#the fuck does ''the color of my fate'' even MEAN what IS that phrase

[empressofthelibrary]

You know, researching Victorian flower language would be so much easier if this reference book had goddamn PICTURES

[geneticcatalyst]

as promised, an exploration of my one pet problem in fandom, or: misinterpretation of jby's first death (ft. zzs)

heres the thing. i occasionally see people reference what seems to be a misconception of the (english translation) text in qi ye. both the fact that its a translation and the metaphorical phrasing make it pretty clear to see why they got the wrong idea, but i firmly believe its still the wrong idea. i am by no means calling the people who got this mixed up dumb or bad, i am simply leaning over their shoulders going 'wait no bestie pls read that again pls read that one more time!!' because this is one of my favorite books and this thing is a key piece of one of my favorite things about it.

i said i was gonna pull screenshots for this post but i think it will be a little while before i get to another reread and i can't ctrl+f the google doc so im just gonna whip this out from memory. if anyone does have this particular passage on hand feel free to pop it in here. the rest of the context/explanations are just from my cursory research, im not chinese or a historian.

cards on the table. the only thing i love more than unhinged gay romances is unhinged platonic soul mates. its catnip to me. i go feral every goddamn time. and i havent stopped losing my mind about zhou zishu and jing beiyuan since that first qi ye scene. what do those guys have going on? not even sure they know but it's A Lot. ive got like 18 other unpublished drafts trying to work that out slash losing my fucking mind at the lengths they go to about each other. that relationship is at the center of both novels even if the spotlight isnt on it. so I admit that my readings are colored a bit by how much i like that they like each other!

which is why im shocked baffled and, ok, lightly salted, to see a few people make the claim that zishu (personally) tortured/killed beiyuan in his first life.

so what the text says is that after helian yi stopped trusting beiyuan (after su qingluan's accidental death), he was basically put to death. but even the emperor has to have a half decent reason to execute someone. the text describes these reasons- ten of them- as zhou zishu's masterpieces. it also refers to them as great shames to beiyuan's standing. what's happening is that helian yi has zishu frame beiyuan for treason or other betrayals against the emperor/the country. it isn't specific as to what, but it doesn't really matter, because its all fake and zishu is really good at his job. so yes, it is fair to say that zishu is the INSTRUMENT of beiyuan's death, but he didn't kill him, he just laid the groundwork.

the text goes on to another slightly confusing line where it says something to the effect of that when each of these accusations were read out in court, each line drew blood from jing beiyuan. that's a metaphor! it's just saying that his reputation was torn apart and ultimately his fate is sealed, despite the phrasing there are no literal injuries happening.

also, i may not have the timeline perfect on this part, but in zishu's introduction in the beginning of the novel, the narration tells us outright that while zishu is partially responsible for beiyuan's death, he was like. cool about it. in what seems to be the first and only time he ever steps out of line or goes against helian yi's command (!), after setting all this up but- if im remembering right- before the news actually breaks in court the next day, zishu warns beiyuan. now this admittedly doesnt do a whole lot because the only other possible option (cut and run) isn't a very good one, but it's the only thing zishu can do. he doesnt have to, but he does it anyway (!). of course beiyuan doesnt even consider doing this, he's stubborn and heartbroken, but he really seems to 1. appreciate the risk zishu took here to try to give him a chance and 2. not hold the whole set up against zishu or take that bit personally.

so what actually happened at the end of beiyuan's first life? he was sent the 3 zhang of white silk. the text does explicitly say this once, but if you're not familiar with the practice it may not click. receiving the white silk from the emperor is what happens when you're too high ranking to execute like a commoner but you've fallen from grace and are being politely asked to hang yourself in order to clear your name. and of course beiyuan, stubborn and heartbroken, does. yes, it's a forced suicide, but it isn't a murder.

anyway, its in that secret conversation, where zishu secretly meets with beiyuan seemingly to try to convince him to save himself and beiyuan outright refuses, that beiyuan promises that if theres a next life (ha), they'll get drunk together. and of course against all odds, there is and they do.

the thing about the idea that some people might think that zishu killed beiyuan is that after that nothing between them makes sense. even if it was at helian yi's request, i just cant see that not permanently damaging the friendship, i don't think beiyuan could immediately pick back up being best friends in the seventh life with that memory in the way. why would zishu go out of his way to warn beiyuan one day if he was perfectly capable and fine with killing him the next? why would beiyuan not only be happy to meet zishu again in the seventh life but also go out of his way trying to save zishu's? none of their other interactions really make sense if you believe there was a murder done there. idk. it clouds the whole throughline of the story which is that they have a bond!

i think maybe people think it is in character due to the other ruthless murders, and they're not wholly wrong, but that's the kicker for me. zishu will murder all kinds of innocents no questions asked, but he's suddenly trying to give an out to his coworker and drinking buddy? hello? thats insane, and that's the point.

furthermore, if you think maybe it would make sense for helian yi to have beiyuan violently killed (since it keeps fucking happening later), i actually have to become helian yi's lawyer for a moment here and say that that doesnt make sense either. helian yi is sitting on a throne gained by shadowy means but he's the Good Guy Ruler and that reputation is important. hes not a cruel person and he may have become paranoid but he still has a shared history with beiyuan. plus, even the emperor has to abide by a certain amount of decorum when he wants to have people killed, especially when that person is also a high ranking member of court. beiyuan's status is basically second only to the royal bloodline, he's essentially the prev emperor's godson, as well as a previously close confidante of helian yi himself. the white silk was regarded as a privileged, dignified means of offing someone. helian yi is perfectly within social acceptability to do this to beiyuan with the pretext of beiyuan's disgrace. but it would be pushing the boundaries for the good and just emperor to suddenly have one of his top advisors and members of high nobility brutally killed like a common criminal. he could probably do it, but it would reflect on him and his reputation too. he could do it in secret, but would have to cover up the disappearance of a prominent court figure. it just makes sense to use the white silk as the neatest, most acceptable legal justice channel here. maintain emotional detachment, be polite, everybody's honor gets honored and such.

so that's the ted talk. theres even some beautiful fanart on here of white-haired first life beiyuan holding the white silk! he wasn't tortured or outright executed, and he chose to obey rather than escape or fight the false claims of treason even though his friend tried to give him the only out he could manage. to interpret things differently really skews the character motivations and plot for everyone- beiyuan, zishu, helian yi- in a way that warps the story out of believability, imho.

[thewebcomicsreview]

A'ight a'ight, new Hamsteak tonight! This update, the cue ball update, apparently has a content warning for physical and mental abuse, so I'm putting the liveblog behind a ReadMore

It's still weird that GCATavros and Erisol (and Fefeta) are a thing, for all sorts of reasons, but I'm not going to question it I guess.

Sneaking suspicion we're getting a new Vriska look today. Also confirmation that sprites can't change their appearance. Which I guess is not new information, but...it's also not very interesting! Moving on!

Sollux has the hardest-to-read quirk of any of the main trolls, and adding Eridan doesn't help at all. "Class-swah Dichotomy" probably means class as in social class, and not as in Classpect, but keeping the phrase in mind regardless. Davepeta is the leader of the group, a combination Rogue/Knight of Time/Heart and they passively stole Vriska's time by trapping her in the hyperbolic character development chamber, which seems like something for the classpect chart people to want to focus on. @bladekindeyewear is back in the liveblogging scene, presumably taking all sorts of notes on this.

Why the fuck is GCATavros talking like Gamzee?

Kind of interesting reading this comically pathetic version of Tavros after reading the author's commentary on the first part of this hell tier where they focused on how there was actually a lot more to him than being the buttmonkey. Also after the last update I'm reading this whole conversation expecting that Vriska will meet Doc Scratch and this will somehow tie into that relationship, though I have no idea how.

Well, that's not at all an ominous thing to say in the "Hell Tier" arc. I'm also kind of curious how this can really be an escalation over Spidermom, unless they're going to make some reveals.

This entire arc is character-based, of course, but the lore nerd in me wants to know where Scratch's parlor comes from here. Vriska never saw it, nor did any sprite, so why is it accurate? Where is Hell Tier coming from? It's also worth remembering, along those lines, that Doc Scratch is partially Hal Strider, and thus a shard of Dirk, though this is presumably not the real thing.

Scratch's text also has a typewriter sound effect, which I like. None of the characters in the flash have "voices" in like a Banjo-Kazooie/Celeste-type way, so it's immediately notable when one does.

Getting kind of creepy pretty fast here.

Vriska's text has a black background suddenly. The implications of this I don't really remember off the top of my head, though. Actually on my other monitor it's a green background, which makes a bit more sense. I think one of my monitors has kind of fucked color settings but I don't know which one.

Oh wait, that's right, Vriska has seen Scratch. Scratch distracted Aradia and Terezi so that Vriska could throw Tavros off the cliff that one time. Maybe she has been here before, on the Green Moon.

I feel like Momfang has that title, but make your case.

Oh, what the shit. I'm starting to see where the content warning is maybe coming from.

Okay, seems we're going there. Scratch was certainly always, um, pedo-coded in the way he targeted and manipulated young girls, but it seems like we're about to get some confirmation.

Um.

UM.

Okay, getting de-aged back into Hivebent-era Vriska is honestly the best outcome of Scratch putting her in a "uniform".

As much as this is about Scratch, this is also about Vriska herself, in the end.

Man, I feel like every single Scratch line here is worth examining, but I don't really know what to add. As much as this is Scratch the cueball dude this is also the concept of Fate itself.

More classpect stuff about how Vriska's power is "borrowed". Really, that's true of all the kids, their god powers and even their Ultimate Powers all come from Skaia and can theoretically be revoked at any moment. Not sure when Light "abandoned" Vriska, though, unless it's referring to (Vriska) getting killed. This Vriska knowing that her own best friend tried to murder her and that it was divinely judged Just has have fucked her up a little.

Interesting. Generally the fandom considers classpect has being an extension of your true self and your title being Skaia simply describing who you already were. This (which is partially Vriska's opinion of things) frames it as the kids being Warlocks who were granted power by Skaia. This is mostly Worldbuilding (tm) but if that's the way Vriska's thought of it it kind of explains a lot about her. She doesn't feel like she's ever earned anything she's had, even her divinity.

Vriska doesn't get a revelation here, she just gets insulted and kicked out and-

Erisol, you dick, lol.

Well that was a lot to take in. I think I need to process it. Kind of wild that it's only the halfway point. Up next is the feather and the 8-ball. I think we're down with flashbacks, and the feather is Davepeta and the 8-ball is Vriska getting out of hell.

[soulmatesabroad]

Soulmate Prompts:

Since this is a fic fest about soulmates, we are in need of prompt suggestions! Please send in some prompts that have to do with soulmates! You do NOT have to be writing for this fest to send in prompts!

More info can be found at @soulmatesabroad​!

A: The One au. The One is a tv series that's sort of dystopian in that it explores a reality in which you could suddenly apply to this program that will match you to your soulmate and it follows how specific people deal with that.

B: Where you wake up with a tattoo after meeting your soulmate. Larry are vacationing at the same hotel, they meet and then every day for 4 days after they both gain a new tattoo. When they meet again, they realize their tattoos match perfectly. Rope & anchor, compass & ship, heart & arrow, rose & dagger. 

C: Ziall soulmates au where their first words to each other are tattooed somewhere on their body. Both of them have the phrase “fuck you” on their arms. Of course the first time they meet they both say...

D: in uni, prof is giving a lecture, his student is his soulmate, figuring it out over the semester

E: reverse Wellington: Larry meet, drunk Louis shouts "soulmate" at Harry, then they get to know each other and fall in love

F: Larry please- soulmates who meet in dreams and appear the way they see themselves so that irl one doesn’t recognize the other because he sees himself as plain/boring

G: Larry please - One of them either doesn’t want to meet his soulmate and has been doing everything to avoid meeting them. He gets stuck in a time loop (like Groundhog Day) until he meets and acknowledges his soulmate. 

H: One of them is a surfer, the other is a photographer and they meet somewhere warm. They're 26 and kinda gave up on finding their soulmate but then it happens.

i: any pairing: universe in which soulmates recognise each other by having the same song stuck in their head. cue person a hearing person b humming the song under their breath in location x

J: Larry please - fic where each year you get opportunities to meet your soulmate and live life with them but as soon as the clock hits 00:00 on Dec 31st your memory resets in regards to who your soulmate is. There’s no way to go around this...or is there?

K:  A is a hopeless romantic who has always dreamed of meeting their soulmate. Unfortunately their remote location means they see the same few people every day, none of whom is their match. When Character B arrives and A falls in love with them, the question arises: are they soulmates? Or does A just want them to be?

L: Food is love, and supposedly your soulmate's cooking will taste better than anything you've ever eaten before. Too bad Character A is hopeless in the kitchen. Character B is the chef who promises they can teach anyone how to cook-- is that the only reason A finds their food so delicious? Or is there something more at play?

M: Characters A and B are working together on a yacht. They share a room, and as crew they also happen to share most of their working hours and duties as well. Is that the reason they're so drawn to one another? Regardless of their connection, they're both determined to keep it professional. 

N: It's not only humans who have soulmates, apparently. At least if the pet psychic Character A has consulted about their dog's depression is to be believed. The psychic claims the pup met his soulmate at doggie daycare. Now A is trying to see if she's right by seeking out every possible dog from the playgroup. Will helping a dog find it's soulmate lead Character A to the same thing?

O: Hybrids aren't accepted many places, but in a few countries they have full rights and equality, even if prejudice still exists. Character A was raised in an anti-hybrid country and is now studying/working in a hybrid friendly place. Character B is the hybrid neighbor who they feel drawn to in ways they've heard are typical of soulmates. The possibility is as frightening as it is enticing.

P: Nontraditonal ABO: it's generally accepted doctrine that alphas and omegas are made to go together. Character A has always been attracted to people of their own secondary gender, and has therefore run away from the concept of finding a soulmate. When they meet character B, who shares their secondary gender, and find that the two of them share a soulmark-- the sign of a true mate --their world is turned upside down.

Q: (larry) They have been penpals for years now, sharing their little creative thoughts with each other. Will they ever meet? A new job, a different city, some crossed paths and fate might help.

R: Louis is 30 and the CEO of his family business in Toronto and he has hired a new assistant, Harry, 27. A lot of sexual tension, business trips, coincidences and ‘if he my soulmate or I just have a stalker and also a big crush?’

S: Strangers to friends with benefits to lovers larry; Louis and Harry has finished college and they both are doing a tour across Europe visiting different countries. They start from different cities in and meet in the second/third country they’re visiting. They get along quickly and have a one night stand because they think they won’t meet again. But they meet again in the next city or in the trip to the next city. Is their connection due to their sexual attraction or because they’re soulmates?

T: Louis and Harry are both Niall’s friend but they don’t know each other, however they meet in Niall’s wedding (with his soulmate) in Ireland (or another country if the author prefer another place for the wedding)

U: Larry: Soulmates have a special connection, they have visions of their more important events of their life - both sad and happy but they can’t see their faces, bodies or their friends/families faces. Louis and Harry know everything important that happen to them but they haven’t met yet, they live in different countries and they know that but they don’t know the country they live in. How will they meet? What will happen?

V: Larry: Exes to lovers - People have their soulmates mark in their 18 birthday. Harry and Louis were together during high school and break up before Louis 18 birthday because person A was afraid of not being their soulmates. Louis goes to travel aboard so they don’t know about their mark. They meet again some years later when they’re in their 20...

W: Larry enemies to lovers: Both of them work for the same company and has the same job position but they hate each other because the first time they met it wasn’t “meet cute”. All their coworkers think they are similar and would make an amazing couple so they try to get them together. Most people don’t believe in soulmates anymore, they think it was a legend or maybe it’s not a legend and they’re soulmates?

X: Untraditional soulmates !! For example, a pairing (or poly) comprised of people who aren’t soulmates but are in love anyway. Maybe their “true” soulmates died or just didn’t work out for some reason. Maybe their “true” soulmates are platonic and separate from the romantic relationship. But ultimately the theme being something like “i am choosing to love this person” rather than the world telling them who to love :) 

Y: Character A is a writer who pours their heart and soul into everything they write, though their focus on the soulmate trope is underappreciated. They go away on a writer's retreat to give it one last try and meet Character B, a person who seems to have stepped right out of one of their novels. Is this their soulmate or a figment of their imagination, or have they truly had one of their characters come to life?

Z: In a world where you see in color after hearing the sound of your soulmate's voice, Character A doesn't remember seeing in black and white. When they realize they're different, nobody can explain the reason. It isn't until they meet Character B, a stranger with the same affliction, that they begin to put things together. Or: A and B hear one another's cries as babies, changing their vision from black and white to color before they could possibly have realized it.

AA: Characters A & B somehow keep running into each other inexplicably all over the world. Maybe they happen to study abroad together then have a work conference in the same city then vacation in the same city, etc. Eventually they realize they've been seeing each other all over and maybe the universe is trying to tell them something.

BB: Louis gets a call from an unknown number from across the world. When he answers it, he's asked if he is a Mr. Harry Styles' previous employer and to give a recommendation on his performance. Amused, he pretends he is Harry's old boss and gives a glowing recommendation without knowing who he is. The job that this Harry is going for must be quite intense, because a few days later Louis is asked to fly out to interview in person to attest to Harry's character, where he ends up meeting Harry and falling for him.

CC: OT4/5 platonic soulmates with all the main characters being aro, ace, demisexual, etc. A soulmark appears when you meet a soulmate-- whether they're a platonic, romantic, or sexual soulmate(or sooner combo of the 3) is something each person has to discover for themselves. OT4/5 are grateful to find soulmates who are excited to experience beautiful and deep platonic relationships.

DD: Soulmarks are a trait that most humans have lost. Character A is a vampire who was born in a time when they were far more common. Imagine their surprise when they meet Character B, a human, whose soulmark complements their own.

EE: Larry: An AU where magic exists, Louis has always thought he’s a dark wizard and Harry doesn’t know if he’s a wizard or a normal human. Spoiler: he’s a wizard! They meet when they are 18/20 in a trip and they find more than themselves.

FF: Larry: Louis and Harry are friends of Zayn and Liam but they haven’t met yet. Ziam is having a wedding and their bachelor parties in Hawaii, they meet them.

GG: Louis and Harry haven’t met yet but they meet in a reality show that consists of traveling around the world. The rules of the reality show: Choose a person in the first program to travel with them (Louis and Harry travel together) and spend as little money as possible.

HH: Louis and Harry have been working in the same building for years but they haven’t met officially although they’ve seen each other around. They officially meet when their boss decided to do a work trip to Sydney

ii: Louis and Harry go to Orlando to visit the amusement park. They meet when they’re waiting in the queue for one of the rides and they spend a lot of time together because their other friends are tired of visiting different amusement park and they want to chill.

JJ: Famous/Non-famous larry: “Every time that you and your soulmate are in the same city, you’ll have a mark in your wrist. If one of you leave, the mark disappears” Person A is an actor who loves love but is tiring of two things: fake pr-relationships that make the general public believes that he’s not interest in having a soulmate and traveling. Person B wants to find his soulmate but he knows it’s not in his city so he’s traveling around. They have been in the same place several times but they haven’t met. How many countries will they visit until they meet?

KK: larry please: It is well known that the first time soulmates touch they leave a vivid mark on their partner's skin.  Well one morning Louis wakes up with a bright stripe across his cheekbone and no idea what happened.

LL: hl au: harry is a well-known anthropologist from england but he’s requested to join the discovery of an ancient palace in mexico city. louis is a historian that has lived in said city for several years now, so he’s almost a local. the discovery they both take part of includes a blue greeny jewel that holds a legend about soulmates.

MM: Zouiam ot3 matching soulmate tattoos

NN: A and B are childhood friends and have known they're soulmates since they got their marks in their early teen years but they never develop romantic feelings for each other but they Do want to spend the rest of their life together. Bit of conflict / comfort.

OO: Lirry Shrek au. Harry Fiona has always expected their perfect soulmate to break their curse. Liam Shrek is tired of playing the role of the ogre and being rejected by prejuices. They meet.

PP: Zayn is travelling with his van, he picks up some hitchhikers along the way. They stargaze and bond with each other. They find out they are soulmates when some dangerous situation arises.

QQ: ot5 1d era au. A slowly finds out they are soulmates with each of the others while in the bus or travelling/staying abroad together.

RR: Ziam: In a world where magic exists but soulmates are rare, Liam and Ziam met in the same Magical College and have an instant connection. In history of magic, they learn about soulmates and Character A know that they (Ziam) are soulmates but he’s  afraid and tries to avoid Character B all the time.

SS: Larry - Louis needs a break of his job and travels to a place where Harry lives and Harry needs a break of his past relationships. They meet in a pub and after too many drinks, they decide to do a road trip around the country. The author decides how people know who is their soulmates.

TT: Zouis: they discover they’re soulmates in Zayn’s wedding. Louis is the boyfriend of one of the best mates

UU: Larry - A reality show is trying to prove that soulmates still exist and Louis and Harry are participants in it

VV: HL Monday AU with Harry as Mickey and Louis as Chloe (but with a happy and not toxic ending please!)

WW: The voice you hear your thoughts in is your soulmate’s but you don’t know who they are until you hear them speak for the first time

XX: You’ve been sketching your soulmate’s face since you were old enough to pick up a pencil, the drawings become more realistic through the years as the day you meet comes near

YY: Red strings of fate au. Person A cuts their string. Person B is devastated to find their string has been cut but moves on with their life and finds love with, you guessed it, Person A who doesn’t believe in soulmates. When Person B finds out that Person A cut their string they’re so angry because they know how devastated they were to find their cut string. And Person A is confused at first because they thought Person B didn’t believe in soulmates either and didn’t realize that it was because they had no way of finding their soulmate. And then it hits Person A that there might be a slight chance that Person B IS their soulmate. So they nervously show up with their string and ask if Person A wants to see if the ends fuse together or not. Up to writer if the ends fuse or not.

ZZ: Person A reads tarot cards and while reading Person B’s cards, Person A can see that the cards are telling them that the two of them are soul mates

AAA: Soulmates can hear what their soulmate is singing.  Harry grows up with a soulmate who exclusively sings a weird blend of Oasis, Green Day, and the odd Light Killers song.  Louis grows up with a soulmate who mostly sings Fleetwood Mac and Peter Gabriel. They both hate their soulmates taste in music.

BBB: Every person is born with a golden string on their finger attached to their soulmate.  Everyone but them can see it but it is considered highly rude to tell people without prompting (like taking away a coming of age experience).  Or Harry and Louis fight a lot and everyone looks at them knowingly until one of them cracks and asks someone about it.

CCC: Character A runs a clothing boutique of some kind and one day uses a steamer too close to the smoke detector and sets off the fire alarm. Character B is one of the firemen to respond. Character A is very embarrassed that they did this in front of a super hot fireman, but the firemen are super nice about it. It just so happens they have to come back the following week for an annual inspection of the building and Character A jokes around/flirts with B. Soulmate aspect up to writer. (One idea could be matching soul marks?)

DDD: When soulmates touch for the first time, an electric shock goes through each person. They can’t touch each other without a shock...until they fall in love with each other. Too bad Character A & B hate each other and are not thrilled that when they touch by accident they finally feel the electricity they’ve always been waiting for. 

EEE: The color of your eyes act like a mood ring and changes according to your soulmates' mood. The first time you make eye contact with your soulmate, they turn the same color.

FFF: Reluctant soulmates where one or both of them keep their soulmarks covered at all times because they want to fall in love without the person soulmates

GGG: AU where your soulmate smells like HOME only they’re both too dirty and disgusting to smell like anything other than yuck

HHH: Older Larry AU where they’re both in their 40s or older and still haven’t met The One. Embracing this, they each go on a trip alone, but wind up meeting

iii: Fleetwood Mac/ Rumours AU - Larry as Stevie and Lindsey, Ziam as Christine and John. A breakup and a divorce while recording and touring an iconic album. Endgame Larry. Lovers to exes to soulmates.

