the other side of the communicator… not that I have to worry about that anymore.” Fundy heard the ding of the furnace, the low thrum of heat dying down.

“…you?” Fundy spared the man a glance, hoping that Dream didn’t catch the sorrow in his voice at the mention of his late father. He used to be so scared of what he might accidentally say to Wilbur… now… he doesn’t need to be.

“I don’t rehearse, it usually takes one word from me before the other person on the other side hangs up.” Dream let out a groan at that, hearing the clatter of plates as Fundy placed their dinner on the table.

“I don’t rehearse… even if it is a serious conversation. You know me, I say what I want without thinking.” Dream tapped at the table’s edge, listening to the hollow thump of his finger against the wood.

“I know that’s what your answer was on our first date.” Fundy crossed his arms in front of his chest, sitting down on the nearly ready to collapse chair. How lucky that Dream chose the sturdy chair. He peered down at the meat on his plate, feeling sick as he thought of even taking a bite of that… thing. He really should’ve checked his food supply.

“I’d love to hear what your real answer is. Is that difficult for you to do?” Fundy leaned a bit closer, his eyes narrowed into slits. Was it weird that he remembered Dream’s answer? Maybe. But that wasn’t the point!

“Fundy, I didn’t lie or hide details about everything.” Dream held back his scoff, knowing how Fundy would take that as.

“I was genuine. I don’t think my one slip of the tongue should ruin everything I told you.” Dream placed a hand on his chest, biting back the bubble of frustration that threatened to take over his mind.

“Even if said slip of the tongue just so happened to be, ‘I don’t care about anyone or anything’?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Dream sighed. He wished he could show the regret he felt the moment he saw Fundy flinch as he spoke those words. He meant to apologize after, but… He couldn’t find the time.

“What did you mean? Because I don’t know who you are right now, Dream. Who are you?”

“It’s still me, Fundy. I’m still me.” Dream held back the desperation in his voice, the tinge of panic that threatened to seep into his tone. He wanted this to work. He needed this to work.

“You have to trust that. You have to trust me. I’m still the Dream you married. I swear!” I love you. Dream wanted to scream those three precious words, scream until his voice died and his throat was hoarse and raw. He doubted Fundy would care, no… the fox hybrid would watch him drown in his own anguish.

“I want to trust you, Dream. I lo― I want to trust you so badly but I can’t help what I feel.” Fundy felt the strain in his voice, the aching and longing in his voice. He wished he wasn’t so sensitive. He wished he had his real husband back.

“How can I trust what you say? How can I trust that you didn’t lie to me before? How do I know that your still my Dream?” The Dream I married. The Dream I loved. Fundy left those unsaid.

“Because…” Dream froze, his walls crumbling to the floor.

“When I was with you, I was real. When I was with you, I could be myself.” Dream tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. It was true. It was all true, “When I was with you, I didn't feel lost, confused or frightened…”

He felt human. He felt free, “…or scared to be who I am.”

“When I was with you, I was real... We both think you look great in my green sweater.” Dream never lied about that. It was true.

“We both enjoy an empty space. We both are actual human beings to miners.”

Dream laughed at that, a humorless sound that didn’t sound right to either of them.

“We both are not totally straight. None of that changes.” He looked up, an empty and glazed look in Fundy’s gaze as they stared at each other from across the messy table. He wished he could reach out. He missed his husband. Dream cocked his head to the side, a reassuring smile on his face, “None of that has changed, okay?”

“Okay…” Fundy sucked in a breath, his brain muddled with confusion and apprehension. He remembered those times. He remembered them. He remembers the day he accidentally showed up in Manburg, the green sweater on his person. He remembers the incredulous look on Schlatt’s face, the way he reeled back as if he had been stung. Quackity had let out a loud laugh, recognizing the sweater. Fundy had to race back to the cabin he shared with Dream, flustered beyond comprehension.

“We both like drinking hot tea in warm weather. We both like playing guitar.” Dream smiled at the memories. The first time they’d cuddled in their shared cabin on a lazy summer day. The day Fundy had forced him to learn the guitar (“Dreaaam! Come on, babe! You’ll do great!”). He laughed to drown out the nostalgia, picking at the cold steak in front of him. Fundy always brought out the best in him.

“We both like when you tell me the plots of bad stories. We both forget our stuff at the house almost always.”

He was himself. He was Dream. He wasn’t Dream the War-Hungry Tyrant. He wasn’t Dream, Ruler of the Essempy. He was just Dream.

“When I was with you, I was real. When I was with you, I could be myself.” There was no war with Fundy. There were no responsibilities to uphold… no discs to chase after… no power to hunger for. He was with Fundy. That was all that mattered in those times. He bit back the smile that threatened to appear on his lips, “When I was with you, I was real, like as real as my green sweater…”

“…that I left at your house one time. When I am with you I am real.” Dream let himself chuckle at that memory, “Now, do you remember what I said the first time we did the questions? About my perfect day?”

“Yes. You said that tomorrow could be the perfect day if we let it be. That's not the kind of answer you forget, especially when the person answering it is leaning close to your face.”

“You thinking about that time?” Dream nudged himself closer to the table, his elbows leaning against the wooden surface as he leaned just a tad bit closer to Fundy. Not nearly as close as the first time though.

“I'm remembering it.” Fundy rolled his eyes, staying where he was despite the… loss of space as Dream moved closer. He wasn’t going to back down. Pfft, as if that was supposed to scare him. He giggled a bit as he recalled their first date, wondering if…

“Do you remember my answer?” Fundy raised a brow, a nonchalant look on his face. No. No. No. He definitely wasn’t hoping that Dream remembered. Shut up.

“Hmm… with broad strokes. Picnic in the park with your family. Mini-muffin basket for lunch.” Bad would have loved to meet Fundy, not that Dream ever introduced Fundy to his friends. A mistake on his part. He kept his gaze on Fundy’s, watching as those eyes he loved brightened with every right answer.

“Everyone getting together under a big blanket and watching the clouds or the stars move by through the sky.” It sounded like the perfect date to Dream, if only they ever came around to it.

“Still true.”

“And I'd still wanna be there with you.” Dream choked at his words. Did he really just say that? Shit. He averted his eyes as Fundy’s full and undivided attention turned to him. He quickly withdrew back into his chair, looking at the steak as if it was the most appetizing thing in the world. Why would you say that?

He wracked through his brain for the next question, “Question 5. ‘When was the last time you sang to yourself? To someone else?’” Yes. Move on to the next question, Dream. Pretend that didn’t just happen.

“This afternoon. To Batry.”

“What about to yourself?” Dream raised a brow, intrigued at what Fundy might answer. Fundy sung or hummed if he was busy, he could’ve sung to himself quite recently. At least, that’s what Dream thought.

“They only stayed for half.” They both let out a laugh at that, Fundy shaking his head as Batry flew and squeaked indignantly above them. Fundy recalled that incident. Batry had been sleeping and though Fundy tried to keep his voice down and the noise to a minimum, the bat didn’t seem to appreciate his interruption and quickly flew into the next room. Which was rude because, hey, Fundy was a great singer.

“The last time I sang was on my way over here, through the storm.”

“You sang?!” Fundy nearly stood up at that. Dream singing?! Oh, two words that are never in the same sentence enough. The only time he’s ever heard his hus― ex-husband sing was when he’d accidentally catch him playing the guitar on his own.

“What did you sing?” Fundy couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face before the implications of Dream singing entered his mind. Dream… sung?!!! Ooooh, that was new.

“Oh, I'm gonna die out here…” Dream chuckled as Fundy’s face morphed into that cute little expression he did when he was surprised, the way his ears would rise above his head and the way his tail would floof and wag behind him. It was adorable, and Dream nearly melted when Fundy had done it on their first date. Dream would have swooned right then and there if they hadn’t had a lot of questions left to answer… and if he didn’t want to keep Fundy in a good mood.

“Oh, that song. I forgot about that one.” Fundy knew that song, recognizing it as the song Dream had been humming in… the final control room― ANYWAY. He nodded along, eager to at least hear Dream’s singing voice again. Dream stared at him for a moment, recognition dawning in those green eyes of his before he began to continue the song. Fundy’s ears twitched, thumping his fingers along with the beat as Dream sung the lyrics. It was funny how only a few knew that Dream could actually sing.

“And I think that counts as me singing to someone else. Ask me the next one.” Dream sighed in relief as he finished off the last line, Fundy settling back into his seat as the show ended. He felt his face heating up, not used to actually singing in front of anyone before. Maybe Sapnap and George but they usually joined in with him, and those would devolve into random shenanigans. Had he ever sung in front of Fundy before? He had meant to at the wedding, an alternative to his vows, but he didn’t get to sing―

“Question 6. ‘If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?’” Fundy moved on to the next question.

“Do you remember my answer?”

“Body.” Fundy wasn’t quite sure if Dream said that because that’s what he actually was or if that was a genuine answer. Dream was cryptic that way. He always was, somehow.

“Do you remember mine?” Fundy asked, doubtful that Dream remembered all of his answers. Dream hadn’t looked all that present during that portion of their date. There was no way━

“Mind. See? Nothing has changed. We're still a good half-sexy team.” They both giggled (Dream wheezed) that, though Fundy tried to muffle his own laughter.

“Question 7. "Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?" You said that you thought you were gonna die in a fire, but you weren't sure how.” Not that Dream would let Fundy die in such a way.

“Right?” Fundy forced a smile on his face, knowing that he kept some information from his answer. When he… burnt the flag… he almost hoped that… He shook his head, a strange gesture on Dream’s end as he watched his husband suddenly shake his head as if a small spider had landed on his nose. No bad thoughts, Fundy. No bad thoughts. Just say Dream’s answer, “And you said that you weren't afraid of death.”

“And I'm still not. I'm only afraid of dying alone.” Dream shuddered at the words, knowing that… everyone hated him now. If he died… would anyone even― He didn’t want to think about it.

“Read the next one.” Dream averted his gaze. His answer hadn’t changed, they both knew that… and they both knew why. But with recent changes, that fear was beginning to seep into reality.

“Question 8. ‘Name 3 things you and your partner appear to have in common.’”

“Easy. We both are super good at coding things to life.” Dream smiled. He gave Fundy admin powers once…

“We both become monsters when we lose. We both think we have the best worst name for a game.” Dream was competitive and Fundy was desperate, not a good combo when it comes to games.

Dream chuckled at the last one, “We both ask Tubbo for our news.”

They used to ask Tommy, but Tommy hasn’t been in New L’Manburg for quite some time. Dream looked down at hands, knowing that Fundy was thinking the same thing.

“There's 4.”

“We both say that I’m so much better at cooking.”

Fundy didn’t want to think about Tommy, “We both hate that kitchen island we built.” He continued with his answer.

“We both need a glass of water on the bedside table. We both sleep early purely out of guilt.” Fundy sighed at that last one, knowing how he had spent his last nights in their old home. He didn’t sleep the entire time, wondering where Dream was. He would wait by the door, falling asleep to the chirp of crickets and awakening to warm sunlight on his face.

“We both have dreams much bigger than ourselves.” They both reached for the sun.

“We both think that's how to live.” Casting their wings…

“We both put up a fight for all the right reasons.” …despite it all.

“And we both eventually give.” Only to fall into the deep abyss below.

“I tried so hard to separate who you are from who you were.” He had been living in denial, until… Fundy closed his eyes, nothing’s changed. Why has nothing changed? The words. The answers. His laugh. It felt familiar. It felt like home. Each time he looked up, all he’d see were the same green eyes that he’d seen for the past few years. He gripped the edge of the table, his breath shaky as he tried to console himself… why has nothing changed?

“But now I'm reevaluating how similar you are to him.”

He knows this man, he loved him once, didn’t he?

“You have the same voice and the same cadence when you speak.” It was the same voice that whispered sweet-nothings into his ear as he cooked or before they went to sleep. It was the same voice who screamed him a warning each time a spider would get too close to him. It was the voice of a man he’d thought he’d share forever with. It was still his Dream.

“If I close my eyes, you still sound to me like the old Dream.”

“When I was with you, I was real.” Dream didn’t lie about everything, didn’t twist his words to fit into a narrative he was desperate to be in. He moved his chair closer, his meal forgotten as he placed his seat right beside Fundy’s. Fundy watched him from the corner of his eyes, not a word of protest escaping the fox hybrid’s lips. Dream wished he could reach for his husband’s hand. He settled for holding his own hand to his chest, a promise of sorts, “When I was with you, I could be myself.”

“Am I in love with the old Dream?”

Fundy ran a hand through his hair, sparing a glance towards the man beside him. He felt conflicted. It should be difficult, not… Fundy didn’t know. This was the Dream he knew, the Dream he loved… but was it? To admit this Dream was the same Dream who blew up his home… could he do that? Could he learn to love… that. Fundy shut his eyes, leaning back into his seat. It would be easy to think if he couldn’t feel the heat emanating from the man beside him. He didn’t pull away though.

“Or who's right in front of me?”

“When I am with you I can feel…” It would be so easy not to feel anything.

“…shivers running down my spine.” But they both couldn’t help it.

“Your skin close to mine.” The other felt warm to the touch.

“It's like my 5 senses make my heart defenseless.” It shouldn’t feel this right.

“With you.” But it was. As much as they both wished it wasn’t.

“When I am with you, I am real.” Dream didn’t lie about everything. He wished Fundy could see that.

“When I am with you I am actually too real.” Dream leaned closer, resting his head at the back of Fundy’s chair. This close, it was enough for him. This was enough. His eyes closed as a smile appeared on his lips, “When I am with you everything feels…”

“With you… With you…” Fundy looked down, seeing the content look on Dream’s face. He wished it wasn’t so endearing. He wished it didn’t bring a smile to his face.

“With you…”

This felt… “So real.”

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

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#fundywastaken #fundy #dreamwastaken #mcyt

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merife · 4 years

Text

— mayday

pairing: Jotaro Kujo x Reader

summary: it’s like the start of the rain — little drops will bring only cloudburst.

word count: 3906

notes: so, before this chapter i wanted to share some thoughts about stands, that i will use in work. since the stands represent the human soul, this means that it is they who first fulfill the will of the human subconscious, and only then the consciousness. that is, if a person with a stand pushes away their loved ones, but does so because of an unconscious desire for protection, their stand will primarily protect, not repel. likewise, the stand of someone who wants to escape, but needs help, will look for this very help, even if the user does not realize it.if you see some mistakes, please, message me!

previous // next

01. of bittersweet greetings

"…Right," Noriaki releases your hand, "it would be extremely inconvenient if we didn’t introduce ourselves again," and waves his hand to the other passengers of the unlucky plane, as if offering to silently join them. Recently brought ashore, all of them are probably unhappy with the crash and the loss of their luggage. You would share this dissatisfaction if you had a suitcase full of things and didn’t know about what was really happening on the plane. However, you were still felt bad about your soaked backpack. It's unlikely that the book lying there will recover from such a flight.

Kakyoin opposite you — a tall guy, probably the same age as you and with strange earrings in his ears — looks like a nice young man and you hope that this opinion is not deceptive. Some can call it gullibility, but you believed the first glance into someone else's eyes — often unconsciously, it showed people unprepared, and therefore in their true form. Still, no first glance will show the changes that the person will be subjected to. Which you may not notice over time.

"What are you doing here," displeased, without a hint of a question, which causes only one reaction: rolling your eyes, you click your tongue —accidentally louder than you wanted. Oh yes, of course. The world around is just beginning to recover, however fate doesn’t allow it to do recovery to the end and decides to take everything into its own hands, returning to place completely the wrong pieces of the puzzle.

"The same question I can ask you," some ease of sudden familiarity, previously present in conversation with Kakyoin dissolves, and you gather your hands in the lock on your chest to then transfer gaze to the approaching man, "Jotaro".

He stands in his usual position: slightly hunched over from his height, hands buried deep in pockets and peering you with his heavy gaze from under the peak of his cap, as he has done a thousand times before, which makes your reaction lack the fright or tension that you might have experienced earlier. Now it looks like a kind of challenge that you unconsciously accept and raise your chin higher, without looking away. See him on the plane to Bangkok was unexpected. See his stand (you freeze between a row of seats and your fingers dig into the back of one of the fronts, until a few meters away, next to Jotaro — what he forgot here at all? — Kujo materializes a humanoid spirit, immediately attacking a flying insect. Since when does this delinquent even have a stand?) it was unexpected. But to see it in the usual state of "out of reach" for ordinary mortals is like returning from a dream to reality: a little unpleasant, but familiar.

"Don't turn this on me, woman," and that's his constant "woman". You are the same age and such a statement sounds at least strange, if not rude.

"Oh God," you shake your head, "our plane just crashed and the only thing you care about is why am I here?" his mouth twists into a grimace of displeasure. It's as if your very existence irritates him, even though you're the only one who has a reason to be angry with him.

"I'm still waiting-

"Excuse me," Kakyoin intervenes in the conversation and — honestly? — it makes it a little easier. There's a look of perplexity on his face that makes you raise an eyebrow in a silent question,"I didn't want to interrupt, but… Do you know each other?"

"Yes," on your lips pops up smile, yet nothing fun in it, while Jotaro utters his favourite phrase on exhale, "we are classmates," despite years communication and years ignoring each other, this the only word that you can use to describe your relationships now.

"Indeed, a striking coincidence," bewilderment is immediately replaced by a kind of calmness with a share of ... joy? Relief? Kakyoin puts his fingers on his chin, as if thinking about something, "to meet your classmate stand-user on a plane to another country, when you are being chased by the enemy".

Enemy? So, this scarab beetle and the old man...?

"Guys," you raise your own hands, indicating that you're not going to do them any harm. Now the picture of what is happening looks a little clearer. Jotaro actually had a reason to ask why you were here — though, it would have been easier for everyone if he had explained it, instead of immediately getting defensive and demanding answers, "I went to my relatives, they live here. And that scarab-

"Y/n!"

"I saw for the first time," the continuation of the sentence is drowned in an unfamiliar thunderous voice — this is a stranger, an elderly man, whom you previously saw in the passenger compartment. He doesn't look aggressive, rather the opposite — as if full of enthusiasm, he takes a few long steps to cover the distance between you and immediately wraps you in a — oh, no, no-no-hug.

"God, how you have grown," the smell of salt water is sharp in your nose. His titanic grip cannot be released immediately, but you don’t give up — you trying to get out and starting to bend your legs, but he probably thinks that you just… Went limp from his actions? Because man starts to hug you a little stronger, "I almost don’t recognize you as that little girl who was always carrying a kite on her back. I'm so glad to see you!" his hands moves from your back to shoulders, and you can see his face again. There is something familiar about him: the general feeling that you have already seen him once is present, but where? — you can’t find the answer. Probably, in a childhood. A very early childhood. And apparently, he catches your embarrassment, because immediately — a little pretentiously, as if childish — the glee in his eyes replace itself on a slight sadness, "you don't remember me? I'm grandfather Jotaro, Joseph," you unconsciously turn your gaze to Kujo — he just snorts and turns his head away. Even if you remembered, the image of Joseph in your head would be different from what you see now. It was too long ago for unconscious attempts to restore memories to actually work. Therefore, a guilty smile appears on your lips. However, it doesn't make the right impression and Joseph only grabs your shoulders harder.

"Jiji, leave her alone, she's here on her own business," the man's attention doesn’t go to the grandson. He still looks at you, as if not noticing the words of Jotaro. "We'll make up for it. Y/n come and have lunch with us," unfamiliar hands disappear, and you are free. Physically. "No, no, Joseph, I have- "Come on, I'm buying." "No, I really can't." "Let's go!"

"Come on, let’s go," Oisin grabs your wrists, presses them to the glass table and looks into your eyes with hope but you just sigh, "it's not a good thing to miss your first party at the university just because you're too lazy".

