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petit-etoile · 5 months

Note

hi! :) i love your writing!! Could i request an Astarion fic based on the Mahmoud Darwish Quote “they asked ‘do you love her to death’ / i said ‘speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life.’”?

it's our last chance ( we'll get it right )

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 2,902 content warnings: canonical discussions of death, spoilers for astarion's act iii romance, spiritual interlude to this fic, references to cann.ibalism as a metaphor for love, an exploration of how s.ex can be healing, the faintest hints of a mortal!tav but that's up to the reader, what if s.ex cures vampirism ? other tags: canon compliant, character study, introspection, codependency, religious imagery & symbolism, p.orn with plot archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia, @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added to the taglist here

summary: ‘Gale asked me tonight if I loved you,’ Astarion tells you. ‘He asked if I loved you purely. I’ve never loved anything purely in my life, but I knew what he meant. He asked, ‘Will you love them to death?’ That’s why I brought you here tonight.’

This is a night reminiscent of the day he died.

The sun has faded out over the horizon. The streets are bloodied once more, and hundreds of shadows have transformed into the shape of a bat.

Astarion’s grave is very old and covered with moss. You watch as he kneels in front of it and brushes his fingers across his name in reverence. You join him and cross your fingers together in prayer. You don’t know what you’re praying for but you mumble the words under your breath. It isn’t until you start digging that you begin to understand why you’re really here. You dig and dig and find relics of a life you never knew — dead flowers and childhood toys, tears that you cry. A mother and father’s love.

Astarion looks so much younger now that Cazador no longer hangs over his very being. The tension around his eyes has lessened, and even though he’s feeling something you can’t imagine, he wears the smallest smile as you uncover the gifts left behind by his family. Proof that Astarion lived, proof that Astarion existed. You dig until your fingers reach nothing and then you turn to him. He means to plant a seed and watch it grow.

He hands you seeds from a flower you can’t remember the name of. You pour them into the depths of this grave and fill it back up with dirt. You drop handfuls and wait for it to rain. You turn your chin up to the sky and wait for the storm clouds to release rapture.

‘I love you,’ Astarion says suddenly.

He looks at you like a man learning to see for the first time. The softness of his features only intensifies the longer he looks at you. Astarion is always made up of hard angles and harsh lines but tonight, he looks upon you with an earnestness you haven’t seen for him in quite some time. You’re caught off-guard when he caresses your cheek.

If Baldur’s Gate were to weather a storm tonight, Astarion would be the warmth from the cold of the rainstorm. You close your eyes at his touch and lean your cheek into it, nuzzling his palm. Astarion decides that it isn’t enough. He’s selfish, manipulative, roguish and cruel, but when he leans forward and kisses you with his plump mouth, you forget about all those things. It’s healing. You open your lips for him.

‘I love this,’ he murmurs, snaking a hand down to the small of your back. ‘And I want it all.’

The storm breaks overhead, but Astarion covers your body with his and you forget that you hate the sound of thunder. He kisses the very soul of you, and you can’t help but lean into his touch. There’s something about the way he nips at your skin that infinitely thrills you. How could a man so determined to be dangerous, so keen on becoming the most powerful man in the world melt at the sound of your voice? Had Astarion always been this weak for you, or was this a new transgression in his never ending quest to crush his desires?

Astarion kisses you.

He is the only thing that quenches your thirst.

He knows that.

When you first fell from the illithid ship, you had felt a hunger unlike any other swell up in your gut. It was freedom you had never experienced, and somehow, you came out on top. What happened after that was only like the romances you had read about. When a beast hunter falls in love with their bounty, when a mortal loves their immortal despite the difference, when an angry vampire becomes softer and softer the more he learns about kinder touch. You’re a romantic, after all.

You think that you should talk about it. You want to ask Astarion if he’s sure. But of course he’s sure, he’s never been surer of anything. Asking him now would be a disservice, you think. He’s worked so hard to come this far. You don’t ask. You kiss Astarion back like you’ve never kissed anyone before.

His mouth is yearning. Astarion pines for you like a prince pines for a sweetheart — and his mouth and his tongue and his teeth are so overwhelming that you can’t help but cling to his shoulders, using him as a lifeline.

He turns his cheek against yours and sighs wistfully against your skin. Slowly, carefully, Astarion presses his fingers between your legs curiously. He does it just to hear you gasp. You meet his eyes, and your cheeks burn so hotly you think you might be dizzy. Astarion consumes your soul. He presses you down in the flowers you planted above his grave. Clover, daisies, and asters grow around, twirling in your hair as Astarion collapses into your arms. You hold him as he shakes.

‘I was dead before I met you,’ Astarion whispers in the crook of your neck. ‘I was a ghost.’

‘You’re alive now,’ you promise. He cradles your soul in his hands. ‘You’re alive now and you’re the sun, and I love you.’

Maybe it’s not that you aren’t sure Astarion is ready. You’re nervous about the setting. It’s not that it’s inappropriate or dire, but that anyone could see at any time and you were a selfish creature. For so long, it has always been you and Astarion and everyone else. Now, Astarion presses into the space between your hips and mouths at your chest. He tastes your skin and your nipples, and you shiver at the touch. He eats your heart. You’re grateful.

‘I’m not convinced,’ Astarion says roughly. ‘Should I die, where will I go?’

‘You will go where I go,’ you say as he sinks into your flesh. ‘You are half my soul. I’ll beg the gods. We can never be one without the other.’

‘And if they deny you?’

‘I’ve already killed gods,’ you say. ‘What are a few more if they deny me my love?’

Astarion lets out a satisfied hum, content with the fruit you have given him. He ripens you with his fingers and you turn your head. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and allow him to caress your sides, closing your eyes as he touches the more ticklish parts of your body. He nibbles at your collarbones

You say, ‘This isn’t your grave.’

Astarion’s mouth ghosts over your skin, and finally, he sinks his cock into you until you’re gasping for air. It pushes and fills and causes lights to dance in the corner of your eyes. You touch the little hairs at the nape of his neck to distract yourself.

‘You’re right,’ Astarion says softly.

‘A place of rebirth.’

‘A place of happiness, my love,’ he says. ‘Now when I see it — ’

‘More,’ you whisper.

You feel a rush of tenderness sweeping through your veins. You are drawn to it like a moth to light, and you chase Astarion as he flees from you, sliding your hips back against his so that he’s never gone for too long. You waited patiently for Astarion. Every touch, every kiss is a feeling so rare that you can’t help but savor it. You admire the vulnerability he shows you, and when he leans back to lift your hips higher for a better angle, you moan softly and cry.

Astarion’s fingers burn holes into your skin. He leaves a wildfire against your skin. It leaves you wanting more. But you’re always going to want more, aren’t you? Even a lifetime of Astarion is not enough. You seek the warmth in his gaze.

You aren’t sure how long you’ll last. The time between your trysts and the sheer passion causes you to be needy. He likes it that way too. Likes the way that you’ll always seek him out first. The first in your heart. The first in your soul. You wish you could pour yours out of your body to give it to him. He’s half your soul regardless of what he might say. You never understood the concept of an immortal soul until now. You pull Astarion back to you and kiss him, teeth to teeth.

But it’s not enough.

You don’t think it will ever be enough. You dig your nails into his spine and hold onto him. You cry weakly. It feels too good and like it’s too much at the same time. You part your legs wider and drag him further, hypnotized by the feel of his thighs beneath yours. Astarion shows an enthusiasm you haven’t seen in a while, and you’re reminded of how much you’ve craved him. The knife at your throat, the scowl on his face, the night at the party… Astarion is all-consuming. You never thought it would happen.

At first, you thought Astarion was primed to ignore you forever. You were kind and good and sweet, and now you knew that was everything Astarion was looking for. He tastes your kindness and goodness and sweetness and becomes drunk on the taste of your shared fate.

Astarion bites you on the shoulder but for once, it isn’t to draw blood and feed upon what makes you who you are. It’s a lover’s bite. An inquisitive nibble. That part of sharing is what this is about. He meant it when he said you were more than blood, more than a fling. You always thought about it…

Astarion proving his love to you now was welcomed. You summon a new life for him here during this pale evening. A life where he will not know hurt. A life where he will not be betrayed by those he trusted. Astarion was in your hands now, a crow on your wrist. He sings you a pretty song against your neck. He’s vocal now, content with moaning and mewling as he takes his pleasure in the warmth of your body. You wish you could bottle up his pretty song and take it with you forever.

You press your mouth to the sharp curve of Astarion’s ear, sneaking a kiss against the pointy tip. ‘Come closer to me, my love,’ you whisper. ‘No one must know.’

‘Everyone must know,’ Astarion disagrees softly.

‘Even the birds?’ you ask. ‘Even the trees?’

Astarion smiles. You can feel it. ‘The entire world must.’

‘Are we in love?’ you ask him softly, looking upon him fondly.

‘We are,’ he says, laughing.

You are in love like you have never been in love before. Astarion is a romantic and he cherishes this new world with you. He’s intoxicated by the freedom of your scent. And it’s not as though it’s any different for you. You wrap your legs tightly around his hips and keep him there, and when his arms shake and tremble, you accept his weight.

You kiss his throat and he raises his chin so you can kiss it more. You’ll pretend that it doesn’t entice you. You want to sink your teeth in like he has, to share with him that quiet exaltation. Astarion gives it to you more and more, and finally, you can no longer tame that part of you set to rupture. Your pleasure causes your vision to burn almost.

There is a world where you and Astarion have never met. A world where the mindflayers never devised a plan and you were still searching for enlightenment. The thought of it scares you so you cling to him and you climb into his sternum, holding onto his skin while the world is remade in your image. A world without Astarion is not a world worth living. You know that to be true. That’s why you’re here now.

Astarion follows suit in quick, frantic strokes. He loses himself in the quake of your core and digs his fingers into the dirt next to your head for stability. You watch as pleasure overtakes him and he wavers, choking on a ragged moan. You press unfocused kisses against his shoulders and sink beneath the earth.

It’s a good thing Astarion finds his confidence in the taste of your bones. He eats from you an essence that would make him strong. When he sits up, eyes soft around the edges and mouth swollen from your love, you can see the change in him. Have his shoulders always been that wide? Has his back always been that straight? Has the majesticness of his attitude always been so grandiose?

Astarion holds out his fingers and you kiss the tips of them. You give him a blessing and watch as his skin begins to glow. Cazador had unmade a proud man. You have rehabilitated a broken man. But Astarion is not defined by his brokenness, not authenticated by his terrors and trauma, but by the whims he has shown you tonight.

When Astarion pulls you from the bed you made in the grass, you can see a dim light filtering through the overhead tree. A familiar sight, like the first time. You pull his jacket over your head to avoid any more mess and become acutely aware that Astarion is watching you breathe. He listens with that frightening vampiric hearing as your lungs exhale. He smiles as your heartbeat settles.

You distract yourself as he enjoys his orgasm by making him a crown of flowers. You twist them expertly like you once did in your youth, and when Astarion turns his head, you give him a kingdom. The fresh green of the leaves accentuates the paleness of his hair.

You know what you’ve done even if the world does not. It was an objectively stupid thing to do, Astarion said so himself. Life is a challenge, and you were not a quitter. If anything, you knew that you deserved it. A ghost called your name and you answered, unfrightened by the specter’s cold touch. Slowly, you replaced that frigid air with your own heat until there was nothing but fog in the aftermath.

‘Sometimes,’ Astarion begins when he’s ready, ‘I still have these cruel thoughts. This fear still consumes me but… It’s so unlike before I hardly recognize it.’

‘You’re not his first son anymore,’ you say.

Astarion smiles and slides the crown from his head. He twirls it between his fingers. ‘Not — Not that fear, no. Something else.’

‘What else could frighten you?’

‘Everything,’ Astarion confesses. ‘I listen to your heart when you sleep for any change. I check your face every day for any extra wrinkles.’

You laugh. ‘I’m still young,’ you insist. ‘We have time, Astarion. I am with you every moonrise.’

‘The worst thing about loving you is that I will never stop,’ Astarion says, staring at his headstone. ‘I don’t want you to die in a world where I could still love you.’

You think you’re going to be sick. You don’t mean to cry, but you do. You burrow your face in your hands and weep so hard Astarion wraps his jacket around you and kisses your head, shushing you until you’ve let it all out. It’s…not how you wanted to end the evening.

‘You didn’t let me finish, my love,’ he murmurs against your forehead.

‘Then go on,’ you say miserably.

‘I will never stop loving you,’ Astarion says again. ‘For a thousand more years and one.’

You twist the knuckle on your middle finger anxiously. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to feel.

‘Gale asked me tonight if I loved you,’ he tells you. ‘He asked if I loved you purely. I’ve never loved anything purely in my life, but I knew what he meant. He asked, ‘Will you love them to death?’ That’s why I brought you here tonight.’

You look at him suspiciously, and his ardor steals your breath away. His jacket slips from your shoulders. You watch as he fixes the carvings in his headstone and adds to them in a sprawling language you’re almost too exhausted to read. Eventually, you find your voice again. You lean your cheek against his shoulder, and if your eyelashes are wet against his skin, he says nothing about it.

‘Tonight,’ Astarion says, ‘and on top of my grave, you have brought me back to life. That is a debt that cannot be repaid.’

You turn to him and this time it is your turn. You take Astarion’s jaw in your hands and lift his mouth to yours, kissing him so sweetly you’re almost certain that he swoons from the touch. It’s like kissing him for the first time, a kiss that sweeps over and over, until the ocean of night sweeps over you and you melt into his sinew.

‘You love me?’ you ask him just to hear him say it again.

‘I love you,’ Astarion says.

Love is not always in the eyes of the goddess. Love is buried somewhere most will never find it. It is healing, it is sweeping, it is gratifying. It is watching your lover’s hair turn grey strand by strand every morning. It is chasing the sun before it falls beneath the stars every evening.

You think you get it now.

Astarion rests his cheek against your palm, and for the first night since he was turned into a vampire, he slumbers in your touch. He dreams of a future where you are both mortal and laughing.

‘I love you too,’ you confess, and Astarion smiles in his sleep.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #from ，carcosa .#anonymous #my fic #AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #THIS PROMPT LIVED IN MY MIND RENT FREE SINCE I GOT IT #& after a long time trying to decide how to redeem it #i finally figured it out !!!#i hope u enjoy it nonny

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bipanicoverthegravessiblings · 2 months

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Andrew and Ashley x Male reader who can commune with the dead?

Gotcha gotcha

Graves Siblings x Medium!Male Reader

To be completely honest….the ability to talk to ghosts isn’t as cool as it sounds

Most would expect ghosts to hang around graveyards or abandoned buildings like a school, or a hospital, or a house- but no. They were everywhere

To be honest, it made sense. Why would a ghost want to hang around where they died? Thats just depressing

So, they wander. Following their loved ones. Trying to live an empty husk of their old life. Being fucking weird.

Which made it hard for you to tell the difference a lot of the time. Sometimes you’d talk to a person and they’d turn out to be a ghost!

Now you look crazy!

Like recently…

The sidewalks were virtually empty. It was getting late into the evening, and it made sense that people would head home. You yourself were making your way back to your apartment building when you spotted something….strange.

A girl. A little girl. She looked no older than…7 maybe? In all honesty you were never good guessing ages, but you knew enough to deduce that this kid was too young to be by herself. She looked around anxiously, her blonde pigtails moving every time she turned her head. Her hands fussed with the hem of her purple shirt that had a flower on it. It looked like she was looking for her parent.

You were- hesitant about walking over. A strange man approaching a child in the middle of the sidewalk looked sketchy, especially since you were nowhere near looking like this kid’s parents. But- you figured that if you didn’t, some actual creep would. So, you hesitantly stepped towards her.

“Heyyy…kid,” the girl flinched a little as you approached, making you regret your decision. Though, it was too late to turn back now so, “Uh- where’s your mom?..”

The girl blinked up at you and then looked away, hands still fidgeting with her shirt, “Away…” she sounded sad.

“Your dad?..” you raised an eyebrow.

“Also away..” she shrunk a little, this seemed like a touchy subject.

Picking up the vibe, you steered clear of parent related questions, “Are you…looking for someone? You look lost.”

She glanced up at you, and then back to her hands- her purple eyes welling with tears, “Y-Yeah…” she squeaked out.

“Well, maybe I can help you find them,” you knelt down to her height, “There aren’t a lot of people out right now, so it shouldn’t be too hard…do you remember what they look like?”

The girl nodded, “Uhh…two adults. Black hair. A boy with green eyes and a girl with pink eyes.”

Two black haired adults with green and pink eyes. Okay! Easy enough! Must be siblings…or babysitters….or….some third thing. You stood up, “Okay! Should be easy enough!” You held your hand out for the little girl, “My name is Y/N, what’s yours?”

The little girl studied your hand curiously, taking it with a small smile, “Nina!”

You and Nina searched for the adults she was supposed to be with, until you came across them sitting and eating in the outdoor area of a restaurant

You were…baffled. These people supposedly lost track of the kid they were supposed to be watching and decided to get something to eat???

You were reconsidering handing this kid over to them, but what were you going to do? Take her to the authorities? You didn’t exactly trust pigs around this kid either, so you approached the table

The pair looked at you with hostility, the man reading a paper and the woman poking it in boredom. You were clearly interrupting something. Maybe they hadn’t noticed Nina…

“Uhm- sorry if I’m interrupting anything..” you stammered, “But, I think you lost something?..” you nodded your head to where Nina was standing beside you.

Both black haired individuals narrowed their eyes at you, looks of confusion clear across their faces.

“What the fuck are you on about?…” the woman’s eyes narrowed.

You felt yourself grow flushed with embarrassment, Nina hasn’t said anything or run to hug either of these individuals….it also felt like she wasn’t holding your hand anymore…

You glanced down at your side, and lo and behold- Nina was gone. You whipped around, looking around like a mad man for the kid.

“Wh- what the?” Your eyes widened and you held out your hands defensively, “I swear there was a kid here!”

The man leaned towards the woman, whispering to her loud enough for you to hear, “You have your gun on you, right?..” the woman nodded.

Shit! Okay! Sweat poured down your face as you nervously looked around some more to avoid getting shot, “I-I swear! There was a kid here, about like….7? Maybe younger? Blonde pigtails, purple shirt with a flower on it,” you didn’t notice both individuals eyes widen, “Her name was Nina—“

“WHO TOLD YOU THAT NAME?!” The woman grabbed you by your shirt collar, pulling you close. She stared daggers at you, looking ready to kick you in the groin before shooting you dead. You gulped.

“Ashley!” The man slammed the newspaper down, reprimanding her to let you go. Ashley obliged, though turned away and grumbled. The man gave her a final glare before looking at you, “I’m sorry about her,” he had a calm demeanor…but there was something uneasy about his voice, “You said…Nina?”

You nodded, “Yeeaahhh, but I’m starting to realize that…might’ve just been a ghost. Whoops.” You held out your hands anxiously.

“Dumb bitch is still following you around?” Ashley muttered under her breath.

You turned your attention to her, “I’m sorry what?”

“Don’t mind her,” the man smiled uneasily, “I’m Andrew…now- what the fuck did you mean by ‘might’ve been a ghost’? Is this a…regular occurrence?”

“Kinda..” you rubbed the back of your neck nervously, “I kind have this sixth sense. Some people have increased empathy, I can talk to body detached spirits!” You looked Andrew and Ashley over, “Did you- know this Nina?”

“No!” They both said in perfect unison, Ashley seemingly offended while Andrew was very defensive. They clearly knew her, but you weren’t going to press any further.

“Oooookkaayyyyyy..” you adverted your gaze from their terrifying…yet alluring…ones.

You wanted to run away and hopefully never run into these people again, but they were insistent on keeping you in sight

However they knew this Nina, it was something serious.

Ashley didn’t seem to take the fact that she was still following them around very well

Andrew consistently had to calm her down from making a scene

And truthfully….watching them banter was fun

You’d idly stare at the pair, going back and forth with empty threats and remarks the other would make about those threats. It was fun. It was nice

Andrew decided it was best to keep in touch with you, given you running into Nina- though how he said it made it seem like the two had multiple dead people that would be tailing them

You didn’t say this out loud though

The more time you spent with the siblings, your theory became correct

You slowly noticed more and more spirits hanging around the three of you: A scorned looking middle aged woman with similars eyes to Andrew’s, a hooded man with his limbs floating behind him, another hooded man with thick sunglasses and a mask that obscured his face- you could go one.

You never talked with these ghosts, really the only one you did speak to was Nina- though Ashley didn’t like it when you two spoke. She didn’t like Nina in general

If she caught you talking with her, or making motions to indicate she was around- Ashley would spew profanities and horrible things til she went away

It was cruel…and you kind of hated her for it at first

Though the more time you spent with the siblings, you came to realize that they were just….broken individuals

Terrible people put into shitty circumstances

It was almost…disheartening

If things had been different, would they have turned out better? The same? Worse?

It hurt your heart more than you wanted to admit…

You knew your feelings towards these two, at first you assumed it to be just fleeting physical attraction- I mean- look at them!

But no- turns out spending time with people increased your attraction to them. Who knew!

You like to think at least one of them felt the same

You knew the whole reason they kept you around was to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn’t know anything you shouldn’t have

At least at first it was

Andrew was the first to catch feelings for you

His love of the macabre led to conversations, questions on if you’ve ever spoken with ghosts of poets or writers he was interested in

He didn’t have to know you totally lied when you said yes

Unfortunately you had to read up on old English poets in case he asked about them, but it was a worthy sacrifice

He was just happy to have someone to talk to about an interest that wouldn’t make fun of him

Ashley didn’t take too kindly to this, which is why she fell slower

She didn’t buy any of your kindness, acting distant and cold with you- especially as you got closer with Andrew

It was also causing tension between the two, you could just guess it

So you took the initiative, deciding to spend the day just you and Ashley

Ashley was going to spend the day with you whether she liked it or not…and right now it was looking like a not. Since you two arrived at the park, she hadn’t said a word to you. The only response you would get is a cold shoulder or an icy glare that cut like a knife. It was a little painful to be honest. You never wanted to piss her off or make her hate you, genuinely you wanted to get closer to her. But Ashley was proving to be difficult…

“Sky sure is pretty today!” You said, attempting to break the awkward and tense silence. It did not work, as Ashley continued to ignore you. You wanted nothing more than to book it into the nearby duck pond and just drown, putting this awkward attempt at bonding.

You were walking down a trail, Ashley actively stepping on the cracks as she walked. In the corner of your eye you spotted the familiar spirit of the middle aged woman. Her lighter green eyes narrowing at Ashley.

“What are you looking at?” Ashley’s voice pierced the silence like a katana. You blinked down at her, her eyes narrowed up at you.

“Uhhh,” you glanced at the ghost, “Just a ghost hanging around.”

“Who?”

Holy crap she’s actually talking to you! Don’t fuck this up…

“I haven’t really spoken with her..uh- black hair. Green eyes. Middle aged..” you shrugged your shoulders.

That was apparently the wrong answer- as most of your responses to Ashley were- as she clammed up. This time with more anger. Her eyes darted in the direction you’d been looking in, trying to give the ghost a death glare. Must be another person the siblings had history with, given how similar she looked to them they must be related.

Hmmm….maybe this could be put to your advantage?…

“You know I can talk with ghosts…” you said rather nonchalantly, “I could…deliver a message to this ghost if you want..”

Ashley’s eye seemed to light up at that. For the first time since meeting her, you think you said the right thing.

