#I LOVE Sleep Token and I WILL continue to corrupt people into liking them as well >:)

[turtlecleric]

Thinking about Symphony!Donnie again

[fickleminder]

the years start coming and they don’t stop coming

In which Lilith’s return distorts her brothers’ perception of time.

Part 2 here

You’ve never seen the demon prince look so embarrassed.

“I can call for —”

“No, it’s okay. They deserve this.”

But you don’t, goes unspoken. You can see the pity in his eyes, feel the palpable disappointment in the air. Even Simeon and Luke make sure to hug you extra tight before stepping through the portal to the Celestial Realm, and Solomon promises to check up on you after you’ve returned home.

Thanking Lord Diavolo and Barbatos for their hospitality, you turn towards the final demon in the council room and put on the biggest grin your breaking heart can muster. “Hey, c’mere.”

Satan doesn’t hesitate to throw his arms around you. It’s almost like he’s trying to make up for his brothers’ absence, the way he crushes you to his chest and cradles the back of your head.

You can’t find it in yourself to blame them. As far as miracles go, this is a pretty big one. Lilith coming back to life is an unprecedented event, one not even Barbatos had seen coming. Nobody has any answers either. She’s definitely not a demon, not an angel, not human; just an immortal who knocked on the front door of the House of Lamentation three days ago.

Her brothers haven’t left her alone since. You’re happy for them, you really are, but a bitter part of you can’t help but wish her return had waited until after the exchange program ended. At least Lucifer had the courtesy to pull you aside and thank you on his family’s behalf (though you’re quite certain you had nothing to do with your ancestor’s sudden revival), in addition to making a pact with you as a token of his gratitude.

With that, you could have summoned all of them to send you off just as effectively as Lord Diavolo giving the order, but it won’t be the same and you know it. Your only saving grace is Satan, the one brother who’d kept his head and anchored you in the sea of loneliness you’d been set adrift in over the last few days.

“I’m gonna miss you, cat boy.”

“I miss you already,” Satan laughs softly, pulling back with a warm smile. “I’ll stay in touch, I promise.”

You squeeze his arms affectionately and glance past his shoulders at the closed doors. There’s the smallest shred of hope in you that thinks the others will come bursting through any moment now, scrambling for one final chance to see you. You give yourself five seconds, silently counting down to a pipe dream, before pressing a kiss to Satan’s cheek and releasing him.

“It might not seem like it now, but the Devildom will always be here for you,” Lord Diavolo says as the world around you fades to white. “Farewell.”

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“Did you lose track of time at the library again? You missed dinner last night LOL.”

“Levi, be nice!”

Satan only hums quietly in response. He can’t be bothered to correct the assumption; it’s a convenient excuse for when his brothers actually notice he’s missing anyway.

The irony of Levi calling him out isn’t lost on him. While the otaku is still obsessed with his games and shows, he’s no longer as shut-in as he used to be, venturing outside the comforts of his sanctuary more often. Satan has passed by the common room on many occasions to find him and Lilith gaming or binging anime together, and the content expression on Levi’s face proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the void from his Henry’s departure has long been filled.

“Oh, but speaking of,” Lilith sets her cutlery down and smiles shyly at the fourth-born, “I haven’t had the chance to explore the libraries here yet. If it’s not too much trouble, can you show me around and recommend a few books?”

Shrugging non-committedly, Satan continues with his meal, not once looking her in the eye.

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You’ve always wondered how someone with the Avatar of Lust for a brother can have such terrible fashion sense. It should be impossible to go wrong with dressing for a funeral, but you guess life (along with a certain eyesore of a tie) just loves to disappoint you. Still, you’re too glad to have Satan with you right now to care.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Anytime.”

You lean into the demon’s side as he holds an umbrella over both of you. Your eyes are drawn to the flowers he’d placed on your mother’s grave, the only splash of color against the dull tombstone. For the longest time, all you can process is the pitter-patter of the afternoon rain on the plastic wrap of the bouquet, and the comforting weight of Satan’s arm across your shoulders.

“She was in a lot of pain,” you admit after a while, your voice slightly hoarse. “The doctors had to sedate her. She went in her sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” Satan fidgets awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. He’s no stranger to death, but the loss of someone dear is unfamiliar to him. “Perhaps Simeon can find out if —”

“No, no it’s fine. I just — I need to —”

The umbrella is forgotten as Satan catches you, lowering you gently to the ground when your knees give way. You cling to him desperately, and it’s all he can do to draw you close as you start to wail.

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Satan barely makes it three steps into the house before getting pounced on.

“How was it? Where did you go? Ooh you lucky demon, I want to hear all the details!”

“Oi, oi! What are you babbling on about?”

“Don’t act coy with me! Lilith saw you at the florist’s yesterday with the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers!”

“Yesterday? But —”

“How come you never told me someone caught your eye? I would have dolled you up, lent you some of my clothes —” Asmo gasps dramatically. “You didn’t wear that horrid jacket to your date, did you?”

Wrestling a hand free, Satan musses his younger brother’s hair. “None of your business,” he growls, walking away with a smirk when Asmo immediately releases him to fix his appearance. “Who do you take me for, anyway?”

“Aww come on, just give me a hint! Do I know them? Is it someone from RAD? Ooh, did you meet them at the library or —”

Ducking into the safety of his room, Satan shuts the door in Asmo’s face.

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“Thank fuck. Who picked your outfit this time?”

“Barbatos. And shut up.”

You grab Satan’s arm with a laugh and lead him towards your table, politely introducing him as ‘Stan from work’ to any relatives who ask about the handsome young man accompanying you. Satan’s usual mask is in place, but there’s no mistaking the gleam of wonder in his eyes as he takes in his surroundings.

“Finally,” you sigh, sinking into your seat and grinning sheepishly at the blond. “Sorry about them. It’s just that they’ve never seen me with anyone, so they’re really curious about you.”

“Well, I’m glad you invited me along. I’ve never been to a wedding before.” The romantic in Satan is openly basking in the ambience of the reception. “You mentioned that your niece had gotten married?”

“Technically my first cousin once removed, but yeah.”

“And you’ve not been seeing anyone?”

“You would have been the first to know if I have,” you tease, nudging him playfully. “Apparently a lot of people are put off by the way I dress. Too modest, they say.”

But not without good reason. The pact marks on your body may be slightly faded from disuse, but they’re still discernable if stared at hard enough: Lucifer’s at the back of your neck; Mammon’s over your heart; Levi’s curled around your right calf; Satan’s circling your left arm; Asmo’s dangerously close to tramp stamp territory; Beel’s just under your navel; and Belphie’s on your ribs at the side you like to sleep on.