The end of August in America pleased with good weather. Or rather, too good: thermometer hasn't dropped below twenty-fife degrees by Celsius since you moved to Miami, and you were, in some way, glad that you spent the past year in Sperlonga at grandma Oria's farm, where was almost as hot as here. The climate didn't take much getting used to, so there was only the time zone, which was a bit of a problem. There was no need to go to classes at eight o'clock and adhere to special discipline in past year when you learned on a home-school, so now it was a little difficult to get back into life with a schedule. Especially in such crowded city. But — remember: you picked the hard way to recover. You don’t have a luxury to tremble over every unfamiliar voice, you can’t freeze like a statue every time when you don't know how to get out of a situation. There is no enemy stand-users, these people don’t want to attack you just because you helping someone important. It's already ordinary life that you craved, don’t seek something distinctive in it.

In a time like these you envied Oisin because he definitely doesn’t have such problems. Even though he had arrived only a week earlier, the guy had already made friends with half of the campus, as if he had lived here before and simply introduced himself again. And his energy overwhelmed you even now, like he wasn’t on different continent just ten days earlier and jetlag was created only for you. Yes... this guy exact opposite of Jotaro.

"I don't know, Oisin," you pull up your previously extended legs and Weaver releases your wrists, like he offended by the seemingly expected response, "I still don't feel very well after the flight, plus yesterday-

"You'll get some rest," Oisin said assuredly. Damn his insistence. You sigh. Long. Plangent. With the hope that in this sigh, the guy will find the answer he is looking for, but he just keeps watching you. Getting out to others is not a bad idea, but… In your head, you're still looking for a reason why you might not go, putting aside crippling on your shoulder paranoia that was like a part of you now. Yes ... it's a pity that your mother won't forbid you to go somewhere anymore. And apparently, something in the long silence created in the conversation still responds to Oisin, "okay, miss recluse," Weaver's head tilts a little to the side, and then turns and shifts all his attention to — the menu? He just ate a burger five minutes ago, why else would he, "it's seven o'clock now" brown hair turns back. Ah, he looked at watch, "I have things to do now, but" guy holds up his index finger in front of you, as if rejecting any comment beforehand,"but! I'll pick you up at nine and then you can give me your final answer. Alright?"

God, it's like he's calling you to some sort of ball that you definitely can't miss.

You look down at the empty plate, where the salt pellets from the fries are still visible. It's better than answering now.

"And I still hope you'll go," Oisin carefully takes one of your hands in his — not so dramatically as before, much softer, making you look up at him, "Y/n, I really think it will be good for you," an aura of care seems to emanate from him and you feel... Awkward. Inconvenient. You wish he hadn't said that, because now it's like trying to walk a scared puppy, "and I hope you understand that" Young man doesn't wait for an answer: he lets you go, grabs his wallet and throws it into blue backpack. Oisin stands up, adjusts his t-shirt hastily, and comes over to you, giving you a hasty one-way hug.

"I left. Don't stay too long," he says. Just a few moments and you can already see his silhouette behind the glass of the diner.

Oisin… Peculiar, if you may say so. If you met him now, you would definitely not communicate with guy for one reason — he’s too loud. Oisin's energy went beyond his body and infected everyone around him, so you couldn't even really disconnect yourself from Weaver sometimes and for you — for the version of you that just sat in grandma Oria's garden without thoughts or emotions and stared at the sun, burning your own cornea — he was the perfect candidate for communication. You didn't have to be the guide; you could finally be guided and not be afraid that some extra movement would lead to something dangerous. Oisin in Italy saved you from the haunting ghosts of the past, and sometimes — when every movement, every word, reminded you of them — it was Weaver's hand that stroked your back, his voice in your ear. Oisin was loud, but his volume helped you not get lost in the silence created after Egypt completely. That's probably why, when he said that there was a course options in his university that you were interested in, you didn't have to choose where you would continue your education.

Some hoarse broken cry and the hum of falling iron tray— this brought you back to reality. The smell of beer spilled on the floor immediately hits your nose and unconsciously the name of your own stand passes through your head as you let go of the straw from the milkshake and sprang on your legs. Two tables away from yours is a middle-aged woman with a small group of people gathered around her: probably the man she came with, the waiter (who dropped the tray?) and a couple of strangers like you, who are interested in what happened and decided to help. She seems to be breathing, but she’sdo it with difficulty,though her skin looks healthy. You probably need to take medicine a little more seriously in future.

"What happened?" the startled waiter turns to you as a figure runs to the phone somewhere behind the counter. He doesn't have any reason to tell you, but with a stand that can heal, you can actually help. Not that the guy across knows that.

"I-I don’t know,"he squeezes the tray down to his white from inner tension knuckles, and you call White Queen again, but this time in your mind. Where is she? "carried them an order and… Oh, my God, am I going to jail? I can't go to jail, not now," great, you have also a panicked waiter.

"Calm down," you put your hand on his forearm, try to look into the tear-stained eyes, "it's hardly your fault" and then turn your attention back to the woman, covering the lower part of your face so that the Queen’s name will slip from your lips as imperceptibly as possible. Why isn't she here yet? What's happening?

"The ambulance will be here in a couple of minutes," the appropriate man pushes you and the waiter aside a little and sits on his knees in front of the victim. Her pulse must have been checked earlier, because right now he’s just shifting her head to the side.

"White Queen!" you say it again already loudly, but the words are mixed with the speech of a man, so now it’s sounds like porridge, because of which a couple of people look at you.You just cough into your fist.

Your stand appears exactly three seconds later.

You have to sit at the bar to avoid drawing attention to yourself, but the tall figure of White Queen doesn't hesitate to approach the woman to materializing a pike in left hand and then stab unfamiliar leg where it will not be noticed by onlookers. And you wait for a small green glow to appear on the marble pike, but ... Nothing happens. Capable of healing physical wounds, White Queen's spear remains in the woman's leg and doesn't change anything in her. When Queen turns to you with a puzzled expression on her stony face, you just respond with a nod of your head and a shrug of your shoulders, a little disappointed, guilty — you don't have an answer. It's probably something you can't control: an old illness, food stuck in woman's throat, or something else you don't know about yet. Stand takes the pike from the poor woman's leg — and the wound, which for a moment only the keenest eye can see, is immediately closed. And you pick up your things from the table and leave the place, hearing the ambulance siren, left with not the most pleasant feeling in your heart.

"Where the hell have you been?" White Queen is walking beside you: you can hear her marble feet making a hollow sound when they touch the pavement, like human footsteps. She's trying too hard to be alive. Yes, you rarely call her. Yes, you do everything yourself, if you can, and when you get hurt, you put iodine on the cuts, waiting for them to heal, but when someone else's life is in danger, you simply can't leave everything as it is. Because your problems are your own and have nothing to do with saving strangers.

The only response is silence. Sure.

"I thought I made it clear that you weren't to show up if something happened to me. But, for some reason, you still do it, and when I really need your help, then no, Queen is not here, of course not," you wave your hand in displeasure in her direction and she, like a scolded puppy, lowers her head lower, "let's just agree: you go out only when I call you. Neither sooner nor later," you turn to her and wait for some hint of response — a nod of the head or a change of expression, but White Queen just turns to some person — why is this guy looking at you? — then he returns his gaze to you and disappears into the air.

Even better. It would be great if he thought you were just being weird and talking to yourself. And without waiting for the situation to change, you turn toward the campus.

"Miss Y/n?" no good conversation starts with 'miss', but you can't ignore a stranger — you've seen him, he's seen you — he's seen you've seen him-God, that sounds stupid. And you hear: the third, fourth step and the guy is already next to you, "I'm glad that I met you here. I'm from a mutual friend of ours," he emphasizes the last words with a lowered intonation of his voice. Oisin, did you really get to know all of Miami in a week?

"You missed him five minutes ago," you start walking again. You don't think this dialogue will last too long, "Oisin is busy, so I don't think he can help you-

"No, you misunderstand me," the stranger again catches up with you, "from another mutual friend".

And this is like the result of an undone breath before jumping into the water.

"I have no other friends," the phrase stabs, cuts, but also defends, protects, "so I advise you not to believe those who deceive you," all through your teeth. You — this version of you— don't have any friends for a good reason and you have the right to keep it secret in your ribs, trusting no one [as if you never lie to yourself — as the marks on the path you have passed are not able to tell anyone that you can't be alone anymore].

"I don't think Joseph will agree with you."

You don't feel someone else's hand on your elbow. You don't feel it, you don't feel how White Queen reappear in space, and you certainly don't feel your fingernails pressing into your palms again. But you know how your heart can get caught between your ribs in aching pain. The image of Joestar doesn't appear as a memory in your head like a Kakyoin, but it makes you freeze in place like a phantom. How did they find you? Sure, you weren't hiding, but... You haven't written to Jotaro, much less to his grandfather, where you are. The last time you saw Joestar at the airport, his embrace was tight, but you didn't return it properly, because even then the tremor in your hands couldn't be stopped. At the Tokyo airport, you disintegrated into parts of your own personality, one of which screamed so loudly that it had to be locked somewhere inside, and the other — unprotected, like a stray kitten, knowing nothing more than the silence around you, made only attempts to find a corner where you can hide and not come out until it's too late. There were no more tears; they were replaced by a lifeless emptiness, reflected in an instant in the eyes of Jotaro and you wanted to divide it with the two of you, so that it was at least a little easier to cope and the burden of an endless nightmare ceased to be such, but... You missed moment where it could be true by letting go of the sleeve of his uniform and disappearing like a White Queen.

"Listen, miss Y/n. Here occur- "I don't care what happens here," the moment of your own weakness leaves you and your rage falls like a bucket of water. Queen creates a spear in the air, "I don't want to have anything to do with either the Joestar or the stands," the stranger looks a little scared — apparently, the guy didn't expect such a reaction. But what did he expect from you then? From a woman who had been out of touch for just over a year, whose parents refused to even talk to the Speedwagon Foundation.

"Wait, Y/- "My stand is not as strong as the others," you take a step toward him. His time to speak has passed, "but surely you know that even Queen can inflict injuries, if you are from our mutual friend," barely recovering calm you are not ready to sell for another adventure, now given only to you, "do you have a problem? Discuss this with Polnareff or Joestars themselves," another step to stranger, until he same moves away from you, "damn, make new stand users, as this did Enya, but don't," and another, "involve me" and as confirmation of seriousness of your intentions White Queen's pike pierces palm of the guy, respiration the freezes and slightly whether not screams, however your hand closes his mouth. In a few seconds, the pain will change to warmth, the hole he sees in his palm will disappear and you will no longer be here. However, apparently unable to see the pike created by stand, he tries to close the wound, stumbling into an invisible obstacle, "the palm will heal and I hope that we will never see each other again".

You have time to make three steps before the guy starts talking again.

He says: Y/n. He says through pained chokes: remember — stand users are attracted to each other.

You return home with a heavy heart and a reminder that you shouldn't forget to close the front door.

What kind of statement is that? Attracted. You are not magnets with different poles to break everything and find each other. Moreover, during your stay in Italy, you met only a couple of users, and it is unlikely that they knew about you. The trip was different, but ... Damn, why does it keep coming up? Perhaps you should have stayed in Sperlonga and gone to some university near this village, instead of chasing a dream and getting out of a hastily created cocoon [unless, of course, you yourself wanted to return to this world with dangers, in which, indeed, life was brighter and every day was different].

Notes from an unfamiliar song hit your ears with their sharpness, and you immediately tweak the relay a little to lower the volume. Yeah. What were you talking about?.. Fine. Now you can take the time to sort things out, and then wait for Oisin. Still, maybe he's right.

#jjba #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jotaro kujo x reader #jotaro x reader #jojo imagines

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chershare · 4 years

Text

Snippet (but not really?) from Discord 20

When he’d jerked awake in the early morning at a flare of resentful energy, he’d thought that it was Wen Ning acting up again. He’d thought he was going to need to subdue him as his spiritual cognition fought against the bonds of a body with empty meridians.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t expected to find himself staring into a bruised and battered face, to find a thin, beaten young man coiled in resentful energy and smeared with blood. Even without a golden core to support his strength the young man had barely weighed anything as he lay limply in his arms.

At first, he’d thought him dead.

That someone had sent a dead body to him in an unknown ritual, or this person had made a mistake in their ow ritual, but soft fluttering heartbeats and whispery breaths slid over his skin.

On closer inspection of the man, he noticed the elegant curve to sim brows and the sweet slope of an unbroken nose. Cheekbones unnaturally sharp with prolonged starvation Wei Wuxian could almost picture fuller and lovely with color other than purple and yellow bruises. Dry, cracked lips were spotted with dried blood and pale with dehydration.

A throat covered in hand shaped bruises was bared by too large, rough robes of even lower quality than those available to his Wen. When he sat up, he made sure to be careful of this bird boned stranger with deep bruises around his eyes and clearly visible collarbones. The man’s left sleeve was torn clean off and there were weeping cuts still slowly oozing blood but clotting slowly with cultivation. Under those cuts were more hand shaped bruises old and new, crossing over each other as if he had been grabbed over and over and over again.

For several long, helpless moments he stared down at this surprise addition to his bedding and was too stunned to know what to do.

So he did the only thing he could do, and pulled off his outer robe to wrap the thin, fragile man in and gently lifted him into his arms for Wen Qing to fix. Even if they called Wei Wuxian the leader of this place, it was Wen Qing’s drive and knowledge that really kept them all going.

He was surprised when he felt energy lick up his arms that he hadn’t felt since the mountain on which he’d sacrificed his golden core. Too shocked to do anything more than stare down at the probably pretty stubbornly not dying man in his arms, he felt his heartbeat pick up as that cultivation energy slid through meridians and towards the hollow in his belly. Scars twinged and ached for a moment as he was used to before they soothed with this foreign golden core so freely offering itself to him.

“What the in every hell did you do, stranger?” his own voice coming out almost choked had him jumping into action.

This golden core that was weak, weaker than Wei Wuxian ever remembered being himself, even against the Tortoise of Slaughter, stuck in that cave. It didn’t take much to jump to the conclusion that this man had been suffering for far longer, his cultivation level the only thing keeping him alive with a skeletal, beaten frame such as this.

It was lined with resentful energy though, as familiar as it was unfamiliar and still reaching out for him like he was the answer to all this man’s problems.

While Wei Wuxian had no issues with helping people, normally they didn’t try to unconsciously give him pieces of themselves, especially if that was the only piece keeping them alive.

And as he was stepping out of the cave entrance towards Wen Qing’s little house, he looked down and found lovely gray eyes staring up at him in heartbreaking confusion. There was something despairing in this little young man in his arms, something that was terrified of being alive and yet so bruised by the want for hope. He looked at Wei Wuxian like he couldn’t believe that he was real, as if in a dream and touched him with purple and green tinged bruised fingers.

His pretty stranger looked up at Wei Wuxian’s smile and cried, as if he’d never known kindness, or at least didn’t remember what it looked like.

There were a few distinct moments in his life where he knew that he wished to cause someone complete and utter annihilation. He added these unknown abusers to this count even if he knew they were probably beyond his reach.

So instead he held this teary-eyed man who looked at him with wounded wonder and kept smiling, making sure that there was no chance of dropping him. Of hurting him more than he already had been when he arrived.

When Wen Qing saw the broken man in his arms she didn’t do her normal sniping and immediately turned into the knowledgeable doctor that she was. She had other Wen running around for her getting what she needed and there were more needles sticking in this pretty stranger’s body than he’d ever seen her use before.

Even in transferring his core, he’d never seen her use so many.

She went gray similarly though, when she examined the wounded, starved man’s golden core, and then she grabbed Wei Wuxian and yanked him over to put her hand over his scar.

Her eyes were wide when she looked up at him.

“He’s broken off a piece of his golden core somehow,” rasped out of her mouth as she stared into Wei Wuxian’s eyes in a mixture of horror and awe. “It’s regenerating like an organ, but very, very slowly.”

He had a sinking feeling that he knew where there piece had gone, and his hand lifted to hover over the back of hers where it still sat over his stomach. Even now, no longer touching the young man he could feel ghosts of that tragically familiar warmth he’d deliberately forgotten to miss.

“I thought that was impossible. Regenerating a core.”

“It is,” she insisted, pulling away to turn back to her patient. “I don’t know what he intended to do to end up here, so coated in resentful energy he might as well be made of it, but –”

Made of it?

“He thought he was going to die,” he thought aloud, brows furrowing as he looked down at this needle filled, suicidal wonder. “I’m pretty sure that he meant to die. So… an array or ritual of some sort that would cause the death of the activator. Probably with a purpose, but I don’t know of anything that would bring him to me when they usually summon… oh.”

“Oh?”

“Hey, Wen Qing. Do you think the Burial Mound knows what time is?”

Getting into an argument about time travel and the barriers of death with one of his best friends was a trial, but he’d had longer nights.

It made sense that if this pretty young man had meant to sacrifice his soul to bring a deceased Wei Wuxian back to life to fulfill a dying wish for vengeance – which considering his state, he would have been glad for – that it would… make do. Perhaps the golden core was nearly equivalent for whatever design the young man had used and personalized so that it had this surprising effect, but Wei Wuxian was pretty sure all of this was an accident.

He’d seemed almost betrayed by being alive, after all.

Over the following weeks of splitting time between the soon named Mo Xuanyu and jumpstarting waking up Wen Ning, Wei Wuxian became fond of him. Despite the wounded state he’d shown up in he was surprisingly stubborn about trying to help them with projects.

Dumping Yuan on him helped in more ways than they realized at first, except for perhaps Wen Qing.

Every time Wei Wuxian or anyone else came near him, even if he wasn’t looking in their direction, Mo Xuanyu flinched and shrunk down. Trying to make himself a smaller target for an attacker he’d learned not to strike back against. Even casual touches that he could see coming tended to be twitched away from before they were leaned into.

It hurt, to see that instinctive resigned fear directed at him, but more and more often it quickly turned into hesitant warmth and growing fondness.

Wei Wuxian liked to see that, just like he’d always loved winning Lan Zhan’s smiles, and so he enlisted Yuan to help him help Mo Xuanyu. Hugs and hand holding, sneaky cuddles that ended in sleeping curled together in a warm pile that stimulated the growth of that sliver of golden core in Wei Wuxian’s belly and helped heal Mo Xuanyu. In multiple ways.

Weight came back to him slowly, but not as slowly as his smile.

Watching someone who’d wished for death learn what it was to live again was inspiring and Wei Wuxian threw himself into his projects with a fervor. Bouncing ideas off of someone who already knew some of his work from a future that would no longer come to pass was refreshing. Mo Xuanyu didn’t disapprove of his use of resentful energy and didn’t hesitate to improve on the multitude of talismans that Wei Wuxian would scribble out once asked.

Without really noticing, when he went to town he started to get small things that he hoped would bring more liveliness to those gray eyes. A new paint brush here, an ink stone there. Some haggled for ribbons from an old woman that Mo Xuanyu shared freely with little Yuan. Better, warmer robes he traded manual labor for, even if he couldn’t pay for the ones he thought Mo Xuanyu would look nicest in.

Slowly, he and his Wen built up Mo Xuanyu again, and Wei Wuxian felt some of that dread, some of that inevitable bad end slide away from his thoughts. It didn’t matter how much Jiang Cheng came to yell at him about turning his back on people who had no one else. It didn’t matter that the Jin were apparently trying to incite the Sects against him so that they could steal his Stygian Tiger Amulet. It didn’t matter that they were poor and living in houses that were slow to build.

It didn’t matter, because Wen Ning was slowly waking up, his cognition leveling with the new talismans they’d hung and the little bits of cultivational energy that he could weave into them now. It didn’t matter, because the Jin had once hurt Mo Xuanyu so very badly in ways that Wei Wuxian didn’t know the extent of, and he’d wipe them out if need be. It didn’t matter, because in a year or two he’d have a golden core again and defenses were being set up on the edges of the Burial Mound.