Ashley’s message to the ghost woman, and any other you came across, was vulgar and worthy of eating soap if you were to repeat it to a living person

A lot of use of the word “hussy” and “cunt”

But you delivered every message, informed Ashley when a ghost was staring at her….minus Nina of course

A ghost child is still a child, and she seemed like too good of a kid to be in the front of Ashley’s wrath

But Ashley didn’t need to know that

For once, she seemed to genuinely enjoy your company. Describing you as “pretty alright” to Andrew

Success!

From then things felt…less tense between the three of you

You were less of a hostage to them and more of a friend

And if you played your cards right….eventually you might be more

#the coffin of andy and leyley #ashley graves #andrew graves #tcoaal #andrew graves x reader #ashley graves x reader #x reader

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tulipsforvin · 7 months

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Hello, may I trouble you with one silly request? 👉👈 Moriarty brothers headcanon reaction on first meeting their future s/o when she's climbing over the fence in awkward fashion (wearing a dress and carrying a heavy parcel). Fem! s/o, or gn!, I don't really mind. Thank you, wishing you lots of fun and positivity!✨💖

This is like that one scene from Horimiya lolll I had tons of fun writing this. Thank you for the request, anon! Hope you have a marvellous day/night awaiting you.

Characters: Louis J. Moriarty, William J. Moriarty, Albert J. Moriarty.

Tags: Fluff, Very, very, very slight angst (At Albert's part), Headcannons, Moriarty The Patriot.

Format: Headcannons.

Note: Just a heads up - some are pre-timeskip and post-timeskip. Might cause confusion.

“Beyond The Fence„

Moriarty Brothers x GN!Reader

William J. Moriarty

(Pre-timeskip)

— He finds you while talking a stroll through the university during his lunch break, grasping feebly onto the wires of the fence as you make a horrible effort to climb over it.

— “Who would need actual hurdling equipment for aspiring athletes such as yourself when there is the university fence to conquer?”

— You would tell him that your brother was a student here and that he forgot his lunch box, that you were sneaking it in through the fence because the guard at the gates wasn't letting you in.

— “Allow me.” William says, amused as he holds out his hand for you to pass the cake onto before setting it down. He then scales the fence effortlessly, making it seem like an easy task before he helps you cross to the other side.

— He offers to hand it over to your brother in your stead.

— Playful banter that makes you giddy.

— “Professor Moriarty, are you plotting to snatch a slice of this cake?” “I assure you, my interests lie in far greater endeavours. Although your delectable confectioneries do seem tempting.”

“i suppose I'll have to keep an eye out, just in case it falls in the wrong hands.” “I must say, I'm quite offended. Are you perhaps implying that I am the wrong hands? I could offer you a wealth of knowledge and intellectual discourse and yet, you suspect me of cake thievery.” “I suspect you of great many things. Cake thievery is just one of the more delightful possibilities.”

— Literally how it goes for the remaining semester. The two of you meet everyday during lunch break under the guise of making William deliver your brother's lunchbox, when in reality, the two of you have begun to grow feelings far surpassing platonic ones and just want to spend more time with each other.

Albert J. Moriarty

(Post-timeskip)

— You, an avid botanist, absolutely obsessed with the nature of plant life, find yourself trying to claw your way up the fence and to the other side where a burying ground lies that you thought was abandoned since the gates to enter it was locked and that you found a really unique species of flora there. The parcel contains all the studies you have been researching for the past three years.

— Imagine the awkwardness that one must feel when you lock eyes with Albert, who thinks you're a creep trying to steal bones or bodies, gazes back at you with uncertainty.

— “I am afraid you won't be able to get your hands on any bones here. These graves are all empty, you see — with one for my younger brother who's body has yet to be found since his initial dissapearance and for me and the youngest to lie in when our time comes.”

— You feel guilty for trespassing onto private property and immediately start apologizing, head bowed as you make an attempt to frantically explain your reason of arrival.

— He seems even further intrigued when your focus lands on the empty graves, lush green grass and flowers emerging from the burial site. You begin to tell him about what the flowers that have grown on the grave where his younger brother, William, should supposedly be put to rest symbolise.

— “Moonflowers symbolise the awakening of a soul. A new beginning. I am sure that your younger brother has found a new start somewhere, perhaps in the afterlife but a new start nonetheless.” “..ah” is all he says before he begins to full on sob infront of you, a total stranger.

— From that day onwards, he finds solace in your company, tagging along on the journeys you go to for your research on plant life; falling asleep at the sound of your voice or gazing at you dreamily when you go on & on about your passions.

Louis J. Moriarty

(Post-timeskip)

— A huge festival was coming up. Thus, explaining the streets that are all bustling and noisy with human life trying to get past each other and squeezing in even from the smallest of gaps and crevices.

— You, a talented seamstress who has been commissioned to deliver a beautifully crafted dress find yourself in a dilemma; trying to think of a way to get past through these crowds and to your destination without issue.

— You decide that a fence, out of all things, would be the easiest way to reach your destination. And so you begin your attempts to climb over, the dress you're wearing making things only further difficult.

— “Excuse me, do you perhaps need help with the dress and the fence?” “Yes, please! Business has been bad lately and I just really need to deliver this so I can continue to be able to be able to pay rent for my boutique.”

— Will observe the dress in the parcel first to make sure you're not actually lying before nodding his head and agreeing to help you.

— Although he seems very focused on the task, such as the tasks assigned to the M16, he still can't help but help a person in need.

— “Your talent deserves recognition. As luck would have it, I have connections with influential individuals in society. I could help spread the word about your boutique and introduce you to clients.” [literally the government and a man (Read Mycroft) who serves directly under the Queen.]

— That's how it starts - the beginning of your romance. Louis helps you with your boutique and you, in exchange, deliver information that you hear from clients at your workshop regarding jobs that could help him in the M16.

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literary-motif · 3 months

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All The Loose Ends

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

Isaac is overworked and exhausted. You make it better.

The smoke curling up from the end of his cigarette looked eerily white in the moonlight. It seemed almost like a ghost, Isaac mused, tilting his head and letting his gaze wander over the slightly more unkempt part of the garden where the people he loved most lay buried. He tasted ash in his mouth, only in part caused by indulging in the habit he had meant to swear off long ago.

In truth, Isaac was so overwhelmingly exhausted that he could not muster the energy to get himself to care about it — about his health (not that he had ever particularly been concerned for it), about the smoke only partly making its way out of the opened kitchen window, about the headache torturing him for the better part of the week, about the feeling of suffocation rising in his chest when he thought about his work or as much as took a glance at his desk; even the person sleeping soundly a storey above him was nothing more than an afterthought now, another ghost to him. They would leave soon enough.

The thought made his heart seize painfully. Pickle — recalling the nickname brought a small smile to his tired face — was an inexhaustible source of life. They were a fresh breath of air, a reminder to cherish the time he had left instead of just going through the motions each day. They made him strive for more. They made him want to change. They made him want to live and break out of the void existence he had carved out for himself, and into which he had dragged them selfishly.

Isaac took another drag of his cigarette, narrowing his eyes to faintly make out his mother’s favorite flowers growing peacefully beside her grave; but alas, abandoning his grandfather’s legacy was impossible.

“Can’t sleep?”

The question made him choke on his exhale. Coughing, he turned to glance at you with furrowed brows.

“You should try, honestly,” you say, stepping up beside him and taking the low-burning cigarette from his fingers. “You remind me of a raccoon,” you add, contemplating only a moment before putting the cigarette out in the soil of one of the succulents placed carefully on the countertop under the window. The moonlight allowed you to see the ash discarded in the sink as you glance down and you throw a displeased look at Isaac.

The night was not dark enough to hide his blush. “A raccoon? How so?” he asked, clearing his throat, the strong and decisive voice you had grown used to uncharacteristically morphed into a tired rasp. “Is it my nocturnal activity?”

You chuckled, looking up at the moon. “I was thinking more about the bags under your eyes.” They had gotten more and more prominent in the preceding weeks and you were starting to worry.

It was an open secret that Isaac did not settle down easily. You could hear him pacing in the middle of the night sometimes or saw the light streaming into the entrance hall from under the closed door of his study at some ungodly hour when your own troubled thoughts would not let you sleep. “What’s keeping you awake tonight?” you asked in a light tone as you closed the window, hoping it masked your worry.

A beat of silence passed between the two of you, as could have been expected. Isaac did not open up easily and it was a shot in the dark hoping he would answer your question truthfully, if at all. You grimaced, fearing you had overstepped. To break the tension rising steadily with the moments of quiet, you were about to change the subject and point out what you assumed was the constellation Orion in the night sky. The deep, heavy sigh escaping Isaac made you pause.

You turned your head to look at him. It was almost unheard of that Isaac let his carefully constructed mask of stoic nonchalance slip, even for a moment. He was usually so desperate to keep control of both the world around him and himself, it was painful to watch him hold onto it sometimes and brush away sentimentality as if it was a weakness he could not dare to afford.

The sigh was an admission of defeat. It was the tangible proof, along with the ash in the sink and the way his head was bowed, that Isaac had reached the end of his seemingly inexhaustible rope.

“Just life,” he said quietly in response, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. The headache had not subsided, and his usual self-destructive remedy of downing a few sleeping pills with a glass of whiskey seemed out of the question now that you were here.

Isaac’s exhaustion made his head swim. It was hard to say when he had last taken a break when the past weeks blended into one long string of cases and files and meetings and work, work, work. There had never been much of a life for him outside of it, and while working gave his pitiful existence purpose, sometimes it wrung him dry.

The light touch of your hand on his arm made him startle. His eyes flew open and he turned, wincing at the sharp stab of pain it gave his head. Your eyes were fixed on him as if trying to solve a puzzle and Isaac quickly thought up a snide comment about your evident predisposition for a private eye, but it died on his tongue when he noticed the glass of water you were holding out for him to take.

You smiled faintly at him when he took a few tentative sips of the cool water. “I have fought my fair share of battles with headaches. If there is anything I can do, let me know,” you spoke softly, “Regardless, might I propose getting some rest? Sleep is the most effective natural remedy for them, I have found.”

“I am fine,” Isaac answered weakly. It sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. You hummed, clearly not believing his lie. Perhaps you truly would make a good private investigator.

“Let me—” you began hesitatingly, “Ah, that is to say, I would like to try something, if I may?”

“What is it, Pickle?” Isaac asked, sighing again. There was no reason to hold onto pretense now and he was entirely too exhausted to care for it. His mask would be back in place by morning.

You moved to stand behind him, placing your hands on his tense shoulders. Isaac stiffened immediately, his posture straightening into the usual way he carried himself, always on high alert. He did not move, either to brush your hands off of him or to step away from your touch. You took it as a small encouragement to continue.

“Relax,” you soothed, starting to massage small circles in the place between his shoulder blades with your thumbs. You heard Isaac inhale shakily, but he stayed still, letting you work. Gradually, he started to ease into the touch.

“You’re—” Isaac rasped dreamily, clearing his throat a moment later for propriety’s sake, “You’re quite good at this.” His voice was nothing more than a whisper, his eyes falling shut of their own accord to drift in the feeling of being touched — kindly and without an underlying agenda to exploit him.

Smiling quietly to yourself at how a few simple touches made Isaac pliable in your hands, you merely hummed in answer. “The tension you carry right here” — you said, moving your fingers to work on the muscles of his lower neck, earning a soft sigh from Isaac — “is responsible for your headache, as far as I can tell. If I had to guess, it comes from sitting at your desk, hunched over casefiles for the better part of the month. Perhaps you could stop overworking and spare yourself this pain? True, now I can—” ease it. Help you. Make sure you’re alright. Take care of you.

You cut yourself off before revealing too much, your hands still working on Isaac’s shoulders and neck. They were becoming less and less tense under your gentle ministrations.

When Isaac opened his eyes again, to his horror, his vision was blurry with tears. He wiped at them discreetly. “Thank you,” he said, hoping you chose to ignore how strained his voice sounded. “I have never, I think— Well, it’s been a while since someone,” he hesitated, unsure of how to continue, “did this for me.”

“Anytime, really,” you said, dropping your hands from his shoulders and allowing him to turn and face you. “Although I meant what I said: I would appreciate it if you toned down on burning the candle at both ends, Isaac.”

Slowly, giving you sufficient time to draw back, he leaned into you, placing his arms around you in a tight embrace. You exhaled, surprised, but wrung your arms around him in return, treading your fingers through the hair at the base of his head. Isaac shivered, holding you tighter. “Thank you,” he said again, voice rough from the lump in his throat, “and I will, I promise.”

#sakuverse #zsakuva #isaac rhoades #isaac rhoades x reader #new to this fandom so hello people #listened to the strict professor series because I was bored now we're here

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khaire-traveler · 5 days

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🌫️ Subtle Erebos Worship 🌑

Sit in stillness for a while, especially darkness; meditate or become comfortable in the quiet

Take time each day to decompress from the events of the day; relax and rest

Drink herbal tea or a warm drink you enjoy before bed; preferably something soothing

Get a candle that reminds you of him (no altar needed)

Wear jewelry that reminds you of him

Keep a picture of him in your wallet

Start a bedtime/nighttime routine

Try to avoid screens an hour before bed; try reading a book, drawing, or another relaxing and screenless activity

Fall asleep/meditate/study to music reminiscent of emptiness, stillness, or liminality (links included to videos I sleep/listen to c:)

Have a stuffed animal that reminds you of darkness, stillness, or The Void™; nocturnal animals work well (Stygian owl, trust me)

Have imagery of fog, darkness, the night sky, what you believe the creation of the universe looked like, or The Underworld (his name is sometimes conflated with The Underworld itself) around

Dedicate a collection of coins to the souls passing into The Underworld who don't have coins to cross the Stygian

Watch the sunrise; watch the sunset

Learn about the night sky; learn the different constellations and myths they have

Learn about space; learn about cave systems; learn about anything you consider mysterious, expansive, and a bit frightening

Visit/tour a cave (SAFELY!!!!)

Leave water outside for nocturnal animals that stop by; leave out water for a bird bath

Listen to the morning bird songs; listen to the sounds of the night

Press/dry a flower still wet with evening dew

Practice mindfulness; practice meditation

Go camping, and sleep under the stars; take time to be present in nature, in the night

Watch a scary movie in the dark; you're also welcome to watch a comfort movie instead

Collect animal bones (thank the animal's spirit after doing so)

If fog rolls in, go outside in it; take a walk in it (SAFELY!!!)

Plant seeds in the ground; start a garden; tend to plants

Grow your own herbs or produce

Honor your ancestors or passed loved ones; engage in spirit work if comfortable

Visit a cemetery; leave flowers on graves if given permission to do so

Reflect on your deeper beliefs; what do you believe about the different mysteries/uncertainties of life (the afterlife, universe creation, purpose, etc.)

Dance/sing to music that makes you feel ancient, mystical, mysterious, or generally cool

Take a walk during a new moon (if it is safe to do so your area)

Learn about self-defense; be sure to take a weapon with you when going out at night (if you feel it's necessary mostly)

Wear black or darker colors

Take a relaxing bath/shower at night, especially with herbs or in dim light (SAFELY!!!)

Write/read ghost or mystery stories

Light a bonfire; gather around it with loved ones; share scary or mysterious stories

Support space, deep ocean, or deep cave exploration organizations; support nocturnal animal preservation organizations

Learn about the different phases of the moon; learn about what each one means

Practice patience and restraint

Find healthy outlets for extreme emotions; drawing, writing, boxing, dancing, crafting, etc.

Learn to become comfortable within your own presence (this takes practice, it'll be ok)

Sleep with a small bag of soothing herbs under your pillow (lavender, jasmine, etc.) or charms

Keep a dream journal; try to interpret your dreams

This is my list of discreet ways to worship Erebos! He is rarely talked about, from what I've seen, but he is the God of Darkness, born from the primordial Khaos at the creation of everything. He is paired with Nyx often, and the two have had several children, including Hypnos and Thanatos. His name was used interchangeably with The Underworld sometimes. I'll likely add more later, but for now, I hope you enjoy what I've made. Take care. ❤️

Link to Subtle Worship Master list

#helpol #hellenic polytheism #hellenic pagan #erebos #erebus #erebus deity #erebos deity #erebus worship #erebos worship #paganblr #pagan tips #deity worship

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billi-mausi · 2 months

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Love Love Love the relationships (completely platonic) between the Marauders and the girls

(also I feel like all of the boys have one girl each as their SECOND best friend?? Like Remus & Lily, Sirius & Mary, James & Marlene, Peter & Pandora, but more on that later)

Anyways so here are some of my HCs:

James & Marlene

Childhood besties!!

Bestfriends ( Sirius & Marlene often fight each other for this title, but both know Marlene is James bestfriend)

They have a small matching scar right next to their mouth, because 6 year old Marlene & James thought it was a really fun idea to climb the tree in Marlene's backyard (all the whole Peter was telling them not too, that it was a bad idea) evidently, they did not listen and the branch the two were swinging on broke, they fell down, their shoulders shaking, as Peter ran forward to them, thinking they got hurt badly and were sobbing, but turns out the idiots were just laughing, looking at each other and the cut that was bleeding right next to their mouths and laughing, Peter soon joined in on the laughing. (Their parents found them like this, and after cleaning them up and applying bandages they go a good scolding where Peter just said I told you so and a hug)

James (&Peter) being the only one who can call Marelene 'Leene'. She bits anyone else's head off, if they call her that

They have matching tattoos, with the other person's initial written on their wrists in morse code.

James likes to act as her big brother and she is all to happy to play the part as his younger sister who loves o annoy him.

James was the first person Marlene told that she liked girls and not boys (though James already had an inkling because, when 11 year old Marlene had dropped her glass of orange juice, haw dropped, on seeing Euphemia Potter in her black halter neck dress for her anniversary, it was when Marlene constantly ranted about how much she 'hated' Dorcas meadows in 3rd year, it was when she had accidentally kissed Mary MacDonald her roommate, and came crying to James) accepting such a huge part of herself was not at all easy for Marlene, growing up in a pureblood household, it was not easy for her to break the through her own internalised homophobia, but James was there for her every step of the way and it took time but soon the besties were often seen gossiping about their recent girl crushes, giggling over Amelia Selvyn from Slytherin or Mary Abbott from Hufflepuff.

James was the maid of honour at Marlene and Dorcas's wedding

James always peels Marlenes oranges for her , not matter what (because one time when they were 5 year old, marlene while peeling had squished the juice right in her eye so James does it for her always now)

Flying partners. (Sirius, James & Marlene are the best quidditch trio)

James always, always gives Marlene cheek kisses with a bye, whenever he leaves a room.

James also steals Marlenes crop tops.

Also when in 1st year James got no flowers or cards, he got a bit sad, so Marlene got a big bouquet of flowers delivered to him next morning, the smile she got in return was worth the 5 galleons she spent. And so started the tradition of Marlene getting James flowers every valentine's day ( even after they both had respective partners, the tradition continued till Marlene died and James got flowers for her grave)

So their friendship is like bubbles, fun lovely and beautiful, filled with cheek kisses, cuddles all the time, stealing hoodies and crop tops, and flowers.

James & Pandora

angle duo ( like not even kidding, you shouldn't look at Pandora and James when they are together because they shine so bright!!) (Sorry jk jk)

The two individually are like very mischievous like absolute chaos wreckers, but whenever they are together, it's like a switch has turned off, and there they are so calm, looked absolutely angelic.

Picnic/study dates by the lake during summers, with James braiding flowers in Pandora's hair. They also wear matching floral clothing.

Whenever Pandora gets ready, She always forgets to tie her shoelaces, like she just doesn't (a/n and yes it does happened with ppl my bf is literally always does), sometimes Barty Evan or Regulus remind her but it's such a common occurrence that they forget about it too. James whenever he sees this, would run over to her, tie her shoelaces, give Pandora a kiss on the cheek and walks away without saying anything.

James always, listens to Pandora's rambles about her recent weird plant with actual interst and fascination, like he doesn't listen to it just for the sake of listening or feel annoyed or weirded out by them, he asks valid question and shows genuine enthusiasm (One time Regulus was reading in the library while James and Pandora were discussing this rare and weird creature species, and Regulus was ready to punch James if he said anything bad to Pandora, but he just listened carefully and asked questions, Regulus fell more in love with that idiot that day)

Pandora and James the biggest magical creatures activists in the whole school (not eleves though, they were Regulus and Lily's domain and Werewolf Sirius') but these two were like always going on and on about the protection and misuse of magical creatures for animal testing or they products. Making posters or holding clubs for the same (for the smallest of creature like bowtruckles, flobberworms and etc)

Being an animagus, that too a stag, James loved the nature, and was often found taking walks in the forbidden forest at odd times, (whenever he wanted to clear his head) in his animagus or human form both, and so the forbidden forest was accustomed to his magical signature and actually welcomed him always with a warm guest of wind. James loved and respected the forest a lot and was friends with almost all the 'nicer' creatures like the tree fairies or whatever and when Pandora has figured out James was an animagus (he still doesn't know how she does because whenever he asks she always gives him a small smirk and walks away) So James often takes Pandora with him to the forbidden forest to meet and befriend the magical creatures.

James doesn't really bealive in divination or anything, but whenever Pandora says something he does believe and follows her. (If Pandora said his Mars was retrogading then it freaking was and he will wear that blue crystal) he always keeps any and all crystals Pandora gives him in a nice little box on his nightstand

They can often be seen wearing matching mistletoe or carrot earrings (James only wears them in one ear because he says it makes him look cool) (regulus won't admit it but it kinda does)

So really the two have a sweet and magical relationship filled with flowers in hair, carrot earrings, whispering fairies, tying shoelaces, cheek kisses, and hugs hugs hugs.

Remus & Lily

Chain smokers buddies.

Like those two sides of the nerds candy, the pink and purple one. (Remus is purple, Lily is pink)

Lily was actually the first person Remus admitted to that he liked Sirius as more than a friend. Lily didn't even let him finish the sentence before jumping up and down, hugging him and started to rant about all the planning she has down for their wedding already

Lily was not just a rule abiding know-it-all, she was just very shy and a bit introverted and like always scared about the magical world being just a crazy beautiful dream. And Remus saw it, because they were both kind of similar in that sense, Remus too always had a fear of all this not being real because as a werewolf he never thought he would have been able to be hear so the two relate on this and form a beautiful bond.

Remus being the first person Lily smoked a cigerate with (immediately coughing afterwords) At a gryffindor party when the crowd got to much and the noises too loud, Remus had stepped out in the balcony to have a ciggie when Lily had followed him out, she seemed lost in thought as he offered it to her, she gingerly took it and eyed it wearily before taking a hit. That was the first time of the many more when the two snuck out of a party to share a ciggerate on the balcony.

Absolute nerds, having bi monthly specified times for ranting about a book, being the only one understanding the pain of a character death.

A mutual love and appreciation for cherry lollipop

The cutest height difference.

Their friendship is full of ciggerate smoke, Chery flavour, forehead against chest, kisses in the hair, sobbing over fictional crushes and cuddles after an MCD.

James & Dorcas

Regulus bodygaurd duo.

