#instead of accusing them of leaving it out when every single time it has the same format and layout

[skitskatdacat63]

I'm so tired of reading the manga-only jjk discussion threads where people complain about them not animating smth from the manga. Bcs my god, every single time you just gotta wait till the next week's ep and undoubtedly, that thing will be at the beginning of the ep. Like every single time. No patience 😭 no appreciation for dramatic effect 😭

[lgbtlunaverse]

Fandom is so nice to Jiang Cheng's inferiority complex because in reality every single thing he gets accused of is something Wei Wuxian is better at than him.

Jiang Cheng killed Wei Wuxian? Nope. Didn't even get close. Wei Wuxian's own spirits tore him apart before jc could even get there. wwx:1 jc:0

Jiang Cheng tortures people? We get two and a half rumours and a mention from jin ling that jc has 'captured' demonic cultivators before, but who is also apparently confident that just letting wwx run off will kill the issue even though those earlier rumours said ~no one who sandu shengshou captured was ever seen again~

The word jiang cheng uses when he tries to talk big game about 'beating the truth' out of Wei Wuxian's is a word that carries the context of pestering someone to do their homework. Doesn't exactly strike fear into my heart.

Wei Wuxian? Excellent at torture. A prodigy. Did you fucking see what he did to Wen Chao? Dude didn't have fingers anymore because wei wuxian made him eat them. He ripped out his hair, burned his skin off, and then stalked him for several days just to prolong the pain. He forced Wang Lingjiao to bite Wen Chao's dick off and then made her shove a stool leg down her own throat! 10/10, no notes. Absolutely horrifying.

Meanwhile Jiang Cheng's idea of torture is getting a dog to bark at Wei Wuxian for a few seconds. Weak, unoriginal, I bet fairy was literally wagging her tail the whole time. 2-0

Jiang Cheng made the entire cultivation world believe Wei Wuxian was up to no good on the burial mounds and ultimately orchestrated his downfall? lol. lmao, even

It's a big thing in certain corners of the fandom to really zoom in one one particular phrase at the end of chapter 73, where after wwx and jc have their staged duel to make the world believe they hate each other jiang cheng tells everyone wwx has defected and become "a public enemy'' or "an enemy to the cultivation world" or whatever the translation you're familiar with decided upon.

(As an aside, something I really like about this line is that the last half of it is almost exactly the same, like verbatim, as what wwx told him to say. like, the chapter is really hammering home just how much jc is speaking from a script here. wwx tells jc to say "今后魏无羡无论做出什么事，都与云梦江氏无关." and jc says "今后无论此人有何动作，一概与云梦江氏无关" the only meaningful difference is that he says 'this person' instead of wwx's name)

I've seen it said that this bit, the use of 'enemy' was said without wei wuxian's approval, that jc deviated from the script just to hurt his ex-shixiong for leaving him. And that this is what caused all the other clans to turn against wei wuxian. Regardless of if this is what jc and wwx discussed, or if jc had malicious motivations for it (considering my conclusions above, you can guess where i fall) it doesn't really matter, because the novel tells us when the clans completely freak out and become convinced wei wuxian is out to get them (though of course they've been wringing their hands about it since the literal day wwx ran off with the wen, months before jiang cheng visited) very neatly in chapter 75!

It's when they find out about Wen Ning.

And how do they find out about Wen Ning?

Because Wei Wuxian took him on nighthunts! And they kicked ass!

...Wei Wuxian, my man, why are you on nighthunts??? Why are you showing off your incredibly cool sentient fierce corpse buddy, who is way better and stronger than all the other fierce corpses, in front of the whole cultivation world??

Whatever his motivations (extra money, maybe?? they were strapped for crash) I can only draw the conclusion wwx had already given up on appearing calm or non-threatening and didn't care if the clans thought he was a threat, because they'd believe whatever they wanted anyway. Which he seems to clearly be aware of the whole time.

Regardless, we know that this is what created the myth of the Yiling patriarch. It's literally when the title first shows up!

Even if you really believe jc was secretly plotting against wwx in chapter 73, he's clearly doing a shit job of it because nothing he said made anywhere near as big an impact as this. Flopped!

The other point people use to argue Jiang Cheng caused wei wuxian's downfall is Jin Guangyao's speech in Guanyin temple about how jiang cheng could have saved wei wuxian if only he stood by him. Setting aside that jin guangyao is trying to get into jiang cheng's head here, and isn't necessarily saying what he really believes (though it very well might be! who knows with a character like jgy. assuming he's always lying is just as misleading as assuming he's always saying the truth) the fact is, if you read the speech closely, what he's talking about is not the 'public enemy' line, he's talking about the bond between them. The fact that people wanted wei wuxian out of yunmeng jiang, because the two were too powerful together.

He's talking about that one time Jiang Cheng very publically kicked wei wuxian out of the sect!

Which, unbeknownst to Jin Guangyao, was in fact Wei Wuxian's idea the whole time.

final score: 3 for you wei wuxian, you go wei wuxian! And nothing for Jiang Cheng bye.

[ffsg0jo]

𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

character :: higuruma x fem reader

warnings :: fluff, mentions of death/ghosts, allusions to depression, children, pregnancy, higuruma has low self esteem sometimes, kissing, cute kids

w/c :: 1000

a/n :: thank you so so much @xodapawp for sending this request. it was written as a part of my fics for gaza commissions that im doing. if you enjoyed it and would like to donate to gaza, then please check out the linked post for more information and @ficsforgaza too !!

life was fleeting, something hiromi knew all too well. things could change in mere seconds, time slipping like sand between one’s fingers. the tighter he tried to hold onto it, the faster the streams ran, leaving behind bitter, salty grains.

guilt weighed on his shoulders with the intensity of a thousand suns, blinding his view and blurring the lines between sense and nonsense. the wax wings on hiromi’s shoulders melting, facilitating his spiralling descent. deeper and deeper he fell into the endless abyss of his mind. he was helpless, his sense of justice skewed. the mental subjugation and torment seemingly infinite.

but then you came into his life.