Passing them off as tattoos without attracting the wrong kind of attention is a little tricky, so you’d rather take a page from Solomon’s book and cover them up. Being called a prude is easier than dealing with cultists.

(It also helps you to keep your mind off of them, because some wounds continue to hurt even after they heal, so there’s that.)

Sensing the drop in your mood, Satan clears his throat to get your attention. It’s only then that you realize there’s music playing in the background, and couples moving from their tables to the floor.

Your companion stands up and offers you his hand, this time with a genuine smile on his face. “May I have this dance?”

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Lucifer’s tone books no room for argument. “This will be a family event, so I expect your attendance. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your little escapades over the past few months.”

“Tch.”

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Whatever. I’ll be there.”

Satan has to resist the urge to hurl his hardcover at the back of Lucifer’s head when he takes his leave. That’s no way to treat a book, after all.

Beel’s Fangol team has an upcoming match and it’ll be Lilith’s first time watching him play. She’s been hyped up for weeks, so it comes as no surprise that Lucifer would use the opportunity to turn it into a family outing. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

Gone is the stuffy first-born who can spend days in his office if left unchecked. Lucifer is still as strict as ever, still fulfills his duties to Lord Diavolo diligently, but it’s like he’s managed to master balancing work and play overnight. He makes more time for his siblings now, even if it’s to dole out punishments for their endless shenanigans, punishments that vary in severity depending on how cutely Lilith pleads on their behalf.

Lucifer has always doted on her, and she has him wrapped around her little finger. Belphie has even gone as far as corrupting her into pranking him, and she need only bat her eyelashes to get off scot-free.

Lilith was the catalyst for the Fall, her descendent the glue that brought her siblings back together, and her return the final piece in making their family whole again.

But you were family too, Satan thinks sourly, pulling out his D.D.D. to mark the date in his calendar.

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When you invite Satan over to your apartment for tea, he never expected to be introduced to your new housemate: a handsome fellow with chestnut brown hair, sharp jade eyes, a runner’s body, and the softest-looking toe beans he has ever seen in his immortal life.

“Satan, meet Satan!” You hold out the tabby towards him with a shit-eating grin.

Both demon and cat blink owlishly at each other. The blond doesn’t know whether to feel endeared by the feline sharing his name or insulted that you would replace him so easily, but all it takes is a single bop on the nose with a curious paw for him to melt.

Satan the tabby, who normally prefers to scale your shelves and nap between your books, spends the entire day a purring puddle in Satan the demon’s arms, shamelessly relishing in pets and massages to the extent that at some point, you have a very real fear they might just end up absconding back to the Devildom together. Thankfully, some kibble and freshly baked treats help you separate the two for a while, at least long enough for you to get some decent conversation in.

You brew a pot of Earl Grey with the beautifully crafted tea set Barbatos gifted you when you had first moved in, and serve the scones you made earlier in the morning using the baking tools blessed by Luke during your housewarming. You don’t know if the little angel had actually imbued them with Celestial magic, but everything you cook somehow always lifts your spirits when consumed.

Satan has to catch himself in the middle of regaling you with Mammon’s latest half-baked scheme. The wistful look on your face is new; you’re usually eager to hear what his brothers have been up to, but something feels off today. He pours you more tea, slides another scone onto your plate, and waits.

“…Are they happy?” You ask after a while.

The demon knows better than to lie, even if it’s to spare you from the truth he suspects you’re already aware of. “Yes,” he admits grudgingly.

“I’m glad.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

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Lilith stands outside his room, holding a tray of tea and cakes.

“Hey, um, may I come in?” Her smile is both hopeful and uncertain. It’s a gamble, ambushing the fourth-born when he obviously has no interest in her. At best, he’ll make up an excuse to turn her away or just ignore her completely; at worst, well… she doesn’t really want to think about that. To her visible relief, he opens the door wider and steps aside.

Satan clears a space for her to set the tray down. There’s the briefest moment of hesitation before he drags your favorite armchair over and offers her a seat as well. He looks guarded but not openly hostile, a promising sign so far.

“You’ve been in and out of the house lately, so I haven’t had the chance to catch you. I thought we might sit down and talk,” Lilith says, pouring two cups of the hot beverage as she chooses her next words carefully. “The others told me about how you were born, but I understand that you are your own person. I’d like to get to know that person.”

A part of Satan is acutely aware of their one-sided relationship; he is familiar with her through Lucifer, but she has never met him. It makes sense for her to be curious about him, though Satan isn’t so sure he wants to return the favor. She reminds him too much of you in the way she prepares her tea, how she sits on your chair, her shy lopsided smile —

But she’s not you, and you’re not her, Satan has to remind himself lest he commits the same mistake his brothers nearly did after your lineage had been revealed. Now in a convoluted turn of events, it’s you who’s gone and Lilith here, and there’s no reason why he can’t give her a chance and treat her like the sister she could be to him.

It’s what you would have wanted.

Lilith tries not to let her shoulders slump too much when Satan quietly stands up and heads towards his door. She’s prepared to pack up and leave until she spots him grabbing several books from a nearby shelf.

“Have you ever read Mid-Fall Murders?” He asks, handing her a hardcover with a shy smile of his own.

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“What’s it like?”

Satan’s grip on your hand tightens. “I don’t actually know,” he confesses, shuffling closer so that your shoulder and arm are pressed against his. It’s a strange sight, the two of you lying side by side on your bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

“Will it hurt?”

“No.”

You’ve never heard a single word hold so much promise, but you have no reason to doubt the demon’s sincerity. Satan wouldn’t take pity on you just because you’re —

A light knock on the door, and in pokes Simeon’s head. “Ah, little lamb! I’m glad we made it in time.”

“Not so little anymore, Simeon.” You laugh softly, greeting Luke and Solomon as they trail in behind him. Satan brushes his lips over your forehead before getting up to receive your guests.

The day is as ordinary as it can be. You talk and catch up with your friends, trading stories and laughter over cups of tea that neither grow cold nor go empty. When the session turns into a mini book club gathering halfway through, Luke helpfully retrieves the debated titles from the massive shelf in the living room. He takes a while to find them; you’ve accumulated plenty of works over the years: recommendations by Satan, literature published under Simeon’s pseudonym, and handwritten tomes from Solomon to keep you in touch with your magic. The shelf is practically jam-packed with books, the only exception being a corner on the topmost tier, housing a little space that’s empty save for a worn green collar with a rusted bell.