Both of them have two things in common: Regulus & Marlene. And both are like insanely protective of both of them like when Jegulus told her about them dating, Dorcas did not utter a single word and just seized up James with her eyes for 4 minutes straight, she was also very VERY jealous of James because she thought he was dating Marlene. James did not intimidate Dorcas as she did to him (because my cutie patootie's glare gets activated only after someone has hurt his loved ones) but he did try to subtly very subtly, show his superiority as Marlenes first and longest friend with words thrown around like "remember Marlene when we were 5?" "Remember the time when you" "13 years as your best friend and I still-" and more, like bestie was just trying to show his dominance as her first friend is such an adorable way

In an alternate universe, when the two heard about Regulus being forced to be a de#theater, they got together, made a plan to take down voldemort and the DID take down voldemort

They have different opinions about almost EVERYTHING. Like James likes winter- Dorcas Summer, James likes sour food- Dorcas likes sweet, James is an early bird-Dorcas is a night owl these are like the tame ones but just imagine more extreme ABSOLUTELY contracting opinions. So the two have constant debates , sometimes including but not limited to pOWER POINT PRESENTATIONS(??) (James believes in Aliens, Dorcas does not, so my boy got a 100 something page binder that had clippings of all alien and ufos and related stuff 'sightings', it was also the first time when Dorcas somewhat agreed with his opinion)

Also they sometimes fly together, (it started with Marlene always bringing James to practice with Dorcas, because miss girlie was kinda shy to talk to Dorcas, and it ended with Marlene getting the girl and Dorcas and James flying together sometimes)

Now initially their friendship was just this yk, debates and flying when one day Mulciber showed up to breakfast with a black eye and kind of crooked nose, approached Dorcas, she was absolutely confused as to why he was coming towards her, when he stopped in front of her and simply said 'sorry' through gritted teeth, looked away to the gryffindor table, nodded towards James and rushed out of the hall. And for a week it was the same, every morning he would come up say sorry and get out, and would always rush out of whatever room Dorcas was in. She asked James about it who simply said "He said some shit about you, and no one says shit about my FRIENDS!" (It was Peter who told her later, giving a step by step detailed story of how Mulciber made the mistake of calling her Racist AND transph0bic comments, and how James broke his nose in a second) With a quick hug he went to class while Dorcas just stood there for a minute, because James was her friend, he actually liked her, he didn't spend time with he just because of Marlene or Regulus, no he genuinely liked her and cared for her and considered her his friend, (having grown and only child in big mansion with absent parents, Dorcas had 0 friends as a child and everytime she met someone who actually liked her or became friends with her, she got very emotional) so she felt like she could cry.

Matching alienhead necklace (it's like their thing)

Peter & Pandora

Weed Buddies.

Their friendship started with Pandora running a whole buisness of different substance to get high, all of which she created (like my girl was CANONICALLY a mad scientist so like yk) Peter had his first pot brownie made by Pandora, Eventually Peter was the first person she always tested the first batch of whatever she was making.

It was Pandora and Peter who devised a whole plan to get James and Regulus together including but not limited to, amortenia, quidditch, mistletoe and etc (the plan worked) and because the plan involved like a month of planning, they got closer than before.

They wear matching bracelets.

Both had the same penchant for chaos, like those silent killers. They were very unassuming and no one ever suspects them, but they are biggest chaos wreckers in Hogwarts. Their inflicted chaos isn't like the Marauders pranks, it's like telling, telling Susan that her boyfriend is in love with her sister or completely and absolutely lying to someone about any random thing for no reason but to create chaos

The blueprint of the saying, 'Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss.)

Getting high being the foundation of their friendship filled with pranking Evan, or gaslighting a pureblood about any muggle lore, or making the first believe that Norris cat, is actually Filch's wife turned cat by Merlins 7th reincarnation.

Sirius & Lily

Brother-Sister duo!!! Yeah they are not actually siblings, but their relationship very well might be one

So at first Lily didn't like Sirius THAT much, because of the whole Lily's rule abiding nature (a/n: more on this later) and Sirius and James 'pranksters' , so she didn't particularly care or like Sirius Black. This changed when sometime in the end of 4th year, Sirius came down to common room at 12 because James was still not back from wherever he was (he was most definitely with Regulus, they are 'just friend's for NOW tho) and he found Lily Evans, sitting on a couch, knees brought up to rest her head on, as she fidgeted with a ball and looked outside at the snowfall. He thought of going to tease the girl for staying up so late and breaking curfew, when he saw her glistening eyes and messed up hair and oh was she crying? He silently sat next to her and asked her if he could make her a hot chocolate, she accepted, he didn't ask anything further and gave her a side hug which she melted in and eventually the two fell asleep. This happened for a few times as Lily eventually started opening up about her extremely complicated and almost one sided relationship with her sister, while Sirius couldn't relate entirely (because the black brothers dynamic is just entirely something else MORE LATER) he did get it, he understood and he listened.

Lily gave him his first ever Vinyl (Remus gave him a record player) he didn't like the record that much but the vinyl was one of his most prized possession and had a stranger emotional connection to its songs that he listened to whenever he was sad.

When James and Lily dated for a grand total of 3 months(before Lily realised she much preferred the company of women) it was natural the two saw more of each other. And whenever they met, their bickering? The teasing? The hair pulling? The playful fights? Their banter wasn't of an old married couple but that of an older brother and younger sister duo

So their friendship was a lot like brother-sister siblings, filled with hot chocolate (with marshmallows) at night, with pulling each other's hair out of their ponytails, with stealing from the others plates, with braiding flowers in hair and also forehead kisses and hugs.

Sirius & Mary

THE resident makeup artists of gryffindor tower!! Mary is a lip makeup girlie Sirius is eye makeup!! Both of them initially bonded over makeup, judging others poor fashion choices (later one when Jegulus started dating, Regulus joined them in gossiping about fashion), exchanging of clothes, gossiping, giggling about their crushes (there was a time in 5th year when Mary also had a crush on Remus, but instead of getting jealous Sirius was often seen giggling and blushing over Remus Lupin, with Mary (it is also why many people speculated they dated, they NEVER did) so really, what started as a friendship based of mainly small materialistic things, it soon turned into a beautiful friendship

Mary was the one who told him that something like 'genderfluid' existed, to Sirius it was like the greatest revelation of the century, it was then Mary who helped him feel confident in his skin, his body, his gender

Sirius is the BEST wingman ever Whenever going out to any pubs or restaurants Sirius always chalked Mary up, always in encouraging her to get that girls number (Before Mary realised her feelings for Lily that is)

Sirius who is insanely overprotective of Mary. Which everyone sees, when that one time Mary's boyfriend raised his voice at her and Mary flinched, Sirius asked no question said nothing, just stood up and punched the guy square on his face (and for the following month that guy was the Marauders sole target for pranks)

All in all their friendship is just very cute, filled with liquid eyeliners, red eyeshadow, brown lip liner, shits and giggles and gossips AND drunken cuddles and goodbye hugs.

James & Lily

The cutest most softest duo.

Soft launching each other as FRIENDS, like everyone thought Lily Evans wouldn't even give James the time of her day but lo and behold, there she is supporting James during quidditch match, and there she is silently taking shepherd's pie from James dinner plate, and there she is posting random photos of a boy she never shows the face of (untill one day she did, with a picture of her and Mary kissing with the boy beaming in background, the random boy is James)

Their friendship dynamic is very cute (like the vibe is very flowers and sunshine yk) and in the starting Lily disliked James a bit because, well she thought he was a narcissistic idiot, but she later, eventually (over the course of years actually) she realised that he wasn't just that, being Marlenes best friend, and having sm mutual friends, the two did spend time together, and that is when Lily saw him, actually saw him. She saw behind the whole jock image he has set up, James Potter was actually a biiig cutie, she saw him always taking shephards pie in his plate, even if he won't eat it but for Lily, she saw him peeling oranges or cutting up apples for Marlene and Remus when they forget to eat food, she saw him enacting elaborate and dramatic plays for the 1st & 2nd years when there's a particularly bad weather and they are scared, she saw him going to Remus' class after the full moon,(sometimes while missing his own classes too) to take notes for him, she saw him annotating a book and blushing while gifting it to Regulus, she saw him smile and laugh ,she just saw him, and she realised why everyone called him the sun. And so their friendship started, because she saw the genuine and nice person James is

James and Lily shared a common problem, not being able to express the 'negative' emotions they feel, so when the two felt angry or upset or something the two Painted. Just a canvas infront of them a paint brush dipped in God knows what color and splash, splash, splash on the canvas. The two weren't even the slightest bit good in art, merlin no, the just stole Siri's art supplies and absolutely butchered them (he was really good in art, and didn't mind his art supplies getting spoiled by them) Painting together was kind of like their escape, the two often met after lunch of breakfast to splash some paint around, seeing each other's horrible creation often got a smile on their faces.

Forehead kisses by James.(!!)

So the two had an adorable dynamic filled shared shepherd's pie, sunkissed selfies, paint stains, piggy back rides, and forehead kisses.

Woooow, this was supposed to be a silly little bullet points point but tuned into a 3k+ shitpost???

(PS: can you tell that I love writing about James??? Like yes the other boys have relationship with the other girls too, I just like wiring about James the most and I wrote about James the most :))

(PSS: sprinkle of Jegulus and MarlIly for you to enjoy<3)

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birgittesilverbae · 10 months

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thinking of babea au and that first night with bea washing the blood out of her hair in cat’s cradle, listening to the hush of mary’s voice outside the shower room and its rows of empty yawning cubicles. how her father’s mouth let go a haze of blood as he fell, warm on her face and bea turning the water freezing cold, twisting the dial furiously and sitting hunched up against the wall watching red and pink water slip past her bare feet.

they find the smallest clothes they can but she’s still half-drowned and shivering in an overlarge t-shirt, mary brushing the gnarls out of her hair and braiding it almost without thinking. in mary’s apartment and bea waking from nightmares where she’s lying in the street and there’s so much blood it spills into her ears and her mouth and her eyes.

years later she’s asleep in lilith’s arms and she wakes up coughing and retching, scrambling to the edge of the bed. turning to see lilith watching her, tugging the blankets over as she joins bea on her side of the narrow bed they’re sharing. and sometimes this life doesn’t feel big enough for two. ghosts lingering in the light that crawls in from underneath the door.

lilith, who wraps them both in the blanket and pulls bea close, telling her that she used to wake up from nightmares in her mother’s house. no one to go looking for who wouldn’t tell her to grow up, to find her composure and her quiet.

‘i used to walk around the house with a candle and switch on the lights in my father’s study. then i’d go outside and sit down among the asphodels - did you know they’re supposed to be the flowers of the dead. a favourite of Hades?’

beatrice nodding and feeling lilith’s lips brush over the angle of her jaw. ‘of course you know that.’

sinking into lilith’s warmth as she continues. ‘i’d look up at that light and imagine him inside, stooped over his books. the smell of pipe tobacco and stale coffee. it felt like i was a ship lost out at sea and the light in the window was the shore.’

lilith gradually drawing her back down to their pillow, letting bea cling to her. in the morning they wake up slow in the same position and beatrice kisses lilith until her mouth is sore.

thinking of beatrice who hides her grief in cold water and then inside of lilith’s mouth. lilith going with her one day to lay asphodels on her parents’ grave and holding her hand. lilith standing in the shower with bea and washing blood out of her hair after a mission, noticing how bea starts to fall away towards her younger smaller helpless self. pulling her back with a kiss and the silent promise that lingers between them.

to be the light in each other’s darkness

mary, straddling the locker room bench, raises the brush, gestures towards her. "do you want help?"

anger prickling in her chest. she's not a child, she's not- she'd simply had a moment of weakness, in searching out mary's arms as blood dripped down her own. "i'm perfectly capable-"

"i didn't ask whether you needed help, beatrice. i asked if you wanted it." she raises the brush again, face open, welcoming. "i know i would have when i was your age. that's all."

beatrice's shoulders sag, and she plucks absently at the folds of shirt that balloon around her, her gaze solidly on the floor tiles. "i can do it," she repeats, reaching for the brush, and mary passes it to her.

she starts at the bottom of her hair, as her mother had taught her, working the tangles out with short strokes. there's a pressure on the back of her head, immaterial, tilting her forward to get better access to the nape of her neck. her mother gently working the brush free of the tangles that always formed there just out of beatrice's reach, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head when the pull turned unintentionally sharp and beatrice winced away from the motion.

the hair at the base of her skull is matted together, now, and her hands aren't as agile as her mother's had been, not yet. practice, she'd told her over piano keys and hair brush strokes and the awkward shape of her writing, you'll improve with practice.

but she hasn't had enough time to learn, and the brush is buried deep in her hair and any movement of it sends sharp pains through her scalp and- and tears are streaming down her face. her mother is never again going to carefully work knots from her hair when she comes in from the garden with her head as much leaf litter as hair.

a tissue is pressed into her palm, a careful hand uncurls her fingers from their tight grasp around the handle of the hair brush. beatrice's chest heaves and she's met with careful touches and a low rumble of soft words. her mother's hands had always been cool, had always felt such a balm on her forehead when she laid ill in bed. the hand on the back of her neck now is almost feverishly warm, but the care mary takes with the brush is the same as she works it loose from beatrice's hair.

"my first foster mother," mary says, voice as gentle as her hands, "didn't understand that she needed to treat my hair differently than her own. that caring for Black hair was a whole separate skill." she works the brush free, starts in carefully on beatrice's hair as beatrice scrubs the tissue across her face. "and i was too scared to speak up, even when she cut my hair with kitchen shears to make it easier for her to look after." her hand cups beatrice's shoulder, squeezes. "i want you to tell me what you want, what you need, okay?"

bestrice nods, stilted. "okay."

#ask #'anon'#getting whacked over the head again and again #warrior nun #babea au #beatrice x lilith #myfic #mywn

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saintsenara · 6 months

Text

this piece was written for @ladiesofhpfest monthly minis, focusing on andromeda tonks.

grief is a theme which has been prominent in my reading and writing lately, and one aspect of grief which i am particularly drawn to at the minute is the fact that grief can often make the grieving quite unpleasant. the rage of grief, its vindictiveness and petty cruelty, are subjects which i think this fandom often shies away from. after all, nobody likes to think of their faves being horrible in their sorrow.

but i think andromeda makes a good case study for this feeling. i'm always struck in deathly hallows by how there's such a potent undercurrent of anger and disapproval in the way she deals with harry and hagrid. i like the description of her looking haughty - above and beyond the visual comparison it draws between her and bellatrix - and i like her complete lack of interest in doing anything other than talk about tonks and her fear for her.

i've written a lot about how i think someone in andromeda's position would understand the risk which tonks has taken on by joining the order (i'll die on the hill, written about in several of the pieces i did for the fest this summer, that she is aware that bellatrix has convinced voldemort to leave her and ted alone, which then becomes forfeit). and so here i'm thinking about just how furious she'd be when her fear and rage and warnings about that risk were proven to be completely justified - set around dirge without music by edna st. vincent millay. because andromeda does not approve. and she is not resigned.

Spring did not amble into summer that year, as it usually did.

It did not drift with mellow ease from April’s pale into May’s gold, lying idly on the grass in Richmond Park with the cracked-sugar coating on mini eggs on its fingers. It did not wake up one morning and put all its jumpers into storage, then fish them out again three days later when there was still a chill in the morning air. It did not spoon mint sauce onto its Easter lamb and watch as the tendrils of the broad beans curled themselves around their frame.

Death was squatting in her house, disarraying the furniture and stretching the sleeves of her cardigans, a winter’s dirge in his horrible voice and a sepulchral damp trailing in after him whenever he opened the door.

And although she had prided herself for years on her skill as a hostess, she was growing furious with her unwanted guest.

May was a month of rain and of rage.

For all the others - the other mothers in the club she had not asked to join, whose company she loathed, whose losses she refused to comprehend - it seemed that May was a month of silence.

She could picture them, sitting mutely by empty beds, the ephemera of childhood clutched in their white-knuckled hands, as if it will help clear the fog. She could see them searching through the gloom for the glittering past; the memories of summer’s haze which parents cast unthinkingly away, believing that there will never be a time when they will have to beg death to let them remember the way a seven-year-old face looked on a particular May morning.

She could picture them, sitting mutely by the fresh-turned earth of newly-dug graves, spring’s white flowers - apple blossom and yarrow; baby’s breath for their unbreathing babies - laid before headstones slick with the unseasonable squall. She could see them letting the rain mingle with the tears on faces rubbed raw, until the one cannot be distinguished from the other in the drops falling to the earth.

But she could not sit. She could not search or cry.

She could only spit; and snarl and scream until her teeth clashed through the dry and splitting skin of her lower lip and blood pooled in her mouth.

While death laughed at her.

They had never been able to work out where Nymphadora’s talent - the clay suppleness of tendons and bones, the shape-shifting malleability of skin and marrow - had come from.

Ted had been a solid man, substantial in the way that bookshelves are: never rickety; never uneven; smelling of wood polish and leather. He contained a hundred thousand little treasures; he was a source of knowledge, a place of solace on rainy days; a best friend in the aftermath of a lonely childhood.

And she herself was solid, in the way that music is: the tempo can be varied but the notes remain the same. One sister can strike out on her own, but there is a refrain which follows her, the same funeral dirge which lilts in the air after her sisters, letting the careful listener know that these three women are one and the same. No matter what one was pretending.

Nymphadora had none of her father’s solidity. She was an opal: gaudy and colour-changing and brilliant, but with a softness beneath it all. She was fragmentary and fractured. She had wanted her jokes to be laughed at. She had wanted to be taken seriously.

She had wanted to be loved, in all her contradictory, flesh-and-blood glory.

She lay now beside her lukewarm lover in the earth.

She did not speak to her daughter when she visited the graveyard, its pathways washed with rain, a yew sagging against the church’s ancient walls. She did not speak to Ted either, though he mouldered next to his daughter. She did not leave flowers leaning on their headstones. She clenched her fists until her nails pierced the dry and splitting skin of her palms, and blood dripped over her wedding ring to the ground.

She was too angry at them both; at how they had clearly been in cahoots to turn themselves into food for the worms, and leave her pouring tea for death and keeping the radiators blasting. This is how it had always been - Ted’s gentleness turning into permissiveness when it came to Nymphadora throwing herself from the tops of trees or telling old ladies who reprimanded her on her knicker-baring miniskirts to go swivel, and she was forced to become the strict one, the one who disapproved of burping and pot noodles and joining the Aurors.

Neither of them had ever listened, adventure twinkling in their identical eyes and schemes whirring in their swashbuckling minds. They thought her silly - nervous and elegant and a lover of order. In their unkinder moments, they thought her rigid, icy, cruel. She could still picture Nymphadora at the breakfast table - sixteen and sulking over being told off for overindulging at a party and being sick all over the hydrangeas - and how it had felt to know her eyes were raking over her mother’s heart-shaped face for the fragments of Narcissa and Bellatrix that a quiet life in a Muggle suburb could not erase.

But look at that. She was right and they were both dead. And she was furious.

She did not speak to her husband when she returned to the house, where death was laying on the sofa instead of babysitting. There were crumbs on the coffee table, the gingery shards of a whole biscuit now snapped and softening. Like Ted - with his hair the colour of saffron cake and his eyes like spring water - would be in the damp of May’s earth.

As a child, her after-dinner habit had been bridge - a constant torture since Bella would never pay attention long enough for them to have a really good game. As an adult, it was coffee and chocolate liqueurs on the sofa with Ted.

As a widow, it appeared to be screaming.

The morning dawned as grey as all its cousins; May was a month of rain and of rage. Death clattered around the kitchen, leaving eggshells on the floor and teabags staining the worksurface with their tannic drool. The disorder made her skin itch.

She looked at herself in the mirror, her face prickled and pink from a shower which had scalded her. The heat was a comrade; the water was boiled up to a flesh-burning point, her blood was hot enough to eat her marrow, turning her from the inside out into mulch. Somehow it all evened out.

Ted and Nymphadora were competing over who could decompose the quickest, laying in the graveyard and giving thanks for all the damp. It would putrify them all the quicker. Still, how shocked they would be when victory was snatched from them before their sightless eyes. If there was a prize for shattering first, the person they’d left behind would win.

Her day was one of half-drunk coffees and constant movement. She could not sit, there was no way of relaxing with a magazine on the sofa when death was leaving so many crumbs. There was no way of staying in the house when there were so many fragments lurking on shelves and in wardrobes. Ted’s jumpers curled up like newborn kittens in a drawer; his mismatched socks were lined up like limp orphans in the laundry basket.

A hairbrush, entangled with bright pink strands, lay on the stairs. She had told Nymphadora to take it up with her the last time she went to bed. Her daughter hadn’t listened.

She was so angry at her.

#asenora fics #andromeda tonks #fragments #ladies of hp fest #monthly minis

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jo-harrington · 8 months

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Me seeing AASB Hymns of Heaven requests open back up:

It would be great to see either the Thunderbird or Great Horned Serpent for some indigenous representation!

xoxo 💜 Cee

Cee, light of my life, bestie. Thank you for requesting this, trusting me with it, and thank you for chatting with me and answering my questions to do this blurb and these creatures justice. Just like we discussed, there’s so many interpretations of these creatures and the meanings vary so much. Faith is an incredibly personal thing so thank you for sharing these stories, your beliefs, and your studies with me.

This blurb is in collaboration with @whatis-much (writing account @rosewaterandivy) and you can find her amazing collection of writing here.

In addition to my monthly food bank donation I have also made a donation to the Association on American Indian Affairs.

Warnings and Themes: Death, Grief, Mourning, Discussion of the Afterlife, Discussion of Religion

Find other Hymns of Heaven here.

September 1984

It never got easier.

It would never get easier.

Eddie spent the past 8 years without his mother, and he would spend the rest of his life without her too. Every day the memories got hazier and hazier, but never any less cherished.

He couldn’t remember what she wore when she dropped him off at school the morning before the accident, but he could remember her smile when she kissed his forehead and waved goodbye to him.

Couldn’t remember her favorite flavor of ice cream but could remember the way her eyes crinkled and the face she made when she got that first bite. Especially that first time Rick took them both out for a special “family date.”

Couldn’t remember the things his father said to her in hatred and anger, but could remember the tears of relief and the tightness of her arms around him the day his father got sent away for good.

And they were all things he wished he had now as he sat beside her grave and traced the letters carved into her headstone with reverent fingers and tear-filled eyes.

The dry grass crunched behind Eddie and he sniffed and rubbed at his eyes really quick before he turned to find you. You and the gentleness in your gaze, a bouquet of flowers—carnations, his mom’s favorite; how had you known—from Bradley’s in hand, and a small knapsack that he was sure was filled with lunch and snacks slung over your shoulder.

Leave it to you to remember to keep him full on a day he felt so…hollow.

He had been hesitant to share this with you.

In those early years, Wayne and Rick would plan something special with him so he wouldn’t be alone. So they wouldn't be alone either. But lately he had preferred the day to just be him and his mom.

When he invited you to join him, you insisted that you didn't need to. Could sense the conflict in him. You told him that you could meet his mom when he was ready to share her, if he was ever ready. Despite his nerves though, something inside of him compelled him to tell you, to share this with you.

Even if it was just once.

You sat down next to him and said hello to his mom in a soft and caring voice; you told her how nice it was to meet her, and how much her son meant to you.

You set the bouquet along the top of the headstone and dug through your bag for something. You handed him a wrapped sandwich from the deli, one for yourself, and then one for his mom, which you put on a plate on the ground in front of you. Then you pulled out a few candles in tall glass containers and a few that were smaller and shorter made of colored wax.

"She liked being fussed over," he laughed as you arranged them and questioned whether or not you could light them. "Don't know if she liked candles or not. This is probably nicer than anything we'd ever done for her on her birthdays when I was growing up."

"I just don't wanna be disrespectful," you explained. "Prayer candles like this...they're a very catholic thing."

"No, I'm sure she'd appreciate it. Appreciate getting to learn something about you too."

You nodded and began to light them one by one. You hesitated at the candle that featured an angel blowing into a trumpet, but lit it nonetheless.

"You know," Eddie began, his stomach turning slightly, but he still powered through. "I don't really...I don't really know what she believed in. She never prayed. Didn't really have time for it...for church or anything. She worked every single Sunday at Benny's and then she'd grumble that if people were really devout that they'd be nicer or leave better tips. Sometimes she would say 'please God' if her car didn't start on really cold days in the winter.