hiromi has no idea what he did to be deserving of you. he keeps waiting and waiting for something to go wrong, retribution for his misdeeds. through restless nights where he could hear shrieks of the ghosts of his past coming back to haunt him. he was so sure you could hear them too and that you’d leave, but you didn’t. instead holding him close to you through it all, the comforting weight of your body on his, fighting the emptiness within.

you loved and accepted him for what he was, a broken man in need of respite. he was underserving of your kindness and tried to push you away, but you saw the good in his heart and called out to it. you helped him heal and fought his hardships with him, side by side. slowly but surely, the fog in his mind lifted, the blinding lights dimming until his view was clear. in you he found atonement. he found liberation.

you blessed him with, not one, but two angels, with a third on the way. hiromi thought he knew happiness, like winning a case for someone wrongly accused of a crime or sinking into a steamy bath after a long, tiring day. but when he first laid eyes on his sweet baby boy he burst into tears, kissing your face repeatedly, his heart swollen, full of love. he had never been happier (save for the day he married his one true love).

hiromi watched his son grow day by day, looking more and more like him. his face may have been an exact replica of his father’s, but his son’s sincerity and open-hearted nature was all yours. in his son’s smile he saw you.

time flew before his eyes, only now he looked back on his memories with fondness and gratitude. before he knew it, his family was due to expand again, with the addition of his baby girl. he was the luckiest man in the world, his heart overflowing with warmth, happiness running through the ends of his hairs to the tips of his toes.

with you laying your head on his shoulder, his son doing his homework on the living room floor, and his daughter sleeping in his arms, he felt truly at peace. looking down at his precious daughter he found a million reasons why he had loved (and always will love) you.

hiromi was never one to appreciate to his looks. but in the mornings, when shaving before work, he’d end up scrutinising every single little detail. he saw his son, looking him in his eyes, a bigger version of his daughter’s cute nose on his face. that infectious smile of yours now mirrored on his lips. how could he have ever felt so insecure about himself when his children are the very essence of his being. looking at his beloved children, he thinks, no he knows, there is beauty inside of him too. that there always was.

 “romi is everything okay?”

your voice lulls him out of his reverie, bringing him back to the present. your daughter was out of his arms and was now calling your son’s name, clambering onto his back whilst he was on the floor colouring. he paid her no mind, used to be treated like a climbing frame, and continued working on his school project.

hiromi, sat cuddling you on the sofa, laughs when she starts pulling his hair. his son finally has enough and stands up, pulling the three-year-old onto his shoulders, and runs around the tea table pretending to be a plane. your husband turns back to you, absentmindedly rubbing your swollen stomach.

“just thinking my love,” he says, leaning down and kissing between your brow. you hum and snuggle into his arms further.

“penny for your thoughts?”

“absolutely not, they’re worth more than a pretty penny,” he jokingly scoffs.

“fine,” you huff, leaning up to kiss him tenderly. “a kiss for your thoughts.”

he acquiesces, leaning down to press his cheek against yours.

“just thinking about how lucky i am to have you.” you turn your face to meet hiromi’s gaze, eyes shining at the strength of the sincerity in his admission. you bring your hands up to hold his face, pressing kisses to his lips.

“i’m the lucky one my sweetheart, you’ve given me everything i could’ve ever asked for and more.”

a warmth rushes through his body at your words and he captures your lips in the sweetest kiss. the hand on your stomach moves to your waist as he gently pulls you into him, deepening the kiss.

“ewww daddy’s eating mummy.” your daughter exclaims, pointing down from her brother’s shoulders.

you pull apart and laugh at her words. your son only looking at you both with a smile, heart warming at the sight of his parents being so openly in love.

hiromi jumps up from the sofa and runs towards your daughter, grabbing her off your son’s shoulders and playfully bites and kisses her cheeks.

over the sounds of her delighted giggles, hiromi exclaims “gonna gobble you next”, aggressively om nom nomming her cheeks.

your son sits down next to you and lays his head onto your chest, hugging you, mindful not to put too much weight onto your midsection. immediately your hand comes up to stroke his hair and you kiss his forehead. he’s so much like his father, both in personality and looks.

laughing at his dad’s antics, both you and your son fondly watch hiromi now throw your daughter up into the air and catch her. rubbing your stomach, you pray the child in your womb turns out exactly like their father.

truly, what a blessed family you’ve both created.

© ffsg0jo 2024 — do not plagiarise, repost, modify, or translate any of my work, in any way shape or form; i will piss in your cereal if you do. all work belongs to me and me only.

[causenessus]

try again

part 0.4. NEXT TIME

"the playground seemed so big when they were younger. and now they’re here again, 10 years later, and it looks small. their world is bigger than just this playset now. the metal that forms the foundation of the structure is still a shiny, vibrant red, but the cracked, faded plastic shows its age. where has time gone? 'who are you now?' she wants to ask. as a kid, time goes by slowly, and you tell your parents you can’t wait to grow old. they tell you to enjoy your childhood, but you never believe them. and even now, she’s not sure she does. she's not old, but old enough to know time goes by fast. since their meeting in her office, she’s reflected more on how she’s grown up. she doesn’t miss her childhood– she likes the freedom that has come with adulthood, but at the same time, it’s slowly weighing her down. she’s old enough, that she can no longer spend her summers relaxed in a quiet house, laying in bed all day with the door open while both her parents are at work. she can't spend the nights stretched out on her back, against wet, dewy grass, looking at the stars with him while staining her favorite shirt. now she has responsibilities to take care of every day, and any little mistake can no longer be taken back. she’s an adult now, and no one is there to pick her up when she falls."

content warnings + notes: calling atsumu a little cupid whore (/lh), drinking, y/n is having a crisis, pay attention to unsent messages :) very long written part... oops </3

she downs the last of her glass in one go. 

it’s cheap whiskey, and she hates the taste. it’s probably the worst she’s ever had, but the burn down her throat is a little pleasant. 

completely going against her plan to drink something light, she decided she would need some liquid courage if she was going to do this. her hands are splayed across the cold bar counter as she stands from her chair, mind buzzing a little as she grounds herself. 

akaashi doesn’t notice her absence in his drunken state, but iwaizumi does. kita looks up as well, but remains seated, keeping akaashi company after nodding to iwaizumi who stands up.