[mmmmalo]

@overtrolled-liveblog‘s recent post on Gamzee made me realize that Gamzee’s first interaction with Terezi (Terezi attempting to hurt Gamzee and being angry when he doesn’t react) is also the basic dynamic of Terezi’s ill-fated attempt to “avenge” herself upon Gamzee around Game Over. I never understood why Terezi’s was manifesting for Gamzee in that interaction, but the repetition seems like a good lead. So here’s an attempt:

Aranea’s mind control is being juxtaposed with whatever allowed Gamzee to maintain his composure in Act 5. Sopor is an obvious candidate, as is his general early interest in avoiding conflict, but there might be something else to it...

2018. When Gamzee remarks (in the narration) that "it is dangerous to leave unarmed", the commentary has this to say: "It's probably not actually that dangerous to leave unarmed. This was probably something his goat dad told him a long time ago. But only to scare him, and make sure he stayed inside so no one would ever see him, because he was so embarrassed by him. Goatdad is probably one of the most sympathetic characters in the story. If Gamzee was your son, wouldn't you abandon him too?" Glib dismissal, veering sharply into needless cruelty. But it nonetheless draws attention to the narration's unreliability, moored as it is to Gamzee's POV.

2017. Speaking of unreliable: "You aren't supposed to eat that slime. It does funny things to a troll's head. // But you were never taught that on account of a lousy upbringing. Your custodian was always out to sea." Gamzee is evidently thinking the very thing he was never taught, but he attributes that thought to a higher power (the narrator) and thereby pleads ignorance of it? Or it could be read as an expression of shame: as Gamzee eats his pie, he imagines a stern voice admonishing him from over his shoulder. OR you might more literally parse the contradiction as the voice of two separate Gamzees sharing the brain space in some kind of daze...or you could call it simple memory loss. These are inclusive ors, btw.

2019. Anyway, Gamzee reaches the beach and we get this line: "You leave your hive and head out to the beach. There is no sign of your custodian. // You should not stay out here very long. The SEA DWELLERS are quite hostile." Commentary on his custodian's absence, followed by a voice of authoritative behavioral cautioning, as though a guardian were living in Gamzee's head. Immediately following this, Terezi manifests for Gamzee, though he doesn't answer immediately... so I suspect Terezi's manifestation will be an elaboration this internal division?

2020: "You're always down for shooting the wicked shit with anyone that who'll put up with you." Man... Act 5 is misery. The Miracle Modus is a picture of Gamzee's brain being fried to a point of being nearly inaccessible. Vivid flashing colors (like Jade's rich scents) are a mark of unfiltered EXPERIENCE sans language/reason (which is probably why Lord English's eyes are flashing), but here that means disorientation -- difficulty organizing sense experience...

2022: Gamzee says a prayer and Faygo gets launched out of his sylladex... is the Faygo the prayer? Jane launched wishes into the sky with the balloons on LOCAH -- but the balloon shape was inverted and transformed into Gamzee's bottles of "potion"... that association seems to be expressed more concisely here. Jane's case was also related to decapitation motifs, which I don't really see with Gamzee here... (aside from Terezi's general association with going for the neck) But at any rate, what is he wishing for?

2023. Gamzee standing in front of his sylladex is getting to me, even more so that his reaching into the sylladex. You are not SUPPOSED to be on that layer of the image. What are you doing. Is that safe? Are you okay?

2024. The conversation itself...continues to evade summarization. I'm going to just describe it piece-by-piece and see if I get anywhere.

Terezi deliberately misspells Gamzee's name in service of a joke: from 'gamzeez' to 'gamezez', highlighting its phonetic proximity to 'games'. Though I wonder if this disguises another sort of exchange: Gamzee goes down to the beach to find his dad, but instead finds Terezi. I'm humoring the idea that she is effectively functioning as the fatherly authority in Goatdad's place. But as the preceding panels indicates, that very notion of authority occupies a place in Gamzee's head that he remains somewhat...detached from? If Terezi gives voice to this aspect of Gamzee, the word blurring could obfuscate that she is saying "Gamzee" /twice/, such that her invitation to play games is an offer for Gamzee to pilot himself? (Which in the parent:child::head:body paradigm is not entirely ridiculous?)

Come to think of it, this is the second time Terezi has harassed someone on a waterfront (hi, Rose) and even then main subjects were a) haha your guardian abandoned you because you're terrible and b) a sense of hearing imploring voices in your head...

Terezi implies that she doesn't like Gamzee and is only inviting him in service of a joke. Gamzee ignores the ulterior message and accepts the given reason as justifiable... after which Terezi gets angry. But she doesn't seem angry that the implication was misunderstood (and her disdain ignored) but is rather angry that the arbitrariness of his selection wasn't itself objectionable -- /after/ which she confirms her own disdain by saying "no wonder Vantas can't stand you". The motivation for the joke became the effect of the joke...

"BUT WHO C4R3S 4BOUT H1M, W3R3 GO1NG TO H4V3 SOM3 MOTH3RFUCK1NG SH1TTY B1TCH3S PL4Y1NG TOG3TH3R!" as Rose said, "Still not sure if I'm being courted or trolled here." Terezi is making fun of how Gamzee talks but nonetheless seems to be attempting to bond with him here...?

With "keeping an eye out" and "you know how it is with family" back-to-back with Terezi's aggression, it kind of feels like Gamzee is likewise (successfully) attempting to bother Terezi... but his defense is his forgetfulness, like a taboo subject just slipped... the same is true of Gamzee's claim that he was never taught that sopor is dangerous, the legitimacy of which depends on Gamzee forgetting?

"The Bard of... fuck, i forgot" is literally a joke on Gamzee "forgetting" his way around anger and aggression, by way of the omission of Rage? Also, it's a generic phrase but John uses 'fuck i forgot' when reminded of his birthday in the Epilogues... topic of birthdays is significant since Gamzee parses his state of mind as 'spacing out' and 'losing track of time' -- a birthday is, in that context, a reminder of time's progression.

Twice in Gamzee's conversation he asks Terezi for a little bit more time before he plays the game with her. This again reminds us of Rose's procrastination -- which among other things represents a deferral of encounter with the Truth, again bringing us to forgetting. 

2028. But interestingly enough, the motif of procrastination continues in the section with Karkat that follows: Karkat expresses apprehension about meeting his guardian before the narrative segues to Terezi, which is structurally resonant with Gamzee going to the beach for his guardian, only to find Terezi? Which again associates her with unseen authority figures... 

Oh shoot, and the panel cuts from Karkat looking down through the hole in his floor to a low-angle shot of Terezi's skylight? As though she were below like crabdad. That seals it for me.

2030. Actually, I mentioned how Gamzee's flashing modus is related to the unmediated sensory bouquet that Lord English sees ALL THE TIME by having flashing eyes, but Terezi's room? Is set up to be exactly that sensory bouquet, all the time, with loud colors plastered and mixed haphazardly. I've mostly focused on Terezi's relation to English by way of their shared association with the Law (x)(x) but this is a fresh angle...

And since it becomes apparent that the scenes that /follow/ Gamzee's conversation inform the way it should be read, I would be remiss to exclude the Karkat/Sollux conversation between the Gamzee and Terezi sections... in which the ~ATH (til death) code is brought up, which proves central to Lord English's creation.

2026. "later on you would run this code in a fit of stupidity." Creepy! I always assume the narration to be bound to the present tense, like the character's POV, so this sudden interruption from the future is really unnerving. How does Karkat know this? Is that just a miserable self-assessment, like he knows he'll harm himself when he gets worked up? Is this Karkat planning to curse everyone, but renouncing his decision as a product of fate? I feel like this confusion nicely complements the paradoxical ~ATH code on screen (Sollux's double reacharound virus)

2027. "Speak of the devil" Sollux has manifested for Karkat... yeah I still can't make sense of this as far as manifestation goes. BUT I think the fact that chatlogs are likewise two-colored might mean that Sollux and Karkat's conversation is in some sense analogous to the code...? The architecture of the conversation is... accusing eachother of self-loathing and then agreeing upon mutual self-destruction (of the conversational log), which at least superficially resembles a program that exists to destroy itself and the medium in which it resides? Maybe...

Shot in the dark: the (much procrastinated) march unto Truth is a march unto Judgement, which means both God and Death. Thus Gamzee (the procrastinator who avoids truth) transitions to Karkat/Sollux (vaguely suicidal gesture in their conversation) transitions to Terezi (judge and executioner, associated with ultimate authority and thus God). That's my best assessment of the proceedings thus far.

[solastia]

I’m Fine | 1

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Word Count: 3,600

Summary: I'm fine. That's what he's been telling everyone the past two years since he and his soulmate parted ways. 

Genre & Warnings: Soulmate au. Angst. Yoongi is pretty self-destructive at first, so be aware of that. There will be lots of destructive thoughts, drinking, fighting, making drunken mistakes (hint). And I know while you read it you won’t believe me, but this does have a good ending.

A/N: Yes, I have given up trying to make this a one shot. Yoongi wouldn’t cooperate with me, so now this is a series. I’ll try to make it a short series, but it was just too complicated for a one shot. Part of the Love Yourself anniversary collab. Be sure to check out the other authors that participated too! 

For those that are familiar with the picture in the banner and are wondering where his the open knee went, no I did not suddenly become a puritan. Yoongi’s knee got flagged so I had to color it in

@sweet-honey-boy​ is the artistic genius behind the pretty banner

I’m fine. 

Such a common phrase. Meaningless these days, really. Just a couple of words thrown together so you’d have something to respond with when someone else throws out the equally meaningless greeting of “How are you?” 

They don’t really care how you are, they just want to seem like they do. They’ve already zoned out and have their planned response of “Good” ready and waiting.  

“I’m fine.” 

He mumbled the phrase, shaking the proffered hand of the bride’s cousin as they all waited their turn to go into the room and greet her. It was the same phrase he’d repeated at least twenty times today alone as old friends and family of the bride asked him how he was with pity shining in their eyes. 

The same phrase he’d been using for two whole years since his soulmate broke up with him and moved on with her life. 

*

Yoongi could still remember the first time he’d learned about soulmates. It had been in the second week of his kindergarten class when one of the kids next to him started giggling as his arm slowly began to be filled with doodles. Hearts, smiley faces, and stars soon lined the boy's arm from elbow to wrist. The teacher then decided to use all the kid’s collective excitement to explain about soulmates.

Apparently, there were many different types of soulmates. There were the ones that could write on their skin, like their fellow classmate. There were some that could speak to each other in their heads. Some that had timers on their wrist marking down how long until they met their match. And those were only some of the many ways that their world had that all led to the same idea - finding your soulmate. The person meant to be that one perfect person for you.

Yoongi had gone home that very night and tried to figure out what his type was. He wrote “Hello, my name is Min Yoongi” on his arm, along with a little doodle of Kumamon. Nothing happened. He went to the bathroom and tore off his uniform, searching his skin for any sort of marker or timer, maybe even a tattoo or a bruise that he couldn’t remember getting. His skin remained unblemished beyond a couple of moles. 

Over the next few years, he’d secretly researched and experimented with every soulmate type he could find. He never saw any strings, heard any voices or songs, felt anything out of the ordinary. At times he felt a flicker of fear over the stray thought that maybe he didn’t have one. But that couldn’t be right. Everyone had one, right? 

When his father divorced his mom- who was his soulmate - and left them both for another woman, that was his first lesson that maybe soulmates weren’t all they were cracked up to be anyway. 

*

By the time Yoongi hit college, he already felt like he’d lived three lifetimes. He was now broken and bitter by life, having spent most of his youth working to care for himself and his heartbroken mom. She’d never recovered after his father left. Instead, she became a hollow shell of the loving woman she’d once been, content to sit at home and do the bare minimum to stay alive, mourning her piece of shit “soulmate” that never even bothered to check up on his own son. He had to force her to eat and sleep, to go outside and get some air and sun. He often ran home from school terrified he’d find her dead, but she kept going thanks to him. There were many times over those years that Yoongi had fought not to give up and do something stupid himself. 

Sometimes she’d meet someone during her rare times out alone that would bring a flicker of life back to her eyes, but they usually turned out to be assholes that would pick fights with Yoongi and try to control his vulnerable mother. He was quick to run them off. Yoongi took on any job he could to keep them both fed and housed, even if the rooftop apartment that they’d been forced to move to was crumbling. 

Yoongi hadn’t even planned to go to college, as it had seemed such a far off dream for someone like him. He already worked three jobs just to stay alive; where would he get the money to go to college too? Then his father passed away - some drunk driver, according to his latest paramour - and left Yoongi with more money than he’d ever seen before. Apparently, the old prick had been doing quite well for himself while Yoongi and his mom had been forced to live in squalor. 

So, Yoongi being the practical soul he was, decided that instead of spending it all at once and buying some huge lavish home and three cars he would instead invest in going to college and getting a great job so that he’d never have to be poor or dependant on anyone else ever again. He got his mom set up in a nicer apartment with a caregiver and saved everything else, packing up to go live life for himself for a change. 

*

One thing he’d forgotten about college is that there were people everyfuckingwhere. A whole new group of people curious about his soulmate, where was his soulmate, what was his marker. He’d long ago determined that either his soulmate was dead or the fates had decided his life wasn’t shit enough so they’d not give him one just for shits and giggles. 

So, to shut everyone else up, he decided to show them exactly what he thought of the soulmate system and the belief that you should save yourself for them. He slept around with anyone willing. Didn’t give a fuck if they were taken or not. If they had a soulmate or not. What they were, what they were majoring in, even their fucking names - he didn’t care. 

And with the amount of soulmated people he’d had in and under him, it just further proved his point that soulmates were a shit concept. 

So he pushed the thought of his nonexistent soulmate from his mind, instead focusing his days on getting the best grades he could to ensure the highest paying job, and his nights on fucking, fighting and drinking to his heart's content.

*

As usual, Yoongi’s life was about to be flipped upside down. And it was all Jackson Wang and his stupid party’s fault. 

While he wasn’t a fan of frat boys themselves, Yoongi had to admit that the bastards threw the best parties. Jackson Wang was one of the few frat guys he could tolerate because the guy was too nice to hate, so when the party was at his place, Yoongi was a frequent visitor. The place was packed tonight, and while he didn’t like the crowd, he certainly enjoyed having a nice selection to choose from for his evening entertainment.  

Yoongi leaned against the kitchen counter as he sipped his whiskey. It was a shit brand and a shit year, but was still a rare treat at one of these things that usually served the cheapest beer and fruity crap meant to entice girls into drinking more. Yoongi guessed that his roommate had talked to Jackson about grabbing some to keep Yoongi happy. He appreciated the attempt. 

He hadn’t been planning on going to this party since he still had a report to finish, but his roommate Namjoon claimed he needed the backup. He was convinced one of the members of this frat was his soulmate. His soulmate marker was a birthday, but he claimed he felt funny every time he looked at him. Instead of saying anything to the guy, Yoongi deduced that Namjoon’s plan was to stare at him creepily from across the room. 

“Yoongi hyung, he’s so pretty. Like, super pretty. Don’t you think he’s pretty?” Yoongi guessed he was supposed to be included in the conversation since his name was used, but it sounded more like his friend was thinking out loud. 

“Yeah, he’s not bad. You should go tell him you think he’s pretty. He looks like the type that would appreciate it.” 

“I can’t,” Namjoon whispered. 

“You can. I believe in you,” Yoongi rolled his eyes. 

“No, I mean I really can’t. My feet won’t move.” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Fine. Stay here.” 

“Wait! Yoongi, don’t...” 

Yoongi set his cup on the counter and ignored Namjoon’s protests as he strode purposefully into the living room. When he was in front of his target - a pretty man nearly as tall as Namjoon with pillow lips and an eternally amused expression - he sighed wearily. 

“Look. You see that guy trying to hide by the kitchen counter? That’s Namjoon, my roommate. He’s super fucking smart, but also kind of stupid. He’s also kinda like a big ass rottweiler that thinks he’s a lap dog. He thinks you’re his soulmate, but he’s the type that would rather pine from afar for the rest of his life rather than face rejection, so can I ask what your marker is? I realize that’s personal and you can tell me to fuck off.” 

The man’s face went from confusion to amusement and finally settled on something that he was sure a few romantic poets would fight to the death to describe.  

“It’s a birthday. The twelfth of September.” 

Yoongi nodded. “Yeah, that’s him. Go get him. Just remember that’s he’s a lot more sensitive than he lets on. And, you know, the best friend speech. You hurt him I’ll...I dunno. Do something.” 

“Thanks. I’m Seokjin, by the way. I guess I’ll talk to you guys later,” he smiled and went towards the kitchen, the little sway in his hips telling him Namjoon had no chance against that one. The poor lug was currently trying to straighten up and look cool like he hadn’t just been cowering in the kitchen. 

Yoongi snorted and turned away to give them their privacy, looking around the room for someplace to lounge. Before he could leave, one of the girls in the group that Seokjin had been talking with tapped his arm. 

“That was really cool of you. Jin’s always talking about meeting his soulmate, so I’m sure he’s over the moon right now.” 

Yoongi faced the speaker and his breath hitched. He’d seen cuter girls, sure, but...there was...something about this one. He didn’t know what this strange feeling in the pit of his stomach was. Maybe the shitty whiskey was finally getting to him. 

She was looking up at him expectantly and he finally remembered that she’d said something. 

“You’re fucking pretty.” 

What the fuck? He’d meant to say thanks and then maybe try to sweet-talk his way into her pants. Where the fuck had that come from? 

Even her blushing face was cute. He wanted to make a run for it, but at the same time he kinda just wanted to keep looking at her. 

“I wish you were my soulmate.” 

Her squeak of alarm, followed by her hand slapping against her mouth as she stared at him with alarmed eyes led him to a mind-fuck of a conclusion. 

“Well, I think you got your wish,” he mumbled. 

Her hand dropped and even her stunning smile wasn’t enough to quell the growing panic Yoongi felt. She was pretty, and looked nice, and was his soulmate. 

He had a fucking soulmate. 

And thus began what would be the first of the many, many times Yoongi would hurt the person he was supposed to protect the most as he turned tail and ran. 

* 

Yoongi had spent a lot of time in his youth wondering what his soulmate quirk could be. He’d always thought that the ones that could hear each other's music could be cool, or even the ones that could speak telepathically. His friend Taehyung and his soulmate Jimin could write to each other on their skin. Even that could have been neat. 

Yoongi’s super amazing totally not problematic quirk was that he couldn’t fucking lie to his soulmate. 

All those years wondering if his soulmate was dead or if he just didn’t have one, when it was just that he needed to meet them for it to work. He wondered if she’d grown up thinking he was dead too. That thought just made the guilt he felt raise even higher. She’d probably been thrilled that he was alive and in front of her for all of two seconds before he dashed her hopes and dreams running off like he had. 

But here’s the thing. There are universally known facts about him:

Min Yoongi loves sleep. Min Yoongi likes music. Min Yoongi hates soulmates. Min Yoongi lies.  

Sometimes his lies were simply to amuse himself at the expense of his friends. Being sarcastic, making up fake rumors, that kind of thing. No big deal. Sometimes it’s to protect those friends. Telling Taehyung his drawing his great when it looks like Yoongi could do a better job with his toes. Telling Jimin that he could barely notice the giant zit the size of the moon on his forehead. Telling Joon that that girl he’d been hung up on probably got busy, not that Yoongi had warned her to stay the fuck away when she tried to sneak into his bed right after she’d hooked up with Namjoon. 

The problem was that most of his lies are about himself. He tells people he’s fine when he wants to jump off the nearest bridge. He tells Joon he remembered to eat and sleep when he’d really been a filthy goblin working on his project for two days straight. He has an hour-long panic attack in the bathroom and tells people he has IBS. He tells his mother she’s not a burden that ruined his childhood. He tells everyone he’s fine being soulmate-less and he didn’t feel lonely. 

He lies. 

And now the universe is laughing in his face because they’ve presented him with someone he literally can’t lie to. Not to protect himself, not to protect her. There was no way any relationship they tried to have wouldn’t end in disaster. 

The very thought of having to bare himself to someone that much was utterly terrifying...and yet he was still more afraid of the look that Kim Seokjin was giving him from Yoongi’s doorway. 

Namjoon and Seokjin had hit it off disgustingly well, enough so that ‘Jin’ had practically been living in their dorm room for nearly three weeks. He’d turned out to be a cool guy, and Yoongi imagined he would get along with him fairly well if only he’d stop sending him death glares over the breakfast table. 

Except for now Jin’s moved on to glaring at him from his own bedroom door. 

“I’ve had enough, Yoongi. Y/N’s my friend and a sweet girl. I’m tired of seeing her sad. Fix it.” 

“Jin, this isn’t like you and Namjoon, okay? I never wanted a soulmate,” Yoongi sighs, flopping onto his back and covering his eyes with his arm. He just wanted the guy to get the fuck out and leave him to his miserable existence. 

“I don’t really give a fuck,” Jin yelled. 

Yoongi lowered his arm and glanced at Jin, impressed. He hadn’t known the other had it in him. He looked a little ridiculous and red-faced, but still, Yoongi had never heard him curse before. 

“This isn’t just about you, Yoongi. She’s part of it too, whether you like it or not. She thought she didn’t have a soulmate and then you suddenly appear. Now she has a soulmate, but one that’s apparently rejected her. She’s a mess. Fix it.” 

Jin walks towards Yoongi and throws a slip of paper on the bed, staring down at him as haughtily like a rich Korean mother from a drama. Without another word, he leaves and shuts the door as Yoongi picks it up, seeing the number on it. Hers, he assumes. 

He sighs and ruffles his hair. He’s not a total asshole. He supposes he should at least meet with her and tell her why they couldn’t work. 

He punches in the number and sends a text before he can talk himself out of it. 

*

It took them three days to coordinate their schedules enough to meet (or the both of them had tried to push it forward as much as possible), and now they were finally sitting across from each other in neutral territory. Yoongi had figured meeting for a cup of coffee was probably cliche, but it was a safe choice and was somewhere he felt comfortable. It helped that Taehyung was a barista here and he would probably go along with it if Yoongi needed help escaping. 

Yoongi gripped his cup of black coffee hard, gathering the courage to speak to her. Y/N looked tired, and maybe a little like she’d lost weight in her face, like she hadn’t been eating well. The thought that he’d upset her that much added another layer of guilt to the growing pile in his chest with her name on it. 

“First of all, I wanted to say sorry for running out on you the other night. That was cowardly of me and kind of a shithead thing to do. So...sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the table. 

He looked up again when she sighed. 

“Thank you. That hurt me a lot,” she cringed, like that hadn’t been what she’d intended to say, and he supposed it wasn’t. Their soulmate quirk was a difficult one. 

He ground his teeth as he fought the scratching in his throat, trying his best to word things in a way that wouldn’t scar her for life. 

“Look, I just don’t trust this whole soulmate thing. The idea that your happiness revolves around this single person is bullshit. And...I’m terrified,” he grits out, hating how vulnerable he sounded. 

She nods, “Yeah, it’s pretty scary. But, I don’t really think it’s about your happiness revolves around someone. More like, there’s this person that’s meant to help you become the best version of yourself, and maybe you can find your happiness together.” 

Yoongi scoffs, stopping himself from saying anything sarcastic with a long sip from his cup. She was still so naive. 

She chews her lip and suddenly there’s a look in her eyes that makes his pause and pay attention. 

