#to try and force us to love women & there is a greater conversation to be had about cultural homophobia

[kevin-the-bruyne]

why I thought the kristsingto dance was offensive

My reaction to the KristSingto dance was, in fact, pure and utter shock with an immediate follow up of "well good for Thailand for being so progressive" and that was what I thought would be the end of my engagement with that performance and yet when I read this post by scarefox with commentary added by thebroccolination and hallowpen (mentioned to give credit untagged because I have social anxiety and forcing people to read my post is my worst nightmare) my mind was filled with thoughts that took me the greater part of the day to sort through and I still don't know if the following will be adequate. Because OH HO HO as it turns out Thailand isn't that progressive which means that this performance was constructed to be like this ON PURPOSE. This post is in conversation with some of the concepts brought up in the linked post so it will be helpful in understanding the direction I've chosen to go with this. But the linked post is a great post and you should read it regardless. There is much to love about the Kristsingto concert and even more to love about their sexy dance - the primary of which is how it makes every single one of my Asian sensibilities ring MAD alarm bells. I'm a diaspora south asian but I moved to the US alone when I was 18 which means I have an intact sense of Asian respectability, regularly replenished by my parents. I MEAN LOOK AT IT - THEY ARE ON A FREAKING BED!!!! SIR THAT IS A BEDROOM ACTIVITY ONLY

But some serious highlights as to what about this performance sets it apart: 1) The performance is focused on sensuality and desire. They're dressed like dancers and not particularly sexy ones. Everything about this performance is pared down to only focus on their movements. The costumes are simple, the bed is simple, the lighting mostly monochrome. There is nothing to see here BUT their desire for each other and the sex they are simulating

2) They are playing to each other and ONLY to each other and not the audience. This is probably THE REASON why it clocks differently from literally every other raunchy performance. They are dancing for EACH OTHER. The performance starts behind a screen, and the sex simulation is the most intense at this stage but then THE SCREEN FALLS but for the purposes of the performance, KristSingto don't even acknowledge it. The audience is THRUST into the position of a voyeur and remains so throughout the performance. Like there is a BED that looks like it came straight out of Krist's bedroom like give me a fucking BREAK sir those are inside house, behind closed doors activities you are engaging with on stage.

Even the parts where Krist or Singto face the audience it is a) never together at once and b) they are mirroring each other's movements highlighting their connection to each other over their individual connection with the audience. There is no hip thrusting, no flirtatious looks, absolutely nothing that would even remotely suggest that they're trying to titillate the audience. All the titillation is directed towards each other. This feeling of looking into a private moment is deeply, deeply uncomfortable.

3) It's KristSingto. So much to be said about this and I have a strong feeling that I am not the person who should be speaking about this. But it's Krist and Singto, highly respected veterans of the industry who don't 'need' to be engaging in these types of 'extreme behaviors' to get ahead. So why would Kristsingto need to 'resort' to these behaviors?

Well, because the purpose of art, and I would argue quite specifically queer art, is to push the boundaries of how society allows the 'self' to behave and express itself. There is a reason why BL has captured the fascination of so many straight women. I would argue this is true everywhere but specifically for Asians, the shackles placed on queer sexuality did not feel so different from the shackles placed on women's sexuality period. Queer sexual liberal *is* sexual liberation and there are a lot of outgroup parties who have a vested, personal interest in pushing this agenda forward. I have to stop before this gets so long that I have to find a university to grant me a masters but 'Fanservice Is Wrong' and 'Fanservice Has Finally Gone Too Far' is just the fan service discourse. But the truth is that Fanservice *IS* radical queer visibility and always has been. I started my fandom journey in JPOP nearly 15 years ago and that was the conversation then [link takes you to a fanservice kiss between Ninomiya Kazunari and Ohno Satoshi from Arashi in 2008 that was 6 years in the making but I digress] and apparently if KristSingto will get to have their way that will be the conversation now. To deny their dance as offensive is to deny the incredible ways in which it's in conversation with the society they're operating in, the risks they are still taking even amidst widespread celebration for the Marriage Equality Bill in Thailand.

KristSingto had totally blown the doors, windows and glass ceilings wide open with SOTUS that I would argue had rippling effects on the BL being produced throughout Asia, not just Thailand. And the pressure of that was SO high, that attention so unexpected and burdensome that neither could actually stay and enjoy that moment. OffGun and TayNew had reaped more fruits from KristSingto's labor than Krist and Singto. KristSingto isn't just another branded pair - they are quite literally BL royalty and they are not here to play games. Except this time they are pushing the envelope with their eyes wide open and I am buzzing to see what's next for them.

[feyofmay]

The Oak Door

Laurie x March!Reader (aka "Ducky") Summary: At a gathering in london, hosted by Mister Laurence, Laurie gets drunk & the reader is forced to take care of him. While assisting him, Laurie attempts to propose, & the reader is everything but happy word count: 3.8k Warnings: ANGST, literally that's it just angst, also a lot of self doubt from reader

This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there ;P

Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)

STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK

To say one’s heart & mind works separately is a lie because the heart is an organ that does not think, nor does it hold any greater understanding of what it is. It has no consciousness, yet is unrightfully given the capability to think & know. Nobody truly thinks with their heart or their throat or their liver or their pancreas. When someone says “thinking with their heart” or “thinking with their mind”, they mean thinking with their intuition or their rationality, or thinking with logic or emotion. They create a great divide in thought that, in all honesty, has & will never exist. A black & white. A right & wrong. A sky & sea. Existing between all of these concepts is a great trench, a lack of understanding, that was dug by the hands of men. 

In thinking with her heart, the middle March finds it best to avoid Laurie, &, in thinking with her head, she agrees with her heart. All of this to say, for the past couple of days, she’s both missed & feared the sight of his face. It’s easy to grow distant from someone when there’s no possible way to close said distance, but, when you’re staying in the same residence per the request of his grandfather, it’s much harder to remain distant, both in a literal & metaphysical sense.

Within the lounge, where she resides now, Miss March distances herself from the greater commotion of the gathering, in the dining hall, without being fully disconnected, like a hand is to the torso. The walls are dressed in a tender maroon wallpaper with an eloquent & detailed moulding of marble & gold, replicating greek columns, which act as a trim that runs across the ceilings. She shares the chaise lounge with other guests as they squeeze next to each other, and their skirts overlap like incoming tides crossing over one another. She’s unsure if she's become overwhelmed by all the stimulus or simply unable to sense anything. The air doesn’t carry any distinct scent. Oddly, the space around her smells of the sound of bustling people & drinks swishing in crystalline glasses. Around her is noise & people, & all of her senses confirm that truth in a monotone wave.  Nursing an empty glass, which she had thrown the contents of into a houseplant & plans to hold for the rest of the evening, she sits within conversation between several men & women, an intellectual hive of people that act more like displays for their attire then beings with bones & blood. For them, knowledge is a sport. It’s a trinket to place on your coffee table to try & impress your inlaws. It’s an accessory to tout & best acknowledge in thoughtful hums & inquisitive gasps. 

A man in a matching set of birdseye patterned, taupe slacks & waist drones on about the recent unification of Germany. While Miss March does find the subject, itself, interesting, she can’t seem to hold intrigue in the conversation. Something about the smoke & the long days warping together in England has led her to misplace the inquisitiveness of the young girl who dreamed of moving to Europe & leaving behind the dreariness of subordinate domesticity. While, with age, she’s gained the emotional intellect necessary to process her emotions beyond simply scraping the shallow tide with her toes, she’s also gained the awareness that, oftentimes, the act of digesting her emotions is tiring. She’s learned that the energy used toward emotions is better spent producing something tangible & of worth. 

Luckily for her, Laurie’s grandfather is a man in the know, which means he knew several associates with daughters of varying ages with varying tastes in clothes who were more than happy to lend a dress to a young lady. Over her crinoline skirt & bodice, a dress in a sweet champagne shade is draped across her. The lacy trim, not wanting to melt into the dress, itself, is a muted purple, almost a grey, that wraps around her puff sleeves & the edges of the champagne tier, with a silk white skirt with a lavender sheen peeks out from underneath. Nothing about the dress is loud. She feels much more at home in the fabric, especially after walking around in the daunting mauve dress like a living, breathing cake topper, a piece of decor for her employer to flaunt. For the first time since leaving New England & Meg & Hannah’s trusted fingers, she’d had her hair done by someone other than her family’s servant. The trusted maid of Mister Laurence had offered & promised to not pull too hard on the March’s hair. As the maid braided & pinned her hair, the middle March almost cried. However, it wasn’t due to any pain inflicted on her scalp, as the maid’s touch was tentative & gentle. It was the simple act of being touched & cared for, a touch Miss March had been subconsciously craving for since leaving her home. A touch she had forgotten until reuniting with Laurie in the crowded foyer. 

Touching her shoulder, a soft hand brushes her & whispers a polite ask for her attention. She flutters her eyelashes, shaking off the weight of the dust that had collected on them, &, with the help of the welcomed touch, swims out of the mental fog she had sunk herself into. Her eyes flitter up & meet with the warm sight of Mister Laurence gazing back at her. Whether the strong scent of candle wax, lingering dust on velvet carpets, & forest breeze eminates from him or the memories of his manor in New England that she spent odd mornings & afternoons in, she’s unsure of. However, it’s another reminder of the young girl she tried to comfort & wish goodbye to before leaving for Lancashire.

“Pardon my forwardness, but, Miss March, I must ask you to join me for a brief moment. I do hate to take away from such wonderful company,” Mister Laurence requests, playing the role of the man wise beyond his years more gracefully than anyone Miss March has ever seen. With a curt nod, not even bothering to bid adieu to the people in the room, she lets curiosity lead her as she rises to her feet & wraps her arms around Mister Laurence’s. Ushering her out of the room at the exact speed that is swift without being suspicious, Mister Laurence guides the young lady to a hallway with no prying eyes or wandering ears. His gaze does not hold the anger of a great man who is weighed down by the hubris of those around him, but in his eyes is something deeply paternal & saddened. Around him, an umber waistcoat & slacks with a herringbone pattern remind her more of a bear then a man of business & wealth. However, her judgement may be heavily clouded from growing up under his watchful eye. While his hair used to be a soft salt & pepper, it has faded to a faint white & grey like the shadow of a tree painted on fresh snow during a cloudy evening. For most, with age comes wrinkles that hide within them their growing envy for the youth that’s being wasted on careless & stupid adolescents. Mister Laurence’s wrinkles are like the rings of a tree, lines that prove that he has lived & seen. They’re a promise that, if one is to ask, he will tell the story preserved in every smile line & crow’s foot. Bending down so his lips hover around her ear, she’s immediately washed in the same sincerity that soaks his demeanour.

“Y/N,” he calls her by her first name, a telltale sign of loyalty & unease from the man, “I do hate to put this upon your shoulders, but my grandson is acting aloof-”.

“In what sense?” she interrupts in the classic March fashion, &, used to this speech pattern, he continues speaking over her. 

“And, while I don’t wish to make you pay for his poor decisions, I have an important associate that I do need to impress,” he explains to her as his hand returns to her shoulder, “And you and I are both well aware that no servant is paid well enough to have to deal with my grandson’s… ”

“Stubbornness?”

“...Tenacity.”

Both finish his sentence at the same time & share a gaze that communicates that neither are completely wrong with their wording. Nodding his head to agree with her, he looks away at the hall ahead. No paternal figure wants to admit their children’s faults. To say a truth is to make it known, but to admit a truth makes it tangible. She can feel the glass ball that rolls up & down his throat, ever so often bobbing at the opening to his stomach. Hiding beneath his heavy wool morning coat, his shoulders tense while trying to protect the rest of his body.

“A servant caught him with several other young women & clearly inebriated,” he reveals to her, & the edges of his lips quiver & twitch as they are tugged by invisible strings into a frown. His words dig a hole into her chest. All that remains is her skin, which caves in & sags where her sternum once was. It leaves a tingling sensation where her muscles & bones used to rest. She feels that Mister Laurence is speaking of a different grandson, which she has never met. What happened to the young boy who would treat her childish fears with utmost sincerity? What happened to the boy who made pinky promises seem like the most honourable pacts a man could make? What monster, what man had stolen the skin from him & now wears it as a costume? 

“I’ll confess. I’m unsure of where I went wrong with him,” Mister Laurence slips out between hushed lips, telling his secret to the wind & Miss March. Pausing to swallow his words, she furrows her brows & purses her lips. Swimming in her mind, she can’t think of any words that can comfort him in this moment of vulnerability. So, rather than speaking, she wraps her arms around the older man & hugs him tightly. Surprise washes him over as she squeezes his ribcage tightly, &, for a moment, he freezes as his eyes dart around to try & catch leering gazes peaking around the corner. But they are hidden in the inky shadows of the hallway. With a long exhale, Mister Laurence allows his tension to escape, & he swallows her in his embrace.. 

“You worry about business, and I’ll worry about Laurie,” she comforts him while pulling away, pausing to fix his bowtie, “He’s very lucky to have a grandfather that’s as kind and loving as you.” Mister Laurence smiles at her reminder as the rosy glow on his cheeks alights the hallway for a moment. Each breath they take in the space that they share feels like it fills each corner of their lungs. Nodding to her, a silent show of gratitude, he leads her to an oak door which lays slightly ajar. Holding the nob, he turns back to her before speaking.

“Thank you for your assistance. He’s in here,” Mister Laurence informs her, & he slowly swings the door open. Immediately, the souring scent of wine hits her face, &, as an instinct, her nose scrunches up & a grimace stains her lips. Splayed out on a couch, dishevelled & basking in his own ruin, she sees more of a strange, unfamiliar man than the boy that she knew. She sees a man that will grow to be discontent with his wife, yet who stays for the kids. A man who never really loved his children but is patiently waiting for the fulfilment that comes from acting in the role that society has told him to. A man who will never be fulfilled. A man that has learned that he must settle for what he has, quietly & miserably. A miniscule part of Miss March relishes at the idea that he’d have to learn how cruel the impartial hand of life can be, but the rest of her is well aware that Laurie will never know “enough”. He’d love his wife, even if she loved another man. He’d work to provide for his kids, &, if the wife was never around, he’d raise them all on his own. He’d move mountains to try to find the better side of “enough”. Laurie will love & love because that is Laurie’s nature. He loves wine & women. He loves trekking through forests & acting a fool, even in public spaces. He loves to engage in conversation while in the company of the March sisters, where no sentence is ever finished & nothing is ever truly said but the quiet “I love you” that rattles around in the pauses between words for a quick draw of breath. Laurie loves Jo. Laurie will continue to love, & love will truly be the cause of his death. Yet, Laurie will find a way to love the silent & cold hand of what lies beyond in a way that no person has ever done before. Miss March cannot even entertain the idea of Laurie living a life that is just “enough” because, to her, his company is more than enough. It is good. It is plenty.

That same man has tossed away his vermillion silk tie & waistcoat, leaving him in a starch white shirt that’s a third of the way unbuttoned & hastily tucked into raven black slacks. Closing the door behind her, the click of the door knob alerts him to her presence. However, his verdant eyes don’t move to meet her as he stares through strands of his messy chocolate hair & up at the silver ring that he often displays on his pointer finger. 

“Are you here to scold me, oh my dear mother?” He asks to the wind, acknowledging her existence. Miss March inhales deeply as the beating of her heart starts to drown out the sound of her breath. Clasping her hands together, she tentatively begins to make her way over to the cobalt ottoman that rests near the matching couch. The room is a demure periwinkle with small etchings of leaves adding a splash of muted emerald to the room.

“No, Laurie. Your grandfather asked me to keep you company,” she tries to ease his nerves as she inches closer.

“No, he told you to keep me away from the guests as I am his greatest failure,” Laurie shoots up at her words, sitting up far too fast for his drunken mind to handle. A warbling groan of pain slips out of his mouth as he rakes his fingers through his hair & clutches his throbbing head. At the sight of his agony, Miss March rushes to him &, readjusting his legs, sits on the edge of the couch cushion, right in front of him. With a tender touch, she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists & rubs small circles with her thumb.

“Oh, shush, you’re as much of a failure as I am a dancer,” She teases him with a sympathetic smile. At her words, a small & raspy chuckle escapes his lips &, tilting his head, his celadon eyes, in which the fields of Elysium hide, gaze up at her. Hiding beneath a smoke of anger, she’s able to see the young boy that she grew up with. The young boy that she once fell in love with. He’s scared & small & all the things a child is never allowed to be. 

In this moment, as much as she despises it, she knows she must admit her faults to him & ask for forgiveness. She was cruel & unjust for bringing up Jo with the intent of spitting in his face. She hurt him with the intention of leaving a mark, & she succeeded in doing so. If he doesn’t ever forgive her, she’ll grow to understand. It won’t be an easy process, but loving Laurie has never been anything close to easy. Taking a deep breath, she shoves the racing thoughts out of her vision & looks him in the eyes.

“I apologise for what I said in the alley, concerning your feelings for Jo. I shouldn’t’ve ever used them to hurt you,” she apologises quickly, &, after speaking, immediately purses her lips together & stares at him. She waits for him to scream. To yell at her to get out. To say he hates her & never wants to see her again. To tell her he always hated her. That he only tolerated her for Jo. To say she’s stupid. She’s vile. She’s not worth Jo or Meg or Beth or Amy’s time. She waits for him to tell her the truth she’s been too scared to say to herself aloud. She waits & waits until, finally, his lips part, & he draws a quick breath.

“It’s alright. I was being mean too, and I, truly, do owe you many apologies, as well, ” he replies with a thin smile, replaying the events in his head. Ducky’s stomach squeezes as relief floods her system, & she sharply inhales while attempting to keep some kind of composure. A tight smile graces her features, slipping past her facade of propriety & decorum. 

“I’ve been spending this past year, & some odd months, wallowing in my own melancholy, but,” Laurie pauses for a moment, slouching forward so his eyes are level with Ducky’s, “but I cannot waste away my life being miserable. If money is truly of the highest concern, then marry me.” His words grab her by the neck, shove their long, spindly fingers down her throat, wrench the breath from her lungs, & pry the air out of her. Her mouth falls agape as she struggles to comb through & fully understand what he’s said.

“Laurie, I refuse-”

“You won’t have to work, nor do you have to love me, & your family will be provided for: Beth, Amy, Marmee, everyone,” he prattles on, afraid of the nearing rejection that comes when he stops to breathe. Ducky can’t hear anything other than her own heartbeat & what, to her, sounds like the faint whisper of Laurie’s voice. She can’t even hear herself think.

“You’ll be happy, I promise. Everyday I will spend in honest devotion to your happiness,” he’s breathless as he finishes his speech, &, feeling the walls begin to collapse in on her, Ducky jumps to her feet. Rushing back & forth, in front of her very eyes, are countless memories of Jo & Laurie, of the way it’s always been. Jo loves her work. Laurie loves Jo. Ducky was left to love the footprints Laurie had left while chasing after Jo. 