“where are you going?” he asks following her out of the bar, pushing past a few groups of people in their way. he's not asking it like he's accusing her of anything, he just sounds concerned.

but he doesn’t need to worry, and she faces him as they make it out. “going to see omi,” she practically sings the answer, her voice careless as the nickname spills out of her mouth before she even realizes it. it comes too naturally to her, and the thought ruins the nice numbness in her veins from the alcohol. instead, she starts to feel the guilt build up again.

iwaizumi still stands in front of her, arms crossed, matching her own stance. “you’re going to see sakusa?” he repeats, brows raised.

“mhm,” she hums, shifting from one foot to the other. her shoes are starting to bother her, too. she'll probably take them off as soon as iwaizumi lets her go.

“where?”

she sighs, starting to feel restless just standing there. the warm lights and ruckus from inside the bar invite her back in, and so does the pull she feels in the opposite direction down the street, where she'll see him. “an old park, can i go?”

“no, hold on,” he stops her before she can even take a step, “you’re going to go meet a man you haven’t talked to in years after a single interaction at a park this late at night?”

“yes?” she quirks a brow at him, “it’s an old park we used to go to a lot. it’s not far from here and i know him. i’ll be okay.”

“i’m not saying sakusa’s going to do anything to you, but i’m not letting you walk there alone. especially when you’ve been drinking. let me make sure you get there safely and then i’ll leave you, deal?” he proposes, and she sees how much he cares in his eyes. they’re a pretty olive green and despite how sharp they are, there’s so much love in them. it reminds her of her own eyes, and how she feels when she looks at sakusa; her head starts to panic in alarm and get defensive, but at the same time, her heart slows down, as if telling her he's safe.

she knows iwaizumi makes a good point, and there’s nothing wrong with having a little extra safety, or a human purse. “fine,” she sighs, “but only if you hold my shoes.”

their walk to the park is silent, but it’s a peaceful silence. she’s walking next to him barefoot, feeling even shorter than before. he questions her a few times, to make sure she actually knows where she’s going, and she insists that she does. she’s had a little bit to drink, yes, but she’s not drunk. and she's confident she could still find her way to this park blindfolded. she’s walked these sidewalks hundreds of times, ran to this park from every direction and route possible. it was always their spot, whether they lay in the wet grass or sat on the playset. the memories of being with him back then make her feel a little grim, and iwaizumi looks down at her, noticing.

“you okay?” he asks, nudging her shoulder closest to him with his arm.

“yeah,” she sighs, watching the way her shoes clank against each other in his hand with every step they take.

“what’re you thinking?” he asks, still looking down at her and she looks back up at him.

“i just don’t know what i’m doing,” she says, trying to voice her feelings while she turns to stare back ahead of them. “what are we gonna do? what does he like doing now? what if i’ve changed and he doesn’t like who i am anymore? i'm so scared of disappointing him.”

“you’re good enough as you are, y/n,” he silences her and she glances back at him in surprise. “don’t let a man change how you see yourself. you’re good as you are, and if he doesn’t think so, he can fuck off. there's no such thing as an expectation or a right way for you to act. he’s probably changed too, and that’s just how people work. did he text you or did you text him?”

she gives him a smile at his words, nudging him back with her shoulder as a way of thanking him, “he texted me.”

he gives her a grin at that, “he texted you? asking to see you?” when she nods he continues, "damn that's ballsy. he really wants you, y/n. and i hope he's a good person. i’ve seen him around and worked a little bit with him, he seems alright.”  

she flusters a little bit at his words, “i’m sure it’s not like that. we just used to be very good friends, you know that. i’ve never stopped missing him, maybe he felt a little bit of the same way.”

he nods at her words, giving a hum in thought. they’re walking along the fence that’s been set up around the park, and she can see the entrance coming up, where a lone lamp post is lighting the way. “but you want him, don’t you?”

she knows he’s asking it in a romantic sense, and she does. she knows what she feels for him is more than just friendly, and she’s felt stupid for never being able to fall in love with anyone else because she’s been stuck on him this entire time. “i’m happy with anything,” she decides to say, “if we start hanging out again, that’s enough for me. i just want him to be a part of my life.”

they stop at the park entrance, and she can see the playset from here, just a bit down the path. “do you want me to walk you there? or are you’re fine from here? i think the walk helped you sober up a little bit, so i feel better about leaving you here now. just make sure you text me if you feel even slightly off, got it?”

“got it!” she responds with a smile, giving him a small salute as a joke. “thank you for walking me here, iwa. i'll be fine on my own now and i’ll text you when i'm walking home.”

he rolls his eyes at the salute but gives her a smile, “sounds good. i’ll check in with you then as well. i might come meet you halfway or who knows, maybe your guy will want to walk you home?”

he’s giving her another shitty grin that she’d like to slap off his face, and it’s her turn to roll her eyes, “whatever, iwa. see you in a little bit.”

she pulls him into a hug, trying to tell him all her feelings at once, thanking him for his advice and for walking her here, and he’s quick to reciprocate it, rubbing her back for a second before they pull away. he gives her her shoes and waves her off, making sure she steps onto the playground before he leaves, and she sees him.

tonight, it seems they’ll be sitting on the top of the playset, above a tube that connects one platform to another. she steps up onto one of the platforms first, dropping her shoes on it before clambering on top of the structure.

he offers her a hand after watching her (probably ungraceful) climb which she hesitates to take for a second. her heart feels like it's trying to escape her chest as she takes it, the contact sending chills along her skin.

“hi,” she whispers after she's sat down, stealing a glance at him, unsure of where to start.

“hi,” he says back, already looking at her. he looks better than when she saw him last, but perhaps that's just because today has been better for him. there are still bags under his eyes that she can see despite the lack of light around them, but she can also see that his eyes look brighter today. she wants to mention it, say she’s glad to see that he looks like he's doing well today, but she shouldn’t. it’s too early–

“you look good today.”

the words spill out of her mouth and she immediately slaps a hand over it. she had drank more after texting him purposefully, knowing that it would mess with her ability to reason and this was the consequence, although she wasn't sure yet if it was a positive or negative one.

he laughs in response, giving her a small smile that she hasn’t seen in years. she missed seeing it; she missed him.