“It’s just...okay, so I thought you were dead most of my life, like I’m sure you thought I was. I thought that all of my future relationships were just going to be me being used as a placeholder until their soulmate comes along. And then maybe I’d find someone else who didn’t have a soulmate and we’d settle for each other. I thought that my chance at finding actual love was gone, and then you...,” she sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “You show up in front of me, being all fucking gorgeous and funny and a great friend - and alive. Sure, we probably have the shittest soulmate quirk and the fact that I’m rambling all this is proof of that, but Yoongi, you’re alive. I’m alive, and we’re soulmates. We have a chance. Can’t you at least give us a chance?” 

Some part of him wanted to warn her about what she was getting into. He knew he would hurt her. He knew he would fuck everything up. But the truth was...he wanted to try. Something told him she was worth it. Was that just part of the whole soulmate brainwashing bullshit? He didn’t know, but the thought of leaving her behind today and never looking back felt wrong. 

Yoongi sighs wearily as he observes her glassy eyes, knowing that this wouldn’t be the first time he’d make her tear up but unable to stop the words from leaving his mouth. 

“Yeah. Let’s take a chance.” 

[ardentprose]

Cold Brew - Prologue

This is my attempt at the old coffee shop cliche. I’m warning you now, my writer’s block is strong. But I will tell you this story to the best of my abilities. 

*I don’t own the gifs.

*Dialogue: English will be in standard font while Korean will be italicized.

Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Slow-Burnish, Romance

Warnings: Language (if more are found, please message me)

Summary: Going to an American college for music was an opportunity Min Yoongi could not pass up. Despite the comments about his eyes and accent, he’s determined to make it through the semester and prove himself to his parents back home. After an awkward but fateful conversation, Yoongi finds himself crushing hard for a girl he only has so many weeks to confess to. If he will at all.

November

He sits at a table shoved against a wall, his mind concentrated on chasing down the train of thoughts bustling through his mind before it escapes him. His hand scurries across the page, the inevitable pain slowly rising in his wrist as the pen audibly scratches through the journal. Now and then, his left hand brushes the pale hair settling on his eyelashes. The brim of round wire glasses faithfully slides down the smooth bridge of his nose and so his fingers are kept busy with this task as well.

In the past hour, the bell has jingled a hundred times, the voices of patrons intermingling with the whistling espresso machines and clank of the register drawer. It’s background noise easily tuned out, and yet with an uncanny sense, when the bell chimes again announcing a new arrival, Yoongi slams his journal closed, slipping it into the safe cavern of his backpack.

He pulls out his English Composition 101 textbook and the accompanying black spiral notebook to set on the table.

She slides into the chair across from him, her sweet perfume cutting through the ever present aroma of coffee. The soft thud of her messenger bag accompanies her warm tone.

“Yoongi.” His eyes train on his notebook, watching the veins in his hand flicker as he opens the massive textbook to the current chapter. Only after finding the correct page does he looks up at her and her awaiting smile. That brief moment of delay does nothing to prepare his heart as it skips twice, taking in her shining eyes, rosy cheeks, and chapped lips parted for him.

“Hey.” He swallows the strain in his vocal chords, hoping to disguise their fragility with a long sip of his cold brew.

“How are you? Did you get any sleep last night?” She asks as she leans forward and slips out her winter coat. She drapes it over the back of her chair, left in a hoodie dyed the navy blue of the university.

“The same.” He mumbles, licking the aftertaste from his lips and anticipating the crinkle in her brow.

“Yoongi, you have to learn to go to bed! It’s not healthy to skip sleep. One of these days you’re going to collapse from exhaustion.”

“I have...too much work.” He reasons, watching the lavender scarf she claims to have knit herself unravel around her neck. She leans over to stuff it into her bag and then gives him a glare.

“We all have too much work to do, Yoongi. You need to sleep.”

Why does she keep saying my name? He muses, intrigued and yet horrified at the electricity that shoots through him every time he hears her say the familiar syllables.

“And you?” He chides, watching her momentarily cover a cough and then sniff. “You gonna catch a cold.”

“No, I’m not. I was just outside.” She shakes her head, tugging out her own textbook and note-taking utensils.

"Your voice is scratchy. That wouldn’t happen if you drank the warm honey water like I told you to.” Yoongi says.

“Yeah, well...” She sighs, and her eyes flicker to his along with a guilty smile. Despite her age, youth couldn’t prevent the exhausted wrinkles creasing under her eyes.

“Let’s both agree to take better care of ourselves. You go ahead and start, I’m going to order some tea.”

“I got it.” Yoongi says, allowing her to remain in her seat, albeit with a confused expression. He waves his hand above her head, catching the eye of the barista, who nods and disappears behind the kitchen. He returns promptly with a porcelain tea cup on a saucer, setting it down in front of her wide eyes.

“Thank you!” She glances from the barista to Yoongi, blinking several times at the steaming cup of tea.

“Let’s get started.” Yoongi clears his throat, taking another sip, and flipping open his notebook to the next blank page.

She hums, taking a careful sip of the spiced chai she so dearly craves. Soon, they slip into routine silence and time passes as it always does. She explains the English language in a patient voice, sometimes reaching over with her pen to point out a particular word or phrase. He writes it down, taking note of her correction and the way his knuckles burn when she grazes them in proximity. The atmosphere is calm and productive, and Yoongi can’t help but notice the contrast between the silent companionship in the café to the initial meeting they had only a mere three months ago.

September

He had just arrived in America, via a Student Visa and Study Abroad program. Though he had only spent three weeks at most on campus, he quickly realized the color of his skin and the accent of his words was evidence enough to attach numerous stereotypes to his character, most of which he had never heard of before in his life. The American students would clap him on the shoulder in class, asking if he could check their math homework. The teachers would speak to him in a patronizingly slow English, as if he had a mental issue, not a language barrier. A fair share of giggling girls with pretty Asian men tucked into phone cases would ask for his number, but struggle pronouncing his name. The worst of it came from the frat boys who, though having never seen his crotch, assumed it was lacking in comparison to their superior American-made crotches. It was by that time, Yoongi decided that save for the incredible opportunity it was to study music in America, the rest of it could burn in hell.

The only one stopping him from taking the next ticket back to South Korea was his roommate Hoseok, who came over on a dance scholarship the year before. Having acclimated for one year to American college life, Hoseok tried to convince Yoongi on a daily basis that not all Americans were as ignorant as they let on. However, it still took Hoseok disconnecting Yoongi’s laptop from the school Wi-Fi on a particularly climatic night in order to convince him to stay in America - at least until the end of the semester.

That being said, Yoongi had, fair or not, formed a prejudice against American students and avoided them at all costs. Ironically, it was this mindset that caused him to open his mouth, one picnic table away, and comment on some American’s awful pronunciation of his native tongue.

The soon to be victim was sitting at the picnic table next to his sitting with a presumably Korean girl.

“I haven’t gotten it down perfectly, but I definitely know how to have a basic conversation.”

“Really? Show me, show me!” Her loud volume caught Yoongi’s attention, which up until now had been focused on the next four measures under his pencil.

Having forgotten his earbuds in his dorm, he was left with no other choice but to eavesdrop.

“How are you?" The friend immediately asked and Yoongi could hear her smile in the eager question.

“I’m great! How are you?” The American responded.

A frown wrinkles Yoongi’s brow. He understood her words, but the pronunciation was slightly jarring, as if she was talking with rocks in her mouth.

“Very good!” The native encouraged and asked her what her career is, a basic introduction that any stranger would ask.

“College study gift. I’m study music and singer.“ Stumbling and humming her way through the sentence, Yoongi can’t help but snicker, holding his knuckles to his grin.

“Yes!” Expecting a correction, Yoongi scoffs as she ignores the obviously incorrect sentence and encourages her on. 

“Are you kidding me? She sounds like a damn Google translation.” He laughed, resuming his writing with a shake of his head.

“Hey! Who the fuck asked you?!”

Yoongi’s heart jumped into his throat. One moment he was scribbling notes on a composition sheet, chuckling to himself. The next, a furious Korean female was in his face, cursing him out. 

He blinked up at the sudden fire and brimstone before him. Before he fired back a few choice words of his own, he pieced together that his comment had been overheard. 

He glanced at the woman currently sitting at the other table, her tears brimming and her lips tucked in shame. She may not have understood his comment, but clearly, by the tone of his words and the righteous anger of her friend, he had insulted her. She cautiously lifted her eyes to him and Yoongi felt the boulder of remorse hit his stomach.

“Fuck.”

Leave it to him to insult the one American woman who, at the very least, was doing her best to understand his culture, and at the very most, was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

Without a moment’s hesitation he met the eyes of the furious friend, choosing to deal with her first. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you could hear me.”

“That doesn’t mean you can insult her! She was trying her best. We weren’t even talking to you.”

“I’m an asshole, okay? I didn’t mean to take it out on her. Can I at least apologize?” Choosing to agree in order to calm her down, Yoongi maintained his calm exterior despite the guilt twisting his stomach into knots.

The friend huffed, tossing her raven hair over her shoulder as she stepped back slightly. Yoongi cleared his throat, ignoring the tremble in his fingertips and shuffled over to the picnic table, sitting down on the opposite bench.

“Hey, I’m...” Doing his best to clearly pronounce his English was just another lash of shame against his burning cheeks.

“I’m very sorry for...my words. I was...idiot. Very big idiot. I...You speak...good Korean. More good than...I speak English...” Stuttering and flitting his eyes around her face, the table, and his shaking hands, Yoongi stumbled through an apology, his voice gruff but his expression sincere.

“It’s alright.” She sighed, swiping under her eyes with the back of her fingers. “I get it. I probably do sound really dumb. But thank you.” 

Her instant compassion tore at Yoongi all the more and he wondered at which point he turned into the monsters that terrorized him all day long.

“I...I help you, if you help me.” He was speaking the words before he could register them. Once they do, a cold terror drained his expression at the same time a large smile warmed her face.

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Hey, what about me?” The two glanced at the Korean friend who sensed the sudden shift in the conversation.

“I need all the help I can find, Eun. You know we hardly have time to meet up as it is. This is the first since two weeks ago I’ve been able to practice with you."

Eun rolls her eyes. “He just insulted you. Don’t trust him so easily.”

Yoongi blinks, lacking the words to defend himself and still processing why he offered his help to a stranger when he hadn’t given the time of day to anyone other than Hoseok - who wore a watch.

Her gaze fell on him now, taking in his features for the first time. Her eyebrows wrinkled. 

“Haven’t I seen you in a class before?”

“I...uh...I take music.”

“Oh, I am too! Music Production with Mrs. Harris, right? You’re the one who plays the piano all the time. I never see anyone with you. Have you made friends here?” Before he has time to think of an answer, she cuts him off. 

“Oh my word - ignore that! That was so rude to ask! I’m so sorry.” 

Again, how could he have insulted the kindest person on campus?

Yoongi licked his lips, shrugging. There weren’t enough English words in his vocabulary to explain the prejudice-driven harassment and bitterness he had experienced since moving here. He never noticed someone so genuine and sweet in that classroom of entitled pricks, himself included as one of them.

“Never mind. All the more reason. It’s a deal, then.” She held out her hand, brimming with a newfound excitement that hadn’t caught onto him yet.

“You’ll fix my pronunciation. I’ll help you pass ESL 101.” She promised as Yoongi slid his palm over hers. The fact she knew he was taking the English as a Second Language course wasn’t a surprise. All exchange students were required to take it and this incident more than warranted her assumption of his class register.

Swallowing thickly he nodded, now finding himself the one put out. Eun rolled her eyes but sat down beside her friend again.

“At least tell each other your names if this is gonna happen.” She exhaled.

Yoongi’s new tutor laughed, and it’s so contagious, he cracked a smile.

“We’re off to a great start, aren’t we?” She giggled, giving him a look that could rival the stars.

Chapter One

[alwaysanotherrainbow]

The Stranger

Roman feels a bit out of place these days.

Ship: Remroyality (remrom is in effect)

Notes: as promised long ago, remroyality fic! might crosspost to my ao3 later. angst with a happy ending,  loads of sadness with Roman (please be careful), remus morbid imagery, hurt/comfort, alienation, food mention

taglist:    @remromfantasies​ @sassy-postal-shipper (edit: fixed tagging error. if you want this removed please let me know!)

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Roman loved them together. He was a part of the fabric of ‘them together’, technically, but he appreciated seeing the two of them, with all their love to share and all these days to call their own.

Remus looked so happy these days. Not just entertained at thinking about some strange turn of phrase, not just distracted by whatever thought crossed his mind. Lucid, bright, and happy.

Patton looked the same way. That wasn’t just cheerfulness or a facade; the way that he giggled when Remus kissed his cheek was impossible to mistake for anything else. He was happy, too.

Here was the problem. 

Roman wasn’t like them. They were bright and good together, and somehow, Roman was out of place among them, and it wasn’t even their faults.

It wasn’t their responsibility, either. He had to fight his own battles. He did it before, he could do it again.

Even so, there was no denying that these days, he felt like…

“What’s wrong?” asked Patton, who was safely nuzzled into his arms, except it didn’t feel safe for Roman. This was out of place, he loved Patton so so much but couldn’t he see that Roman was out of place?

“Nothing, love.”

“Hm… You promise?”

“I mean, nothing to worry about, shooting star.”

He couldn’t see Patton’s expression in the darkness, but he felt him tense up for a bit before relaxing. 

“If you’re certain,” he whispered. “But if it is bothering you, you’ll tell us, right? Or at least find someone who can help you?”

Help me.

“Yeah. Yeah, I promise.”

Patton curled up closer to him, and Roman felt like a Midas of misery, like everything he touched turned into discontentment (even his darlings, even the people he loved the most—)

Patton curled up closer to him, and Roman felt like a stranger.

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“Hi, loves!” Remus asked as he walked into the kitchen the next morning. “Guess who fought an octopus? That’s right, this son-of-a-gun!”

Patton smiled as Roman helped him flip a pancake. “Really? Why’d you fight it?”

“It had my keys.”

“Keys to what?”

“I accidentally handcuffed myself to the Earl of Teal while I was imagining up my duchy.”

“Quack,” said Patton, gazing sadly at the pancake that fell to the floor. Roman disappeared it quickly before patting Patton on the shoulder and giving him the batter so he could pour a new one.

“No, not ducky. Like, a king has a kingdom, a marquis has a…. What does a marquis have?”

“A marquessate,” offered Roman.

“Thank you! A marquis has a marquessate, a duke has a duchy. Why so sad, Patton?”

“Nothing! I’m not unhappy. I’m your darling daisy datemate, I’m not sad at the moment—”

Remus tilted his head. “Why so contemplative, then?”

“You really hit the nail on the head,” said Patton sadly— er, contemplatively— as he handed the plates for breakfast to Roman. “Someone I care about isn’t doing too great, that’s all.”

Oh.

“Sorry to hear that,” said Remus sincerely. “Think that we could cheer them up? Ooh! I have a packet full of a probably-hazardous chemical that, when thrown into a bonfire, makes the fire pastel and colorful!”

“That sounds helpful,” said Roman with a smile. He put the plates on the table, kissed Remus on the forehead, and caught the scent of fresh air and benzene.

“Who’s feeling sad, though?”

“He asked me not to talk about it.”

Thanks, Patton.

Patton settled down, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “I think he’ll tell you himself when he’s ready.”

Why, Patton?

“Ah, okay.” Remus settled down too, drinking a suspicious red liquid. “Want some Catastrophe-Cola, Roman?”

“I’m fine with coffee.”

Remus nodded. 

A lively conversation followed, though Roman wasn’t really there. He heard some words fall from so-and-so’s lips, felt his heart ache and his mind cry out to say something, say something…

He wanted their eyes on him. Greedy of him, wasn’t it?

Yes, horribly so.

Still a stranger.

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Remus told him something. It was something small, just some flirting, but something about the kindness in his voice made Roman feel so incredibly unworthy of it.

He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a small whimper, and suddenly his cheeks felt very warm and wet, and he realized that he was sobbing.

“Hey!” Remus moved over closer to him on the couch, gently putting his hands on Roman’s. “Hey. I’m sorry, I didn’t know— Patton, could you come here? Quickly.”

“What’s wrong?” called Patton from upstairs before Roman’s crying got louder. “Oh, no. Roman, Remus, I’m coming, it’ll be okay—”

Curse the Fates! He tried to keep himself quiet, but instead he was just crying harder, and the men he loved turned to indistinct blurs of cyan and emerald through his tears.

“Nothing’s wrong—”

Remus sighed. “Roman, something is clearly wrong.”

“Shouldn’t… don’t wanna make you sad, don’t want you to see me sad—”

“Sweetie, you’re all right,” cooed Patton, with that warmth and kindness that Roman wished he had. He settled next to him on the couch. “If we’re too close, say so, okay?”

Despite himself, Roman leaned in closer. Reassurance and warmth filled him, and air entered easily into his lungs. He gripped onto Remus’ hands tighter.

“You’re all right,” whispered Remus, holding on as Patton placed a kiss onto Roman’s forehead.

They stayed there for a few moments, Roman sniffling as Patton eventually cleared his throat and asked “Can you tell us what’s bothering you?”

He nodded before managing to say “I don’t want to bring you down. You two are so happy and perfect, and… I’m not like that. I don’t understand why you love me, you know?”

Weak. So very weak. So very not at home here, so different and—

Remus wrapped him in a hug.

This was… unexpected.

Roman realized with a jolt that Remus was crying, too.

“Dear one,” Remus managed to say, “I love you. Since the moment I saw you, I’ve fucking adored you. You’re not bringing us down. You make us better just by being you.”

“We’ll be there for you.” Patton reached out to grab Roman’s hand which Remus had let go of; the prince nodded again. “I know I can’t help with everything, but we’ll find someone who can, okay? I promise to be there with you all along.”

“...you promise?”

Patton showed Roman the ring around his finger, the one on his right hand. “Yep. I promised. And I’ll promise again and again if it’ll help.”

“Same here.” Remus kissed Roman’s cheek. “If it’ll help, I’ll… I’ll shout it to the world! I’ll embroider it onto my soul, I’ll do anything.”

The morbid imagery made Roman smile.

“You really do promise?” he asked.

“Yep!” Patton smiled. “You can talk to Dr. Picani if you need to, too!”

Roman nodded. “For now, can we just spend some time together? I don’t want to impose or anything, but…”

“Nope, you should absolutely choose what you wanna do, sweet pea,” said Remus. “Today’s about you.”

“I’ve been imagining up a wonderful play. Maybe we can see it? Make a night of it?”

“Of course, honeybunches-of-Rome-an!” Patton smiled.  

“Ooh! Is there crime?” asked Remus with a grin.

“Yeah! Intrigue, lots and lots of fake crimes, and a love story!”

When they got up and headed for the theatre in the Imagination, Remus squeezed Roman’s hand a little, the way they used to when they were younger. Three squeezes. I love you.

He squeezed back.

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When the sun rose the next morning, it found Roman smiling, Remus pressing kisses onto his neck and Patton comfortable in his embrace. 

He wasn’t a stranger after all. Quite the opposite, actually. 

With them at his side, he was home.

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 59: What Do I Do Now?

Even adults sometimes want their parents.

First  Previous  Next

Lance is lying on his back, the perfect pillow for Keith, nestled against his side, and BleepBloop, wedged between them. He's got his tail wrapped around the Altean's waist. They’re on a blanket under a tree, the warmth of the early afternoon a balm against their skin. After the unpleasant morning, Keith’s glad to spend some time curled up with his chosen mate. Just lie here and inhale Lance’s scent, soak up his warmth, absorb the rhythm of his breathing. They match breath for breath, primary heartbeat to heartbeat.

Despite his content, Keith can’t quite find sleep. He’s restful, sleepy, but there’s too much going on inside his head. He can’t help but think of Thace’s words, the notes on his test results.  

“Perfect Health.”

The problem with perfect health? It means Keith has to consider his responsibilities and weigh them against what he really and truly wants.

Part of him doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction. All these people standing around wondering when he’s gonna push one out. They’re probably all milling about on Altea right now, gossiping about how he’s going to come back pregnant. They don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve Lance, they don’t deserve him, and they definitely won’t deserve his kits. Because obviously his kits will be perfect and beautiful and theirs, and therefore unworthy of anyone else.

Additionally, he doesn’t want to become a breeder. He has other things he still wants to do. He doesn’t want to sit around inside a castle and push out kits. Some of his species seem content with that life (probably because they’re just fucking nuts), but Keith is a warrior, and a leader (he’s trying), and someday he’d like to be an explorer. He still has dreams of a big life. The idea of his sex suddenly become a restraint bothers him.

But... He has responsibilities, both to his people and Lance’s. He doesn’t really care about elevating himself in Galra society. His friends within the Blade of Marmora and his family are enough for him. All the same, he wants to contribute to his race, be it because of Zarkon’s brainwashing or his own personal desires. Plus, he kind of needs to provide Lance an heir. It’s literally his only purpose, politically speaking.

“Perfect Health.”

What perfect health means is that his excuse is gone. Time to spread his legs!- Or so he’d think, except Lance is perfectly content to wait. Lance isn't even nineteen, and he's only just barely approaching twenty. Insanely young to be parents, even if that’s the expectation. They could absolutely wait if they wanted to…

And Keith definitely wanted to. But with that one phrase, “Perfect Health”, he can’t help but wonder.

He’s in this bad spot where no matter what he does, someone will end up mad at him. Possibly Alfor, which would be extremely inconvenient. Possibly Lance, which would break his heart. Possibly himself, which would just be par for the course at this point.

He taps Lance on the shoulder, waits for his eyes to flutter open. “I’m going to go find Shiro. Will you be alright on your own?”

Lance nods, humming an affirmative, already falling back asleep. Keith presses their lips together, Lance’s response sleepy but nonetheless sweet for it. “I love you.”

The Altean hums again, smiling his way back into a doze. That’s another thing: Lance really is sweet, and he’s been desperate to make Keith happy since before he even arrived on Altea. Bond or no bond, he feels like he owes Lance something. Which is stupid and not rational since Lance doesn’t want fuck all from him except support and affection, but Keith has a few anxieties when it comes to family.

After giving BleepBloop a goodbye pat, Keith heads out. Once he’s arrived at the compound, it takes him a minute to find Shiro. He’s in the yard, training some new recruits. “Hey, Keith. How’s it going?”

“So-so. You?”

“Well enough.” Shiro frowns. “What’s bothering you- Watch your footing, Klai. A good breeze would knock you over!”

“Thace says I’m well enough for a kit this first season. And I have to have at least two before too long.”

“And you don’t want any. I don’t blame you.”

“What? Yes I do!” Keith stares wide-eyed at his littermate? “You don’t?”

“How can I?” Shiro retorts, turning on him. “For that matter, how can you?!”

Keith can’t believe he’s hearing this. He’s always assumed his kind, warm-hearted brother wanted that. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“Keith, you grew up alone! How can you possibly risk leaving your kits to that same fate! How can you invite that kind of suffering on innocent life?”

“I- I would be a good parent. I’d make sure my kits would be provided for. Why should my not having had a family impede me from building one of my own?”

The found siblings gape at one another, disbelief written on both of their faces. It’s never occurred to either of them that they might have different goals in life. They’ve always been of a singular mind. Peace is a good option; the empire is stretched thin and vulnerable; Altean food is fucking nasty.

It never occurred to Keith that Shiro, who has so much to offer and so much natural talent as a mentor and leader, wouldn’t want to pass on his genes, nurture someone that’s his own flesh and blood. It never occurred to Shiro that Keith, damaged, neglected, traded like a commodity, would still want to start a family of his own.

Shiro sighs, runs fingers through the silver hair on top of his head. “You really want kits?”

Keith nods, ears wilted, tail limp. He eyes his littermate carefully, trying to figure out how to appease him. Stupid kit instincts.