What mattered, was Yuan giggling and a slow genuine smile that lit gray eyes like the morning light on the horizon of Cloud Recesses. Was waking up with a thin body pressed under his arm, herb scented hair under his nose and a thin body slowly putting on healthy weight.

Fewer flinches when Mo Xuanyu could see who approached, more bright childish laughter and sloppy characters spelling names scattered amongst random talismans. A hesitant hand that would lift to trace Wei Wuxian’s smile on the bad days that could get better again, and shuddering sobs in his arms on the days when they couldn’t.

It was waking up after Mo Xuanyu and watching him slowly brush his hair out before carefully pulling it into a bun and affixing a simple brown ribbon, or the rare blue one. It was pouting at Wen Qing when she lectured him about helping with the farming when he should be sleeping and his other Wen laughing at their silly Yiling Patriarch.

There was nothing that could make Wei Wuxian turn away from the path he tread now, and watching his Lan Zhan watch Mo Xuanyu, he knew he didn’t want it any other way. As hesitant gray eyes looked at Wei Wuxian and relaxed at his smile even as Mo Xuanyu helped Yuan with his meal.

“I can’t go to Cloud Recesses with you, Lan Zhan,” he told the man later, heart no longer aching at the sight of him. “You understand, right? These people are my family now.”

Those arresting golden eyes looked into his own red tinged ones and the Second Jade inclined his head slightly, looking over smiling, laughing Wen. Before Mo Xuanyu had been bestowed upon them by fate, they’d all felt to be living on borrowed time and it had showed in the melancholy they carried with them. It showed in the lack of planning for the future they could make for themselves here under Wei Wuxian’s protection.

They had hope, now. They had open trade with Yiling, were haggling with carpenters for a deal on trees from their mountain, talking about making dyes to sell with their slow growing vegetables.

There were fledgling ward stones being settled around the base of their home, and soon a barrier would bloom to protect them.

“I understand,” something almost sad and slightly resigned colored his friend’s pretty eyes. “Wei Ying will stay.”

He swallowed thickly as the corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth ticked into an almost smile that he’d always loved to see, but never as resignedly as this.

“You could stay too,” he blurted, turning his head away to look at Mo Xuanyu knelt in front of Yuan, who was playing with his grass butterfly. “It’s not as pretty or as comfortable as you’re used to, but there’s room for you here. I mean, you could even visit! I haven’t made my own jade tokens or anything like that yet, the wards aren’t that sophisticated at this stage but –”

“Wei Ying would want me to stay?”

“I always want you around, Lan Zhan!”

The honorable Hanguang-Jun looked taken aback before the tips of his ears pinked slightly and he looked away from Wei Wuxian, who hadn’t realized he’d looked at him again. The two of them almost awkwardly watched one of the Yiling Patriarch’s new favorite people smile that broken jagged smile of his and gently pet the toddler’s head before standing.

“I must leave.”

“Ah, right, of course you do –”

“I must tell brother where I will be,” the man interrupted him uncharacteristically, spine straight and expression set in that way that said he wouldn’t be swayed. “I will return.”

Suddenly Wei Wuxian’s heart was so full he felt like crying, but all he did was smile so brightly he felt like he was radiating sunlight.

Having his family together like this, his favorite people – other than Yanli, of course, but she deserved nice things even if with the stupid peacock – with him, was his simple dream. He’d only ever wanted to live happily with people he loved and who loved him in turn, and he knew that together with these people they could do anything.

“I’m really happy, Lan Zhan!”

“Mm.”

#MDZS snippets #the untamed #mdzs #Mo Xuanyu #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian/mo xuanyu/lan wangji #time travel #sweet dreams

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salexectrian-heir · 4 years

Text

Loki: Chapter 11

Pairing: Solavellan Rating: E*

Summary: Lavellan rescued a mischievious sphynx kitten outside her work who loves her dearly. But his destructive habits start to get out of hand when he steals her attractive neighbor’s underwear… repeatedly.

[Previous Chapter] [Start at the Beginning] [Read on AO3]

Chapter 11

Anise awoke the next morning to find Solas curled around her body with his face buried in her hair. How he was breathing she wasn’t quite sure. She rolled to face him. She untangled herself from his limbs as gently as she could. Apparently she didn’t need to have done so, he literally didn’t budge or notice at all. Out of curiosity, she picked up his arm and let it flop back down. Nothing. She couldn’t stop the smile that formed, nor the quiet bout of laughter that followed. He was dead to the world. She dressed herself, placed a chaste kiss on his forehead, and snuck out the front door--leaving it unlocked so she could get back in later.

No one had bothered her clothes in the laundry room, thankfully. Added to her luck, no one was using any of the machines. The snow must have had everyone taking a day off. She was able to switch everything over into two machines, leaving the others available in case someone did feel like doing chores too. Her stomach grumbled as she shut the last machine door shut.

If she was hungry, then her kitten most definitely was. Poor Loki. She was sure he was used to her being gone for periods of time by now, with her chaotic schedule. But it still stung she hadn’t even said goodbye.

And most likely her lover who lay unconscious and softly snoring where she left him would be hungry too--whenever he decided to return to the waking world. She decided she wanted donuts and coffee but that would mean braving the snow outside. Which meant warmer clothes were called for.

Loki was excited to see her, needless to say. When she cracked open the door to her apartment, his little face was right there. Nose pressing in the slight crack she had made, sniffing loudly and mewling to be let through.

“Silly boy, the door opens inwards.”

She stuck her foot through the crack to block off his point of exit. If he got out, he most surely would get the zoomies and tear up and down the hall, and take up more of her time catching him. She kept him at bay with her foot until she was inside and had the door secured behind her. His little paws immediately found purchase on her pants. He stretched, clutching the fabric and sliding along the floor as she waddled deeper into her apartment. When she got to the kitchen he finally let go, only to weave between her feet demanding to be held. After a few solid minutes of affection, playful bites, and incredibly loud purrs, she set him down to feed him. While he was distracted, she began to bundle up for her trek to the cafe down the street. Adding extra layers on top of her pajamas, a pair of extra thick socks, hat, earmuffs, scarf and boots. She was just able to make it out of her apartment with only one loud mewl of protest.

Her feet sunk into the fresh snow all too easily once outside. It was at least three feet deep, making it more difficult than she expected to maneuver. The street had been plowed, and a few fresh tire tracks suggested people were out and about. She had been lucky to have the day off, after having spent over 120 hours in it last week.

Though the worst of the storm had passed, snow continued to fall. Large flakes floated delicately from the light gray sky at a leisurely pace. The urge to stick her tongue out and catch one was incredibly strong, but she refrained. For all she knew Vivienne could be watching from out of one of the many glass windows at the Hospital just across the street as she passed by. She couldn’t risk it. At least until the hospital would be mostly out of sight.

She let her mind wander as she waded down the sidewalk. The snow continued to fall, the hospital continued to operate, and the world kept moving. Life always kept going. She thought about all the choices that led her to where she was now, how drastically her life had changed, much like the snow changed Haven overnight.

Tipping her head pack, she watched the snowflakes on their descent. Diving off clouds, down to earth, scattering across the wind to where they eventually would find the ground. Or her face. She had risked everything, taking her own dive. Leaving her homeland, her family, an engagement, all for her dream, for her passion. A risk that paid off more than she could have ever imagined. And perhaps most important of all she felt she had truly found herself in the process... she wouldn’t trade that for the world. Despite what it cost her. Her breath came out a wispy cloud in front of her face, going the opposite direction of the snow, disappearing up into the sky.

But she gained so much, too. A new family of residents and their antics, interns and their pestering need to be helpful, and attendings with their drama. Her patients and their faith in her, and her team. A purpose. A loveable nightmare of a kitten that she loved nearly as much as studying medicine.

And even a neighbor who… might just be more...

Memories from the night before flooded her mind. The way he felt as she fucked him, and the sensation of coming completely undone atop him. Her ears burned at the thought, and she shook her head to clear it. It was way too early for that kind of thinking. Even if he did just call her vhenan…

His heart.

She buried her face in her mittens and rubbed her cheeks in circles.

He called you Vhenan. It must have been a mistake… he was tired, and so out of it. He probably won’t even remember having said it...

Vhenan was not a casual pet name. Nor would you call the neighbor you were sleeping around with anything remotely close to that.

And yet.

She had gotten so lost in thought that she arrived at the cafe without realizing. She was just standing in front of the door, hands on her cheeks, taking deep breaths like some bizarre crazed idiot staring vacantly through the glass. For how long, she didn’t know. It could have been two seconds, or two minutes. She pulled herself together and braced for the awkward conversation she was about to inescapably having with the barista.

She couldn’t just casually say, “Oh, don’t mind me, just panicking because I might be falling in love with my old soul of a neighbor who comes with a fuckton of emotional baggage that just might outweigh my own, whom I only met a few months ago, that I met by chance when my kitten stole his underwear while he was doing his laundry” and expect that to go over well.

It even sounded insane in her head.

Graciously, the barista had been on their phone and had not noticed her mental crisis happening just outside. Or perhaps they were pretending and sparing her dignity. She ordered her usual (sixteen ounce vanilla red eye), and paused. For Solas, she eyed the specials...wanting to go with something extremely sweet and decaffeinated. Come to think of it, she had never actually seen him drink coffee before, so she wasn’t even sure if he liked it. He didn’t strike her as someone who particularly liked bitter flavors, given his love for insomnia cookies. She played with a piece of hair that had slipped out from under her hat before finally deciding on a decaf dulce de leche latte (with whip), hoping he would enjoy it.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she left the cafe, with their breakfast in hand. The walk back didn’t last nearly as long, despite the snow coming down a little bit harder. By the time she had gotten back up to his apartment her socks were wet, her hair was wet, and her hands were cold. But still she decided it would all be worth it to get to spend a lazy morning inside with him.

She stomped the snow off her boots outside his door and left them in the hallway. She doubted anyone would steal her size seven sopping boots. Once inside, the distinct sound of the shower running reached her ears. Perfect , she had time to set everything up.

He entered the kitchen dressed in a cotton shirt and a pair of comfortable looking jeans a few minutes later, just as she was pouring her coffee into a mug. He stopped mid step, surprise spreading across his face as he looked at her, then to the table, then settling back on her.

“I thought you had left.”

“Technically, I did,” she gestured to the food. “I figured why not treat ourselves on a snow day.”

“You...” he glanced out the window at the snow that was continuing to dance and swirl its way past the glass, “Anise.”

He appeared by her side in a flash, arm wrapping around her waist, tucking her in close. His body was so warm, heating lingering on his skin from his shower. She practically melded into him. “You should not have, you are freezing,” he kissed her temple and pulled back abruptly. “And wet.”

“Apologies,” she said, a bit breathless if she was being honest. His proximity, the press of his lips, his warmth… would she ever get used to it? Or was her heart always going to react this way when they touched?

He pulled away, taking his wonderful body heat with him. “One moment.”

“Where are you--”

He disappeared and came back with a change of clothes. A sweater and pair of sweatpants. “You might find these more comfortable,” he smirked, “and dry.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Her apartment was only a couple feet away with her own clothes, but… her mouth clicked shut. The chance to wear his …. that wasn’t something she was going to pass up. She went to reach for them, but he set them aside on the counter, eyes locked on her.

He grabbed the hem of her pullover and began to ease it off her. Together, they peeled off each wet layer, him sneaking a chaste kiss each time one was pulled over her head. As she pulled off the last layer, his hands drifted over the bare skin of her stomach. Her breath hitched at the contact. One settled onto her hip, thumbs tracing circles over the dip of hip bones, causing goosebumps to ripple over her skin. The other grabbed the change of clothes.

Right after getting her head through the sweatshirt, his mouth brushed along the shell of her ear before nipping at her bottom lip. “You are far kinder than I deserve.”

She shook her head, pulling her arms through and tugging it down. “Stop talking like that. Let me take care of you, too.”

Luckily the sweatpants had a drawstring, otherwise she would have never been able to keep them up. Not that her pants falling down would be an issue, at least this point in time, given the expression Solas was wearing as he watched her hike them over her ass.

But she really did want to drink her red eye before it got cold.

She waited with baited breath as they sat together, and he took his first sip of his latte. His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before widening. He took a more generous second sip.

“Do you like it?”

Solas blinked. “To my surprise, I do not hate it.”

She laughed, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s sweeter than I expected.”

“It’s also decaffeinated. I wasn’t sure… I’ve never seen you drink coffee before so I figured it would be a safe option.”

“Yes, normally I avoid it, but I will gladly take this over tea.”

Anise made a face at him. She loved tea. “What’s wrong with tea?”

“I detest the stuff,” he said in a flat tone, but the edge of his mouth quirked up the tiniest bit.

Anise feigned a gasp and set aside her coffee. “I see. Well, I must be going then.”

For a fraction of second, confusion flitted across his features, before he realized she was teasing. “I can’t believe that is what would send you running, after everything else you’ve learned about me.”

She playfully bumped into his shoulder, “I jest. It just means more tea for me.”

Solas rolled his eyes and smiled into his latte. The subject drifted to how Anise had found the cafe as they sipped their drinks. She explained how everyone at the hospital hated the hospital coffee, how it always tasted watered down and stale, and how the machine almost never worked properly. And after one particularly grueling week as an intern, Anise had gotten so fed up fighting with the machine she stormed outside and went for a walk. And just so happened to stumble upon the hole in the wall cafe a few blocks down. They fell into companionable silence, finishing up their donuts.

“Anise.”

She met his unwavering grey eyes and her stomach started doing somersaults.

“Thank you, I cannot express enough of my gratitude to truly capture how much I appreciate…everything you do, and this,” he gestured to the breakfast before them, “but also… for last night.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “You don’t have to thank me for that Solas, I wanted you too.”

He shook his head, smile creeping onto his face. “Not only for the sex Anise. For your presence. For… accepting me in the condition I was in. I was not ready to talk about it then, and you respected my boundary.”

Her heart clenched.

“Of course, Solas.”

He wrapped his slender fingers around the edge of his cup, and stared into its empty contents.

“There was an… incident at work.”

Anise placed a hand on his arm. “What kind of incident?”

She felt him stiffen beneath her palm.

“One between myself and the CEO.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

All it took was a gentle squeeze and he launched into the story of how he had been called into strategy meetings with the Vice Presidents and CEO.

“It was awkward, draining, and irritating,” he sighed, his tension evident in his rigid posture.“In theory, I shouldn’t have even been there given the level of my current position, but in reality they value my experience and tenure. If…I had made wiser choices earlier in my career, it would have put me on track to be in the Research and Development Vice President position.”

As if sensing her question, he cast a glance aside at her and said, “In layman's terms, it’s the highest position a scientist can hold.”

“I openly disagreed with our CEO, albeit a bit heatedly during the meeting. Perhaps I should have kept my opinion to myself, but I am not one for keeping silent when I believe I can offer a better solution.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Saying our illustrious leader disliked my outspokenness would be an understatement. So would calling what I said simply a disagreement, but I digress.” He pushed aside his coffee. “He cornered me after work. Tempers flared, I insulted him, and…”

It was hard to picture him being easily angered, he certainly never showed her that side of him. Snarky, yes. Annoyed? For sure. But she had never been the target of his ire before, she was still getting to truly know him. Cracking that reserved mask of his, one week at a time. She listened attentively, nodding for him to continue. When he didn’t, she prompted him. His brows knit together.

“He punched me.”

“What! Solas! ”

She was on her feet before she registered what she was doing. She cupped his chin, delicately turning his face towards her. She scanned his face for bruising. How could she not have noticed? She was a doctor for fucking Sylaise’s sake.

“It barely landed. It was in terrible form, and didn’t leave much of a mark,” he reassured her, tugging her hand away from his face. “It happened on the second day, so I’ve had plenty of time to recover.”

“I hope you reported this,” Anise said, horrified.

She knew the answer to that based on his body language alone. “You didn’t… why not ?”

“I considered it, but…” he shrugged, “It happened outside of work. I fear it would only put more strain on the relationship I have with him. He clearly is not over what happened between his wife and myself. And...” Another mirthless grin. “I am prideful, hot headed, and foolish, Anise. I instigated.”

“I don’t approve but,” she leaned forward and kissed his forehead, “but I will stand by your decision. It’s not fair. You took the consequences of your actions in stride, he shouldn’t get to continue to act this way towards you. It’s entirely unprofessional.”

“It is. The rest of the week was just...” he shook his head, “painful.”

He stood and began to clean up their breakfast at the sink.

Following him over with their cups, “Why don’t you leave, work for a different company? One where you can be in the labs again?”

He took them from her and rinsed them out. “Letting go of the past is… easier said than done.”

She came up behind him, and wrapped her arms around his torso, placing her head between his shoulder blades. “I know. I just want you to be happy.”

He took a deep breath and turned around in her arms.

“When I am with you,” he smiled, and it was a genuine one this time, “ I am.”

#solavellan #solas #solas x lavellan #solavellan fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction

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imaginejamesandsirius · 5 years

Note

A pretty woman AU???

Sirius was having a shit day. It had started with his father coming into his office and requesting that Sirius do a specific task for him. Talking to Orion was punishment enough, but he was sending Sirius on a two week trip to get his 'personal opinion on the situation' since apparently the people Orion hired to oversee that branch were trustworthy enough to be running the place but not trustworthy enough to believe their figures. "It'll be an easy visit," Orion had said.

"Then why do I have to be there for two weeks?"

"It's always good to remind them that we are watching."

Sirius had thought that was so sodding stupid, and he'd said so, but Orion was-- unsurprisingly-- standing firm.

Then Regulus called him up and said that he'd gotten a gig over in bloody America and could Sirius cover for him? Thanks. Then he'd hung up. So Sirius had to run by their flat and make sure Reg had remembered to lock the buggering door-- he hadn't-- and call their usual dog sitter (Remus, who put up with them for god only knows why) to see if he was free. He wasn't, so Sirius had to bring Snuffles to a fucking dog spa place that he barely had time to look up on his phone, let alone see if he trusted them for shite. He trusted them not to kill Snuffles, and that was going to have to be good enough.

The silver lining was that Gilderoy had broken up with him a few days ago so he didn't have to worry about that. The not silver lining was that Gilderoy had dumped him for someone "more glamorous, less ashamed of himself, you know what I mean?" and it's not like Sirius had been in love with the bloke or anything, but talk about insulting. Sirius was plenty glamorous, he just didn't paint everything with pink and gold glitter. And he wasn't fucking ashamed of himself, but he didn't want to grind on his boyfriend in public either. He was glad to be rid of him honestly, but it still made Sirius angry to think about.

So Sirius was in a pretty piss poor mood when he got in the car, and he couldn't imagine that the next two weeks would make him feel much better. He was a god damn business man. It's not like he hated his life or anything, but a business man? He could very honestly say that this was never what he imagined for himself. Hell, Reg was out living the dream more than he was. Him and his mates had made a band together, and they played enough shit locations until someone saw the talent and started paying them. They weren't anywhere near rock star levels, but he was making money off of it, able to get a new piercing when he wanted instead of asking Sirius for some cash-- not that Sirius minded, fuck knows their father paid him more than enough to finance whatever whim Regulus was having that week. The part that really got to him about his job was that it was so boring. He didn't need to be excited all day every day or summat, but it would be nice to tell people what he did every day without them nodding and immediately excusing themselves.

He was in a shite mood when he got in the car, and he'd finally started to feel better when he felt a headache start to form behind his eyes. Sodding hell this was the icing on the bloody cake, wasn't it? It started to get worse in a hurry, the sunlight seeming far too bright behind his sunglasses. He pulled into the first gas station he saw, figuring he might as well refuel while he looked for medicine-- and maybe a snack, because c'mon, all driving longer than ten minutes required a snack.