“thank you,” he says, holding her gaze and she’s unable to look away, “you look good too. although maybe a little drunk.”

her cheeks are burning red and she feels hot despite the fact that she was practically shivering the entire way here, latching onto iwaizumi and his body heat. “no i– well– yes, i have been drinking but i didn’t mean it that way– i mean you do look good–” she has to take a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, “i meant you look happier today, sorry.”

he’s still looking at her, smiling. and maybe it’s a tiny bit bigger than it was before, and she smiles back.

she has no idea it’s because of her–that he seems happier today. he’s only just found her again after so many years apart, and yet he’s glad she’s in his life again. this is only the second time they’ve seen each other after so long, and she’s already had this big of an impact on him. and maybe it was due to atsumu’s influence, and the way that he kept bringing her up, and how it had been their entire conversation over dinner, but he didn’t really care. he was happy to be talking about her again, and to see her again. they had been so close, and it felt strangely nostalgic whenever he saw her, as if he was a child again, tossing and turning on a bed stand, sick to his stomach for home.

but he had been homesick for her this entire time, and he didn’t want to talk about her as if their time together had passed; he wanted to be close to her again. but only if she let him: “that guy you came here with, are you guys–”

“oh, no no no,” she immediately cuts him off, shaking her head before he gets the wrong idea. “he’s just a friend. my roommates and i went out to dinner today and then we went drinking. he just didn’t want me to walk here alone.”

he nods, feeling strangely relieved to hear that. “i just came from eating out with my roommates, too. i cut it short because one of them was being annoying.”

she hums in thought, a smile breaking out on her face, “hm, that can’t possibly be atsumu, can it?”

he can’t even joke back, just rolls his eyes with a sigh at the mention of his friend.

“i just texted him earlier tonight. finally scolded him for setting up that entire meeting between us. i mean– who even thinks to do something like that?”

“just him. he’s got one brain cell working for him and it’s got a funny way of working,” sakusa responds, looking forward to the field in front of them. they used to spin around on that field, trying to stay standing the longest before they both fell onto wet grass, too dizzy to keep standing. “i think it worked out nice, but there were definitely other ways he could have planned that out.”

she can’t help but look at him, slightly surprised. so he was happy to see her? perhaps she should’ve understood that by now; here they were sitting side by side on an old playset. “yeah, it did,” she can’t help but say, not even thinking twice about agreeing with him. “and if you don’t mind me bringing it up, do you think you will come back for a second meeting? i was just wondering.”

“yeah, i’m thinking about it,” he answers, still not looking at her, and she thinks maybe she shouldn’t have asked the question. she’s brought the topic of conversation back to her job, and reminded herself of everything she shouldn’t be doing right now. she shouldn’t be doing any of this. she’s looking forward to seeing him in her office again, but she shouldn’t. she should be treating him as a client, not as an old face or a silly old crush. and she shouldn’t be seeing him outside of the office; it ruins that professional relationship she should be trying to maintain. she's giving into him too easily, even after he had been the one to accuse her of something hurtful upon their first words to each other in years.

a particularly cold wind blows through and she shivers, breathing in sharply as her shoulders raise towards her ears on instinct, trying to protect them from the cold. in her defense, she hadn't foreseen sitting on a playset in the middle of the night today and had not dressed accordingly.

“are you cold?” he asks, hand already reaching towards the open black jacket he was wearing, a plain white shirt underneath.

she’s looking at him, face completely blank. her mind is so far gone, thinking about countless other things, including every single way this interaction could go. ‘what was she even doing here? why did she agree to come?’ the moment he texted her she put up little to no resistance. she lasted one text, trying to set up a boundary between them to prevent herself from getting hurt and then completely dropped it. how could he be so casual about seeing her again? was their friendship something shallow to him? something he could easily replace or come back to?

he’s saying her name, and her mind returns to the boy in front of her, blinking twice before responding, “sorry. i was just thinking about something. i’m fine. you don’t need to give me your jacket or anything.”

“but if i want to?” he asks and this is where she failed last time, and will fail again, and will always fail, because she can never resist him.

“i–”

the jacket is already around her shoulders before she knows it. it’s warm, and the weight of it on top of her shoulders is comforting. the smell of him is enveloping all of her senses and her entire mind, and she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but it.

it was simple, and really not that heavy or distinctive of a smell. just clean clothes–his detergent, and maybe a hint of lemon or lavender. it was easy to get used to, and it had become familiar to her after being around him so long in the past, but she hadn’t smelled it in so long, she felt like she was suffocating now. with the smell came so many memories associated with him, and it took everything in her not to let out a shaky breath, giving away her emotions.

he didn’t know what to say, looking at her. her chin was resting on top of her knees, pulled up close against her chest, and her eyes were closed, brows furrowed as if she was trying desperately to hold something in. had he come off too strongly? he liked to think he still knew her, could read her mind, tell when she was cold, and when she needed something, but maybe he was wrong, or just moving too fast. maybe she didn’t feel the same way, and didn’t want to be friends again.

“thanks,” she murmurs finally, eyes opening again, although she’s staring at the ground below them, and he’s unsure of where to look–at her, or the ground as well.

“yeah,” he replies, and the conversation falls quiet between them again.

it’s almost comfortable between them. it would be if she wasn't feeling like she was ruining everything and only digging herself a bigger hole. maybe they went quiet because he was sick of her now, and regretted asking to see her. and should she even care or not? should she get up and leave right now? what was the right thing to do right now, objectively? not what was right according to her heart, but according to her head?

she should be keeping her distance from him, not allowing him to get closer, giving him the chance to hurt her again. he had let them get distant, she reminded herself. he had let their friendship crumble without saying a word, he didn’t see her the way she saw him, and she couldn’t rely on him to be there for her.

“how are you?” he breaks the silence, and the question sets off every nerve in her body. it’s like her mind is being torn in two, trying to find an answer to the simple question. it’s not really that simple– he’s asking it, referring to the last 10 years of her life, and he’s asking her to be vulnerable and share about herself, and she can’t do that.