“Laurie, I, as a woman, must either enter a marriage for security or for love,” she whispers out as her arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her sides tightly, “while you can marry for any reason under the sun, and I will not be an accomplice in allowing you to waste that privilege.” The room grows smaller, the air between them thinner. It’s hard to breathe & her vision becomes a swirl of blues & greens with a spotty pillar of white & black wiggling around in the centre. Laurie stops, & Ducky stops. Neither move. Neither speak. Neither breathe. The walls stop moving, & everything around them fades into their shadows. They are a boy & a girl. A lady & a man, all grown up & yet the exact same as they were the day that they met. While his previous proclamations were loud & steady, the words he speaks next are a promise meant only for his lips & the spirits that hide in peoples’ breaths. 

“But I can give you both, love and security, if you’d allow me. I’ll inherit my grandfather’s wealth, and we could be happy, all of us.”

Clear on his face is the same sincerity that he’s gifted to her in every moment of embarrassment & shame. His eyes stay glued to hers. After waiting for years for him to say these words to her, she can’t help but feel his admittance is fake. That maybe his words are meant for someone smarter, braver, older, & better then she is. His words are meant for Jo.

“No, no, you don’t get to, this isn’t right,” she bites back, walking backwards & grasping for the door knob yet only finding the air between her fingers, “Stop it, Laurie, please.”. He follows her, &, in his drunken state, collides with the furniture, sending his body awry. 

“Yes, yes I can, and we both know it to be true,” he tries to correct her as he raises his hands to grip her forearms. Her shoulders immediately tense at his touch. His fingers crinkle the poofy champagne fabric that delicately floats around her skin.

“You’re acting a fool, Laurie-”

“I can, I swear on my life Y/N, I am able and I am willing and, and content to do so.”

 “-I won’t allow it, I simply cannot,” she continues to ramble on, & her finger tips brush against the cool metal of the doorknob. Laurie opens his mouth to rebuke her statement, but, before he can, her palm flies up & presses against his lips. Covering his mouth with her hand, she shakes her head as her eyes gleam with tears.

“Please, stop. It hurts, Laurie. Please, Laurie, you’re hurting me,” she pleads to him as her fingers curl around the door knob, “I cannot do it. You broke my heart once already. Is that not enough for you?” 

To watch the boy she admires fall in love with her sister, who she’s loved since the dawn of time, was a constant, real ache that left her sobbing into Beth’s chest as she begged Meg to help her & relieve her of the pain, which was an impossible task. After the middle March had left for Europe & caught word of Jo’s rejection in a letter from Beth, she had a heavy heart knowing that the two people who were connected at the hip for all of her adolescence had now grown cold & distant. It was as if she’d heard that the moon no longer followed the sun, leaving the night cold & bleak. All she has done her entire life is labour & hurt for those she loves without question or complaint. However, she cannot look Laurie in the eyes as he slurs out ideas that would’ve sent her younger self spinning & giggling with a maddening joy. She cannot withstand that pain for him. She doesn’t feel happy or sad. Nor is she angry or scared. All that she can feel is the heavy pounding of her heart & a dull ache emanating through her. The pain swallows her mind, &, while her body still remains, Ducky has clearly fled far from the room. She’s racing down the streets in her dress, seeing how far her legs will take her. 

She yanks the door open just before he can reply & heaves her body through, slamming the door shut after her. Leaning her weight against the slab of carved & varnished oak, a few tears trickle down her cheek as she chokes back a sob, not wanting to alert any guests nearby. In her mind, she’s already ran all the way back to New England. There, back in her home, she lies, hiding her tears in Beth’s dress, as her sisters practically cocoon her, protecting her & the fire from the harsh reality of the world that waits outside their loving embrace & on the other side of the oak door. 

i told you it's literally & only just angst... sorry. please like & repost :)

[needle-noggins]

I wanted to point out this page alone because I just really love the idea of Meryl and Luida as foils. Also I just really want to bang a bunch of pots together like, LOOK AT THESE WOMEN THEY ARE WRITTEN SO WELL AND I LOVE THEM SO DEEPLY!

Luida is a character archetype I really adore (one of my dnd NPCS/basically an OC at this point is just. Wizard Luida). Love an older woman in charge who has some internal struggles but exercises empathy and careful judgement. Meryl is... a baby in comparison. The kind of girl, adventurous and a bit headstrong, who may be changed into someone more like Luida with hard lessons and deep self-reflection. I don't know. Maybe I'm just talking out of my ass at this point.

This conversation is... difficult. Luida is considering having Vash use his angel arm to destroy Knives, to have another July (to which, poor Meryl is like "god the horrors are endless. I saw how that went"). She hates that she even considers it, hates the idea of Vash being a weapon of mass destruction just to take down Knives (ethics of using atomic bombs, anyone?). It is especially hard for her to consider because "this battle with undoubtedly push his limits". Vash is still a friend (and if we want to get Stampy with it, like a son to her), and she knows this could kill him.

Luida scolds herself for being a coward, and I'm not sure in what way - is it cowardly that she won't sacrifice people for the "greater good", or that she's having this internal struggle in the first place? That she won't make Vash pull the trigger?

I forgot to screenshot the panels about it but there's also a very important topic in the conversation preceeding this page about how Vash has been fighting alone, trying to save everyone, but perhaps he needs people to fight for him too. Vash is obviously well-known around Ship 3 as an incredibly powerful plant, so I can understand if they believed him when he said he could take Knives alone, but Luida is now having doubts about Vash's independence - is he too afraid to ask for help? (this is a secret tool that will help us later! Remember that Meryl is here to hear this!)

Using this thread of thought, Luida and her forces attack the ark, which allows Wolfwood to rescue Vash (and then we get the SUPER COOL bit of Vash reversing his angel arm to allow them to escape! and the fall out of the sky! OUGH). It's about the teamwork, it's about helping each other. No one can fight alone. (and then idiot Wolfwood leaves Vash to let him fight Knives alone) (we can already tell this is a bad idea)

[luvpogl-music]

[Let us see what the mind can conceive this rainy Nashville eve for those masters of madness that keep us awake during the quiet hours of sleep. Certainly Job has a a story three or four with truths hidden close to keep something fresh on this media of the mundane.]

It was in those early high school years the Job had worked to get his first steed. A quarter horse dressed in gold took him on adventures at his pleasure. And on those long rides under the day and night skies he's find himself in conversation with storytellers he'd meet along the way. As his days were still young he listened close to their tales of spirit enraptured by the care and caution they put into their creative lessons left for all of us. He found himself at times dining with a feast of friends of the highest kind. The threw words and concepts of higher thought into the mix that confuses most, listening and absorbing the words and the stories they spun with a mystical approach focused close to glean what he could from those teachers of love, pain, ourselves and truth.

Marking words in his mind to look them up when he could in hopes of better understanding of what they were trying to tell him. Through those practices of puzzle progression he was exposed to greater men and women of thought, ideas and concepts that transform not just the command of words one could use, but also brought with them a magic to transcend the soul. At times replaying the stories in his mind with new understanding that gave these lessons new meanings and new understandings then those that were introduced when initially spoken to him.

While the concepts of words on the pages he read melded with the medley the poets would sing. A world of possibilities opened up to him, all fostered from a young age in large part because of the care and love the hand of his mother had shown him through all those times she forced him to "tell her what it means" when he didn't understand something he'd read or seen. The discussion she'd pull him aside and offer in private, ones he didn't like but always made him think. Little lessons that often seemed to leave out the other ear, but were stuck deeper than known. That's another benefit of mom's not being able to catch cooties, if you listen and think through the touch of a mother's love, even in your anger you find, some sooner, some later, in life that they are probably one of the wisest people that will ever guide your path.

And during these short years of a boys life, adventuring and living were the focus of Job's life. He was determined to find the answers that kept him in wonder from the time of a child. The times he was younger and had trouble sitting still and it was demanded of him at the cost of physical punishment (not abuse, punishment), like when his mom had pulled out the Family Bible with pages gilded with gold; taken from a box it seemed to command reverence. And while everyone gathered around the table with excitement and surprise, he struggled to understand if it was a book, why was kept in secret instead of out so everyone could read it? After mom had thumbed through to find the photos and baby information she had been looking for, she offered those things to the other kids as they ran off to play. In the safety of the silence he opened his mouth and asked her "what makes this book more important than the rest?". And she smiled and said, "well, it contains everything man knows about life, from the beginning until now".

Flabbergasted by this answer for a boy of not much more than eight or seven he just knew it should have been bigger if that were true. But, when he mentioned it to her, she just laughed and said, "yep, you'd think it would, but it doesn't need to be". Fumbling through the pages and not a child to shy from a challenge Job stopped on a few pages in the book and tried to read them with all the words and skills he'd learned in school, and although it made no sense what he said, he read the few passages pretty good for a kid he thought. But, King James spoke a different language in the 1500's and a lot of the words he used sounded funny and it was clear they talked funny back then, not like the smart kids of today do. And with a smile, mom decided it was time to put the book back, but not before the mystical burning of the spirits of the past placed in his heart. Like his mom told him when he couldn't understand them or other things she would just say "when you are older you will (happy Mother's Day ALL). A statement that he always hated, after all he was already ten how much older did one need to be, as school had taught him the things of this world.

Like most kids in public school today Job got most of his education of the world outside the walls of the safety of home. As with the parents of today, who can't talk to their kids admonishing their thoughts or ridiculing their beliefs guiding their principles, after all kids are seen more as the chance to make a "better them" then become unique adults of their own (another gift of the Jews, given to parents before even the Bible was writ).

And kids find UN-fun nature all too boring of their responsible responses, so at some both sides decide it's best not to talk of private matters. Even more true is this should you have brothers and sisters, aside from not hearing what you want from your parents, it is certain you will have to listen to the ridicule of them, who will certainly call on the fleetest of footed servants of Zeus, we call Rumor today. Carrying these things to extended family and friends and eventually back to school.

Respect for people long having left the lessons of home, no matter how hard mom may have tried., Rumor has left the fund of her damage as something more fun to play then wisdom and truth could bring with them. So most the world is taught on the playground or with friends at sleep overs and such reinforcing to kids when they hear some of the things that are heard; certainly parents don't know anything about life, because they never did or talked about that. The televisions shows and movies only confirming that the kids at school or more right then their parents about life.

But, while everyone kept pointing back and forth at whose fault is whose Job learned young that sometimes its better to sit above the chaos than make yourself a part of it, the storytellers he'd meet offered that, to some extent even giving more pieces of the puzzles he needed in figuring out the bigger pictures of life that still plagued him as a child - like looking up at the cross and seeing an innocent man hang when his eyes were supposed to be hung in prayer, wondering if this is really what Jesus wants from us?

With all these personal issues to resolve it's easy to understand why during those graduation days as all his friends he say go off to college or move on to the bigger things they had been waiting for the exciting day when Seniors unofficially officially become adults. Sur, those around him pushed and encouraged, even making some attempts, but all that time in school, when the results came back his marks confirmed what everyone did expect, his slowness and lack of intelligence was confirmed, he'd be luck to pick up trash. And soon the universities around him sent letters declaring the same seats needed to be saved for those blessed to succeed, he should find something else they said. Tucking them under his bed he just kept on adventuring and exploring the things around him.

And some months after graduation when the fight and fuss of futures died down, Job took a trip in the middle of the day, one he'd never come back from. An exploration that would take him around the world, introduce him to people and places filled with members of the other twelve tribe that those two at the begging of time grew to become. He saw things some should never have to, things that some should never miss, experienced feelings that most will never comprehend, and feelings that everyone should, always remembering it to be just a sampling of what others had been through. Time and travels increasing the voices etched on that tape recorder of life were all born with, only the needle on his seemed to play a direct line to the heart; expressions men and women learn how not to feel.

[And so I believe we shall leave Job with this long winded post tonight, traveling down the road of life. Gathering more pieces to the puzzle of life. Only beginning the solo journey of just how alone everyone is and discovering how much more pain there is in truth than in lies. All the while his heart going filling more and more with love, pushing out the pride of youth that makes us invincible when where young]

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Pride

Dear nonnie who requested that I write something for Pride month, I'm so, so sorry! Somehow this got lost in my inbox and I didn't see it until I started working on 'Bargain' this afternoon. Please accept this humble ficlet and my deepest apologies. <3

I'm kind of nervous about this one. I know coming out is a deeply personal experience and I'm not sure I wrote it terribly well. Please know that you are loved, valued, cherished, and accepted just as you are. I know for many people the struggle is so much greater than what I wrote in this ficlet. You are all amazing. <3

cw: Internalized homophobia, homophobic parents (happy ending)

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

June 12, 1999

"Hey!" Harry said, bursting into Draco's room like it was his own.

Draco looked up from the essay he was writing, the last one he needed to finish for his eighth year at Hogwarts. "Hi," he replied and he couldn't help but admire the dimple that stood out on Harry's cheek as he smiled at him.

"Some of us are heading down to Hogsmeade for the pride celebration they're having there tonight," Harry said. "Did you want to come?"

His brow furrowed, "Pride? Like house pride?"

Harry laughed but not unkindly like it would have been prior to this year, "No, like gay pride. It's to celebrate people who are lgbtq+, to affirm their dignity and worth as human beings, you know?"

Draco felt his cheeks flushing hot, "I'm not," he managed through the way it felt like someone had closed off his airway, shaking his head, "I'm not gay!"

"Err," Harry said, scratching the back of his neck, "Right, I wasn't trying to imply anything. Just," he shrugged, "I think I'm bi, and there's GInny and Luna," he continued, stumbling over his words.

"But I'm not!" he protested

"Right," Harry repeated, brow furrowing, "We just thought..." he trailed off, "Ron, who's like as straight as they come is coming too, to show his support."

"I can't," Draco said. "I've got all this work to do, I just-"

"It's okay," Harry said, shaking his head and holding out a hand, "Totally fine, sorry to have bothered you," he added as he quickly fled the room before Draco could say anything else.

(Continue reading below the cut)

He stared after him, still feeling panicked and full of regret at the same time.

Malfoys aren't gay. Malfoys aren't gay. Malfoys aren't gay.

And in spite of the fact that he'd told Harry he needed to finish his essay, he spent the rest of the night trying to get his heart to slow down, his breathing to come easier, and his mind to stop spinning.

The essay remained untouched.

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

June 9, 2000

Draco was having murderous thoughts.

They had a tradition on Fridays that everyone who lived in Grimmauld sat down together for dinner and if you were dating someone, you were allowed to bring them home with you for dinner. Draco never brought anyone home because the women he dated were so unattractive to him that he just couldn't bring himself to see them for more than a date or two.

Harry, on the other hand was always bringing someone home. He had men and women there with him every week. Usually, it was a different person every week and that didn't bother Draco all that much. But he'd been seeing Conor for six weeks now and the way the other man was always clinging to Harry, always laughing and batting his eyelashes at him; it made Draco feel ready to kill him.

"So I was thinking," Harry said when there was a lull in the conversation, "The Leaky is having a Pride Night celebration tomorrow. Maybe we should all go together?" he asked hopefully.

There were murmurs of approval all around the table and Draco dropped his gaze to his plate, his palms started to itch. Malfoys aren't gay. Malfoys aren't gay.

"What about you, Draco?" Conor asked, all toothy smiles as he rested his arm around Harry's shoulders.

He couldn't help but look over at Harry who was suddenly watching him in that way that made him feel like he was being held under a magnifying glass. People thought that Harry was oblivious but Draco knew they were wrong. Harry knew everything about Draco just from watching him.

Draco swallowed, "Yeah," he managed. "Yeah. I can come for a bit."

Harry smiled at him then, soft and sweet, his dimples showing, "Yeah?" he asked.

And Draco was fairly certain there was nothing he could have said no to when Harry asked like that, so he nodded.

"Great!" Conor enthused and the moment dissipated like fog in the sun. "It'll be so fun to have all of your friends there, babe."

"Err," Harry said, looking over at Conor, "Yeah. Totally." Then he turned back to look at Draco once more, "Yeah," he said again.

-----------

June 10, 2000

Draco had made a mistake.

Malfoys aren't gay. Malfoys aren't gay. Malfoys aren't gay.

"Hey!" Harry said, appearing out of nowhere and wrapping an arm around Draco, "I'm so glad you're here."

"Me too," he lied.

"Come on," Harry said, "Let me introduce you to some people."

Draco spent the next hour meeting all sorts of people, he listened to people telling their stories, people who were claiming their own lives and destinies, and all he could feel was loss.

Every person he listened to felt like another stone tied around his neck, their joy and freedom made him feel even more trapped. Harry went to fetch drinks as he listened to a trans woman named Jocelyn talking about how difficult it had been to come out to her family. And it was the final straw, he lost it. Tears slipped from his eyes and before he could do anything, she was hugging him, "We've all been where you are," she whispered.

He shook his head and pulled back, "I'm not-" he covered his mouth, he couldn't quite force out the lie.

She nodded knowingly, "We've all been there, too."

"I've got to go," he managed, rising on shaking legs and making his way out of the bar as quickly as he could.

When he got outside he bent over, resting his hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath.

"Draco!" he heard as the door opened and he wasn't ready for this.

"Don't," he said, standing up and holding out his hands to stop Harry from coming any closer.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, eyebrows furrowing in concern and Draco hated it.

"Malfoys aren't gay!" he exploded.

"What?" Harry asked as though his words hadn't been perfectly clear.

"Malfoys aren't gay," he repeated.

Harry tilted his head at him, "Alright."

"So you can stop this," he said, gesturing at the door. "I don't need help coming out. I'm not gay," he spat.

"I'm not trying to help you come out," Harry said, his voice measured and calm in a way that told Draco just how hard he was working at not getting emotional. "I just wanted to introduce you to-"

"Bull shit," he hissed. "Every person you 'introduced me to' told me about coming out."

"It's Pride, Draco. They're," he stopped and corrected himself, "We're celebrating coming out. We're celebrating not hiding who we are anymore. If you think it's about you, well," he shrugged a shoulder, "You probably have more in common with us than you want to admit."

"I'm not gay!" he shouted, shoving Harry away from him.

There was a flash of hurt across Harry's face before he put his hands on his hips and that fire that Draco so remembered from Hogwarts filled his eyes. "No one said you were!" Harry shouted back. "And if you were so afraid of having people think you are, why did you even come in the first place?"

"I guess I shouldn't have."

Harry took a step back away from him, shaking his head, "I guess not." He turned on his heel and stalked back into the bar, leaving Draco standing on the sidewalk, shaking as the adrenaline flooded through him.

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

June 11, 2000

It wasn't quite morning when Draco heard a soft knock at his door.

With no small amount of effort, he reached for his wand and cast a spell to open it. Harry was standing in the doorway and Draco huffed, "I've already packed," he said. "I'll leave in the morning."