“Okay. Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay. I’m sorry.” Shiro rubs the top of Keith’s head. “But if that’s what you really want, I’m not the right person to talk to.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Keith sighs, turning back to the sparring newcomers. “I’ll talk to my mother. I planned to anyway, since she and I both have that disorder.”

He can feel needles and aches in his bones again, prominent in his shoulders, knees, and hips.

“Good idea.” Shiro smiles. “So, what do you think? They any good?”

“They’re good for soldiers. They’ve got a lot to learn if they want to be Blades.”

“I agree. The potential is there, but the refinement is not. Speaking of which, I know you’ve been trying to keep a low profile because of your age, but you and Lance should come to training tomorrow morning. You say he’s improved, and I want to see that, and I want to see his supposed marksmanship. I also know that you haven’t been challenged in a while, so I want to see how much you’ve regressed.”

“Good idea. I could use a bit of conditioning, and a bit of exercise, to be honest. I’ve been very lazy since coming home.”

“I know. Rumor has it a pair of princes have been lounging about down in a certain village, grossing everyone out with their affections.”

“Oh, fuck off! The sun feels nice, alright?!”

“What about the rain?”

Keith’s ears twitch, betraying his embarrassment. But he smiles. “Yeah. That too.”

“Aw, you lovesick idiot. Go say hi to your mother!” Shiro shoves him away, but it’s more playful than anything else.

Of course, Keith has to push back, so Shiro has to push back, so Keith has to try and tackle him, so-

Lance sighs, glancing at the datapad propped up in the windowsill, setting BleepBloop on his shoulder. While he waits for his father to pick up the call, he looks over a recipe someone handed him while he was folding up the nap blanket. It seems simple enough. Chop up some stuff, throw it in a pot, cook it over a fire. Said pot was already outside, boiling bones to make the broth.

He’s cooked before, actually, making a hobby of it as a way to spend more time with Hunk, Rosetta, and Shay. That said, he’s never done it on his own. Well, he’s seen what a finished stew is supposed to look like, and it’s about time he and Keith stopped freeloading off the neighbors, so… fuck it. He might as well try.

"Here you go." Lance hands BleepBloop a small beanpod, which the primate bites, then throws across the room. "Guess you only eat meat, huh? Wait a tick, and I'll give you some, okay?" The primate chitters, clearly annoyed at his stupidity, but he's easily appeased by a head scratch.

While he waits for his father to bother answering, Lance begins by chopping some meat wrapped in leaves and covered in spices. It’s the same color as bits of meat still stuck to the bones cooking outside. Taking a luxite knife, Lance does as he’s seen the locals do, slicing the meat up along with the leaves right on top of the dining table. Picking off a piece of leaf, he hands a small chunk to BleepBloop, almost certain Keith would kick his ass for feeding it to him.

“Lance.” It’s his father, dressed in pajamas, watching him from the screen of his datapad. It’s later in the quintant back home, already after dark. “How is Daibazaal?”

“Very different, and the people don’t like me much, but I like it here.”

“You’ve been out in the village?”

“Yes. Keith has a den.” Lance scoops up the meat and leaves, dumping them in a stone bowl. He starts on a basket of vegetables and tubers, starting by using a mortar and pestle to mash up some plump, violet fruits with soft insides and a thin skin. “...He has friends here.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad for that. Have you seen the imperial family at all?”

“No, which is probably fortunate, given that Keith and I have been wandering all over the place like a pair of tourists, flaunting that he’s only just now growing up.”

A moment's pause, then, “Lance, what was the one major thing I told you to do?”

“Have sex with Keith?”

“Lance.”

“Stay safe," he grumbles. There’s silence in the wake of their heads butting together. “When did you last hear from Allura?”

“Just a few vargas ago. She informed me that Romelle no longer recognizes her.”

“What are we going to do? Where do we go from here?”

“Nothing. Nowhere.”

Lance’s heart stops. “How can you say that? She- Wasn’t she your friend? Don’t you care about her and Allura?”

“Son, it took me a centaphoeb and a half to piece Romelle’s brain back together. We’re lucky she’s with us at all.” Seeing the look on Lance's face, Alfor remembers he sometimes needs to be more gentle with his bleeding heart of his son.

“There’s nothing more I can do for her, Lance. I’ve tried everything. If something new becomes available, I’ll be more than tempted to arrange treatment myself, but the truth is… It’s cruel to keep forcing Romelle through all these experimental treatments. They can be traumatic and invasive, and half the time, there’s a decline in her condition, and almost never any improvement at all.”

Lance recognizes the truth in his father’s words, but it still hurts. Romelle is one of his few friends. BleepBloop smears a tear over his cheek before it can fall onto the vegetables he’s chopping. “What am I gonna tell Allura?”

“Nothing. You don’t have to tell her anything. I am going to tell her that there’s nothing left to try right now, but that I will be refocusing my efforts to find a new solution.”

“You’re going to lie to her?”

“Your sister deserves that, don’t you think?” Alfor murmurs, watching his son prepare food like a commoner.

“I don’t understand.”

“One day, you’ll have children of your own, and you’ll learn. I know I haven’t exactly been a good father, but I’ve never been indifferent to your pain. Either of you. The kindest thing I can do for Allura is lie.”

Lance nods, staring at the pile of vegetables before him. He can feel the sharp downturn of his mouth. “There’s really nothing I can do?”

“There’s nothing anyone can do.” The king sighs. “It’s a hard lesson for people like us, Lance: Some things are out of our control.”

Chuckling, Lance scoops all the vegetables into the large stone bowl. “Yeah. I think Keith’s catching on.”

“To what, that you’re a control freak?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s known that since the Frost Ball at the very latest.”

Grunting his reluctant agreement, Lance grabs his datapad, sets it outside by the stew pot so he can keep talking to his father while he babysits the stew. BleepBloop steals a lump of meat and runs off with it. Checking the paper recipe, Lance casually dumps all the ingredients in.

“What the quiznak are you doing?”

As per the recipe, Lance pours in a leather satchel full of grain. “Locals got tired of me freeloading, so today I am making stew. I’ve never made it before, so they gave me a recipe. On paper… I’ve never touched paper before.”

“I have, a few times. Pretty neat, right?” Alfor smiles.

“Yeah. It’s like… soft. But also not? Anyway, I told our neighbor when they came by with the ingredients that I’m willing to learn how to do other stuff if they’re willing to teach me. I don’t have anything against labor.”

“Be careful. You are not the people, Lance. You are separate from them.” Easy for his aloof, antisocial father to say.

“I know.” He does know. He also knows that his desperate need for community is in direct opposition with his responsibilities. “Keith has a lot of friends here, or at least friendly neighbors. I think he was kind of adopted by the locals.”

“If the locals are friendly with him, you need to establish yourself as a prominent figure within the community.” There’s a fine line between friendly and friends, and they both know it. Lance knows he’s already been far too friendly with Thace, a man who just handed him his newborn within seconds of meeting. Alfor doesn’t need to know about that.

“You mean be neighborly? I’ll be neighborly, and you learn some less… aggressive vocabulary, okay?” Lance shifts the fire beneath the pot, sliding some of the burning logs into the stone oven on the other side of the oblong fire pit, gradually bringing the stew from a boil to a simmer.

A young adult half-Galra comes up, carrying a stone bowl full of dough. They have brightly colored skin, including a prehensile appendage on top of their head. “Mind if I borrow that extra fire?”

Lance shakes his head. “Go for it. I’ll speak to you later, Father. Please say hello to Dad for me.”

“Of course. Have a good evening, Lance.”

“You too.” Lance lets his father do the hanging up. It’s so weird, having an actual conversation with his father. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it. Or Galra society. “Okay, I gotta ask you a rude question.”

The unfamiliar Galra looks up, somewhat amused. “Go ahead.”

“What pronouns do you use?”

“She/her. Name’s Ezor. Galra gender identity killing you yet?”

“Driving me insane,” Lance admits.

“Just guess, and if it bothers someone, they’ll correct you. It’s how we all get by.” The woman smiles, working the dough in her hands into small balls, wrapping them in leaves, sticking two at a time on the stones by the fire. “Thanks for letting me borrow your fire. I didn’t feel like making one.”

“I’d never made one before. Good to know it’s worth borrowing.”

Lance looks up from stirring the stew. It’s almost dark, there’s a growing chill in the air, and Keith isn’t back yet. He decides not to worry about it, instead assuming he’s with his brother.

Keith’s actually with his mother, having taken plenty of time earlier to horse around with his brother and some of his old friends. The Blade of Marmora, Emperor Zarkon’s private army, has been his family since he came to the mountain. He’d actually wanted to fully join the Blades after his first season, and sometimes he misses the community. They don’t treat him any differently, except to tease him about the ribbon braided into his hair.

It doesn’t bother him, but he does wonder how he might have ended up if he hadn’t been married to Lance.

He also wonders how he might have ended up if he hadn’t finally found his mother, who’s a truly wonderful combination of fierce and gentle. For example, scolding him for lying about and acting a fool instead of keeping himself well-conditioned, then promptly giving him a hug and a hot cup of tea.

“So. I never see you anymore unless you’re having problems.” Krolia sits back in her chair, smirk crossing her face. Keith glares, riling easily at his mother's unfair but completely accurate observation. “Come on, kitten. I can tell something’s bothering you.”

Hating how easily he softens, Keith spills. “I don’t know if I should get pregnant or not.”

Krolia lifts an eyebrow, staring at her young son. “Are you healthy enough?”

" Perfect Health."

"Yes."

“Are you happy with your relationship with Lance? Are you ready to take that next step?”

“Yes.” He’s frustrated with the number of choices that have been taken away from him, but none of that is Lance’s fault. In fact, Lance is going out of his way to give him as many choices as possible.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I… Someone will end up unhappy. If I decide not to, Alfor will be even more annoying and Lance will be sad, even though he’s pretending he won’t care. If I do have a kit, then I’ll be mad at myself."

"Why?"

"Because then I'll have just gone and done what everyone else wanted!"

"And?" Keith balks at his mother's insight. "There's always an 'and', Keith."

And-” Keith gulps. “And then that’s all I’ll be good for.”

“All you’ll be good for?” Krolia frowns. “How in the cosmos did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“That’s all anybody wants from me. To the Empire, I’m a breeder. To the Alteans, I’m a breeder at best, a novelty at worst. I want- I want to be other things, Mom. I know I’m worth more than that.”

“Am I a breeder?” Krolia asks quietly, fixing her son with a hard stare. Keith sinks down in his seat, appropriately abashed. “Is Thace a breeder? We are all what we make ourselves, Keith. You can be a breeder, if that’s what you allow yourself to be. Or you can be a father, a warrior, an explorer, a future king- Whatever you want to be, that is what you make yourself. What do you want to be, Keith?”

“I… I don’t know. I- More. I want to be more.”

“Do you want to be a father? Do you want kits of your own?”

“...Yes. I want that. A lot.”

“If you become a father, sooner or later you will give everyone the satisfaction of seeing you bear Lance's children. It is up to you if that is your only great achievement. If you want to be a father and something 'more', what will you do to make those things happen?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Then that’s where you should start. You have time, kitten. You're young enough yet.”

Krolia stands, rubs her kit behind the ears. He’s so very nearly grown, and she barely got any time with him. Beneath her gaze, a spasm crawls down his legs, up his back, over his shoulders. “Do you have a shot with you, kitten?”

“Yeah. Can I-”

“Come on.” Krolia leads her hurting son over to the bed, helps him into it. Keith curls up, tail curled tight to his body. Giving him the injection into the port on his arm, Krolia climbs up next to him, settles her warmth next to his. “Rest. Then you can go home to Lance.”

Keith whimpers, curling tighter as pain wracks his body. He nods, settling in against his mother. His muscles stay tense, unwilling to make himself more vulnerable in his condition.

“Just rest, kitten. I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.” Krolia strokes her baby’s hair, missing all the decaphoebs behind them, all the ones she didn’t have. “Momma’s here.”

Her son is blessed, privileged with medical care that she never had, but Krolia is loath to see her kit in pain. Galra are forever devoted to their own young, even after they grow up. Her love for Keith will remain strong even after instinct has faded. Knowing that he is her only kit, he’s even more precious. Her greatest achievement in life is her son.

“It's late," Keith whispers some time later, gazing at the darkness outside. He looks tired, pain even he can't resist sapping his strength.

"It is. Do you want to stay here, or go home?" Krolia already knows the answer, but it's a small choice she can offer her entangled son.

"I should go. I've been missing Lance since I left. Which is super freaky."

"It'll pass." Krolia watches her son play with the end of his braid. "You really do love him, don't you."

Not a question. A statement. A surrender.

"I do. He's earned it, Mom. We both worked hard to be friends, and now we're working hard for this. But he was the one who reached out first. I was content to hate him forever."

"I'm still content to hate him forever." Krolia sighs. "But I'll tolerate him, since you're so fond."

"Thanks, Momma." Keith kisses his mother's cheek, heads for home. He's got a lot to talk about, and a husband who happens to really enjoy that exact thing.

Lance is lucky he's cute. Or maybe it's Keith that's lucky. Who the fuck even knows at this point?

[thereddieficlibrary]

Reddie Soulmates Masterlist pt 1

his favourite colour is yellow. by odetodun (1/1 | 1414 | not rated)

Richie and Eddie have always seen the colours.

more than just a dream by fljghtlessbirds (10/10 | 21648 | mature)

soulmate: (n) “a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.” his whole life, eddie had heard the legends and myths of soulmates. everyone had a unique mark etched onto their body, and their soulmate had the exact same one. eddie still hasn't met his.

The Love Song of Edward T. Kaspbrak by bellatrixblacke (2/2 | 35214 | mature)

"What do you know about Words, Eddie?" Sonia asked.

He reeled back at her question, shocked. What in the Lord's name did words have to do with his mother's untimely death? "Words? Well, they're what we speak, and what we write, and-"

"No, no, not just ordinary words, Eddie," she interrupted him, slightly exasperated. "Words, a person's Words."

Eddie frowned. "A person's words? Like... Like their name?"

Eddie had no idea where his mother was getting at, but he looked at her, saw her wringing hands and the crease on her forehead, and suddenly knew he was about to learn something important.

"Not their name, Eddie, no," she explained. "The Words of their soulmate's song."

Wonky Compass by RanjantheVictor (1/1 | 8558 | teen)

Everyone has a soulmate, and everyone has a mark on their body hinting who that person could be. But marks and soulmates can change.

For Eddie Kaspbrak, figuring it over the years can be quite a challenge.

Our House, in the Middle of Our House by orphan_account (1/1 | 4460 | teen)

Whatever song your soulmate has stuck in their head is resultedly stuck in yours. Eddie, long suffering through mattress commercial jingles and old rock hits, imagines he would kill his soulmate if he had the chance. Or, he would, if he didn't think revenge was a better answer.

Friday, Never Hesitate by wings_g_leviosa (7/7 | 14519 | teen)

The next day, his mother told him to swallow a new pill. Oblong, slightly pink in color. It was bitter on his tongue, and he didn’t like it.

Clue(less) by endversed (1/1 | 8244 | teen)

Every person on this sorry planet wakes up on their seventeenth birthday with a soulmate mark somewhere on their body – but it’s not always easy to figure out. It’s not their name, or their first words to you, or even some kind of matching shape. It’s not anything clearly indicative; nothing concrete (at first).

No, all this mark gives you is a clue.

Cracked and broken. by sweetkisses (1/1 | 15890 | not rated)

Richie is good with words, fuck he's great with words, but he can't seem to say "I love you" to his soulmate, Eddie. Sure, both of their necklaces glow the peach color of love but neither boy has actually said it outloud. Maybe these few months of their junior year can push them to finally say it.

This is a sequel to my other fic, There is a crack right through my heart, you should probably read that first or else you might be a bit confused here.

I Believe A Thing Call Love by ma_cheries (1/? | 3042 | teen)

Soulmate Au- Soulmates wear mood rings but instead of the ring showing there own emotions, it shows their soulmate's mood

your true colours are beautiful (like a rainbow) by eddiefuckinkaspbrak (1/1 | 2371 | teen)

Soulmate AU where you see in black and white until you meet your soulmate.

Resigned to Fate (Fading Away) by punto_y_coma (1/1 | 7712 | teen)

Soulmate AU: Being next to your soulmate heals injuries.

Put Those Colors On by TheMightyChipmunk (2/2 | 16525 | explicit)

Richie Tozier wasn’t funny. He just wasn’t. And Eddie respected Bill for maintaining a friendship with the man since high school, even through Richie’s rise to fame, but no matter how much Eddie loved Bill, he could NOT sit there and pretend to appreciate Richie Tozier's Netflix Special.

“Can you not just sit there and bitch?” Bill asked and Eddie raised his hands in question.

“I didn't say anything!” Eddie argued. Bill rolled his eyes, shoving popcorn in his mouth.

“You’re been making dumb faces this whole time. I can practically hear the judgment rolling off of you.” Bill scolded, “There’s some funny stuff in here, if you get over yourself and... well, parse through the bullshit.” Eddie laughed once, loud and unbelieving.

“Bill, unclench. Eddie’s allowed to not love Richie as much as you do,” Audra said calmly, through a mouthful of Doritos, “I mean, the guy did just make a joke about dick-hole vaping.”

Seriously. Not. Funny.

***

Set in a universe where you don't see color until you hear your soulmate laugh, Eddie really doesn't think Richie is funny. I wonder how that's going to work out for them.

How Not to Be Soulmates by The Red Squirrel (Just_a_Fangirl) (3/17 | 14177 | teen)

When Eddie joined RB Publishing he expected the usual awkwardness that comes with starting a new job - like forgetting someone's name or losing his way to the kitchen. He did not expect to find himself in the middle of an intense office prank war, or to meet someone he hated as much as much as Richie fucking Tozier.

i love you so much it hurts my head by Biltchibo (1/1 | 5037 | teen)

“For the last time, Bill, I'm not going into that fucking shop with you!” Eddie came back to the moment, aggressively stapling the paper once. “That thing is full of flowers, top to bottom and, “ he turned around in his chair, staring pointedly at the man, Bill, across the room, “it’s Pollen Season, do you want me to die?”

or the Flower Shop/Tattoo Parlor Soulmate AU nobody asked for.

The Line Between Love and Hate by hufflepuffkaspbrak (1/1 | 2945 | teen)

They say there's a thin line between love and hate

or the soulmate au where you feel intense emotions with your soulmate & their name appears on your body the first time you touch

desiderium by giraffingallday (1/1 | 2631 | not rated)

He pushed his nose into the soft skin under his jaw, soft prickles itching his face and smoke mixed with a distant smell of plain white soap filling his nose. Richie placed his joint-free hand on the middle of Eddie’s back, just resting there as a heavy solid pressure, and started his story from the top. They weren’t, like, together, but this had always been a bit of a thing for them, the closeness. _

In a world where a soul can only find rest with it's mate, the same is true for Eddie Kaspbrak.

Truth or Dare? by Hand_of_the_Alex (1/1 | 4525 | teen)

When you turn eighteen you are unable to lie to your soulmate. It's Richie's birthday and the losers are going camping.

i fucked your mom by Hand_of_the_Alex (1/1 | 2396 | teen)

Soulmates have a specific phrase on them, a phrase that means something to the two of them.

Eddie has 'I fucked your mom' on his arm,

Soulmate AU: Injuries by HoshiYoshi (1/1 | 1308 | teen)

Soulmates are born with flowers in the places their soulmate is going to be injured in some way that's significant to them.

Beverly has a flower on her abdomen. Mike has flowers around his face and on the inside of his wrists. Richie, on the other hand, has a giant flower on his chest.

sick of losing soulmates by Sunflowers_And_Bluebelles (1/1 | 4934 | general)

That night, Richie was told about soulmates. His mother’s eyes had lit up when Richie told her about the disappearing ink and she quickly ushered him to the dinner table. Everyone could start communicating with them at different ages and Richie was very young compared to others. Soulmates. A person perfectly suited just for you.

the ruby effect by paxamdays (1/1 | 2931 | general)

‘Ruby’ was derived from the word ‘rubatosis’, which in turn had the very vague definition of 'the awareness of your own heartbeat.' Eddie didn't know how one was supposed to be able to feel their own heartbeat, let alone someone else's, but he doesn't make the rules so it didn't matter at all.

•

In which Eddie is a cynic and Richie, in true Richie Tozier fashion, makes truly awful jokes (and neither of them really know how to talk to each other without being fucking awkward, but that's fine.)

It's Always Been You by chucknovak (1/1 | 2342 | teen)

At midnight on their 18th birthday, every person develops a mark somewhere on their body identical to that of their soulmate. Richie Tozier thinks the whole soulmate business is bullshit; there's only one person he wants his soulmate to be, and what if it's not him?

Stop Thinking So Much by eddiesgazebos (1/1 | 1286 | teen)

the one where Eddie meets a new boy that seems to have something VERY special about his mind.

the writing on your skin by eddiefuckinkaspbrak (1/1 | 2498 | teen)

Prompt: The au where whatever you write on yourself shows up on your soulmates body where you wrote it with Eddie and Richie. It would be super cute ❤️

we have traveled (love and pain) by sunsetozier (1/1 | 4929 | teen)

The Prompt: soulmate au where you share intense emotions. like if richie is really sad then eddie feels sad, if one of them gets punched really hard the other one can kind of feel it. reddie are friends but don't realize they're soulmates until they get confronted by bowers or jumped or whatever depending on how old you want to make them and one of them gets hurt and that's how they figure it out.

man, i can't believe dumbledore died by wheezy_trashmouth (3/? | 1312 | mature)

basically. soulmate tattoo au. eddie doesnt Have a soulmate! ....or does he? haha..jk.........unless??

Handcuffs, Feathers, Rings, and Tattoos by inawaragainstreality (21/21 | 41922 | teen)

Richie's always believed in soulmates and he knows that Eddie Kaspbrak is his soulmate. So much so, he's not showing Eddie his soulmate tattoo until Eddie has his. He wants them to be the first people to see each other's.

But then Richie gets into an accident and loses his memory. His family moves away shortly after. Eddie and the rest of the Losers struggle to deal with their lives without Richie as well as what their new tattoos can mean.

Eddie's almost ready to get over his first love (well second) and start his college life when he runs into the last person he would ever want to see.

Soulmates in Paint by ironarm (1/1 | 1602 | general)

Eddie just wants to hand in his art project, Richie wants to get his number, and apparently, soulmates are a thing.

Eds by Ness09 (1/1 | 7910 | not rated)

When Eddie wakes up on his sixteenth birthday, he finds Eds tattooed onto his skin, but Richie has already found his soulmate. A lot of people hide their soulmate tattoos, but none of them are friends with Richie Tozier.

hard to see this time of night by eddiespaghetti (foxwatson) (1/1 | 8587 | teen)

For 27 years, Eddie Kaspbrak doesn't remember his dreams. Something about him is just broken. But after everything, in Derry, when he falls asleep - he dreams.

at once i knew i was not magnificent by wishie (2/2 | 11651 | general)

Soulmates make romance easier, but they are not, after all, a guarantee. Richie finds this out the hard way, and Eddie realizes the problems with forever. (Or, Richie and Eddie fall apart.)

regrets by r_eddie (1/1 | 2145 | teen)

Where people can feel what their soulmate feels when they touched and things that are hidden safely in their mind are blurted out unexpectedly.

-

The second Richie accidentally touched Eddie, they instantly knew that they were soulmates. But the problem was that they couldn't even stand being in the same room as each other. When their friends found out, they became determined to help them realize what they're missing out in front of them.

i've lived and died a hundred times by bughead (1/1 | 6167 | general)

In a rare moment of genuinity, Eddie whispers, “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Eddie and Richie's souls are connected, and they've met millions of times throughout history.