"I don't remember her funeral either...but I don't think Pastor Charles was there. Rick asked me if there was anything special for her and I just asked...if we could have ambrosia with lunch. Because she always made it on special occasions. God, I was such an idiot kid."

He put his face in his hands for a minute as his eyes burned with tears again.

He didn't remember the color of the casket or the flowers, didn't remember what it was she wore.

"You weren't an idiot kid." You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Just a kid who lost his mom. It's ok if you don't remember. It's traumatic."

"My whole life's traumatic," he let out a watery laugh. "I should remember this. Should remember her. All I know is how...good she was. She was just so good. A good mom, a good neighbor. She deserves to be...I don't know...deserves to be someplace nice. She deserves some...heaven, some paradise...

"This asshole kid at school...Brady...he used to bully me, and after she died. Wayne made me get these buzz cuts, it was just easier. Mom always cut my hair herself before...anyway, you could see my ears, right? This kid Brady kept saying they were a little pointy and that must mean I was...some demon spawn. My dad was in prison, maybe he was the devil, and my mom and I were like...Rosemary's baby.

"That's why I started...reading about demons and stuff, because he said it was good that she was dead; she was in hell where she belonged. I always liked the fantasy books in the library but...the really hardcore stuff...that came later..."

"Mom always used to say...fear stems from ignorance," Eddie muttered with finality, tears fully streaming down his cheeks now as his body shook. "So I needed to know everything I could about hell and about demons...so I wouldn't be...be afraid that she might be there."

You muttered his name softly and rubbed his back as he took the time he needed to cry.

There was a breeze. The leaves of nearby trees rustled, the grass. The flames of the candles shook but never went out. Birds chirped and cicadas buzzed in the distance.

You took a breath.

"You know you said to me a while back...something about religion being organized...and I told you everyone can pick their own beliefs..."

You hummed contemplatively for a minute before continuing.

"Do you know...before people believed was a Hell there was just an afterlife. An underworld. Just a place for dead people to go. No punishment, no fire. Death itself the punishment, and then your soul lived on.

"And then you have...different indigenous beliefs about life and Death. The Algonquin people believed in an Underworld and an Overworld and creatures that guarded them. A Thunderbird and a Horned Serpent. Heralds...Stewards of the living and the dead respectively.

"And in Navajo culture, the Underworld isn't even where the dead go. It's where people came from...before they came to be...a dark and primordial place...and the Horned Serpent guided them to the Earth. To life.

"When their time on earth was done," you concluded reverently. "Their spirits would live on forever."

You pushed Eddie's hands away from his eyes and softly caressed his face, made him look at you. You doted on him and he felt all the love and care you put into every touch.

Over his cheeks, his eyebrows, through his bangs so straighten what he messed up. You kissed the tip of his nose and then over each of his eyes, and the ache he felt behind them began to dissipate.

You poured hope and courage and peace into him, and he received it all with an open heart.

"So where is she then?" Eddie whispered.

"Heaven...Hell...Gods...devils...it's all relative...all personal," you answered. "There's no one answer. If your mom believed that God was only there to help start her car on a cold day, then that's what God is. And if she believed that He was only there to give people who wanted absolution for some sins only to be disgusting people anyway, then that's what He is.

"Maybe you don't know what she really believed, but Eddie...what you believe is at play here too." You smiled and your eyes darted between his. "If you want to believe her soul is out there...living forever, then she is. If you want to believe she's in the Undying Lands, then she is. And if you think she was good...then she's worthy of being in Heaven."

Eddie took a moment and closed his eyes. And he imagined his mom again. Her smile and her laugh and her love. He imagined a place that was perfect for her, with music and ice cream and ambrosia and all the comforts that she never got the opportunity to have when she was alive. He imagined that she felt all of the love the world had to give, all the love he had for her.

There was no real name for it.

But that was exactly where she was.

#aasb #hymns of heaven #as above so below #eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson angst #Eddie munson fluff #tw death #tw grief #tw religion

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dialux · 1 year

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Yeah also the name of the spear, Aeglos, is a also the name of a flower that only grows a little to the South of Finduilas’s grave!

-@outofangband

Okay fine, twist my arm why don’t you

...

When Gil-galad is still young, his parents pack up his things and send him to foster with the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. He doesn’t question this, not even to complain or ask when he’ll see them again. But Gil-galad does ask his father, once, the night before he is to leave: “What should I say I got from my parents, if someone asks?”

And Orodreth smiles, and Orodreth says, gently, “Do you know the tale of Ilion and Taqualme?”

It is not quite so well-told now as the story of Melian and Thingol or Finwe and Miriel, but Gil-galad has studied under the finest tutors his parents could find in war-torn Beleriand. Of course he knows the story of Ilion and Taqualme: Taqualme, who was captured by Sauron in the days that Sauron dwelled in Utumno, and fled by the skin of her teeth; Ilion who found her and loved her. They went on to marshal an army that besieged Utumno itself well before the Valar ever found the Firstborn. Their son was Ingwe, who was named the King of Kings in blessed Valinor. Gil-galad is himself their descendant through his father’s father’s mother’s mother.

“Good,” says Orodreth, when Gil-galad nods. “When Ingwe was born, Taqualme saw him crowned in gold. That is why she named him as she did. But when you were born... Legrin saw that you were crowned in stars, little one.”

Gil-galad is young, but he is not stupid. He knows who he is: the eldest son, perhaps, but the eldest son of a youngest son; there is a reason why his father rules over a tower and not larger tracts of land like Aegnor and Angrod or Finrod. Finrod might call himself a king but he is king solely by dint of having fled from Fingolfin’s proximity. There will be no crowns for Gil-galad’s head unless everyone else is dead.

“Is that why you are sending me away?” he asks slowly.

Orodreth’s face tightens. “Would you prefer to stay here? You can, you know. If you wish. Your future is your own, no matter what your mother has seen.”

“When I die,” says Gil-galad thoughtfully, “I want them to sing songs of my glory. Do you think I can get that if I- if I stay here?”

For a long moment, Orodreth says nothing. Then-

“If that is what you wish,” he says, “you should go.”

...

And so, Gil-galad goes.

...

He spends a few years at Fingolfin’s court, but he isn’t of Fingolfin’s ilk; Gil-galad just plain doesn’t like him. They are both too dignified to fight regardless of Gil-galad’s youth, but the reality is that he just plain doesn’t agree with most of Fingolfin’s decisions, chafes against Fingolfin’s authority, and is in the process of losing what few vestiges of respect he has left for Fingolfin as a person.

Fingon’s arrival at court is a welcome relief from the constant and simmering tension. He takes Gil-galad on long hunts and shrugs off any of his father’s criticisms without much care. It’s startling, actually, how careless Fingon seems to be: a deliberate contrast to his father, perhaps, and a dangerous one for it. Gil-galad likes him better than Fingolfin though. He doesn’t go around acting like explaining decisions is beneath him.

...

When Gil-galad is very young, his mother takes him and Finduilas to a small meadow. This stands out in his memory later: Legrin had never been a very maternal figure, nor someone with much time to expend on her young children. But she’d taken the time to bring them to a meadow, some distance from Minas Tirith, and to sit next to a rushing stream, and to sing blossoms out of summer-wilted grass.

“A little north of here, it grows tall and sturdy,” she’d said. Her fingers had been long and slender, deftly weaving the branches together into something like a wreath. “When winter comes the leaves fall away and leave behind thick vines and tough roots. Aeglos is very difficult to kill; we often have to sing it out of the way, for it will dull even sharpened steel if we try to chop it up.” She leans down and feathers a hand against Gil-galad’s cheeks. “And it saved my life, time and time over, before I found your father.”

Finduilas had laughed and braided the small white flowers into her hair. Gil-galad’s had not been long enough yet to braid; his mother had placed a crown of the aeglos’ branches and flowers atop his head.

He forgets a lot- too much- of the time he spent with his parents and sister, but this he remembers well: Finduilas’ laughter, and the prick of the thorns of aeglos plant on his scalp. He’d fallen asleep still wearing it and woke to blood drenching his pillow.

...

“My father is very careful,” says Fingon. The wind is high in his cheeks. His eyes are very bright. Gil-galad determinedly does not think on how similar Fingon looks to his father or how similar Gil-galad himself looks to them both: they’re the same eyes, same coloring, the same general facial structure. If Gil-galad becomes a little broader... he’d be their spitting image. “You are right that he is that- perhaps he is too much so! But you won’t get him to change his mind by constantly pointing it out.”

And suddenly Gil-galad dislikes Fingon too.

“I never said he was too careful,” says Gil-galad, and he isn’t sulking, he isn’t. “I said he took the wrong risks.”

“Kingship is gambling. And sometimes losing.”

“Yeah,” says Gil-galad. “But there needs to be some winning in there too, shouldn’t there?”

Fingon stares at him. “You think you could do better,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

Gil-galad lifts his chin. “Don’t you?” he asks, and doesn’t mean it as a question either.

...

For decades and decades, when Gil-galad thinks of his sister, he thinks of that meadow: the crown of thorns, the blood in his hair; her laughter, shining like the gold of her braids.

...

Fingon convinces Fingolfin to send Gil-galad down to the Falas for one summer- to explore Gil-galad’s mother’s heritage, he says, and laughs after he says it like he thinks it’s all a big joke: for all that Gil-galad knows it isn’t. But then the Dagor Bragollach happens and everyone is very glad that Gil-galad is so far from the front lines of the war. Aegnor and Angrod die, but Minas Tirith itself holds firm against the onslaught from Anfauglith, mostly because of Legrin’s strength of will and Orodreth’s strength of song. Of Fingolfin’s death none of them speak, but everyone knows already; Gil-galad mourns for him, of course, but only very distantly, and it’s far outweighed by his surprise. He’d never have thought Fingolfin had it in him. When the news came, he asked if the message had mixed up Fingon with his father, but the stories hadn’t changed; it was Fingolfin who attacked Morgoth himself in single duel, and Fingon the Valiant of all people that survived him.

Then Legrin dies, and Orodreth flees south with the remnants of his people.

Gil-galad feels the shattered bond in his soul. He’s on a boat; he’s threading the white rapids of Eglarest’s estuary for the first time alone. It’s incredibly dangerous; two elves lost their lives just two years previous in their attempt. Gil-galad only just managed to convince Cirdan to let him do this. If he backs down now...

It’s the first time he’s experienced the harsh twisting rend of his fea. It’s a pain without explanation. Gil-galad closes his eyes against the hollowing howling scream thudding through his chest. Then he opens them, because he cannot keep the tears at bay. Better to let everyone think it comes from the sting of sea-air and the exertion of sailing a boat through choppy waters. Everything is very numb; the roar of the water seems very distant.

Still, Gil-galad manages to complete it. He steps off the boat to loud cheers from the pier, having successfully navigated through the white rapids without losing his life. He nods, ducks his head; accepts one person’s exuberant handshake. Then he heads to Cirdan’s seneschal to alert him that he’ll miss tonight’s dinner due to a Noldor ritual performed at the waning gibbous moon, and after that he goes to his tutor to tell him that Cirdan’s asked him for dinner tonight and so he won’t be able to make it to their ritual, and only once all of this is completed does he go to his room and lock the door and close his eyes once again.

Legrin had never been very soft or caring. She’d lost much of her family in orc raids just before Melian established her girdle, surviving herself by sheer chance: she’d been on the right side of the border.

Or the wrong side, depending on how you defined it.

She’d watched her family die in front of her, and then she’d walked out herself, furious enough to wage a one-woman war against Morgoth for decades until the Noldor searched the region. Orodreth had been assigned to scout for orcs in the area and kept finding nothing, which meant the entire army was on high alert for a trap. Then they found Legrin amid a nest of sharp-spiked aeglos, single-handedly having defended the Pass of Sirion for nearly half a decade.

Finrod and Orodreth offered to build a tower in the area to better defend Sirion. Legrin had agreed, and she’d wedded Orodreth the day the tower’s construction was completed. When Orodreth had wanted to wait for peace to have children, she’d told him firmly that there would never be peace again: only joy, for whatever time they could steal away. Finduilas was first, and Gil-galad many years later. And she’d dreamed, when she held her son, that he would be crowned in stars.

The only crown he has is made of thorns.

So. Gil-galad had never been close with her, but that was because Legrin was like the tide pools in the Falas: flashing and ephemeral; alternately, and unpredictably, vibrant with life and utterly desolate. Legrin wasn’t close to anyone. But she’d been his mother.

He still has the crown she placed on his head. The bottom thorns are dark with dried blood. The rest is desiccated and dry, a husk of something once full of life. Gil-galad hadn’t taken much with him when he left Minas Tirith, but this he took: to Barad Eithel, and then to Dor-lomin, and finally here, to the Falas. He doesn’t have much: some spare tunics, a few notebooks and sketches, three scarves of cotton, wool, and silk respectively, a gold-and-silver knife Finrod once gifted to him, and this crown.

It scratches his wrist when he picks it up. Gil-galad presses down, harder, and watches blood well on the smooth skin.

She’d been his mother, and her hands had woven this crown for him, and now she is dead.

The pain is exquisite. Gil-galad wears long sleeves for a fortnight, and doesn’t heal the wound.

...

Cirdan comes to him a week later, eyes red-rimmed. He doesn’t have to say anything, but he does: Gil-galad nods solemnly through the entire conversation, but doesn’t weep. His mother is dead. And he owes nobody else his grief.

People whisper on his cold certainty, on his lack of emotion. They all seem to be waiting for Gil-galad to crumble to his knees. But he’s done his grieving. One night of it, one ritual: a thorn pushed, inexorably deep and deeper, into the pale flesh of his arm, until he could breathe without wanting to weep.

Did you not feel the bond break, little one? Cirdan asks, on the pier, in front of everyone.

Gil-galad looks up at him, and says, No, and nobody, not a single person, realizes he’s lied.

...

His father wants him to come to Nargothrond, but Gil-galad refuses. He likes the freedom of life on Balar. The scent of salt in the air; the way the sand sticks to his calves; the sound of high tide outside his window. And Gil-galad doesn’t do well with kings, and it isn’t as if he could just leave Nargothrond either if push came to shove.

Instead, he asks if they can come to him.

It takes- years- of wheedling and demanding and flat-out blackmail, but eventually Orodreth relents to let Finduilas come south. He can’t make the trip himself because of his obligations as Finrod’s second-in-command, but Finduilas comes with her betrothed, Gwindor, and a few other guards, and Gil-galad has the joy of meeting his fully-grown sister for the very first time.

She is very pretty. She has Orodreth’s coloring and build, all tall and willowy with large eyes and hair that shines like a beacon under Arien’s light. The fashions of Nargothrond appear to be less restrictive than the practical dresses on the front line of the war, and Finduilas’ arms are covered by only the sheerest layers of chiffon that blows in the sea wind like Miriel Serinde’s own work. Gil-galad takes her around the beaches, feeds her all the sea-side delicacies Nargothrond and Minas Tirith wouldn’t have had access to, and gifts her a steel knife hilted with pieces of abalone he dug up himself.

“Are you- happy?” he asks once.

Finduilas ducks her head. “Yes,” she says. “I- of course I am. Gwindor... you’ve seen him. And Father is doing well too, now; I wasn’t certain how he’d take Mother’s death. But he got better. We all did.”

“Good.” Gil-galad swallows. Looks up, over the gorse bushes and scraggly grass, to the shine of the sun on the sea. “Do you know how she died?”

“You don’t know?”

“I felt it. Her death. I never wanted to- ask. Anyone else, that is.”

“Oh.” Finduilas’ hand rests on his wrist, warm and weighty. “They could never understand, could they?”

His eyes water from the brilliance of the sun off the water. Nothing else. Gil-galad thinks of Legrin’s temper, her cold silences and colder words when she disagreed with someone. Gil-galad knows well what all of Balar thinks of her: that she’d never had a bond with Gil-galad, that she’d been so distant and unloving he’d never even felt her death.

But Finduilas knows. Nobody else in the entire world will know what this wound feels like, but she does.

“No,” he says, soft.

Her hand tightens on his, nails digging in briefly before she gains control of herself once more. “She died in battle. Sauron himself killed her- she drew him out, and challenged him to a duel, her aeglos to his magics.”

“She was defeated.”

“She was killed,” says Finduilas, after a moment. “But defeated? I think not.”

“How can you say that?”

“I am still alive, am I not?” She stretches out, arches her back like a cat. “And so was most of Minas Tirith. We should have died in it. That’s what Sauron intended. She saved us at the cost of her own life, but it was a good death.”

“The last time I saw her,” says Gil-galad, “she told me to be great. And then she rode away. And I’ll never see her again. I don’t- I can’t- move past that. Forgive that.”

“Mother never asked for your forgiveness. Or anyone’s!”

“But how can you live like that! After having children-”

He breaks off. Rises to his feet. Turns away. Something in his throat hurts, like he’s pierced it with the thorns his mother crowned him on.

“She did something great,” says Finduilas quietly. “I don’t know why you find it so difficult to forgive either.”

“Why not?”

“You’re so similar, Gil-galad,” she says. She is a vision in gold, everything gilt and glamour; Gwindor has gifted her with some powdered diamonds that she dusts on her cheekbones to glitter in the light. “You know best, and you- you’re so strong, and you’re so cold, too. You’re just like her.”

And- there’s nothing that he can say to that, is there?

Finduilas looks at him ruefully. “Though perhaps a little softer. You got the best parts of our parents, you know. Mother’s hard edges rounded out a little by Father.”

“Let me guess,” says Gil-galad scornfully- likely more scornfully than he meant to sound. “You got the worst parts. Father’s softness and Mother’s distance.”

“So you do have a temper.”

“I thought everyone knew that, after- Fingolfin.��

“Everyone knows,” says Finduilas. “But- it’s different to meet you, and to know it. You hide it well. All except for your contempt.”

“My- contempt?” asks Gil-galad, taken aback.

“You think you can do something well,” she says. “You think you’re very good at- everything. And you probably are; I know your competence! But you show it so clearly. I read your letters to Father, you know? It hurt him, what you said. How you said it, maybe. Quite a lot.”

“Is it my responsibility to coddle his feelings? I have no desire to go to Nargothrond- to be hemmed in, to be controlled and treated like a particularly amusing pet- not when I’m building something here.”

“Yes,” says Finduilas. “What is this project you’re doing here? Kingship? Is that what you want, really?”

“Now who’s being contemptuous?”

“Still you,” she snaps. “Because you know that if the crown comes to you it’ll be drenched in our kin’s blood. But you still want it!”

“Ambition is not a sin. And I’m not a kinslayer.”

“Is that why you won’t go to Nargothrond? Because of- Uncle Finrod? Or is it the Feanorians?”

“I won’t go to Nargothrond because Father won’t let me come back here if he sees me again,” says Gil-galad tiredly. “And I like Balar too well to leave for so petty a reason.”

For a moment, Finduilas says nothing. Then: "This is a crown that kills. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Gil-galad. “I know.”

"We'd want you to live rather than be storied. You know that, don't you?"

"Finduilas," sighs Gil-galad. "Yes. I know it."

“Mother saw you crowned with stars and named you for it. But the only crown she ever gave you was one of thorns.”

He jerks, a little surprised. “You remember that?”

“She used aeglos to save my life,” says Finduilas steadily. “But she killed you with it. That is what I remember.”

“It’ll take more than a prophecy to kill me.”

“You’ll die hard, but you’ll still die.”

“When I die,” says Gil-galad fiercely, “I want them to sing songs of my glory. That is what I want. That’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

Finduilas looks at him, so bright it hurts his eyes, his fingers, his chest. She is so fragile. He wants to keep her here in the Falas, safe and sound and tucked into the hollow of his throat. Nargothrond will bury her alive. He can see it. He can see it.

“You are not just a Sindar,” she says finally. “You are Noldor too, born and bred. If you wish to be king, you will have to act like it.”

“What- what does that mean?”

“You will never wear the Sindarin crown,” says Finduilas. “But the Noldor one might come to you. Someday. And if it does, it will be because Hithlum fell, and so did Nargothrond, and if that happens then the Feanorian lands are likely besieged as well; you will be king of ash and ruin. That is the only way you will ever be able to rule. I do not say this as an insult. That is reality.”

“So. Be prepared. For the worst. That’s your advice.”

“Be a haven for those who need it,” she says. “That’s my advice.”

The sun has gone down by now; the sky is a glorious purplish-greenish-gold. Finduilas glows like a beacon even under it, with her diamond-burnished cheeks.

“Have you seen something?” asks Gil-galad.

“Only what my eyes will tell me. Have you seen something?”

“No,” says Gil-galad, and though Finduilas is closer to him than anyone else in all the world, she does not realize that he is lying to her either. “I don’t dream like that.”

...

Two days after Finduilas leaves, Gil-galad starts working on a staff. It is ash and fire-hardened hickory; his shoulders hurt from its use. But Gil-galad has no interest in hunting or jousting or scouting. If he’s on a battlefield, he’ll be on the field, not directing from above or hiding behind bowmen. So the bow is out. And the lance is a good weapon, but one meant for peacetime; he’ll learn it, he promises himself, if he survives Morgoth. A sword is traditional, but Fingolfin dueled Morgoth with a sword and had it shattered for his troubles.

Taqualme and Ilion, Orodreth had told Gil-galad. Taqualme’s daughter Intyale was the general of the Vanya armies after Ilion’s death, and she’d been a speardancer; she’d formed many of the fighting forms before her death. Her daughter was Indis, whose son was Finarfin, whose son was Orodreth: it’s quite a glorious history that Gil-galad is working with. Taqualme and Ilion.

So he starts with the staff. His shoulders obligingly grow broader. Gil-galad takes to looping furs over them to make them appear even broader, under guise of Beleriand’s growing chill.

Then he adds an arrowhead to it, and turns it into a spear,

...

Gil-galad’s father’s side is more gold and light, tall and pale and narrow like aspen. But Gil-galad takes after his mother’s side: never quite so tall as his father’s kin, and always darker: dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin.

When Legrin spoke, people paid attention. She was the kind of woman for whom a room went silent, who everyone gravitated around. Orodreth had loved her for it, even when he’d never been quite so- prolific.

Gil-galad: he takes, so very strongly, after his mother.

...

Please come visit me, he writes to Finduilas one night. I need you. I need you.

You will die if you stay there, he does not say. Nargothrond will be your grave. I have seen it- fire and death is written into your future, like a flower blooming into life: inexorable, inescapable. Escape to me. Please. I beg you-

Soon, maybe, she writes back in her lovely script. Once the roads are less dangerous...

Gil-galad laughs when he reads it, long and bitter. He’d promised himself he’d learn the lance once Morgoth was defeated- this feels even more impossible. The roads will never be safer. Morgoth will never be vanquished. He will reign over ash and death. He will die, and it will be a hard death, a well-fought death, but there will be no songs for him.

Not out of respect, like Fingolfin.

The silence that Gil-galad leaves behind will be the silence of death.

...

And then- the Union of Maedhros fails, and refugees pour south. Gil-galad flees the fall of the Falas to the Isle of Balar with Cirdan. He's called into many of the meetings about the relocating refugees and meets with Lalwen.

She looks eerily like her brother: tall and dark-haired, though she prefers to keep them in utilitarian and undecorated plaits while Fingolfin liked it loose. But the similarities with her brother stop there. Lalwen's unvarnished where Fingolfin had been diplomatic, and utterly uninterested in the minutiae of governance or administration where Fingolfin had lived and died by them. Gil-galad gets on much better with her than he ever did with either Fingolfin or Fingon.