"What?" Harry asked, sounding panicked, "No!" he said, stepping across the threshold of Draco's room and moving to the chair across from Draco's bed. "No," he repeated. "Draco, please don't leave. I'm sorry. Alright?" Harry said. "I shouldn't-"

"You're sorry?" Draco asked, sitting up and staring at the other boy, "No, I'm sorry," he said, quickly. "I was awful and I didn't le-"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head, "It's my fault. I shouldn't-"

"I'm gay," Draco blurted and then realized what he'd just admitted. He covered his mouth with his hand and his eyes filled with tears.

"Hey," Harry whispered, climbing onto the bed next to him and pulling Draco into his arms, "It's okay."

Draco shook his head but couldn't manage any words around the sob that was choking him.

"It's okay," Harry soothed, stroking his fingers through Draco's hair and rocking him. "I've got you," he breathed. "You're safe," he said, "You're safe," he repeated. "You're loved and you're accepted," he told him, "I've got you."

Draco sobbed, all of the fear, and the guilt, and the shame was built up high in his chest and he felt like he couldn't breathe around it.

"Okay," Harry soothed, "Slow breaths with me, yeah? Just try to match your breathing to mine," he said, his hand rubbing soothingly over Draco's back.

He sucked in a deep, gasping breath that burned all the way down into his lungs.

"That's it," Harry encouraged, "You're alright."

He continued breathing slowly and Draco tried to mirror it until his sobbing was just the occasional hiccup and the tears were just trickling out of his eyes.

"Okay," Harry breathed. "Better?"

Draco nodded and pulled back, "Sorry," he murmured, then he caught sight of Harry's shirt covered in tears and snot and wished that the earth would open up and swallow him, "Salazar, I'm sorry," he said, reaching for his wand and casting a hasty drying charm followed by a cleaning charm.

"It's fine," Harry said, reaching out to still Draco's motions. "It's fine," he repeated. "Look, I didn't mean to pressure you into coming out," he said. "I won't tell anyone," he added hastily.

He shook his head, "It's eating me up inside." Draco wiped the tears off his face, "I'm going to die alone."

"Don't say that," Harry said.

"Well it's true!" he said, "What am I supposed to tell my parents?"

Harry took his hand, "It's up to you," he said softly. "I won't pretend to understand the challenges you're facing. My parents are dead."

"Oh, thanks. Play the dead parent card."

Harry huffed a laugh, "Shut up. I'm trying to say that I can't imagine how difficult this is for you. It's not an easy decision and I want you to know that I am here for you, that I support you, no matter what."

His eyes filled with tears and he let out a groan, "Stop it."

The other boy wrapped his arms around him, "No."

"What is this?" he asked, from where his face was buried in Harry's neck.

"Affection."

"Disgusting," he murmured.

"Want me to stop?"

He shook his head because when Harry wasn't hugging him everything felt a little too big and a little too close.

And he had no idea what he was going to do but when Harry was holding him it didn't seem quite so scary.

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

A few weeks later, he and Harry had started dating in secret. Harry was very sweet, very patient as Draco struggled against years of deeply ingrained negative thoughts. Draco still felt like he was a bit of a burden but Harry always insisted he wasn't.

Just over a month after that, Hermione had figured it out on her own, Pansy had tricked him into confessing, and Ron had walked in on the two of them making out on Harry's bed.

And the world didn't end.

Slowly, over the course of the next seven months, they told all of their friends. Everyone was supportive. Everyone was happy for them, happy for him that he'd decided to walk in the truth.

Truth be told, he was happy too. His anxiety still got the worst of him some days and his fear was sometimes bigger than anything else but he got through those days and those days slowly became fewer and fewer.

He got comfortable with Harry; comfortable holding hands, comfortable with casual kisses, comfortable with bickering that turned into flirting, just comfortable in his skin.

One chilly March morning, he and Harry were out to breakfast and they were laughing and teasing each other, like they always did and Draco was happy all the way down to his toes.

He looked across the table at Harry, "You've got whipped cream on your mouth," he laughed.

Harry stuck his tongue out and missed completely.

"Here," he said with a laugh, "Let me," he added as he grabbed the front of Harry's jumper and pulled him close so he could kiss it off his grinning face.

He was pulling back to check that he'd gotten it all when he heard a gasp that he would have recognized anywhere. Draco would never be quite sure what his face and body language were saying at that moment but Harry was instantly on alert, scanning the room for danger. "Shit," he breathed.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," his mother hissed. "What in Merlin's name do you think you are doing."

"Don't make a scene, mother," he said and even he was surprised at how calm the words came out.

"I don't think that I am the one making a scene, Draco."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry said, "Why don't we go somewhere more private for this conversation."

"Oh no," she said, "I don't think there is any conversation to be had. Draco, we'll be leaving. Right this instant."

Draco looked at her, at the woman who had dried his tears, who had sacrificed for him, who had given him life and his heart yearned for her. He longed to reach out and hold her hand like he had when he was young, to let her reassure him that everything would be alright. And it could be. He knew if he walked away with her today, he'd go back to living the life that had been planned for him.

But then he looked at Harry and all he could see was freedom. His heart expanded as he remembered the late nights talking over a bottle of wine, the early mornings as the sun filtered in through Harry's window and painted him golden. He remembered the cuddles on the couch and the evenings spent cooking dinner together. And he knew that he could never go back. He could never live a life of duty and obligation knowing that this one was possible.

"I love you," he said softly as he stared at Harry.

The other man blinked before his mouth curved up in a grin, his dimples showing, "I love you, too."

He reached for Harry's hand to ground himself as he turned to his mother, "You know that I love you," he said to her, "but I can't live a lie. I can't be the boy that you wanted."

"Draco you are being ridiculous."

"Maybe," he replied. "But I never knew what it was like to be free before these past few months with Harry and I won't give them back."

She cast a belated muffliato. "There are plenty of Purebloods who are gay, Draco," she said, keeping her voice low, "You still have your obligation to have a pureblood heir. Marry a nice girl and take a lover if you must, but you will continue your bloodline."

He laughed, it sounded a bit hysterical even to his own ears. "Do you hear yourself?" he asked. "The Malfoy line can die with me. I'm not marrying some woman just to please you."

"Draco-"

"No," he said sharply. "No. I can't do this, mother. I can't be what you want me to be. I'm done." He shook his head, "You can accept this, accept me or not. Either way I am done."

She straightened her spine and smoothed the emotions from her features and Draco knew the decision she had made before she started speaking. He clasped Harry's hand tighter in his. "Very well, then," she said. "Good day," she murmured before she walked away without a backward glance.

They sat in silence for a moment before Harry asked, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know."

"What can I do?" he murmured, squeezing Draco's hand again.

"Can we go home?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah, love. Of course."

He apparated them back and they spend the afternoon cocooned in Harry's room until their friends came to find them for dinner.

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

June 9, 2001

This year it's Draco who asked about going to the bar to celebrate Pride.

Harry smiled and pulled him in for a long kiss before nodding and getting dressed.

When they arrived, Draco slipped his fingers through Harry's holding his hand tightly; proud of Harry, proud of how far they've come, and proud of himself for how much he's grown and how brave he's become.

Several of the people he'd met the year before remembered him and are quick to congratulate him and welcome him again. The night was full of music and dancing, of listening to stories and starting to tell his own, it's everything Harry had made it sound like.

And he thought he might be happy, in spite of that little bit of his heart that always ached for his parents.

They're about to head up for another round of drinks when Harry tugged on his hand. "Look," he murmured, pointing to the door.

Draco followed his pointing and saw that there was a woman standing in the door who looked remarkably like his mother. "What?" he managed.

But Harry was already waving to her and nudging Draco forward.

"What?" he repeated when he was standing in front of her.

Without a word she wrapped her arms around him, enfolding him in the comforting feel and scent of his childhood.

"Mummy?" he whispered.

"Yes, darling," she replied, voice equally thick with tears.

Harry cleared his throat, "I'll fetch us some drinks. What can I get you Narcissa?" he asked.

"Whiskey neat," she replied without releasing her hold on Draco.

He pulled back after one more moment, "What are you doing here?"

"Where else could I be?" she asked. "When we didn't see you for your birthday last week," she shook her head. "Well, I knew that I was making a mistake."

Harry returned handing them their drinks and nodding toward a table nearby.

They headed over and she sat next to Draco, "You're my child, Draco," she said. "And I love you more than you can imagine."

He nodded once but didn't say anything. This sounded too much like the start to one of the 'I love you and if you love me, this is how you should act' talks.

"Fortunately, your Mr. Potter has sent quite regular correspondence."

"What?" Draco said, whipping his head around to look at Harry.

He nodded once but before Draco could question him his mother continued.

"He invited me to come tonight," she continued, "To support you. And I've missed so much already, how could I say no?"

"This isn't a phase," he said. "I'm not going to change my mind or be cured one day."

She nodded, "I know."

"Does father?"

She hummed, "We're getting there." She took his hand in her's, "For now, won't you introduce me to some of your new friends?"

--------

Two years later, when he and Harry got married, both of his parents were there, sitting right in the front row and cheering them on.

---------

Thanks for the prompt! I don't quite know what you were hoping for so I hope this is okay! <3

[confused-as-all-hell]

"i know we broke up, i know we don't talk anymore, but I still miss you"

@wesper-week i'm sincerely sorry for this chaos

Jesper Fahey's trade was humor.

His clothes were the colour of too much attention, his laugh limned in shimmering gold. He drew gazes and wistful stares like a lighthouse beacon called for drifting ships. The lines of his body were sharp, elegant, sprawling. When the corners of his mouth lifted in a grin, stars gleamed in his eyes.

He was so achingly beautiful, all tousled dark hair and broad shoulders and warm hands.

Girls and boys fell over themselves for one kiss, one little smile, one whispered word in their ear. How could they not?

Jesper was young and handsome and heady as a cup of evening wine, clever with his graceful fingers, wicked with his soft lips. His GPA was polished, his manners immaculate.

They hung on to his words, the cadence of them, the amused lilt that drenched every sentence.

Jesper had fallen in love with so many, men with rough laughs and kind smiles, women with curling hair and bright eyes. He had taken them over the world, to parks and monuments and cafes, kissed them in the shadow of history.

For every one of his lovers, he bought a ring.

Amethyst for the young lady who carried the scent of lavender.

Gold for the pretty girl whose lips tasted of joy.

Sapphire for the boy who kissed like a fucking god.

Ruby for the trickster woman who loved to laugh.

Copper for the handsome man who had a smile like late summer.

Jesper had cared for each of them in turn. He gifted flowers and jewelry and handwritten letters in his untidy scrawl. He had told them stupid jokes and held their hands and read to them in his unmade bed.

But one by one, they left him, and soon all that was left of their love were those glinting rings.

"Is there something wrong with me?" he whispered once, face shining with tears, head thrown back against the wall.

Nina rested her head against his chest, wrapping her arms around him awkwardly. "Of course not, darling."

He patted her cheek clumsily. "Then why does everyone keep leaving, Nina? Why does nobody stay?"

"Wylan—" she began, but shut her mouth instantly.

"Wylan is different."

And he was.

Beautiful, quiet, sweet Wylan Van Eck with his slender hands and paint-splattered face. He was everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, sketching the stars as they lay intertwined in bed, smiling over his cup of morning tea, dressed in his oversized shirts and plaid trousers.

His kisses were soft and tentative and tasted of tea leaves. His grins were slow and mischievous and bright as the damned sun. When he sprinted along the rim of a fountain, laughing and arms aloft, Jesper thought love might kill him.

He still dreamt about that day, Wylan leaping across the broad rim, his face upturned, sunlight brightening his hair to flame and gold. Wylan, paint smudged across his lower lip, hands stained with red acrylic. Wylan, pretty blue eyes bright with mirth, his panicked yelp as he nearly toppled sideways.

Wylan, Wylan, Wylan.

Sometimes, when Jesper was laying on the floor of someone else's bathroom, watching the ceiling spin and spin, he could still hear Wylan whispering, "And if I said I am yours, and there is no greater honor, what then Jesper?"

They had been so fucking happy, happier than Jesper deserved, all sticky orange juice kisses and skinny dipping in the ocean and opulent restaurants of ivory and gold.

And then Wylan had mentioned the gambling.

They had argued for days and weeks and then months, furious and bitter. Jesper used to live for the clink of coins and soft rush of the wheel and the elation that flooded into his eyes, ears, mouth, fingers. He loved the hum and chaos of the nightclubs, the frenzy of congratulations and drunken kisses and the retreat into those shadowed alcoves.

The scent of alcohol, the sounds of triumph, the press of hands on his body, the pleasure and ecstasy and joy.

But on their hundredth argument, tears were running down Wylan's face, distorting his freckles and widening those fucking blue eyes. He'd whispered he wouldn't stand for it, and Jesper had woken alone the next morning.

His bed was too empty, his kitchen was too quiet, the room where Wylan painted was too fucking much. All that remained was the hole in Jesper's heart and a sketch of the water fountain Wylan had drawn so lovingly, each detail of the scene preserved forever within charcoal. The ice cream parlor. The sunlight. Wylan, laughing and trying to keep his balance, eyes bright bright bright. Jesper, staring at Wylan as if he had never seen another quite so magical.

The memory of those eyes haunted him, every damn day.

He found himself writing essays on Wylan's long, copper lashes. His eyes, the blue of tranquil oceans, of the clear winter sky, of salvation. The glints of silver shining within, a quiet intelligence that so few had glimpsed. The way he would shyly glance away whenever Jesper grinned at him.

How many times had he stared into those eyes, while the two of them lay bare and exhausted among his own silk sheets?

How many times had he looked up after a kiss to find Wylan smiling back at him?

How many times had he nearly drowned within Wylan's gaze, steady and thoughtful and really fucking hot?

But slowly, agonizingly, bitterly, he grew used to the silence.

He stopped texting Wylan in the middle of the day, face damp with tears, hands shaking with misery.

He stopped accidently brewing a second cup of coffee at breakfast.

He stopped glancing to his left, searching for a glint of red hair in crowded spaces.

He stopped seeing Wylan when another was beneath him.

But sometimes Jesper wondered if anything could make him stop loving the boy with pretty blue eyes and a heart of gold.

And if sometimes he glimpsed Wylan in the halls, or at a nightclub, or sketching with those fucking charcoal pencils, he could wave. Smile. Pretend he wasn't going to take another home just to ease the day's pain.

'Why won't you go back to him?" Kaz asked once, barely glancing up from his phone.

"He doesn't want me," Jesper said quietly.

He raised his eyebrows as if in disbelief. "Jes, I have it on good authority that Wylan Van Eck hasn't dated a single soul after your breakup."

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody," Kaz said airily.

"Nina?"

"Nina."

Jesper attempted a loose smile, but it drifted aside easily as a gauzy veil twitching in the wind.

Wylan Van Eck, kind and brave and good.

Wylan, with his inquisitive eyes and thoughtful conversation.

Wylan, lonely and miserable because one stupid fucking boy had broken his heart.

He could barely stand it.

In some hidden chamber of his mind, he had locked away Wylan’s laughter, the tide of his amusement, inexplicably bright and wondrous. It felt like gazing at one of his softest paintings, a lush blend of ivory and blue and gold, like glimpsing something raw and beautiful and secret.

A burning star.

A miracle, spinning through the galaxy, leaving nothing but light in its wake.

A memory, and no more.

Wylan had once laughed so freely, snickering over an amusing quip, or stifling his smile when Jesper read to him late at night.

That sound of joy and delight. . . it was the brightest damn thing in the world.

And Jesper wanted to know that somewhere, in some other softly lit room with a man looking up at Wy like he was the sun, that laugh was sounding again.

He wanted to know that even if Wylan didn’t shine for him, he shone nevertheless.

The next morning dawned piercing and cold, a bright jewel in the crown of winter. Jesper chose his clothes with unusual care, knotting the laces of his boots twice, cleaning his dozens of rings before slipping them on.

Once he had hoped Wylan would give him the last of the collection—the wedding ring.

Now, as he finished with the last of them, he left his fourth finger bare, a final shrine to the ghosts of their past.

The cafe where he had asked, begged, pleaded for Wylan to meet him was nearly empty, but for a handful of people. His gaze lingered on a young woman with curling brown hair who might have been Nina in a hat, and a man with his leg propped up that was almost certainly Kaz.

Even though he made a mental note to strangle them later, the gesture eased the pressure within his chest ever so slightly.

And there was Wylan, a cup of tea clutched between his slender hands, huddled in a soft brown sweater. He was staring out of the window, those damned blue eyes vague and empty.

Jesper slid soundlessly into the booth, holding his breath as if he could force the longing from his lungs. “Hello, Wylan,” he said softly.

When he glanced up, something in his gaze shifted.

A blossoming flower.

An easing rainfall.

Something wonderful and exquisite and otherworldly.

Hope, hope, hope.

“Jes,” he returned with a little smile.

And Jesper leaned forwards. He couldn’t help it, not when Wylan was there before him and his lips were curved so slightly and his fingers were wrapped around his mug like—

“Wy,” he said, clearing his throat, “I wanted to talk.”

He straightened slightly, that quiet peace dissolving. “Had I not wanted to talk to you, I wouldn’t have answered your text.”

They stared at each other silently, waiting; it felt like sitting in the living room together, huddled over a game of chess, Jesper grinning as he slid the first pawn two squares up.

But he was not nearly so confident about his play now.

“I’ve been talking to Kaz,” he began awkwardly, the words clumsy in his mouth. “He told me you haven’t been seeing anyone.”

“And I’ve been speaking with Inej,” returned Wylan, utterly refined and elegant in his simplicity. “She tells me you’ve been seeing everyone.”

Jesper felt like a child again, clutching a rifle in his inexperienced hands, brows drawn together in concentration as he replayed his mother’s instruction in his mind. His father was playing target again, brown eyes gentle with encouragement. He didn’t know what to do, he was going to shoot his father, he was going to harm harm harm.

The words in his hands, his throat, were constricted and awful and stumbling. He didn’t know how to shoot without hurting anyone he loved.

Wylan was still gazing at him, blue eyes dark, for the first time in memory. “Jes,” he said, “was I so easy to forget?”

“Forget?” Jesper croaked. “Like a stupid song or piece of information on the study guide? Like you didn’t shine brighter than the damned sun? Like there were days when I didn’t wish to capture the stars and give them to you?”

There was a strange, crackling rush in Jesper’s ears, as if the ocean had swelled too high and now he was drowning, drowning, drowned.

If Wylan wanted him back, if Wylan loved him still—

He could wake up every morning with soft limbs tangled in his own. He could kiss Wylan again, taste tea and sugar cookies and mint. He could marry him, live out a life with him, die on the bed beside his own, fingers interlocked tight.

The future was there, tangled and messy and uncertain, but there all the same.

But Wylan was shifting in his seat, almost anxiously. “Jes,” he said softly. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

His eyes, his lovely blue eyes, were beginning to shine. “I know that look,” he said, almost bitterly. “I know that look damn well.”

Jesper’s giddy excitement was beginning to wither, and he clung to it desperately, a final shield against the darkness. “What look?”