(or, some souls are just meant to meet, one way or another)

I Lost Who We Are by richietoaster (1/1 | 4534 | teen)

Richie frowns, “You can go home if you want to. I won’t be mad at you.”

“I don’t want to. I like hanging out with you. I don’t know, it’s weird..” Eddie looks up at the sky as if he’s trying to think about how to word what he’s trying to say, “You know how magicians, like.. Pull a rabbit out of their hats?”

Richie nods. “I love magic! The card tricks are always cool-io.”

“Yeah.. I’m the rabbit. I appear. And it’s like you’re a magician.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

Eddie shrugs, “I don’t think I do, either."

how do you sleep when you lie to me? by stansrichie (1/1 | 3331 | not rated)

reddie soulmate au where when you write on your skin, it’ll show up on your soulmates skin as well so eddie started wearing long sleeves… until one day, he doesn’t.

Bless You by reddiebitch (1/1 | 1494 | teen)

Soulmate AU where you sneeze at the same time as your soulmate, and Richie has terrible allergies.

The Water Will Carry Me to You by LuddleBubble (1/1 | 8813 | general)

Richie Tozier dreams about his soulmate every night, but he had no idea what they look like, sound like, or even what their name is. It's like that for everyone with soulmates- they interact in their dreams without really giving away their identities. The only way of knowing who your soulmate is, is that you have to meet them out in the world. Of course, you won't know right away, just once you go to sleep that night and you see their face. Richie isn't really looking for his soulmate on this particular day, but instead is just looking to have some fun with his friends. But that's how it works, isn't it? You only find something when you aren't looking for it.

Love me, please? by hoeziertozier (1/1 | 2346 | general)

Everyone has a mark on their body from birth that only they can see. It becomes visible to their soulmate once they fall in love with them. This means that you can love a number of people in your life, but only one of them is your soulmate.So even though everything might be set in stone from the beginning, at least you still get to experience the whole ride of falling in love, and the heartbreak that comes with it being the wrong the person. But he was Richie Tozier, and the universe was never on his side.

best part of me is you by eddiefuckinkaspbrak (1/1 | 2076 | teen)

Eddie and Richie are soulmates who can feel each others immediate emotions. Fluffy! 

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Love, Maybe? {28}

Chris Evans X Reader OFC Vixen Giovanni

Warning: Cursing, Plot, Slow, Smoldering, Torturous Burn 😊, Angst

Word Count: 2.2K

Summary: After a night of drunkenness you wake up next to warm, hot as hell body, a migraine and no memory of the night before. When you come to realize that the hot body belongs to none other than Hollywood’s golden boy Chris Evans you freak out. As events unfold you become even more panicked to find out you got married in your drunken haze. What else is there to do but get it annulled, right? Before walking away, you share one more night of molten kisses and passion. Three years later you are still living with the repercussions of your brash decisions, but the surprises don’t stop there. The past has a way of coming back and have you questioning is this fate that you’ve been running from, hell could it have been love, maybe?

Note: Italic texts is an inner Vixen thought. Bold Italic texts is an inner Chris thought.

**Slightly Edited/Proofread**

***Interactive***

Thank you guys for reading!!!! If you enjoyed this please LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG. 😊 ❤️  ❤️ ❤️

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 28: East Meets West

  -Chris-

  Two very important women in his life were about to come face to face. He’d thought about this day for weeks and stressed about it and even looked forward to it, but now that it was here he was a nervous wreck. Standing in front of his mirror adjusting the tuck of his shirt in his pants for the fifth time he groaned and dropped his head back and rolled it around. His shoulders and neck hurt, for the first time, he realized how much. He felt as if he had the weight of the world resting on him.

  He allowed his eyes to close and rubbed at the tension in his neck. The knot was huge. He took advantage of his alone time and let his mind wander where it pleased. This was the third day of a week planned stay. The day before, he’d played tour guide and showed off his city. He showed you and your family places he loved when he was growing up, including every tourist attraction, and even took the time to share ice cream with Ella at his favorite ice-cream place. She was so much like him; it was insane. Her favorite flavor was his. She bit into her ice cream like he did. When she tried something, she didn’t like she said, “ I no wike it.” That killed him; he laughed so hard. The saying “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” couldn’t have been more accurate in his case with her.

  After sightseeing for half the day, he accompanied Vixen on her errands to finish planning Ella’s birthday party. He played the supportive role and agreed with all of your ideas and plans. Truthfully you had an excellent eye for detail, and your ideas were terrific. Where possible, you asked for his input, and he was sure it was to make him feel included, he appreciated the thought. It was another thing he loved about you; you were thoughtful. There were a few times you became assertive, and it was mainly when he offered to pay for a service. You insisted you had it. The first two or three times, he took it in stride and brushed it off his shoulders, but when you’d said it the fourth or fifth time, he was ready to flip a table, especially with what you said the final time he offered.

  “I am fully capable of paying for things myself. I don’t need you,  your money, status, or influence to save me.”

He was speechless and irked, to say the least. It was uncalled for and unfair to him. After the outburst, any conversation ceased and so did the lite mood of the afternoon. The tension was obvious. He didn’t know what to say after that; he didn’t even feel like talking. He was at his wit’s end. When he brought you back to the house he didn’t speak to you for the rest of the night.

  A soft knock broke him out of his mind. “Come in.”

Turning the corner, you appeared with a sheepish look on your face.

  “Damnit, why does she have to be so fucking gorgeous.”

Balling his fists at his side, he straightened his back and held his head higher. “Hey.”

Your eyes dropped to the floor, and your head followed. You began playing with your fingers, but you didn’t answer right away. He took the chance to look you over. The color looked great on you, and the way you pulled it off was nothing short of amazing. He didn’t know how you managed to make a simple dress look so flawless.

  “Hey,” you finally responded. The sound of your voice snapped him out of his stupor, and he turned back to the mirror and continued what he was doing. Silence filled the room, and he did his best to ignore it. After almost a minute he couldn’t handle the silence anymore.

  “Everything okay?”

  “No, everything is not okay. It was going fine, almost great even, and then I ruined it. I’m the reason why everything is so fucked now.” He stared at you through the mirror and fought the urge to go to you. Part of him didn’t want to give you the impression he was trying to save you, especially since you expressed how much it bothered you. When you finally looked up into his eyes through the mirror he went against his better judgment and walked over to you.

  “I’m sorry, Chris, I really am. I didn’t mean to be such a bitch.”

  “You weren’t--.”

“I was, oh my god, I was such a bitch, and I’m sorry about it. I seriously am. It’s just I don’t want to get swallowed by you.”

  He was taken aback; he had no idea you felt this way. He began to wonder if he’d done something to make you feel like this.

  “Swallowed? I—I never meant to make you feel that way or come off that way at all--.” He led you to the nearby seat at the foot of his bed and sat beside you. Neither of you spoke for a few more moments. “I’m sorry,” he finished.

“No, don’t—uugh.” You rubbed your forehead and took a deep breath. “You’re this huge star; everyone loves you, everyone wants you--wants a piece of you. You get everything you want and you and the idea of you--you’re—colossal, even back then. I’ve worked so hard to get where I am today. I’ve had to go without sleep more times than I can count. Yeah, I have an amazing family around me who have helped a lot but, I’ve missed meals on my own. I’ve had to choose which bill had to be paid just to make sure the priorities were taken care of for Ella in the beginning. I’ve worked my ass off to earn what I make, and it has shaped me into the woman I am, and I just don’t want you thinking I’m like all these other women who you can throw money at or around.”

  He grabbed your hand and squeezed. “You’re kidding. Vixen, I don’t think that at all. You have no idea how impressed, and in awe, I am over the fact that you refused money back then. I love that about you. I love that you’re hardworking and proud and so damn independent it’s an incredible trait, especially in the world I live in where women would prefer to rely on the other half that is more famous and wealthier. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable or give you the impression I was trying to fix you or anything. I just wanted to help even a little, not to take away from your ability to do it. I know full and well how able you are to do it—to do anything. You’re like WonderWoman.” He smiled because the comparison was spot on; you were WonderWoman in the flesh; it was incredibly attractive.

  “I wanted to start doing my part with Ella, I just wanted.”

  You sighed and squeezed his hand back. “I know Chris, I know. Well, I know now. At the time, I didn’t see it. I’m sorry for biting your head off, and for saying it the way I did. Sometimes I struggle with the way things are now. Before it was Ella and me, I didn’t have to consult anyone, didn’t have to think about anyone else, and now you’re everywhere, you’re involved, and it’s—different.” Your words hit him harshly, but he knew you didn’t mean them with any malice. He couldn’t help but think you didn’t like the way things were now, didn’t like him “everywhere,” didn’t like him involved. His heart sank a little, but he tried his best not to give anything away. Instead, he nodded his head and cleared his throat.

  “I understand.” He really didn’t. You cleared your throat and released a breath.

  “I’m sorry. I promise I will work on biting my tongue,” you began.

  “No, don’t. I don’t ever want you to bite your tongue around me. Tell me if I’m overstepping.”

  “You’re not though. You’re being a good dad.” Your eyes met his, and that is where they stayed. Long moments passed with the two of you just looking into each other’s eyes.

  “I’m trying,” he quietly said before he looked down. “I’m—really trying, Vixen.” Your hand connected with his jaw, and it brought his eyes right back to you. Your hand shouldn’t have felt as good as it did. A small electric surge penetrated the skin of his cheek and traveled through his body. Everything in him said get closer.

  “You’re doing great. Most almost two years olds are easy, Ella is not, and she loves you already. You’re doing amazing, cross my boob.” Just like that at the mention of the phrase from three years ago in Vegas, he snorted out and laughed, a laugh you joined in on.

  “See, you remember the top of the Eiffel tower too,” he slid in. You bit your bottom lip, and his attention went to those sultry lips.

  “I remember how dirty your mind was.” He smiled.

  “In my defense, you were naked and literally crossed over your heart. I was just pointing out the correct action that you did.” You smiled and nodded. “See, it’s better when you admit and accept when I’m right.” You laughed with a loud “ha” before you playfully pushed him away.

  “Whatever Evans. I am always right.” You stood and walked away a little giving him another full view of your figure.

  “Are you nervous?” You stopped at his window and peeped through the grey curtains.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Not obvious like easy, but I guess I’m getting a little better at reading you.” your head snapped to him and took him in for a few moments before you looked away again.

  “There is no reason to be nervous, but I understand why you are. I promise though; it won’t be as bad as you’re imagining.”

  You smirked. “So, everyone won’t take a turn with me in the hidden boxing ring in the basement?” He laughed again and stood.

  “That imagination of yours is wild.”

  “You have no idea.” Suddenly the air between you became thick and the room warmer than it was mere seconds ago.

  “Jesus, she’s like walking temptation.”

  He shook his head, hoping to bring his head back to the right path. “Hopefully one day, I will.” You smiled small then walked toward the door. “Hey, Vixen--.” You looked back before walking out his room. “You look really great.” You studied him for a second or two then the smallest demure smile teased your lips.

  “Later, Evans.”

  ~~~~~~~

  “Ready?”

  “Wedy,” Ella echoed from behind in her car seat. He smiled as he looked back to her smiling face.

  “All right, princess, here I come.” He looked beside her to your face. You looked like you were going to vomit. Everyone began getting out of the car, and he made his way back toward Ella. When he got to the door it was locked. Pressing the unlock button again he tried the handle, but again it was locked. Confused, he looked to Nexus who was close by. She smirked and held up her finger as if to tell him one minute. So, he stood there and gave you the amount of time you needed. While standing there, he realized he just might wait forever, and it was fine with him.

  After five minutes, the door opened, and you slid out then reached back in for Ella who wrapped her arms around your neck. “Wedy mama?”

  “Ready baby.” He nodded, and they began walking down the path to his family house.

  He’d made it a point to buy his mom her dream house when he had the money and told her nothing was too expansive. It took two years to renovate it the way she liked, but everyone was happy with it now. Instead of going through the front door, he decided to go through the side. The sound of music could be heard, and his nerves began to rise. He took a peek back at you and said a silent prayer things went as well as he hoped they would. When he opened the latch on the gate he allowed everyone to walk ahead and followed behind Vixen. He could hear chattering.

  “Where is your brother? They should have been here ten minutes ago,” his mother asked.

  “Maybe she picked up and disappeared again. Chris did say that is what happened the first time,” Carly voiced. He knew if he could hear her, then you’d definitely heard it. He looked back to you, but you avoided his eyes. He groaned, already feeling the stress return to his neck and shoulders.

  “We’re here!”

  Everyone looked at him, and their conversations stopped. It was now a little over a dozen people all with their eyes glued to him and everyone else.

  “Uncle Chris!” His two nephews bolted across his mother’s lawn to him, and he enthusiastically met them and engulfed them in a hug. After asking how they were and listening to a little bit of their answers he looked up to everyone else who’d closed in. He hugged and kissed his mother and sisters then moved on to hug everyone else. Soon a silence fell over everyone, but the smiles never fell.

  “Ehm, everyone meet Carmine, and Soleen Giovanni, Nexus, Vixen, and Ella.”