Come sundown the five of you are still neck-deep in discussion, but as with all good things, the get together eventually reaches an end.

“Thanks everyone, it’s been fun,” you say, reclining back in your bed as Satan wordlessly cleans up. You squeeze his hand when he returns to your side and bid the others goodbye. “Hopefully I’ll see you guys soon?”

“About that…” Solomon clears his throat, wearing the smug look that usually accompanies a trick being pulled out of his sleeve, but this time it’s tinged more with excitement than mischief. “Simeon has a little present for you first.”

The guileless smile on the angel’s face betrays nothing as he steps forward and reaches into a small pouch at his hip. “Solomon, Diavolo and I have a theory. Now, keep in mind that this is all very experimental, but if it works, you’ll have more options to choose from, should you so wish.”

And then he brings out a ring.

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“Are you, uh, are you okay?”

“Not in the mood, Mammon.”

“Oi, I’m trying to be nice here! Who do you think covered for your sorry ass when you came back past curfew the other day, huh?”

“What the hell do you want?”

“You may think you’re all stealthy and shit, but your eyes were pretty red that night. I thought you were at a book club meeting. Did something happen?”

“None of your business.”

“Argh, fine then! This is the last time I try to be a good big brother.”

“…Mammon?”

“?”

“...”

“...”

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh, what are you — you can’t just say that and then run off! Get back here!”

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“Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…”

Lilith’s countdown echoes along the deserted hallway, prompting Beel to nudge the deadweight on his back. “Belphie, go get your own hiding place.”

“Mmngh… zzz…”

“Come on, or she’ll win this round with a two for one. Again.”

“…Just dump me somewhere she won’t find me then.”

A tall order, especially since Lilith can easily track them down by listening out for Beel’s stomach and/or Belphie’s snores. Still, the sixth-born lumbers through the house as quietly as he can, doing a one-eighty whenever he hears Lilith’s cheerful hums coming from the opposite direction. Technically they can avoid being caught if they keep moving, but that would be cheating. They hid in the attic previously so that’s a no go, their room’s too obvious, the kitchen too tempting, the common room too exposed…

Maybe Levi’s room? The otaku had sound-proofed his walls to avoid distractions from the outside world when he’s gaming, so it’s an ideal location to hide. He can stash Belphie in the bathtub and run interference until time’s up.

Backtracking, Beel breaks into a light jog towards the other wing, keeping his ears open for their seeker. It’s only because of his heightened senses that he’s able to pick up the faintest traces of magic on one of the walls, causing him to pause in his steps.

“Hmm? Why’d you stop?” Slightly more awake now, Belphie rubs his eyes and slides off his twin, who’s studying the blank space intently. “What’s wrong, Beel?”

“There’s something here, something…”

“It’s just a wall —”

“No, don’t you feel it? I know you weren’t around then, but it’s the same glamor as that time Luke went missing and we —”

Beel goes white. He whispers a name, a name not spoken in the house for years, and a door flickers into view. One hand grabs Belphie’s in a death grip as the other twists the knob and pushes the door open, revealing an old yet familiar room.

The place is devoid of life. Most of the furniture are covered by sheets, resting under thick layers of dust. In the middle sits a tree, sagging with age and soft with rot. Sunken footprints mark the demons’ furtive venture into decrepit memory, and the creaking of floorboards with every step only tethers the growing nightmare closer to reality.

A photo frame crashes to the ground.

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They deserve this.

Satan feels it the moment the spell concealing your room was broken. It had been his way of protecting your memory, ensuring that your sanctuary would only be accessible to those who made the effort to remember you. He cast it about a year after you had left the Devildom, after he realized that leaving your door in plain sight wasn’t doing you any favors.

Hidden away in an alcove at the back of the garden, curled up with a blanket and a thermos of hot tea, Satan slides a bookmark between the pages of his latest novel and leans his head back, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh.

Even this far away from the house, he can hear the cacophony of screams and shouts, objects being flung and shattered into pieces, a muted bang suggesting that a wall has just collapsed. The fallout comes as no surprise; waking up after living the past hundred years or so in a daze will do that to a person – or in this case, demons.

Although the sounds of fighting call to the rage bubbling within him, the vindictive thoughts of his brothers getting their just desserts cool it to a simmer. He knows he’ll have to face them eventually, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

“Meow?”

Emerald eyes blink open. There’s a faint rustle from the nearby bushes as a tiny Calico wanders out of the foliage, peering around the garden curiously. Upon spotting the blond demon, it perks up and makes a beeline for him.

“Hm? You’re not Callie. Are you new here, little one?” His mood considerably improved, Satan extends a hand towards the kitten. It skips the finger sniffing step and goes straight to headbutting his palm, begging for attention.

“You’re an affectionate one, aren’t you?” Satan caves immediately and scritches away with a delighted chuckle. He examines the markings on its tri-colored fur, wanting to recognize the friendly feline if it comes back in the future. The Calico is mostly white with patches of brown and black splashed over the back of its neck, near the base of its tail, just under the side of its ribs, and several other spots that seem to collectively resemble a familiar pattern…

Satan’s hand stills. He whispers your name, trembling with hope, and the kitten practically leaps into his arms, nuzzling his chin with a happy purr.

[robininthelabyrinth]

I love your story with LW and JC raising LS! Do you plan on writing more?

Delight in Misery (ao3) - part 1, part 2

-

“So, I have a problem,” Jiang Cheng said, bursting into the room.

Sometimes Lan Wangji wondered if Jiang Cheng had ever heard of any other way to enter a room. Through the window, perhaps, since clearly walking wasn’t seen as a valid alternative.

“Just one?” he asked, not looking up from where he was repositioning A-Yuan’s hand on the guqin.

“No, I – hey!”

A-Yuan giggled, and that made Jin Ling, currently nestled in blankets next to the guqin, giggle as well, and predictably, Jiang Cheng forgot all else in front of such adorableness, immediately crouching down to make faces at Jin Ling.

“Your problem?” Lan Wangji prompted after a few moments.

“Ah..? Oh! Yes. Remember how I got into a fight with – what’s his name, that idiot?”

Lan Wangji pointedly remained silent. Jiang Cheng got into any number of fights, given his temper, and those were only the ones he told Lan Wangji about – and he wasn’t always reliable on that score, either.

The doctor that came to visit every week was not given to gossip, as Jiang Cheng had promised, but his assistant who waited outside the door, never entering, sometimes said things.