“don’t do that to me,” she says, shutting her eyes again.

“do what?” he’s looking at her, at his jacket draped around her shoulders, and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to hold himself back from reaching out to fix her hair, which has been slightly caught underneath the jacket. 

she lets out a heavy, quiet breath, “don’t ask me that– like you care.”

“i do care,” he responds immediately, and she’s sure if she looked up at him, he’d be looking at her. but if she looks at him, she’ll break.

“we shouldn’t be doing this. we can’t be doing this. i shouldn’t be seeing you outside of my office. i listened to you talk about your struggles for an hour that you would've otherwise paid for if it wasn't the first meeting. you can’t turn around and ask how i am for free. that’s not fair. we should be nothing more than a therapist and a client. it’s easier for me to look at you that way because–” her voice gets caught in her throat for a second as she tries to talk confidently, but her voice gives away her feelings. she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears before they even reach her eyes, but she blinks through them, “because i look at you and still see what we used to be. but so much happened between us, and then you left, and that still hurts.”

‘then will you let me make it up to you? then can we go back to what we were before? and can we be more?’ the words are heavy in his head, and too forward to say out loud, but he has to say something. he has to say something now because he didn’t say anything back then.

he had always assumed that she had just been disappearing from his life altogether–from his notifications, the school hallways, and his walks home, but he realized now she had done that on purpose. she had purposely removed herself from his life so they would never see each other, and he had never stopped her. of course she hadn’t believed him, when he had said it was good to see her in her office, and of course she hadn’t fully understood what his ulterior motives were when he texted her out of the blue about wanting to see her again, because he had never showed how much he cared back then. but he had to tell her now that she was worth everything.

“i don’t mind paying it,” he ends up saying, and finally gets her to look at him, “i don’t mind paying to see you for an hour. i’d pay to be around you anyday, especially if you’re going to refuse to see me anywhere else, then i’ll just force you to put up with me for an hour every week.”

she laughs with a shake of her head, “you’re not forcing me to see you. i want to see you outside of that time…i just–i shouldn’t.”

“why not?” he can’t help but ask. “you’re still friends with atsumu, too. you text him outside of your appointments all the time.”

“yes but–” i like you more than a friend. hell, i’ve been in love with you for the past 10 years of my life. actually, probably for even longer, but who’s even counting at this point– she takes a deep breath again. she should leave soon, and think about this. she’s going to end up letting him convince her if she keeps listening to him, “maybe next time. i’ll tell you how i’ve been next time, okay?”

she’s giving him a next time, and he’ll take whatever he can get. they can start slow again. being her client is like being her acquaintance. people are always acquaintances before they’re friends; they can grow from here.

"when is next time?" he responds quickly, realizing it sounds like she’s going to stand up and leave soon, but he's not losing sight of her again.

she avoids looking at him, keeping her knees are pulled to her chest as she picks at the worn-down plastic of the playground tube they're sitting on, "i don't know, sakusa. i really need time to think about all of this. i don’t know what i’m doing here, or why i showed up tonight.”

her words feel like a burn in his lungs, but even when his sides are aching on his morning runs, he keeps going. "but you showed up anyway."

she finally looks at him, and he swears he could get lost in her eyes forever. he can’t believe he went through their entire friendship without telling her how beautiful she was, in every single way. he can’t believe he ever let go of her. perhaps that cliche saying was true, that you never know how important something really is until you lose it.

"i did," she echoes, continuing to stare into his own eyes.

"are you going to leave?" he asks, unable to look away.

she looks back down at the threads of green plastic she was pulling at, and his eyes follow. they used to meet at this playset all the time. during the summer, when she’d sleep over, they’d stay up until three in the morning, and then she’d nudge him about sneaking out. he used to worry about what would happen if his parents checked on them and saw that they were gone if they sneaked out, but she always ended up convincing him in the end. they rarely fought or had disagreements. with enough talking, they always managed to persuade the other to agree with them.

“i am. because we both need time to think. you need to think about if you’re going to see me again for therapy and i just need to think. about everything," she replies, and he watches her grab the edge of the tube, steadying herself as she moves to stand before he slides himself off the tube onto the ground below. it’s not that far of a drop for him now, although it was the scariest drop ever as a kid. now he stands eye level with most of the playset, but she's looking at him like it's still that big of a fall, mouth slightly agape in surprise.

“i’ll help you down,” he says with a smile and she blinks.

“no, i’m fine–” her words die out as he looks at her, brows raised in expectancy. this is what he meant: they were always able to push the other to do something, no matter how much they tried to resist in the beginning.

she lets out a sigh, trying to buy time as she fixes her skirt, preparing herself to slip off the tube. it really shouldn't be that scary, but she exclaims as she drops, barely registering the hands on the sides of her waist that catch her while her own clamp down on his shoulders.

her face is red as he lowers her down gently to the ground. whether it’s from the embarrassing noise she let out or the fact that he caught her, she’s not sure. maybe it’s both. even when he lets go of her, she can feel his hands on her still, as if they've been permanently etched into her skin. he’s looking down at her, and there’s a hint of playfulness in his eyes and the smile on his lips. he's too close to her, and she can't stop looking at his lips so she looks down at the ground instead, clutching at the jacket around her shoulders before she remembers it’s not hers.

“oh, here’s your jacket back,” she starts, moving to take off the piece of clothing before he stops her with a hand over he own.

“you can keep it for a little longer if you– if you let me walk you home,” he says, on the verge of losing all of his confidence, but he just can’t let go of her. he doesn't want to watch her leave, but he knows she needs a break.

she looks up at him, feeling like her lips are quivering with how nervous and flustered she feels, “you don’t have to do that, really. i can walk home by myself.”

“but if i want to?”

it’s a repeat of a conversation they had earlier, because she can never give him a complete no, and he always knows to take that as a yes.

she’s ruining everything she’s trying to do for herself right now. she’s trying to set a boundary between them, and horribly failing. because what if he walks her home, and he happens to live nearby again? what if they start to see each other more often? or worst of all, what if he ends up leaving again?

well what if he doesn’t?

oh, whatever.

fuck the what ifs.

they can try again.