~~~~~~~~~

***If you want to be tagged please SEND AN ASK SO IT WILL BE EASIER FOR ME TO KEEP TRACK OF. Thank you for reading!!!

~~~~~~~~~

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[lavieenprose]

on being ill

“On Being Ill” isn’t just making a case for illness as a literary subject, but for the brute, bare fact of the body itself. By insisting we acknowledge that we sweat and crave and itch all day (“all day, all night”), Woolf reminds us we have the right to speak about these things—to make them lyric and epic—and that we should seek a language that honors them. The man who suffers a migraine, she writes, is “forced to coin words himself, taking his pain in one hand and a lump of pure sound in the other.” What does it sound like, this strange, unholy language of nerves and excretions? How do we articulate the kind of pain that refuses language? We throw up our hands, or we hurl our charts: one through ten, bad to worse, from the smiley face to its wretched, frowning cousin.

Woolf’s argument may have been more urgent in her time than in ours—we have more records of the “daily drama of the body” now than we did then—but when I first read her battle cry, her call to arms (not just arms but legs and teeth and bones), it felt like encountering a long-lost relative: the banner I’d never known I’d always been fighting under: Bodies matter—we can’t escape them—they’re full of stories—how do we tell them? Her argument might have the urgency of a battle cry but it’s also vulnerable; it’s posing questions; it’s got mess and nerve—it’s leaking some strange fluid from beneath its garments, hard to tell in the twilight, maybe pus or tears or blood. Even her syntax feels bodily—full of curves and joints and twists, shifting and stretching the skin of her sentences.

People have often told me my own writing seems to be all about bodies. A woman from a writing workshop once suggested I call my collection of stories Body Issues. (I didn’t have a collection of stories: If I did, I wouldn’t have called it that.) But I’ve never wanted to write about “the body,” by which I mean I’ve never set out with that explicit intention; I’ve only ever wanted to write about what it feels like to be alive, and it turns out being alive is always about being in a body. We’re never not in bodies: that’s just our fate and our assignment. (In her beautiful memoir The Two Kinds of Decay, Sarah Manguso writes that she despises “the body” whenever it describes anything but a corpse, and I love that, though I use the phrase constantly anyway.) To my mind, the more aggressive choice is writing that isn’t physical; this insistence carries the burden of intentional absence.

All that said, I’ve always felt a certain shame about the ways my writing keeps coming back to bodies, which is why I loved finding Woolf. My shame felt such relief at the prospect of her company. My first novel was all about addiction and eating disorders and sex, and there was food everywhere, some of it gone rotten. I used the word “sweat” too many times (my editor told me); there were too many fluids (my editor told me) and far too many bruises (my editor told me) and even worse, too many of these bruises were “plum-colored”—for this last one (my editor told me), we would both get mocked, if we didn’t get rid of some of these plum-colored bruises right away. A certain shame hung over the whole narrative, like a faint body odor I couldn’t smell because it was mine: There was too much body, and this too-much-body risked banality and melodrama at once. I’ve always wondered if this shame about writing about the body is connected to the shame of quasi-autobiographical writing, that sense of failing to imagine beyond one’s own experience. Is writing about bodily experience somehow the extreme form of this failure, the ultimate solipsism? You haven’t even gotten beyond your own nerve endings; it’s no accident they call it navel gazing.

I often think of an old painting I once saw that shows an injured body pointing at its own open wounds. The most graceful victim, of course, is the one who doesn’t need to point at his holes or ask for sympathy—who doesn’t take up the lump of pure sound, who just keeps quiet. The way I imagine being scolded goes something like this: There’s something selfish about talking about bodies too much if the bodily experience fueling everything is your own.

I often think, also, of a cross-country race I ran in 10th grade: I tripped on a slab of concrete sticking up from the dirt, about a hundred meters after the start, when the pack was still dense; and I was trampled by the horde of 15-year-old girls running behind me. It was pretty minor, as tramplings go. But still, it was a trampling. I got up to run the next three miles of the race but I was shaken up and bleeding. I wasn’t running well at all—nothing close to what I’d need to do to place well for our team.

When I reached my coach, who was calling out our one-mile splits, she said something to the effect of “Why are you running so slow?”—only perhaps not so delicately phrased. I remember the awkward way I tried to point at my own wounds without slowing my (turtle) pace; and I remember how badly I wanted her to see the streaks of dirt-clotted blood; I almost stumbled again in my urgent need to show her the proof of my stumbling.

That memory has become the vessel for a certain kind of shame—the shame of pointing too overtly at what hurts, jamming the laser-pointer of language at some wound and then expecting it to yield wisdom or explanation. My coach didn’t want the epic or lyric account of my damaged body, she just wanted me to keep running, and hopefully pick up the pace.

I’m still haunted by the specter of myself in this moment—a mute form pointing, bleeding. A few years after that race I spent a couple months actually mute: I’d gotten jaw surgery and they’d wired my jaw shut to help it heal. During those months I wrote quite frequently but it was mainly practical, because I couldn’t talk. I requested things by scribbling them in a little notebook: vicodin, please; okay ensure (my mom was always foisting Ensure on me), but are there any cans of dark chocolate left? HATE butter pecan. I asked for sheets draped over the mirrors, so I wouldn’t see my swollen face; I asked for the pair of scissors that I was supposed to keep on-hand in case I vomited and needed to cut the wires between my teeth.

Eventually I started writing poems about those quiet weeks, and the surgery before them, the days in the hospital. The poems were full of IV lines and numbness and feeling returning after numbness like water oozing back into crab holes in damp sand (“crackling lines of hurt,” I wrote). I imagined myself the bard of swelling; I wanted to write toothache lyrics for swelling—to evoke the chronic panic of its deforming sculptural practice: it shapes you into something like you, but not you. I wanted to bring that aching knowledge to my nonexistent reading public.

I turned the poems into a series and then I turned them in to my undergraduate writing workshop. The series was called “Waiting Room,” meaning the waiting room before surgery but also the injury afterward as a waiting room—get it?—the aftermath as the cramped little chamber where you wait to get better; where you have to keep waiting even once it seems like you should already be there.

I wasn’t satisfied with the poems. Pain was hard to describe. I encountered Elaine Scarry’s famous formulation—“pain does not simply resist language but actively destroys it”—which recognized but did not solve the problem. My workshop wasn’t satisfied with the poems either. Everyone wanted to know: What were they about? I thought it was pretty fucking self-evident, but no, it was a different problem: My classmates got that these poems were about pain and injury—maybe in a dental office?—but what were they really about? My workshop was thinking everything must be a metaphor for something else: the cut lines on raw gums, the self-quieting sparkle of anesthesia. But in truth, nothing was a metaphor for anything. It was more or less this happened, and it hurt. There was nothing below the surface.

At the time I took this as a verdict of poverty and lack—which is why I loved finding Woolf, so many years later, who seemed to be saying, the surface of the body isn’t poverty; it isn’t lack. She rose from the dead for the express purpose of silencing that workshop, or at least arguing against the notion that there had to be something besides bodies for these poems to matter. She was saying the surface is poetry; bodies are poetry; or poetry can be made of what these bodies need and crave and bleed and feel.

I felt her summoning an army, everyone I’d ever read whose language does some justice to the way our bodies are, the ways they betray us or bind us together: Walt Whitman’s greed to catalogue the physical forms of his countrymen, William Faulkner’s fixation on muddy drawers and the waft of honeysuckle; Marcel Merleau-Ponty’s insistence on the body as an “eloquent relic of existence.”

Woolf writes: “It is not only a new language that we need, more primitive, more sensual, more obscene, but a new hierarchy of the passions; love must be deposed in favour of a temperature of 104; jealousy give place to the pangs of sciatica.” I can see the way these marching orders have infected my own prose—even this piece, with its twisting, bodily contortions—and the way they’ve helped me claim a dialect I’d been afraid was junk, a ledger of the body’s travails, not the “Waiting Room” poems (which weren’t really that great) but the notebooks I kept when my jaw was wired silent, full of their banal complaints and requests: Vicodin, please. Where are the vomit scissors? These are daily dramas of the body, charged with force and longing; the record Woolf never found, the words that pain and pure sound made.

[empty-movement]

Anthy’s Sword Summon and Juri’s Fate: A Semantic Adventure

Friends, join me on a trip down the rabbit hole of discovery! While watching Utena with friends, as one does, I noticed that Anthy's opening to her sword pull sounded different than I was used to in episode 28, "Whispers in the Dark." The word 'omoi' appeared and I didn't recognize it from the shitloads of work I did on the musical. Confused, I figured I'd wait until the next episode, and see if I heard it wrong...and then, in episode 29, "Azure Blue Paler than the Sky"...she used the original line I was familiar with.

Uh-oh. Well this spiraled into an adventure. The facts, because of-fucking-course I went back and checked everything, are as follows:

Anthy’s sword summon in the Student Council Arc: 気高き城のバラよ。。。私に眠るディオスの力主に答えて今こそ示せ。 More or less: Oh rose of the noble castle, Power of Dios that sleeps within me, heed your master and come forth!

Anthy’s sword summon in the Akio Arc: 気高き想いの薔薇よ。。。。お願い、示して 。。。 More or less: Oh rose of noble feelings/sentiments/idunnohelpme...please, reveal yourself...

*EXCEPT* For episode 29,where her sword summon is: 気高き城のバラよ 。 。 。 お願い、示して More or less: Oh rose of the noble castle...please, reveal yourself...

This line, a blend of the different versions, is in the original and the remaster. Furthermore, based on how she says "please, reveal yourself," it's clear this was re-recorded to create this line, not just spliced from the different pieces of original audio. It's also worth mentioning that the Nozomi translation doesn't distinguish at all, and uses the phrase "Rose of nobility," for both arcs. If I'd known about this when they asked, I would totally have rallied to change this line, but whoops.

The change in the summon is not hard to rationalize. In the first arc, the sword is being pulled from Anthy, from the noble castle...from the illusion machine, to use a very old fandom term. What exactly she's pulling is the subject itself of a lot of debate. Is it her soul sword? Is it Akio's? Because Akio duels with a similar sword, though blackened, drawn from her chest. It's the sword used for all the duelists, it's the sword with the least intimacy. It's the sword used to direct the course of events, up to the point where Anthy rebels.

In episode 25, "Our Eternal Apocalypse," the Sword of Dios disappears, and against Akio's wishes given his reaction, Anthy draws a sword instead from Utena. Now she beckons to the "rose of noble sentiments/emotions/whatever, this is a hard phrase to translate," because it's no longer the castle, no longer the illusion machine, that is the source of the power she seeks. It's Utena herself. The "omoi" she is referring to is Utena's. In true magical girl form, this is a significant upgrade to the previous sword.

It's with this pattern set that the Akio Arc proceeds, until we hit a single, lone exception: Juri's last duel. The incantation changes. Just this once. Why?

Utena is handily undefeated in this arc; every time Dios comes down, every time she manifests the princely power her soul contains, she wins. Except this once. This time, her winning attack fails, just as it does in the first arc. Juri's capacity to deflect the Dios manifested attack follows from the obvious skill she has. It's never surprising in the context of the show that of all the duelists, she is the one able to successfully defend herself in that moment.

But this, that Juri successfully deflects this move, is the only thing that marks this duel as unique in the Akio Arc. It's the only thing that connects at all to why Anthy's sword summon would also, just this once, be a little different.

My theory? Though the sword pulled is still Utena's, true...Anthy has taken over command of this duel's outcome by calling not to Utena's noble spirit, but to the castle instead. The illusion machine. The means, whatever it is specifically, by which Akio and Anthy control the world of the duel arena. Because she is controlling, ultimately, where the sword is going to go. Anthy deliberately choosing to direct the sword to one end in this duel also implicates her as the reason why Juri loses her first duel, though that is made far more evident than it is here in the first place.

There are no miracles. But there are also no coincidences. There is only intent, and for Juri, it's intent turned against her. The wording of the summon in this duel is different, because the goal of this duel is different. The miracle that must be performed is different.

"Juri, she's a fool! She doesn't realize that you get miracles only by standing on the sacrifices of others! Yet miracles only come to people like her! Don't you find that unfair, Juri?!"

Ruka's intentions, and even who Ruka is referring to in this moment, are the subject of a lot of debate. I've always found it interesting that this dialogue works regardless of whether you assume he's talking about Shiori or Utena. Shiori seems the more likely subject, after all she's the person Ruka's trying to sever from Juri. She's the one he's angry at. But also, in his duel, Ruka sees Anthy seem to be praying for Utena's success, and he surmises from that that the Rose Bride is the source, at least partly, of Utena's ability to win. So, it can also be Utena who is the fool, standing on a sacrifice she hasn't noticed. Framed this way, where Ruka imagines the Rose Bride to be the source and the sacrifice that grants miracles, his placing himself in the position of Juri's Rose Bride is him willingly being the sacrifice he imagines necessary that buys Juri's miracle.

It's unfair, it's true, for a miracle to belong to someone unaware that a price was paid for it...but even as he says this, he pays in secret that price himself. Whatever transpired in the car, between him and, we'll say...the powers that be...decided Juri's fate without her input. It's why the outcome of this duel is made different, and it's why Anthy intervenes directly in the course of events to create that.

The Sword of Dios is a weapon wielded by Akio and Anthy, regardless of whose fingers are wrapped around the hilt. In episode 25, Anthy chooses to give up some of her control over events in favor of letting Utena defend herself and protect her. It's a sign of her growing trust in Utena that she lets Utena wield, literally, her own will. It's also a vote of no confidence in Akio and his plans, and it's why Akio is so pissed off about it. Letting Utena wield her own blade implies a trust in Utena to create the outcome Anthy wants. A trust it took her this long to grow.

However, in this duel, the goal has shifted. Ruka, for whatever reason, has intervened behind the scenes to create a different result, and that result cannot be left to the even minuscule random chance Utena represents. Anthy invokes the castle this time, because she wants absolute control over the outcome.

This may or may not be why the line is changed. It seems to me as good a theory as any, especially given how deliberately this is done. It doesn't shorten the sequence for timing. It's not a splice of existing audio. It's an explicit change made only for this one episode. It's the kind of minor detail, so easily missed, that really sends home to me why I love this show so much. 

I, certified trash for entirely different characters, don't dip my toes into Juri's business much, I admit. I will, however, also be the first to say that Juri's duel episodes are some of the best directed and most powerful episodes in the series. They don't waste a single frame, their scripting is tight, their visual language both clear and almost a whole separate thing from the rest of the story. Little details like this utterly don't surprise me to find hidden here, in an episode where chairs shift and move. Where two duels happen at once. Where the color palette is made to reflect Juri's state of mind. Thank you, Revolutionary Girl Utena, for being the kind of garbage where a minor script change in a repeated sequence can lead to realizing Anthy straight up nerfed Utena for the duel.

PS. Fun thing we learned when trying to sort this all out: Yoji Enokido’s scripts for the first arc use a different phrasing than what ends up in the series:

薔薇の剣よ、私に眠るディオスの力よ・・・主にこたえて今こそ示せ 。 More or less: Sword of the Rose, Power of Dios that sleeps within me, respond to your master and come forth.

This line is included in Enokido’s script for episode 14, though it is not used in the series, because for the BRS Anthy doesn’t do this bit at all, it just goes straight to Utena’s “Grant me the power...” line. His script for episode 26 matches the line used in the series, but since he didn’t write episode 29, there’s no written record of this being deliberately different.

Additionally, one of the artbooks has the line “ Ô rose de nobles sentiments!” in it, which apparently has a totally different connotation to the English word 'sentiment.'

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Your Clothes Say Different (Ben Hardy x Reader) (One-Shot)

Summary: You and Ben have called it quits, but old habits die hard.  

Inspiration: Bedroom Floor by Liam Payne. 

Warnings: Language, smutty, 18+.

Link to all my writing HERE.

The knock at the door is so loud that the glass flies out of your fingertips, exploding across the floor, ruby wine flowing like blood over the hardwood. “Oh, great,” you sigh, stepping over the mess. You throw down a dish towel and haphazardly whip it around with your toes. You’ll have to clean up the rest later. You hurry to unlock the door.

You really shouldn’t have been drinking anyway. You were already tipsy when the Uber dropped you off at home thirty minutes ago. Ben’s text had come in at 4pm, and Joe had taken you clubbing at 9. He knew you needed something to take the edge off, something fun and numbing. Now it was almost midnight. The world had a warm, rushing, off-balance sort of feeling.

“Do you want me to be there?” Joe had asked. “I’ll be there if you want me to be.” He was always such a good friend to you. Probably better than you deserved.

“No, I can do it,” you had replied. But could you really? Ben’s text said this: Hey, I’m in town. Can I swing by and get my stuff tonight? It’d have to be pretty late. Now it was pretty late. Now it was time.

Your hand flicks the deadbolt and turns the knob. The door opens, harsh yellow light from the apartment corridor falling into the living room. And there, in the doorway, is Ben. His eyebrows are raised, the edges of his full lips curled upwards, just barely. He doesn’t think he should smile, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He staggers, just a bit, and then you realize that he’s been drinking too. He’s holding a cardboard box. There’s a lit cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He’s wearing dark jeans, a cerulean tank top, a slick black jacket thrown messily overtop. And if the phrase goes you look like a million bucks then he looks like Bill fucking Gates. 

The last six months come rushing back, hitting you like radiation, sinking into your bones layer by layer. It starts with a fortuitous meeting at a club your friends dragged you to; it starts with days spent in tangled bedsheets and covert dates to museums and beaches and middle-of-nowhere diners. He always makes sure you know how much he cares. He always calls you babe. It starts thrilling and fateful, feeling like it will last forever. It ends with Ben landing more roles, endless promotional events, salacious articles in gossip magazines about how close he’s gotten with his famous, otherworldly-gorgeous costars, blurry pictures of him grinning under exotic dancers. It ends with you breaking down under the pressure, like ancient remains compressed into oil, screaming as Joe snatches away your phone and drags you into his arms.

It’s been a month since the phone call. Ben’s been in the Mediterranean filming. He’s tan and glowing and perfect, like a British Adonis. It’s infuriating, actually. You don’t want to feel it, but you do: bitterness, rage, jealousy. Who’s going to be the next woman to run their hands over his pecs and shoulders and the back of his neck, to feel him moving inside her? Who has he replaced you with already? You’re still on the pill, like you have been for years. It suddenly feels like such a waste.

“So, uh,” Ben begins. His voice is deep and husky, even more beautiful than you remember. It stuns you, knocks you off your figurative feet. He looks around the room. He looks everywhere except at you. “How have you been?”

You cross your arms over your chest like armor. “You’re here for your things. That’s all, right? Don’t feel like you have to make conversation.”

“I...” Ben looks at his feet. He feels guilty. But that doesn’t mean he wants you, and you need to remember that. You steel yourself, picture metal architecture for inspiration, the Brooklyn Bridge and the Empire State Building and the Eiffel Tower. No, scratch that last one. The Eiffel Tower is no good. He was the one who took you there.

You step aside and gesture towards the bedroom. “Off you go.”

He sweeps quickly through the apartment, filling his cardboard box with the things he’d left with you: his books, his clothes, his sunglasses, his favorite pillow, the custom lighter that his father gave him with We’re so proud of you, Ben! etched into the side. You realize with stabbing clarity that soon they’ll really be gone, these remnants of the time you shared, the only proof that you and Ben ever existed as a couple at all.

When he’s finished, he stands by the front door with the overflowing box at his feet. His hands are in the pockets of his jacket. He’s looking at you now. You feel overwhelmed with something more than just sorrow or nostalgia; you feel like you want him again. You’re trembling everywhere.

“I guess you should go now,” you tell him.

“Is that what you want?”

Hell yeah, I want you to go, you almost say. Get out. Don’t look back. I don’t want half of a life with you, or one-third or one-fourth, or whatever obscene fraction it works out to be when you’re the wife of an actor. I want to never see you again.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you say: “What do you want?”

He smiles. He was waiting for this. His eyes, jade-colored, burning, trace your body from your ankles to your lips. He whispers: “I want you, babe.”

That does it. Nothing about you is steel.

As you nod, struggling to catch your breath, he bolts for you. You crumble into his arms. Ben is kissing you deeply, urgently, his hands pulling your shirt over your head. Your lips are following his messily, frantically. You bit down on his tongue, like he likes you to. “Oh my god,” he moans.

He throws you down onto the couch. You tear off his jacket and tank top as he fumbles with his belt. You’re soaking wet, you know that already. You can see his erection through his jeans. He hikes up your skirt and slides your panties down your legs, where they catch around your ankles.

“You really want this, right?” Ben asks, breathless. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you. I don’t want you to think I’m using you for anything. I’m not.”

“No, no,” you whisper, your lips against his neck. You bite him there, leaving violet shadows. “Fuck me, Ben. I want you to fuck me.”

He kisses you again, his lips smiling into yours. “I can handle that.” He yanks down his jeans and boxers, and suddenly his hips are locked with yours. He reaches down and thumbs your clit as he slides his cock inside you. “You like that, babe? Huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, clutching him to you. You could never get close enough to him. You never want this to end.

Ben’s thick cock pumps in and out of you, slowly at first, then with arresting force. He cradles the back of your head with his left hand as you writhe against him. His right hand is working expertly against your clit. As he thrusts, he says: “God you feel so good, you feel amazing around my cock, I missed this so much.”

You’re shuddering, your mind is fantastically blank. Nothing lives there—no heartbreak, no fear, no guilt—nothing except ecstasy. “Don’t stop,” you whine. “Don’t stop, don’t stop...”

“I’m not stopping,” he pants into your ear. “Come for me, babe.”

You’re getting close. You turn your face into the couch cushions, gasping. Ben puts two fingers against your cheek and brings you back so you’re facing him. His eyes are piercing through you.

“Look at me, babe,” he says. “Look at me when you come. Come on, come for me.” He shakes his head, laughing. “You gotta come, I can’t wait, I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

His words register through the fog—haven’t been with anyone since you, since you, since you—and you plummet off the edge, the orgasm unraveling like a spilled secret. You scream as you come, grinding against him, your fingertips locked in his tousled blond hair. He thrusts once, twice more, and he finishes as well, collapsing onto your bare chest, sighing your name. You kiss his shoulders, his forehead. You glance over at your clothes, an interwoven mess on the living room floor.

I still love you, you think, helplessly. I fucking love you, Ben.

And you don’t need to say anything. Because he already knows. He knows.

And he feels it, too. 

[authorazumarill]

Hey so remember that one anon that asked what Archie and Maxie would do if they worked in a mall? Yeah, well, I made a one shot because I liked the idea and wanted to make our lord and savior Paul Blart proud in less then 3,000 words

"You're going to end up getting someone killed if you keep on ignoring your duties, you know that, right?"

Archie could only roll his eyes at such a blunt and completely false claim.

"Relax, Max. I know how to do my job just fine. You gotta put a lil' more faith in me."

"Then why are you always hanging around my store and not patrolling the other parts of the mall, you know, like how a security guard should?" Maxie countered, leaning against the glass display that protected dazzling gem stones attached to golden chains.

"Simple logic. All the big names jewelry stores in this place have their own types of security. That, and there's more security guards in this place than just lil' ol' me. A small, family shop is more likely to be robbed than that fuckin' 'Every kiss begins with Kay' place."

"And if something like that were to every occur, which it won't mind you, I can take care of myself. My mother can take care of herself. We don't need someone to barge into our lives in the hopes of being our knight in shining armor." At this point Maxie couldn't have this conversation with hellfire in his voice like he used to. Instead, he raised his hand to cover his mouth as he yawned. The mall was twenty minutes from closing and it was wedding/anniversary season, so people were coming in all day in the hopes of finding the perfect gift for their significant others. He has been dealing with moronic men all day. It didn't look like he was going to get a break any time soon.

"Hey now. I'm not sayin' I want something bad to happen to your store. I'm just sayin' that I'll be here just in case somethin' does happen to your store." Archie shrugged and pushed himself off of the display case. "Y'know there's been a lotta talk 'bout some Team Rocket assholes runnin' around Hoenn as of late."

"And if any of them come here they will be met with a cranky Camerupt. You're about to meet the same fate. Leave," Maxie said boredly. Archie could tell that the poor man could practically go to sleep right here and now. He very well could since there wasn't a soul in this wing of the mall at this time on a Wednesday night. Wednesdays were always rather dead in the mall to begin with. Who goes out on Wednesdays? No one, apparently.

"Fine, fine. I can take a hint." Archie took a single step forward before turning around to meet Maxie again, prompting the other man to groan in frustration. "But I got a proposition for ya."

"If I hear you out will you leave?"

"Yep."

"What."

"If I ever have to come and save your ass, you have to treat me to lunch."

"No. Bye."

Honestly, Archie should have seen that one coming. He did see it coming but that didn't mean the dismissal hurt any less. "Alright, alright, fine. I'll leave ya alone, cranky ass. I gotta make my rounds anyway," he grumbled. Much to Maxie's delight, Archie left the store.

Archie understood pretty well that he was really blunt and not subtle at all by spending all of his time near Madeline's, a jewelry store ran by a Kalosian who didn't have a firm grasp on the Hoenn language and her son, who could tell anyone to "fuck off" in at least eight languages at this point. Madeline herself was a delight to be around. She was so sweet and nice. Despite the language barrier, she always tried to give Archie a compliment every time she saw him. Maxie, on the other hand, was her complete opposite. He wanted nothing more than for his mother to stop being so friendly so Maxie could finally go a day without seeing Archie's face, but even without her involvement Archie still found himself bugging the tired sales manager as if it was his favorite pass time, which it was. Now, Archie was no creep. He could understand "no" just fine. However, being able to release some of the pent up anger Maxie felt toward some of his customers toward a man with bulletproof skin seemed to help him out a lot. Over the months Archie has seen the man go from being on the verge of throwing a man out a window to being moderately annoyed with the world at worst.

Archie whistled a tune as he walked down the lightly populated tiled floors. He had to say, he did have a fun job sometimes. He was always a fan of breaking people up in fights. Most of what he dealt with was petty theft. When he could turn a blind eye on it he did, but that didn't mean he always could. With ten more minutes until closing time, a lady made the announcement over the intercom and some of the smaller stores were already beginning to close up shop. People were beginning to head toward the doors and he had to poke a gentleman sitting in one of the mall benches to wake him up.