He found powdered sugar donuts, but no headache relief. Marvelous. He was not going to be able to make the rest of this drive like this. He was going to have to wait until it went away or risk crashing. Sirius had just about resigned himself to wasting a couple hours when he saw someone standing by the side of the road, poking at his phone aimlessly. He had dark skin, messy black hair, thick glasses, and if Sirius weren't fighting off nausea, flirting might be on the table. But thinking about his powdered donuts made him want to sick up his lunch, so he was going to keep any and all flirting ideology to himself.

"This is going to sound weird," Sirius said as he walked up next to him, rubbing at his temple as it pounded, "but can you drive me to my hotel? It's not very far, you'd be driving my car, I just need to get there before I feel any worse."

"Er."

"Please? It's all aboveboard, I promise. I'm not going to murder you or whatever."

"Shouldn't you be worried about me kidnapping you? If I'm the one driving, I mean."

Sirius gave him a look. "What would you even do with me? I'm a pain when I'm playing nice, do you really want to see what I'm like when I'm trying to be contrary?"

"That's a fair point." He bit his lip, thinking. Then he sighed. "Where to?"

Sirius rattled off the address, then pulled it up on his phone and showed it to the man. "Business bullshit, I just need to get there and hope this bloody headache fucks off to greener pastures."

"Best of luck to you," he said. He sighed again. "Alright, I'll take you, but only because I've got nothing better to do. My mate just canceled on me."

"Rude of him, good for me."

He snorted, raising a hand to muss his hair. It made Sirius wonder if his hair was naturally messy or if he was causing it by messing with it all the time. Either way, it was a good look on him. Any time Sirius had a single hair out of place he looked awful, but this made the bloke even more attractive. What an arse. Being interested in him was just making his headache worse. Or maybe the headache was getting worse for completely unrelated reasons. Either way, Sirius wanted some bloody shuteye. He squinted his eyes against the light that suddenly seemed piercing, and he somehow managed to get to the car and toss his keys on the dashboard.

There was the distinct possibility that this guy would like, steal his car or summat, but in the moment he didn't give a single fuck. It all worked out in the end, he parked the car in the hotel's lot and turned off the car, setting the keys in front of Sirius. "Hope you feel better mate," he said, but Sirius grabbed his arm before he could leave.

It's not like he'd meant to grab his arm, but he needed to stop him from leaving before Sirius could thank him. Words weren't working so well. Hence, grabbing his arm. He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out a bill and handing it out to him.

"Er."

Sirius shook his hand a little in invitation. "For driving me," he managed to get out.

"That's twenty quid."

"Yeah," Sirius grunted.

"Are you... sure?"

Sirius just kept holding it out to him.

"If you're sure," he said with a shrug. Or at least what Sirius assumed was a shrug, it's not like he was looking at him.

He left, but Sirius stayed in the car for a while, waiting for it to get to a manageable enough level for him to make his way into the hotel. He managed to get in there and check into his room, but if he was asked how he did it, he wouldn't have been able to say. The time from car to his hotel room was a blur, and all he knew was that he managed to pass out face-first onto the bed in a blissfully dark room.

Somehow he'd been smart enough to set an alarm for the meeting he needed to get to on his first day. His headache was gone by that time thank fuck, and he rolled off the bed, figuring he could use a quick shower before he went down to strike fear in the hearts of these people that Orion didn't want to deal with himself. He turned on the water then stripped, ducking under and giving himself a quick scrub with the body wash provided. There wasn't going to be time to properly dry his hair-- even if he used the blowdrier-- so he'd tie it back and call it a day.

Sirius had been in this place for just over one day when he saw him again. Now that it didn't feel like his head was going to split open, it was a lot easier to appreciate how attractive he was. Broad shoulders and a tilt to his hips that looked very inviting. He wasn't wearing his glasses right now, which made his nose look bigger and his jaw more square. His trousers were so tight they looked painted on, and his button up shirt was half undone and translucent besides. He had a brief flash of what it would be like to push him against a wall and peel him out of those trousers, but they weren't at a club and that was a damn shame because Sirius would give his right leg to get some time with him.

He was so caught up in appreciating all this that it took him a minute to recognise exactly what was going on. Men didn't stand on street corners dressed like that for no reason. He was a rent boy. Which meant... that Sirius didn't have to give his right leg for some time, he could purchase it nice and easy with cash. And that was pretty damn great. He did a quick check to make sure that yes, he had enough cash, but also that he didn't have anything else to do tonight. He didn't have to go back to the office, he never did, so he wasn't sure why he bothered to double check, but he always did.

The man saw Sirius approaching and he grinned. "I see you got to your hotel safely."

"It was a pain in the arse, but I made it instead of dying in a car crash thanks to you."

"You already paid me for that," he pointed out.

"Consider this a completely separate offer. Are you busy tonight?"

He shrugged. "Difficult to have plans when you don't know how much time people want."

"How much to get you until tomorrow morning?"

He raised an eyebrow. "That'd be pretty expensive."

"I can pay."

"I'm sure you can, mister twenty-quid-for-a-car-ride."

"I'm going by Sirius these days."

"James. You gonna take me to your room, or are we getting started here on the street?"

"Tempting as that is, the hotel's not very far away."

A few people they passed gave them strange looks, but Sirius couldn't care less. It hardly mattered that James was dressed like he'd been clubbing and Sirius was in a full suit-- vest, tie, even the bloody jacket on top with the three buttons and perfectly pressed trousers. Maybe Sirius had gotten boring the more adult he became, but he was pretty sure this was about to be the best night he'd had in a bloody long time.

When James woke, Sirius was trailing circles against his shoulder. "Everything alright?" James asked at the concentrated look on his face.

"I was thinking, if you're not otherwise engaged..." Sirius trailed off, but James wasn't going to make a leap because being wrong would be ridiculously embarrassing for him. "I'm in town for the next two weeks," he continued. "Would you like to keep me company? It would only be nights and the morning after, I'll be working all day." Normally he had Saturday's off for Shabbat-- not that he observed it most of the time-- but since this was a special assignment he'd be working straight through.

"You sure you can deal with me that long?" James joked.

"I think the real question is if the money's good enough for you to put up with me for that long."

"You realise you're not hideously unattractive, right?"

Sirius snorted. "Right, cause my face is always the problem."

"Not to make assumptions about your relationships, but it kinda sounds like the people you dated were absolute pricks."

Sirius shrugged instead of answering because he didn't really want to get into it. Gilderoy had been an arse, Marlene had wanted a casual relationship when he wanted something more committed, and the less said about the shit show with Lucius, the better. He'd been on dates with several other people, but those were his three main relationships and even though Marlene had liked him, it had still ended in a disaster. Maybe this was what he needed, a fun affair with no strings. Sirius had more money than he knew what to do with, and James could probably use it if only to take it easy for a couple weeks while he was here. Or, hell, he could put some aside when business was slow; Sirius didn't really know how all that worked, only that it was too stressful for him as a job. "You can think about it."

"Don't need to. I'll give you my number and you can ring when you're ready."

"Sounds good," Sirius said, leaning down from where he was propped up on his elbow to kiss James.

Sirius had texted James, asking him to come by, and he looked at the clock in worry as the phone rang. The hotel gave him two keys so he'd given one to James, which meant that if he needed an extra minute, it was going to look like he called James up just to waste his time. He thought about ignoring the call, but it was Regulus's name and picture showing up on his screen and he couldn't leave him hanging, especially not when Reg was on a bloody different continent. "Hey."

"Hey so er," Reg said, and he only sounded like this when he was about to say something he thought Sirius would be uncomfortable with. Used to be that he only used that tone when he needed money, but those days were behind them. Nowadays, Reg used that tone when he was asking Sirius to let down his hookup from the night before or to cover for him to their parents. Considering that he was in another country already, both of those options were unlikely.

"What?"

Regulus cleared his throat. "I met someone."

"Congrats?"

"He's Irish, he was over here for university but he's done now. He's so sodding wonderful, Sirius, he's the perfect boyfriend, I swear."

"Okay?" None of this information was telling him why Reg was sharing it in the first place.

What Reg said next was spoken too quickly for him to make it out over the fun.

"Take a fucking breath and say that slow enough that I can hear you."

"I want to bring him home with me."

The world screeched to a halt. "What?"

"Sirius," Reg said, a distinctly pleading note in his voice, "I love him. He's so great, and he actually likes my music! I know you love me, but you don't give a shite about it. He- he likes me, he actually likes me! Nobody sodding likes me, and he's smart, it's not like he'll be in the way, he just doesn't have a place to stay since he's been over here for four years."

Sirius rubbed tiredly at his eyes. It had been a pretty long day-- he'd had to fucking fire someone and now everyone else there was acting paranoid as if the bloke hadn't completely deserved it-- and he had been looking forward to unwinding tonight. Not sex or anything, probably, but the company would be nice and James was always so sweet to him that he didn't much care that it was fake-- that was James's job, after all, to be there for him and make him believe it was real. "Reg, how long have you known this guy?"

"Don't give me that. I know when something's real and when it's not, I'm not a child."

"Yeah that's great, you're not a kid anymore-- I noticed, funnily enough-- but I also don't want some stranger living in our flat, I don't care how in love with him you think you are, it's bloody stupid." He heard the lock click and the door open, and he turned around, giving James an apologetic smile. He covered the speaker to his phone and whispered, "My brother, I'll only be a minute."

James nodded, came over to give him a quick kiss, then went back to the door to take off his shoes.

"Can't you meet him before you make that sort of judgement? When you meet Remus, I swear you'll understand. He's perfectly trustworthy."

"How the hell do you know if he's trustworthy? You've known him a week."

"I seem to remember you trying to run off to marry Lucius after you'd been dating a week."

A familiar feeling of shame crept in, and Sirius started to feel frustrated; Reg wasn't listening to him, he was just trying to piss Sirius off enough that he gave in. It usually worked for him, but Sirius wasn't in the goddamn mood to deal with it right now. "We'd been dating a week, we'd known each other longer than that, and if you recall, it ended terribly."

"All your relationships end terribly, maybe it's not them that's the problem, maybe it's you. If you don't want him there, fine, I'll move out and you won't have to deal with either of us any more and you can be happy in your stuffy flat with your boring friends after coming home from a job you hate," Regulus spat, then hung up.

Sirius grit his teeth, pushing down the urge to scream or throw something. He knew that Regulus didn't mean it, he was just in a mood and upset that he'd found someone he thought was perfect for him but Sirius wasn't falling in line with his dream. It happened a few times a year, and after they both calmed down a little, it was fine. Knowing all of this didn't make it any fucking easier to deal with, and his hand tightened around his phone until his knuckles whitened.

"You okay?" James asked gently.

"Brilliant," Sirius growled. He threw his phone at the couch and stomped off to the closet. He'd texted James before he changed out of his suit, and now he wanted little more than to rip it apart with his bare hands. Not that he'd be able to even if he tried. So he settled for angrily undressing.

"You wanna talk about it."

Sirius huffed out an irritable breath, ready to say no, but he started bitching about Regulus instead. "It's like he's so busy trying to have a romantic, adventurous life that he forgets he can get hurt! Did you know that he moved in with someone that tried to kill him? The fucking arsehole was already hitting him, and he thought it would stop if he committed. Have you ever heard of something so sodding stupid? And now he's picked up someone over in the States where he's fucking around playing with his band-- which he didn't tell me about until he was already gone, by the way-- and he wants to bring some berk back with him to live in our flat! He knows nothing about this guy, but he knows this is how love stories go so he's- fucking going in head first without thinking about it."

"There's something to be said for romance," James said with a crooked smile, but he dropped the expression after a moment. "Do you know how much he knows about him? Maybe they've been spending every minute together so he knows him pretty well."

Sirius glared at him. "Are you on his side?"

"'Course not, I'm on your side because you're the person I know, and it sounds like yes, maybe he's going into this too quickly and he's going to get hurt. But mostly I was trying to offer an explanation that would make him seem less stupid."

"You don't need to, I already knows he's a fucking idiot," Sirius grumbled, but he was less angry than he'd been twenty seconds ago.

"Hmm, you say that, but I sense forgiveness in your tone," James said, coming up behind him. He wrapped his arms around Sirius's stomach and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "Are you going to call him back and let him know?"

Sirius leaned into him, starting to relax from the stress of the day. "No. He's already planning to bring him back and so long as I don't kick him out he won't go anywhere."

James hummed again, a comfortable warmth against him. Sirius was going to miss the hell out of this when he went back to London. "Not to sound too judgmental, but you're not the best at relationships, so you could let him try to enjoy this. Maybe it'll turn out for the best."

Sirius frowned, the beginnings of relaxation vanishing in an instant. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe that bloke he found is as perfect as he thinks and they'll get to live happily ever after. Get married and annoy the shite out of you," he said with a chuckle.

"What do you mean I'm 'not the best at relationships'?"

"Hm? You said that the other day didn't you?"

Yeah, but he'd sort of hoped that James wouldn't agree. That somehow, in the week of their acquaintance, James would have gotten a different experience out of what it meant to be dating Sirius Black. He'd been wrong. And that buggering hurt. He took a careful breath in, released it, and accepted that it didn't matter. What he had with James wasn't a romantic relationship and thinking about it that way would only get him hurt. He was starting to catch feelings, but that sort of thing happened, right? Sirius might be a complete dumb arse, but he knew not to think about this as anything other than what it was. That being said, he could use some fucking cuddles right now, and James had that on offer.

Sirius blinked, and it felt like the bottom of the world had been tugged out from under him. "What?"

"I knew you wouldn't approve, that's why I didn't invite you," Regulus said over the phone.

Sirius couldn't believe it. He really fucking couldn't. He couldn't even form words.

"And I know it was rather stupid," Reg continued, "but Sirius, I swear, once you meet Remus you'll understand. He's so wonderful, you'll love him, I know it. There wasn't even a ceremony, you know? We signed a paper in front of the judge with one of those witnesses they offer, and that was it. I did want you there if that helps, I just knew that you'd try to talk me out of it. And- you know, I was thinking, I could get a job between all the band stuff-- it's not like it takes that much time anyways-- and I'll be able to move out soon. Stop bothering you all the time, yeah? I know you don't want me around messing up your flat and using all your money, so this'll get me out of your hair. You'll finally have the space to bring your dates home, listen to your own music, just- I don't know, have your own life without having to take care of me." Regulus stopped talking, clearly waiting for a response. "Sirius? Are you going to say anything? Anything at all?"

Another long pause. It's not like Sirius wanted to keep him worrying, but his throat worked and nothing came out. Next to him, James stirred awake. He saw Sirius, leaning up, body tensed with his cell against his ear.

Regulus blew out a breath. "Alright, you need some time to process. That's fair, I've dropped a lot of information on you, you need to think it over. Just- fuck Sirius, don't shut me out. You're still my brother and I love you, I just love Remus too, you know?" More silence. "I'm gonna go. Er. Thanks for listening. I had someone take a picture. I can send it to you or show you when you get back home, if you want. Bye."

Sirius swallowed thickly, his hand falling in front of him. Reg was leaving. A few days from now, Sirius would go back home and he'd never see James again. He hadn't seen his friends from university in years. Walburga was dead and good fucking riddance, but Orion was still there and Orion didn't give a shit about him as he was, only Sirius as his heir. Regulus had always been there, through all their family bullshit and Sirius's bad mistakes and his university issues. He found someone better to love and now he was leaving, it didn't matter what reassurances he was trying to give Sirius that he still cared, he was leaving and that's all there was to it.

"You okay?" James mumbled, putting a hand on Sirius's back.

Normally it was fine. Normally Sirius leaned into the touch and answered him as best he could, but right now wasn't fucking normal and he couldn't deal with this. James's affection was bought and paid for, and that was the only reason he was around. Sirius couldn't keep anyone around. No one cared about him, not really. All his dates, all his friends, the way his own damn father sent him away, he couldn't deal with this. He already had all the cash he owed James out and ready, and usually he gave it to him the morning after when they both got ready to leave. But he didn't want James around because it only reminded him of what he didn't have and that wasn't going to magically get better before he went back home. God even James knew what a disaster he was to date and that's not even what they were doing. A roll of money in hand, he turned back to James, holding it out. "Here. Just- just go, and thanks for your time. I don't need to see you for the rest of the time we agreed."

James blinked in surprise, looking at the money like he didn't know what it was. "What?"

"I don't want to kick you out-" but that's exactly what he was going to do "-but please take the money and go."

"I-"

"Please."

James blinked at him some more, then nodded, taking the money from him. It was awkward as he got dressed, and it probably looked real bad for him to run to the loo, but it would've been worse if James had seen him start to cry. He didn't want for Reg to leave and possibly ruin his life if Remus turned out to be any less perfect than Regulus thought he was, he didn't want to kick out James and never see him again, and he didn't want to be doing any of this.

"Sirius?" James was knocking on the door. "I'll leave if you want, but I wanted to make sure you were okay. Bad phone conversation? Everything alright?" A pause, then, "Is it your brother?"

Sensing that he wasn't going to go away until Sirius answered, he opened the door-- he'd forgotten to check how his face looked before opening it, but it couldn't be good. "I appreciate the thought, I really do, but please just go."

"Are you okay?"

Sirius rubbed a hand over his face. "I'll be fine." No matter what happened, no matter who left him, he'd be fine. He always was.

"Alright," James said softly. "I guess I'll leave now. I know you won't believe it, but I had a good time with you. Look me up if you're ever in town, yeah?" He sounded hopeful, but he didn't wait for an answer before he left, clearly understanding that Sirius wasn't going to.

He left and Sirius closed the washroom door again. It felt safer that way.

When he eventually came out, he saw that James had left his key on the bed's side table. Sirius blew out a breath. That was good; he should have asked for it, but he'd forgotten. James was always so collected, always keeping track of all these details that Sirius forgot about.

Sirius was leaving town, finally. He could get back home, meet Regulus's husband, and get back to reality. Reg might be leaving soon, but his couch would always be there to welcome him home after an exhausting day at work. He folded another tie and piled it on top, taking a quick scan of the room to see if he'd left anything out. He still needed to scan the washroom, but it looked like he had all his clothes gathered up on the bed.

A knock sounded on the door, and he frowned, wondering who it could possibly be. He walked over and opened the door, his mouth open and ready to tell them that they had the wrong room, but it died in his throat. James.

James was standing on the other side of the door, glasses-- Sirius had only seen him wear them once, that day he'd driven Sirius to the hotel-- and a sheepish expression on his face. "Hey."

Sirius blinked, then blinked again. "Did I short change you? Sorry, I didn't mean to," he said, turning around to grab his wallet.

"No, it's nothing like that," James said, stepping inside. The door swung closed behind him, but he didn't move further into the room. "I'm not here in a professional capacity. I'm here for... me. Y'know, us."

"O... kay?" Sirius turned back to face him, confused.

"It's-" James stopped, chewing on his bottom lip. Sirius had never seen him do that before. "It's kinda stupid, because I know you don't believe your brother fell in love with someone in week, so why would you believe I did it?"

"You're not in love with me," Sirius denied automatically. "You said I was a disaster in relationships."

"No, I said that's what you said, and that's not the same," James defended, walking closer. "You don't have to like it, but can't you accept that I feel that way about you?"

If he were a good person, he'd say yes. "No, because you don't."

James's eyes narrowed, and he started to look annoyed. "Anyone ever tell you you're a pain in the arse?"

"Constantly."

"Well maybe you should've listened to them a little more. For fuck's sake Sirius, aren't you going to say anything about it?"

"I did." Did he miss that part? It seemed impossible, because he'd replied, but anything could happen-- except James being in love with him, that didn't make any sense.