.

.

.

"it's gonna rain soon / and pull me back in.

"i had the words / you thought a hundred times

"oh darlin' / will you still walk me back home?'"

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

not really any extras! i just hope u enjoyed <3 and that this chapter was good and not too long or just a bunch of rambles!! i had like three ideas i had randomly wrote down and then just copied and pasted into this chapter and was trying to make them all fit 😭

IWAIZUMI AND Y/N HAVE A PLATONIC SIBLING-TYPE RELATIONSHIP!!! JUST MAKING THAT CLEAR also i'm a sucker for iwaizumi but that's besides the point

omi just kind of got up and left at some point during dinner when atsumu got tipsy and started talking to shoyo and bo. he said goodbye to osamu and then left

they all have each other's locations anyway and shoyo and bokuto trust him to know what he's doing

kita, akaashi, and iwa ended up going home soon after iwa got back from walking y/n to the park and then he and kita stayed up all night waiting for her to come home while akaashi was passed out <3

this fic lowkey goes a little bit off the rails!! but hopefully u guys enjoy it <33

AND I KEEP FORGETTING TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS I'VE KIND OF LOST IT NOW!! but y/n's pfp is a pufferfish because they symbolize protecting yourself and setting boundaries <3 interpret that as u will

taglist: @eggyrocks @wyrcan @guitarstringed-scars @strawberryuri @violetesensou @kakeru-eem @glmge @heytheredemonsss @mollyrolls @bemebiu @daszy @snail-squasher @0moonii @thiisisntlovely @todorokiskitten @rory-cakes @iiwaijime @iatethemochi @yuminako @savemebrazilhinata @kismyscars @bokutoko @nobodybutnnoorr @wolffmaiden @daisy-room @softpia @lees-chaotic-brain @v3nusplanetofluv @crispchocolates @phoenix-eclipses @hhoneyhan @encrypta @rockleeisbaeeee @cr4yolaas @zombriesworld @localgaytrainwreck @moucheslove @hibernatinghamster @notverymarley @certaindreampost @akaakeis @ciderscape @lucien-luna @strawbrinkofdeath @wave2mia @samuel1004 @01trickster10 @dazqa @cosmiicdust @chemiru

[i4bellingham]

hi! if you are taking requests:

could i ask for an angst of jude and the reader getting into a fight which results in the reader leaving the house? but jude gets worried about them?

thank you!!!

i also love your fics so much

I LOVE YOU, I’M SORRY : jude bellingham x reader

cw: cussing, misunderstandings, jude being an asshole in the first half but don’t worry because he redeems himself :P

i need to recover from my writer's block some more, i am not a fan of how this piece turned out 😭

You're not sure if Jude fully understands your argument, or if he does, there is a possibility that he deems it unnecessary to recognize the weight of your worries because he just do not give a single fuck about it.

Instead of trying to see from where you're coming from, he does the opposite and tries to divert the entire conversation happening in a different direction. Point-blank counters, shifting blames and the refusal to look into the bigger picture of what's happening around him becomes his defense mechanism.

Worst of it all? This has been going on for two weeks now, and he's never once acknowledged your worries let alone ease them down. And quite frankly, you're just tired of it all.

You love Jude, that's an irrefutable fact but just because you love him doesn't mean you'll continue staying with him unless something changes. Especially how he treats your current concern in the relationship.

“You’re being ridiculous. She’s part of the team, she treats everybody like that.” Here goes his usual counter attack, rapidly shrugging off your uneasiness just as fast as you've voiced them out.

An exasperated sigh leaves your lips, you know this conversation with him will end in the same way it had just like yesterday; unresolved and thrown out of the window.

“‘She treats everybody like that’? So she goes to wipe every player’s sweat off their bodies too Jude? Is that it?” You sarcastically ask. “Funny how I’ve never seen her do it once or did she do it in time when she knew I’d arrive?”

Jude looks like he's trying to hold himself from screaming at you to understand his point; a pointless argument one both of you can't win unfortunately, as he too grits his teeth and the inevitable shutting of the television off is drawn as he stands up from the couch.

“I’m done here. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He says before making his way towards the stairs.

“You never want to talk about anything if it comes to her. I don’t know why but you're awfully protective of her Jude.” Your own words bring a sting to your chest. You know you're just pushing him to his limit at this point but recalling all those times since last week that he's evaded any talk about her or your worries that she's crossing a professional line with him, you yourself is barely hanging on a thread from snapping.

Jude stops and whips his entire body to face you. There is a tight frown on his face, brows pulling in a scrunch before a scoff leaves him. He walks back on the first level of the stairs, crossed arms and frowning face.

“Are ya hearin’ yourself right now?” He incredulously asks you. “You’re soundin’ ridiculous with thisㅡ this accusations that you have-”

You stand up from sitting on the couch. “They’re not accusations Jude. Merely something that I noticed since you've refused to talk to her about setting boundaries especially in a professional setting like that.”

“It’s weird to talk about it with her considerin’ she’s not doing anything wrong-”

“Oh so invading my boyfriend’s personal space, being a complete bitch when I’m there and being awfully comfortable with touching you is not wrong!?” You cut him off, the rise and fall of your chest apparent as you spoke from your voice raising. “I’m not even asking you for something big Jude, all I want is for you to settle a boundary with her because as your girlfriend I feel disrespected by her and her actionsㅡ and you're not making me feel any better by taking her fucking side every time we talk. I’m so tired of having this conversation all the time just for my worries to remain unresolved, I’m just so fucking tired of you Jude...”

Swiping off your phone and car keys from the table, you left a stunned Jude at the bottom of the stairs as you drove off and away from your so called home. If he can't get a grip and start acting like how a boyfriend should, then you don't have anything to stay for in this relationship. Not even the love he proclaims he have for you.

ㅡ

You don’t know how long you've been sitting here. With your phone completely shut off and the silence inside the car being your only company, there was nothing else for you to do but wallow in self-pity and self-hatred.