Wylan reached out, fingertips stained blue with paint, hands still slim and delicate, a work of art. “If you think I want to… to get back together, I don’t. You and I, it was so much fun, and sometimes I wonder if everything was more than a college romance.”

He retracted his shaking hands, and ran them through his copper hair. “I wonder if another Jesper, who loved himself as much as his friends love him, and another Wylan, who was just a little bit of a better boyfriend, might have had their future together.”

Jesper could only stare

Wylan whispered, “Don’t you see it, Jes? We were stupid fucking collage kids who fell in love, but it was never supposed to carry on. I told you, that night in the club, I just wanted sex.”

He remembered.

Just sex, do you understand? No more, Jes.

But then, I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you just once.

And it kept going, spiraling, until one morning they were laying in bed and Wylan was wearing Jesper’s shirt, and Jesper was stroking Wylan’s hair, and it was much more than just sex.

One date, Wy. Give me a chance.

I love you, I love you, I love you, dumbass.

I want you to move in with me. I want you in my bed, my kitchen, my clothes. I want to see you tired and angry and miserable and I want to tell you you’re still the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Jesper had imagined their wedding, every so often, a blazing pillar of hope lighting the path to the future. He had dreamt tailored suits and blue eyes and the final ring. He had planned every detail of his speech, his vows, his oath to live and die with Wylan Van Eck.

“Just sex,” he said at last. “We fucked it up, didn’t we, Wy?”

Wylan extended his hand once more. “I loved you, Jes, I won’t pretend. But I’m with someone else now, and I care for him, and I promised I would sort out the ghosts of my past.”

Jesper slid his palm over his, reveling in the soft skin, the gentle touch he would never feel again. “You’re happy?” he said softly. “He makes you laugh?”

He smiled, a secret, lovely smile. “Yeah. Yeah, he makes me laugh.”

And the sudden truth of it, the fact Wylan was someone else’s now, and he was laughing in another’s arms, hit Jesper. It sent ice through his veins, his mind, the final shattered shard of his heart, tearing through memories.

Wylan, brave and wonderful, laying on his bed. His hands were aloft, describing a particularly clear night sky, the shapes he traced in the stars. He had named one for Jesper, and he said it was shaped like love.

Jesper, doubled up in laughter as he flipped a pancake, listening to yet another one of Wylan’s rambling stories. He never tired of them. Those recollections, the happy lilt to his voice, the giddy, “There’s more, though!” were treasured beyond gold.

Wylan, working on some assignment or another, sprawled on the grass of a dewy meadow. His head was pillowed on Jesper’s hoodie as he wrote, filling the page with his elegant script. Every so often, he would glance over and point out a butterfly or shaped cloud with a smile.

Jesper, watching as Wylan leapt across the fountain. His copper head was upturned, sunlight streaming down onto the angles of his face, joy etched in his brilliant grin. He looked like a god for that one moment, frozen forever in a snapshot of peace.

“I will love you if the entire fucking world tells me not to,” Jesper had whispered once. “I will love you if the entire fucking world tells me to. I will love you, because I am yours, and there has never been such an honor.”

When the years whiled past, when the bone-deep sorrow lightened at last, did Jesper still love him?

That was the question he asked himself every morning over a cup of bitter coffee.

Twenty-four years old, and Jesper still loved him.

Thirty-one years old, and Jesper still loved him.

Forty-five years old, and Jesper still loved him.

Fifty-seven years old, and Jesper still loved him.

An old man, dying in his bed, and the laugh ringing through his head belonged to a boy with pretty blue eyes and a heart of gold.

A dead man, and Jesper loved him from the grave.

Love bowed to no one, and least of all death.

A collage romance was theirs, but their love was not that of two foolish young men, out for a kiss and in for a good fuck. It was carefree, happy, bright as the sun. It was etched in the stars, and it was doomed from the start.

Love bowed to no one, but perhaps it inclined its head towards Jesper Fahey and Wylan Van Eck.

[wankingbank]

Millionaire dating secrets: How to get a Wealthy man to Marry you

Everyone wants money, no matter what they tell you. More so for the ladies. It’s a big pain to date a broke man, unless you are making him your project, something you might regret very soon. I am a man and I know it, when you are broke your spirits are down and a woman is the last thing in your mind. A man’s most important thing is his mission, what he really feels like doing and seldom will that be a woman. It must be something greater than just mere companionship.

Getting a rich man when everybody is looking for one can be a bit difficult. There is no shortage of beautiful, good women looking for that knight in shining armor. To land the rich dude who live in the leafy suburbs and drives a Maybach might require some few skills on your part to make you stand out.

Be realistic, love is not money If all you are looking for in a guy is money, you are better off robbing him

If there is no love, no romance, no spark in the relationship, you are wasting your time. A man who has so many girls swooning over him for his assets can spot a gold digger a mile off. He might just play on, use and dump you. Be honest about your feelings otherwise work hard in school, get an MBA and make it big on yourself. Pamper him rotten Most rich men are used to being treated like royalty. Some actually crave it. If he can’t get good treatment from you, he will get it from someone else, it’s just a matter of time and more dates. Show respect for him and his property. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you work hard for it. You share it with people who deserve it, not conceited girls who think their cheap lipstick can buy their way into a millionaires mansion. Do not suck up to them either, just treat them plain good, not overdoing it, not stooping too low. Middle is the way!

Forget about commitment Men hate commitment, especially when it’s forced on us. All we do is to achieve freedom. If you are only interested in knowing where the relationship is going instead of paying attention to the relationship, being in the present always, you can’t win. Be indispensable to him and he will be the one going on one knee, the way it’s supposed to be. Have some respect for yourself Just because he is rich and you are not, doesn’t make you a doormat. Don’t make yourself one. It’s good to have a girl laughing at your jokes, if they are funny, if they are not, you just have low self esteem. If you are just kissing up to a rich dude it will show up. He won’t want you then. We only pursue that which retreats from us. It’s a universal law of attraction. Set high standards for yourself and stick to them. Learn some of the thing he loves doing Most rich men are highly intelligent, a good conversation would do and thats not about the latest episode of La Fuerza.  Read topics that interest him widely so you don’t come off as blonde.

Be realistic, you might not just be made for the millionaires and their lifestyle Most women have a window period of around 15years when their sexuality is at it’s peak and they can land a great guy. After 35, chances are that you won’t be attractive as you were at 20. Don’t chase the elusive millionaires forever, you might end up old, bitter and all alone. Evaluate your looks, brains and personality to gauge whether you can really make it. If you can’t, don’t despair, we all have to tone down our ambitions at some point.

Hang out with the rich Hang out in areas where the rich usually frequent. It might burn a hole in your pocket, or just save a damsel in distress. All you have to do is try!

SMS hook up to +254784389794. Hook up charges apply. Serious people only.

[rucbarthatbowtiesarecooldw]

Saturday Evening Women’s Session

Conducting: Jean B. Bingham

Let Zion in Her Beauty Rise

We Listen to a Prophets Voice

Dallin H. Oaks

Saturday sessions have a history of different purposes and different audiences

The gospel does not change

The way we meet may continue to change

Is a session of conference, not of any one organization

Concentrate on the concerns of LDS women

The doctrine, the policies that relate especially to women, and the organizations that include the women and girls of the church.

This is the work of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Invoked a blessing upon the leaders of these organizations and the women and girls who serve within the organizations

Susan H. Porter

How can the Lord direct thy path?

HF invites to come to the savior and learn

1 Our past and present circumstances do not determine our future

o No matter our circumstances our lives are sacred and have meaning and purpose

o Born with divinity in our souls

o We can choose to turn to the savior today for the strength and healing that will enable us to do all that we were sent here to do

2 the power is in us

3 out of small things proceedeth that which is great.

The savior invites us to use his power to be as salt, leaven, and light

Story of Naaman and the “little maid”

Every person who makes and keeps covenants has direct access to the power of God.

The Savior is the salt in our lives, inviting us to taste of His joy and love

Rebecca L. Craven

Effort, movement, and commitment

What mattered most? The ice cream or the person

Conversion won’t come while doing nothing – it comes by doing

How much we are loved and valued by our HF

Don’t waste your spiritual strength on things that do not matter

BOSS your brain – you are in control of your thoughts and in control of what you do. – for neurotypicals

Make being obedient the popular thing to do

What He urges, counsels, and pleads with us to do are the things that matter most

Proverbs 3:5-6 – how can I better trust the Lord?

Moving forward, believing He will guide us even when we don’t have all the answers

It’s not about doing more, it’s about doing what matters

If you want to know anything you have to do something

Keeping temple covenants is how we endure to the end

Come Ye Children of the Lord

Video about Camilla Kimball reading Spencer W. Kimball’s talk

You are the women he foresaw

The kingdom of god cannot be complete without women

The culminating act of all creation was the creation of women

Fulfill the measure of your creation

Prepare the world for the second coming of the Lord

https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2015/10/a-plea-to-my-sisters?lang=eng

Jean B. Bingham

We all have the promises of these privileges as we keep the covenants we have made

Keeping the covenants we make with God gives us strength from the Savior’s power

Our Redeemer is there to catch us when we fall, if we turn to Him

Our testimony of Jesus Christ and the covenants we make are our spiritual supports

He will not allow us to fall beyond His reach

Jesus Christ is our anchor and perfect partner. Choose to be anchored to the Savior “put on the harness”, bound to him by our covenants

Live the gospel in our interactions

Truly minister

Share the gospel

These are not just and occasional splurge, but are essential to our daily happiness and eternal joy

Repent, repair, and try again

Dale G. Renlund

1 you are a beloved daughter. Nothing you do can change that

God’s love is perfect, our ability to sense that love is not

Sin blocks our ability to sense the love of God – and so sometimes can physical and mental health challenges

2 we have heavenly parents, a father, and a mother

Seeking greater understanding is critical to our spiritual development

Reason cannot replace revelation

Demanding revelation from God is both arrogant and unproductive, instead we wait on the Lord’s timing

3 we have a divine nature

4 we have an eternal destiny

Such a destiny will not be forced on us – we will receive only that which we are willing to receive

Basically you will go where you are comfortable

Like the current bush we sometimes get trimmed back

We are free to choose but we cannot choose the consequences

We cannot deviate from Heavenly Father's course and then blame him for inferior outcomes

When the Lord speaks of weaknesses He always speaks in mercy

The Lord sees weaknesses differently than he sees rebellion

Center your life on Jesus Christ and remember the foundational truths in the young womens theme

The Holy Ghost can't be felt when we experience fear, anger, or hate

Oh, May My Soul Commune With Thee

[shini--chan]

OKAY IMAGINE THIS - by some mirracle, s/o get teleported back in time to the pirate era and suddenly just drops from the sky as Antonio and Arthur are battling! Everything comes to a halt because a friggin woman fell from literally nowhere - Arthur is quicker and he captures s/o first, DEMANDING to know where she is from, how did she get here. Poor s/o tries to tell him the truth but it just isn't working. How stupid do you think Arthur is, huh?! He's not buying what you're selling love! (1/?)

Oh blazes, my dear. You’re trying to seduce me into writing a novel for you, correct. Well, not today (sadly) so I’ll be going ahead with my usual mixture of headcanons and snippets. Also, to everybody out there: Requests are still being accepted – I just can’t bring myself to close my ask box.

Also, I wanted to write Arthur’s and Antonio’s lines in an older English, but then I remembered what it was like having to read books from the 19th century for school and decided not to inflict the torture upon you.

Yandere Love Triangle: England vs Spain (Historical Pirate AU!)

As mentioned in the ask, you would be minding your own business, more or less, when you would suddenly be granted two of the wishes many harbour in their hearts: to time travel and have an adventure. Unfortunately for you, that wouldn’t happen with a forewarning and you wouldn’t have any chance to blend in. I wouldn’t say the battle would completely stop – with all the smoke and gunpowder and bangs going on only those close by would have a chance noticing.

Antonio was having a wonderful day. Yes, extremely wonderful. Life on the ship had been very good as of late, supplies running high and spirits even higher. They were reaching their climax now, with Spain showing England the business ends of sword and cutlas and cannon. It was a fitting sort of revenge being able to rob the lilly-livered bastard after he had stolen so much Spanish silver and gold.

The runt in question was baring his teeth and snarling like a cornered dog while their blades were interlocked, when Antonio heard a loud crash from behind England. It was probably just part of the ruckus of a sea battle, yet something – his fantastic intuition most likely – advised him to take a look. Of course, making the other combatant to move just how he wanted proved to be tricky, because Arthur had always been an uncooperative like blight and liked to fight dirty.

Yet he wasn’t a famed duellist for nothing. The sight that caught his attention when he got the opportunity to see it nearly caused him to lose an arm due to inattention. Men of both sides had briefly abandoned the battle to crowd around a failing figure that was desperately trying to free itself from a tangle of nets and torn sails. The onlookers whispered amongst themselves. The chorus of voices only grew louder when a very confused woman.

He found himself remarking: “It seems like you’ve finally started to develop a good taste in bed mates. Say, when did that happen, fishy. I always thought that you’d have luck to get a starved old tramp to warm your bed.”

“Shut up, Anthony!”, came the immediate reply, proving that the island nation wasn’t aware about what he was playing at. “Let’s not get on about you. Or should I tell your precious monarch about what you do in the stables when all the servants are gone?”

Pathetic little weasel. Enraged, Antonio brought the hilt of his sword down on that pale, cruel face and busted a pair of thin lips. “You should guard yourself from spreading lies, English pigdog. Or else the Almighty himself will smite you.”

Naturally, being the cunning demon he was, England used the opening Spain had provided him to barrel into him and send him flying overboard and into the sea.

That action would be quick to turn the tides, especially with so many men coming to aid their captain and help him out of water. This would result in Arthur then discovering you on his ship, probably when his first mate would rush to him and explain that a very strange women in a strange get-up had just suddenly appeared on the ship.

England would go and investigate and discover you surrounded by his crew, each of them having different responses to your presence and hence causing quite a commotion. He too would find you utterly alien – in your attire, in your mannerisms, even in your speech. But Arthur would be ever the pragmatic and reason that there would have to be another explanation to your appearance, one that doesn’t include miracles. But because he wouldn’t have either the time or the head space to deal with you at the moment, he’d have to thrown in the brig with strict orders to leave you alone. That would also be a way for him to torture you and force you to wallow in your worries and terrors.

The brackish water of the brig had long since made your feet wet, cotton soaks completely soaked through and chilling you. The stench it all emitted, and Arthur’s relentless questioning only further enhanced your discomfort.

He was prowling in front of your cage-like cell, like a tiger in the zoo. Only that he didn’t want to break out, rather that he was being continuously tempted to drag you out of your cell and onto the deck to be flogged for your insolence.

“At every turn you say to me that you’re from the future and that you don’t know how you came here”, he rehearsed the main points of your conversation with him. There had been a snarl on his face the whole time throughout the interrogation, his anger only making his voice curl tightly around the vowels and roll the r’s harder until you had to strain to understand him.

Mutely you nodded – you yourself had come to the conclusion that he understood you better when you kept your words simply, underlay them with gestures and expressions and spoke slowly.

In return, England shook his head and spat: “I do not believe you. Going backwards in time is impossible, it only goes forward.”

In any other situation you would have been inclined to agree with him. But you were living proof that there were glaring exceptions to that rule. Having unexpectedly landed in a long-gone era, you had first found yourself desperately grappling with your new reality. You had pinched yourself and read the letters on crates and barrel and closed your eyes and read them again to see if anything had changed – everything to assure yourself that you were dreaming.

You weren’t, nor had you taken any psychedelics, so this was painfully, gruesomely real. A fact that Arthur wasn’t excepting even with evidence right past the tip of his nose.

“Then how do you explain the ripped sails then? How do you explain my strange clothes?”, you questioned him. Then, after a brief pause, you asked: “How do you explain that I know who and what you are?”

You knowing that he was a personification of a budding Empire was a sore spot for him and made him even more suspicious of you. Something that was now backfiring on you.

He waved your words off with evident irritation and countered: “There are more reasonable explanation for all of that. That you’re a spy from a foreign country for example.”

Arthur would never cease with side-eying you and constantly be on the look-out for more logical explanations for your otherness. He would find them as well. Yet there would always be a little voice in the forefront of his mind nagging him that you are telling the truth and that he was wasting the opportunity of the millennia by blowing your words in the wind.

Those doubts would be the main reason he would keep you alive, along with his quest to extract the “truth” from you. However, there would be times when he would be tempted to fetch those thumbscrews from his quarters to see if you’d crack under pressure. Yet he would still restrain himself.

That wouldn’t mean your stay on his ship would be pleasant. You’d constantly be wet and cold, with rats crawling around the brig and your meals being a near inedible gruel that would be set aside for you.

Therefore, it would be an absolute relief when Spain would swoop in to rescue you. It would be an even greater wonder when he would actually listen to you and take into consideration what you would say.

“Tell me if I’ve got this right: In the future, you don’t send letters anymore that take months to reach another country. Instead, you send messages from small machines which the other person can read only after a few seconds, no matter how far away they are”, Antonio summed up what you had just cautiously explained to him.

You had been so shy when he had taken you aboard his vessel, so afraid he would just maltreat you like Arthur had. It had taken its time for him to convey that he was different from that godless brute, that he was civilized and patient. He wouldn’t disregard miracles and let them slip through his fingers. It had taken its own sweet time to coax you into telling the truth, but now you were sitting across him in his quarters, nodding enthusiastically.

“More or less, yes. There is a lot more to that, but that is the start of it”, you affirmed his words. You were relieved that you finally had somebody to talk to in this time were you previously had nobody. The food being served helped you weigh yourself into safety – fresh fruit and other perishable treats, an absolute luxury onboard a ship with a sizable crew. Indeed, you were becoming so comfortable with your host, your lifeline at this point, that you were betraying things about your future that you otherwise wouldn’t have.

And wasn’t yet about detail concretely concerning him, but you would both get there eventually. Spain was sure of that.

Meanwhile you didn’t notice the hungry gleam in his eyes when he purred: “Fascinating, my dear. What else can these things do?”

Being a Catholic, Antonio would be far more inclined to believe you on the time-traveling thing. He would also add two and two together on your strange clothes and their material, not to mention your different attitudes and behaviours and realise that you would be telling the truth. He would treat you kindly as a way of getting you to talk to him, eventually becoming the only person you could trust.

He would guard you jealously and ensure that you would only speak to him – having knowledge of the future would be a right he would reserve for himself alone. It would also cause him to become obsessed with you, keeping you in his quarters or leading you onto the deck at night for short walk. Of course, he would paint the whole isolating thing as he keeping you safe, saying that Arthur was after you.

The argument with Arthur would have far more validity then Antonio would even imagine. The wisdom that you don’t know what you really have until you lose it would be especially true in his case. It would finally dawn upon him that you were telling the truth the whole time and that would lead Arthur to beat himself up over it. A pursuit to recapture you would ensue.

Not to mention that it would make his blood boil to think that Spain would be courting you, persuading you to tell him everything he could ever want to know about the future. Besides  being a threat to his future existence and ongoing success, England would like to have all that knowledge himself and for himself only. Knowledge is power, after all.