Finally, the closing announcement was made and he could feel such a relief wash over all of the workers ready to go home. His fellow security guards were calling in, telling the others that their section was clear. After doing a quick check of the shops in his section Archie was able to give his all clear as well.

Archie himself only had two more hours before he could call it quits for the night. He wasn't on night watch, after all. He shouldn't even be staying this late to begin with. He was covering for one of his buddies who called in sick when in reality he was on a date with a cute girl who worked in one of the tech accessories stores. If Archie wasn't such a bro he would be home right now eating a TV dinner and watching a Kalosian film. He has been picking up on a few phrases by hearing them over and over again. Madeline gets absolutely thrilled when he butchers her language. He's at least trying and Madeline knows that. It's more than what everyone else has done.

An hour after closing proved to be just as boring as he remembered when he was regularly stuck on the night shift. Only a few store owners were left in the building. Madeline's was locked up with a barred wall behind the door, but Archie could still see a light on in the back. Maxie must still be in. Archie stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.

This was going to be a long night.

He whistled as he walked past Madeline's and down the now dimly lit section of the mall. The mannequins in the windows would be the only thing remotely human he sees until the end of his shift. It was possible that he could run into one of the other security guards, but knowing them they're probably just standing around in one spot, watching the monitors, or asleep. All of those actually sounded like good ideas, but Archie also liked to get his exercise in. Tonight's shift is cutting in with his home workout routine.

Right as he was thinking this was going to be a boring night, he heard barking followed by the crashing of metal. His head immediately whipped over to the sound. There was clearly something going on here. Without much hesitation, he threw out his own Mightyena who immediately pounced on him, wanting some love after being cooped up in a ball all day. Archie sputtered but still ruffled the creature's fur before pushing him away.

"You'll get to go home and eat here in a while. Right now we got a battle to win. Probably. I'm not entirely for sure what's goin' on, ol' boy. Let's go."

Following orders, Mightyena charged ahead of him. His happy release quickly faded as bared teeth and pointed ears became apparent on his features. The sounds weren't close to him, but they did sound like it was in his section.

And Madeline's was at the very edge of his section.

Not bothering to call for backup, Archie ran with Mightyena only to see that his suspicions were correct. The barred wall that protected Madeline's was ripped apart thanks to an aggressive looking Arcanine and Arbok. Two men clad in black stood in front of the store. A large red "R" was the only color their uniforms held. They no doubt would have been in the store already if it weren't for a Camerupt, Mightyena, and a very angry red head blocking their path. Between the three of them, the skinny man in the middle was the one to be feared the most. He was wearing his coat so it looked like he was getting ready to go home. Any person who takes the bliss of leaving for the day away from Maxie is a dead man.

Without taking an order, Archie's Mightyena leaped into the standstill, initiating the battle by lunging for the Arcanine's neck. Maxie grit his teeth and ordered for his Pokemon to attack while the men were surprised with the sudden Pokemon attack.

Archie was quick to move to Maxie's side. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. I can't say the same for the front of my store though," he grumbled and shouted another order for his Pokemon to follow. Camerupt was making quick work on the Arbok while the Mightyenas were going after the Arcanine. The Arcanine was much larger than the two of them combined, but it couldn't keep up with defending all of its sides. One Mightyena would take the hit from the enemy Pokemon while the other would lunge in attack.

"Arcanine, forget them!" the taller of the grunts shouted. "Use Take Down on those bastards!"

With a mighty roar, the large Pokemon charged right into Archie's Mightyena, knocking the Pokemon off to the side, but it didn't stop there. It kept on charging in Archie and Maxie's direction. Even though Maxie was a mere second away from jumping out of the way, Archie grabbed his wrist and threw them out of the path of danger. They slammed into the floor and Archie was quick to shield Maxie from the shattered glass and other falling debris as the Arcanine kept going and slammed in the remains of the front of the store. Archie could feel his chest burning, not from something stupid like injuries or emotions, but rather, from the rage radiating from Maxie's body. The man was quick to push himself out of Archie's grip and got back on his feet.

"I hope you two are ready to face the consequences for messing with me, the great Maxie!"

"Cocky bastard!" the shorter of the grunts shouted back. "We'll be taking what we want, including the keystones you got!"

"Keystones?" Archie mumbled under his breath, shaking the glass from his back. Surely they weren't talking about the keystones that could trigger a mega-evolution. Not only were they rare, but they were also illegal for anyone other than government and research facilities as well as skilled trainers to posses. Why would they think Maxie had something like that?

Unless...

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. What I do know is that you two will meet your maker tonight. Camerupt-!" Steam blew out of Camerupt's nostrils as lava erupted from his back. The grunts were barely able to miss the attack. Archie got back on his feet just in time for a flash of fire to catch the corner of his eye. Maxie's back was turned to the still threatening Arcanine. Fire covered its fangs.

Letting his instincts take over, Archie shoved Maxie to the ground. He was on his way down to do gravity's bidding as well, but sharp, burning fangs buried themselves into Archie's shoulder before the large creature tossed him around like a ragdoll. Now, Archie liked to pride himself on his macho manly man toughness, but the pain was enough to make him shout in anguish.

"Archie!" Maxie shouted. Instead of staying down and watching with fear, he quickly grabbed a piece of metal debris and got to his feet. His mother must have known what she was doing when she signed him up for baseball as a child even though he hated everything about the sport. He twisted his hips and smashed the metal against Arcanine's face, forcing it to release Archie and stagger backward, only to be met with Maxie's snarling Mightyena.

Archie hissed in pain as he held his wound. Blood was quickly soaking his dark shirt. The world was fuzzy and he wasn't entirely for sure if he blacked out for a few seconds. One moment they were dealing with a vicious Arcanine, the next it was gone and the grunts were making a break for it. He could have sworn that he was standing too, but he soon became aware of his kneeling state. Maxie's hand on his not injured shoulder was probably the only thing that kept his upright.

"Archie! Archie, stay with me here," Maxie demanded as he patted Archie's cheek in the hopes it would prevent him from blacking out for another few seconds. His normal, irritated eyes were instead showing concern in the most extreme way possible.

"Team Rocket..." Archie mumbled, trying to get back on his feet but Maxie's hand kept him down.

"One of your fellow security guards is currently chasing them with a Manectric. Don't worry about them. Focus on me like you always seem to do," Maxie said and snapped his fingers in front of Archie's face just to make sure he had the man's attention.

"You're actually givin' me permission?"

"You better not waste it."

Maxie whistled and a brief moment later Archie felt a warm and fuzzy beast by his side. Maxie forced him down into a sitting position, leaning him against Camerupt's overly warm side. Archie tried to protest and get back on his feet, but Maxie was persistent.

"Stay down," he ordered. "You don't need to be moving with that injury."

"What? With this lil' scratch?" Archie tried to laugh, but the slight movement was enough to make him wince in pain. He doesn't think he's felt a pain like this since the attack that lead to him getting an "X" shaped scar on his face.

Maxie bit the bottom of his lip as he rapidly thought about what to do next. He tugged off his coat and pressed it against the wound, causing Archie to shout in pain again despite his macho manly man wishes.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, but it will help the bleeding while we wait for an ambulance. At least, I hope it does."

"Ambulance? I don't need a damn-" Archie was quick to cut himself off when he caught Maxie's glare. Without leaving his side, Maxie pulled out his PokeNav and explained the situation to the operator on the other end before ending the call. He looked to Archie, then over at his completely destroyed store. At least they had good insurance, he kept on telling himself.

"So," Archie started, wincing as he readjusted himself, "what's all this talk 'bout keystones?"

"I'm just as curious as you are," Maxie replied coolly. "As much as I've dreamed about it, I have never seen a keystone up close and in person, let alone sell them in bulk. Besides, my mother would kill me if I were to use our store for illegal activities like that."

Honestly, Archie didn't have a reason to doubt Maxie. He was cold and liked to keep his distance, sure, but he has always been an honest man that customers trust. Archie wouldn't like him if he didn't have that quality to him. "Well...maybe we could theorize this shit over lunch sometime?" he offered because now was as good a time as ever. Maxie seemed taken aback.

"Is now really the time to be asking me out?"

"Well, I did have that proposition earlier today."

"Which I turned down. Besides, I think I did most of the work in protecting my store, thank you very much." Archie wasn't going to dispute that because Maxie was right. He didn't really do much to help in the fight other than throw himself in harm's way just to protect the man not once, but twice. Yep. Archie didn't do shit. He actually felt kind of offended at the claim.

However, he did notice Maxie's face soften up a little bit. "But...I'm sure that you will be given some time off to recover. Perhaps instead of lunch we can get dinner sometime when I have all of this mess sorted out?" he suggested, vaguely gesturing to the remains of his store.

Now it was Archie time to be taken aback, but he was quick to recover from his shock and smirked. "Sounds like a deal to me. Just please don't make me shake on it."

"I have enough of your moronic blood on me. I wasn't going to."

[lichlover]

it is the nature of dreams to end

The rules of Fate are as follows: Soulmates are born with each other’s last words on their bodies. When they find each other, they know, as simply and intrinsically as a law of the universe itself.

In this world, there might just be an exception.

In another world, there are no exceptions.

“Have you ever looked?” Taako asks him.

They’re sitting across from each other at a restaurant just pretentious enough to suit their tastes, picking over some sparse-looking appetizers and sharing the odd critique. Right now, it’s the garnishes, feathery and orange and vaguely tentacle-shaped (which, of course, had spurred immediate teasing as soon as Kravitz made the mistake of pointing it out). They sit unsettlingly at the corner of Kravitz’s plate as he pushes his fork into an oddly hued fruit slice, although the prospect is abandoned when Taako speaks. His eyes don’t quite meet Kravitz’s. They’re trained on the space beneath, singling out each thin eyelash one by one. There’s nothing in his voice to suggest anything other than a casual curiosity as he says, “Y’know. At somebody else’s, I mean.”

There’s nothing casual about the question itself, and they both know that, but Kravitz keeps his tone offhand as he says, “A couple times. You?”

“Once,” says Taako, and then, “just for kicks. We were drunk and getting super morbid, I think. That was, uh… that was it.”

“Huh,” is all Kravitz says. Their conversation falters as the waiter arrives with their entrées, and he takes a sip from the wine they’d decided on solely for its absurd price. It’s nowhere near as good as anything of that expense should be.

He’s grown comfortable in their silence, which is something he never supposed he’d do with anyone—then again, this isn’t the first time Taako’s shaken up his entire world. Even this, their first date night in the aftermath of Story and Song, is almost too far-fetched to believe if he thinks about it too much. (Because if he thinks about it, he thinks about how there is no day and night in the astral plane; only the Raven Queen’s enormous sundial casting a shadow where there should be none.)

And yet here they are, passing the salt without having to ask; making fun of the waiter’s absurdly long coattails; coming up with stories about the patrons around them. They’ve decided that the couple opposite them is a pair of long-lost lovers separated by wartime (Kravitz’s idea) and their differing opinions on whether pineapple belongs on pizza (Taako’s, which he’d proposed while looking Kravitz directly in the eye). Every so often Taako tips his chair back on two legs and breaks into light, ridiculous laughter, or recounts a story to Kravitz just above socially acceptable volume, and earns them the critical stares of the lovers, among others. Kravitz can’t bring himself to give a damn.

He’s idling in the residual quiet, wondering exactly how overzealous garnishes are allowed to be, when Taako says, “I wanna make a pact.”

Kravitz pauses with a forkful of entrée halfway to his mouth. “Oh?”

Taako’s gaze ricochets off his and hits the ceiling, which is when Kravitz knows this is serious. “Oh, y’know,” he says airily, gesturing with a glass dangerously full of wine. “Something—iunno, pact makes it sound really—real serious. Not what I meant. Just, uh, that we don’t look. Not until we’re ready.”

If we make it that far. It goes unsaid, but they acknowledge it without a word.

After a pause, Kravitz says, “You know, it’s funny that—well, whoever mine was, they’re long gone, obviously.”

“Yeah,” says Taako, and reaches for his wineglass. “Ain’t that a trip?”

(He remembers sitting in a classroom, listening to a teacher speak in the native cadence of their region because back then, Common was taught as a secondary language.

“Does everyone know what soulmates are?” she says.

The girl next to Kravitz raises her hand. She has long hair and tapered ears and has lived for about as long as his mother and father. “Someone you spend your whole life with,” she says.

The teacher nods. “Most of you have words on your arm,” she continues. “If you do, it means you have a soulmate, that person who you’ll spend the rest of your life with.”

“That means you’re gonna fall in love,” someone whispers behind him, and the classroom breaks into nervous giggling and a few disgusted squeals.

“No,” says the teacher, with a smile twitching at her lips. “Not necessarily. They might just be your best friend forever, and you’ll still be soulmates. Now, who can tell me what those words mean?”

Kravitz raises his hand. “They’re your soulmate’s last words to you,” he says, because he’s heard it from the priestesses at the Temple of the Raven Queen, who tell him it’s not something he has to worry about just yet. The concept of last words to him is nebulous at best, because words don’t end, as far as he knows. He supposes he’ll find out when he’s older.

At the head of the classroom, the teacher nods again, this time in his direction. “It’s a very special thing,” she says, “because Fate is trusting us to find our soulmates on our own. If those words are your soulmate’s last, you’re not going to know until then, right? So you need to treasure every moment you have with the people in your life. Put your faith in yourself, and sooner or later, the words won’t matter. You’ll know.”)

Nearly a month after that night, Taako pushes Kravitz back against the wall of their lavish bedroom and kisses him so hard he sees stars. Kravitz’s hands slide through Taako’s hair and tug at his scalp, prompting a low moan that he feels against his spine, and in the hollow of his stomach, and everywhere. He curls his hands around Taako’s hips and tugs him closer, because they can never be close enough—because his heart is throbbing and his breath is stuttering in his throat, and it might be because Kravitz’s body is out of practice, but it also might be because of Taako. If so, this is a thing he’s going to have to get used to. (He’s perfectly alright with that.)

The moment envelops him and blurs the world around him into a haze of color and heat, and he thinks Taako might have said something, but it immediately falls victim to his fogged-up brain. And then Taako steels himself against him and pulls away, lips parted and gaze half-lidded as he meets Kravitz’s eyes.

“Don’t—don’t make a big deal, okay?” he says, and his voice is satisfyingly hoarse as it skirts Kravitz’s jaw in a rush of hot air. “But I think—I think, uh—I think I’m ready.”

“Oh,” says Kravitz, softly. “You sure?”

“Yes, I—” He scoffs, which is his go-to move to cover a break in his voice. Kravitz doesn’t say anything. “Of course.”

It’s just as casual as his question from so many weeks before, but Taako’s ears are pulled almost flat against his head. Kravitz reaches up and thumbs over his cheek, and with a pleased little rumble, Taako leans into the touch.

“Only if you’re sure,” he murmurs.

Taako looks at him steadily. “I’m sure, Kravitz.”

“Okay, then. I guess, uh…” Somehow he’d expected this moment to come with more fanfare. In the past, there was always an aspect of pomp and circumstance—some grand gesture, a proposal, a long and thoroughly emotional conversation. (And yet this fits them better than anything Kravitz could imagine.) “On three?”

“On three,” Taako agrees.

Kravitz starts to say, “One, two—” just as Taako says, “Three, two—” and then, “Whoops, shit.” He titters, bright and full of anxiety, and shifts his weight where they stand. “Uh, you count.”

“Taako, are you sure you’re—”

Taako yanks up his sleeve, and without thinking, Kravitz does the same. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and when they do, he can barely make out the tiny words printed on Taako’s forearm. What tumbles from his mouth, absent any sort of a filter, is, “It’s in Common.”

“Really? Elvish for ch’boy.” He rattles off the familiarly melodic phrase with ease. “Kinda saw it and thought, damn, that’s—that’s just a cop out, universe didn’t even try with that one. Alright, c’mere, I can’t fuckin’ see.”

Kravitz wants to say something. He doesn’t, because his mind goes blank as Taako snatches his wrist and pulls it close to his face. He doesn’t and he regrets it as soon as Taako says, in the smallest voice he’s ever heard from him, “Oh.”

The silence between them hangs heavier and more uncomfortable than ever before.

“Well, that’s—that’s funny, huh?” he says, at last. “What’re the odds?”

“Pretty good, I expect. I mean, I love you isn’t exactly a weird thing to say to your soulmate.”

“Neither is, uh… I love you too,” says Taako. His ears start to loosen and relax back into their neutral positions. “Okay, well, uh… cool. Now we know.”

Kravitz takes a deep and entirely unnecessary breath. “Now we know.”

His boyfriend sighs, pushing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Well, fucking hell, that was a real mood killer, wasn’t it? Leave it to my dumb ass.” He leans forward, into Kravitz’s chest, flicking his ear against the tailored lines of Kravitz’s jacket. “Gods damn it. Not gonna lie, I was really—super lookin’ forward to getting laid tonight.”

“That’s obvious enough,” Kravitz teases, and Taako’s ear swats his sternum.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles. “Next—uh, next best thing, then. Fantasy Chopped marathon?”

“With homemade popcorn?”

“You’re such a spoiled brat,” he says, affectionately. “Maybe if you carry me to the family room, because ain’t no way Taako’s getting up from this.”

Kravitz raises an eyebrow. “Who’s the spoiled brat now?”

“What did I say? Shut up.”

(The first time he shows anyone is on a dare. It’s early summer, just as their final year of secondary school is winding to a close, and she’s sitting next to him on the swings. Where they go next won’t have any swings. Kravitz is savoring the moment.

The girl’s tapered ears flick as she says, “Bet you ten gold you won’t show me.”

Kravitz snorts. “You don’t have that kind of money.”

“Yeah?” She reaches into her pocket and retrieves a velvet pouch, then tugs on its drawstring. Kravitz just barely catches a glimpse of something warm and glittering before she yanks it shut again and stares him down. They’ve all grown a little apathetic, which he’s told is one of the developments of adolescence, but she’s mastered the art of expression without actually expressing anything. “I’m not a fuckin’ liar.”

“Where’d you even get that?”

“That’s for me to know,” she says, “and you to find out. Anyway, you won’t, because you’re not gonna show me.”

“Really?” says Kravitz. “You’re on. Ten gold says you won’t show me.”

The girl shrugs. “You first.”

He pulls up his sleeve and thrusts his forearm at her. She gives no indication of surprise other than a nearly imperceptible widening of her eyes, but that’s enough for Kravitz. “Ten gold,” he says. “I win!”

She keeps looking at his mark with a slightly critical furrow to her brow, and his heart unexpectedly leaps into his mouth. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says. “That’s just really sappy.”

“Gross,” says Kravitz, with feeling. “Anyway, pay up.”

She shrugs again, rifles through the pouch, and picks ten coins out of it. Kravitz takes them with a triumphant grin and weighs them in his palm. “And I think you owe me another ten, right?”

She doesn’t say anything. Then, in a flash, she turns her arm to expose the underside and shoves her sleeve up, revealing the tiny set of words that sit darkly against her skin. Kravitz nearly falls off the swing. “What the hell! It was just ten gold!”

“My ten gold,” says the girl, and holds out her hand. “Looks like you’ve got just enough to pay me.”

He groans, and does, and can’t help but steal a glance at her mark as he sits forward. It’s scribed in the elegant whorls and Runic angles of Elvish, which he can read, of course; the half of his family that speaks it had made it a point to teach him as soon as possible.

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“I dunno,” she says. “I’ll know, I guess.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, and then he says, “This wasn’t—uh, you weren’t—?”

“Dude, no,” says the girl. “You wish I was into guys.”

He smirks. “You wish I was into girls.”

She doesn’t respond, but her mouth twitches.)

The credits are rolling on their fourth episode. Next to him, tucked into Kravitz’s side, Taako’s eyelashes flutter as he shifts blearily and blinks at the light of their projector—Miller issue, of course, with a world saviors’ discount.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is thick with sleep. “ ’S… ’s really weird, ’bout the whole… soulmate thing.”

Kravitz’s gaze snaps to him, although he doesn’t look any more conscious than he’s been for the past half an hour. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Taako murmurs. “You said, uh… you said ’ey’re dead, right?”

“Who?”

“Your soulmate.”

“Dead and gone.” Kravitz gives a thin smile. “One of the perks of immortality, I’m afraid.”

Taako shifts again, burrowing into the crook of his arm. “Mm,” is all he says. “ ’S what I thought.”

Of course his soulmate is dead. Kravitz’s circumstances are nowhere near normal—he’s met Fate, luminous and ethereal and arm in arm with his Queen, and knows her jurisdiction no longer applies to him. His mark is a remnant of his former self; nothing more. (It’s the closest thing to cruelty he’d ever dare accuse the gods of.)

It is funny, in the sad way that these sorts of things are, because the odds of them bearing similar soulmarks are nothing special. The odds of them bearing similar soulmarks and meeting in the way they had, crossing planes to establish a rapport—those have to be astronomical. Kravitz has to admit it does sound a little like Fate at work.

But that doesn’t matter, he thinks, carding a hand through Taako’s hair and relishing the tiny purr he gets in return. His soulmate is dead, and besides, Taako isn’t the type to say I love you.

(Kravitz’s peers grow up and blossom into beautiful, spirited souls, chasing after each other and comparing last words, trading romanticisms like overpriced wares.

Compared to them, he dies young.)

Taako walks in while Kravitz is sitting at the piano, improvising a wandering melody to take his mind off the paperwork waiting for him at the office. Knowing Lup and Barry, about half of it has been (accidentally or not) burned to a crisp, and the rest is just missing altogether. He knows he’ll find it bookmarking large, ominous tomes that look like they belong at an attempted resurrection. Knowing Barry, he will admit, they probably do.

His fiancé sets an enormous box on the coffee table. Kravitz recognizes it, of course, overflowing with glossy wedding magazines and seating plans and invitation lists more intimidating than the attendees of the monthly ethereal plane poker night. He’s surveyed them all one too many times.

Still, that doesn’t keep him from halting the melody mid-crescendo to say, “What’s that for, love?”

“Looking for somethin’,” is Taako’s muttered response as he digs through the box, flinging aside outdated articles about seasonal color palettes. He gets up to his elbows, shouts, “Aha!” and pulls a bit of stationary out with a flourish. It’s accompanied by a thin layer of dust, which flies into the air and makes Kravitz sneeze.

“Taako,” he says, blinking tears out of his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Taako wags a finger at him. “Top-secret vows shit. Restricted access, my man. This—it’s gonna hit you like the Rockport Limited. Oops,” he interjects, and snickers. “Too soon. Anyway, you, uh… you dropping the L-bomb in yours?”

The question falls nonchalantly from Taako’s mouth and hits the carpet. Kravitz stares at it as he fishes for a response. “What happened to restricted access?” he says, and looks up, and Taako is fidgeting. He’s leaning from side to side and drumming out a rhythm on the stationary, which wobbles under his assault.

Something is wrong, or is about to be.

“Oh, uh—” He so rarely allows himself to show discomfort, even around Kravitz, who’s seen him at his worst and maddeningly best. Right then, Taako looks as if someone’s trapped him in his own skin. “Nothing. Nothing, it’s just, uh… I thought we should probably, uh. Avoid that.”

Kravitz’s defunct heart is ready to plummet until Taako holds up his forearm. The mark is in plain view, as it so often is when they’re together; they have very few secrets from each other, now. “Y’know,” he says, and offers Kravitz a placating, distinctly uneasy grin. “Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Kravitz echoes, and returns the smile as best he can. “That’s… that’s fine.”

“Yeah. Uh. Except it’s—fuck, Krav, it’s not.” Taako sighs and tries to push a hand through his hair, snags it in his braid, and curses under his breath. “We have the most ridiculous fuckin’ marks in the plane. And it’s not—I don’t—forget about actually saying the words for a sec, don’t you ever get paranoid?”

Kravitz blanches, not because the outburst is unexpected—spontaneity is kind of Taako’s thing—but because he’s talking like Kravitz has never thought about this. “Of course I do,” he says, and can’t keep the sharp edge from bleeding through his voice. “I don’t want to scare you, and honestly, I don’t want to scare myself, and if that means never saying the words, that’s just—that’s how it’s got to be.”

He expects Taako to shoot back with I never said I’d say them, or something along those lines. Instead, his fiancé says, “We should figure out some sorta alternative.”

“What?”

“Like an alternative, to—to the words. Y’know.” Taako’s fidgeting is getting worse. He’s starting to wrinkle the stationary between his fingers.

But the answer is so simple, so glaringly obvious, that Kravitz almost forgets to say it aloud. “That’s it.”

Taako stops short of tearing the paper in half. “That’s what?”

“That’s what we’ll use. You know.”

“You know,” he repeats. “And the other—uh, the other person would say…”

“I know,” says Kravitz.

He releases a shaky breath. “Yeah, okay. That works.”

The silence only lasts another few seconds before Taako crosses the space, turns on his heel, and leans back on the body of the piano. He’s almost completely turned away from Kravitz, but his ear is pulled back and set at a tiny decline, and the paper crumples softly in his hand as he says, “Way to, uh—way to overreact, huh? On—on my end, I mean?”

Kravitz raises an eyebrow, even though he knows Taako won’t be able to see it. He’s sure it’ll come through in his voice nonetheless. “You want to tell me you were overreacting, and I won’t, because you weren’t. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“Fuck off,” says Taako, by which Kravitz knows he means the opposite. “I was. Doesn’t even matter. I’m just—iunno, in a weird mood, I guess.”

After a certain point, Kravitz has decided, there’s no point in countering Taako’s objections. He just hums and turns his attention back to the keys; taps out a few short, high-flying stanzas from a piece he’d composed a few months back. The notes resurface easily in his mind, as do the sudden, staccato motifs and the unexpected changes in tempo. It’s all committed to memory, of course, which he supposes is appropriate. Taako, as he’d titled it, has always been unforgettable.

It does take a few moments, but as he follows a chord progression, Taako tips his head with feigned nonchalance. “That sounds familiar.”

“As it should,” Kravitz says, and continues to play.

He’s started to fall headlong into the music when Taako’s arms encircle his shoulders and his chin presses into Kravitz’s head. “Y’know something?” he says. “This soulmate shit is exhausting. I mean, we’re so—so fucked over in that regard. Yours is dead, mine’s probably in another plane—makes sense Fate would get it all tangled.”

From where it rests on Taako’s wrist, a finely woven, iridescent cuff heats up just enough for Kravitz to feel it through his shirt. His fiancé swears and shoots a glance at the ceiling. “No, uh… no shade, Lady Iz.”

Kravitz skims toward lower octaves, slipping into something richer and more languid, untitled. He closes his eyes against the melody and Taako’s warmth. “So we’re the exception to the rule. There’s always got to be one.”

“Says you, Mr. Law Enforcement.”