Disturbing things, sometimes.

Lan Wangji had not yet found a way to ask Jiang Cheng if he really did capture and torture demonic cultivators to death – mostly because he didn’t know what he’d do if the answer was ‘yes’.

He knew Jiang Cheng believed that Wei Wuxian had been corrupted by demonic cultivation into something unrecognizable, that he believed it was his own fault for not having stopped him sooner, that he thought it was his responsibility to stop demonic cultivators before other innocent people suffered the way he had because of Wei Wuxian; he knew that Jiang Cheng both longed and feared any success in finding Wei Wuxian’s spirit, wanting desperately to have any hint of him again and yet terrified by the possibility that it had been Wei Wuxian, in the end, that had destroyed him utterly. There were many flaws in his thinking, but without that defense mechanism, Jiang Cheng’s psyche would collapse.

When Jiang Cheng was a little steadier, he’d bring it up, Lan Wangji promised himself. When things were a little calmer. 

Soon.

“Right, right, I fight with too many to count,” Jiang Cheng said, grimacing. The expression made Jin Ling giggle again, as if it had been made to amuse him, and that lifted Jiang Cheng’s mood a little. “The one who called me a filthy cutsleeve that shouldn’t be allowed around children.”

Lan Wangji remembered. Even if Jiang Cheng hadn’t told him, A-Yuan would have: he’d been full of excitement at how Jiang Cheng had foregone even whipping the man with Zidian and just punched him full in the face with a fist full of purple sparks. And then there’d been some kicking, according to A-Yuan, and a great deal of shouting about how people who abused children were people who abused children and that being a monster had nothing at all to do with anyone’s preferences in bed.

That poor man – he might have escaped with fewer broken bones if his timing hadn’t been so bad. That confrontation had taken place just after Lan Wangji had finally confessed aloud that his feelings about Wei Wuxian were, in fact, of a romantic nature. Amusingly enough, Jiang Cheng had not guessed it – he’d spluttered and waved his hands and said really?! at least six times – which in retrospect was in line with his general level of obliviousness. After he’d finally realized Lan Wangji was serious, though, he’d responded well enough: he hadn’t said a word about cutsleeves or anything like that, not a single word. Instead, he’d immediately leapt into criticizing Lan Wangji’s poor taste in men, claiming that actually living with Wei Wuxian would have driven him mad within weeks.

He hadn’t said that Lan Wangji could do better, though. They both knew that that was impossible.

“I remember.”

“Well, all sorts of rumors got started after that – no, don’t look at me like that, I told you that I don’t care one way or another! I don’t even want a wife right now; could I even handle having a wife the way I am now, more nightmares than sleep and no ability to control my temper?”

Lan Wangji shrugged and continued to strum the guqin in a repetitive motion, demonstrating to A-Yuan. Jiang Cheng would remember to get to the point eventually.

“Anyway. Rumors. People have started – asking.”

Lan Wangji’s hands paused. “You’ve been propositioned?”

“No! Well, I mean, yes, but dealing with propositions from men is the same as from women; you just glare until they go away –”

Sometimes Lan Wangji felt certain that Jiang Cheng would never find a wife.

After all, one would have to put up with him long enough to find the tolerable parts buried deep (deep) under all the prickliness and bad temper, and that was a task fit only for the inhumanly patient.

“– and anyway, no, I meant…someone asked me for help.”

Lan Wangji finally turned his head to look at him. “Help?”

Jiang Cheng sat down next to him. “Jin Guangshan’s bastard, the new one – Mo Xuanyu. He came to me during one of the conferences recently. He’s…he’s not fit for Lanling.”

Lan Wangji frowned.

“He’s getting bullied at Koi Tower, and pretty badly, too,” Jiang Cheng said. “He gave me some examples. Nothing truly intolerable in isolation, but when you put it all together…He’s very weak. Sensitive.”

“And he approached you?”

“I know,” Jiang Cheng said, long-suffering. “What’s the point of being infamously bad-tempered if people still approach you to ask for things…? He said that he trusts me because he thinks I’m, you know, like him.”

“A cutsleeve?”

“Exactly. It’s not looked on favorably in Lanling, to say the least.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wish we were all like Qinghe. I’m pretty sure if Nie Huaisang announced that he was marrying a sentient rosebush, Chifeng-zun’s primary concern would be how good its saber skills were.”

Lan Wangji felt a similar pang. His own sect elders, at Gusu, were not especially favorable to the idea either – Lan Xichen had long ago warned him that he would need to keep his inclinations to himself and that, if he ever found a partner, it would be best if the two of them could maintain low profile, pretending as much as possible to be merely brothers or close friends.

He’d thought that had all sounded quite reasonable, right up until he met Wei Wuxian, and little by little the idea of denying the way he felt had become utterly repulsive to him.

“Anyway, I feel like I should do something? But I can’t interfere with anything in Lanling, you know that.”

Lan Wangji knew. Matters between the Jiang sect and the Jin sect remained highly precarious. Jiang Cheng’s agreement not to marry or have children had maintained the alliance between them, but there was always the looming pressure that they could one day revoke the agreement and reclaim Jin Ling – perhaps even going so far as to bar them from seeing him again.

It was one of Jiang Cheng’s many nightmares.

“I can’t not do something,” Jiang Cheng was saying, waving his hands, and that was sign enough that whatever Mo Xuanyu had told him had made an impact. Normally if something touched on Jiang Cheng’s bottom line – Lanling and its threats – he stopped thinking about it immediately. “If this isn’t stopped, it’ll only get worse and worse, and the kid’s unstable as it is…I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed himself. Maybe not immediately, maybe not for years and years, but – one day.”

The Lan sect prioritized the preservation of human life over all else.

Lan Wangji considered his options.

“But then we get back to the fact that it’s Lanling. It’d be one thing if he were a nobody, but he’s Jin Guangshan’s son – I probably wouldn’t even be able to get near him, usually –”

“Brother could.”

Jiang Cheng twisted to look at him. “What?”

“Brother could,” Lan Wangji said. “He is sworn brothers with Lianfeng-zun; he has an entry token into Lanling and is familiar with much of Koi Tower.”

Jiang Cheng blinked. “And this helps me…how? I don’t think even Zewu-jun, however kind, would make trouble over a second-hand story that’s not even objectively that bad.”

“He would believe me.”

Jiang Cheng went quiet for a moment, and there was nothing but the innocent plinking of A-Yuan’s fingers on the guqin.