"I-" James started to say, but then he stopped, looking heart-broken. It made Sirius's heart crumple in on itself, and he twitched his nose to ward off the tears that wanted to work their way in. "I guess that's my answer." James looked away, making his way slowly to the door. "Is it too stupid to admit I actually thought you'd feel the same? I don't take risks, not about this and-." He stopped again, shaking his head. He pushed his fingers under his glasses and wiped at his eyes. "Sorry," he said, voice thick. "I'll go. Have a safe trip."

James put his hand on the doorknob, and all Sirius had to do was keep it in for a few more seconds, that's all he had to do- "Don't," Sirius blurted, and it wasn't loud, but it was enough for James to hear that he'd spoken and he paused, turning his head back around.

"Did you say something?"

"Don't go," Sirius said.

James didn't leave, but he also didn't take his hand away from the door. "Don't mess with me Sirius," he said desperately. "If you want me to stay, I need you to mean it."

"I mean it." He walked over to him in large stride, then cupped James's face in his hands. "Don't go, stay with me." He leaned in and kissed him. They'd kissed dozens of times. There had been better kisses, better times where they fit together like they'd been made for each other. But James had started crying and Sirius was halfway there as well, and he wasn't used to kissing James with glasses on. It was stuffy, messy, a little pokey, and absolutely perfect. "Kinda wish we'd done this earlier so we could figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

"I don't live here; you do." Sirius kissed him again because he didn't want to move away. "Are we texting? Making trips every month? I don't... I don't know."

"I can move to London."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not asking, I'm offering," James said. He leaned against the door, and when Sirius's hands dropped from his face he caught them. "I take care of my great uncle and I've been living with him while I do that, so it won't take much for me to hire someone else for him. I've got clothes and shite, but no furniture, no lease to deal with. 'Course I don't have a place in London so that'll-"

"You're living with me."

"I am?"

"If Reg can bring his fucking husband with him, I can bring you. Er, if you want, that is."

"Hell yes I want to, but I can't ask you to make room in your flat for me."

"As someone I know once said, you're not asking, I'm offering."

James laughed, half pulling Sirius into a hug and half bringing himself away from the door to meet him. "Thanks. And I do love you. That wasn't an exaggeration."

"I er," Sirius took a deep breath, released it, but couldn't say it back even though he wanted to. "Me too."

Regulus stared at his brother and a stranger comfortably lounging on each other on the couch. "Sirius who the hell is that?"

"I'm James," the stranger said with a wide smile and a wave.

"And who's James to you? Sirius?"

"My sugar baby, now shut it, we're watching the telly."

James snorted but didn't deny it.

"How well do you know this guy?"

"As well as you know Remus," Sirius said, deigning to glance at him with a superior expression thrown in for free, but he turned it into a smile as he looked at Remus. "Hey, how's it going?"

Remus smiled back and shrugged. "No complaints."

"That's not fair to bring him into this," Regulus said, but he knew that he wasn't going to win this. Any argument he could make would be just as true for himself, and he didn't want to go that route.

"If you say so," Sirius said, turning back to the television.

"Let it go, love," Remus said, putting a hand on Regulus's shoulder.

"Hmph." Reg started walking to his room, Remus following behind him. He only had a few boxes, but he hadn't bothered to unpack since they were planning on leaving fairly soon.

"Hey Reg?" Sirius called, not moving from where he had his head pillowed on James's shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Unpack your husband's boxes already, you make it seem like he's homeless."

Regulus blinked, then huffed out a laugh. "Yeah Sirius, you got it."

#prongsfoot #marauders #james potter #sirius black #fanfic #regulus black #filled #getting together #no magic au #post hogwarts #siriuslystarbucks #Anonymous

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franzbiblio · 4 years

Text

Content Journal: 7/5/20 (I want to try to keep a list of stuff I’m reading/watching on a weekly basis since it seems like a fun thing to look back on. To future self: I didn’t list the last two weeks because work was a nightmare and then I was in a place with limited internet access for a week, so here have what I’ve read in the past two weeks)

Mutant by Henry Kuttner (and C. L. Moore): So it looks as if the original print of this short story collection was published under Lewis Padgett, the pseudonym of Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore , a husband-and-wife science fiction writing team, but the majority of copies I have seen usually only list Henry Kuttner as author. The edition I have was printed in 1963 which is after Kuttner’s death but before Moore’s death and is under Kuttner’s name only, so assumably Moore at least signed off on that?

The stories were printed in the early 50s originally and my interest was primarily in the fact that I read somewhere they were colloquially referred to as the “baldy” stories because they feature telepaths whose distinguishing trait is their lack of hair (including lack of eyebrows and eyelashes). The stories themselves I can’t really recommend for sheer reading pleasure, while there are interesting concepts some of the underlying political assumptions about how post-atomic war America would ideally organize itself around autonomous city-states with product specialization gets a weird amount of focus in a story about “normal” telepaths fighting the “paranoid” telepaths who in the text must be killed whenever discovered because otherwise the human population would figure out that telepaths have dissenting opinions about telepaths integration and automatically try to commit total telepath genocide. Weirdly at points the story even admits that the “paranoid” telepaths may have a point about how telepaths shouldn’t have to be forced to hide the characteristics that identify them as telepaths (the “normal” telepaths wear wigs and it’s even brought up how there’s a lot of shame about how bald telepathic women don’t meet cultural beauty standards, but the fact that “paranoid” telepaths don’t wear wigs is a huge strike against them for daring to stand out and draw attention to themselves), but the fact that “paranoid” telepaths might not be completely wrong means nothing. Our “heroes” still have to kill them without mercy or reflection because their ideology endangers the rest. There’s obviously a lot to unpack here in how it reflects on thought about marginalized groups, and in my edition there’s even a small introduction which explicitly links the plight of the telepaths to that African-Americans and Jewish people, so any plausible deniability is gone on that account that this wasn’t a deliberate metaphor about marginalized groups. It seemed pretty obvious to me that this likely represented an influential text in the development of silver-age X-Men and a lens to understand the series focus on conflict between the “evil” mutants that must be stopped by the “good” mutants.

Children of the Atom by Wilmar H. Shiras: Of all the early twentieth century sci-fi I’ve been reading to gain a better understanding of the mutant genre and the cultural milieu that Uncanny X-Men was coming out of in the 1960s this probably represents the text I’ve enjoyed the most on its own merits as a story. To be fair I can understand why it didn’t become a widely regarded text in American science fiction (I mean it was written by a woman, already a strike against it) it’s actually not really all that much about the typical science fiction tropes and conceits. The basic setup that the book is about children whose parents were involved a fictional nuclear reactor accident that ultimately killed the parents but children born after the disaster turn out to be super-geniuses. The majority of the story is just gathering the group of very intelligent children who then learn from each other and have interesting conversations. The book it honestly most reminded me of was The Secret Garden in that the children characters were all very distinctive and felt like actual intelligent children who are still emotionally immature in a lot of ways. I appreciated how it made a point that intelligence can take many different forms with each of the children having very distinctive interests and fields of study that they enjoy, and there’s a whole subplot about the importance of emotional intelligence as well. There are even two prominent little girls who are very distinctive and interesting characters! Of course I didn’t love the use of intelligence tests as a means of identifying the children, though there is a conversation with one of the girls where she points out the limits of such tests (IQ tests have a lot of baggage see Shaun’s video essay on the Bell Curve that can be found on YouTube) and also the characters are all white and of all the sci-fi I’ve read in the mutant genre this is probably the only one not interested in saying anything about race at all. But overall I really enjoyed the book, and it makes me a little sad that especially with the popularity of Uncanny X-Men (which there’s not really a doubt in my mind that this was an influential text, beyond the title there’s a character in the story whose last name is Worthington, and just the idea of mixing the idea of a school for special children with an atomic cause) that it didn’t raise the profile of this book as well because it is a breath of fresh air of the genre.

A Universal History of Iniquity by Jorge Luis Borges: I read a fair about of Borges as a younger person, and now coming back to it I got to have that strange feeling of realizing just how much a certain writer influenced your own aesthetic sense. Really fun and cool, I’m definitely going to be going back and reading more of his work this year.

The Tempest by Shakespeare: What struck me on this re-read (The Tempest much like Cymbeline and Midsummer Night’s Dream are basically on my constant re-read list) is the dual personality of Prospero in his introduction where he’s kind and loving to Miranda but cruel and callous to Caliban and Ariel. Of course then his relationship with Ariel grew more loving throughout the play and my theory is this duality of Prospero in the audience creates tension of whether he will choose mercy or vengeance in his dealings with those who wronged him. If that’s so it’s especially interesting that it’s Ariel who then prompts Prospero in the final act to show them mercy and Prospero agrees.

On Writing by Stephen King: There was a lot more biography in this than I was really interested in but I found his suggestions overall solid and useful.

African Kings and Black Slaves: Sovereignty and Dispossession in the Early Modern Atlantic by Herman L. Bennett: Absolutely fascinating read, and I obviously can’t do it justice here by any margin I must have at least five significant quotes that I’ve pulled from the book. I really appreciate the framing of the text in pointing out the way that in conversations of our colonial past there’s a tendency to take the 19th century incarnation of it focused on the Anglo and Francophone world and project it into the past. Bennett is a scholar of Latin America and in this text examines the ambiguities and the multiplicity of meanings that can be derived from Iberian early encounters with African Kingdoms. This is definitely not an easy text, and I can’t say I’d advise it as an entering point for early modern African history, but it does reference a lot of sources that I’m definitely interested in tracking down!

#franz reading journal

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ppaperheartss · 5 years

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Intertwined

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: a lil bit of swearing, just a shit tonne of fluff tbh

A/N: So this is the first piece of writing I’ve shared! I hope you enjoy it and I would love any criticisms as I’d like to start writing more often :) This is based on the beautiful song “Intertwined” by Dodie Clark.

Skin

Heat

Hair in your mouth

Feet touching feet

Bucky lay there, listening to the sounds of the soft snores escaping your lips and the heavy rain hitting against the slightly ajar window, which was showing to him the dark sky that was littered with clouds and stars. His body pressed to the back of yours, both sets of legs curled up towards their chests to be impossibly closer to one another. Even with his flesh arm asleep from where you lay on it comfortably, and the two bodies creating an unbearable warmth which brought little beads of sweat to his hairline, he could not imagine a more perfect way to be awake at 3 a.m. He had found a peace in his body holding yours, watching the world go by from the soft comfort of the shared bed.

It brought a smile to his face, a small, sleepy one, but one that reached up to his striking eyes and brought out the crinkles in the sides of them. If you looked even closer, you would find a little dimple on his cheekbone that just highlighted his happiness in the most gorgeous way. You loved staring at his face when he was happy like this; being able to spot out the faint little freckles which dusted constellations across his cheeks and nose. His beautifully pale blue eyes were like two moons hovering low over a sea, a blue lagoon of tranquillity and peacefulness. They were your safe haven, always being able to find home and safety in those eyes. You could see Bucky behind them, his emotions always evident with the way they clouded over or shone brightly. The reflections in them taking you to a far away world which you would happily live in for the rest of your life. He was perfect in your eyes - even the little nick he had just below his eyebrow and pale scar along the edge of his bottom lip - and you in his.

Oh you

And I

Safe from the world

Though the world will try

Your lives were busy; he was often away for weeks at a time for gruelling missions which more times than not left him exhausted, and you worked hard in the medical wing to help all of the accident-prone avengers and agents throughout most of the day. One time, after waking up with you already gone to the medical wing at an ungodly hour and no sign of returning anytime soon, Bucky “accidentally” fell down the stairs, which left his arm facing the completely wrong direction. Even though he was in a sling for a week, knowing that he did this elaborate but stupid plan just to see you for half an hour made your heart swell to this day. So he treasured simple moments like this, where they were both stress-free and their true selves, the ones the other had grown to love over the years they had known each other.

A deep rumble of thunder from outside, the current storm showing no signs of stopping anytime soon, slowly forced you to come around. You lifted your head sleepily to look outside the window, but when met with darkness you simply dropped your head back down. Another deep rumble, but this time coming from your boyfriend’s chest which was holding you safely. A chuckle that brought a smile to your face. Tugging the sheet from underneath you, you turned your body so to face him. He was hard to see in the darkness of the room and current half-asleep state, but you could make out a head of utterly messed up hair and a deep, toothy smile looking down at you. You hummed in acknowledgement to show you were awake now and rested your head against his chest.

”’Long you been awake?” Your voice was quiet, tired, but you had no intention of falling asleep anytime soon knowing that Bucky was awake in the middle of the night. Had he had a nightmare? He hasn’t had one in a long time, and surely you would feel his usual tossing and turning or hear the whimpers and cries that occasionally left his lips. Maybe you were sleeping deeply, it had been a long day in the wing with being a doctor down and you never had a chance to sit down until you collapsed in the bed.

“Not long, doll.” He brought his hand over to stroke the hair back from your face, his hand then resting on your cheek as his thumb brushed over the soft skin delicately. “Just been enjoying the view.” You could hear the smile in his voice, and as you lifted your head with flushed cheeks, it was right there beaming down at you.

Oh, I'm afraid of the things in my brain

But we can stay here

And laugh away the fear

“Did you have another bad dream?” The lights were on now, though dimmed to the lowest they could go, and Bucky sat with his back against the cool headboard. Your head was on his chest, lazily dragging your fingers across his bare chest and torso, as you listened to the distinct thump thump of his heartbeat. It was soothing to say the least, it was a constant reminder that he was always there with you, even in his silent, contemplative moments such as this one.

“It wasn’t as bad as the other ones. Just enough to wake me.” He said after a few moments. “Though, I think it was your snoring that really startled me awake.” His grin was cheeky, but fond. A laugh fell from your lips, bringing your head up and pecking the underside of his jaw softly.

“I think you’ve been mistaken, I do not snore.” You said with a giggle, tapping your finger on his chin. His eyebrows creased as he laughed heartily, throwing his head back against the headboard.

“I think the multiple videos that I have on my phone would prove you otherwise.”

A gasp left your lips as you slapped him on the chest gently, only causing another laugh to rumble through his chest. He pulled you up so you were sitting on his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist to keep you still as he peppered kisses over every inch of your face. You pushed your hands against his chest, whines leaving your lips as he only held you closer and whispered sweet nothings into your ear. Giggling as his warm breath fanned over your neck and caused goosebumps to rise down the sink, you cupped both his cheeks to pull him into a sleepy, but passionate, kiss.

Numb

Fine

You create a rarity of my genuine smiles

You had been awake for an hour now, and your body showed no signs of being ready to fall back into the peaceful state anytime soon. The storm outside only grew louder and wilder, and a large gust of wind slammed the window shut suddenly. Covering your mouth to muffle your surprised yelp so an almost sleeping Bucky didn’t wake, but of course he had at the loud noise, goosebumps prickled across the skin of your bare legs and arms from the cool air that had seeped in the gap of the now closed window. Rolling your head over you seen his eyes open at the bang, probably thinking an intruder was here, then seen almost all of your shared blanket across his body and the floor, and felt nothing to cover you. A shiver ran down your spine as you remembered just how cold you were.

“Buck,” you whined, trying to pull some of the sheet back to your side. “gimme the blanket, I’m freezing over here.”

He only grunted in response as he rolled onto his side and wrapped his strong arms around you. His chin rested on your head, his eyes closed again. “This is much better.” he mumbled with a deep, sleepy voice. The heat from his chest was enough for a second, but as soon as his metal arm touched the revealed skin on your back from where your shirt had risen up you let out a gasp.

“You’re nice, but I still want the blanket. ”You shimmied your way out of his arms, and he let out a laugh. One that reached down to his belly, one that brought out the smile you loved. Smiles. You loved that tonight was just full of them. You couldn’t get enough of his, his real ones, the ones only you could get out of him.

“Love you too, doll.” He pulled the blanket out from under him, draping them dramatically over you as he tucked in the sides tightly just to make more of a point that he was giving more to you than he had. His fingers grazed the spots he knew you were ticklish just to elicit those heart-warming giggles from your perfect lips. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, nose, both cheeks, lips gently with a fond smile on his face. God, he really did love you. And didn’t you know it.

Intertwined

Free

I've pinned each and every hope on you

I hope you don't bleed with me

So he lay there, with you asleep in his arms once again, the pink and orange sky peeking out through the clouds as day threatened to ruin his perfect night. He hadn’t slept, but it didn’t bother him. He would forever cherish the moments he had with you before he managed to find a way to fuck it all up. But, it was different this time. Every relationship he had had, platonic or romantic, had never felt this right before he met you. Now, he can see a future on the horizon. A beautiful future filled with you and nights like this. Feeling safe, secure, loved. He had been touch starved for many decades, and he found someone who embraced his past and wanted to touch him in the most loving way anyone has ever been touched. Maybe that’s how he knew you were the one for him.

As little strands of your hair blew from your face with each breath you took, a small smile dancing across your lips as you slept, he felt everything slowly fall into place. This was it, where he was supposed to be. With you in his arms, by his side, loving him. He fell asleep shortly, his eyelids barely being able to keep themselves up any longer, with a smile that just couldn’t be wiped away from his face and a finally peaceful mind.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #fanfic #marvel #fluff #domestic!bucky #dodie #intertwined #bucky barnes x y/n #james buchanan barnes #bucky #james buchanan barnes x reader

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myssamyss · 5 years

Text

Everything Stays, Part 2 of 6

Featuring the first two panels of “The Bet” by Jojo. Part 2: ...It’ll Cause You to Drown Link rode into the heart of Lon Lon Ranch with a single-minded purpose: his visits needed to end.

He dismounted and fought against the comforting familiarity that rose to meet him as he approached the ranch house. Even this small stretch of yard held sweet memories. Once, in a fit of playful frustration, Malon had upturned an entire jug of milk over his head in this very spot, laughing melodiously all the while. They’d both gotten in trouble with her father at the time. Now, he smiled to recall the refreshing shock.

If he stepped just a little further onto the grounds to the main corral, he’d come upon an older memory. His favorite memory of her, but one that only he knew:

“I can’t believe it, but peace is returning to this ranch! It’s all because of you! I owe you so much! Thank you! Thank you, Link!”

He clung to that memory like a candle in darkness after returning to his childhood, for though he’d been forced to reforge many friendships, rebuilding Malon’s trust had frustrated him the most. At first, he hadn’t thought much of that frustration. The memory of their first meeting burned brightly in his mind: she’d been the only child in a sea of strange adults filling a strange town, back when he was fresh out of the Kokiri forest and utterly overwhelmed. But she seemed safe, so he was drawn to her like a moth to a vivid red flame. Years later, she’d somehow remembered him after he emerged from the Temple of Time. Losing such a meaningful history with any friend was bound to be frustrating, or so he’d justified. But then their relationship grew beyond what had been lost, and he found himself thinking of her constantly. He hadn’t realized until too late–she'd become his haven.

The weight of his feelings for her hadn’t struck him until his last visit, when she confessed to thinking of him often, too, before delicately pressing her lips to his cheek. Her kiss blindsided him with happiness. But that euphoria lasted only until he was back in the saddle and leaving the ranch. Once he was out on the open road, he’d finally been able to think. He’d been so caught up in joy that he’d almost forgotten his most painful lesson in trusting others; he knew what inevitably happened to the people he placed his comfort in...

Link sighed loudly to shake away his thoughts, turned to the ranch house, and forced his hand to knock at the familiar wooden door.

Just say what needs saying. Then leave, he coached himself as he waited at the threshold. He could even leave the message with her father. She was usually out with the horses at this time of day, so he could just speak with Talon and leave her undistracted. But the stifling heat must have interrupted her daily schedule, because when the door flew open, he found himself face-to-face with Malon.

“Link!” she exclaimed. Her eyes shone with excitement and her lips–the same soft lips he now felt in his dreams–broke into a huge smile. Distracted, he couldn’t get a single word out before she pulled him into an exuberant hug, trapping his arms by his side and scattering his thoughts completely.