The astral plane won’t hold it against him for smiling at that. “Okay, I walked right into that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Taako murmurs, and presses a little closer, tucking his fingers into Kravitz’s lapels. “Anyway, you, uh… you’re right, my man. Doesn’t matter how strict you wanna be about it. There’s always gotta be an exception.”

(“I’m worried no one else will have me,” he says, and he says it so matter-of-factly, like he has always known it.

It says something about Kravitz that through the haze of wine and disbelief, with something like a heartbeat fluttering in his chest, he looks at Taako and thinks, I will, I will, I will.)

It’s in the heady, unfiltered seconds after their kiss, with petals fluttering around them and Taako’s veil snagging on Kravitz’s jacket, and the uproarious cheering of their family rising around them.

“Hey,” his husband—his husband—whispers. “You know?”

“Yes,” says Kravitz, breathless, because the world works in mysterious ways. “Yes, I know.”

(“So, like, here’s the deal,” Lup says.

She has a way of dominating the space that Kravitz isn’t quite used to, but feels like he should be. Whereas Taako dominates the room, Lup is the room. She makes it up with every fiber of her bright, enormous personality and, in this case, makes Kravitz feel rather like he’s standing next to a small sun. Her heels rest against their thick, colorful carpet as she says, “You’re gonna marry my brother, and that’s great. You’re also my boss, and that’s great! But neither of those two facts of the universe are going to keep me from fucking you up if you hurt him, at all, whatsoever. Capisce?”

“I—I understand,” says Kravitz, because there is no other acceptable answer.

“Great.” She folds her hands behind her head and fixes him with a radiant grin. “In that case, I think we’re gonna get along just great. ’Bout time Taako’s soulmate made him an honest man, am I right?”

Kravitz blinks. Another habit he’s picked up from the living. “Taako’s… soulmate.”

“Uh, yeah. No duh, Skeletor. You two seen yourselves lately? I mean, I get if you’re not into labels, I just gotta call ’em like I see ’em.” Lup smirks. “Oh, man. Soulmate. I just got that. You see? Too perfect.”

“We’re not…” It surges like an impulse in his throat and breaks off halfway past his lips. “You didn’t know we’re not—?”

Lup arches an eyebrow. “Not soulmates?”

“Well—well, no,” he says, hurriedly. “It’s not that—I mean, I love him, and everything, but that isn’t how this works. I’m a bounty hunter for the Raven Queen, and I have been for a long time, and I know my soulmate’s dead. They have to be. And Taako’s from a different plane, which means wherever his soulmate is, they’re definitely not here. And we’re okay with that. We’ve talked about it. I don’t, uh… I didn’t want to be presumptuous, I’m just surprised he’s never mentioned it to you before.”

Her silence is almost worse than Taako’s. It’s tense and contemplative and Kravitz rocks forward on the balls of his feet, debating over whether or not he should say something, or if he’s earned it at all.

“That’s… interesting,” she says, finally. “He, uh, he avoids talk about capital-E emotions like the plague, you know, so I guess I sort of assumed. But I do have to ask, Kravitz—you never considered the possibility that you two might be soulmates anyway? Regardless of all the crazy shit we’ve been through?”

“Soulmates are decided at birth,” says Kravitz. “That wouldn’t even be possible.”

Lup just shrugs. “Stranger things, Ghost Rider. Anyway, it’s none of my business. Taako makes his own decisions. He’s a competent—okay, no. He’s an adult. But that’s good enough for me.”

He looks at her. Unlike him, she hasn’t once dropped her gaze. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you and Barry…?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, before he can finish. “Absolutely.”

“When did you know?”

Her grin shifts into a softer, more sentimental smile. “Oh, man. Took me a hell of a lot longer than it should’ve. But it’s like they teach, right? You just kinda know when you know. And, uh, I will say, a half century of science and sexual tension doesn’t hurt.”

Kravitz does manage to muster a laugh at that, although it falls short and shallow in his chest. “I didn’t want to be nosy.”

“Nah, you’re cool.” Lup rolls her neck back, then levels her stare at him again. “You know something? It suits you two. This whole defying Fate thing. Not that I’m into rebelling against Her Majesty’s gal pal, but—you get the idea.”

“We’re not really rebelling against anything.” Kravitz glances at the ceiling and thinks perish the thought, just for good measure.

“Maybe,” says Lup. “Definitely six feet deep in denial, if you ask me.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she chirps, and doesn’t say another word.)

With a telltale crackle of ozone, Taako’s glamour settles into place. Kravitz almost doesn’t notice, over the hiss of the stove and his radio, which sits on the countertop and plays a soft, upbeat melody, but he knows as soon as the hairs on the back of his neck curl.

Of course, he looks over when Taako spins on his heel, ladle dangling from one hand, and says, “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, of course,” says Kravitz, lightly. His hand is stalled over the handle of a kitchen knife, because they’ve both decided that his proficiency is with chopping vegetables and not much else. “Just as I would’ve answered five minutes ago.”

“Oh, we are so not getting into this today.” The doorbell sounds from across the house, and Taako sets down the ladle and nudges Kravitz. “Keep chopping. Try not to lop any fingers. But if you do, make it—make it, like, a cool thing, okay? ’Cause that would really be… yeah. I’ll be right back.”

He starts toward the doorway, and just like that, the glamour drops. Taako doesn’t seem to notice.

“Taako, your—”

“What? Oh.” He laughs uneasily. “Wouldja look—uh, look at that! Technical difficulties, just be a moment—”

Static electricity snaps and falters through the room. The edge of Kravitz’s knife rests on the cutting board as he watches. He’s nervous, and he’s not sure why. (He does know why. It’s because Taako is nervous, and by extension, Taako is volatile.)

“Fuckin’—” His husband exhales sharply and curls his hands into fists. “I swear this is—this is so weird, it won’t—”

The doorbell rings again, and Taako flinches like he’s been struck.

“It’s not fucking working,” he says. “The glamour.”

Magic is a fickle thing. Kravitz knows, in his case, one misplaced chord can transform a simple charm spell into a warped, inescapable thrall—nevermind what consequences apply right here, right now. He steps forward as Taako’s knuckles whiten. “Have you considered you don’t—”

“Oh, no,” Taako snaps, holding out a finger. “No, I’m gonna—gonna shut that shit down right now, because yes, I fucking need it, Krav, no questions asked. Now shut up and just—fucking help me get this thing working, alright?”

The silence that follows is broken only by the doorbell ringing a third time. Taako sucks in a breath and jerks his head towards the entryway, and it breaks off mid-chime.

“Figures,” he mutters. “Fuckin’… Silence works just fine, just peachy, but when it’s the one thing that matters…”

“Taako, I think you just need to give yourself a moment, alright? You’re nervous about this, that’s okay—”

He scoffs. “Nervous about a family dinner. Yeah, okay, sure. That—that checks out.”

“Your first family dinner, with people you care about. You do know this is the sort of thing that people get nervous about, right? You know how completely normal this is?”

“Normal,” says Taako. “Now you’re just trying to insult me.” But his hands uncurl and hang loosely at his sides, and his breath evens, and the air thickens. Magic congeals around Taako, much slower than it should, and the glamour settles back into place.

“Finally,” he whispers, just as something hits the wall with a bone-rattling crash.

Kravitz and Taako whirl around as one, and through the entryway comes a faint but aggravated shouting. “We’re coming!” someone yells. “Hang in there, you two!”

“You—you fucking—that’s my door, Magnus, are you serious—”

“You weren’t answering—”

“I was in the middle of something—”

Taako storms into the living room, whipping out his wand and brandishing it at a dust-coated, sheepish-looking Magnus. He glances back at Kravitz only once, just briefly enough to be altogether innocuous. We’re gonna forget this ever happened.

Kravitz gets the message.

(“I’m worried about him,” says Kravitz, and it sounds like a confessional. Everything does in the presence of a goddess.

YOU LOVE HIM, says the Raven Queen, Spinner of Fate and Patron of Winter, Hellraiser of Shadowfell. IT IS UNDERSTANDABLE.

The astral plane is quiet. He suspects it’s something about her domain; the way she can command it from thousands of souls with a cursory glance. For lack of better phrasing, she is quieting the dead for him. And he knows it’s her way of being helpful, in the only way a divine entity can be, but his words are weighing too heavily in the silence.

“He just—it’s little things, but he struggles sometimes and he won’t let me help. At first I thought they were just quirks, but they’re clearly… not.” Kravitz releases a breath that’s somehow trapped itself in his chest. There is no oxygen here. “And he brushes them off like they’re nothing, and I feel like I just have to stand there and—and put up with it. I don’t want to do that, my Queen, but there’s nothing else I can do. There’s nothing else he’ll let me do.”

HE HAS LED MANY UNCONVENTIONAL LIVES.

Kravitz gives a humorless chuckle. “That’s for sure.”

HAVE YOU… PROPOSED A SHARING OF EMOTIONS? The Raven Queen’s feathers shift as she peers thoughtfully down at him. Her stare is an awe-inspiring thing when it catches unruly souls in its grasp, but its fixation on him feels more like a spotlight he can’t escape. CLEAR THE AIR, AS THE MORTALS SAY? IF YOUR SOULS ARE DISHARMONIC—

“That’s irrelevant, your Eminence. We’re not soulmates.”

—SUCH IS MY OBSERVATION, she continues. YOU WOULD BE WISE TO TAKE IT INTO ACCOUNT.

He sighs. Another unnecessary indulgence. “I know. I… didn’t mean any disrespect.”

I KNOW, MY CHILD, she says, and her shadow over him is stark but momentary reprieve. SOMETHING ELSE IS TROUBLING YOU. I AM… IN YOUR PRESENCE, IF YOU WOULD CARE TO SPEAK ABOUT IT.

Kravitz looks past her. He looks to the Sea, which is bright and tossed by non-existent wind. The souls are restless, he thinks. Points of light intersect and mingle under the waves.

“How do soulmates find each other?” he says. “After they die, I mean.”

She tips her head. THAT IS AN UNUSUAL QUERY. AND UNRELATED TO YOUR PERSONAL LIFE. WHY DO YOU ASK?

“I’m just curious,” says Kravitz, and he is.

The Raven Queen hums, low and resonant, and the note sends a ripple cascading outward into the Sea. SOMETIMES THEY DO. SOMETIMES THEY DO NOT. FATE AND DEATH MAY WORK HAND IN HAND… Her eyes glow dimly with amusement. BUT ONE DOES NOT HAVE PROVIDENCE OVER THE OTHER.

The Sea glimmers and ebbs, and Kravitz watches it, picking out the waves capped with light and the souls that hang over them like stars. He imagines Taako’s soul, radiant, outshining the others around it. He imagines it descending into the water and straining for the peak of each wave. He imagines it fading, flickering, and letting gravity drag it down.

They call the seafloor Oblivion, and Kravitz has never seen it.

“So they just spend years alone,” he says, distantly. “Just… forever searching.”

I WOULD NOT SAY THAT, the Raven Queen muses. SOULS ARE NEVER ALONE IN THE SEA.

“But you have to admit.” A wave chases after the toe of Kravitz’s boot, and he takes an inadvertent step back. “It—it seems like a terribly lonely thing.”

He knows when she looks at him, because a chill settles across the back of his neck. It’s almost comforting.

YES, she says. YES, I SUPPOSE IT DOES.)

“Ango!” Magnus’s voice booms across the table and nearly knocks the plate of mashed potatoes from Barry’s hands. “How’s nerd school for nerds?”

From where he sits sandwiched between Taako and Lup—an altogether dangerous place to be in any situation—Angus McDonald pushes up his glasses and says, “Junior high school education isn’t nerdy, sir! But it’s, um, it’s going good! We just started our unit on soulmate lore.”

Immediately the room explodes into questions and crosstalk. Family dinners, as Kravitz has learned, tend to do as such, particularly when six of the eight people at the table each have roughly a hundred different stories to tell. Merle scoffs. “Why’re they teaching kids about that shit? What’s the point?”

“Okay, you—you know they teach that as—as early as elementary school, d-did you not have the basic lessons, or something?”

He shoots a guilty grin at Davenport, whose eyebrows are set in an impressive arc. “I, uh… I played hooky a lot as a kid. ’S not important. Kiddos got no business learning about that soulmate nonsense at this age. Now, what they really need is a good botany lesson—”

“Lalalalala!” Magnus plugs his ears just as Lup withdraws her wand. Kravitz honestly can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. Mercifully, either way, Merle shrugs and falls silent.

Taako catches Kravitz’s eye and gives an exaggerated shudder, and he bites back a laugh. “Anyway,” his husband says, “setting aside that—whatever the fuck that was, Agnes, how’s that going? You make any ’a the teachers cry yet?”

“No, sir, I’d prefer not to do that. It’s pretty interesting, actually!” Angus launches into an explanation of soulmates in mythology, and Merle heaves a very obvious sigh, but that doesn’t change the fact that the entire table quiets down to listen. Taako himself is putting a fair amount of work into acting like he’s not paying attention, even though his ears are just noticeably quirked and twitching toward the sound of Angus’s voice. It’s a rare and undeniably endearing thing.

“Y’know, funny thing,” says Barry, when Angus pauses for breath. “There was this case awhile back—this experiment, where a, uh, an arcanist wanted to try and bring back his soulmate from the other side, right? And he actually managed to do it—and, uh, the soulmate was just… mute. Turns out that was a consequence of Fate, right? Couldn’t violate the last-words policy. So that didn’t last very long. But get this! He evaded the authorities long enough to write a paper on his work, and it’s just—oh my gosh, it’s fascinating. I’d recommend the read. Super heavy, but super worth it.”

“Babe,” says Lup, sounding very much like she’s holding back a fit of laughter, just as Kravitz says, “That was definitely illegal—where did you even get that paper?”

Barry suddenly becomes extremely occupied with his mashed potatoes. “I, uh… research. Anti-necromantic research,” he adds hastily, as Kravitz’s eyebrow creeps upward. Lup claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her snickering.

“Anyway,” he continues, thoroughly flustered. “It went into all this detail about how Fate and Death are governed by different sets of rules, and based on what his—uh, what his findings yielded, he figured if the laws of Death can be broken, logically, the laws of Fate can too, right? Doesn’t mean anything’s gonna stick, but there’s gotta be a way to game the system. And soulmates are kinda the most accessible part of that system, so… if there’s a way, it’s through studying them.”

Taako stifles an extremely fake yawn, but Angus looks intrigued, which sets off several alarm bells in Kravitz’s brain. He hopes to goddess the boy’s interest is in soulmates and not necromancy. “That is very interesting! All, of course, um—all hypothetically, right?”

May life, Death, and Fate herself bless Angus McDonald. Barry almost chokes on his mashed potatoes. “Uh—yeah. Absolutely.”

“That’s really something,” Lup says, and she says it so casually, even though Kravitz happens to know she has never been casual in her undeath. “Breaking the laws of Fate and all that. Makes you wonder if it’s already been done, huh?”

And then she glances at him. Fleeting, innocent; anyone looking on wouldn’t think anything of it at all, but that’s the point. It’s a silent, unspoken something that passes between them. He knows exactly what she means.

“Somehow,” he says, to no one in particular, “I don’t think it has.”

(The scene is a familiar one: they’re sitting on the couch, and the projector is winding, and they’re both a little tipsy on Taako™ brand champagne. They’ve just finished watching a film that felt far less sad than it was supposed to be, mostly because Taako had kept leaning in and cracking jokes about the over-acted dialogue, and they’d both ended up in stitches at the emotional climax. A young woman stands on the beach, watching the sunrise, as the credits start to roll.

“Aw, beans,” Taako drawls, half-submerged in blankets. “That was—that was a real bummer, huh?”

“Real bummer,” Kravitz murmurs. The room tilts around him in a silvery haze, and he rests his head gently against the back of the couch and stares up at the dappled ceiling.

His husband sighs and shifts against him as the film’s soundtrack plays softly in the background. The woman is still watching the sun rise. “Y’know something?” he says. “I don’ get why people make shit like this. ’S just… depressing as hell. No fun. Makes no sense.”

“People tell stories about the things that scare them, I suppose.” There are legends of Death that claim it can wear any face it wishes, that the one you love the most will be the one who takes your mortal soul. He’d scoffed at that—the idea that somehow, Death is responsible for the fears and insecurities of the living.

“Yeah,” Taako grumbles, “ ’n that makes no sense. Like, if you’re afraid of somethin’, you don’ talk about it, right? Like—like forgetting, or, uh, bein’ alone or some shit—”

He falls unexpectedly silent. Still clinging to a thin layer of consciousness, Kravitz tilts his head to look over at Taako.

“ ’S stupid,” he finishes, at last.

“It’s not stupid.”

“Fuck’s sake, lemme be drunk ’n unhappy for once, okay?” Taako slouches further into the blankets, effectively trapping his ears between a mass of hair and the layers around him. It occurs to Kravitz that he could be doing that to immobilize them. “Lemme just—mm, oh, life sucks, shit is whack, Fate fuckin’ hates us and we’re all gonna die someday.”

He goes quiet again. Kravitz realizes he can only argue two of those points, and he’s pretty sure Taako doesn’t want him to.

So he lets his eyes unfocus and his gaze drift again to the ceiling, and his eyelids are starting to flutter when Taako says, “You know—uh, you know when I’m gonna die, right?”

As sudden as he can be under the influence of some very potent champagne, Kravitz looks over at Taako once more. “Where did that come from?”

“Just thinkin’. I mean, that’s kinda your job, so I just—you never said anything,” he says, like he can detect the anxiety bubbling in Kravitz’s stomach. “I put the pieces—assembled that puzzle m’self. Makes sense.”

“Well—I don’t, actually,” says Kravitz. “I could know if I wanted to, but I don’t want to.”

Taako looks at him, through the honeyed glaze over his eyes and past the slant of his lower lip.

“Why?” he says.)

One by one, the IPRE dies.

It’s hard not to blame Fate for the way they go, which is to say, just far enough apart to let the wounds heal before someone else’s passing tears them open again.

Kravitz spends one night in the astral plane offices.

He tells Lup he’s working late, and she raises an eyebrow at him, but she doesn’t call him out on it. Instead she says, “It’s been a month.”

“I think today was a bad day.”

“I could drop in and see what’s up—”

“No, I think he wants some time to himself. Nothing against you, of course, he’s just been… mulling over the unfairness of it all. Seeing one of us would probably drive that home, honestly.”

Lup hums. “Yeah, I guess having a reaper swing by during your existential crisis would be pretty rough, huh?”

When Kravitz doesn’t react, she reaches across the desk and nudges him. “Taako needs his space to grieve. You know that. Angus meant a hell of a lot to him—I mean, he meant a lot to everybody, but they were real close. It’s just… it’s hard.”

“What’s hard,” says Kravitz, a little sharper than he means to, “is trying to acknowledge that this isn’t my fault. Death has a mandate, and we fulfilled that, but that doesn’t change the fact that I took Angus’s soul. And everyone else he cares about, if they’re not still living. He’s taking it personal, Lup. I know it’s irrational, and he knows it’s irrational, but grief always is. There’s nothing I can do here other than my job, and it—it’s awful.”

He exhales shakily and remembers seconds too late there’s no reason for him to do so. Lup looks at him and says, “You love him a lot, huh?”

“Of course I do, but that’s not—that’s not the point.”

A look of pure incredulity passes over Lup’s face. “I think it’s exactly the point, Kravitz. You know he’s terrified of being alone, and honestly, it’s gotta suck knowing you’re gonna be the last man standing. Alive,” she adds, as Kravitz opens his mouth to object. “I don’t care how much free access we get around here, this is still hella different from living. Taako’s got a ways to go, and, honestly… I mean, I’m gonna be real for a second, I’m not gonna stick around until he beefs it.”

Kravitz’s head snaps up from where he’d been examining the whorls in his desk. “You’re—”

“Barry and I,” says Lup, and an exhausted smile tugs at her lips. “Fuck it, we were gonna wait to say something, but we’re setting a retirement date. Not anytime soon, but… yeah. That’s happening.”

“Her Eminence—”

She waves her hand. “We cleared it with R.Q. She figures by then we’ll have fulfilled our debt, anyway. We’re just… we’re tired. It’s been awhile out here, and immortality kinda drags when you know everybody else is gonna kick it.”

Something must have changed in Kravitz’s expression, because Lup laughs a little helplessly and rolls her eyes. “Look who I’m talking to. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t spill the beans to anyone else, because we’re planning on announcing it in our own time. And if Taako gets pissed after that, you can tell him I told you to keep quiet. Let him be mad at me instead.”

“Is this… I mean, part of this is about him, right?”

Lup shrugs, but something clouds over in her eyes. “When Barry and I talked it out, we just kinda acknowledged that as long as I’m around, Taako won’t go anywhere. He’d outrun Death to make sure he doesn’t go before I go. So I guess this is my way of helping him make the smart decision, y’know? It’s not the only reason, but I just… I want him to go knowing he’ll see me on the other side.”

Kravitz can’t acknowledge that. He can barely reply to it, because he’s just realized how very much he wants that for himself.

He wants to see Taako on the other side. Not as an emissary, or whatever other role he’ll be serving after so many centuries. He wants to be there, when the rift breaks through the space between planes, in his purest form. (And, rather selfishly, he wants to see Taako’s soul without the age-old energies that break apart and ripple around it; the layers of interdimensional wear and tear. He knows it will be beautiful in a way neither of them understand.)

So instead he says, “I can’t speak for him.”

“Good answer,” says Lup, and shoots him a waifish smile. “Anyway, about this whole thing—just give him some time, okay? What you’ve got going here, you could power the fuckin’ Bond Engine with it. Can’t break the stuff of Fate.”

“Nice try,” says Kravitz. “We’re not soulmates.”

“Didn’t say that.” She cocks her head and says, “Funny thing, isn’t it? This whole soulmates, not-soulmates thing is in direct contradiction with the laws of Fate. Logically, you two should know by now, right? But you can’t seem to make up your minds, and that kinda fucks up the universe’s whole deal.”

“We have made up our minds. I don’t know where you’re getting this from, but I can promise you we both know. There’s no reason to think otherwise, anyway.”

Lup just hums again. “Nobody’s that adamant over stuff they really believe, babe.”

“I don’t have to believe it,” says Kravitz, verging on knife’s edge frustration. “I know it.”

She rolls her shoulders and pins him under another powerful stare. It demands the truth from him and, more strikingly, makes him feel as if he’s not telling it. “Y’know something?” is all she says. “For once, I think you do.”

(“It’s not my right,” Kravitz replies. “I don’t deserve that kind of… leverage over you.”

Taako’s name is somewhere in his ledger. That page will go untouched until the time comes.

“And—you know,” he adds, because he can.

Taako doesn’t drop his gaze as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”)

It’s a Sunday.

More specifically, it’s a Sunday morning that drips with sunlight and warmth. The sky is a vibrant, impossible blue, like an ocean hanging over Faerûn, clear and depthless for as far as the eye can see. It is silent and whole and perfect, unbroken.

They don’t sleep in.

Taako makes beignets. They’re light and airy and they taste like home, and Kravitz loads their accompanying coffee with vanilla and caramel and whipped cream. As these things do, the newspaper falls on their doorstep, and they read it over breakfast and make fun of the headlines. (One of them reads TAAKO THE WIZARD HOSTS HOTTEST DEPARTURE PARTY IN FAERÛN! and they have to smile over the simplicity of the word departure; like today is the start of a grand continental tour or an interplanar voyage.) The gramophone spins through a drowsy, early-morning melody in the background.

They move through it like a dream—like a languid, sun-soaked dream that Kravitz never wants to wake up from.

At approximately quarter past ten, they stand facing each other in the living room.

The room is too large. It isn’t large enough. A wagon rumbles by and disturbs the cobblestones outside their flat, and Kravitz feels the vibrations shoot up his spine and come to rest in his fingertips. He looms over Taako, too tall for his own frame, cutting a deathly dark shadow through the light that falls through their window. He’s out of place in the home they’ve owned for centuries, and there’s nowhere for him to go but forward.

He does. He takes a step, and Taako flinches. The guilt that immediately drops across his face makes it obvious that he hates himself for it, and Kravitz hates himself, too.

“Okay—uh, fuck,” he says, with a shaky laugh. “Sorry, that—that was some dumbass, uh, shit. I’m fine. I’m fine. We both knew this would be rough, I’m—I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” says Kravitz, too quietly for his own voice.

“No, don’t—don’t pull that with me, I’m—”

“No, Taako, I know this for a fact. No one is fine when they’re about to die. It’s okay.”

Taako holds his gaze for a few brave seconds before his mouth twitches backward into a feral, visceral grimace. His shoulders are shaking, and Kravitz is sure it’s with the weight of emotion before he realizes it’s with the effort of keeping his ears still. With an awful release of tension, the ears drop and pull back, flattening against either side of Taako’s skull.

“Okay,” he says, “alright, you got me, I’m—I’m fuckin’ terrified.”

Kravitz’s heart jumpstarts, stutters, and drops immediately through his ribcage and into the floor, because Taako is telling the truth and there’s nothing worse he could have done. He’s shaking for real, now. His breath rattles in his throat as he says, “I’m—I’m real sorry, I didn’t want to make this any harder on you than it—than it already is—”

“Taako—”

“And I know Lup and—and Barry, they said it wasn’t, uh, anything worth getting worked up over, and—and all the rest of them, they’re gonna be there, and they’re—they’re chillin’, and it’s fine, it’s all cool beans over there in the astral plane, so I—I shouldn’t be, fuckin’, losing it, but here we are, I guess, y’know, this is my life now—”

“Taako—”

“Or—or death, I guess, ha, because, like—yeah, uh, I just—”

“Love, please.”

He breaks off and bites his lip.

Kravitz starts to take another step, and pauses, and when Taako nods, he crosses the full space and takes his husband gently by the shoulders.

“Tell me again what we said.”

Taako sucks in a shallow, shuddering breath. “It won’t hurt. It’ll be quick. I won’t be alone over there.”

“You’ll never be alone over there,” says Kravitz. “Never, ever, you understand?”

He nods, and another violent shiver passes through him and sinks through Kravitz’s chest. “I gotcha. I… I understand.”

They stand in silence for a moment, because there’s nothing else they can do. Taako shuffles forward, and without having to think about it, Kravitz pulls him into his arms. Even through the thickly tailored fabric, he can feel Taako’s fingernails digging into his jacket and pushing wrinkles into the surface. He doesn’t care. Right now, it’s the most wonderful sensation in this or any world.

“I’m ready,” comes the muffled whisper. “But I’m not ready. Y’know?”

“I know,” Kravitz murmurs, and holds Taako a little tighter, because he’s just realized that he’s not ready, either.

He hadn’t thought about himself before this moment, the one marked so clearly in his ledger, in the same elegant Celestial calligraphy as every other entry. (He doesn’t know who writes the ledger. No one does, but right now he hates them more than he hates anyone or anything else.) So he closes his eyes and focuses on the way Taako’s chest rises and falls against his, jumping and dropping off occasionally as his breath hitches. He rests his cheek in the subtly thinning hair that falls around Taako’s face and tries to impress upon his memory how perfectly his fingers fit into the angle of Taako’s waist. He breathes, too, and lets his exhale graze the crest of Taako’s ear. He breathes and he remembers the moment.

IT IS TIME, says the Raven Queen at the back of his mind, and Kravitz doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until Taako steps back.

“Okay,” he rasps. “Let’s… let’s do this thing.”

“I’m going to summon my scythe,” says Kravitz, pretending that his heart hasn’t just broken into pieces, and that his every word is scattering them further to the winds. “What did we say, again?”

Taako looks him steadily in the eye and says, “It won’t hurt.”

“It won’t hurt,” Kravitz echoes, and the scythe materializes in his hand. He’s seeing it for the first time, now; seeing the polished handle and the perfectly curved blade, arcing towards a singular, interdimensionally sharpened point, and he understands the fear. He understands it because he fears it now more than he’s feared anything in his existence.

The Raven Queen’s magic ignites in the veins of his arm, pushing him gently to raise the blade. Taako follows it with his eyes, and then he says, “Wait.”

Kravitz is all too grateful for the interruption. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” says Taako. “I love you.”

And the magic compels him, but not before Kravitz can say, like a well-worn reassurance, “I love you too.”

The scythe falls. It breaks Taako’s body into fine, brilliant threads of light, coming apart like an unraveled seam, and then Kravitz sees his soul. It’s beautiful, he thinks. It’s perfect, it’s poetry, and he thinks of it in simple verse, of how he will be able to recount the way reality unwinds itself for the small sun in their living room. He thinks of it so he will not have to watch how quickly the rift shimmers into existence, or how Taako’s soul is ensnared by its fickle gravity. He thinks of it so he will not have to watch when it leaves him.

He thinks of it so he will not have to think of the words engraved into his skin; and even more simply, on his heart: I love you. A defiance, a promise, a wish.

An impossibility.