“This had better not be one of your attempts at self-sacrifice,” he finally said. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to – especially for Mo Xuanyu, of all people, you don’t even know him – ”

“I am ready,” Lan Wangji said, and Jiang Cheng looked abruptly stricken. Lan Wangji didn’t understand why until he saw the way Jiang Cheng’s eyes flickered towards A-Yuan, then away, and then back again – as if he were simultaneously trying to memorize his features and also distance himself. “To speak with him only. I will not return to the Cloud Recesses at this time.”

Jiang Cheng gave a guilty start. “Really? You know you don’t have to –”

“I have decided,” Lan Wangji said simply.

Jiang Cheng rubbed his nose. “Well, good,” he said, not looking at Lan Wangji. “It’s better for A-Yuan to get a good grounding in the basics in one place before you move him around. You can always reconsider later, when he’s older.”

Lan Wangji hummed in agreement and looked back down at the guqin. “You may choose how to tell him.”

“Wait, what? Me?” Jiang Cheng asked, looking appropriately horrified by the idea. “Are you crazy? You remember that I have only the most passing familiarity with tact, right?”

“It will probably be better that way,” Lan Wangji said, and even mostly believed it. A letter would be too impersonal, a passed-along message almost certain to get garbled – he had never been eloquent in his terseness.

Jiang Cheng, however tactless, would at least be able to offer some context.

Besides, Jiang Cheng’s inevitable rant about the Lan sect’s mistreatment of Lan Wangji would likely take up several minutes, giving Lan Xichen time to recover from the shock and for his mixed emotions to settle into joy at finding Lan Wangji again. He had made his brother suffer, he knew, and he would have to explain himself and account for that – but enough time had passed, time spent here in the room where his beloved had lived, where they might have lived together if the world had been different, that Lan Wangji felt that he could do it without fear.

He was fairly sure Lan Xichen would respect his request not to share his location with the rest of the sect, and accept his refusal to return – and if he didn’t, well, possession was nine-tenths of the law. It would be very difficult for them to force him to return through anything other than emotional pressure.

A-Yuan broke a string and yelped, making Jin Ling start fussing, and Jiang Cheng immediately panicked, all other thoughts forgotten, and even as he unfolded himself to go over and make peace, Lan Wangji thought to himself that there was enough here to make resisting that pressure worthwhile.

Besides – if it came right down to it, Lan Wangji suspected he would look quite well in purple.

[fortune-fool02]

Umbrella

Jonathan Joestar x Robert E.O Speedwagon

This was inspired by the song Umbrella by Rihanna - J2 [feat. Jazelle]

Warning: Light angst, fluff

I really like this version of the song more than the original. Thank you for reading this and remember that feedback is always appreciated. Please enjoy. 

***

Rain was common in England. Either rain or dark clouds, often a mixture of both blocking up the beautiful morning sky. They often said that the rain had this effect on people that could almost bring their moods down, deflate whatever sparks of joy they had the moment they saw the raindrops fall from the sky and hit the ground. The coldness that the rain brought with it stole away any warmth that the sun had offered, bringing an iciness in the breeze that sunk its fangs into anyone unfortunate enough to be caught out in the rain.  

Speedwagon was one of those few, leaning against the wall, clothes soaking with the water as it dripped down his hair that was plastered to his face; its usual softness gone and replaced with a heavy smooth touch, cold from the temperature. The hat he often wore sat on the bench beside him, its monochromatic diamond pattern dull as the rain soaked the accessory. The last token of a beloved friend that was lost in the ruthless battles they were forced to face. The scene was burned into Speedwagon’s mind, vivid as if it happened only moments ago despite the months. 

Bringing the half empty bottle up, he took another mouthful of the bitter alcohol in hopes to drown out the threatening memories, to reinforce that door that he had sealed over those painful moments that had brought countless tears to his eyes. Sometimes it worked, providing him with a muddy mind that couldn’t hold a single coherent thought; a momentary release from the memories and events, allowing him peace with the alcohol in his system. And other times it didn’t work, only enhancing the dreaded moments and breaking them so they played continuously, accompanied with the repeated words. It’s his fault. He was too weak. Couldn’t do anything. Useless. Pointless. Waste of space. A burden. 

That was when the tears would come flooding with a vengeance, curling up on the spot and wailing his heart out until there was nothing left to cry out, leaving him with dry shakes of his body as his heart and throat clenched tightly. He wouldn’t -couldn’t- sleep, not those momentary black-outs from too much alcohol; for his dreams were plagued with such things. 

Though, in the heat of those cursed nightmares, something would reach out to him, diving down in the inky darkness after him and bring him back to the reality he knew. A beacon of light that chased away the darkness around him, forcing it away and holding him close, protectively. The warmth mimicked the sun as it ran over him, soft kisses and loving touches that flowed through his being. Such things he never knew before. 

Jonathan Joestar was that beacon, that light, for Speedwagon. He stood against the darkness and he didn’t back down nor cower; he stood tall and proud. A fierce determination that never fell to evil or corruption, often softened with kindness in the company of friends and allies. He had risked his life more than once for Speedwagon, more than anyone has ever done so before; and in return, Speedwagon did anything asked of him and anything he could do for Jonathan. He knew he would never shine as brightly as Jonathan -how could a candle compare to the sun itself?- but he wanted to. 

Jonathan was the sunlight for Speedwagon. The sunlight, the blue sky, the flowers, the moon and stars, all of it, even the world itself. Jonathan was that to him. 

Another mouthful of alcohol was took as the breeze blew more icy rain against Speedwagon’s face. The cold biting his skin as his clothes dripped more, not that he cared anyway. Though, a slight glance upwards at the street in front of him revealed a figure standing there, holding an umbrella to shield himself from the rain as much as possible. 

Neither of the two men said anything as they stood there, looking at one another. How could Jonathan look so fine, so together, after all they have been through? Further evidence that Speedwagon believed Jonathan to be a saint or some kind of angel sent from the Heavens. His angel. 

Jonathan simply looked at him, his features soft and warm like the sun, no, more than the sun, and gave him a soft smile that shot through Speedwagon. He approached him, his footsteps drowned out by the rain crashing into the puddles around them, and stood before him. The umbrella shielding him too from the rain, offering him shelter. He took the hat from the bench, the smile never once leaving his lips, and placed it back upon Speedwagon’s head with care. 

The smile grew a little more at this, “Come on, Speedwagon. You’ll catch your death a cold out here.” With that, Jonathan held his free hand out for Speedwagon, giving him the choice, the opinion. Something he hasn’t had in a long time. His coffee brown eyes met Jonathan’s sapphire blue orbs, such soft, caring eyes. His hand rose up, droplets dripping from his fingertips and interlocking with his large, warm hand. 