Arthur would also miss you for your wit and endurance, fantasizing and dreaming of you to the point of obsession and never quitting his chase for you.

[shadow-sovereign]

I’ve got another Ashborn/Jin-Woo fic idea.

This one is an au world, though I’m still working out the exact details of the setting. I know that I want it to be a no electricity, everything’s run on magic world. No cars, internet, and phones.

The setting is a somewhat isolated town near the mountains and a forest with one dirt path leading to the next village, several miles away. It’s a town where the people have worshiped a death god (Ashborn) for as long as they can remember.

In return for sacrificing some animals and produce here and there, Ashborn keeps them safe from invaders. But unbeknownst to the townspeople, the temple priests in charge of the sacrifices have recently begun keeping the offerings for themselves, leaving them vulnerable.

Now, Ashborn isn’t being malicious about it, but without people actively praying/sacrificing to him, his attention begins to wander. Maybe it’s even harder for him to visit the mortal plane without the anchor of their worship. So, he doesn’t even notice when that town he used to protect is attacked.

The townspeople are able to fend off the invaders, but many are injured in the process. And they know that the retreating force were mostly just scouts, a bigger force to follow. Everyone’s frantic, wondering why Ashborn didn’t defend them.

Obviously, the temple priests aren’t willing to admit that they’ve been slacking on their duties, so they tell the people they’ll research the old texts to figure out what Ashborn wants from them. There, they find reference to what they perceive is a human sacrifice, made a couple thousand years ago. The texts say that the human woman gave ‘her mortal life and heart’ to Ashborn, and in return, he protected the town and helped them prosper.

The priests think this means a greater sacrifice gets greater reward. It also gives them an excuse to tell the townspeople, that the death god requires a human sacrifice every so often. They’d rather sacrifice a human than admit their mistake, knowing the townspeople would call for the missed sacrifices to come from their own wealth.

It takes them a while to convince the townspeople, but then it becomes a question of who to sacrifice. Not wanting a mob to form if they start fighting about who to sacrifice, the priests lie and say they’ll look for a volunteer. In reality, they look for someone who won’t be missed.

Thus, we have Jin-Woo’s family, living out in the woods. His father is a hunter, selling meat and furs in town. He’s often away in the forest, checking traps and hunting animals. His mother tends to their garden, along with Jin-Woo and Jin-Ah. No one in town would notice for a while if one of them went missing.

The priests find Jin-Woo when he’s in the woods and threaten his family to get him to come with them quietly. They make him write a note, saying that he’s willingly sacrificing himself to save everyone. Since Jin-Woo will be dead by the time anyone reads the note, they figure there won’t be a way to prove one way or the other whether his sacrifice was willing or coerced.

What they didn’t count on was Ashborn’s reaction.

Ashborn feels it the moment they kill someone in his temple, cutting out Jin-Woo’s heart and throwing it in one of the black flame torches next to the throne. He’s livid, the room growing dark as he appears inside.

His anger permeates the room, demanding to know what they’ve done, his rage only growing as they explain what and why. To have that ritual from so long ago twisted by their greed.  

The woman that gave her ‘mortal life and heart’ to Ashborn was never a sacrifice, but his consort. He replaced her mortal heart with one of his own creation, the ‘black heart’, so that she’d live for a long time by his side. And as his consort, he naturally took care of the people of her hometown, wanting to make her happy.

But now the temple that was built to house them both has been defiled, a seventeen year old boy sacrificed in his name. Even though it’s not his fault, he still feels guilty that Jin-Woo’s life was cut short. And so, he offers Jin-Woo’s spirit a choice.

He doesn’t have the ability to heal Jin-Woo’s body as it is, but he can create a new black heart for him. Not telling him the original meaning of it, but that it will extend his lifespan if he accepts it.

Jin-Woo isn’t quite happy about the idea of living longer than a normal human lifespan, but he’s unwilling to move on and leave his family behind. He accepts the heart, then asks if Ashborn will help him defend his family from the invaders.

Ashborn agrees, but says that he wants Jin-Woo to move into the Temple. With that Black heart inside him, Jin-Woo is now able to command his shadow soldiers, and he wants to get to know the person who’s essentially become his second in command. (Again not mentioning that the heart originally had that power because it was meant for his consort.)

Jin-Woo moves into the Temple while the Shadow soldiers start patrolling around the village. His family slowly moves into the Temple, too, packing up their stuff, moving the garden. His father has to go around collecting his traps from the forest, as the Temple is on the other side of the village.

While this is all going on, everyone starts getting to know each other. Jin-Woo and his family have conversations with Ashborn and get introduced to some of his most trusted shadow soldiers. Igris and Bellion are made the family’s guards, but Jin-Woo also becomes close to Beru, Iron, and Tank.

Jin-Woo and Ashborn slowly develop a friendship and eventually, Jin-Woo asks about the story behind that woman who was said to give her ‘mortal life and heart’ to him. Ashborn is a bit reluctant to tell him, but doesn’t want to lie to him either. After revealing that she was his consort and what the black heart originally meant, he’s quick to reassure Jin-Woo that he doesn’t have any expectations of that from him, but that he couldn’t just let him die when he was killed in his name over such a misunderstanding.

Jin-Woo is a bit embarrassed by the revelation, but knows Ashborn enough by that point to trust he’s telling the truth about not expecting such things from him. But it does get him thinking later, seeing Ashborn in a new light. It hadn’t occurred to him before that a death god could fall in love with humans. He assumed a god would see humans in a more distant way, a species that’s so much weaker and dies in the blink of an eye.

It makes him curious, wanting to get to know Ashborn better. He finds that they both value loyalty and family, are ruthless in the pursuit of keeping their people safe, and both enjoy the simple things in life. Family meals, stargazing, the first bloom of flowers in the Spring, petting an animal as it purrs in your lap, and many other things like that.

Slowly, they start to fall in love.

For Ashborn, this presents a bit of a moral quandary. It’s already an awkward situation with Jin-Woo having the black heart inside him, even with his promise of having no romantic expectations. He’s not sure if Jin-Woo will react badly if he confesses his feelings.

There’s also the difference in their status. Some humans would feel pressured if a god admitted interest in them or worry about retaliation if they refused. He doesn’t want Jin-Woo to accept his feelings out of fear or obligation.

On Jin-Woo’s end, he wonders if Ashborn would even be interested in someone like him. He’s fairly young, seventeen when they met and eighteen by the time he realizes his feelings. But surely every human must seem young to someone so ancient.

And even if age isn’t an issue, he doesn’t know if he’s Ashborn’s type. What was his human consort like? Does Ashborn prefer women or does gender even matter to gods?

Jin-Woo would probably start by asking the shadow soldiers if any of them were around when Ashborn’s consort was alive. Asking them what she was like and how Ashborn treated her. They’d end up having a conversation about Jin-Woo’s feelings and maybe give advice. At least one of the summons would know that Ashborn liked to take his consort stargazing or that she sometimes cooked his favorite food. Things like that.

Ashborn, meanwhile, is thinking of ways to subtly get across his feelings. Courting Jin-Woo without being obvious about it. Starting with making sure Jin-Woo at least thinks of him as a friend, not as his patron god.

So, they’d both be thinking of activities to do together. Finding gifts that the other would like. Ashborn would also try to get closer to Jin-Woo’s family, so that they wouldn’t feel concerned if the two of them started dating.

It’d just be both of them trying to show that they can be a good partner, hoping that the other person will start seeing them in a romantic light as well. Eventually, they’d start to catch on, maybe the shadow soldiers and Jin-Woo’s family giving them hints that the other person likes them. Then someone will clue Jin-Woo in that he needs to be the one to confess first, as Ashborn is worried about their difference in status making things awkward if he expresses interest.

After confessing, they start going on actual dates and live happily ever after.

And Ashborn figures out a way to extend the lives of Jin-Woo’s family, too. A way that’s less traumatic than literally cutting out their heart and replacing it with one of his own creation. And thus, they all get to live long, happy lives together. The end.

[imagine-loki]

Hiding in Plain Sight

TITLE: Hiding in Plain Sight

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 11

AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE:Imagine coming from a line of nobility or royalty and being in an arranged marriage with Loki in an attempt to strengthen your kingdom / alliance with Asgard. You’re not entirely on board with the idea but figured that the best you could do was to get to know your fiancé. You form an agreement with Frigga for you to pose as Loki’s personal servant for a few months so you can get to know who Loki really is – beyond the veil of his responsibility to the Asgardian throne, behind all the masks he wears when facing the public, to really know who Loki is behind closed doors as you slowly fall for each other.How long will you keep up the ruse with the God of Lies? 

RATING: General Audience

“Loki?” Frigga looked worriedly at her son who burst into his parents’ shared rooms. “Is everything…?”

“You conspired with that elf against me?” He snapped. 

Sighing, Frigga gave a slight wave to her maids who all left the room. “Conspired is a strong word for it,” Her voice was calm and steady as she rose from her seat. “She wrote, asking of your character and I suggested she get to know you. Tatianna needed time with family and thus, I realised she could get to meet you without you being guarded as I knew you were unsure of the situation and were not likely to open up to her.”

Loki gasped in shock. “So you planned this? You were the one to actually suggest it?” He became more hurt at that revelation. 

“You treat that maid with nothing but kindness, I thought if Raven saw that side of you also, she would see how caring you are. I knew that you would not open yourself as willingly to her otherwise.” “I…” he could not explain his anger, such was its intensity. 

“Loki, I am truly sorry for doing this, clearly, it was a mistake on my behalf. I am genuinely sorry for hurting you so, my son.” She tried to have him look at her so that he would see she was being genuine. “In turn, I also hurt Raven.” Loki scoffed at the mention of the elf. “She is a lovely woman. Bright, kind, a good partner for you but instead, it appears my little idea has hurt you both so.” “Even after what you have done to me, the two of you, you care about her?” “Loki, Raven has had a very restricted life, she only wanted to know if she would be forced to endure the same here. I know you will not believe this but she simply wishes to be happy and knowing I am integral to the suffering of more unhappiness for her is upsetting for me. It does not take for my upset at the hurt I caused you.” 

Loki scowled. Raven’s words came back to him again, of her loneliness and the life she was forced to lead thus far. He didn’t want to feel pity for her. He wanted to loathe her, something quite easy to do with her actions but it still played on his mind. Without saying another word to his mother, he turned to leave. 

“I genuinely believe that given the time, you will see you are well suited, Loki,” Frigga stated. 

“Perhaps we could have been.” Loki acknowledged. “But you scuppered our chances significantly with your idea.” With that, he left the room. 

* Raven sat in her room, the door between her bed chambers and front chambers locked and with a sofa in front of it in case any thought to try and open it. She had been ready for Loki’s ire and remarks, she had long built a thick skin being the youngest of five and with four older brothers, what she had not been ready for was her own words. The idea of sitting alone in her rooms for days on end was nothing new to her, what was new was the knowledge that it would not come to an end. Growing up, she had hoped the day would come that she would have a happier existence. Even as a Ljósáfar wife to a Ljósáfar husband, she could not possibly be forced to remain as she had been growing up. On hearing she was marrying an Aesir, she knew life would be far different and on knowing it was Prince Loki, though she knew little of his demeanour, she knew the Aesir way of life would allow her far greater freedom and she also knew him to be very intelligent, allowing her to fantasise of the many conversations and discussions they could share. The debates they could muster in private in the evenings after court was complete for the day. She had been excited about that. Even if they did not see eye to eye, she had dreamed of debate and conversation where she was not required to remain silent. Instead, now she had ruined any such an idea and would be forced to look at the walls that currently surrounded her for considerable years yet to come and that felt far more daunting than she could ever fathom. It filled her with a dread that made her feel like she would begin to hyperventilate at any moment. She felt entirely trapped. 

Questions swirled around in her mind. Would Loki take a mistress? Would he take many over the years? Would she have to endure dark-haired offspring he sired outside of wedlock to mistresses being recognised unofficially? Would she go to empty rooms every night while his were filled with love, passion and the giggles of a lover? Would she remain alone? Would people whisper how she was not a fit spouse? That she was not up to the task of securing the line of her husband. Or, just as heart-wrenching, would she be forgotten about, again. Only recognised and remembered when she stood in the shadow of the important male she was tied to. 

Thoughts of her perhaps finding love, feeling unconditional love could not come to her, after all, such was preposterous to her current state. She remembered the affections she felt before with Lord Arden. The stolen kisses, the sneaking around and indeed, the illicit actions of it. When it was made clear that she was to wed Loki, he left immediately with no thorough explanation. She always wondered if it was because it hurt too much to see her being wed elsewhere and he wanted a clean break, or after a while, she suspected it was because he realised he would not achieve his goal of a respectable dowry from her and decided to try other women. She was unsure if she had come to that second conclusion in her own mind to placate her feelings or not but that was going to be her excuse to make her feel better, factual or otherwise. 

Curled up with her head on her knees and her arms wrapped around them, she did nothing but think sadly of the situation at hand. 

* “You insulted the Ljósáfar.” 

Thor had Mjolnir ready for what was to come and chuckled to himself as he deflected several knives that Loki tossed his way. 

“You’re never able to aim properly when you are overly angered.” “You said nothing.” Loki’s voice was barely over a hiss. “I was sworn to secrecy.” “By someone you don’t even know?” “By our mother, a being I know even longer than you do,” Thor stated, avoided a blast of magic by using Mjolnir’s own version of such. “Raven only agreed because she wanted to get to know you.” “And that was how she decided to do so?” Loki spat. “Not by engaging me in any manner that would signify any attempt of an honest and healthy introduction?” “Since you failed to answer her three written attempts at such, I cannot imagine she felt she had many other options.”

Loki froze. “What?” “Raven wrote to you. On three separate occasions, and you ignored all three.” 

“No, she did not.” Loki shook his head. “Indeed, she did.” Thor reiterated. “This was confirmed, not only by her but when I asked the Postmaster, he confirmed it. I asked him so I could confirm it because you are not one to ignore a letter and I suspected you would call her a liar to save yourself. Three separate letters, dated months apart so to allow for time to receive and reply should you be otherwise busy, giving you time to do so. All three remained unanswered.” “I received no such letters,” Loki repeated. 

“Well, three were sent from Alfheim, sorted by the Postmaster himself and delivered to your rooms,” Thor informed him. “She tried before now. It is why she had to try and find reports on your personality elsewhere.” Thor slapped his shoulder. “I wanted to warn you. Well, I mostly wanted to warn you. Part of me also wanted to see the look of shock on your face when you realised who she was. That was until I realised what you were saying about her. I told you many times, Loki, this is very hard on her.” 

Loki had been bothered by the supposed letters he had not received until Thor mentioned Raven’s ‘struggle’. “Norns, if I have to hear this again.” He threw his brother’s hand from his shoulder. “Poor Raven, how lonely she has had it. How she had to remain seen and never heard. The Elf I have borne witness to is no such shrinking violet. She literally feels like she has to have the last word, come Helfheim or high water.” 

“Because that is who she is. She feels here like she does not have to be a statue any longer.” Thor argued. “Do not lie for one second and tell me that you want a silent and boring wife because you and I both know you rather lose your life than being forced to wed someone without their tongue. How else could you ever have someone at your beck and call to argue with day and night? I would have thought an opinionated and in your belief, an argumentative wife would have suited you to the ground. I doubt you want a wife that would agree with everything you say without question. Where would be the fun in that?” 

Loki could not argue that point. Nothing would disgust him more. “That does not negate her actions.” 

“She felt she had no choice. Was it something I would suggest? No, but it was for a good reason. She just wanted a good partner.” 

Loki scowled. “And in doing so, ensured she would not get one.” 

“Loki, please. This is going ahead whether or not you are happy about it, so you have two choices, be angry with her for this, accept any and all apologies, learn about her and try and form a healthy and fulfilling marriage with her or continue this animosity and live an unfulfilled marriage. I will soon have to court my betrothed and if the options of both were on the table, I know I would not wish to remain arguing.” “She already made it clear, the hope is to perform some sacred ritual, ensure you and your wife spawn multiple times and stay as far away from me as is physically possible.” 

“Loki, the woman I have spoken to multiple times wants entirely the opposite of that and I know you don’t want to believe it but to her, coming here, having a husband such as you was something she wanted. Sadly, things have gone slightly awry.” Loki began to scoff at his words before pausing. “When has all this conversing been taking place?” “Through her stay here.” Thor kept his answers broad so as to not have Loki sense any dishonesty. 

Loki studied his brother closer. “Like when?” “Do you honestly think I can recall days and times off the top of my head?”

“Do you know where in the palace she is?” Thor tried to think of something to say to argue that but silence or a no would immediately be sensed as a lie. “Why?” “I deserve to know, as her betrothed, surely?” “Not if you are going to add to her loneliness with it.” “Loneli…If I wanted to add to her loneliness, the last thing I would do is ask where to find her, Thor.” Loki scoffed. “Where is she?”

“I am not going to tell you if you are going to use it to add to this farce.” Thor’s declared. 

Loki knew he was telling the truth, much to his own annoyance. “Then leave.” “This is the royal hallway, I don’t have to leave. I live here, same as you.” Thor reminded him. “In your time speaking with Raven, what have you learnt of her?” “That she’s a conniving wench.” 

“No, Loki. In all seriousness, what have you learnt of her? What did it reveal of her knowledge of you?”

“Nothing, she knows nothing of me. Made clear by how she thought to get to know me.” He snapped. “Her way of speaking to me was not to introduce herself but to act like a maid, to scrub toilets and rummage through my belongings. That’s how little she thinks of me.” Loki paused. He had not thought of that previously. She had been privy to all of his belongings. Letters of private matters, items of personal value that he would not have wanted her to see. It annoyed him greatly that she had touched and rummaged through such things.

Seeing his brother getting irritated, Thor decided to alter his train of thought before he focused too greatly on what was annoying him. “So in that time, she got nothing right about your personality? I refuse to believe that because when I discussed the issue with her, I think she got your personality to perfection. The anger, the silent treatment, she even apologised to me for the aggression you would show me, both physical and otherwise.” “That, she did ascertain correctly. That is hardly surprising as it would be considered a normal reaction by most.” Loki dismissed. “I will not repeat myself, where is she?” “You’re repeating yourself saying that to me again.” Thor pointed out. “Until you are willing to speak with her like an adult, I will not tell you.” “You owe me.” “You owe her, considering you never even wrote back when she tried to engage you herself.” Loki said nothing as Thor walked off, leaving him to his thoughts. He walked back to his room and looked at the platter his letters always were placed when delivered to him. There were three there at that time. He walked over and looked around, noting there was nowhere any letter could have fallen for him to not have seen it. 

The Aesir Postmaster was a man of set ways. He was practically devout in how he viewed his role. If a letter went missing in his office, Norns have mercy on the being that moved it. He took the role as seriously as Odin took the role of Allfather. If he genuinely told Thor that there had been three letters from the Ljósáfar palace for him, then there had been. So where were they?