“I’ve missed you, fairy boy! Looking for some more work?” she asked. He smiled at the nickname. He’d grown taller than ever before, yet she still teased him as she had when he was a boy.

“You picked a heckuva day to do some farm chores,” she warned him with a teasing smile. She pulled the back of her hand across her glistening brow.

He focused on fixing this memory of her in his mind: her blue eyes full of laughter, one hand still clutching his arm, her vibrant hair framing her flushed face. If he walked away now, he could remember her this way, always.

He took a deep breath.

“I actually... came to say goodbye,” he told her. “For awhile, at least.”

Malon’s expression turned wooden. “What do you mean…?” she asked.

“I probably won’t be back for a long time,” he told her, staring at the yellow kerchief draped over her shoulder so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes.

If she was upset, she hid it well, and Link silently thanked the goddesses for Malon’s gracious spirit.

“Where will you stay tonight?” she asked, her voice becoming surprisingly cheery. “Won’t you stay with us, just for one night? The spare room is made up already, you can sleep warm and cozy there.”

She peered up at him and he nearly drowned in her blue eyes, brimming with hope beneath deep lashes. Link didn’t know how to refuse.

“Fine,” he agreed.

One night. In the morning, he’d say goodbye.

***

Wild carefully nocked three arrows onto his bow. He glanced down from the low cliff he stood atop to mark his makeshift leaf targets knifed to a tree nearly fifty meters away, then he leapt from the cliff and drew back the bowstring in a single fluid motion.

He exhaled steadily as he fell, seeking the familiar state of perfect concentration when the wind in his ears would quiet and the world would stand still.

Instead, the wind roared and the world blurred around him. He felt a surprising twinge of pain as he let his arrows fly, before rapidly stowing his bow and switching his hands to grab the handles of his glider in well-practiced coordination. His left forearm stung. As he floated back down to the ground, Zelda’s voice echoed in his mind:

“May I ask, do you really remember me?”

A second voice followed. Warriors, this time, from the night before:

“...and a guy like him? He’s well collected, acts like he’s always on duty.”

Wild’s feet touched down in soft grass and he stowed his glider, glancing at his forearm which sported a red, angry welt where the bowstring had whipped across it. He hadn’t made that mistake since the Great Plateau—and even then, the muscle memory of pulling a bow had quickly cured him of the habit. It was amazing how much his subconscious remembered; if only his consciousness could have followed suit.

He marched to the target-tree. Two of the arrows had at least met the trunk, though the third was nowhere to be seen. He peered into the forest and tried to catch a glimpse of the fletching amid the dull green grass.

Footsteps crunched from behind him.

“You missed?” Legend called out incredulously as he emerged from deeper in the forest. The man’s red tunic stood out against the dark greens surrounding them, though the contrast was less striking than usual. Wild realized with a slight start that the light in the forest was waning.

Legend stared at the targets. “We may have to revoke your ‘Greatest Archer of All Link-Kind’ title,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m surprised you’re still out here, I thought you were heading back early to cook.”

Wild sighed and said nothing. Legend took the hint.

The soft clink of armor and the nearly imperceptible pad of a second pair of footsteps against the forest floor met Wild’s ears. He turned to see Time and Twilight making their way through the underbrush from the direction of camp. Twilight smiled and raised a gauntlet-covered hand in a casual wave as he approached. Wild managed to twitch the side of his mouth into a half smile for his friend, but the slight darkening of Twilight’s expression told him that he hadn’t been very convincing.

“We’re heading out next, thought we’d come find you two since, uh...” Twilight trailed off.

“We weren’t sure if you were still cooking,” Time picked up smoothly, turning to Wild, “or if you wanted someone else to? If you need more time training, any of us can step in, the job doesn’t always have to fall to you.”

Wild dropped his gaze and nodded. “I’m fine. Let me grab my arrows, I’m done,” he replied flatly. He turned and started off in the direction of his lost arrow, acutely aware of the telling silence from the other heroes behind him. Did they really find it so strange that he’d lost track of time?

After a quiet moment, he heard the distinctive steps of the mentor-and-student pair as they walked deeper into the woods. Wild crouched among the forest foliage and tried to find a piece of broken grass or skid-scored dirt that might announce his arrow’s path, but the day’s light was failing fast. Besides, he reasoned, he had hundreds of arrows in his Sheikah slate, what point was there in collecting this one? He straightened up, dismayed, and turned to find Legend waiting for him.

“No luck, huh?” he asked Wild, raising his eyebrows in a rare show of genuine concern.

Wild shook his head and strode to where Legend stood, then they started back toward camp together. The only sounds between them were the quiet jostling of gear and the swishing of Legend’s tunic.

“Hey, Legend,” Wild said softly as he pushed aside a low-hanging branch. “Thank you. For what you said last night.”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, anytime.” Legend shrugged. “I was getting damn sick of it too. Plus, I have a feeling that I’ll win this bet.” He smirked.

Wild wasn’t so sure, but he gave Legend an amused smile in return. He wasn’t necessarily sick of the Wife Debate. But the conversation at camp last night had stirred a deep realization inside of him, leaving him unsettled.

Ever since the heroes had learned of Time’s mysterious wife, they had taken to swapping theories about her identity each time the Old Man left camp. Everyone was curious. Well, everyone except Twilight, who likely knew more than he let on, and Legend, who had kept uncharacteristically quiet during the discussions, until last night:

“My money’s still on Zelda,” Warriors reiterated. To no one’s surprise, Sky nodded his hearty agreement.

Legend stood up suddenly and joined the banter for the first time. “You think he’s married to Zelda?” he asked Warriors, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“He speaks so highly of her,” Warriors explained, “and a guy like him? He’s well collected, acts like he’s always on duty. It’s got to be the princess herself.”

The pair had bickered lightly until Legend finally ended the discussion by throwing down a bet. Still, Warriors’ words had already stuck in Wild’s mind like a splinter he just couldn’t pick out. They poked at his conscience, and he found himself running over the words again and again long into the night, becoming increasingly frustrated. Because Warriors’ reasoning about Time was sound; the older man never quite seemed at ease. Was that the price to pay for winning the princess? Though, Legend apparently disagreed...

Wild glanced at the other Link walking beside him. He hadn’t realized it before, but he and Legend had something in common: the ability to listen and see. So maybe he’s right, Wild considered. Legend did a great job of feigning indifference behind fast words, but his actions betrayed his insight. Like now, as they walked through the forest, sharing the comfortable understanding that nothing more needed saying.

Later that evening, Wild sat beside their campfire and halved mushrooms with a short paring knife while his mind still spun. After last night’s talk of partners and princesses, couldn’t help but replay that final evening with his Princess Zelda–the night he’d been whisked away. He’d returned from his upsetting encounter with the orphan in the swamp, but said nothing about it to Zelda. Instead, he sat beside the fire and listened. Zelda spoke ceaselessly of Zora’s Domain which lay ahead, her eagerness to meet with Prince Sidon after so much time, and her relief to be traveling Hyrule once more. Wild had been quiet. She was so captivating, and passionate, and he couldn’t bear to break her excitement.

Deeper, unspoken words still hung between them, but Wild had always struggled to voice the unsaid. In honesty, he wasn’t sure what she needed from him. With only a few scraps of memories to work from, he didn’t dare hazard a guess at her deeper thoughts. Still, he’d seen enough in his memories to guess at what she expected of him, and he fell easily back into a half-remembered regimen of simply listening and doing his job.

He’d gotten up to stoke their campfire when the scenery around him shifted abruptly and he found himself standing barefoot in an entirely different Hyrule with no way back, despite how desperately he tried to return to her. So, he kept moving forward. He’d done a fair enough job of keeping her out of his mind, at least until the Wife Debate began.

A rustling noise rose behind Wild. He automatically turned away from their brightly lit camp to peer out into the forest, but his eyes couldn’t see much in the darkness. He turned back to the stew pot and continued slicing, unbothered. The woods were teeming with wildlife, plus he trusted in Wind and Hyrule’s ability to keep their watch. And even if enemies lurked out in the forest, Wild had probably fought worse.

But what about his Zelda, alone and a world away? He tried not to worry. After all, she was clever and resourceful, and the monsters across their Hyrule had lost some ferocity since Calamity Ganon’s defeat. Not to mention she proved a quick study with a sword. She slew her first bokoblin with a scimitar near the Hylia River in a flashing gleam of steel and ruby. He suspected that she’d been secretly practicing long before he began teaching her. Wild had full confidence in her abilities.

The matter of her safety aside, half of his heart still ached to return to her, and to their journey across Hyrule. His own Hyrule, the one he had worked so hard to rescue. Yet as he journeyed instead with the heroes of ages past, he began to realize something else, too: he felt happier here, adventuring, than he’d ever felt back home. His heart was conflicted. He knew what he should want–but he was altogether sick of ‘shoulds’. He’d had enough of duty for duty’s sake. Sure makes things easier though, he reflected. A duty was clear, while his own desires were proving fickle.

Wild shook his head and threw the heaping pile of mushrooms into the boiling pot, then he thumbed the painful welt on his forearm. Stewing over stew, he mused to himself with a quiet chuckle. At least some things never change. ___________ Author’s Note: thanks as always to @clumsydarknut for beta-reading.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #LU #Time #Wild #Zelda #Malon #MaLink #Breath of the Wild #Ocarina of Time #Majora's Mask #Legend of Zelda #LoZ #Hero of Time #Hero of the Wild #Everything Stays

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urdbell18 · 5 years

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A Seed Hidden in the Heart Chapter 20: The One Where the End is only the Beginning

AN: While I hate to spring this up on you guys I think that this will be my last chapter. I could go on, and maybe I will, but for now I like how neat everything has become. So while I hate to put a damper on your holidays by the sad news I hope the ending was what you were hoping for. Thank you to everyone who has shown me support through these last crazy months and as always enjoy and have a safe happy holidays.

Zelda wasn’t expecting her day to turn out like it did but she wasn’t complaining. She didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary when Mary came to pick her up from her university job and yet here she was sitting in a lounge chair looking out towards the lake. The sun was setting, painting the sky in fantastic shades of pink, yellow, and orange and turning the water into a giant pool of glimmering violet. In the distance she heard the distinct sound of gravel crunching underfoot as someone approached. Zelda didn’t flinch, she knew who it was. Soon enough she felt the familiar warmth that was Mary as she stood behind the back of her chair. Mary placed a hand on her shoulder, Zelda nuzzled it slightly before taking it into her own, bringing it down so that their hands, fingers intertwined, rested on the arm of the chair. Zelda felt Mary press a kiss on the top of her head, then her cheek, then her neck. Zelda hummed, soft and low, as she tilted her head to accommodate Mary’s head now resting on her shoulder. When the sun dipped low enough to appear that it was being swallowed by the lake Zelda got up and with Mary’s hand still clasped in hers they went back to their cabin. After all they had two days to enjoy them, themselves, and us.

In walking distance from their lakeside cabin was a small town. It was touristy and with the summer ending it was a bit crowded but Mary made her promise that they would do something outside the cabin. Why? Zelda had no clue but Mary fixed her with a look that she couldn’t say no to. It wasn’t all that bad. They went to a pottery store and made… something, Zelda thought it was a vase or some kind of pot but she was confused on the instructions and she couldn’t quite get the hang of it. Mary’s wasn’t any better, hers actually exploded and they had a nice laugh about it, Zelda didn’t even mind that a small lump of wet clay that landed in her hair. They ended up purchasing a vase that Zelda knew Hilda would love as compensation for the trouble they caused. After that they went to a wine and cheese tasting. Again, not something that was in Zelda’s interest but it was nice just talking with Mary as they sipped some good wine. They had, according to Mary, one last thing to do but it wasn’t until later so they went back to the cabin to relax.

The first thing that Zelda did was shower, she was starting to care more and more about that lump of clay in her hair so it had to go. She extended the invitation to Mary, but she declined saying she was comfortable on the couch. At least, that’s what she tried to convince her with but Zelda was buying it. There was something… off about Mary but Zelda couldn’t put her finger on it. Deciding to ignore it for now Zelda went into the bathroom to start a bath. As it filled up she rang home, everything was fine but it was still nice to hear it and hearing her daughter’s voice always placed her in a better mood, though her mood was already doing pretty great. When she was finished with the bathroom, she stepped out in a towel and found a dress laying on the bed waiting for her. How odd, but she put it on and did her makeup and hair accordingly. Mary was already dressed, she handed Zelda her purse and off they went.

Despite it being late August the night wasn’t overly humid and it was the perfect temperature to walk in without sweating on contact. Fireflies were out that night, they blinked in alteration and provided a soft light, almost surreal. Mary led her to a small restaurant that sat on the dock looking over the water. Though the outside of the restaurant didn’t look like much the inside was a lovely mix of romantic and classy. The space between tables and the light created by the single lit candle gave each table a space of privacy. Zelda and Mary were tucked away in a corner that looked out towards the lake. The food, Italian, was excellent and was paired perfectly with the wine. Everything was perfect except for one thing.

Mary didn’t say a word the entire time, at least not to her. Every time Zelda tried to strike up a conversation Mary just hummed and said nothing so Zelda decided to say nothing at all. A lump started to form in her throat and even though she averted her gaze to the window she watched Mary out of the corner of her eye. On top of her unusual silence Mary sat stiff in her chair and there was a slight glimmer of what appeared to be sweat on her skin. Zelda reached over to take Mary’s hand, her skin was indeed clammy.

“Mary are you okay?” Mary looked at her to her hand on top of hers. Mary took her thumb and caressed Zelda’s fingers, from knuckle to tip.

“Excuse me.” Zelda could barely give a nod before Mary was up and out of her seat. She came back around ten minutes later still a little pale but she seemed more relaxed. A waiter came by not long after and dropped off a dessert, cheesecake with strawberry sauce.

“We didn’t order this.” The waiter didn’t appear to hear her as he scurried off. Zelda turned to Mary with a slightly baffled look. “Mary-”

“It’s okay. Here.” Mary turned the plate so that Zelda was seeing the side profile of the cake. What she saw made her gasp. Zelda looked at Mary and in those deep brown eyes that she loved she saw affection and warmth. Her usual smirk was a soft smile and she gave a slight nod of her head. Zelda took another look at the plate just to make sure that what she was seeing was real. A ring, a diamond ring surrounded by emerald chips with a silver band, sat on the porcelain plate surrounded by a strawberry sauce heart. The tail end of the heart led to a set of words that were also spelled out in strawberry sauce.

‘Marry me?’

Zelda was in complete shock. She didn’t twitch or looked like she was breathing for a whole five minutes. She had to be breathing because she didn’t pass out and she knew she wasn’t dreaming because everything felt too real. Mary was legitaly asking for her hand in marriage. Did she know what that meant? For them? For everyone?

“I know what I’m doing.” Zelda snapped out of her trance and looked at Mary. Mary smirked at her and her eye had that gleam of a person who knew. Mary was always able to read her and it infuriated Zelda. “I have never been more sure of anything.” Zelda picked up the ring, it didn’t weigh much yet it felt heavy, solid, in her hand. She handed the ring to Mary and held out her left hand. She wanted to know what it would feel like for Mary to put it on her. It felt magical, right, as Mary’s fingers glide across hers to settle the ring on her left ring finger. The heart shaped diamond caught the candlelight casting a small rainbow of light on her skin. At some point Zelda never thought that it would happen and her feelings changed from wanting to never but yet if it was Mary the answer was simple.

“Yes.” Mary smirked and leaned over the table to kiss her. Zelda smiled into the kiss, returning it and giving a squeeze to Mary’s hand that was still on hers.

That night as they laid there in bed with Mary pressed against her back Zelda couldn’t help but think. Why? Zelda turned slowly so she was facing Mary. Mary’s skin looked soft and pale in the moonlight and Zelda reached out a hand to cup her exposed cheek. Mary sighed in her sleep when Zelda started to run her thumb over the apple of her cheek. Her brown eyes fluttered open and though they were hard to see there was worry in them.

“What’s wrong?”

“What made you ask me to marry you?” Mary reached out her own hand and she cupped the back of Zelda’s head, entangling her fingers in her hair.

“I had a dream. It was one of those dreams that takes you awhile to realize that it wasn’t real. I dreamed that I came home and you were asleep on the couch on your back. On your stomach was Vida, she couldn’t have been more than a year old. She looked up at me and smiled, she only had two teeth. I picked her up to take her into another room, I remember whispering to her about letting you get some sleep. I took her into another room, I couldn’t quite make it out, and just started to play with her. Eventually she started to stand on her tiny little feet and I was encouraging her and cheering her on as she took her first wobbly steps. You came in as I was cooing at her and I showed you what she did. That look on your face, that complete awe expression as she waddled over to you, I’ll never forget it. You then came over to me with Vida in your arms, cooing and laughing in your arms, and you sat next to me. After that it get blurry and I can’t make out the details. It took me a whole day to realize that it wasn’t real. I honestly thought that it was a memory of Vida’s first steps and when it dawned on me that I wasn’t there I was crushed. I missed so much already I don’t want to miss the next big milestones. I want to be apart of her life, apart of yours for… basically forever.” Zelda’s eyes filled with tears. She remembered Vida’s first steps, how proud she was that her baby started to walk. She pictured it the way Mary described it to her and couldn’t help but feel an ache when she thought about it. Mary wasn’t there, the proud she felt was still there as was the happiness that she shared when she told her family. But when did that old life of just her and Vida started to feel incomplete? Like something was missing and Zelda couldn’t pinpoint what it was. She found it in Mary’s soft eyes and her plump lips and her strong embrace. She found it in Mary, who was always there for her, could read her like an open book, and was the perfect mix of support, caring, and independent. She took everything in stride, joined a family that was too loud and crowded, took on responsibility that she didn’t need to take on and stayed even though she learned the worst parts of Zelda. Zelda knew the worst about Mary and she refused to let go. Wasn’t going to anytime soon by the looks of it.

“I love you.”

“I love you too Zelda.” They kissed, slow and deep, until they needed air. When they broke apart Zelda turned back so Mary was pressed against her back again. Mary’s arm went back around her waist. If it was possible Mary pressed herself even more against her, Zelda could feel her breath against her shoulder. It was soothing feeling Mary’s chest rise and fall against her back, it lulled her into sleep.

___________________

When they arrived home Zelda and Mary didn’t even make it out of the doorway before they were swarmed by their family. Roz, Theo, and Harvey were even there and they joined the rest in their mob scene. From what Zelda could pick up, because everyone was taking all at once, they were wondering what her answer was. What did she say? How did it go? What was her reaction? Zelda just held out her hand, showing the ring that was on her finger. The combined squeal that Hilda, Sabrina, and Roz made sent Zelda back up into the door in shock and caused Vinegar Tom to howl. Of course it caused another wave of rambled talking as one tried to be heared over another. Zelda just smiled and shook her head.

“It’s not too late to back out.” Mary smirked and shook her head.

“Why would I do that?” Zelda felt a slight tug on her shirt and she saw Vida clenching the hem of her shirt.

“Yes my darling what is it?”

“I don’t get it. What happened?”

“I said yes. We’re getting married. It means that Mamma is stuck with us forever.”

“YAY!” Vida jumped and brought her mom into a hug. Zelda gave her daughter a slight squeeze before releasing her so Vida could do the same with Mary. As Zelda straightened she looked at her family. Her big, crazy, loud, family.

She wouldn’t want it any other way.

#madam spellman #Madam Satan #Zelda Spellman

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vergils-daughter · 5 years

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Nero x V x Reader. Because why not. "I want both of you"

Sooner or later it had to come to this. Your group fought your way through districts full of demons week after week and all that time spent together brought you closer to each other, whether you wanted it or not. All that intensive fighting, long hours spent searching through the ruins, heavy physical exertion. You on the edge of your nerves because death is always very close. All this created sort of a gap between your group and the rest of the world – all that you had left behind the military blockade set up to keep the civilians away from the forbidden grounds. One moment you caught yourself thinking that all that you could recall from your previous life seemed almost like a dream – something stupendous, far away and unreal.