With Jonathan around, the rain could fall as hard and brutally as it wished to; for Speedwagon knew that he would be able to endure anything the world threw at him as long as he was by Jonathan’s side. The man was his sun in the sky, his world in the universe, and his umbrella in the rain. 

[wrathion]

Hia! Hope you're doing well c: as another Anduin lover, I'm curious: what do you like about the current Holy King of Stormwind?

ahh i’m doing alright right now, thank you! 

as a general answer? everything, he’s the king who has had a coming-of-age story and carries a strong love of life itself. he’s the boy who grew up in a war-torn world who craves a peaceful end to the fighting. he runs on his gut feeling on what is right above all else, putting himself at risk if he thinks it’ll benefit someone else. he’s the one who agonizes so much about others that he neglects his own needs. he’s anduin wrynn, not just a trope or two in a suit with tied back blond hair.

as a current bfa-centric answer? i really love that they’re not ignoring his anxiety and depression and are actually letting him struggle (albeit subtly) and will hopefully slowly work through it! 

this is big meta and theory territory but hear me out:

varian’s death absolutely ruined anduin. sure, it was something that he was preparing for his entire life, but can you really ever be prepared for something like that? especially in anduin’s situation where he also happened to inherit an entire kingdom. after varian died anduin was in shock, doing his job but not putting the heart he typically would into it. then the champion brings the compass to him and he breaks. velen even says that he “refuses to eat and sleep” which is token self harm. 

of course he has that little moment with varian in the vision of stormwind, and he’s told to do “what a king must do.” varian probably intended this as a message of caring for his people, but just as importantly, himself. but anduin interpreted it as caring primarily for his people, that his role as king was more important than the person behind it. 

it’s evident that he thinks this way because of how he acts, not acknowledging his needs as he commands his own people to fight and die in a war he does not want to fight. a war that he thinks is for the greater good. as i said above, anduin has a need to keep as many people as he can safe, but he’s lost that drive and keeps sending people out hoping for the best. in the beginning of lost honor, genn says that they’re out of soldiers in stormwind and will need to begin drafting farmers. 

he’s also thoroughly inexperienced with war-related strategy, which just adds to the bonfire of his deteriorating mental health and confidence. he sends out a small special team to kill rastakhan and to try and break the alliance between the zandalari and horde. it’s kind of obvious that it would only push them closer, but when you’re fed up with yourself, burnt out from life and desperately need to tick things off the to-do list, thinking rationally doesn’t come naturally. 

and that’s not to say he doesn’t care about the lives he’s losing, he very obviously does. to the point where it’s destroying him.

i think the most obvious example, though, is in before the storm. at the very end, after the gathering (where shit in the anduin planning department starts going wrong). anduin’s looking out on the graves of all who were lost. i’m just going to put the full excerpt here because they’re honestly my favorite in any wow book.

Anduin shook his head in sorrow and disbelief. “I can’t blot out the images of the Desolate Council running as fast as they could to what they thought was a future with their loved ones. I feel responsible. For them. And for them,” he said, gesturing to the living still moving on the field. 

“Sylvanas killed her own people, Anduin,” Genn reminded him. “Not you.” 

“Rationally, of course I know that. But it doesn’t matter. Not in my bones. And not here.” Anduin placed a hand on his chest for a moment, then let it fall. “Those who fell on this field did so because King Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind had promised them they would be safe as they reunited with their loved ones. And they died because of that promise. Because of me.” 

The bitterness in his voice was like acid. Genn, who had never heard it from him before, fell silent. After a time, Anduin spoke.

“You’ve come to lecture me, obviously. Go ahead. I deserve every word.” Genn sniffed and rubbed his beard for a moment, his eyes on the horizon. “Actually, I’ve come to apologize.”

Anduin’s head whipped around, and he didn’t bother to hide his shock. “Apologize? What for? All you did was warn me against this.”

…

Genn took a deep breath. “But he was right. You were right. I still think what was done to the Forsaken against their will was horrifying. But it’s clear to me now that some of them haven’t been broken by it. Some of them are still the people they once were. So I was wrong, and I apologize.” 

Anduin nodded. A smile crossed his face fleetingly, then was gone. It was clear he was still burdened with guilt and stubbornly wouldn’t relinquish the pain of it. Not yet. 

“You were right about Sylvanas,” Anduin said, that cold bitterness lingering in his voice. “Light knows, I wish I’d listened.” 

“I wasn’t right about her, either,” Genn said, startling Anduin for the second time in as many minutes. “Not entirely. I knew she couldn’t let this go by without doing something. I thought she’d attack us. Not her own people.” 

Anduin winced and turned away. “She may have killed them, but I promised the Desolate Council safe passage. Those deaths are on my conscience. They will haunt me.” 

…

Anduin took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded at Genn. 

“Nonetheless, it is a tragedy, and it’s done any chance of peace great harm. It’s destroyed the prospect of working together with the Horde to heal the world. Azerite will continue to threaten the balance of power. It’s hurt the Alliance, too. Sylvanas used a moment that could have been a true turning point as a chance to eliminate people whom she viewed as her enemies. And she did it so smoothly, so well, that I can’t even call her on it. She didn’t break her word. Calia was a would-be usurper. I can’t ask Stormwind to go to war because the warchief of the Horde chose to execute individuals she will now paint as traitors. So she gets away with it. She’s won. She eliminated the opposition, killed the rightful heir to Lordaeron, and did it all while looking like a noble leader for not attacking the Alliance and starting a war.” 

Genn said nothing. He didn’t need to. He simply stood next to Anduin andlet the young king sort it out on his own. 

The minutes passed, and then, finally, Anduin spoke. “I will never, ever stop hoping for peace,” he said. His voice trembled with leashed emotion. “I have seen too much good in too many people to paint them all as evil and worthy of slaughter. And I will also never stop believing that people can change. But I realize now that I’ve been like a farmer expecting to harvest crops from a poisoned field. It’s simply not possible.”

Greymane tensed. The boy was leading to something. 

“People can change,” Anduin repeated. “But some people will never —never—desire to do so. Sylvanas Windrunner is one of those.” 

He took a deep breath. Sorrow and grim resolve made him look older. Genn had seen similar expressions on the faces of those who had been tasked with a heartbreaking duty. 

When the boy spoke, Genn was glad of the words but saddened by his need to say them. 