[cocobutnochanel]

A Dream Too

Genre: angst, drama, romance, flashbacks, exboyfriend!Baekhyun

Main Characters: Byun Baekhyun x Reader (oc: female)

Warnings: profanity, mature themes

Summary: Love or career, people always ask. When your ‘successful’ self crosses paths with the love of your life again, you’ll see another woman live your ‘dream’. 

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

'How do you truly move on?'

You ask yourself for the nth time today while waiting for the 20 minutes to pass you by so you can finally go home. Back to that thought, it was really confusing for you. You had no idea if you had moved on or just forgot. Or maybe, those wounds were just buried and no longer to be seen but nonetheless, still there.

"How do you move on?" You ask Dr. Kim who just entered your office, his tiny head peeping from the door's tiny crack. "Before you drift to your throughts again, you have a patient waiting. Your shift ain't over yet." Minseok, your friend since college and now colleague, calls the patient inside.

You sit straighter and clear your throat. A woman your age walks in with a three year old girl in hand.

You smile brightly at the child and her mom. "Hi, doc." The familiar little girl in pigtails waves shyly at you. "Hi, babe." She blushes at your usual nickname for her. This was the third time you have her over and you find her so adorable. She's so shy.

The woman your age hands you the file for them that was forwarded by the nurse. "Sorry to disturb you, doc. Areum is here to see you again." She laughs nervously as her child only bows in shyness. You put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. "Don't worry about it, ma'am. She's my favorite." You smile at the shy mother too. Probably where the little girl inherited it from.

Scanning the file, the child is said to have fevers. You remember too that three weeks ago, Areum came because of a fever. You take a thermometer to measure the child's temperature. "Kindly face the side, sweetie." You coo at her and she obliges in a second.

You sanitize the tympanic thermometer before putting it in her ear. While it hasn't come back with results, you ask her mother about how the child is. This happens so naturally. It was basically a routine. This was your dream.

"So since when did she have this fever?" You ask Areum's mom who was rubbing her child's back while you hold the thermometer in her ear. "Two days ago. Her immune system is really weak." She sighs sadly, looking at her kid with pitiful eyes.

You take out the beeping thermometer. Your eyes skim over Areum's temp, 39.2°. "How are you feeling then, Reummie?" You ask her while sanitizing the thermometer before putting it back.

You pick up the stethoscope around your neck. "Come here, babe." You say softly to Areum who willingly follows. You listen to her heartbeat and everything was pretty normal. The fever was the only thing bothering the child.

“Is there anything bothering you right now?” You frown a little at the little girl’s tiny grimace. 

"Headaches." She mutters under her breath. You nod at the kid's answer. "Do you have cough? Some other sickness?" You ask her again, a pen in hand to take note of what the child's answer could be.

She shakes her head at your question. "Just fever." Areum's mom smiled sadly when she answered.

"Since you've been getting on and off fevers ever since, we will just assume for now it's because of the weather. It’s been snowing hard, Areum needs to put more clothes on." You advice while jotting down the prescription for Areum after checking her heartbeat.

"Just take what I usually recommend. Also, her vitamins and diet should be more monitored, ma'am. Her water intake too." You say that without looking at her mom but you know she's nodding and listening.

Areum’s mom was exceptionally beautiful. She was an exact opposite of her but you admired her tremendously. You admired her strength and courage. It wasn’t easy to be a housewife and a very hands-on mom like her. God knows you would never do that for someone. 

Speaking of that, you never truly did. Your passion for medicine and science was always greater. Well, you thought so.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you sign at the bottom and hand the paper to Areum's mother. "If she still has fever until the end of the week, bring her back so we can run some tests on her." You say as she nods at everything you say. You hand her the prescription and she happily takes it.

"Thank you so much, doc." She smiles at you gratefully as she stands up. "Let me walk you out." You stand up yourself too and pick up your belongings that were prepared beforehand.

You hold Areum's hand as you three walk out of your office. Passing by the nurses' table, you log yourself out of your shift and finally proceed walking with Areum to the parking lot.

You see her reserved demeanor even grow when people and patients were around. She was an exact opposite of you, you think again. You were independent, confident and hungry for your career ambitions while she bowed a little too low. Women could be insanely different but still, her choice astounded you. It takes a lot of strength to be gentle, you ponder.

"Where are you going after, doc?" Areum's mom inquired when you entered the elevator for the basement parking, stopping you from getting lost further in your thoughts. "Just home." You press Basement 1 with your free hand as Areum held the other.

"There's a boyfriend waiting then?" She asks you with a shy smile, trying to make conversation. "I don't even have time for sleep. I can't imagine having one." You laugh at her question.

Wildly, you wonder back to your earlier thought. Maybe if I didn't become a doctor, I'd be a mother like her too. But I chose my dream.

You snap out of your thoughts and ask her back. "How about you, ma'am?" The elevator pinged and opened. "My husband's just picking us up to go home." She smiles with content as if her husband was everything. You kind of wished you had that too.

Well actually, you had it. But you lost it too.

Before you could part ways with the shy kid and her even shyer mother, a black sedan pulls up in front of you.

A familiar man in a suit gets out, a face you know too well. "Appa!" You smile at Areum who was now running to the dapper man. Despite being sick, Areum was still excited to see her dad. Areum's mom walks over to the driver too and you finally look up.

You lost your breath the moment you recognized his face. It was him. The reason why you had asked such questions to Minseok. His face alone brought you the memory.

(flashback)

You wanted to bang your head against the desk as you skim over the Macleod's Clinical Examination for the nth time today. Nothing was going your way today. Med school was stressing you out, giving you a maximum of 9-hour sleep a week.

You hear some noise from your living room. You decide to take a study break and finally head out of your study. You haven't seen your boyfriend for a week despite living in the same apartment.

Despite his schedule being loose as a freelancer, your med studies were enough to stop the two of you from seeing one another.

You turn the doorknob and see a surprising scene in front of you. "W-What is this?" Your voice broke at the sight of Baekhyun and his luggage. His eyes were red and framed with dark circles. He looked sad and tired.

"I'm moving out." He states the obvious, sitting down on the sofa with a troubled face. "Why?" Your voice cracked again as it sounded so much like desperation and shock.

"You don't even have time for me." He mutters softly, obviously trying to stay calm. You were shocked at what he said. He loved you the most, he supported you the most. How could he not understand that this was your dream? How could he not understand that this isn’t forever? How could he demand so fucking much?

You fall to your knees weakly as tears in your eyes threatened to spill. "It's not your fault. I'm not even forcing you to choose me, Y/N. B-But, I can't live like this. Not anymore." He huffs out as if it was a burden he had carried ever since.

"I know it's not my fault, Baek! Hell, you're making me feel bad for chasing my dream!" You cry in hopelessness. "I'm sorry." He whispers, meters away from you.

Tears have finally made way to your face as internal pain enveloped your being. "It's just that- I can't be with someone who doesn't have time." He tries to say it again as if it's gonna make things better.

"Is it really going to be worth it? Us breaking up over this?" You didn't want to beg but God knows you've spent half your life with this man, dreaming of spending the rest of it with him. Was he really not for you? 7 years just going down the drain because you didn't have enough time?

"Am I not enough, Baekhyun?" You ask once again when he falls silent, his face in his hands. "Am I not a reason enough for you to stay?" You were disgusted at how you were on your knees, begging a man to stay.

His face was filled with sorrow as his eyes avoid meeting yours. You suddenly remember that he was the same boy who loved you unconditionally with endless patience seven years ago.

"Byun Baekhyun, I have loved you ever since I saw you that day when you laughed out loud in front of the class while introducing yourself in fifth grade." You recall an image of the boy you have loved ever since. "Tell me, don't I love you enough?" Your lips were trembling.

"I'm sorry." Baek mutters again, making you cringe at his words. "Stop apologizing, for fuck's sake, Baekhyun! I’m asking you! Am I not fucking enough?" You explode in anger, tears and pain.

"Seven years..." You whisper to the air. It felt like it was just yesterday when you two were in high-school and in love. How did it end like this? How did it end just because of time. How could he not understand? "Don't you want me to reach my dreams?" You ask him again, tears streaming down your face.

He closes his eyes shut as tears started racing down his face too. It was at that moment you realized that you weren't the only one in pain. He was too.

Like how you are breaking right now, he had suffered in silence too. He saw how consumed you were, thinking he was no longer important in your life. He saw how this relationship made it hard for you to concentrate too. He saw how he slowly faded in your ‘dream’.

But still, it broke you knowing that you hurt him this bad. It broke you knowing that the pain was too much, he had to disappear.

Your world crumbled in front of you as he stood there in pain, determined to leave. He was your first love. He was your everything. How could something so beautiful end like this?

"I'm not forcing you to choose me, Y/N." He says painstakingly, sorrow and loneliness in his voice. The aching pain in his heart was now double as he sees you on your knees.

"Will you be happy?" You ask the love of your life as he held his things in his arms. He only nodded with gritted teeth, knowing it’d be hard for him too.

That was it. The sign you needed. You were gonna let him go. You loved him too much, you couldn't imagine letting him suffer even more. You would always wish for his happiness. So you take a deep breath and nod back at him too.

For the last time, he speaks to you. "I'm not forcing you to choose me because I'm holding you back. So reach your dreams, Y/N. Reach it without me, doc." He stands up and finally departing for good, leaving you broken and your questions unanswered.

Today's Byun Baekhyun looked no day older than he did the moment he left the apartment you two shared. The supposed life you two were going to have.

"This is Dr. Y/L/N, she's Areum's doctor." Areum's mom happily links his arm with Baekhyun, snapping you out of your momentary flashback. A soft 'oh' falls from his lips as a lump forms in your throat in silence.

You couldn't breathe. Your world stops like it just did six years ago while you were on your knees and on the floor of the same shared apartment. You weren't over him at all. Moving on meant completely being fine. But despite six years flying out the window since he left, he still had that effect on you. He still left you breathless like he did in fifth grade with his hearty laugh.

"You made it, doc." He gives you the same smile he had way back when he confessed that he had a crush on you in seventh grade. Your lungs constrict at the nickname and you couldn't say a word.

His eyes shone with adoration and love that was once for you. "Yeobo, do you know her? She's a very good doctor." Areum's mother cheered, her daughter nodding in agreement too.

You see him pick Areum up in his arms. Now, the little kid resembled him a lot. It made sense, you know. He was now with a girl who could only see him in the future. He was with a woman who loved him enough to give up on her career. How could you not notice?

"Appa, I'm hungry." Areum murmured against her father's shoulders. Baekhyun rubs his daughter’s back as Areum’s mom places a chaste kiss on her husband’s lips. Tears pooled in your eyes as a familiar pain spreads in your chest. 

"I-I better get going." You stammered, feeling abandoned all over again. You knew you were going to cry if you stayed one more second with them.

He had moved on. He had a family. While you, on the other hand, are still stuck over something that happened years ago.

"Do you know her? Is she okay?" You can hear Areum's mother pry to her husband once again. Husband, your heart ached at that thought.

Before you were out of earshot, you hear Baekhyun's answer to his wife's question that makes you want to run back home and cry. Everything finally made sense. You weren't happy despite reaching your dream. It wasn’t complete. You still pondered over moving on. You still wondered how he was. But right in this moment, you realize it.

"Just an old friend, yeobo." No, Baekhyun, you were my dream too.

[redteabaron]

Different anon… Here is the thing though, Drogo/Dany isn’t a parallel to sansan. People who make that comparison either lack severe reading comprehension, which is not surprising for this fandom, or they want to use it to validate sansan. (Tyrion was the older guy Sansa was forced to marry. Dany and Sansa have opposite journeys and their marriages are a part of that.) But sansan’s mirror is Jorah/Dany. Book!Jorah is an older guy who has a creepy obsession with a teenage girl. He dumps his trauma on her, he projects onto her. But he is also her advisor, her confidante early on, his protector. There are also the same BaTB elements sansans love to talk about. She even refers to him as her bear. But he was lusting after her ever since they met and then he assaulted her. He forced himself on her. She is uncomfortable with his actions, but she doesn’t possess the necessary language and she doesn’t understand consent (we know this because of how she frames her relationship with Drogo but also how she expected Lhazareen women to be ok, even be thankful for being married to their rapists, and her dubcon relationship with Irri) so she recontextualize what happened and chastise Jorah for kissing her not because she is a teenager and he shouldn't and she didn’t consent to but because she is his Queen. That's the language she has, so she expresses her discontent, disapproval, rejection with that. Sandor was verbally, psychologically, physically abusive to Sansa but he also occasionally protected her in King’s Landing. He lusted after her, made sexually inappropriate comments to an 11 year old child but he was also the only one in KL to have honest conversations with her. Then he assaulted her, held her at knife point. She was afraid of him kissing her, killing her, she had nightmare about the assault which she clearly registered as a sexual one despite what his fans claim his intentions were. Sansa has a habit of romanticizing/redefining these things. Sansa thinks Arys Oakheart was preferable, that he was kind because he beat her less hard than the other Kingsguard. She remembers Tyrion as someone who were kind to her, someone better than Joffrey even though he molested her and she had him in her nightmares too. She separates Littlefinger and Petyr in her mind because just like with the other men before him the thought of her sometimes-protector at the same time being her abuser is too much for her. Just like Dany she recontextualizes what the Hound did to her and turns the assault into a song to cope with it.

These two pairings has the same dynamic, the difference is fandom’s response to it. (The slight differences are that Dany had actual amiable feelings for Jorah -not romantic love or sexual feelings but friendly, sisterly love for him- and she as a Queen had a lot more agency than Sansa as a prisoner had. She isn't as powerless as Sansa, she could have easily banished him, punished him, even ordered his death.) But no one in fandom writes essay after essay why and how could and should Jorah and Dany end up together. It’s an outrageous suggestion. Dany is a main character, she is the heroine. She is a Queen. Why should she ever end up with someone as lowly as Jorah? Someone as old, as ugly as Jorah? But Sansa, meh she is not an important character. And she needs to be punished, first because she was a child making childish mistakes. Secondly, she is shallow, she refused to be raped by her older, ugly husband. So she needs to end up with an older ugly guy to humble her. Even when the author expressed his distaste of the trope of a noble girl running away with a lowly guy in medieval stories, nah that doesn’t matter here. Sansa being of high nobility, a princess won’t have any factor at all who she’s gonna end up with. They had to keep assuring themselves that she is not a main character so she could even end up with a villainous character, that she is not a Stark so she could end up with people who hurt/fight against her family. The hypocrisy of this fandom, and their selective reading is most clear when it comes to these two “couples”. Almost all sansans (whether it is the actual shippers or those who think it’ll happen because well it’s Sansa what else she’s gonna do besides being a reward bride for some hideous guy) hate Jorah/Dany (as they should) while trying to justify how and why Sansa should end up with the hound. Let's forget the abuse and pedophile, let's assume those never happened, even then it makes no sense. There is not a narratively satisfying way, a logical reason how Sansa could be with Sandor. But they ignore all that because it doesn't fit in with their vision, with their interpretation of the books and characters. Because admitting Sansa is a main character and more than a reward for their pedo fave has a ripple affect, it challenges all their theories, they all crumble. And they just can't let go of their 2 decades old theories, they just have to be right, they must be right. That's why they all took the show's ending as a personal offense, especially the QiTN Sansa. I just can't wait for the books!

Yeah, agreed. jorah and sandor are mirrors of each other. I mean I hope they both die without any glory or honor, personally. I don't really care if they have sacrificial deaths for the greater good - or whatever framing the show had intended - jorah and sandor were also whitewashed and made more pitiable/likeable.

Whenever dany x dr*go is used to validate literally ANY pairing, I am suspish. In particular when we acknowledge that dany absolutely couldn't consent - she was 13 iirc - and was sold off by her abusive brother to a man twice her age, but Sansa reimagining her trauma about Sandor's assault to something less traumatic is considered being hateful to Sandor because he's unattractive. (And I never really listen whenever ppl give me shit or deny it was assault; pertaining to my job, I'm pretty fucking aware what assault or intention-to-assault looks like, and I think most ppl do to, they just seem to lose awareness when it comes to their ships or certain characters).

I think it has to do with Sansa being the archetypal "Pretty Popular Girl" - the one who like feminine things, sort of fussy, likes feminine colors and just in general is feminine. She seems to remind people of the classic mean popular girl we saw popularized in 1990s-2000s high school movies - the one who gets her comeuppance in the end when the non-feminine girl somehow triumphs in whatever way, or she's the one who learns her lesson and stops being quite so feminine, or hooks up with a most-popular guy. The Mean/Pretty Popular girl has to be humbled in some fashion. Fans who don't like her, tend to view this as a way for her to pay for the error of her ways.

Like being a prisoner of war. Or not wanting to fuck tyrion. Or not wanting to run away with sandor.

I mean...all of asoiaf, beyond the politics and magic, is all about trauma and the human response to it - which is varied and depends on circumstances, personalities, and a lot of other things. One of the more vile things GOT did was whitewash jorah and tyrion the way they did imo. Jorah was a predator, circling Dany, regardless of whether she thought of him fondly, he just happened to not be violent towards her - she cries when he forces a kiss on her. Tyrion was a predator who molested her when he acknowledged she was a child "but he wanted her anyway". I've seen a lot of ppl react more sympathetically towards Dany. I haven't seen much recrimination against dany for refusing him the way we see sansa being hated for not wanting tyrion or sandor, hell, even petyr.

But - Sansa, imo, in the larger or at least circles of the fandom that have been around longer, is a more ideal whipping girl for the outlet a lot of ppl crave. See again the popular girl trope. She can't fight, she has no magical creatures, she is not a Chosen One of any kind. She has her wits and her ability to observe and adapt who has no choice but to navigate survival surrounded by people who have more agency and power than she does. That's it. I guess in a world of amazing abilities and magic and warfare, this is very boring, particularly when she doesn't weaponize her femininity or sexuality, where she's beautiful without being dangerous or magical or erotic. And I guess ppl feel that because of that, she needs to be punished for not being as extraordinary as she should be, OR, because she was the "Mean Popular Girl" (she wasn't) she must be humbled, and the ones to do it are the ones she refuses.

It's really delicious knowing they don't get "to have her" 🤢. Hopefully they just both fuck off to the ends of the world or die, idc they deserve zero thought.

[lifeofkaze]

When Stars Ignite - Chapter 2

HPHM Rockstar AU

A/N:

General Warning: This whole fic has a general warning of being NSFW / 18+. We will give specific warnings for every chapter in itself, but several adult themes will be more or less present in every chapter, may it be explicitly or in mention. These include sexual topics, drug abuse, (ab)use of alcohol, smoking and a whole lot of cursing.

Specific Warning: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of drug abuse, swearing, suggestive NSFW content

~~~

Find the masterpost here, the previous chapter here and the next one here. The songs featured before every chapter can be found on this pretty badass playlist here.