It's here and now. There is blood, sweat and adrenaline that pushes into your veins every time you encounter an artifact or a group of demons. And then there is them – these two men, in the beginning so very distant and now so close. Perhaps the only remaining human beings in the distance of many kilometers. Nero and V, the young boy with artificial arm and the tatooed summoner.

To be honest, it is hard to say when exactly you started to notice them. When their status changed from brothers in arms to someone you really depend on. Whose attention and applause you seek. Whose touch and voice you need so desperately in this scary place. It was enough that one of them lent you a hand and supported you when you were climbing. You knew that he held you longer than was needed. Or when you were standing next to each other and your arms touched. You were feeling that your skin was tingling and you felt warmth. Or when you were staying in one of the many abandoned houses, locking doors and checking every corner before laying down. You were all sleeping in one room, for safety reasons. After the whole day you were so exhausted that it wasn't important if you fell asleep in a single bed or on the same couch. Well, not cuddling, but so close that when morning caught you, you woke up with someone's leg on your thigh or fingers entangled in your hair. You where changing your clothes without paying attention whether any of the two saw you. But then there was the day you realized that something changed in the way they looked at you, it distinctively began to feel as if they were touching you.

And then you knew that you want to be touched by them.

It started to disturb you a little. Not that it made you feel embarrassed, but you could not stop thinking about it. When you caught yourself staring at Nero's butt and almost twisted your ankle, you rebuked yourself: the missions should be above it all. Artifacts and demons' nests – those are your priorities. You cannot allow dirty thoughts to hinder you in fulfilling your duties, goddammit!

Or so you were saying to yourself. But the tension between you three was beginning to grow just to big to ignore.

That night you managed to find quite a groovy apartment. The place did not suffer much from the recent events and somehow even had running water! That itself was a miracle. When you finished your meal, Nero went to the bathroom first, wordlessly leaving all the preparations for the night to you and V. That always took some time, but at night demons could be a great pain in the ass. Some doors and windows still needed checking and barring.

Then it was finally your turn to take the advantage of the unusual blessing of water. You returned, relaxed, with your hair still wet. As V disappeared in the bathroom, you noticed Nero trying to tend to his wounded arm all by himself.

You told Nero to lay down and, ignoring his feeble protests, you kneeled next to him. Outside it was dark now and you did not light any lights to avoid bringing unwanted attention. However, you needed to have a look, so you decided to light a single candle. You took Nero's hand and placed it gently on your tights. The wound did not look serious. It must have been caused by a strike of a Qliphot tendril, probably the last one that all of a sudden bursted from beneath the surface. It could be infected, though, so you decided to take care of it. After all, you were the only shaman and healer in this group, which made your hands full almost all the time.

The boy put his cybernetic arm under his head and watched you from under the eyelashes. He looked as if he was going to fall asleep. As you were focused on casting a healing spell and wrapping the arm in bandages, your mind - ever alert in this environment - took an almost subconscious notice of V returning. The summoner sat just behind you.

"It should be okay now" - you said, knotting the bandage and putting off the candle. Despite the darkness, you saw his bright eyes fixed on your face. Faint moonlight penetrated the cracks in the windows and illuminated his white hair, still wet and glittering as though they were made of silver. He looked so innocent and... appealing. A paradox. Not thinking much, you raised your hand to his face and ruffled his hair. The surprised look on his face amused you.

"Its time to sleep" - you said, but in the meantime you realized that with the other hand you were still holding his wounded hand on your tights. Pressing it to your skin, not wanting to let go. And his fingers slowly began to react, barely noticeably stroking you. As if he were scratching a cat's ear.

And all of sudden you noticed several things. The silence, which was thick and heavy, the only audible thing being your breaths. That you are wearing only your tank top and panties. That both men were half naked. You became very aware of V's silent presence, just behind you, perhaps closer than before. Nero's stroking hand slowly, slowly moved around your thigh. You were so very close to each other that you could feel the heat that came from them. You were all still wet, cooled with the shower, but burning hot inside.

There was no option that you could fall asleep like this. That any of you could.

But someone had to take the first step.

"You seem... tense" - V's silent voice broke the silence. At the same time his hands touched your shoulders. You shut your eyes, putting yourself under this soft caress, feeling a pleasant shiver that went along your spine. V's hands dropped to the edge of your shirt, his fingers gently slid beneath it and with a decisive move he pulled upwards.

"You do not need this, do you?" - he said and you obediently rose your arms to let him take it off completely.

Now you heard Nero draw a loud breath. Averting his gaze from you was beyond him, he kept looking at your bare breasts it seemed you made quite an impression as he stopped stroking your thigh. But V, he did not waste his time. As soon as he let the shirt drop his hands gently dropped back on your shoulders and slid down to your breasts. His fingers crushed your nipples, causing you to moan. You tilted your head back, leaning it on his chest. V kissed your temple.

Nero suddenly sat up and leaned towards you. Two men tensed, though V did not stop what he was doing with your nipples. They looked each other straight in the eyes, and in that look you saw - or at least imagined you saw - challenge, irritation and perhaps a question. For a moment they looked like two dogs ready to jump at each other. No, you corrected yourself immediately, like a young wolf and a black panther. And then Nero made a decision. He rose as if he wanted to go away, averting his eyes from both you and V. You grabbed his hand before he managed to pull it away.

"And where do you think you are going?" - you asked, your voice strangely hoarse, as V's hands were doing some pretty amazing things with your breasts. - "Don't you dare walk away".

The boy sat down, clearly confused about what to do next, consternation all over his face. The quiet V's chuckle, that came right above your ear, did not encourage Nero at all.

"Oh, I see, our shaman really took to her heart all our teamwork advice. You wish to embody them all, here and now, don't you?" - he said, biting your ear. - "You want to be fair on the battlefield where the fight is always the most passionate and harsh?"

"I simply want you both" - you answered. V said nothing to that, but you could bet he smirked, as he used to. You pulled Nero closer, so that the heads of the three of you touched for a moment. You kissed him hard on his lips. They felt warm, but dry. As you licked them he finally decided to cooperate and tried to kiss back. Now you moved away, and looked him straight in the eyes. "Take me now, you hear me? And you, V, hold me. Tight".

V now seemed very amused and listened right away. He shifted his arms and pulled you slightly upwards so that your head leveled with his. You leaned your head over his shoulder and pushed your hips upwards encouragingly.

Nero pulled the panties off your body so fast he almost ripped them. He grabbed you by your tights and pulled them apart and upwards. You were now almost hanging between them, your toes barely touching the bed sheets, but somehow stable. Oh god, it felt great.

Nero entered fast and hard, just as you hoped he would. His cock was thick and the first push made you hiss. As usual the anticipation and the arousal made you tight down below, but you did not mind the pain.

"I am sorry" - he muttered between thrusts. You stroked his head with one hand, the other was leaning on V's thigh. You tried to relax your muscles and after a moment you felt your pussy adjust to Nero. Your moist walls embraced his dick. Every push was feeling more pleasurable and one of the poet's hands was still petting your breasts.

Through the sound of blood pulsing in your veins and your erratic breathes you heard a silent hum, somewhere by your ear. On your tongue, you somehow felt the taste of wine and rose fruits, synesthetic experiences leading you straight to the land of happiness...

"Do not stop!" - you growled.

"I am sorry" - Nero said again, as his breath became erratic and heavy. "But i... will come... in a second...".

At first you wanted to reassure him or to scold him, but in your current state you just could not decide, you could not think clearly at all. All was irrelevant, as long as it lasted.

It looked like Nero was that kind of guy that discharged fast and full. His face turned red. He closed his eyes, his motions became even stronger, faster and more intense. The last few thrusts were so strong that V had problems supporting you two on his side. His back was pressed against the wall behind him and he was taking all the impact of your bodies. Nero came inside you with a cry – you found it cute, you have never heard man respond like that to orgasm. A few second he was staying still, gasping, and then he pulled himself out of you, left down your legs. He took a step or two back and lay dropped on the bed.

"O my god" he purred.

V was still silently humming, you felt the vibrations in his chest. You turned around to face him. Your look was dark, concentrated, your body throbbing and wet. You took his face in your hands and kissed him, not even trying to be gentle, pushing your tongue inside his mouth, tasting him, growling and twining from eagerness.

"Take me now, fast" - you hissed to his lips. V only smiled and shook his head. For that, you felt like killing him there and now. You grabbed him by his pants and started pulling down, but he grabbed your wrists and twisted them.

"Teamwork, remember, witch?" - he said. He lifted you a little, flipped you over and pushed you towards the bed. Now you were kneeling over Nero.

"Now is your turn to help me. Wake up!" - new sparkles light up in Nero's sleepy eyes. The boy drew you closer in and hugged around your nape, causing you to lay down on him, breasts on chest. V, on his side, pulled your hips, lifting them higher. You felt his body almost adhere to your back. He was much taller than you and could easily cover you all. He kissed your neck.

"You need to accommodate to my dynamics. But right now you are like broken instrument. I have to tune you in. To work on you a little..."

"Just... I am begging you, be careful there, ok?" - whispered Nero, his voice a little whimsical and a little serious. V laughed loudly.

"I think both of you could ask me the same, am I right?" - he said. "Truth to be told, I am not sure whose hand or leg is where."

"I do not care about legs or hands, just aim correctly, dammit!"

Yes, great, and now they began joking. You were trapped between them, withering from desire, barely breathing. And they – they decided to start some sort of comedy. V's cock was nudging your buttocks. one of his hands pushed between your bodies and you felt his fingers parting your labia. He found clit and with his cold fingers he started to tease it, every move causing trembles within you. And yet, he did not stop talking.

"Kallipygos in Greek means 'with beautiful buttocks'. And this caramel skin. You are like Amazon, emerging though the wild forest..." - an another spasm of pleasure jolted through your body. - "With this windswept auburn hairs of yours you look like wild, untamed..."

"This is only a bit better than his poetry" - whispered Nero straight to your ear. There was no option for V not to overhear. He snorted with laughter, and you almost sobbed from disappointment when he stopped the caress. You jerked, full of anger, but Nero held you in place.

"V, I am losing my mind here" - you coughed up with your face pressed to Nero's neck. "I will garrote you both, I swear to god!"

"Look what you are doing, boy" - said poet mockingly. - "You are upsetting our shaman. She indeed loves to hear my voice, doesn't she?" - He growled the last words straight into your ears. To your relief, his fingers came back between your tights, slid into your folds and parted them. The tip of his cock touched your vagina, pulled back and returned, this time pushing hard inside, but only a little. You were certain now – he was a fucking sadist.

And he was still talking, with his voice full of content. It may be he even quoted. You recognized some of Blake's verses.

"The naked woman's body is a portion of eternity too great for the eye of man."

A lunatic and sadist, yes.

"Pleeeease..."

"I cannot hear you, my dear"

Just do it! Now!" - you screamed so loud, that Nero surely heard ringing in his ears. - "Do not torment me anymore, please, I.... ohh!" - V pushed inside you, unbearingly slow. He was different from Nero, longer, but not so massive. He was playing with you, searching for a proper position, his hips making subtle motions. And when finally he started riding you, he was doing it in a monotonous rhythm.

Now suddenly he was quieter than Nero, no longer quoting, he did not even gasp. You could not see his face, but you were sure there was an expression close to contemplation on it. This was all V – man with studied, slow gestures, not throwing his word on wind. Tasting every moment of life.

It was silent. Only the rustling of linen and your breathes.

Nero's hug lightened. He started to soothe your hair and shoulders. The entire scene became intimate and sweet, everything was soft like a fluff. Just beautiful. You realized that you somehow love these two men. The flow of emotions pushed the tears from your eyes and even the forthcoming orgasm did not interrupt the lyrical mood.

V's breath clipped, became erratic. He leaned tighter on you, snuggling into your back. You tasted the flavor of distant despair, a scream full of pain resonated and echoed somewhere. But the vision faded out before it even pealed out fully, swept of with the wave of orgasm – yours and his. You bit your lips in fear that not the expected moan would come out, but sobbing.

Only the silent sigh escaped his mouth with the last spasm.

You were completely drained. After V released you, you slid off of Nero and lay beside him. V followed, he snuggled to your back and embraced your waist. His face touched your neck. It felt wet.

#dmc5 #dmcv #lemon #dmc nero #dmc5 v #having fun with DMC bois

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abovethetitletheatre · 4 years

Text

What is a Play

Extract from The Theory of the Theatre by Clayton Hamilton

A play is a story devised to be presented by actors on a stage before an audience.

This plain statement of fact affords an exceedingly simple definition of the drama,—a definition so simple indeed as to seem at the first glance easily obvious and therefore scarcely worthy of expression. But if we examine the statement thoroughly, phrase by phrase, we shall see that it sums up within itself the entire theory of the theatre, and that from this primary axiom we may deduce the whole practical philosophy of dramatic criticism.

It is unnecessary to linger long over an explanation of the word "story." A story is a representation of a series of events linked together by the law of cause and effect and marching forward toward a predestined culmination,—each event exhibiting imagined characters performing imagined acts in an appropriate imagined setting. This definition applies, of course, to the epic, the ballad, the novel, the short-story, and all other forms of narrative art, as well as to the drama.

But the phrase "devised to be presented" distinguishes the drama sharply from all other forms of narrative. In particular it must be noted that a play is not a story that is written to be read. By no means must the drama be considered primarily as a department of literature,—like the epic or the novel, for example. Rather, from the standpoint of the theatre, should literature be considered as only one of a multitude of means which the dramatist must employ to convey his story effectively to the audience. The great Greek dramatists needed a sense of sculpture as well as a sense of poetry; and in the contemporary theatre the playwright must manifest the imagination of the painter as well as the imagination of the man of letters. The appeal of a play is primarily visual rather than auditory. On the contemporary stage, characters properly costumed must be exhibited within a carefully designed and painted setting illuminated with appropriate effects of light and shadow; and the art of music is often called upon to render incidental aid to the general impression. The dramatist, therefore, must be endowed not only with the literary sense, but also with a clear eye for the graphic and plastic elements of pictorial effect, a sense of rhythm and of music, and a thorough knowledge of the art of acting. Since the dramatist must, at the same time and in the same work, harness and harmonise the methods of so many of the arts, it would be uncritical to centre studious consideration solely on his dialogue and to praise him or condemn him on the literary ground alone.

It is, of course, true that the very greatest plays have always been great literature as well as great drama. The purely literary element—the final touch of style in dialogue—is the only sure antidote against the opium of time. Now that Aeschylus is no longer performed as a playwright, we read him as a poet. But, on the other hand, we should remember that the main reason why he is no longer played is that his dramas do not fit the modern theatre,—an edifice totally different in size and shape and physical appointments from that in which his pieces were devised to be presented. In his own day he was not so much read as a poet as applauded in the theatre as a playwright; and properly to appreciate his dramatic, rather than his literary, appeal, we must reconstruct in our imagination the conditions of the theatre in his day. The point is that his plays, though planned primarily as drama, have since been shifted over, by many generations of critics and literary students, into the adjacent province of poetry; and this shift of the critical point of view, which has insured the immortality of Aeschylus, has been made possible only by the literary merit of his dialogue. When a play, owing to altered physical conditions, is tossed out of the theatre, it will find a haven in the closet only if it be greatly written. From this fact we may derive the practical maxim that though a skilful playwright need not write greatly in order to secure the plaudits of his own generation, he must cultivate a literary excellence if he wishes to be remembered by posterity.

This much must be admitted concerning the ultimate importance of the literary element in the drama. But on the other hand it must be granted that many plays that stand very high as drama do not fall within the range of literature. A typical example is the famous melodrama by Dennery entitled The Two Orphans. This play has deservedly held the stage for nearly a century, and bids fair still to be applauded after the youngest critic has died. It is undeniably a very good play. It tells a thrilling story in a series of carefully graded theatric situations. It presents nearly a dozen acting parts which, though scarcely real as characters, are yet drawn with sufficient fidelity to fact to allow the performers to produce a striking illusion of reality during the two hours' traffic of the stage. It is, to be sure—especially in the standard English translation—abominably written. One of the two orphans launches wide-eyed upon a soliloquy beginning, "Am I mad?... Do I dream?"; and such sentences as the following obtrude themselves upon the astounded ear,—"If you persist in persecuting me in this heartless manner, I shall inform the police." Nothing, surely, could be further from literature. Yet thrill after thrill is conveyed, by visual means, through situations artfully contrived; and in the sheer excitement of the moment, the audience is made incapable of noticing the pompous mediocrity of the lines.

In general, it should be frankly understood by students of the theatre that an audience is not capable of hearing whether the dialogue of a play is well or badly written. Such a critical discrimination would require an extraordinary nicety of ear, and might easily be led astray, in one direction or the other, by the reading of the actors. The rhetoric of Massinger must have sounded like poetry to an Elizabethan audience that had heard the same performers, the afternoon before, speaking lines of Shakespeare's. If Mr. Forbes-Robertson is reading a poorly-written part, it is hard to hear that the lines are, in themselves, not musical. Literary style is, even for accomplished critics, very difficult to judge in the theatre. Some years ago, Mrs. Fiske presented in New York an English adaptation of Paul Heyse's Mary of Magdala. After the first performance—at which I did not happen to be present—I asked several cultivated people who had heard the play whether the English version was written in verse or in prose; and though these people were themselves actors and men of letters, not one of them could tell me. Yet, as appeared later, when the play was published, the English dialogue was written in blank verse by no less a poet than Mr. William Winter. If such an elementary distinction as that between verse and prose was in this case inaudible to cultivated ears, how much harder must it be for the average audience to distinguish between a good phrase and a bad! The fact is that literary style is, for the most part, wasted on an audience. The average auditor is moved mainly by the emotional content of a sentence spoken on the stage, and pays very little attention to the form of words in which the meaning is set forth. At Hamlet's line, "Absent thee from felicity a while"—which Matthew Arnold, with impeccable taste, selected as one of his touchstones of literary style—the thing that really moves the audience in the theatre is not the perfectness of the phrase but the pathos of Hamlet's plea for his best friend to outlive him and explain his motives to a world grown harsh.

That the content rather than the literary turn of dialogue is the thing that counts most in the theatre will be felt emphatically if we compare the mere writing of Molière with that of his successor and imitator, Regnard. Molière is certainly a great writer, in the sense that he expresses clearly and precisely the thing he has to say; his verse, as well as his prose, is admirably lucid and eminently speakable. But assuredly, in the sense in which the word is generally used, Molière is not a poet; and it may fairly be said that, in the usual connotation of the term, he has no style. Regnard, on the other hand, is more nearly a poet, and, from the standpoint of style, writes vastly better verse. He has a lilting fluency that flowers every now and then into a phrase of golden melody. Yet Molière is so immeasurably his superior as a playwright that most critics instinctively set Regnard far below him even as a writer. There can be no question that M. Rostand writes better verse than Emile Augier; but there can be no question, also, that Augier is the greater dramatist. Oscar Wilde probably wrote more clever and witty lines than any other author in the whole history of English comedy; but no one would think of setting him in the class with Congreve and Sheridan.

It is by no means my intention to suggest that great writing is not desirable in the drama; but the point must be emphasised that it is not a necessary element in the immediate merit of a play as a play. In fact, excellent plays have often been presented without the use of any words at all. Pantomime has, in every age, been recognised as a legitimate department of the drama. Only a few years ago, Mme. Charlotte Wiehe acted in New York a one-act play, entitled La Main, which held the attention enthralled for forty-five minutes during which no word was spoken. The little piece told a thrilling story with entire clearness and coherence, and exhibited three characters fully and distinctly drawn; and it secured this achievement by visual means alone, with no recourse whatever to the spoken word. Here was a work which by no stretch of terminology could have been included in the category of literature; and yet it was a very good play, and as drama was far superior to many a literary masterpiece in dialogue like Browning's In a Balcony.