“I believe,” said Anduin Llane Wrynn, “that Sylvanas Windrunner is well and truly lost.”

anduin admitting sylvanas is incapable of changing is huge, and i honestly missed the whole point of it the first time reading through the book. 

this is the same anduin who took the time to talk to garrosh, and even saved his life because he thought he was capable of changing. the same anduin that believed in garrosh even after the horrible things garrosh did to him and all that he cares for. and now he’s saying he was wrong, with a bitterness in his voice when speaking about his own failure, and what he has to do next.

even genn’s a bit rattled by how self-deprecating and almost hateful anduin’s being, which is kind of telling.

i guess overall i feel like they have something really good building with anduin, and i’m especially hoping they either have his mental illness peak in a moment of desperation where he falls to some certain old-gody forces. 

this might be a bit fanfictiony but having an arc where he works himself out of a depressive episode in the form of old god corruption by using the lessons he’s learned about self-discipline and love in pandaria would be amazing. 

alternatively to fit in with the subtle route they’ve been taking so far, they could push the alliance infighting arc they’ve been building up and have anduin prove his ability as king by handling what he does best, a diplomatic situation. there he could realize that he’s not as inept as he thinks (and acts like) he is, and can start working to care for himself.

tl;dr yeah man i just like anduin a little bit. i think he’s neat is all.

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

Chapter 42: The Show Must Go On

Becoming The Mask

It felt so good to jump back into his usual routine on Monday morning. Jim hummed as he diced vegetables for omelettes. He'd need to go grocery shopping after school, or maybe shop tomorrow and do coupon clipping today. How much leftover pizza did they have? Enough for dinner?

Maybe dinner for one, he confirmed, checking the fridge, so he really should pick up something more substantial. Unless …

Yes, there were cans of mushroom soup in the cupboards, so if they had that for dinner tonight, Jim could put off grocery shopping for one more day.

He brought Barbara's breakfast upstairs. She'd remembered to take off her own glasses last night. Jim kissed her forehead on reflex, and then froze.

Barbara didn't stir. He let out a whisper-soft sigh.

For the past week, Jim and Toby had been brushing their teeth side-by-side, since the Domzalskis only had one bathroom and there was only so much time in the morning before school. Jim had started checking on Jay-Jay using his cellphone instead, even after Toby learned he was a Changeling. Today, brushing his teeth alone, he spat on the mirror again.

Toby deserved something special for lunch, Jim thought, considering how well he had been handling all the strangeness and stress that Jim dragged into his life. Let's see, there were still more eggs …

Jim went through the first few steps of making French toast, but as soon as one side of the bread was finished and flipped, he put cheese on top to melt. He was frying thin slices of onion and tomato and some diced red peppers as well.

Toby loved Chef Jim's Famous Ultimate Grilled Cheese.

Jim left Barbara's lunch in the fridge, like usual, and left to bike to school with Toby, like usual.

It felt wonderful to cook in his own kitchen again.

+=+ 

Jim seemed chipper, Walt noticed. He hoped that meant the boy was in positive contact with his Familiar's mother again, not that Jim was putting up a façade.

Of course he wanted Jim to be able to hide his feelings well, especially vulnerability. Such thespianism was a vital life skill for any Changeling. But he could hope for Jim to genuinely experience whatever positive emotions the young Changeling expressed as well.

"I've got some worrying news," Jim announced, popping into Walter's office after school. The words were at odds with his tone, grin, and bouncing step. "We have a ticking clock, of sorts? The kids want to tell their families trolls are real. Mom hasn't met them but she knows they exist and she's given us a month to do it before she starts trying. So, they're trying to persuade Vendel it's a good idea. Thoughts?"

Walter just gaped. Jim had barely gotten the door closed before he started bubbling out this very disconcerting information. He was still adjusting the piano stool.

"I suppose the possibility of a troll being photographed or filmed and spread by social media could make it worth attaining human allies who are beyond adolescence."

Mrs Nuñez was a local politician, and Mr Scott was a police officer. The scope of damage control they could truly offer in the event of a secrecy breech was limited but existent. Truly, Dr Lake would probably be the best 'respectable figure' to calm the public, if it came to that, since many humans assumed their politicians and law enforcement were corrupt in any case, but first it would be best to try discrediting the evidence and minimizing its exposure.

"Yeah, Mary pointed out basically every human has a camera at all times now." Jim turned idly side-to-side on the rotating stool. "I'm worried about Enrique, though. If Claire exposes him to their parents … He can't 'stay with a friend' like I did while they cool down. But if they're only letting him stay for appearances and don't get a chance to calm down –" He spun all the way around. "D'you think we can talk her out of it?"

"You know Ms Nuñez better than I. Do you?"

Jim made a whining noise high in his throat and spun the stool again, in the opposite direction this time.

"If it's any comfort," Walter offered, "I've seen Ms Janeth's rehearsal and performance schedule for this week, and I imagine Ms Nuñez will be too thoroughly occupied with the Montague-Capulet feud to want to create additional family strife off-stage."

There was a rehearsal for the first three afternoons that week, with the full dress rehearsal Wednesday, opening night on Thursday, and with Friday and Saturday performances to follow.

He should tell Jim about his own worrying news, his plans to leave Arcadia once he found a deputy who wouldn't be subverted or murdered, but Walter hesitated. Face to face with Jim, he found himself wondering if he ought to leave at all. His presence offered some token protection; Otto knew, even if the Polymorph survived a fight with the Trollhunter, Walter would bring about consequences. But if Walter were gone, Otto would have time to disappear.

But Jim was an excellent fighter in his own right, Walter chided himself. The boy had successfully stabbed Bular and lived to tell the tale! And he'd be safer still if – when – Walter's plan succeeded.

Still, he hadn't found a deputy, so perhaps he needn't add to the boy's worries yet.

+=+

"There's a school play," said Jim, apropos of nothing, at dinner on Tuesday night. "Later this week. I'm not in it, but, do you want to go anyway?"

"That sounds nice," said Barbara. "I'll try to clear my schedule."

"It's three nights. I could get tickets for all three. You know, school fundraisers, they're not going to turn down extra money."

"What's the troll school system like?" Barbara had decided to try to ask this sort of thing casually whenever a conversation seemed like it could flow in that direction, to get Jim used to telling her things about trolls and get herself used to hearing it.

"I have no idea. I've never seen a school in Trollmarket, though, so they might do an apprenticeship instead of general education? I'll ask Blinky. Or you could ask Blinky."

Barbara hesitated. She wasn't sure she had the nerve to go back underground yet. "You should invite him to dinner some time."