You don't understand why it was so difficult for Jude to have the talk that you've asked him for since last week. Why he was so bothered by the idea of setting a professional boundary with one of the team’s new athletic trainers was beyond you.

He had always hit you with the same lines that she wasn't doing anything wrong, that she's part of the team and that it was awkward to have that kind of talk with her yada yada. Honest to God if you didn't have this much trust on Jude, you're near to thinking and convincing yourself that he's probably cheating, and that thought alone makes you wanna hurl the content of your stomach from tonight's dinner.

You've had countless of talks about him and setting boundaries, you've had multiple fights because of her but never once were your worries ever acknowledged by your own boyfriend. And it pains you more than anything to go through such a situation where you feel like your feelings are being invalidated in the relationship that you try so hard to understand and have patience for.

It wasn't a huge request. You didn't ask him to move the moon for you, fix the climate change or explore the entire ocean floor but to merely establish a limit and an extent to where she can act out in her comfort. But unfortunately things just doesn't work in the way you wanted them too so now you're here, sat inside your car with the heater blasting on in the outskirts of the city alone.

And you stay there for a few more hours just until the sliver of sun peek through in between the mountain ranges. You think you may have dozed off in your seat at some point during the entire night you were there but you don't dwell on the thought for too long, not when you have to drive all the way back in the city to face another dreaded day with the possibility of yet another fight happening.

You purse your lips, recalling the last time that either you or Jude went home and there was no worries for things like this. It seems almost so long ago when the both of you were reveling in each other's presence, finding comfort in one another as you do the most mundane task in existence.

It just feels so nostalgic, almost like you have completely lost whatever comfort you found in your relationship once when it's being challenged right now by factors that shouldn't even be treated as a major threat to your relationship right now. Only if Jude knows how to listen and acknowledge and you to be more patient and level-headed.

You stop by a local cafè where you and Jude used to stop by during the early mornings before, only halting the visits when he gifted you a coffeemaker for Christmas last year. You got yourself yours and Jude’s usual drinks before purchasing a few pastries and treats before you're driving back to your shared home.

You were in the process of locking your car door when the door to your house opened, and came rushing out was Jude still in his pajamas, phone in hand before he's wrapping you in his embrace.

“Where have you been? Do you know how worried I am? I’ve called your phone a million times and you weren't answering. I called your friends thinking you were there with them but they told me that you haven't gone by to visit for an entire week. I drove in the city looking for you for hours and I couldn't find youㅡ Do you know how worried sick I am? Where have you been the entire night Y/N?” He continues, reprimanding you as he guided you back inside the house with a grip over your shoulders. “Have you got your phone with you? You've got it with you haven't you? Why didn't you answer any of my calls-?”

“It was turned off the entire night Jude.”

Jude scoffs at your passive tone of voice, watching as you drop the bag of pastries over the kitchen counter along with his coffee before your walking up the stairs with an obvious sag on your shoulders.

“You could have called me and told me you were safe no? I was worried sick about you.” Jude follows you to your bedroom as you went inside the en suite bathroom to wash up. “Seriously Y/N you should've at least texted me.”

“Right. Apologies, won’t happen next time.” He hears you reply just before the door to the bathroom shut close.

Alone in your shared room, Jude becomes heavily aware of your nonchalance, the thick wall of ice separating you both. He noticed that you never once look him in the eye upon arriving home, opting to fix your gaze on the monochrome walls of the house than to look at his face entirely.

You never pushed him away from touching you, but by the slight adjustments you made while being in his hold, Jude knew he fucked up big time. He knew that he did even last night, the moment you told him that you were tired of him.

Jude isn't sure if you realized the words to leave your lips last night but nonetheless, Jude knows he deserves them. Heck he doesn't even deserve to be in the same house as you right now let alone be in the presence of your tempering patience especially with how badly he had acted for the last two weeks.

He doesn't know where you get the patience for him from but he knows he needs to change and make some adjustments. In order to keep you from walking away from his life, Jude knows he needs to change some things in himself in order to not make the same mistakes again. God knows what will happen to him if he loses you, he doesn't even want to know.

Jude waits patiently as you wash up, picking up some undergarments from your wardrobe before lining it over the bed with one of his oversized jumpers and shorts. He sits by the bed, resting his back against the wooden headboard as he waits for you to finish, fiddling with his phone as he sends a last text to someone before chucking the device on the pillows.

You leave the bathroom with a steamy smoke from your shower, pausing on the doorway to stare at the clothes all laid out for you on the bed and the (most likely) perpetrator of it who sat awkwardly on your side of the bed, mouth slightly open as he softly snored with his arms crossed over his chest.

You took the clothes he prepped for you, turning to change in the bathroom before throwing away your dirtied clothes in the hamper.

You give one last glance at Jude before gently closing the bedroom door behind you as you walk downstairs and into the kitchen. You'd rather be here just in case Jude wakes up on the bed, it would be awkward and a little difficult for you to be in the same room as him right now with no clarity or any sort of proper conversation happening in between the two of you.

You’re not by any means raising your pride up in the ceiling but you certainly are a bit hesitant at the thought of letting Jude talk to you just easy as that after the way he treated you. You'll talk to him yes but he'll have to earn the rights again after being a complete ass for more than two days.

Fetching your pastries and the remaining of your drink, you began munching on your food as you scrolled through your phone. You know you should be taking some rest and sleeping after an entire night out but you couldn't bring yourself to sleep. You think it's not exactly the time for you to sleep when you have your head filled with a magnitude of thoughts about where you'll be picking up your relationship with Jude. You yourself know you'll get zero to none wink of sleep even if you lay down on the soft cushioned couch you have in your living room, you know even that won't suffice and you normally are able to sleep there after a few minutes of laying down. That alone says something.

Speaking of Jude, your boyfriend walks down the stairs with a small frown on his face. He silently takes the stool next to you, letting you have some peace and silent that lasted shortly after you've gotten it.

“Y/N... Love, can we talk?”

You continue scrolling through your phone, not once passing him a glance.

“Oh? I thought you don’t want to talk? You told me that just last night if I recall correctly-”

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean it.”

“Didn’t you?” You scoff.