Lest this instance seem too exceptional to be taken as representative, let us remember that throughout an entire important period in the history of the stage, it was customary for the actors to improvise the lines that they spoke before the audience. I refer to the period of the so-called commedia dell'arte, which flourished all over Italy throughout the sixteenth century. A synopsis of the play—partly narrative and partly expository—was posted up behind the scenes. This account of what was to happen on the stage was known technically as a scenario. The actors consulted this scenario before they made an entrance, and then in the acting of the scene spoke whatever words occurred to them. Harlequin made love to Columbine and quarreled with Pantaloon in new lines every night; and the drama gained both spontaneity and freshness from the fact that it was created anew at each performance. Undoubtedly, if an actor scored with a clever line, he would remember it for use in a subsequent presentation; and in this way the dialogue of a comedy must have gradually become more or less fixed and, in a sense, written. But this secondary task of formulating the dialogue was left to the performers; and the playwright contented himself with the primary task of planning the plot.

The case of the commedia dell'arte is, of course, extreme; but it emphasises the fact that the problem of the dramatist is less a task of writing than a task of constructing. His primary concern is so to build a story that it will tell itself to the eye of the audience in a series of shifting pictures. Any really good play can, to a great extent, be appreciated even though it be acted in a foreign language. American students in New York may find in the Yiddish dramas of the Bowery an emphatic illustration of how closely a piece may be followed by an auditor who does not understand the words of a single line. The recent extraordinary development in the art of the moving picture, especially in France, has taught us that many well-known plays may be presented in pantomime and reproduced by the kinetoscope, with no essential loss of intelligibility through the suppression of the dialogue. Sardou, as represented by the biograph, is no longer a man of letters; but he remains, scarcely less evidently than in the ordinary theatre, a skilful and effective playwright. Hamlet, that masterpiece of meditative poetry, would still be a good play if it were shown in moving pictures. Much, of course, would be sacrificed through the subversion of its literary element; but its essential interest as a play would yet remain apparent through the unassisted power of its visual appeal.

There can be no question that, however important may be the dialogue of a drama, the scenario is even more important; and from a full scenario alone, before a line of dialogue is written, it is possible in most cases to determine whether a prospective play is inherently good or bad. Most contemporary dramatists, therefore, postpone the actual writing of their dialogue until they have worked out their scenario in minute detail. They begin by separating and grouping their narrative materials into not more than three or four distinct pigeon-holes of time and place,—thereby dividing their story roughly into acts. They then plan a stage-setting for each act, employing whatever accessories may be necessary for the action. If papers are to be burned, they introduce a fireplace; if somebody is to throw a pistol through a window, they set the window in a convenient and emphatic place; they determine how many chairs and tables and settees are demanded for the narrative; if a piano or a bed is needed, they place it here or there upon the floor-plan of their stage, according to the prominence they wish to give it; and when all such points as these have been determined, they draw a detailed map of the stage-setting for the act. As their next step, most playwrights, with this map before them, and using a set of chess-men or other convenient concrete objects to represent their characters, move the pieces about upon the stage through the successive scenes, determine in detail where every character is to stand or sit at nearly every moment, and note down what he is to think and feel and talk about at the time. Only after the entire play has been planned out thus minutely does the average playwright turn back to the beginning and commence to write his dialogue. He completes his primary task of play-making before he begins his secondary task of play-writing. Many of our established dramatists,—like the late Clyde Fitch, for example—sell their plays when the scenario is finished, arrange for the production, select the actors, and afterwards write the dialogue with the chosen actors constantly in mind.

This summary statement of the usual process may seem, perhaps, to cast excessive emphasis on the constructive phase of the playwright's problem; and allowance must of course be made for the divergent mental habits of individual authors. But almost any playwright will tell you that he feels as if his task were practically finished when he arrives at the point when he finds himself prepared to begin the writing of his dialogue. This accounts for the otherwise unaccountable rapidity with which many of the great plays of the world have been written. Dumas fils retired to the country and wrote La Dame aux Camélias—a four-act play—in eight successive days. But he had previously told the same story in a novel; he knew everything that was to happen in his play; and the mere writing could be done in a single headlong dash. Voltaire's best tragedy, Zaïre, was written in three weeks. Victor Hugo composed Marion Delorme between June 1 and June 24, 1829; and when the piece was interdicted by the censor, he immediately turned to another subject and wrote Hernani in the next three weeks. The fourth act of Marion Delorme was written in a single day. Here apparently was a very fever of composition. But again we must remember that both of these plays had been devised before the author began to write them; and when he took his pen in hand he had already been working on them in scenario for probably a year. To write ten acts in Alexandrines, with feminine rhymes alternating with masculine, was still, to be sure, an appalling task; but Hugo was a facile and prolific poet, and could write very quickly after he had determined exactly what it was he had to write.

It was with all of the foregoing points in mind that, in the opening sentence of this chapter, I defined a play as a story "devised," rather than a story "written." We may now consider the significance of the next phrase of that definition, which states that a play is devised to be "presented," rather than to be "read."

The only way in which it is possible to study most of the great plays of bygone ages is to read the record of their dialogue; and this necessity has led to the academic fallacy of considering great plays primarily as compositions to be read. In their own age, however, these very plays which we now read in the closet were intended primarily to be presented on the stage. Really to read a play requires a very special and difficult exercise of visual imagination. It is necessary not only to appreciate the dialogue, but also to project before the mind's eye a vivid imagined rendition of the visual aspect of the action. This is the reason why most managers and stage-directors are unable to judge conclusively the merits and defects of a new play from reading it in manuscript. One of our most subtle artists in stage-direction, Mr. Henry Miller, once confessed to the present writer that he could never decide whether a prospective play was good or bad until he had seen it rehearsed by actors on a stage. Mr. Augustus Thomas's unusually successful farce entitled Mrs. Leffingwell's Boots was considered a failure by its producing managers until the very last rehearsals, because it depended for its finished effect on many intricate and rapid intermovements of the actors, which until the last moment were understood and realised only in the mind of the playwright. The same author's best and most successful play, The Witching Hour, was declined by several managers before it was ultimately accepted for production; and the reason was, presumably, that its extraordinary merits were not manifest from a mere reading of the lines. If professional producers may go so far astray in their judgment of the merits of a manuscript, how much harder must it be for the layman to judge a play solely from a reading of the dialogue!

This fact should lead the professors and the students in our colleges to adopt a very tentative attitude toward judging the dramatic merits of the plays of other ages. Shakespeare, considered as a poet, is so immeasurably superior to Dryden, that it is difficult for the college student unfamiliar with the theatre to realise that the former's Antony and Cleopatra is, considered solely as a play, far inferior to the latter's dramatisation of the same story, entitled All for Love, or The World Well Lost. Shakespeare's play upon this subject follows closely the chronology of Plutarch's narrative, and is merely dramatised history; but Dryden's play is reconstructed with a more practical sense of economy and emphasis, and deserves to be regarded as historical drama. Cymbeline is, in many passages, so greatly written that it is hard for the closet-student to realise that it is a bad play, even when considered from the standpoint of the Elizabethan theatre,—whereas Othello and Macbeth, for instance, are great plays, not only of their age but for all time. King Lear is probably a more sublime poem than Othello; and it is only by seeing the two pieces performed equally well in the theatre that we can appreciate by what a wide margin Othello is the better play.

This practical point has been felt emphatically by the very greatest dramatists; and this fact offers, of course, an explanation of the otherwise inexplicable negligence of such authors as Shakespeare and Molière in the matter of publishing their plays. These supreme playwrights wanted people to see their pieces in the theatre rather than to read them in the closet. In his own lifetime, Shakespeare, who was very scrupulous about the publication of his sonnets and his narrative poems, printed a carefully edited text of his plays only when he was forced, in self-defense, to do so, by the prior appearance of corrupt and pirated editions; and we owe our present knowledge of several of his dramas merely to the business acumen of two actors who, seven years after his death, conceived the practical idea that they might turn an easy penny by printing and offering for sale the text of several popular plays which the public had already seen performed. Sardou, who, like most French dramatists, began by publishing his plays, carefully withheld from print the master-efforts of his prime; and even such dramatists as habitually print their plays prefer nearly always to have them seen first and read only afterwards.

In elucidation of what might otherwise seem perversity on the part of great dramatic authors like Shakespeare, we must remember that the master-dramatists have nearly always been men of the theatre rather than men of letters, and therefore naturally more avid of immediate success with a contemporary audience than of posthumous success with a posterity of readers. Shakespeare and Molière were actors and theatre-managers, and devised their plays primarily for the patrons of the Globe and the Palais Royal. Ibsen, who is often taken as a type of the literary dramatist, derived his early training mainly from the profession of the theatre and hardly at all from the profession of letters. For half a dozen years, during the formative period of his twenties, he acted as producing manager of the National Theatre in Bergen, and learned the tricks of his trade from studying the masterpieces of contemporary drama, mainly of the French school. In his own work, he began, in such pieces as Lady Inger of Ostråt, by imitating and applying the formulas of Scribe and the earlier Sardou; and it was only after many years that he marched forward to a technique entirely his own. Both Sir Arthur Wing Pinero and Mr. Stephen Phillips began their theatrical career as actors. On the other hand, men of letters who have written works primarily to be read have almost never succeeded as dramatists. In England, during the nineteenth century, the following great poets all tried their hands at plays—Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Matthew Arnold, Swinburne, and Tennyson—and not one of them produced a work of any considerable value from the standpoint of dramatic criticism. Tennyson, in Becket, came nearer to the mark than any of the others; and it is noteworthy that, in this work, he had the advantage of the advice and, in a sense, collaboration of Sir Henry Irving.

The familiar phrase "closet-drama" is a contradiction of terms. The species of literary composition in dialogue that is ordinarily so designated occupies a thoroughly legitimate position in the realm of literature, but no position whatsoever in the realm of dramaturgy. Atalanta in Calydon is a great poem; but from the standpoint of the theory of the theatre, it cannot be considered as a play. Like the lyric poems of the same author, it was written to be read; and it was not devised to be presented by actors on a stage before an audience.

We may now consider the significance of the three concluding phrases of the definition of a play which was offered at the outset of the present chapter. These phrases indicate the immanence of three influences by which the work of the playwright is constantly conditioned.

In the first place, by the fact that the dramatist is devising his story for the use of actors, he is definitely limited both in respect to the kind of characters he may create and in respect to the means he may employ in order to delineate them. In actual life we meet characters of two different classes, which (borrowing a pair of adjectives from the terminology of physics) we may denominate dynamic characters and static characters. But when an actor appears upon the stage, he wants to act; and the dramatist is therefore obliged to confine his attention to dynamic characters, and to exclude static characters almost entirely from the range of his creation. The essential trait of all dynamic characters is the preponderance within them of the element of will; and the persons of a play must therefore be people with active wills and emphatic intentions. When such people are brought into juxtaposition, there necessarily results a clash of contending desires and purposes; and by this fact we are led logically to the conclusion that the proper subject-matter of the drama is a struggle between contrasted human wills. The same conclusion, as we shall notice in the next chapter, may be reached logically by deduction from the natural demands of an assembled audience; and the subject will be discussed more fully during the course of our study of The Psychology of Theatre Audiences. At present it is sufficient for us to note that every great play that has ever been devised has presented some phase or other of this single, necessary theme,—a contention of individual human wills. An actor, moreover, is always more effective in scenes of emotion than in scenes of cold logic and calm reason; and the dramatist, therefore, is obliged to select as his leading figures people whose acts are motivated by emotion rather than by intellect. Aristotle, for example, would make a totally uninteresting figure if he were presented faithfully upon the stage. Who could imagine Darwin as the hero of a drama? Othello, on the other hand, is not at all a reasonable being; from first to last his intellect is "perplexed in the extreme." His emotions are the motives for his acts; and in this he may be taken as the type of a dramatic character.

In the means of delineating the characters he has imagined, the dramatist, because he is writing for actors, is more narrowly restricted than the novelist. His people must constantly be doing something, and must therefore reveal themselves mainly through their acts. They may, of course, also be delineated through their way of saying things; but in the theatre the objective action is always more suggestive than the spoken word. We know Sherlock Holmes, in Mr. William Gillette's admirable melodrama, solely through the things that we have seen him do; and in this connection we should remember that in the stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from which Mr. Gillette derived his narrative material, Holmes is delineated largely by a very different method,—the method, namely, of expository comment written from the point of view of Doctor Watson. A leading actor seldom wants to sit in his dressing-room while he is being talked about by the other actors on the stage; and therefore the method of drawing character by comment, which is so useful for the novelist, is rarely employed by the playwright except in the waste moments which precede the first entrance of his leading figure. The Chorus Lady, in Mr. James Forbes's amusing study of that name, is drawn chiefly through her way of saying things; but though this method of delineation is sometimes very effective for an act or two, it can seldom be sustained without a faltering of interest through a full-grown four-act play. The novelist's expedient of delineating character through mental analysis is of course denied the dramatist, especially in this modern age when the soliloquy (for reasons which will be noted in a subsequent chapter) is usually frowned upon. Sometimes, in the theatre, a character may be exhibited chiefly through his personal effect upon the other people on the stage, and thereby indirectly on the people in the audience. It was in this way, of course, that Manson was delineated in Mr. Charles Rann Kennedy's The Servant in the House. But the expedient is a dangerous one for the dramatist to use; because it makes his work immediately dependent on the actor chosen for the leading role, and may in many cases render his play impossible of attaining its full effect except at the hands of a single great performer. In recent years an expedient long familiar in the novel has been transferred to the service of the stage,—the expedient, namely, of suggesting the personality of a character through a visual presentation of his habitual environment. After the curtain had been raised upon the first act of The Music Master, and the audience had been given time to look about the room which was represented on the stage, the main traits of the leading character had already been suggested before his first appearance on the scene. The pictures and knickknacks on his mantelpiece told us, before we ever saw him, what manner of man he was. But such subtle means as this can, after all, be used only to reinforce the one standard method of conveying the sense of character in drama; and this one method, owing to the conditions under which the playwright does his work, must always be the exhibition of objective acts.

In all these general ways the work of the dramatist is affected by the fact that he must devise his story to be presented by actors. The specific influence exerted over the playwright by the individual performer is a subject too extensive to be covered by a mere summary consideration in the present context; and we shall therefore discuss it fully in a later chapter, entitled The Actor and the Dramatist.

At present we must pass on to observe that, in the second place, the work of the dramatist is conditioned by the fact that he must plan his plays to fit the sort of theatre that stands ready to receive them. A fundamental and necessary relation has always existed between theatre-building and theatric art. The best plays of any period have been fashioned in accordance with the physical conditions of the best theatres of that period. Therefore, in order fully to appreciate such a play as Oedipus King, it is necessary to imagine the theatre of Dionysus; and in order to understand thoroughly the dramaturgy of Shakespeare and Molière, it is necessary to reconstruct in retrospect the altered inn-yard and the converted tennis-court for which they planned their plays. It may seriously be doubted that the works of these earlier masters gain more than they lose from being produced with the elaborate scenic accessories of the modern stage; and, on the other hand, a modern play by Ibsen or Pinero would lose three-fourths of its effect if it were acted in the Elizabethan manner, or produced without scenery (let us say) in the Roman theatre at Orange.

Since, in all ages, the size and shape and physical appointments of the theatre have determined for the playwright the form and structure of his plays, we may always explain the stock conventions of any period of the drama by referring to the physical aspect of the theatre in that period. Let us consider briefly, for purposes of illustration, certain obvious ways in which the art of the great Greek tragic dramatists was affected by the nature of the Attic stage. The theatre of Dionysus was an enormous edifice carved out of a hillside. It was so large that the dramatists were obliged to deal only with subjects that were traditional,—stories which had long been familiar to the entire theatre-going public, including the poorer and less educated spectators who sat farthest from the actors. Since most of the audience was grouped above the stage and at a considerable distance, the actors, in order not to appear dwarfed, were obliged to walk on stilted boots. A performer so accoutred could not move impetuously or enact a scene of violence; and this practical limitation is sufficient to account for the measured and majestic movement of Greek tragedy, and the convention that murders and other violent deeds must always be imagined off the stage and be merely recounted to the audience by messengers. Facial expression could not be seen in so large a theatre; and the actors therefore wore masks, conventionalised to represent the dominant mood of a character during a scene. This limitation forced the performer to depend for his effect mainly on his voice; and Greek tragedy was therefore necessarily more lyrical than later types of drama.

The few points which we have briefly touched upon are usually explained, by academic critics, on literary grounds; but it is surely more sane to explain them on grounds of common sense, in the light of what we know of the conditions of the Attic stage. Similarly, it would be easy to show how Terence and Calderon, Shakespeare and Molière, adapted the form of their plays to the form of their theatres; but enough has already been said to indicate the principle which underlies this particular phase of the theory of the theatre. The successive changes in the physical aspect of the English theatre during the last three centuries have all tended toward greater naturalness, intimacy, and subtlety, in the drama itself and in the physical aids to its presentment. This progress, with its constant illustration of the interdependence of the drama and the stage, may most conveniently be studied in historical review; and to such a review we shall devote a special chapter, entitled Stage Conventions in Modern Times.

We may now observe that, in the third place, the essential nature of the drama is affected greatly by the fact that it is destined to be set before an audience. The dramatist must appeal at once to a heterogeneous multitude of people; and the full effect of this condition will be investigated in a special chapter on The Psychology of Theatre Audiences. In an important sense, the audience is a party to the play, and collaborates with the actors in the presentation. This fact, which remains often unappreciated by academic critics, is familiar to everyone who has had any practical association with the theatre. It is almost never possible, even for trained dramatic critics, to tell from a final dress-rehearsal in an empty house which scenes of a new play are fully effective and which are not; and the reason why, in America, new plays are tried out on the road is not so much to give the actors practice in their parts, as to determine, from the effect of the piece upon provincial audiences, whether it is worthy of a metropolitan presentation. The point is, as we shall notice in the next chapter, that since a play is devised for a crowd it cannot finally be judged by individuals.

The dependence of the dramatist upon his audience may be illustrated by the history of many important plays, which, though effective in their own age, have become ineffective for later generations, solely because they were founded on certain general principles of conduct in which the world has subsequently ceased to believe. From the point of view of its own period, The Maid's Tragedy of Beaumont and Fletcher is undoubtedly one of the very greatest of Elizabethan plays; but it would be ineffective in the modern theatre, because it presupposes a principle which a contemporary audience would not accept. It was devised for an audience of aristocrats in the reign of James I, and the dramatic struggle is founded upon the doctrine of the divine right of kings. Amintor, in the play, has suffered a profound personal injury at the hands of his sovereign; but he cannot avenge this individual disgrace, because he is a subject of the royal malefactor. The crisis and turning-point of the entire drama is a scene in which Amintor, with the king at his mercy, lowers his sword with the words:—

But there is Divinity about you, that strikes dead My rising passions: as you are my king, I fall before you, and present my sword To cut mine own flesh, if it be your will.

We may imagine the applause of the courtiers of James Stuart, the Presumptuous; but never since the Cromwellian revolution has that scene been really effective on the English stage. In order fully to appreciate a dramatic struggle, an audience must sympathise with the motives that occasion it.

It should now be evident, as was suggested at the outset, that all the leading principles of the theory of the theatre may be deduced logically from the axiom which was stated in the first sentence of this chapter; and that axiom should constantly be borne in mind as the basis of all our subsequent discussions. But in view of several important points which have already come up for consideration, it may be profitable, before relinquishing our initial question, to redefine a play more fully in the following terms:—

A play is a representation, by actors, on a stage, before an audience, of a struggle between individual human wills, motivated by emotion rather than by intellect, and expressed in terms of objective action.

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