It's a good thing, too. Gil-galad learns a hell of a lot more about ruling than he'd ever known before. Finduilas had never mentioned that being king of ash and ruin would require so much work, but he does it: serving the refugees, going on patrols, tracking the supplies. It’s hard and thankless and heartbreaking, but it's good work and soothes a part of him that had always wondered if all the confidence in Gil-galad's ability to rule had always been in his own head.

It’s while he’s there that soldiers stumble in from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. They insist on meeting with Gil-galad, never mind that he's arbitrating a farming dispute between an elven and human farmer that was on the verge of spilling over into violence, never mind that they're still mud-splattered and half-dead from the long trek.

"Welcome to Sirion," says Gil-galad wearily. The sun's been too dull for good crops for years now, and the silty soil isn't exactly helping keep their food stores high. He's got a lot of worries on his mind, and people constantly interrupting him aren't exactly helping. "I hope my seneschal has assigned you some quarters... We don't have much, but you are welcome to rest here for a fortnight or settle longer. If you choose to remain, you will be assigned work; we have too few hands to manage otherwise."

The soldier with the gold epaulets- as compared to his fellows' silver- looks politely bewildered. Then he bows his head.

"Thank you, my lord," he says. "Master Erestor was very helpful. We came to you because we had something to offer to you."

Gil-galad's eyes narrow, but he takes the silk package the soldier profers, and carefully undoes the gold binding to reveal a ring of pale gold that shimmers with its own light, some eldritch charm left over from Valinor.

"It was High King Fingon's," says the soldier, when Gil-galad only stares blankly. "He claimed you as his heir, my lord. In the event of his demise, he wished for me and my companions to bring this to you as evidence."

"Fingon named me his heir?" asks Gil-galad incredulously. "Why?"

"I know not his opinions."

"Turgon still lives. The High Kingship is his."

"Presumably so. But we have not heard from Gondolin for many decades now, even if they came to the aid of the Union... and what use is a king who cannot rule over us?"

"A king is he that can hold his own," quotes Gil-galad.

Then he touches the ring. It is very delicate; the filigree is intricate and finely wrought. His hand suddenly feels very warm, like he's drenched it in a hot bath. Then it settles and leaves nothing behind: no light, nothing save for gold in such delicate whorls he worries he'll melt it if he slides it onto his finger.

"I am not High King," he says finally. "But it is an honor to be so chosen by my uncle. Please, I beg of you to rest and recover from your long journey. We shall meet after that."

The gold does not melt when he wears it. Under the harsh, pale light of late afternoon in Sirion, it gleams beautifully. Gil-galad touches the filigree again, briefly, and then gets back to work.

...

Being named Fingon's heir is unexpected, but not unwelcome. If nothing else, it gives Gil-galad the authority to match what power he'd seized from Lalwen's hands.

And as time passes the work gets harder, not less. More people, fewer supplies. Every winter feels like a race against death; every summer week without rain is a death knell tolling months in advance. Gil-galad has the numbers rotating in his head constantly: the people, the rations, the probability of survival. They're a knife balanced on the cusp of tipping into bloody slaughter, and Morgoth does not need to do anything to manage it. All he needs is to wait them out.

Between all of this, Gil-galad dispatches letters to his sister whenever he gets a spare moment. They're long and rambling, salt-splotched and hastily-scribbled, and Finduilas doesn't answer them all too often.

He'd thought it was because of the subpar quality of his own letters. He'd never once considered it was because of Finduilas.

Because Nargothrond is safe.

It must be. It- it must be. Finrod had poured himself into the stone. Orodreth had gone there to survive. The Feanorians still lived, too, and would not surrender. Nargothrond is safe.

Until it isn't.

Gil-galad feels the bond he has with his father- long gone dusty with disuse- suddenly wink out, abrupt and wrenching. He is in court: adjudicating on a weaver's desire to grow silkworms in cliff caves. Gil-galad chokes on nothing and then reaches for Finduilas with all his might.

She is screaming.

Gil-galad snatches up a letter next to his throne, rips it open and doesn't bother trying to read it- just surges to his feet.

"Gather your men," he snaps. "Every able adult should be armed. Put Sirion on lockdown- no one in or out. Bring everyone into the inner keep."

The weaver pales, one hand touching a ragged scar on her neck. The rest of the court is silent and staring.

"Nargothrond has fallen," says Gil-galad grimly, indicating the letter as if that's where he received his news. "If it is another Bragollach, we will not surrender toothlessly. Get moving."

That, at least, is enough to knock everyone out of their shock. Gil-galad stalks out of the room and into his own antechamber, which is nothing more than a glorified closet. He sheds the ornamental cloak and greaves in favor of practical armor. His head hurts faintly; the backlash of the bond with his father.

But there is nothing he can do. Gil-galad is too far from Nargothrond. Perhaps Finduilas will survive, perhaps she will not; Gil-galad cannot help her. All he can do is wait for her to come to him.

So. Ten minutes to grieve. That's all he allows himself before straightening up and stalking out of the room.

Sirion is very busy. People are hustling back and forth purposefully. The stores of spears and javelins are rapidly disappearing into citizens' hands. Gil-galad can hear guards shouting for people to form up ranks; others are assigning shifts for a variety of duties. It all seems to be going relatively smoothly, but there will need to be someone who makes the bigger decisions sooner rather than later.

That's Gil-galad.

He snatches up an abandoned flagon of ale and drains half of it- For courage, he tells himself wryly- and steps into his council room, and throws himself into ensuring Sirion will survive, and if not that, will at least give Morgoth a bitter fight.

...

Orodreth's death had been mercifully swift.

Finduilas' is not.

...

Gil-galad alternates between trying to comfort her- bare and scarce though it may be- and marshaling Sirion. It quickly becomes clear that Morgoth meant to attack Nargothrond alone; there aren't any rivers of fire or torrents of animals pouring down from the north. A quick letter to Doriath confirms their strength too, despite the fallen Girdle.

So Gil-galad takes the Havens off the war-footing to focus instead on preparing for refugees. The first weeks don't bring too many, but then there are enough that Sirion's numbers double, then triple.

Among them is Celebrimbor Curufinwion.

He is much taller than Gil-galad, with a smith's broad frame and shorn hair. Handsome eyes and a sharp jaw, bruised though it is; Gil-galad can see how he'd be unfairly attractive if given even a candlemark to clean up. He's corralled the largest group of Nargothrond refugees to reach Sirion thus far, and held them together with what looks like spit and prayer.

Of everyone who has arrived, Celebrimbor has the best claim to leadership.

Gil-galad knows this. In his darker moments, he'd wanted Celebrimbor to die either in Nargothrond or on the way from it, just to simplify the question of who would rule over Sirion. But Gil-galad is young, and Celebrimbor is a valuable resource. Gil-galad knows this, too, and he's fairly certain Celebrimbor's aware of it as well.

Celebrimbor kneels. "Nargothrond has fallen to Morgoth's tricks and treachery, my lord. In the days before it fell, Prince Orodreth- who inherited the kingship from his brother, King Finrod- wished for Turin Turambar, son of Hurin and Lord of Dor-Cuarthol, to wed your beloved sister and so inherit the throne. But Princess Finduilas was stolen before any such wedding could occur."

And Gil-galad knew none of this. Not of Finduilas' betrothal- the last he heard, she'd been madly in love with Gwindor, and none of her letters had ever suggested otherwise- nor his father's preference for a human over his own son to rule over Nargothrond.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

"My sister is not dead," says Gil-galad. "Of that, if nothing else, I am certain."

Celebrimbor nods grimly, but reveals a golden armband, set to clasp just below Gil-galad's shoulder. "Even so, we have need of a king. It would be our honor to name you ours, Prince Gil-galad."

"It would be my honor to accept," says Gil-galad carefully. "But I would not ask you to make such a decision in such haste either."

"It will not change."

And Celebrimbor's mind probably won't. The Feanorians are nothing if not famously stubborn. If he's the one trying to crown Gil-galad...

Gil-galad sighs. "Then I accept," he says, and receives the armband with a steady hand.

The moment he touches the gold, something stabs him through the gut: a fatal wound, but not immediate. Gil-galad gasps and then straightens, arrow-sharp. Nods at everyone. Numbly, he clasps the band onto his arm, and strides to the stables, saddles his horse, and rides out.

My sister is not dead, he'd said, with such confidence.

But it'd been a lie.

Gil-galad comes to a stop and stumbles off the horse. Drops to his knees in a copse.

No. That isn't true. It hadn't been a lie, but it had been a miserable excuse of the truth. Finduilas is not dead, but she will die soon: Gil-galad can feel it. His stomach twists so badly he throws up from the force of it, but it doesn't help: the pain is still there. Finduilas is in no state to block herself off from him, and Gil-galad cannot imagine trying to block her off from him now. So. The pain. Split apart over half a continent, he can do nothing but bear witness.

Finduilas suffers and sobs and screams. Gil-galad does nothing. He will not hush her, and he cannot soothe her. She must know that he's there; it doesn't seem to be helping her much, but Gil-galad won't leave unless Finduilas demands it, and she doesn't ask it of him.

And then- slowly- the pain seems to lessen. Enough that Gil-galad feels it when Finduilas realizes, cold down to her bones, that she will die soon.

You once told me that Nargothrond would be my death, she whispers.

I didn't think... not like this.

But it will be.

I'm sorry I can't be there. It should have been me.

Oh, yes. She sounds faintly amused. You would have pulled the spear out of your own chest and stabbed some orcs with it, wouldn't you?

I'd get at least one of them.

You didn't know, says Finduilas firmly- or as firmly as she can get now. Do not blame yourself for my mistakes.

I have enough of my own, you mean? he asks humorlessly.

Finduilas doesn't take the bait. Rule my people well. Ereinion indeed! And this will not be the last of it.

Only if Sirion lasts longer than Gondolin or Doriath.

Of course it will. Aeglos... Mother crowned you with it. One day you'll be crowned with stars. But your first was with aeglos, and it is with the strength of its roots that you shall rule. You'll be an excellent king, little brother.

I don't want you to die, says Gil-galad.

It's more childish than he's been in- a very long time. Since he asked his father what he inherited from his parents, perhaps, which feels like it passed lifetimes ago.

I don't want to die either, says Finduilas wryly. But there's nothing to be done for it now... it's the end, dear one. Promise me one thing, if you can.

Anything.

Remember me.

I'll have them sing so many songs of you that the trees shake from it.

Finduilas laughs, and then makes a high-pitched sound as the pain spikes from the movement. No. Those songs... you know what they'll be like. Of my love, of my inconstancy; of my failure. She ignores Gil-galad's outrage. I have no need of songs, Gil-galad. I want you to remember me. Me. Of my temper, of my stubbornness; of my love, of my grief. Me, as I was when you knew me. There will be no other that can do the same in Beleriand.

Gil-galad swallows, and then swallows again. He remembers, briefly, something his mother had once done to him as a child: a trick with her fea to keep him quiet and content.

Of course, he says. You could have asked me for anything. This... I would have given so much more.

This is what I want.

Then let me do one more thing for you. Please.

There's nothing more you can do for me, little one. Let me go.

There is one last thing, says Gil-galad quietly. To let you go peacefully.

A long silence, and then Finduilas acquiesces. Swiftly- or as swiftly as he dares, for it isn't as if Gil-galad's done anything quite like this before- Gil-galad wraps his fea around his sister's. Let's the bond blossom outwards, until Finduilas feels nothing more than what he desires for her to feel. Mothers do this, often, for their children, easing elves into the rigors of the wider world, but Gil-galad is strong and bright, and comes from a long line of strong osanwe users.

He focuses on that day in the meadow. The weight of the crown on his head. Finduilas' laughter. His mother's arms, warm and soft as they wrapped around him, stronger than anything in the entire world.

Oh, little brother, sighs Finduilas in her last breath. They will sing songs of you until the end of times. You need not die to hear them. Not... not when you are... as... great... as you are.

And then, there is nothing there any longer. Not pain, not silence. Just emptiness. So thick it sounds like a scream.

Gil-galad does scream, or so he thinks; his throat aches after. When he returns to himself the sun has nearly set and his palms are bloody.

He laughs when he realizes that he'd backed himself against an aeglos bush, wrapped around an oak tree. The thorns have drawn blood on his hands, little pinpricks that ache all over his palm and fingers.

Gritting his teeth, he swings himself back onto the horse. Digs through the packs to reveal leather gloves tucked in some corner, and slides them on, ignoring the pulling skin and ache.

Goodbye, Finduilas, he thinks.

He will remember her in his heart. But he owes nobody his mourning, and Gil-galad cannot afford to show his broken heart to the rest of Sirion. He is their prince before he is an elf; they must think him cool, untouchable, above them.

Gil-galad owes nobody his mourning, but he'll keep the scars on his hands until the day he dies.

Goodbye, sister, he thinks again, and then he rides back home.

...

It's not plain gold, though it looks that way from afar. Up close, the armband has a strange pattern scrolling across it; so faint it's nearly invisible. But it'd been the only piece of jewelry Celebrimbor left Nargothrond with that he knew to belong to Orodreth, and so it was automatically the only thing left of the King's Jewels.

Not that Gil-galad has much jewelry otherwise. Fingon's ring and his father's armband; Finrod's knife, his mother's crown. People keep trying to gift him pearls and such, and Gil-galad wears them on his wrists sometimes, but he's a Noldo at heart: true jewelry is forged underground, not underwater.

...

Doriath falls to the Feanorians after that, and Sirion's numbers swell once again, tripling even its Nargothrond-enhanced population. It also makes things uncomfortable for Gil-galad; the Sindar aren't comfortable kneeling to a Noldo king in the same way the people of Nargothrond were. Gil-galad still rules over the Havens personally- he's the final authority- but institutes a council after consulting with Cirdan, and ensures it's equally weighted with Noldor and Doriathrim.

Gil-galad grows closer to Elwing, too- she's a distant cousin through Thingol's brother Olwe, whose daughter Earwen is Gil-galad's long-lost grandmother- and it becomes clear that half the Doriathrim would prefer for him to wed the girl and thereby unite the Noldor and Sindar crowns. It's a half-decent proposal too, and, best of all, Elwing is so young she does not need to make the choice for many years yet.

Gil-galad has no compunctions about spending long evenings gathering mussels with the gawky girl, who's just learning how to use her limbs effectively. It's peaceful if nothing else.

And the council itself means Gil-galad spends a lot more time than he'd first anticipated with Celebrimbor and Galadriel. They're technically a half-cousin some measure removed and his aunt, but Celebrimbor has a treacherous path to tread as his father's son- particularly after the Second Kinslaying- and Galadriel has a narrow path to tread herself, as half a Noldo and a participant in both Kinslayings.

Half the time they all end up in Gil-galad's rooms, stuffed with seaweed stew and sea-salt studded bread, talking long into the night on things of note and not. It's the closest thing Gil-galad's ever had to a family, this disparate group of cousins so far afield it'd take longer to enumerate their true relation than to sing the Noldolante itself.

It's a good time, those short four years.

Then Gondolin falls.

...

Idril arrives in Sirion with a blast of warmth and oncoming spring. Sirion's population grows again, until there are almost even numbers of Sindar and Noldor. It's more than twenty times the population that had been there when Gil-galad first arrived. Protecting everyone by bringing them into the central keep isn't feasible any longer; it'll take too long, for one, and is nigh on impossible from a logistical perspective, for another. There just isn't enough space inside the walls.

Idril, however, cares nothing for such details. Half her people are grieving a loved one or on the verge of death themselves; Idril's Secondborn husband, Tuor, took ill on the last leg of their journey and none of their healing makes any difference. She alternates between sitting at his bedside and holding her son, who isn't allowed in the sickroom for fear of contracting the same disease.

So Gil-galad- kindly, but firmly- takes over the process of ensuring the Gondolithrim settle into Sirion.

He'd have preferred for Idril or another lord to be there to smooth it over, but it's becoming rapidly obvious that nobody is in a fit state to do such a task. Gil-galad keeps little Earendil distracted with shells and Elwing, who takes to him like a fish to water; they accompany him to almost all his meetings, and their quiet cheer lifts the miasma of grief surrounding Sirion at least a little.

Not that there's much else to be cheerful about.

The food stores are dwindling. They'd gotten lucky with Nargothrond and Doriath; both events occurred in the late fall, and while it had been a hard season of rationing, they'd had full stores and good hands available for the next spring. But the Gondolithrim arrived in late winter, almost spring: the most dangerous time of all. They've eaten most of their winter stores.

All Gil-galad has in his food stores are prayers at this point. He would've managed to stretch it a few weeks with rationing, but that was with the old population; now he has not even that assurance, and the prognosticators think the frost will remain for another month at least.

The emergency rations are half-empty. It'll take six weeks for the fish to return to Sirion. They can't plant anything until then, and even with song and strength, they'll have to let people starve. Balar can only help so much; Cirdan's island is much smaller than Sirion, and have already offered enough to stretch the stores another week.

He's poring over the sheets, desperately hoping for some kind of solution, when Galadriel storms into his study.

"Quarter rations?" she asks flatly.

Gil-galad grimaces back at her. "Have you spoken to the quartermaster recently?"

"They can't possibly be that low. We had a good harvest last year!"

"That was before the Gondolithrim arrived."

"Before the-" Galadriel grinds to a halt. "It is that bad, then, isn't it? Even quarter rations won't be enough."

"We might be able to push it another week with it," Gil-galad tells her. "And then it's a matter of waiting for spring."

"Which the best estimates tell us is a month off."

"We pray it isn't."

"Prayer," says Galadriel scathingly.

Gil-galad laughs a little. "If you've a better solution, I'd love to hear it."

Galadriel is silent as she studies the sheets. Gil-galad doesn't bother to do the same; he's seen the numbers enough that he dreams them in his sleep. It's one thing he likes about his aunt: she's willful and untamed, but only rarely thoughtless. He suspects she'd had more of the one than the other in Aman by the stories his father told of Artanis, but Gil-galad's own dealings with her have lent to an image of a proud, strong, and relentlessly practical lady.

But then she looks up, and her face is very pale, but her chin is set in the way it goes when she's made up her mind about something.

"People will die if we do nothing," she says.

Gil-galad lifts his brows. "Finduilas once told me, you know," he says casually, "that I'd be king of ash and ruin if I ever received the crown. This isn't a surprise."

"I wouldn't have thought her to be so- sensible."

"Because she loved Turin?"

"Because she was a sheltered girl," snaps Galadriel, straightening to her full- and staggering- height. "Everything she did was because she was protected, first by Legrin in Minas Tirith and then by my brother in Nargothrond. She never knew anything of pain, or hurt, or difficulty."

"She watched my mother die to save her," says Gil-galad mildly. "Just because she refused to take up arms herself doesn't make her sheltered."

Galadriel shoots him a sharp look. "I didn't know you were so close to her."

"We were the only children in Minas Tirith. Of course we were close then."

"And after?"

"We drifted apart," says Gil-galad. "And then she died. And that's all I'll say about that, if it's all the same to you. Thinking about my dead aren't going to make me feel better about watching more people die."

"Certainly not if you're all but ordering it," says Galadriel, shuddering a little. "How can you stand it? The responsibility?"

"I've never been able to bear another's yoke on my shoulders." He shrugs. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You wished to rule, or so my father's stories said. But when you came to Beleriand you stayed under Thingol, and now you aren't even trying to wrest power from me, though you've a strong claim to the crown."

"I don't need a crown to rule," says Galadriel coolly. "And I'm not quite so power-mad as my brothers liked to make out. They were the ones who made a kingdom for themselves, or demanded the most dangerous domain of them all. Your father was the only one of us who desired something more than power."

"And you?"

"I wanted to be... myself, I suppose. Separate from all of them."

"But you don't want their throne."

"Are you so frightened by me, little nephew?" Galadriel looks amused, now, instead of irritated. "No. I have no desire to rule a people that would spend their time questioning every last one of my decisions. And anyhow, you are their heir, are you not? Fingon's chosen, Finrod's lineage; inheritor of Lalwen's domain and Turgon's people. I will not take that from you. And you have done an admirable job of it, in these difficult times."

Gil-galad ducks his head and doesn't comment at all on the rush of relief in his gut. Galadriel would not understand, he thinks, and if she did his gratitude would only make things more complicated in the future.

"It is a hard job," he says in the end. "But I find myself uniquely suited to doing it, and it must be done. Even if it is thankless."

"Even if it means watching people die because of your decisions?" asks Galadriel quietly.

"I inherited the war," says Gil-galad. "Did you know that Father wanted me to stay back in Minas Tirith instead of going to Fingolfin? But I told him- I was so young, so very young, but I told him- When I die, I want them to sing songs of my glory. And he sent me away so I could get that."

Galadriel studies him for a long moment, utterly silent. The fire from the torches shadows her face oddly. "That must have hurt him very much," she says finally. "I questioned his desire to beget children in war, but I hadn't thought it would manifest like this. To say when, to be so certain, at so young an age..."

"There won't be any songs," says Gil-galad, half-impatient. He'd thought that Galadriel, of all people, would understand. "It's grim, I get that, but it's something to laugh about at the end. Everything I've done has been for this war. Everything I've been given was because everyone else died before they could receive it. So there won't be songs of my glory, because I'll be the one to live until Morgoth finally comes to Sirion: and then everyone will be dead, not just me. So. No songs."

"That," says Galadriel, staring, "is quite possibly the grimmest thing I've ever heard."

"Don't be ridiculous. I was just showing you that we'll lose a tenth of Sirion to starvation unless we get incredibly lucky. This is nothing."

"I can't bear this," snaps Galadriel, and turns on her heel, and stalks out.

Gil-galad stares at her back. Then he trots out after her- she can't go telling people this, it'll cause riots unless handled carefully, and Gil-galad isn't certain at all about Galadriel being reasonable when she's in this kind of mood- only to come to a halt when he realizes that Galadriel's gone stomping off towards the Doriathrim quarter.

If I wanted to incite a riot, I'd start there, he thinks, feeling a little sick. Then, cold and calm: But that doesn't mean I need to accept this.

Gil-galad doesn't want to escalate, but he is king here. He has to be. If this is some twisted test of his resolve or something, he'll deal with it; if it's Galadriel trying to institute mass rule in her own way he'll deal with that, too.

He turns on his heel and calls for the captain of his guard.

...

Two candlemarks later, Sirion is surrounded by guards positioned to control any rebellion that might occur, and the city's gone eerily silent.

And it stays that way, too.

Gil-galad narrows his eye over at the grain fields. They're fallow for the winter, but they've been laying mulch over it in preparation for oncoming spring. Something very bright keeps flashing over the field, though Gil-galad cannot identify what it is.

Not until Erestor gasps and steadies himself on Gil-galad's arm as if struck.

"It is- Treelight," he says hoarsely.

Gil-galad twists to look Erestor in the face. "You're certain?"

"It's impossible! The Trees-"

"Erestor," says Gil-galad. "Are you certain?"

"I- yes," he says, but he's still very pale. "When you see it... you can never unsee it. Neither Arien nor Tilion shine quite like that."

Gil-galad nods once, so sharp his neck aches. "Double the guard," he says, voice frozen over. "I'll be back soon."

...

There's not much of a crowd at the fields, though enough of one to fan Gil-galad's irritation into full-blown anger. Celeborn, Galadriel, and a few of Elwing's more common minders; and Elwing herself, of course, cupping a jewel in her small hands that shines like a star fallen to the earth.

"Gil-galad," says Galadriel warmly. "I thought you'd come here."

"Is that a Silmaril?" he asks, perfectly even.

Galadriel's eyes narrow as she takes in his expression. It's Celeborn that answers him, with a flat: "Yes."

"You brought a Silmaril from Doriath," says Gil-galad. "And hid it. For three years."