~~~

This work is a collaboration with @the-al-chemist

Taglist: @slytherindisaster

No, we won't tell a soul where we gone to

Girl, we do whatever we want to

Ah, I love the way that you do me

Cherry, babe, you really get to me

~ Neil Diamond - Cherry, Cherry ~

It had already been pretty late when they had finally left the O2 arena and made their way into the heart of the city. They’d just had enough time to order something to eat at one of their favourite restaurants at the still bustling Heron Tower before last orders were called.

None of them being in the mood to go home just yet, they had taken a cab to Mayfair for an opportunity to wind down from the high of their show. Ethan had wanted to join them, but had waved them away after checking his phone, mumbling something about a lot of work waiting for him in the morning.

No one was particularly sad about Skye’s dad opting out, however; they were currently making their way past the line of people queuing up in front of the nightclub they had chosen for the evening. Orion wasn’t a fan of crowded dancefloors and music he didn’t like blaring so loudly he couldn’t hear his own thoughts, but had bowed to the will of the others.

Many people considered the glitz and glamour that came with being famous as a perk; he just found it shallow and irritating. However, he was still too wound up to just return to his flat; he hadn’t seen his friends in weeks and was looking forward to properly catching up with them. Even if it wasn’t his preferred location for sharing talk and laughter, nothing was perfect after all.

As expected, music washed over them the moment they entered the building and the air grew increasingly warmer as they were led deeper into the bowels of the club. He could see Everett checking out the women on the dancefloor as they walked past, while Lizzie was slightly nodding her head to the music; naturally, she wasn’t able to resist a compelling beat.

The uncomfortably loud volume lessened to a more agreeable level when they arrived at their designated table in the private area. Their first round of drinks hadn’t even arrived yet, when Everett rose from his seat again and left for the dancefloor; none of them had any desire to join him. Lizzie had been considering it for a moment, but Orion knew how exhausted she must be from their performance. His own muscles were burning with fatigue, he could only imagine how she must feel.

Unsurprisingly, there were a lot of stories to tell; before their break, they had spent every day together for months on end, making a span of four weeks feel like an eternity and a blink of an eye at the same time. Skye was telling them about the side project she had started with her brothers while Merula spoke about her dabbling into poetry. Lizzie had spent the whole four weeks in the States with her brother and had brought back quite an assortment of stories to tell.

Orion himself had travelled a fair bit as well; there was nothing sparking his creativity like visiting new places with a clean and open mind. Thanks to a surge of inspiration, the songs for their next album were coming along greatly. Although they were still far from what Orion considered good enough to openly share them, he was satisfied with the progress.

When Everett returned after some time, the atmosphere cooled noticeably. Hanging from his arm was a girl with long brown hair, who was looking at Everett as if he was Keith Richards and Kurt Cobain combined. She was dolled up to a ridiculous degree, with heels as high as her dress was short.

Glancing down at her simple dark jeans and top, Lizzie chuckled to herself. “Now I feel underdressed.”

“If anyone is underdressed, that would be her,” Merula muttered, eyeing the hem of the girl’s dress, which barely covered her bum, with an arched eyebrow.

As she and Everett sat down next to Lizzie, the contrast between the girl’s artificial look and Lizzie’s more natural beauty couldn’t have been greater. Orion would probably never stop wondering why women felt the need to distort their looks in such a way.

Real beauty was not something to be put on and worn on display, forced about with flashy jewellery and an absurd amount of makeup; it was like light shining from the inside. It illuminated everything around it, drawing eyes without even trying to.

Their conversations all but ceased as Everett started boasting about their band’s success, his impact on their music and the solo career he had been fantasising about ever since Orion could remember.

Orion had to bite back a laugh as he saw Skye mimicking Everett’s expression when he didn’t look her way. Granted, he was a passable guitarist and talented singer. None of the other band members had the way of enticing the crowd and holding their attention like Everett did; nor did any one of them want to. He was about show and performance, the way he liked to celebrate himself all smoke and mirrors, but this didn’t stop his act increasingly getting on all of their nerves.

Everett didn’t use to be that way back when he had joined Equinox; while he had always been a charismatic guy, their continuous success had started getting to his head. Judging by his erratic gestures and slurred speech, Orion wouldn’t bet on alcohol being the only thing he had coursing through his system and clouding his view on things at the moment.

It wasn’t long, however, before Everett eventually decided he'd had enough of them.

Ignoring the annoyed looks of his friends, he and his girl had started making out right next to them. After a while she giggled, pulled on his sleeve and whispered something into his ear. Without sparing them so much as another glance, Everett got up and pulled her along towards the exit. There was a collective sigh going through the group after they had left.

“Fuck it, a few more minutes and she’d taken her bra off,” Merula muttered.

Lizzie shuddered. “No need, it’s not like she was wearing one.”

Skye shook her head. “I don’t get it, what do they all see in him? He’s not even that good looking.”

“You don’t find any man good looking,” Lizzie answered wryly while taking a sip of her almost empty drink.

“Fair enough,” Skye shot back, blowing her a kiss over the table. Lizzie rolled her eyes, but had to laugh anyway.

“I see what you mean, though,” she continued a moment later. “He’s been getting downright nasty lately. The way he was talking to Charlie during the feedback round? That was so unnecessary; a little more and Charlie might have hit him.”

“He’d never,” Skye chuckled. “It takes more than Ev to rile someone like Charlie up. That would be like Orion punching someone.”

They laughed at the ridiculousness of that idea. Skye was right though, Lizzie thought. While Charlie had been offended at suggesting his work wasn’t absolutely flawless and up to his own standard, it wasn’t like him to lose his cool over something like that.

“Like anyone pursuing what they love with a passion, Charlie does care about his work deeply,” Orion picked the conversation up again, “it is only natural to feel defensive when attacked. When you pour your heart and soul into something, it doesn’t matter if the results or yourself are doubted; it comes down to the same thing.”

“Maybe, but Charlie’s attitude is causing problems,” Merula said glumly. “As much as I hate to admit it, Ev is right; the pyros are a joke since Charlie’s doing two jobs at the same time.”

Lizzie immediately jumped to her friend’s defence. “It’s only temporary; he’ll concentrate on sound as soon as a proper replacement is found.”

Merula snorted in response. “I’m not sure there is anyone Charlie would be happy with who’s not himself.”

“Giving up something you love to the care of someone else is no easy feat,” Orion conceded, “but Murphy said it himself, they have a new applicant in for an interview tomorrow. If they meet him with an open mind, maybe we’ll have the newest member of our crew faster than we think.”

Merula’s answer was cut short by the waitress approaching their table carrying a fresh round of drinks. She handed them out and was about to leave, when she turned around again. Hesitating for a moment, she blushed a little, the change in her skin colour barely visible in the dimmed lights of the nightclub.

“Excuse me if I’m rude or anything, I really don’t want to disturb you,” she mumbled, looking visibly flustered, “but you are the guys from Equinox, aren’t you? The rock band?”

Skye grinned. “Right you are. You a fan?”

The waitress’s eyes lit up. “A fan? Are you kidding? I adore your music! I’ve got tickets for your show tomorrow and can’t wait! It’s such an honour to have you here tonight.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” Lizzie smiled, idly stirring her cherry margarita with the cherry that had come as decoration.

The eyes of the waitress followed the swirls she was creating in the dark liquid. She was visibly gathering her courage before blurting out, “Is it true what’s written on your website? On your character profile?”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows in confusion. “Pardon me?”

The girl started blushing again. “In the misc-section, you know. They’ve written you could tie a cherry stem with your tongue; I’ve never met anyone who can do that.”

Now it was Lizzie’s turn to blush and hide her face behind her hand; sitting directly next to her, Orion could see that she was laughing behind her fingers.

“I knew I should have never told anyone about this,” she sighed, “I had no idea Ethan had them put this on my damn profile.”

“Shut up, you can’t really do that,” Skye exclaimed incredulously. “No way that’s true.”

Lizzie furrowed her brow. “Of course it is.”

“You never told me about that.”

“Why would I?”

“Then why did you tell dad?”

“He asked,” Lizzie shrugged.

Now it was Merula’s turn to look incredulous. “Ethan asked you if you could tie a cherry stem?”

Lizzie snorted. “He asked if I could do a party trick.”

Skye crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned back in her seat. She nodded at the cherry between Lizzie’s fingers. “Prove it.”

Amused, Lizzie tilted her head. “What, right now?”

“Scared I’ll call you out, Jameson?”

Her eyes sparkling in prospect of a challenge, Lizzie plucked the stem off the cherry and twirled it between her fingers. “Watch it, Parkin.”

She flashed the still sceptical looking Skye a mischievous grin before she let the cherry stem disappear behind her lips. She knew everyone was watching her intently and Orion could see she was trying not to smirk.

He himself was so concentrated on whether she would succeed or not, he was caught completely off guard when he suddenly felt Lizzie’s hand coming to rest on his knee beneath the table. His breath hitched as she was squeezing it lightly. He had to bite his cheek as her fingers started grazing the inside of his thigh in slow circles, her hand steadily dancing higher and higher. All the while, she was keeping a straight face, her blue eyes fixed on Skye.

Orion couldn’t believe what she was doing; he took a deep breath that came out a lot shakier than he had meant it to.

Just before he had to stop her wandering fingers, she retracted her hand abruptly. Her eyes flickering towards him for the briefest of moments, she pursed her lips and pulled the now doubly tied cherry stem from between them in a deliberately slow motion. With a confident smile, she flicked it at Skye, whose jaw had dropped open.

“Teach me,” was all she managed to say before Lizzie broke into laughter.

“That’s my secret technique, Parkin; I’m not sharing.”

Lizzie leaned back in her seat, visibly satisfied with herself. Judging by the devilish smile playing around her lips, it was not only because she had proven Skye wrong.

Orion closed his eyes for a moment and brushed his hair out of his face to give his fingers something to do. While Lizzie and Skye were bantering back and forth, Orion was counting to fifty in his head in an attempt to reign his thoughts in again.

Just when he thought he had himself back under control again, Lizzie leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand while appearing to listen to Merula attentively. What the others could not see was her using her shift in position to press her leg against his. The cheeky smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth was hidden by her hand, only visible to him.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Orion moved himself out of her reach. “As much as I would love to stay with you, my friends, I’m afraid tonight’s show has taken more of a toll on me than I thought,” he explained at Merula’s and Skye’s confused expressions; Lizzie was merely blinking at him innocently. “If you don’t mind, I’ll head back home to get some well deserved rest.”

Without waiting for any of them to reply, Orion quickly turned around and left for the exit, all the while feeling Lizzie’s eyes on his back.

[missjanjie]

Better Than Revenge | (2/?)

Title: Better Than Revenge Summary: Karma Inc.’s business structure is simple - clients hire them when they’ve been grievously wronged and they send one of their revenge mercenaries to right them. As painstaking as their efforts to remain ethical may be, that may be tested when former detective, Rosé, enlists the squad to pick up where she couldn’t on a much higher scale, with potentially greater consequences. Word Count: ~2.6k (this chapter) | ~5.3k (total) Relationship(s): Rosnali (Rosé/Denali Foxx), Jankie (Jackie Cox/Jan Sport), Halldoll (Nicky Doll/Jaida Essence Hall), Gimone (Gigi Goode/Symone), Gottlux (Gottmik/Olivia Lux) Rating: T

TW for this chapter: implied domestic abuse, attempted sexual coercion of a minor, deadnaming/transphobia

Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi

Chapter Summary: Rosé learns Nicky, Jan, and Mik's revenge origin stories

-

Milwaukee, WI - 2007

“I think my parents are starting to get suspicious,” Jaida quietly confessed, her gaze downcast to the floor while Nicky sat behind her, braiding her hair.

Nicky frowned, her brows furrowed as she tied off the braid she’d put Jaida’s hair in with a hair elastic. “What is making you say that?” she asked, moving so she was facing the other girl and taking her hands into her own.

She shrugged, fumbling with the hem of her shirt until Nicky’s grasp stilled them. “Just feels like they’re snooping around more, suddenly real interested in my life. And you know they’re always acting weird whenever we’re at my house together. Last time they made us keep the door open, remember?”

“I had assumed that was an American thing,” she confessed. She had only moved to the states a couple of months ago, at the start of her and Jaida’s junior year of high school, and she was still learning how to differentiate cultural differences from people behaving unusually to her specifically.

“You think everything you don’t understand is an American thing,” Jaida rolled her eyes with a fond smile, “though I guess you’re right most of the time,” she conceded.

Nicky shrugged it off, redirecting back to the topic at hand. “But you’re worried they’re going to find out about us and poop will hit the ceiling.”

“Shit will hit the fan,” she corrected, then sighed. “I mean, think about it — my mom’s a Sunday school teacher and my dad’s the son of a preacher, they take ‘traditional family values’ very seriously. And I don’t know how things are in France but there’s nothing traditional about this,” she explained, gesturing between the two of them.

She frowned, her brows knitting together. “But we are happy together, surely once we graduate, we can—”

“It’s not that simple, Nicky!” Jaida tossed her head back and groaned. “I love you, but in a place like this, sometimes love just ain’t enough.”

And maybe it was denial, or maybe it was blind optimism, but Nicky had refused to take that answer lying down. She fought for Jaida and fought even harder to keep the relationship away from her disapproving parents. For a while, it seemed to be working, they had their beautiful, fleeting moments that let them believe that everything would be okay.

It was the first day back after spring break and Nicky immediately noticed a change in her girlfriend. It was like the life and light had been drained from her like she was only present physically. And despite the warm weather, she was dressed for late fall. She rushed towards her, taking her hand. “Ma chérie, what’s wrong? You look so unwell.”

Jaida hesitated before pulling her hand away. “I can’t hang around you anymore,” she replied. “Though I’m not gonna see anyone around here for a while starting real soon,” she mumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents found out, Nicky,” she choked out, forcing back a sob, “and they were mad, I ain’t never seen them so mad. They’re sending me to military school… well, they gave me a choice between that and conversion therapy… seemed like the better option.”

Nicky bit down on her quivering lip. “But you can find me when you are done, right?” She reached out to her again, but Jaida backed away to step out of her grasp.

“I can’t. Besides, you won’t want me anyway, I won’t be the same person.”

She tried to grab for her once more, desperate to keep her, looking at her with watery, pleading eyes. “Jaida, I can’t—”

“Please,” she sniffled, “don’t make this harder than it’s already gonna be.”

And perhaps Nicky should have let it go, accepted losing her first love, and moving on with her life. Sure, she would eventually. She would move around for school, for work, meeting many beautiful women along the way, but none of that happened until she made sure Jaida’s parents experienced at least a fraction of the hurt they had caused the both of them.

Her plan had been elaborate and convoluted and would require a heavy amount of stealth work and computer literacy to pull off. But as it turned out, her plan of convincing the two parents that the other was cheating on them was quite easy when her snooping unearthed the fact that both of them already were. All she needed to do was bring it to light.

Present Day

“When you think about it,” Nicky mused, “I did them a favor. There are worse ways they could’ve found out than having an envelope full of proof dropped off at your workplace. At least no one made a scene… as far as I know, at least.”

“Does Jaida know?” Rosé asked. “Now that you guys have reconnected, have you caught her up to speed? Because it seems like something you should tell her.”

Nicky winced and looked away. “It… has not come up yet,” she murmured. “There is no easy way to inform someone that you were the catalyst in their parent’s divorce. Unless you have a way, in which case, feel free to share with the class.”

She shrugged, putting her hands up in surrender. “I got nothing, but my point remains. It’s gonna bite you in the ass badly if you wait too long to say anything.” When Nicky shrugged it off, she decided to move on. “What about you, Bubbles?” she asked, looking towards Jan, “what sort of scathing revenge does someone as bouncy as you come up with?”

Jan pressed her lips into a fine line, holding back what was either a smile or a grimace. “Well, this also happened in high school, an all-girl Catholic school, of course…”

Old Bridge, NJ - 2009

Jan was nothing if not brave. Coming out in tenth grade, especially considering the environment she was in, was a choice that couldn’t be taken lightly. While she had the support of her family and closest friends, the school environment had been a different story.

“Janice, could you stay back for a moment?” her math teacher, a conventionally attractive man in his early thirties, prompted as the final bell rang.

With math being her weakest subject, Jan was instantly concerned and nodded. “Of course, sir. Is something wrong?” she asked as she walked over to his desk.

“I think something is very wrong,” he replied as he got up. “Janice, I am highly concerned with your mental wellbeing.” He stopped in front of her, cupping her face with both hands. “You’re such a bright, beautiful girl. It would be such a shame for you to throw that away because you’ve chosen to shun God and live in sin.”

Jan felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach and her throat tighten. This was inevitable, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. She started shaking her head. “N-No, I’m… I’m not, I—”

“Shh…” he pressed his thumb to her lips to quiet her, then swiped it across her bottom lip. “Part of being a good Christian is overcoming temptation. And that’s what you want, isn’t it? Isn’t it what your parents want for you?” His hands move to her shoulders, squeezing them gently. “God gave you this body to lay with a man, you just need to be put in the right direction before it’s too late. I could help you, I could save you.”

Jan felt sick to her stomach. She hated every moment of the interaction; she hated the feeling of his hands on her, the way he was leering at her body, undressing her with his eyes. But at the same time, it was hard to lean into that hate, because he did pick on every insecurity she had in regards to her faith. But her sense of self won out and she was able to free herself of his grasp and run out of the room as fast as her legs would take her.

Any shame or guilt she might have felt was quickly replaced by anger and a desire to stop the man that tried to rob her of her innocence from harming anyone else. But she was still cautious, she knew there was a risk of retaliation if she spoke out alone, that was when her plan formed.

She created a fake Facebook account of a fifteen-year-old girl who was ‘planning on transferring to her school’. That was why she messaged the teacher, and after a few days of exchanging messages, ‘Samantha’ had agreed to meet up with him, the conversation in no uncertain terms making his intent clear.

Now, the obvious path from there would have been to go to the police, but that wasn’t good enough for Jan. Instead, she went to her godfather, who had promised he’d always help her ‘by any means necessary’. So, it was neither the police nor ‘Samantha’ that met the teacher at the park. Instead, it was two burly men who drove home a rough lesson that he was to turn himself in the next day, lest he face even worse consequences. He’d been given a flash drive with a copy of the whole exchange and was told he had exactly twenty-four hours and that the police would be expecting him.

Of course, those details weren’t in the subsequent news story of the teacher’s arrest. The conviction, however, was disappointing to Jan, as it was only two years and a thousand dollar fine, as well as losing his teaching license and having to register as an offender.

Present Day

“But rest assured, people are keeping an eye on him these days. You know, should he ever try and act up,” Jan explained with a shrug.

Rosé’s mouth was hanging open by the time Jan had finished her story. “So, you put a hit out on a pedo. I mean, shit, color me impressed,” she chuckled softly, then quickly followed up with, “I’m so sorry any of that happened to you, though. I’ve had people in my life try to weaponize religion against me after I came out. It’s never an easy pill to swallow.” She then looked at the group curiously. “Are you all…”

“Mik’s pan but yeah, the rest of us are gay,” Gigi confirmed with a nod. “At first, I thought that’d be the only thing we all have in common, but here we are now.”