Jim laughed. "I don't know if you'd want that if you knew what trolls ate." He gasped at his own words. "I meant garbage! The stuff trolls eat is usually really unappetizing to a human. Smelly socks are tasty snacks. I mean, we've – Changelings – we've found some stuff that tastes good in both forms, but I don't know how good they'd be to an unaltered troll."

+=+

"Where have you been, young lady?"

"Dress rehearsal?" Claire frowned at her parents. "The school play, remember?"

Enrique made a happy noise from his doorway-mounted baby-bouncer. Sometimes that dispelled the tension. Tonight it didn't.

"We're very proud you're keeping your commitment to the school," said Javier. "But you have to call us when you're going to be out late. We were worried."

"I told you when you dropped me off this morning!"

She had. Enrique had been in his car seat right behind her. He hated that thing. It was cushioned, and his Familiar's parents had been very fussy about making sure the straps weren't too tight when they noticed he always cried when they put him in it, but that wasn't the point. He hated not being able to move. He couldn't wait until he got big enough not to need it anymore.

"You at least remembered you promised to come tomorrow, right?" Claire continued, narrowing her eyes.

Ophelia checked her phone. Behind the parents' backs, Enrique winced.

"Of course. For opening night."

+=+

"Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance," said Logan – Mercutio – to Steve.

"Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes, with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead, so stakes me to the ground I cannot move."

"Steve's a better actor than I thought," Toby whispered to Darci. He and Nana had ended up beside her and her parents. Darci's dad was a huge, muscle-y guy who had given Toby a suspicious look when the teens greeted one another by name, but hadn't tried to stop them from sitting next to each other.

Steve seemed utterly woebegone, being dragged by his friends to a party to make him forget the girl Romeo liked before meeting Juliet. Toby hadn't known Romeo had a past love – he'd never actually seen the play, but he'd thought part of the point of it was that first love made the characters reckless?

Mercutio launched into a speech about some fairy queen creating nightmares until Romeo interrupted him – "Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing!" – and Benevolio pointed out they were missing the party they'd planned to crash – "This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves. Supper is done, and we shall come too late."

Toby had to choke back a laugh, midway through the next act, when Romeo approached his priest friend and Friar Laurence fretted that young people didn't tend to be awake so early, and so Romeo must not have slept.

"The last is true. The sweeter rest was mine."

"God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?!"

Who knew Shakespeare had snuck so many raunchy and risqué stuff into his work? When Mary, as the Nurse, thought Juliet was simply sleeping in as opposed to faking her death, she teased that Juliet's arranged marriage would be keeping her up late soon and so it was best Juliet got as much sleep as she could before.

"Why, lamb! Why, lady! Fie, you slug-a-bed! Why, love, I say! Madam! Sweet-heart! Why, bride! … What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now. Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, the County Paris hath set up his rest, that you shall rest but little. God forgive me," she added idly, in that way that meant she was only apologizing because it was expected, not because she was truly sorry.

There was a curtain across the stage, dividing Nurse from Juliet's 'bed' while the audience could see both of them.

"Marry and amen, how sound is she asleep! I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam!" Mary pulled the curtain back. "What, dressed and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you." She started to shake Juliet, growing increasingly frantic as Claire appeared limp and unresponsive. "Lady? Lady! Lady!"

Mary's last cry was a full-on scream that made everyone jump.

It wasn't really all that different from a soap opera. Even with all the death and tragedy, Toby was quite enjoying the play.

At least, he was, up until the last scene.

"What's here? A cup, closed in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. Oh, churl – drunk all, and left no friendly drop, to help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make die with a restorative."

Juliet leaned over Romeo. Toby had heard, once, somewhere, that the hardest role in theatre was a dead body, because the actor would feel the urge to move or laugh. Steve let out a brief little "ha!" at the kiss, and then went back to being dead.

"Thy lips are warm … Then I'll be brief. Oh, happy dagger," drawing it from Romeo's scabbard, "this is thy sheath!"

Toby, and several others in the audience, gasped as Claire pressed the prop weapon to her stomach.

"There, rust … and let me die."

"What?" Toby whispered. "Juliet dies in this? No!"

The curtain closed, and Eli came out to deliver the epilogue. "A gloomy peace, this morning with it brings. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; for never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo!"

The audience applauded, and cheered, and whistled, and Claire and Steve got up and started bowing. But all Toby could see was his friend collapsing from a stab wound.

"Toby?" said Darci, putting her hand on his. "You okay?"

"I can't believe Juliet died …"

Jim kept warning them that troll stuff could get them killed. Toby had tried to take the warnings seriously, he really had. This, though, actually seeing Claire die – even a staged death she got right back up from, like Juliet's first, fake death with sleeping potion – this hit Toby harder than all of those warnings all at once.

He forced himself to his feet, forced a congratulatory smile onto his face, and forced his hands into applause.

+=+

Previous Chapter (Vendel is reluctant to let more humans learn trolls exist)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Toby has an emotional breakdown)

Whee, I figured out a way to make Romeo and Juliet plot relevant!

I actually read a transcript of 'Romeo and Juliet' to prepare this chapter. I really wanted Mercutio's Queen Mab speech, but couldn't justify quoting the whole thing, so I just referenced it happening on stage. (No, I didn't study this play in school. The Shakespeare plays we studied were Twelfth Night, Julius Ceaser, Hamlet, and the Scottish play with the cursed name. You know the one.)

Logan is the guy partnered with Mary in the flour babies episode. Darci mentions, "Logan and Mary already killed theirs. They gave Dwight D. Eisen-flour a bath and he turned into mush." Based on screenshots of the classroom, I think Logan is also the unnamed boy seen in the seats at play tryouts.

My high school typically did three performances of the school play, on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Arcadia Oaks High School seems to do only one performance, but I think that's because the first half of the first season ends on opening night and the writers were done with that plotline. The next episode starts a month later, according to Toby's dialogue. That's plenty of time for more performances.

In other news, I’m thinking of doing a podfic for this story. My computer has a decent microphone, but I can’t seem to convert M4A files into MP3s, except by using external websites. I’ve followed the tutorial for doing the conversion with Windows Media Player exactly and it doesn’t work. I need MP3s if I’m going to post podfic on tumblr because tumblr can’t accept M4A uploads.

Apparently I’ll need to have the files hosted on another website, because AO3 can’t accept audio files downloaded directly or works imported from tumblr. SoundCloud sounds like it would work? Do people have recommendations or suggestions?