"Gil-galad-"

"You've killed us," he snarls. "You've brought the adder into our home- into our bed. For three years! You let us believe the Feanorians took the Silmaril from Doriath!"

"It was our last defiance," says Celeborn, in his slow and frosty manner. "Surely you understand why it was necessary. It can help these fields grow. Treelight was what blessed Aman, in the old days."

"I will not have it in Sirion," says Gil-galad. "I will not."

"Gil-galad," says Galadriel.

"Ereinion," he hisses back at her, and watches as she goes very pale and still. "Not Gil-galad. It will kill us. At either Morgoth's hand or the Feanorians'. We will die because of your pride."

"But before we die, we will live. Which is more than can be said for your plan, is it not?"

"Between starving to death or dying at Morgoth's hand, I know which I prefer," returns Gil-galad.

Galadriel's eyes turn into slits. "A fine thing to say, when you are not at risk of starving yourself!"

"Because I am king, you think I will not suffer alongside the rest?" Gil-galad demands, white with fury. "I know what I do for my people, Lady Galadriel. I know what I have done. If they do not eat, I do not either."

Everyone looks taken aback by his passion. Gil-galad rounds on Elwing and just barely manages to keep from snarling at her to put it away. The poor girl already looks close to tears. And it isn't her fault everyone seems to lose their minds about the gem.

"I am the lord of Sirion," he says, grimly holding onto his temper. "And this is my decision, not yours. It was foolish of you to hide it from me. An unforgivable offense."

"Dior himself wished us to flee with Elwing," says Celeborn. "He put the Silmaril in Elwing's hands. It is hers: her birthright."

"And if I am to say that it is not welcome here?"

Celeborn presses his lips together into thin lines. His hand clamps down on Elwing's shoulder, alarmingly tight; the poor girl stiffens under it.

"Then Doriath will not be welcome here," he says.

One of the advisors tosses his head. "Which would be a mistake, if you wish Sirion to survive," he says disdainfully. "We have brought you expertise you would suffer sorely without."

"If I might speak?" asks a voice Gil-galad hasn't heard before.

He turns, ready to bark at the intruder to get back behind the walls, only to come to a screeching halt.

It's Idril.

She looks remarkably similar to Finduilas, for all that they're actually second cousins and not sisters; Idril must have inherited her Vanya coloring from her mother, the way Finduilas did from Orodreth. Their faces, too, are echoingly reminiscent, and the height might even be a match, though Idril has the light of the Trees in her eyes still. And the crowning glory of them both is the exact same: golden hair, gold as Arien's rays at their height.

"Lady Idril," says Gil-galad, in a voice even he cannot recognize. "Please, speak your mind. I would appreciate your counsel."

Not to mention that the Sindar have escalated this situation- have been escalating from the beginning- and seem to have no desire to scale it back. Gil-galad cannot afford to back down now, but neither do they. If Idril hadn't come out here, it would've gotten ugly.

More ugly.

"You are right that you are king," she says. Her voice, at least, is different from Finduilas; more tenor, rich and thrumming: a singer's voice. "But for potential death we cannot accept certain death now... and there is more, certainly, that we need than bare survival."

Gil-galad clasps his hands behind his back so he isn't tempted to let them tighten into fists. "Please," he grates out. "Speak your mind. Do not- avoid the point."

Idril inclines her head. "Letting Morgoth know we have the Silmaril is not enough reason to justify letting our people starve over the coming month, if we have a method of growing food. But you are right as well, King Gil-galad. It was irresponsible and utterly foolish of the Doriathrim to pretend they did not have the jewel. Sirion shall need more protection than it already has. Protection that comes from true leadership."

"I am its true leader," says Gil-galad flatly.

"You are its heir," says Idril. "And you have inherited much, and done well with all of it. But you are not its leader yet."

"I assume you have something planned," interjects Galadriel.

"A coronation ceremony," says Idril calmly. "And a betrothal ceremony between my son and your ward. The Silmaril can be revealed then, and put to use."

Gil-galad pauses. Everyone pauses, it seems, in sheer appreciation of Idril's gall if nothing else.

Then-

"Are you mad?" demands Celeborn loudly.

"He's already been crowned!" snaps the same advisor, who's getting under Gil-galad's skin remarkably quickly. "Why does he need another?"

"Elwing deserves better than-"

"-to be discussed," says Idril firmly, speaking over the still-sputtering nurse's protests, "as if she's an object to be handed around. She is seven years old; old enough to understand what betrothal is, and what is being asked of her."

"But not all the consequences of such a decision," comments Gil-galad.

"Which is why it is not a wedding we are discussing, but a betrothal."

"Would Earendil refuse?" asks Galadriel.

"Would Elwing?" asks Idril, with an odd smile on her face.

Nobody speaks for a long moment, and then Galadriel seems to breathe out all at once: she sags, and wraps her cloak tighter around her like she's abruptly cold, despite the absence of any wind.

"We'll speak with them separately, then together," she says. "And decide on the details tomorrow. We can hold the joint ceremony in three days' time, if it all works out. How is Tuor?"

"He's fine," says Idril, sobering a little. "And the rest of it should work too." A brief hesitation, then- "You understand what it means, don't you?"

It's Galadriel's turn to smile, tight and small. "Of course. They never thought much of us, even the ones we were close to... Aredhel felt that more than me, or chafed more under the restrictions, but it was the same for us both in the end."

"Think what it might mean to your daughter," says Idril, but less leading and more pitying.

"Findis never fought, and Lalwen ran off the moment responsibility came her way." Galadriel snorts. "It isn't as if the Noldor have a history of their women demanding an inheritance. And don't ask me what Aredhel did!"

"She died before it could come her way," says Idril, quiet and level. "And even if it is mine to give away, it won't be mine for long; not with Tuor as my husband. It'll go to Earendil soon enough."

"Unless you give it away before he can receive it."

Idril doesn't laugh, for all that Galadriel said that last like it was a joke. "It's a crown that kills," she says. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

They both look to Gil-galad, who's been staring at them wordlessly. Their eyes are full of pity. He cannot bear it, he thinks, but that's a lie: Gil-galad can bear it. All he must do is think of a coronation ceremony in his near future.

"I will name you High King," says Idril. "The Noldor will kneel to you without reservation."

"The Sindar will also kneel to you," drawls Galadriel. "But don't think for a moment they don't have reservations."

"Don't worry," says Gil-galad. He swallows, and the cold air sticks in his throat like a thousand thorns. "Whether Noldor or Sindar- I know they'll all have concerns. It's part and parcel of becoming king."

He nods to them, and to Elwing, and then stalks back into the keep. They can construct the ceremony and decide the details. Gil-galad's got some more pressing matters on his mind, including calling off the guards, figuring out more defenses for the city, and, amid all of it, finagling a list of eligible betrothals out of someone paying attention to the current marriage market.

After all, his current plan for a bride has just found herself a partner.

...

Celebrimbor comes up to him at the end of the following day, smiling a little awkwardly. He's lost weight since arriving at Sirion, which is mildly alarming given the manner in which he came, but it doesn't seem to have affected his work very much; he still spends long hours in the forge, working on some project or the other. Gil-galad knows that Galadriel would've banished him- she's ruthlessly pragmatic that way- but that's more evidence to keep him as far Celebrimbor is concerned.

"I thought you should know," he says. "It was a little- project- that I forgot about in the rush from Nargothrond. But I had the latest version of it in one of my bags, and found it last night- it's something you'd appreciate, I think."

He hands over a small bottle filled with a clear liquid. The bottle is heavier than it looks; Gil-galad's first instinct had been that it was glass, but now he thinks it's a gemstone instead, sung to be in the perfect shape.

"What is it?"

"A perfume." Celebrimbor looks down, eyes drifting half-lidded, before he jerks back to look at Gil-galad again. "Finduilas asked me to make it."

Gil-galad nearly drops the bottle. "Finduilas asked it of you?"

"It surprised me too," says Celebrimbor, a little wryly. "She never liked coming to the forges, and stopped entirely after Finrod left. But she wanted this. Said it reminded her of her childhood."

Carefully, Gil-galad unstoppers it. The sweet scent of aeglos fills the room, sharp and summer-heavy. For a moment, Gil-galad can do nothing more than breathe. It's been so long since he actually smelled it: though vines of aeglos grow this far south, very few of them actually flower the way they do near Anfauglith.

"Thank you," he says after a moment. "Finduilas- would have loved it."

"She loved you very much," says Celebrimbor carefully. "Once- she mentioned to me that you wanted her to visit you, and she was sorry that she couldn't." A brief pause, and then- "They say aeglos grows near her grave, even now."

She might have lived for a little longer if she had, thinks Gil-galad. But then- who knows how much longer? Sirion will fall too. Soon, if not immediately. What use would a few more decades, if that, have been?

"Thank you," says Gil-galad again.

Celebrimbor hesitates before stepping out. Gil-galad watches him leave, and has to resist the urge to scream into his elbow; in the end he ends up just sitting in silence. There are papers to file, arguments to be heard; tomorrow is going to be intolerable if he doesn't get ahead in the paperwork in the scarce time he has for it.

But Celebrimbor had come to him. Had looked at him, with those lovely eyes like quicksilver and stormy skies. He must have heard the rumors that Gil-galad had no bonds to his fea: that he'd never mourned either parents or sister, never grieved even as Minas Tirith and Nargothrond fell into disuse. But Celebrimbor had come to give this perfume to him, despite all those rumors, and he'd been unbearably kind about all of it.

We'd want you to live rather than be storied, Finduilas had once told him.

Gil-galad swears under his breath and leaps for the door. Down the corridor, out the stairs, and straight into Celebrimbor's- incredibly broad- back; Gil-galad doesn't hesitate when he turns around, bewildered, to fist his hands in Celebrimbor's collar and drive him into a nearby alcove, tucked between two buildings.

"My king," says Celebrimbor, though he looks more amused than confused now.

"Did I read it wrong?" asks Gil-galad, trying to stifle his panting but only succeeding in ratcheting his heartrate even higher. Everything feels suddenly tight, like it'll burst open: a ripe grape being plucked off its vine. "If I did-"

"No," says Celebrimbor, and he's definitely smiling now, eyes gleaming, "you didn't."

"Good," says Gil-galad fiercely, and reaches up, and kisses Celebrimbor like he's drowning.

...

They kiss until Gil-galad feels like his lips are wasp-stung and sensitive, but eventually pull away. They can't spend more time together, unfortunately; Gil-galad really does have far too much to do to take an afternoon off, and Celebrimbor, too, has a project he doesn't want to leave in the forge unattended for too long. But they decide to have breakfast the next morning together, and to meet the night after the coronation ceremony.

...

Idril stops by his private room that night, and takes him up to a small tree atop a rolling hill. She looks achingly like Finduilas, but different enough to leave Gil-galad's shoulders twitching.

"Galadriel said you'd avoid me," she says calmly. "I did not think it would be quite so obvious, however."

Gil-galad looks at her, surprised. "I apologize," he says, slowly, "if I have offended you. But I thought you would appreciate privacy in the case of your husband's illness, and would emerge on your own time. I have not been trying to avoid you."

"You do not look me in the eye."

"You," says Gil-galad, "do not look me in the eye."

Idril pauses, as if taken aback. Then she laughs ruefully. "We are ghosts, the both of us, are we not? You as my uncle; me as your sister. All the living ghosts of our kin, distilled in us happy few."

"Many of our kin have died," acknowledges Gil-galad carefully.

"I brought you here to ask you if this is what you want. This kingship- this crown- it is a dangerous one. Finwe died wearing it, and so did Feanor and Fingolfin; so did Fingon, and my own father. This will make you into a target for Morgoth. For the Feanorians, too, if they are looking for hostages."

"My mother named me Ereinion," he replies. "I've been a target since the day I was born in the middle of a war, Lady Idril. This will only solidify my power."

She looks suddenly sad. "It will kill you, too."

"But it will be a glorious end."

"I've never thought that mattered very much," says Idril softly. "Dead is dead."

"Between Fingolfin's death and Maeglin's, which would you prefer?"

She sucks breath in sharply, like half a gasp. "You do not pull your punches, do you?"

"Death will come for us all," says Gil-galad coldly. "All we can do is choose how we surrender. And I will not go whimpering into the dark."

"You will break their hearts," says Idril. "And you will shine more glorious than any king before you. I wish you the best of it." She turns, and peers off the hillside to the far distance: the west, from which she had come, once, a very long time ago. "I will crown you with my father's crown tomorrow. Galadriel wishes for you to wear Sindar gems in your hair- she'll braid them in the morning, if you are amenable."

"I would be glad to bear it. And it would be... appropriate, too. In its own way."

Idril bows her head, and nods to him, and then walks back silently. Gil-galad watches her leave, but stays long enough to admire the brilliant starlight pouring down over him, and the salty breeze from the sea, and the fading sting of Celebrimbor's teeth on his lower lip.

...

The next morning, Gil-galad rises at dawn and bathes with proper soap and bristle, taking care to sluice off all of the grime and dirt, and to wash his hair properly: he doesn't want to hear Galadriel complain about having to handle it. He dresses in a plain white tunic and rough trousers, and laces up the boots someone must have polished overnight. It's all he has time to do before Galadriel slides into his bedchamber.

"Ereinion," she says, coolly dignified.

Gil-galad nods to her in greeting. "Idril told me you wished to braid Sindar jewels into my hair."

"Thingol's own jewels," agrees Galadriel, but she doesn't relax at all out of her stiff posture. "Turn around. I'm not the best at this- I was so relieved when it became clear Doriath didn't have the same elaborate braids as in Aman- and it won't do to have it look sloppy."

"Who should I ask instead?" asks Gil-galad curiously.

Galadriel frowns. "Well- you can't. They're all dead." She tugs at his hair, sharp enough it brings tears to his eyes. "I thought that was rather the point."

If that's a measure of her mood, Gil-galad will be lucky to attend his coronation with any hair at all. He decides that discretion's the better part of valor, and goes silent. Galadriel, too, seems relieved by it; she starts humming a little about halfway through the braids, and when she's done it looks incredibly ornate and shiny, which Gil-galad would never have associated with the Sindar... but the large silver leaves do look eerily like sycamore leaves, and the moonstones threaded between glitter like so many drops of water, so maybe it is very much the wood-elf style.

"Thank you," says Gil-galad, just before Galadriel leaves. "It looks- incredible."

Galadriel's voice is brisk, but her eyes look sad as she takes him in. "If you want to pin your furs to your shoulder, do it a little lower than you usually do. Don't undo the knot at the nape of your neck: it'll unravel the rest of it."

Gil-galad nods.

The rest of the process is incredibly easy. He slides Fingon's ring onto his left hand, and his father's armband onto his right arm, and Finrod's gold-and-silver knife into his belt. Then he thinks better of it- Gil-galad's a warrior king, not one built for peace- and grabs up the spear he's been working on for decades now.

The ash is pale, but Gil-galad had dyed the hickory darker when he was first singing the wood together. Now the different woods have braided together into alternating light and dark brown, topped with a spear-head Gil-galad made himself.

Carefully, Gil-galad unstoppers the aeglos perfume Celebrimbor gave him, and lets a few precious drops soak into the wood. Involuntary tears spring to his eyes, but he chokes them back. Today is a day for ghosts: all the ghosts of Gil-galad's history alighting on his shoulders as he takes up the burden that killed them.

Fingon's chosen, Galadriel had said. Fingon's chosen, and Finrod's lineage; inheritor of Lalwen's domain and Turgon's people.

Finduilas' brother, too, and his mother's son, she had not known to add. Because Gil-galad's hands will be bare for the first time in a very long time: baring his scars, revealing the aeglos thorns that had once punctured scarless skin.

He will take up the mantle of High King once more, today, but that is not the vow he makes to himself, wearing a dozen things from a dozen dead men:

Gil-galad looks out into the blinding dawn, alone, ghostful, and swears that, eventually, he will outshine all of his predecessors.

...

Little Elwing bears her Silmaril in her small hands, eyes shining, and Gil-galad laughs delightedly: he can see the reflection of the Silmaril off the jewels in his hair and Turgon's crown- which had been Celebrimbor's late project, to restore the pale gold of Turgon's crown to its former luster, and to place diamonds in all the places where studded jewels had fallen out.

Crowned in stars, his mother had seen, and he is, now: he has been.

And for all the grief that brought him here- for all the loss, and death, and all the mourning yet to come in the future- he cannot regret any of it. This is his destiny. This is his future. This is where he belongs.

...

Though he never does get to visit Finduilas' grave before Beleriand drowns, Gil-galad commissions the aeglos perfume from Celebrimbor until well into the Second Age, and rides into every battle of the War of Wrath with his spear drenched in it. Only after Celebrimbor's death does he give a name to the spear: one last memory, to the family he has left behind so very many years previous: like the thorns, like the flowers, like his mother's savior and his own silver scars.

#fuck offfffffffffffffffffff #silmarillion #gil-galad #my writing #this got so incredibly long and also i can't believe i wrote silm canon gil galad instead of fin galad but like!!!!#how am i supposed to live w all these echoes on echoes on echoes of grief #????

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herequeerexitentialfear · 7 months

Text

for @owlcatober day 1 protection and day 18 dancing lights.

only a few decades into her long life mura is taken along to witness a deal with the devil for protection- and ends up musing about another man who offered her protection, only that time the one offering was the fool- before dealing with those who declined the trap.

only warnings are for implied/referenced violence and poisoning, as well as muras detached view on everything around her.

A raised tone drew Muras attention away from the lights dancing on the velvet curtains. Pressure on her shoulder further severed the connection. No pain; yet. Even the master was lenient with her failings in front of these nouveau riche, not that they would notice anything at all, they had emptied their minds of business and filled it with gilt by the second generation.

The only major danger had been dispatched last night, he was currently begging off the meeting with… early stages of pneumonia? She had not been privy to the intimate details. However he had been a lovely mentor, teaching her business studies with the viciousness of a man who clawed his way to money in less than a decade, and the kind heart of a man who had tried to build a better place for his children to grow up in.

Such a shame those children were now, to use a phrase she learned from one of the more uncouth of her fathers agents, ‘pissing it up the wall’

Such a shame he had seen too much, and inquired too much into her home life. Such a shame her father cut down her idea of letting him play the savior and gaining his business empire for herself. Still, he had taught her well. Well enough that once he was in the grave, it would be short order until it fell into her master's hands anyway. Just with more blood than she thought necessary.

Some flowers and a card were in order. Sufficiently juvenile to make the large sum he would bequeathe her harmless. Possibly a tear stained farewell from his young student, more his child than the wasteful fools that shared his blood.

Such a shame he had refused her master's outstretched hand. Such a shame he had extended his own hand to her.

Smooth tones brought her back to the current room, her fathers hand loosened from her shoulder so he could lean forwards, the glint dancing in his eyes and the sharpness of his smile clear from his new posture and tone. He had planned long and hard and now the prey were dancing into his jaws of their own volition, wandering towards the lights. All he had to do was not twitch wrong at the last moment.

He wouldn't. This was a song and dance he had been mastering for centuries. She was more of a risk, but that's why she was here for the easy targets.

As the gilded fools simpered on, they drew ever closer to their doom. Sheep loved walking into danger, as long as that danger was handsome and promised something. Self preservation instincts flew out of the window when someone offered a golden shield, even when it just trapped you in a gilded room with the wolf.

The majority of fools in the room were humans, or other short lived races. Basking in the attention from a longer lived person, pretending they can buy life with wealth. Buy protection from their predators and betters.

Then the golden words were spoken, ‘Then we are reliant on your grace, my lord’

A hearty laugh, the undercurrent of nastiness buried deep, but the humor shining through.

‘You flatter me to much, you stand well enough on your own, I’m merely lending a hand’

And the simpering fools believe him. Hook line and sinker.

‘Please, your protection honors us’

And they thought they had him on a leash.

As the celebrations reached their peak, the dazzling reflections turning blinding, a hand steered her into a corner, a fanged mouth whispering in her ear, ‘you saw those with enough mind to hesitate. Those who did not sign. Those who were fool enough to refuse my protection. Make sure they are dealt with subtly’

As she danced through the crowds dealing death in the forms of needle pricks and poisoned drinks as well as money and notes to dissatisfied servants, she noticed her steps getting surer, her hands hesitating even less. It was one large complicated dance, and slowly she was treading it with surer foot, and the lights weren't so blinding anymore.

#thebirdwrites #mura hagdaughter #a day late because i was worried it didnt fit the prompt enough #but then i saw someone combine days #so here!#me writing lights dancing in the first sentence was a coincidence #but i exadurated the references to lights and dancing in the rest of the text #oh and her master and her father are the same person btw #shes early enough in her life that shes still in training #and hasn't quite earned her place at her fathers side as his ultimate weapon yet #but far enough in to know she is actually his daughter

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devilfoodcafe · 2 years

Text

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

— # ❝ BLEEDING HEART❞ | Y.NK

PAIRINGS — demon!yuta x florist!reader

GENRE — enemies-to-lovers, forbidden love

WARNINGS — strong language

WC — 6.3k

masterlist.

authors note- this is purely fiction is not to be taken seriously

______________________________________________________________

“Have a wonderful day.” You cheered as the customer was leaving your family's flower shop.

“Don’t you have class today?” Seulgi asked you.

It was true you did have a class to teach at a small community center. A flower arrangement class, mainly younger girls and grandmas takes it. It was a little side business you did to help your family.

You checked your watch. “Yeah I have to be there in an hour, I have to stop by the house to pick something up.”

She sighed with a little smirk playing on her lips, “Give me the apron. Don’t worry I won’t tell dad about your scatterbrain. I’ll call Irene to help me.”

You took off your apron grabbing your bag underneath the counter.

The bus came around the corner stopping at your house.

You just had to grab extra wax paper and a small book. You kept them on the counter of the kitchen facing towards the backyard in your mother's old garden, which you kept healthy and growing.

You walked into the house noticing the door wasn’t locked. You turned the bottom lock when you came in, your father was sitting in his club chair watching his afternoon game show.

“Dad, Seulgi, and I told you to keep the door locked when we are at the shop.”

“If you were at the shop you wouldn’t know.” He scolded you.

“I have a class I’m teaching with all the grandmas. You are more than welcome to join.” You poked him.

“I much rather spend my afternoons glued to this chair.” He grumbled.

You sighed.

“Maybe if I had some grandchildren I wouldn’t be so miserable.”

“Dad!” You shouted as your ears started to get hot from embarrassment.

“You and your sister spend too much time in the shop and working. You never take time for yourself and make friends. Not one boy has taken my daughters on a date.” He complained

You huffed and turned on your heels going to the kitchen picking up the items you needed.

“Dad you made a rule we weren’t allowed to date while we were in school. You told us to focus on our studies.”

“And now the both of you are chained to the store.” He made a fuss.

“Dad we aren’t chained to the store. We have plenty of customers. I went to school for this Dad..” You looked up from the counter and saw a man standing in the middle of the garden picking peonies. Your mom's plant. “You do not need to worry Dad I love my job. I have to go I’m taking the car to the class. I’ll be home soon.”

You told him to hold your things, grab the keys, and walk out the back door.

You treaded your way to a stranger. “Hey what are you doing?!” You shouted.

“Oh, you must be ___.”

“You know me?”

“Yes. Your mother loves these flowers. She used to sit out here while she was pregnant with you.”

“Who are you? Huh? What’s your name?” You chided.

“Yuta. I’m just taking a couple of flowers to your mother's grave. Our deal is set to expire soon anyway…it’s been a year right? Since she died.”

“How do you know…that?” You asked choking up a little.