“Chosen family is super important,” Mik agreed, “you never know who you can’t trust in your bloodline.”

Rosé quirked her brow. “That what happened to you?”

Scottsdale, AZ - 2015

Mik had been sitting across from his parents in dead silence for the past five minutes. There was no easy way to break it, let alone a correct one. On the coffee table in front of them were printed pictures of screenshots from his private Twitter account, where he presented himself as his true identity, but the precautions he took weren’t enough.

“Kady, sweetheart, I’m sure Uncle Joe brought this to our attention with your best interest at heart,” his mother said in as sweet of a voice as she could muster, which only served to sound fake to her son.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please, don’t give me that. If it was ‘concern’ he would’ve told you privately. He sent it to the family group chat then told you that, and I quote, ‘your daughter thinks she’s a tranny’,” he struggled to keep his tone even, but he knew he needed to coddle his parents’ feelings if he wanted a chance of being taken seriously.

“I’m sure it just caught him by surprise,” his father offered.

Mik groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if he did, he wasn’t treating it like a fun piece of gossip, he hunted down my private account and outed me to humiliate me, and it would mean a lot if you guys had my back on this.”

This brought another wave of silence upon his parents. He couldn’t get a clear read on them, but they seemed stressed, confused, and most painfully, they seemed sad. His mother slowly picked her head back up. “Kady, I—”

“My name is Mik.”

“Listen, honey, you’re going to have to give us some time to adjust,” his dad tried to ease the tension, “you’re still our child, but this isn’t an easy thing to process, your mother especially is mourning the loss of her daughter.”

Mik felt his chest tighten in anger and hurt. “But I’m not—” he got up, shaking his head. “Right, fine,” he mumbled and escaped to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Left alone with his thoughts, the anger he had towards his parents dissipated and the rage shifted solely onto his uncle. After all, this was his fault. He was the one that robbed him of the opportunity to come out on his terms, and with the active intent to cause harm.

The anger didn’t go away over the following weeks. Instead, it built up, it festered inside of him as the summer after high school began. He had downloaded Grindr out of casual curiosity, and it was only a matter of minutes before a profile caught his eye. “No fucking way,” he grinned.

Of course, it was Joe, Mik realized how much of a cliche it was, but that didn’t change the fact that his bigoted uncle that tried to ruin his familial relationships was soliciting male escorts on a gay dating app. The opportunity for revenge essentially fell into his lap. He made a fake account and exchanged messages with him, just enough to get the evidence he needed.

The last step was simple, he dropped the screenshots into the same group text without any comment and removed himself from the group chat right after. He didn’t need to see the chaos unfold, Uncle Joe’s absence from the next family gathering was all he needed.

Present Day

“Just to be clear,” Mik added as he finished the story, “I’m against outing people, for the most part, obviously it should be something done on your terms. But shit, sometimes it’s gotta be an eye for an eye, you know?”

“Wait, I have a question,” Jan chimed in, “is he out now? Do y’all even talk to him anymore?”

He shook his head. “He moved to Alabama, I guess he wanted to go somewhere to double-down on the bigotry. No idea what happened after that. But, you know, good fucking riddance.”

“Amen to that,” Rosé agreed. “I don’t know how you guys have figured out that line of deciding what’s morally sound and what’s ethical enough. It seems to work, but it seems hard.”

“Jackie helped a lot with that,” Jan told her, her face lighting up and her smile broadening as she continued, “she has this pragmatic take on these things while still understanding that there’s so much ambiguity and morally gray areas. She’s honestly the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Rosé nodded as she listened. “I’m glad you guys have someone like that on your team. How long have you two been dating?”

Jan turned bright red, worsened by the way the rest of the group laughed. “Oh, um, we’re not dating. She and I are… very close friends,” she explained.

“Ah,” the corners of her lips tugged into a smirk, “you’re just fucking, got it,” she observed, causing another eruption of laughter from the others, much to Jan’s chagrin. Once it died down, she redirected her attention to the half of the group that had yet to recall their stories. “Alright, who’s next?”

[markynaz]

7/26

Belief / Dragons Written for @tes-summer-fest 2021 Wordcount: 3146 Content Warning: slight emotional abuse mentions, as appropriate when discussing Bastian Hallix's upbringing AO3 Mirror: here

“And who’s your favorite Divine?”

It was a common question for children in Daggerfall, usually asked in lieu of the small talk one would make with adults. It wasn't exactly proper to ask a child - no matter how well bred - about court gossip, or the price of bolts of Redguard cloth, or the war news that was on everyone else's lips. And it was unspeakably gauche to ask a child about their parents or family. A society as full of intrigue and gossip as the Bretons cultivated couldn’t stand for a child’s truth in any answer. No well-bred Breton of any variety would even think to put a child in the place of guarding family secrets.

So, inoffensive questions it was, and Bastian Hallix, ward of the influential Silvelles, had grown quite sick of them all by the time he was old enough to hide his annoyance.

The one about the Eight Divines was perhaps his least favorite. The easy answer was Julianos, protector of mages, but admitting it would mean admitting his magical aptitude - something the Silvelles were loathe to have Bastian say in company for reasons of their own. Barring that, it would have been easiest to make up a stock answer and stick with it, but lying never sat right with Bastian.

He was thinking about this instead of listening to the priest one Sundas afternoon. They sat - him, Quistley, and the Lord and Lady Silvelle - on the cushioned pews in King Emeric’s chapel, the sun glittering in through the stained glass windows and setting every piece of pristine silver or gold in the place glittering. Large statement jewelry was in fashion that summer. It was a fad from Cyrodil, according to Bastian’s tutors, and the concave silver brooch on Lady Silvelle’s breast was reflecting sunlight right into Bastian’s eye. He looked up to avoid the glare and examined the artful stained glass windows of the Divines while the priest started another prayer for the war effort.

Mara, goddess of love, was the first his eye fell on. Bastian stopped himself from making a face. He remembered, very faintly, thinking she was pretty at one time - remembered her being his favorite Divine when he was very, very young. Every artist put such an expression of goodness in her countenance that her face was always the first Bastian looked for. But… it was hard to believe in Mara, knowing what he knew of marriage from Lord and Lady Silvelle. Knowing what he knew of love from them, and from his brother, Quistley.

A priest had once told Bastian that Mara’s love was unconditional. Bastian didn’t think there was such a thing, but he supposed if there wasn't, Mara wouldn't still be watching over the world.

Her gentle face made him sad. He shifted his gaze.

Arkay, god of death and cycles. His sphere sounded more serious than the stained glass looked. He had one hand raised, and a kindly expression, so much that Bastian could almost forget or ignore the dead wolf at his feet and the graves filling the background of the picture.

When he'd been particularly angry with Quistley once - actually lost his temper on his foster brother, an incident that made his ears burn with shame to recall - he'd been quietly pulled aside, still fuming, by a priestess of Arkay who’d seen the whole of the confrontation. Quistley had run off to his parents, Bastian assumed to tell them how he'd behaved, and he was in no hurry to follow. Going with the priestess to calm down was by far the most agreeable option.

She'd had him hold the holy oil she was using to bless unmarked graves of paupers and disgraced women and men in the back alleys of Wayrest, talking softly to him in between murmuring prayers to her Divine. Cycles showed in life as well as death, she'd said. Bastian might have been angry with Quistley then, but one day Quistley would be angry with him, and he should always try to model the behavior he'd like shown to him in the next cycle. And - because she was a priestess of Arkay - she had added, one of them would very likely outlive the other. A life spent in cycles of rage was one the survivor was very likely to regret.

It had made sense to Bastian once he'd calmed enough to hear words. He'd returned to Lord and Lady Silvelle resigned to whatever punishment they'd assign him, and hoping to be a better brother and foster son going forward.

And then he'd found out, upon returning, that Quistley hadn't said a word to his parents, and was going to use Bastian’s fit of temper to blackmail him into doing favors for the next half year.

Bastian was fairly sure Arkay would never be his favorite Divine. Quistley shifted in his seat next to him, and in a burst of irritation, Bastian realized he was blatantly asleep in chapel.

He set his jaw and cast his gaze to the other row of stained glass.

Dibella, goddess of beauty. Her form was pleasing enough, but it held nothing for Bastian’s eyes. He could do little more than admire the artwork - for artists tended to be closer devoted to Dibella than any other Divine, and most would jump at the chance to depict her in their ideal of beauty.

Last year, Bastian had seen an artist depict Dibella in a male form for the first time in his recollection. He finally understood what had Quistley and his friends so enamored with the sculptures, stained glasses, and art pieces. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from the perfect musculature- the long hair flowing over defined back muscles - the chiseled features with just a hint of facial hair - the eyes, glimmering with intent behind his courtly Breton facade-

His ears were burning for a different reason, thinking about it.

The Silvelles hadn't cared one way or the other when his preferences were revealed. Bastian thought he even detected a hint of relief in Lady Silvelle’s voice, and thought - though it shamed him to think so meanly - it might be from the lowered likelihood of Bastian fathering children someday. It would mean fewer Hallixes for them to connect themselves with.

Not that he would force them to, if that ever came to pass. He knew his place.

Stendarr, god of justice and mercy. Bastian hadn't connected the cup on his altar to the object held in his hand for an embarrassing number of years. In his defense, the artist who’d rendered it in the Silvelles’ home chapel had either painted it very ill indeed, or it had been later ruined by some splash of ink.

The Redguard training master who’d been brought in to tutor Bastian and Quistley on the art of conflict swore to Stendarr sometimes, when he was mildly displeased. When he was really angry, he would revert to the Redguard pantheon. Bastian rarely heard that directed at him. More often, if he wasn't performing to standards, the wiry old man would heave a great sigh and say, “Young Bastian. One day, you'll either be delivering Stendarr’s justice, or begging his mercy at the other end of the sword. Which will it be today?”

He could almost hear it in the training master’s voice, really. Once Tutor Thierren told him about about Bastian’s aptitude for magic, he'd set to training him with a staff as well as a blade - setting up obstacle courses to get through with a weighted stave in hand, sessions where he'd give Bastian a staff with an iron core and come at him with a sword. It was always better to be on the correct side of Stendarr’s hand, and if his magicka was depleted, he needed to be able to survive and get away.

Bastian flattered himself that Thierren saw more in his future than court etiquette and uncomfortable questions answered by half-truths that made him burn inside. He was nearly seventeen now, almost a man grown. Lord Silvelle had been hinting recently that it might be time for Bastian to look after the family's interests without such a stern hand guiding him, and Bastian relished the thought.

Kynareth, goddess of the wilds and the winds. Bastian had named her as his favorite several times in response to the condescension of noble adults. Lord Silvelle’s comments that Bastian might start beginning to pay the Silvelles back for his excellent education and shelter by looking after their interests in other parts of High Rock were starting to seem more appealing the longer Bastian thought about it. Being blown about by Kynareth’s winds, seeing more of both civilization and the wilds…. It sent a little thrill through him. Being out from under the Silvelle’s roof was scarcely less exciting.

But if he kept daydreaming in that line, he knew he’d grow quite insensible to the speeches of the priest. That wouldn’t do if anyone asked him about it later. Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze.

The stained glass at the front of the chapel was the grandest of all. Akatosh, the One, head of the pantheon. Bastian could appreciate the artistry in the massive stained glass, tracing with his eye how every sliver fit so perfectly into the illusion of glittering dragon scales. Most recently he'd been reading about how Akatosh,, in some manner or another, appeared in almost every pantheon across Tamriel. He'd had an animated discussion with Quistley’s tutor about it, which saved him from the more awkward conversation on why he had been caught doing Quistley’s assignments.

But unlike some of the other stained glasses, Bastian felt nothing in his heart when he looked at the image of Akatosh. After a moment of consideration, the only thing coming up seemed to be a slick, greasy guilt at not feeling anything greater.

The other Divines had expressive human faces to feel things about, he tried to rationalize to himself. And usually, it was older Bretons who took amulets of Akatosh as their personal guide, kept close to the heart. Perhaps one day he'd feel what he ought to for such an important figure. For now, he averted his eyes almost as quickly as he had looked away from Mara.

Next to him, Quistley half-snored. Bastian quickly jabbed an elbow into his ribs to keep him quiet. Quistley shifted and jabbed him back, catching Bastian in the side with not just his elbow, but the sharp, hard bit of statement jewelry on his wrist down and catching Bastian’s hip.

Bastian bit his lip to stop any sound of pain.

The bubble of resentment that burst in his throat was startling in his vehemence. This wasn't fair. If Quistley was caught sleeping in chapel, Bastian would be scolded along with him - chastised for not keeping his foster brother attentive and polite. Even when Quistley got himself into deserved trouble, he always seemed to drag Bastian down with him until they were both flailing, covered in shame, neither looking good.

No. No. He was getting angry. He couldn't. Bastian took a deep breath, exhaled as quietly as he could through parted lips, and then, catching Lord Silvelle’s head begin to turn toward him, tucked his chin and closed his eyes as if in prayer. He stayed that way until he felt his face was under control.

When he lifted his gaze again, it fell on Zenithar. Bastian examined his wizened face, how the artist had used space between the glass pieces to give the impression of lines.

Zenithar, god of fair work and commerce. Maybe one day Quistley would get his just desserts, Bastian thought with sudden savageness, and just as quickly reeled in and tempered those thoughts. No. No, Quistley didn't deserve any such thing, and in any case, he would never be allowed to fail. Anyone with the Silvelle name couldn't be allowed to show proof of family weakness.

So, perhaps, one day he would step up and be the son his parents so wished him to be. That was a much more charitable thought fo fix on, and Bastian set himself on it with the same ferocity which a deer rubbing the velvet off his antlers might set himself on a tree.

Yes. It would be so much better if Quistley would stop grieving his parents. If he would pull his weight, step up to the responsibility of being the Silvelles’ heir. Divines knew there was enough to manage and look after, from what Bastian had been able to find out. There was certainly enough of an opportunity for Quistley to earn the life he seemed to want to live.

He didn't realize until several minutes had passed in this fashion that his hand had slipped into his pocket, seeking and finding the small medallion of Julianos that he wore on a chain connected to his belt whenever he could. His fingers had fallen into the familiar habit of tracing the sharp edges of the triangle, one, two, three, four, and then twice more in that fashion before the count matched up again with the point where he'd started. The counting, the rhythm, soothed him, even enough to ignore that Quistley had slipped back into even breathing and slumber in the pew beside him.

Still tracing the edges of his amulet, his eyes lifted to the stained glass of his own protector, Julianos.

~~|\|~~

Ten years later, in the same chapel, Bastian traced the now-worn edges of the medallion as he glanced over the stained glass windows.

This time, he wasn't in King Emeric’s chapel on the good will of the Silvelles. No; those days were long past, and Bastian was learning to look on their passing with more and more relief.

The windows weren't as grand as he'd remembered them in his childhood memory. He supposed after the better part of a decade spent traveling Tamriel, seeing the wonders of the continent, it was no surprise that fading pieces of art in a Breton king's chapel would carry less mysticism. Still, something in his heart throbbed at the loss. There was just a little less beauty in the world now that he saw the images for just images, and not stand-ins for his belief in the Divines.

And yet….

Still tracing the edges of Julianos’ symbol with the pad of his thumb, Bastian looked to his companion.

Arcturus Crane. Adopted son of noble merchant lord Earl Crane, and adopted in a sense of the word that had made Bastian nearly gasp with alarm the first time he'd heard them talk to each other with frankness bordering on insouciance. Arcturus Crane, who had helped him drag Quistley out of trouble twice without complaint, who was now speaking so casually with the priest of High King Emeric’s chapel in an effort to find out the date and particulars of a certain Clairene Auzin’s marriage.

Bastian kept his focus on Arcturus’ animated hands - he always gestured so much when he talked, a habit stopped only when one hand was curled around the heavy haft of a stave - and tried to keep his breathing steady. His pulse didn't sound steady in his ears. He pressed the tip of his index finger into a worn point of the triangle on his medallion with quickly increasing pressure until he could almost feel an edge.

It might be most natural for his eye to fall on Julianos, abusing the Divine’s symbol in nervousness as he was, but instead he found his gaze on Mara instead. Mara, who had never been a Divine he understood, flowing hair and expression of kindness and warmth.

Unconditional love.

In untangling what, exactly, he felt about things the Silvelles had told him to feel a certain way about - not least of all their own actions - Bastian was starting to think he might have misjudged Mara’s sphere. Unconditional love.

The Silvelles loved Quistley unconditionally, not that he could justify that. He'd spent decades trying. Lord Crane, in contrast, didn’t treat Arcturus like the Silvelles coddled Quistley. He seemed to hold something a great deal like respect for his adopted son. Perhaps not love - he didn't act like there was any sort of paternal feeling there, and Arcturus didn't bother to affect a child's adoration - but there was still…. Something. Something Bastian couldn’t quite put a name to.

And in Arcturus’ own behavior to him. The way he grinned when Bastian got excited over a scrying eye or a new bit of magic, his instant expression of chagrin when his twisting path of shadows caught an innocent mouse and Bastian couldn't bite back his disappointment in time. Bastian had lain awake several nights chastising himself over the outburst, but… now, thinking about it, Arcturus had been rather more careful about how he placed his traps and barriers and magical effects.

Unconditional love was Mara’s sphere. He’d never understood.

Perhaps, Bastian thought, it was less of love, and more of…. trust. A trust baseless enough to be belief, that the other person would do as you expected. And a fondness strong enough to stay steady even if that belief was proved wrong.

His sister. Bastian had no expectations of her, but in the few short weeks he'd known her to be alive… he’d begun to hope. Could she harbor the same feelings for him?

Could she believe in him like he wanted to believe in her?

Bastian released his medallion of Julianos, letting it drop at the end of its short chain back into his pocket as he stood straight. There was no way to find out except by finding out. Arcturus was turning from the priest, and from the look in his bright blue eyes, he didn't come away empty-handed.

The shock of fear that struck Bastian at the thought wasn't a surprise. Rather, he was surprised at how quickly it passed.

Why should I be scared? I won't be alone for this, he told himself, and the thought was quickly chased by, I trust him to stand by me through whatever happens.

Belief. Trust. He still shied away from the word ‘love,’ but….

Perhaps. Perhaps, in time. For now, as Arcturus strolled back to him and flashed a crooked smile (intended to put him at ease, he realized, when normally it was him scrambling to make others easy) and offered a sardonic comment in the way of letting Bastian know they had a lead, the belief in his good will was quite enough to stop the fear from freezing Bastian dead.

He walked out of High King Emeric’s chapel. He held the door for Arcturus, stepped into the bright midday sun, the sounds of Wayrest muted beyond the mage-protected castle wall. He stood there and waited for his eyes to adjust, and hoped - wished - believed, that the end of this road might finally be in sight.