“Why do you think your parent's florist shop does so well?” He walked over to you leaning into your ear, whispering. “Your mother made a deal with a demon so your family could live happily and comfortably. Until her death. I’m happy to make the deal again.” He smirked at you handing you a peony.

“I would do no such thing. No one in my family.” You argued. Your wrist buzzed as an alarm went off signaling you that your class was starting soon. “I have to go. Don’t come here again.” You warned.

______________________________________________________________

“Sorry, I’m late for class.” You smiled at the older ladies. “My father was holding me up.”

“Why does your father pester you so much?” They giggled hoping you would gossip with them as you teach them how to rap a bouquet.

“He wants grandchildren desperately.” You entertained them.

“You would want your father to make it to see his grandchildren right?” Someone said from the back of the classroom.

You stood on your toes looking behind the ladies to see Yuta smirking with a white apron on.

You decided not to entertain him, he wanted to get a rise out of you.

“Ok, ladies we are going to be wrapping bouquets. We are wrapping in my favorite paper. Wax paper and baby pink Kraft paper with my mother’s favorite flowers. White Peonies and indigo foxglove.” You smiled. “Do you ladies remember how to tie the flowers together?”

“Of course Dear. Do you think we just come here to gossip?” One of them asked.

You chuckled in response giving the ladies the wax and craft paper and moving towards the back of the class.

“Are you here to taunt me like a lovesick boy or are you going to take the class?”

Yuta smiled at you grabbing the flowers and tying the stems together at the bottom. He held them up as they fell apart.

“You have to tie them in the middle of the bouquet for wrapping in paper. Or if you are interested tight and close to the flowers when in a vase.” You told him.

“Do you not understand? If you don’t renew this deal your family's shop will lose business and you won’t be able to support yourselves.”

“What do you get out of this deal?”

“Your soul.” He said so nonchalantly.

“Oh, so nothing big. You took my mother's soul?”

“Yes. And if you are wondering it is a painless process you don’t even feel it happening in fact you stop feeling altogether.”

“What?”

“Oh, I know what your thinking? All those times you said I love you mom and she said me too or I love you if she meant it? She could have but in my experience, she probably didn’t.”

“So my whole life she never felt love for me?”

“I don’t know. She took that to her grave.”

He wrapped the papers around the flowers.

“I’m not making that deal.” You told him firmly. “Get out of my class.”

“You’ll come around you’ll see.”

______________________________________________________________

It was getting close to white day and no orders have come in.

Was he right? You felt this pit in your stomach.

“Hey ___?” Johnny said coming into the shop.

“Johnny I don’t think I had an order of flowers. Did I?” You asked.

“Yeah, I have 400 roses and 400 carnations in the truck.”

You looked at your paperwork. You could’ve sworn he was here on Friday with the delivery. “We got that shipment on Friday. You brought me coffee remember?”

“Your sister was here yesterday and all the flowers were dead when she came in on Saturday morning. I thought she would have told you something.”

“Maybe she did. I’ve just been frazzled.”

“What a lot of orders for white day?” He asked.

You shook your head. “We have no orders. No one has called, emailed, or walked in. I don’t know what to do. Well, I know what I should do…but it just isn’t right.”

Johnny leaned on the counter looking at his friend. “Come on talk to me, what is swimming inside that head of yours?”

“This is a hypothetical.”

“Okay.”

“Would you give up your soul for your loved ones? There’s a catch though you lose all your love, emotion, anything you felt for them gone.”

“I don’t know. If there was no other option if my family or friends were in trouble then yes. I’m sure it would hurt losing all of that. But knowing they are happy, healthy, and safe would make me happy at that moment. It’s a risk but I think I would do it for them.”

“I was afraid you would say that.” You felt your heart sink looking at the floor.

The bell of the shop clinked and opened, “Thinking of me Darling?”

Johnny leaned over the counter whispering horribly, “Who is this charmer?”

“I’m a friend.” He smiled darkly at Johnny.

“John, we can talk later your father wouldn’t like you dilly-dallying on the deliveries. Especially close to white day.”

He looked between you and Yuta, “Ok see you around ___ if you need anything. You know who to call, and not ghostbusters.” He laughed walking out of the door.

“He is a strange fellow. With those good looks, he could sell his family's products with the snap of his fingers.”

“Yuta I didn’t say I wanted to make that deal. I would give up my love for my family. Can’t you-”

He put his hand in your face cutting you off. “Wouldn’t know. Never had a family. I can’t sympathize with you.”

“And that is a problem. You don’t know what I’m giving up.”

He sighed annoyed, “Y’know most people just jump at the opportunity to just give away their soul for their loved ones. Why are you holding back? Even your mother knew the right thing to do.”

“Because I don’t want to lose everything!” You shouted at him for his cold callus words.

“I purpose a pre-contract deal. Do you want me to feel like I’m losing something? You make me fall in love with you and you forget me.”

You huffed, “That is the plot of every day-time drama.”

“I get bored and the cafe I go to plays all day.”

“So you want me to date you, have you fall in love with me and have me forget you exist. Do you want me to break your heart? If your heart is broken you will leave my family alone and stop inflicting problems on my family.”

He nodded.

“Where do I sign?”

“It isn’t something you sign.” He pulled out the paper from his jacket pocket. “We seal it with a kiss.”

You didn’t shy away you pulled his collar kissing his lips wanting this to be over with.

“You can pick me up tonight for a date. You already know where I live.”

______________________________________________________________

You were staring at your closet. You didn’t have a lot of nice clothes. Well, you dressed casual-nice. You didn’t keep a lot of date clothes, not many guys asked you out.

Why are you even trying? You know why you are doing it but he made your blood boil.

“Do you have a date?” Seulgi asked staring at you.

“No! Why do you ask that?!”

“Because you are staring at your clothes. Also, there is a guy downstairs sitting with dad laughing.”

“He’s here already!” You grumbled.

Seulgi pulled a dress from the closet. A white and purple floral puffed sleeved dress. “Mom said you always look good in white.”

You listened to her going into your bathroom slipping the dress over your body. She left her white heels outside of the bathroom door.

You descend the stairs of your house to see Yuta sitting in the den with your father. Somehow he had your father laughing.

You came into the room behind your father's chair. You leaned down and kissed your father’s cheek. “Hi, dad. I see you met Yuta.”

“___ where have you been hiding this nice young man?” He chuckled at you.

You smirked at Yuta, wanting him to spontaneously combust.

“Mr. ____ we do have to be going, I have a reservation at a friend's restaurant.”

“Wait before you go how did you meet my daughter she never leaves her job.” Your father smirked.

“I took her florist class. I was making gifts for my mother before she passed last fall.” He told him.

“Dad we do have to be going. I’ll be home later. Be nice to Seulgi and don’t pick on her.” You kissed the top of his head again.

You waked towards the front door with Yuta already at the door opening it for you, closing it as well.

“If you expect me to fall in love with you, I would drop the murderous look in your eyes.”

“Kind of hard when you are a fake person.”

He scoffed opening the passenger side door for you. “What about being nice to your father? How do you know I wasn’t being genuine?”

“I can tell by the look in your eyes. So lifeless.” You gestured to his eyes. “Where are we going exactly?”

“My friend Taeyong owns a gomtang place. Right on han river. You can see the Seoul skyline from there. Very beautiful at night.”

“Isn’t that the date Jungwon took Siwoo on that cheesy daytime soap opera, what is it called? Sunflowers under the moonlight?”

“Its Marigolds Under the Stars.” He said through his teeth. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you are talking about. You know the main couple's name.” He continued to yammer on while driving to your next location.

You giggled in response. True you knew the couple's name but that was only because of two reasons. The tv in the flower shop only got one channel. The other was your father had now grown accustomed to watching daytime dramas now in retirement.

“Am I to expect that all the dates you take me on to be inspired after soap operas.”

“What do you expect me to do?” He asked rhetorically.

You on the other hand were going to give him an answer. “Think of things that would actually let me get to know you. Things that you enjoy doing show me a part of you.”

“And what about you? Am I the one to plan all of our dates?”

“I can always plan them. Because so far you suck at them.”

“This one means something to me. We are going to my friend's restaurant.”

“Yeah, friend more like a soulless victim of you.” You commented with a roll of your eyes.

______________________________________________________________

You and Yuta walked into a candle-lit empty restaurant. At the bar, a handsome man was wiping down the counter.

“Took you long enough to get here.” He said to Yuta. “Do you know how tiresome it is to direct Jisung and Jaemin to help me with this?” He waved the rag around the restaurant.

“Relax Taeyong. I was making a good first impression.” Yuta pulled a chair out for you at the table closest to the window.

“I’m Taeyong. I’m hoping he has told you about me.”

“That you are one of his soulless victims? Then yes.”

He snickered, “No no. I’m not. Yuta and I are in the same line of business.”

“You?”

“Shocking right? But owning a business is very helpful. Everyone falls for my trusting face.” He smiled. “What are you doing on a date with the bastard?”

“Taeyong watches your mouth,” Yuta growled at him.

“Just trying to break Yuta’s heart. The faster I do that he drops this whole stealing my soul thing.” You told Taeyong.

“Hell of a way to end your career, Yuta.” He said. “Two bowls of gomtang coming up.” Taeyong walked into the back of the restaurant to the kitchen.

“End your career?”

“Yeah. I’m retiring.”

“You look really young though?” You questioned.

Yuta laughed a little. “I am young in demon years, yes. I’ve made myself happy for many years doing the whole…” Yuta stopped his train of thought looking at you as you sat across from him, elbows on the table your chin resting on your intertwined fingers. “Are you actually interested in what I’m saying?”

“Of course I am. It's about you. I should get to know you.” You told him to reassure him.

“Ok. As I was saying I spent a long time as a crossroad demon and I was happy. Now I’m looking for just a simple life. Right now I own a couple of buildings I have tenants.” He explained.

“Excuse me Yuta?” A tall skinny boy was standing by the table with a pitcher of water.

“Jisung, This is ___. ___ this is Jisung one of Taeyong’s apprentices.”

“It is very nice to meet you.” He bowed his head as his hands were full. “Would either of you like water?”

“Yes please.” You smiled sweetly at the boy. He blushed in return as he poured the drinks for the table.

“So he is Taeyong apprentice.”

“Yes. He has a few of them. He has a way with everyone.” He sipped his water.

“Do you have apprentices?”

“Just one. Shotaro is very nice but he can be devilish sometimes. I’ll introduce you guys at some point he works at a building I currently own. No demonic implications at all. What about you why the love for flowers?”

You smiled down at the floor thinking fondly of the memory of you and your mother. “My mother. She is the reason why I pursued becoming a florist. The shop was handed down to her by her parents. She said I was the greatest gift to the shop. That I helped the flowers blossom. As a little girl, I thought was true as I got older I thought it was to make me feel better. I guess she wasn’t lying.”

Yuta felt a tinge in his chest. It made him uncomfortable hearing that story. He pulled on his collar to cool himself off.

“___ normally when souls are taken. It leaves the person feeling nothing to the point, that they become depressed. They more than often kill themselves leaving the demon to start a new contract. It’s a never-ending cycle. But your mother stayed alive she cared for you, your sister, and your father until her health prevented her.”

“Yuta what are you trying to make me feel better?” You asked him.

He cleared his throat, “Yeah I guess I am. Not everything in this line of business is black and white.”

“Of course, it’s not. Not everyone is the same. As a demon is it easier to see humans as numbers, statistics making it all black and white?”

“Yes. I’m assuming that you involve yourself in your customers' lives?”

You giggled in return, “I kind of have to. I have to know. If I don’t know what the flowers are for I can’t put together extravagant pieces.”

“You are speaking like you are an artist?”

“Yuta I am an artist. I make beautiful pieces of art for people and their loved ones.” You chuckled as Yuta smiled in return leaving you in a little bit of silence.

“Your gomtang, madam, and misuse. Please enjoy.” Taeyong said leaving you two with your meals and a bottle of white wine.

______________________________________________________________

It had been a week since the date with Yuta. You hated to admit it but it was rather enjoyable. The gomtang was delicious and the wine paired well with it. Yuta was good company for good conversation.

You were working by yourself today in the shop. Luckily some orders came in for White Day. You were working around the clock putting together bouquets for every order that came in. You heard the bell of the shop ring. Which was odd because you put up the lunch sign. You came from the back of the shop you pin your hair back to greet the walk-in customer.

“Hello welcome to ___ Gardens”

“___ it is Yuta.”

“Hi, Yuta. What brings you here today?”

“Well, you said you made masterpieces I was hoping I could watch for a little bit.”

“Ok, I’m working in the back for the most part.” You told him to walk back to the shop where the flowers were kept in storage before being displayed. “I can’t work on the carnation orders though. For some reason Seulgi had Johnny put it up here. Probably to watch him do it.” You mumbled under your breath.

“You cut your hair.” He stated not even paying attention to what you said.

“Oh. Yeah, I did it a few days ago. I thought I would change it up for Spring. What do you not like about girls with short hair?”

“On the contrary. A woman can choose however she styles for her hair, how many piercings she wants if she wants tattoos, and how she dresses.”

“So if I wanted a face tattoo?”

He opened the fridge to bring down the carnations for you, He was leaning over you. “Doesn’t bother me. As long as you are happy and I’m happy.”

“Piercings everywhere?”

“Doesn’t bother me. Your body is your choice. Your soul your choice.”

You hummed.

“There you go your carnations. Make your creations.”

“Thank you. I have 30 orders for basic bouquets. Can you do me a favor? There is a created by the register of small glass vases, just grab it.”

Yuta went to the front of the store, pulling a create of small cylindrical glass vases. He heard the front of the door opening with a chime.

He looked up from the counter to see a group of high school girls staring at him. “Hi, how can I help you?”

They looked him up and whispered to each other.

“I’ll be right with you.” He told them to go to the back.

“Hey what took you so long?”

“Girls. They are in the store and they think I’m attractive.”

“Ok. Did you ask what they wanted?”

“Yes, and they just giggled. Why aren’t you jealous?”

“Yuta you are an attractive man. You know it I know it. Of course, school girls would blush over that. Put this apron on and help them please.”

“What do I get out of it? I just wanted to watch you put bouquets together.”

“I’ll cook you dinner tonight.”

“Done.” He grabbed an apron by the swinging door going out the front of a shop.

“So girls what would like today?” He said working his charm.

“Our teacher just got engaged and we wanted to give her a hydrangea and rose arrangement.” One said.

“In a square vase. So it can fit on her desk.”

“And wrapped in twine. With poms and belles of Ireland.”

“Hydrangeas and roses? Poms and belles of Ireland?” He scratched his head. He wrote down what the girls wanted and went to the back of the store.

He peaked his head through the door. He saw you back as you were humming a song playing on the store's radio system. You were putting together the vases for white day. White carnations and red snapdragons. Wrapping a soft ivory ribbon on each vase.

“___ what are poms, hydrangeas, and the belles of Irelands? Where are the roses? Where do you keep the square vases and twine?”

“A lot of questions. Let me come out there and sort it all out.” You smirked brushing past him. “Hi, girls how may I help you today?” You said with a pleasant smile.

“The guy was actually helping us.” One said softly hoping you would scoot away.

“Yuta is just helping me out today. He is normally working on managing his buildings. He was just trying to be a nice boyfriend. I have been swamped with White Day orders. So you want a square vase with roses and hydrangeas? Surrounded by belles of Ireland and poms wrapped in twine?” You asked the girls.

They nodded and smiled jealousy. You pulled up a square vase and got all the flowers and greens wrapping them in twine. You changed the way the flowers sat in the vase until they looked pretty enough for you.

Yuta was staring at your hands as they were trying to find the perfect position of the flowers. He felt his body get a little warm as his eyes were boring into you.

“Do you deliver?” One asked looking over your shoulder to look at Yuta.

“Yes. I could deliver tomorrow morning. I assume you want them on her desk before class starts?”

“Yes.”

“That would mean you would have to get up at 5:00 and take your car here in morning traffic, open up, and drive all the way to their school,” Yuta explained.

“Yuta I did the math in my head. I understand it. I’ve done morning deliveries before.”

“Why don’t you hire a delivery boy?”

“I would if we could afford it. We make enough to live comfortably.”

“I know a guy.” He said getting on his phone and calling someone. “Hey, Mark! You still working at that…” he looked around the shop and turned his back and whispered into the phone, “cat cafe?”

“Yeah bro, I work the evening and late night shifts. Why are you looking for me?” He laughed over the phone.

“No. Looking to make extra cash?”

“Always. What is the gig?”

“Flower deliveries.”

“Oh is this for the girl you like? Not that it matters I’ll do it.” Mark smiled. “Send me the address I want to meet her.”

“Ok bud see you soon.” Yuta hung up the phone looking at you with your arms crossed. “What?”

“Who is Mark?” You ask suspiciously.

He raised his arms in defense, “He doesn’t work for my company I swear. He is just my best friend. A completely normal guy not like Taeyong. He coming here and just tell him what he needs to do.”

“How I will pay him?’

“Don’t worry about it. I have it handled.”

“What does-” He walked over to you and put his finger to your lips.

“I have it handled. Mark owes me. I saved his life once.”

You smacked his hand out of your face. “I’m suspicious. I don’t think he is all that innocent as you describe him.” You turned away from him to the high school girls. “I will have the flowers delivered by tomorrow morning at your school. Can you just fill out this delivery form and you girls can be on your way?”

They smiled and filled out the form and left.

______________________________________________________________

Pleasantly Mark surprised you. He was the opposite of Yuta. He is a cute happy college kid. He was saving up money for a music studio for himself.

“I called my friend Johnny he said he will be here at 6 in the morning. He has a key to the shop and he has a truck to deliver it. I’m leaving the arrangement in the dresses with the order slip. With the address and all the information you will need.”

“___ he is a college student, not a baby. He can handle it.”

“Yuta it’s her business she is just being cautious. I understand ___, I don’t live recklessly as Yuta does.”

“I’m standing right here Mark. It seems that you have forgotten my job.” Yuta gave Mark a death glare.

“Haven’t forgotten. I promise ___ you are leaving this job in good hands.”

“Great are we all settled here? Come on ___ I have something for us to do today. See you around Mark.” Yuta was rushing you out of the shop.

“Yuta I still have to work today.”

“No, you don’t. Here Mark takes this apron and just sit here and look pretty.”

“Yuta I don’t-” Mark started to explain. Yuta snapped his fingers. “How? Why do I know that white flowers are the best flowers to send to a funeral?”

“Because white flowers represent sympathy among other things.” You explained. “But Yuta why does he know that?”

“Just a little demon magic. Don’t worry it will only last until tomorrow night. No worries for the afternoon or tomorrow morning. He also knows your store's routine.” Yuta again pushed you lightly out of the store. “Mark if you need something don’t call her to call me.”

“Where are we going?” You asked him as he was pulling into a parking lot.

“It's almost time Marigolds Under the Stars.” He said pointing to his watch. “I thought I would take you to my favorite place to watch it.”

“What is your favorite place around here. There are a bunch of residential buildings and a couple of corner stores. Is there a restaurant around here?” You asked.

He got out of the car not saying a word. You got out of the car following him.

He walked into a cafe. Not just any cafe, a cat cafe.

“Hi Yuta, welcome back. I have the back room set up for you.”

“Thanks, Chenle.” He said. Yuta guided you to the back room where a bunch of cats and their jungle gyms. You stood in the doorway as Yuta sat down at the table looking at the menu and turning on the tv. He put on the stupid the soap opera.

He leaned back into the chair as an orange tabby came and sat on his lap purring into him. “Tigger you look like you put on some weight. I’m so happy to see that.” He cooed petting the cat's head.

You sat there silently waiting for Yuta’s next move.

Another fluffy grey cat sat down at the table, staring longingly at the tv.

“Bunny can you believe Mrs. Seo doesn’t like Siwoo. Siwoo saved her from complete embarrassment when she was meeting all the other ladies from her book club.”

You rolled your eyes. You knew that was going to happen. A little calico kitten sat on your lap purring loudly against your stomach.

“That’s Munch.”

“How do you know all the names of the cats in this room?”

“It’s my business. Plus these are all the cats I’ve rescued from the streets. They needed a home.”

“You rescue cats and give them a place to live now.”

“Hey I might be a demon but I love animals.”

“Hmm. So this a whole facade of not caring about anything?”

“I never said I didn’t care about anything. I just don’t know what it is like to give that up. I don’t have a family.”

“Is that why you watch cheesy daytime dramas to see what families are like?” You joked.

“Haha. I can see my snarky-ness is rubbing off on you. I watch it because it is cheesy and fun. It is a guilty pleasure.”

“A guilty pleasure that is predictable. I guarantee you that in the coming weeks, after meeting in secret behind his mother's back one of them will get in an accident. That will lead that person to have amnesia.”

Yuta stared at you with a blank expression, “If any of that happens I’m going to be so mad and impressed you knew that.”

“I’m going to have a Meow-cha latte and a cinnamon bun.” You told him. “Thank you, Yuta for making this date more personal. The next one I will plan for us.”

“Yeah, I would like that. We could plan two dates every week one I do and another your plan.” He said holding your hand as he looked over the menu as if he didn’t know what he wanted.

______________________________________________________________

For the next two months, you and Yuta planned dates for each other. Bringing each other to places meant a lot to both of you, introducing each other to important people in your lives.

How resistant you were to the idea of loving Yuta he was certainly a charmer. You spent any of your free time with him. He even took your class at the community center just to see you in the afternoons.

You knew that your heart pounded extra hard when he was around. And that scared you. You might love him didn’t mean Yuta loved you. What if you failed? On the other hand, if you didn’t fail and he did love you, you would forget him. This is all that you could think about in your alone time away from Yuta.

You had been cleaning up the shop just about to close up for the day.

Yuta came in to come and take you for a small dinner. “Honey?” He called.

“Hi, Yuta.” You smiled. You put the broom in the corner behind you walking over to him. “You are here a little earlier than expected.”

“I wanted to give you a little gift.” He said smirking. You looked at his arms behind his back. You went to go for his arms and he backed away laughing.“You have to be patient ___. Close your eyes.”

You put your hands out closing your eyes. Yuta placed a small box and a bouquet in your hands. He leaned into your ear whispering, “Open.”

You felt your body shiver when he said that. Opening your eyes your saw the bouquet of your favorite flowers. Fuschia stargazes lilies mixed with white lily of the valley and with baby pink roses.

“When did you put this together?”

“Your sister helped me. Open the box now.” He said excitedly.

You opened the box and saw a gold locket with a peony etched into it. When you opened the locket it was empty.

“I thought we could put a picture of us when we go to the carnival this weekend.”

“Yeah, that will look nice in here.” You smiled back.

______________________________________________________________

You and Yuta were running around the carnival doing every ride you possible. He did all the games losing half of his money in the hopes of winning you a prize.

He ended up winning you a cheap bear wearing a t-shirt with a rainbow smiley face on it. He didn’t care that it was a small bear but he wanted it to be a little more memorable. Because he was going to tell you he loves you. Yuta was going to lose you after that but it will be worth it to fall in love.

“I’m going to get us food you go sit down. I’ll be right there.” He told you as he went to get horrible unhealthy carnival food.

Yuta was standing in line waiting for his turn when his little buddy appeared next to him.

“Hey, Yuta how are you doing?”

“I’m good.”

“Are you still working on the flower shop deal? Because that would be my first contract. She is pretty making my first kiss for a deal super cool.”

“Sorry, Shotaro. That deal is going to fall through. She won. I love her. I’m telling her tonight. Can’t believe I’m retiring without her.”

Shotaro felt bad and sad for his older counterpart. “Could we make a deal?”

“Huh?”

“If you were to hand over the mantle to me now, I could nullify your agreement with her.”

“I would become human now and nullify the agreement?”

“Yeah, boss!” Shotaro cheered.

“She..might not love me as I love her.”

“Go ask her and when she tells you the answer you can make your decision.”

“Ok. Hold my place in line.” Yuta walked over to the tables and sat down across from you.

“Hey, that was quick. Where’s the food?”

“___ do you love me?”

That question was out of the blue and shocked you. Was it not obvious, you thought you made it pretty obvious. “Come on Yuta do you not know?” You laughed, nervously.

“I need to know. Do you love me or not.” He glared at you. It reminded you of when you first met him.

“Yuta…yes I fell in love with you. And I know that wasn’t supposed to happen on my end it was just supposed to be you. What about you?”

“I think I can love you.” He said.

That broke your heart. He thinks he could love you, what has all of this been for then? Was he just playing with you like the soulless demon he was?

Sitting there in disbelief when you felt another presence hovering over you “Great, now let's do these contracts. I have been holding onto this one since you told me you were retiring.” Shotaro said putting down two cups of spicy tteokbokki.

“What is he doing here?” You said with a bit of bite in your voice.

“I’m here to finally become a full demon of deals.” He did his puppy dog smile.

“You are becoming human before our contract is up? What are you going to tell him to date me now too?”

“What did you say to her?” Shotaro excused Yuta turning to him.

“He said he thinks he could love me? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Oh well, he can’t tell you without you forgetting. That is the thing about our contracts they are quite literal.”

“So you love me too?”

“Yes, he does. Yuta signs the contract now.”

Yuta pried his eyes away from you. He took the paper that was in Shotaro’s hands signing away his job.

“Now for the next contract to nullify the contract with _____ Gardens. No soul extraction to keep the business going instead a demon’s power.”

“You are giving up your demon side for me?”

“If you have to ask you don’t know how I really feel about you.”

“Come on Yuta just a quick kiss and you can forget this demon nonsense.” Shotaro teased.

“You guys have to kiss? All contracts are sealed with a kiss? Yuta did you kiss my mother when you made that deal?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” He said firmly. “It was quick and meant nothing to me. Can you turn around I don’t want you to see this?”

You nodded to him and turned around looking at the Ferris wheel.

Shotaro tapped your shoulder to turn around. “Take care of him.”

“I do love you ___. I’ve been wanting to tell you that since we went to the botanical gardens.” He held your hand across the table.

“I love you too Yuta. Even if you have a crap taste in tv.”

He dropped your hand, “That’s it end of the relationship. You know they both got into a car crash and Jungwon got amnesia.”

“I told you predictable. But you don’t listen.” The two of you laughed as you stuffed your face with food.

____________________________________________________________________________

taglist;

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#nct imagines #nct fluff #nct x reader #nct u x reader #nct u masterlist #nct u angst #nct u yuta #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 masterlist #nct 127 yuta #yuta nakamoto #yuta nct #yuta nakamoto x reader #yuta x reader #devilfoodcafelist

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appreciatingtokrev · 1 year

Text

of loving men and /loving/ men

link to ao3

rating: t (rated t for mentions/descriptions of abuse, neglect, trauma, death, and grief)

archive warnings: chose not to use archive warnings

relationships: kisaki hideko (kisaki tetta’s mother) & kisaki tetta

characters: kisaki hideko (kisaki tetta’s mother)

additional tags: hanma shuji, mentioned kisaki tetta, kisaki tetta dies, kisaki tetta’s father, non-linear narrative, angst, hurt no comfort, character study, relationship study, regret, grief/mourning, family issues, physical abuse, emotional/psychological abuse, past domestic violence, neglect, child neglect, past child abuse, trauma, mental health issues, minor character death, canonical character death, original character death(s)

wordcount: ~4.3k

notes: her name is (with permission) directly taken from the diary of a boy who will never be missed by @/ruoyeah on ao3 btw,, this fic is also inspired by said work, as well as mourning sickness by @/dazed (spiritscript), also on ao3!! also i think i could write abt hideko forever i grew too attached to her... i love her sm and somehow writing this was very easy?? i see it as a win

Tetta’s mother is a wreck. Hideko is a wreck. Hideko is a punching bag, a ghost, and anything she could possibly be, except herself.

Or: A study on Kisaki Tetta’s mother.

She sees him standing in front of her son’s grave. His name is Hanma, she guesses, and he looks just as sad as she does with his shoulders held low and his hood on his head. Her hair is starting to go gray, and she’s only thirty-five. She’s not pretty anymore, and she’s still so young. The grief doesn’t suit her.

He turns around as she walks closer, recognising the familiar blue in her eyes. ,,Are you Kisaki’s mother?’’, he asks, and the grief doesn’t suit him either. He’s letting his hair grow out, it seems, and his voice is monotone. There’s no smile decorating his lips, only a cigarette.

,,I’m Kisaki Hideko’’, she introduces herself, ,,I believe that you’re Hanma? You were his friend.’’ She tries to smile, but the corners of her mouth only waver.

,,I’m Kisaki Hideko’’, she introduces herself, ,,I got married last month. Please change my name in your database.’’ She smiles. Her hair isn’t gray yet.

,,Oh, congratulations!’’, the girl at the counter exclaims, and types something into the computer in front of her. Probably her new name. It feels too fresh, too unfamiliar, but she likes the sound of it. Kisaki. Like her husband. Like the little boy that’s growing in her womb.

,,Thank you, dear’’, she says and bows her head. ,,I’m very happy, he’s a loving man.’’ A loving man who kisses her belly every morning, and who runs his fingers through her hair. A loving man who brings her flowers, and makes her tea. A loving man who’s never home, and hits her with his belt. She’s still not sure which part is real and which part she pretends is.

,,I’m very glad for you. I hope to one day marry a man like yours’’, the girl says, smiling, fully believing it’s real. It makes her believe it’s real. That he’s a loving man, and that the little Kisaki inside her belly will turn out to be a loving man, too. She’s sure of it.

And Tetta was a loving man. Perhaps he was too loving for his girl. Perhaps she was too loving for him. Or not loving enough. It was hard to love when the people you love loved through abuse and neglect. She now knows that she did it wrong herself. Loving. All her life, she thought that there was one thing you couldn’t fail, no matter what—and yet here she is, standing in front of a gravestone, with everything she ever claimed to love buried six feet under.

She now knows that she loved wrongly. She fell in love with the wrong man, gave birth to the wrong boy, and raised him wrongly. Both the loving man that she married and the loving man that she carried in her belly for nine months are dead, and she doesn’t think she ever wanted to love them at all. Not the man who hit her when he wasn’t away like always, and not the man who was away when he didn’t hit her like always.

Tetta always watches when he hits her. She doesn’t know why. Out of fear, maybe, out of power, out of love. He looks at her with those big eyes full of pain and hate and rage. She hopes that the hate and rage are for her husband. And she looks back with the same emotions on her face.

She hugs Tetta when he leaves the room, holds him close. He doesn’t move. She lays her head on his shoulder, and she doesn’t cry. He’s already five years old. It’s nothing new.

It’s nothing new when Tetta comes home with bruises. He’s thirteen, and he’s a delinquent, and he knows what to do. He knows half of the books in the library by heart, and she knows how double the bruises on his body feel. They feel like love. She smiles, he must have a loving boy. Girls don’t hit, only boys do, and she doesn’t care because her son looks normal and loved.

She teaches Tetta how to hide the bruises, how to touch them up with makeup. They’re standing in front of the bathroom sink. She’s looking at his blue eyes in the mirror. They’re the same color as hers, the same color as the sky, the same color as the monster in her nightmares. They’re beautiful. She corrects Tetta when he applies too much foundation. It’s meant to look like his skin is perfect. No bruises, no makeup. Flawless, just like everything else about him.

Tetta comes home with blood on his face and broken glasses. He wears a proud smile. She asks him what happened, why he’s so happy. He says that he watched a horrible person die a horrible death. That day, she wonders if he saw her smile as she watched her loving man die. She wonders if his loving boy died. She wonders if she killed him. She wonders if he did.

Days after Tetta’s death, it’s the first time in eighteen years that she allows herself to try and break down the facade again. It’s hard. It’s hard to let out the seventeen year old girl in herself when she was defined by having money, smiling, and being hit for so long. It’s hard to let out the little kid in herself when she wanted nothing but for herself to be a good mother, and she failed nothing except that. It’s hard when you ended up being the most unloving loving mother. But, still, she tries her best. So she goes to buy a stuffed cat and cuts it open with a pair of scissors after she comes home. And then she cries.

One day, she notices that Tetta hasn’t come home with bruises in a while. ,,Does he not love you anymore?’’, she asks him.

,,Who?’’, he asks back, staring at her face with his blue eyes. With her blue eyes. And his cheekbones. And jawline. And eyebrows, and ears, and lips, and teeth, and hair color. He bleaches his hair a lot, but it’s not enough to cover the black roots. It’s like makeup. It fades out, and it stops hiding the ugly bruises she gets from her loving man. It stops hiding the black hair he inherited from his loving father.

,,You know, the boy you love. The one who caused all the bruises. He must’ve loved you as much as my husband loved me’’, she explains. What she’s talking about is all normal, she tells herself, it’s how love is supposed to work. Because love is suffering through pain for someone, love is covering up the issues for them, love is looking at your bruises at night, and it’s smiling about your lover’s dead body at the foot of the stairs.

,,Oh, he’s gone. But there’s a girl I’ve loved for even longer. She’s precious. She wouldn’t ever hit anyone’’, Tetta says. She wonders if his loving boy was the one who he smiled about when he came home with broken glasses, but she doesn’t ask. It’s not important anyway. She’s glad that there’s a girl that he loves so much. She’s glad that he doesn’t get hit anymore. She’s glad that she pushed him down the stairs, and that Tetta smiled about his death.

Her father reaches for her hand, and she flinches away before grabbing his. She squeezes his fingers, doesn’t let go. ,,My precious daughter....’’, he breathes out, and she tries to pretend that it means something as he continues, ,,I love you. Don’t cry.’’ She does. She sobs, horribly, and she screams. The word love doesn’t mean anything to her, but she feels like she’s robbed of everything she’s ever had. His hand slips from hers, he’s dead. And she’s all alone, because her loving man is at work, away, somewhere at the other end of the sea, and she doesn’t have anyone else.

Tetta’s favorite food is fried rice with lots of vegetables, and she makes sure to cook it often. Just for him. Hence, she’s filling bowls with tofu, spicy rice, and lots of carrots. She sets the table, makes sure to place his plate between his chopsticks and a glass of water, right beside her own. ,,Tetta!’’, she calls, ,,Dinner is ready.’’ Soon after, he arrives as she’s already sitting on her chair, waiting for him to join in, but he just grabs his food and chopsticks. He turns around, goes back to his room. She sighs, and starts her dinner, and it tastes as bland as every day that she has it alone because her own son won’t look her in the eyes.

,,Hanma Shuji. Nice to meet you, ma’am’’, he says. She has to look up to see his eyes. He’s so much taller than her, than Tetta, about the height of her late husband. His eyes are dull, one is yellow, one purple. She doesn’t know why she searches for the blue in every pair.

,,I’m sorry’’, is all she can manage. She doesn’t know what else to say. Her son is dead, and she loved him so much that it wasn’t enough. She wishes that she’d never given birth to him. She wishes that she’d never loved him.

,,I hate you’’, she whispers, cradling Tetta in her arms. He’s sleeping soundly, and she doesn’t want to wake him. He looks so peaceful, so weak wrapped up in the white blanket. It scares her. It scares her; that he could die.

,,I hate you so much, Tetta. I wish I would’ve never given birth to you’’, she continues to whisper. She loves him. She hopes that he’ll live forever. Tetta’s just a little boy, and he deserves the world, she thinks. He deserves everything that she gives him, and everything that she doesn’t.

She hates the grave that she stands in front of. Her hair is starting to go gray, and there are two bodies buried under the flowers. Two loving men. One that she loved too much, and one that she didn’t love enough. She misses the bruises. She misses the laughter. She misses herself. But she doesn’t miss either of the dead men.

Often, she dreams of blue skies, and she’s just a little girl dreaming of happiness and comfort. She dreams of blue skies over green flower fields, blue skies over dark and mysterious forests, blue skies over rivers running full of blood. She’s only four, she’s only five, she’s only six, only seven, eight, nine, ten. She doesn’t know what the blue skies and the rivers full of blood mean. Sometimes she wishes she does.

Her loving man leans down, gets on one knee, and holds up a little ring. She knows that it’s his grandmother’s wedding ring, and that it means the world to him. He asks if she wants to marry him, and she says yes as she breaks out in tears. She doesn’t know if she cries because she’s happy or if she does because she’s sad. He doesn’t hold her.

He never holds her. He didn’t hold her when she was seventeen, he didn’t hold her when her father died, he didn’t hold her on the day they got married. He didn’t hold her when she gave birth to their son. He wasn’t even there. All he ever does is give her money, and flowers, and expensive dresses, and yet another credit card. She’s happy, she’s glad that she can create her own life, but sometimes she just really wants to be held.

Tetta never tells her about his friends. She asks and asks, but he always says that he doesn’t want to talk. She says that she knows that he sneaks in every day, every night, that he could walk through the door instead. He says that she’s hallucinating. That she’s making it up to make him feel bad about not ever bringing anyone over.

One day, Tetta tells her that his name is Hanma. That she should finally stop asking questions, because it’s his business, not hers. So she does. She starts pressing her ear to the door of his room and smiles when she hears them laugh. She smiles when he hears Tetta curse out Hanma for eating chips on his bed. She smiles when she hears Hanma’s screams of joy for winning a video game and Tetta’s snickers about how his mother shouldn’t find out that he’s there.

Their house always feels so empty. Most of the time, Tetta is there, but it’s as if he isn’t. He’s completely silent, staying in his room all day, closing the door when he comes into the kitchen to get food. She doesn’t know what to make of it. She tells him that he doesn’t always have to study, that he can take breaks, tells him that she won’t be mad if he’s in the living room, that it’s okay if he makes noises, that she won’t go and snoop around in his things if he doesn’t lock the door. But Tetta doesn’t listen, and she feels so guilty and helpless, and she tries to forget it by always having television run in the background.

Tetta starts to go out with his delinquent friends a lot, and while she’s happy for him, she’s mostly happy for herself. He has a good life, he does nice things, and she doesn’t have to feel miserable about their house feeling so empty all the time because it is. There is no loving man in their house, most of the time, and neither is there a loving boy. And she feels alone, so very alone and lonely, but now she has the right to be sad about it.

She picks up the stuffed cat that her mother just bought her. It’s fluffy, and big, and warm. It makes her feel safe. She looks at her mother, into her dark eyes, and she searches for something she’s never seen. ,,Go play in your own room. I need to do work. Hush!’’, she shoos, gesturing towards the door. She looks back one last time, then leaves, running away until she climbs onto her bed. She takes her scissors and starts to cut open the fluffy cat because there is no love in her mother’s eyes, and the only affection she gets is money. And it doesn’t matter anyway because she will just buy her a new one without asking what happened to the other.

When Tetta brings home good grades, she smiles. When Tetta brings home bruises, she smiles. When Tetta brings home books, she smiles. When Tetta gets brought home in a casket, she smiles. All she’s ever done is smile, and she only stops after she knows that her loving men are both dead because she’s seen both of their corpses. She thinks that she should hate herself. She’s sad, and she’s not smiling anymore, but she’s relieved that they’re gone. She’s always been scared of the name Kisaki.

She loves Tetta. She loves him with all her heart, all her might, and she loves that he’s dead. She wishes that he’d never died. She wishes that she’d raised him differently. That she’d gotten rid of her husband earlier in life. That she’d never given birth to her son. That he’d been born into another family. She still loves him too much.

,,What for?’’, he asks. He lifts his cigarette up to his lips, takes another drag. He turns his head away to breathe out the smoke, caring enough not to blow it into her face. She wonders why this boy cares more than hers ever did.

,,For loving him’’, she says. It doesn’t make sense to him, she knows that, but it’s the truth. She’s sorry for everything. And everything she’s ever done was love the wrong man and love the wrong son.

Hanma looks at her. This time he doesn’t look away to breathe out the smoke, blows it right into her face. She coughs, does her best to stop. She stares up at his face. His eyebrows are softer, his jawline is even sharper, his cheekbones are lower, his lips are wider, his hair is darker than the bleach and lighter than the roots, and his ears are rounder, his teeth are not the same. She doesn’t know why she keeps comparing everyone to him. Everyone except herself.

Tetta is turning out pretty well. She’s raising him the way her mother raised her, with neglect. She gives him food, and water, and a warm bed, and money. She gives him the opportunity, he builds his own life. He buys books, and snacks, and a video game console, and she knows that he dislikes video games, and that it’s for Hanma, but she doesn’t say anything.

She hopes that the money is enough to keep him happy. She never comforts him, and he never cries. He doesn’t stand still in the doorway and stares as he hits her anymore, because he’s dead, and she goes to place new flowers on his grave and throw away the old ones every two weeks. It snows, and she ignores her freezing hands as she digs through the inches to reach for the old petals.

She blows out the seventeen candles on her chocolate cake. She doesn’t really like chocolate, prefers vanilla, but she feels like she should be happy that her father left a cake for her birthday in the freezer because it’s still better than nothing. It’s her only gift, except for the new book she bought herself, because her father is at work, far far away, and her boyfriend is staying with his grieving mother, who’s just lost her husband. And she thinks that she should be happy, because at least she has a birthday cake, and birthday candles, and a birthday wish, but she also knows that she will never truly be loved, no matter how many wishes she makes.

They never go somewhere together. A few times she’s asked if Tetta would like to go anywhere, but he said no every time, arguing that he could just go alone. Or that she could go alone, if she wanted to. Or to find someone else to do things with because he doesn’t want to. It’s not her fault, she thinks, that she wasn’t ever there for him. There never was any moment in his life in which he needed someone other than himself. She would have been there. She would have been there to stop the truck if she had known.

He’s a small child, barely ten, and he brings home a friend for the first time. His name is Takemichi. He has black hair and green eyes. He’s loud, he talks a lot, and Tetta looks at him as if he was heaven and hell at the same time. She cuts a mango and some melon into slices, puts it all into a bowl, and brings it into his room. Takemichi’s eyes shine bright, he grins and bows his head. Tetta just nods. She leaves and closes the door behind her. It’s the last time Takemichi ever comes over, and it’s the last time Tetta shows her one of his friends.

,,Father, do you think that mother will ever come back?’’, she asks, looking up from her book to study his expression. It shifts from a peaceful reading face to that of a man after five years of war. He furrows his brows, unfocuses his eyes, and wrinkles form on his forehead as he slightly scrunches up his nose. The corners of his mouth waver in a sad attempt to smile.

,,I don’t know. I don’t know, Hideko’’, he says, slowly shaking his head. She knows that he tells the truth, she knows, and she still hopes that he’s lying. She still hopes for her mother to come back. Even though she’s just a woman, just a woman in a thirteen year old girl’s life who tries to keep her happy by buying her expensive gifts and credit cards. A woman who doesn’t realise that all her daughter’s ever wanted was to be loved, to be held, to be looked at with gentle eyes and a soft smile. And she vows to never ever become such a mother herself, and instead hug her future son, to hug him, even if he doesn’t cry, and to show him how much she cares.

She loved her son so much that it wasn’t enough. She didn’t love her husband enough, and it still ended up being too much. They’re both dead. Now she’s stuck with just herself, and she doesn’t think that she can ever love herself again after everything she’s done and lived through. She misses the green flower fields, and the dark, mysterious forests in her dreams. She misses the happiness that the blue skies brought. She misses herself, and she misses the little girl she used to love so much. Because when she was a child, there had been no one else to love except herself.

Her loving man calls, she puts him on speaker after his request. Four year old Tetta’s sitting on her knees, excitedly waiting for his father to tell him that he’ll be back before the next day. ,,I’m sorry, darling, I’m so very sorry, Tetta. I can’t make it today. Expect me to be home next month instead. I miss and love you both, but I have to go now. Goodbye’’, is all he says. Tetta frowns, pouts, his lip is trembling. But he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. She smiles.

,,I’m sure he’ll be back next time, Tetta. Only two more weeks’’, she tries to lift both of their spirits. It doesn’t work. Tetta gets up, tells her that he’s fine, walks into his own room, and closes the door. He doesn’t need her, or any of her love. Nor does he need his father. All he needs is himself, and the world at his feet, but he’s at the feet of the world instead, and she wonders why a four year old tries to be so grown up when all she wishes for is to be a kid again.

Tetta never hits her. He never hits anyone, as far as she knows. He’s a delinquent, and he fights, he beats up people, but only the ones who can hit back. She fears that he will never love anyone because love is supposed to hurt. Love is supposed to rob you of yourself. She knows that Tetta will grow up to be a loving man, that he will never hit anyone, and that his love won’t hurt. And she’s jealous of that.

Tetta never gets hit. She doesn’t hit him, because women don’t hit. Girls don’t hit. And her loving man, she doesn’t know why, but she thinks he doesn’t love their son because he never hits him, and inflicting pain is how he shows his love. Or maybe he loves him through her, he loves through the money he gives her that she then gives Tetta. But that doesn’t really count, she thinks, because he never looks Tetta in the eyes and smiles when she gives him his money because he’s never home.

She looks at the stairs, and thinks about how they killed one of her loving men. She remembers the other. A truck. She remembers the man in the truck, scrambles for her phone. She calls the police department, asks for the man who killed her loving boy. He was sent to the hospital, she gets told, and then she calls the number they tell her when she asks about it. Someone picks up. She asks for his name. He’s alive, they say, he barely made it. They ask if she’s family, and she says that she is. She asks if they have his number. They do, and she calls him.

,,I forgive you’’, she whispers when he picks up, ,,I forgive you for killing my son.’’ A sad laugh escapes her. She still loves him too much. She’s glad that he’s dead. She wishes that he’d been immortal. The man says something, but she doesn’t understand what. She can’t concentrate on the words. All she can concentrate on is herself, herself and her two dead, loving men. She hangs up, and goes to drink a glass of water.

She has everything she’s ever wanted, and somehow, she’s still broken all of the promises she’s made with herself as a kid. She promised to love her future son, to love him with warmth, with welcoming arms. She promised to marry a kind man, one who doesn’t hit or scream, one who cares. She promised not to do any of the mistakes her parents did. And still, twenty-five years later, she’s lying in her bed at night with a husband who hits, and a son who never tells her good night. And all the money in her bank account, all the marriage certificates on her desk, and all the birth papers in her drawer can’t fix it.

Hanma sighs. He nods. He takes another puff of his cigarette. He blows more smoke into her face. He stares into her eyes. ,,I thought I loved the color blue’’, he says, and then he turns around. She, too, thought that she loved the color blue. In reality, she loved her old self. What little that was left of her. She stared at his blue eyes so much because they resembled her own.

,,It was nice to meet you’’, she calls after him. Maybe he doesn’t hear her, maybe he just doesn’t react. He walks away without looking back. She turns to the gravestone, and thinks about the blue in her eyes, in his eyes, in the sky, and in the monster from her nightmares. The monster is a little girl, with tears on her cheeks, and blood on her hands. It’s her. It’s the tears she cries for all the people she loves. It’s the blood of all the people she’s killed by loving wrongly. It’s the blood of herself.

tag list: @offtaskotaku

#☆—`writing #i fr need to decide on a format for posting my ao3 stuff adhjfghd #tokrev #kisaki #kisaki tetta #kisaki hideko #also taku i mean ik you were excited on this one but you are on my general fic taglist right? right??#i don’t think we’ve ever established it adhjhjg #i certainly wanna be on yours tho!! art tag list of it that exists!! all the tag lists

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