Jude heaves a deep breath in, trying to calm his nerves from the nonchalance and passiveness that's coming from you. “Can we talk? Please?”

You didn't respond. Not immediately, at least.

You let him sit there beside you with nothing but the sounds coming from your phone serve as the only source of noise from your sudden silence. You let the silence drag on until Jude himself couldn't take it anymore.

“Okay... you don't have to say anything but please listen to me okay?” Still no response. Jude sighs yet again before bracing himself for his explanation. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I acted like a complete arse to you and disregarded your worries in our relationship. As your boyfriend I shouldn't have done what I did, I should've been better. I should've listened to you and done exactly what you asked of me because I don’t want you to worry about anything in this relationship. And I failed to do that. I’ve been a shitty boyfriend to you and you don't deserve that. You don't deserve to be treated in the way that I treated you and I know I can't take back what fuck-ups I did but all I can do now is to make up for it. If you can give me another chance to be a better boyfriend to you, I’ll be better. I will try to be better, for you.”

Jude takes one of your hand, noticing you staring blankly at the screen of your phone and fingers paused midway from scrolling through another tiktok.

“I’m so sorry love, I promise to better. Please forgive me...”

You close your phone off, gaze landing on the apologetic gaze Jude had as he held your hand against his cheek.

“I’m not entirely forgiving you. You hurt me too much-”

“I know love I know, and I'll take what you can give me... If I have to work for your forgiveness I will.”

You slowly nod your head with a soft exhale, watching how Jude’s lips pull up into a smile as he thanks you underneath his breath for countless of times.

Jude takes his phone from his pockets before he slides the device to you, and in the screen is a conversation he's had with the girl whom you're not really fond of. He’s just basically asked her to fuck off of text from the chain of messages she's sent him, and by his rather rude way of wording in his texts which you were about to point out, Jude chimes in.

“I’m planning on talking to her during training too.” He tells you sheepishly as you scroll through the one-sided conversation of his messages with her. “And I want you to be there... as much of an arse move that is, I want you to witness the conversation with her.”

“Jude I just want you to set boundaries with her-”

“And I will.” Jude interrupts you. “I will love, but I just don't want you to overthink things so I want you to be there when I do. This is just one step of me asking for your forgiveness. I still have a long way to go and I’m gonna do them in my own pace to not mess things up but I will work on them, and I will show you that forgiving me won’t be for nothing.”

You wrap both your arms around his neck, burying your face on the crook of his neck as Jude pulls you close to him.

“I’m so sorry again love, for everything.”

“You’re not entirely forgiven but at least you're a step in being forgiven.”

Jude chuckles against your hair, planting a kiss on your temple.

“I know... I know, just wanted you to know how sorry I am. I love you, and I’m really sorry.”

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Garden of Wishes: A Retelling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”

We go to the same garden every day, but you never see me. Why should you? You are the Princess Sonatina, youngest daughter of the greatest king on five continents, while I am only a gardener's assistant, with not even a surname of my own, save one that was given to me half as a taunt for my daydreaming ways. If you were ever to ask, I would tell you I answer to Michael Stargazer—but you never will think to ask, and I will never presume to speak.

Instead, I work silently in the gardens, while you wander past with your sisters—eleven of them, all unsurpassed in beauty of face and form and voice—laughing and chatting and singing snatches of songs. You are all more beautiful and vibrant than any of the flowers I tend, and I feel more alive just being near you.

Then the day comes when your morning songs are silent. You drag weary feet through the gardens, look blankly at the beauties of the world, lounge wearily along the edges of fountains and atop retaining walls. The rumor comes that every night, you are all wearing through your shoes.

Were I a prince, I would think no quest too perilous to save you from such sickness. I would climb a million trees in search of golden apples, cross storm-filled oceans in search of the Water of Life, work a dozen years at impossible tasks to find the key to ending your curse.

But I'm only a gardener, and nobody's son, so it falls to those with name and fortune to try their hands at saving you. The king has vowed that the man who finds the secret of where you go at night will win your hand in marriage, and there are many who are willing and worthy to try.

They are wonderful men—strong and handsome, noble and brave, with royal titles, vast holdings, great fortunes. They have skills and talents that a simple gardener could never match. Any one of them would make a fine husband for a princess. Yet all of them, to a man, disappear within a day of taking up their quest.

The rumors turn darker then, casting you not as victims but villains, luring men to their deaths with some dark magic of your own. Those who say such things did not see you in the gardens, or they would know that not one of you is capable of the crimes they accuse you of. Unfortunately, no one will ask a garden lad's thoughts, and I cannot speak unbidden unless I have proof.

So I go to the gardens and find two tiny rose trees. The head gardener tried to tear them out, in my first days at the palace, and I convinced him to let them live. I have watered them, fed them, saved them from disease and decay, told them stories of the princesses they serve. You have never seen them, I'm sure—you have never seen me—but though they are small, they are fine little plants, with dark, glossy green leaves, and little buds that seem always to be waiting for just the right time to bloom. An old woman told me once that they were wishing trees, planted in the earliest days of the kingdom's existence, and my service to them meant they would give me anything I desired.

For myself, I want nothing—wishes too easily become the ruin of those who have them granted—but for you, I would dare all. I ask my two rose trees to make me not only unseen, but unseeable, able to follow invisibly wherever you go.

The rose tree sprouts a single bloom, its petals so white and delicate they are almost transparent. When I pluck it from the bush, I disappear from sight. I place it in my buttonhole and move about the gardens, unseen by all who cross my path, even in the brightest sun.

That night, I follow you into the bedroom you share with your sisters, and I hide beneath the largest bed while the room above fills with the sounds of rustling dresses, clinking jewels, and girlish whispers. At last, your eldest sister Aria declares you dressed to perfection and calls for silence.

I creep out from under the bed and find you and your sisters dressed in ballroom finery—silks and satins and twelve pairs of perfectly-mended dancing shoes. I take my place just behind you, and find you more beautiful than ever in this moonlit room.

Aria pulls aside a tapestry, and the blank stone wall suddenly becomes an wooden door that Aria opens to reveal a torchlit staircase. You all rush through in single file. I keep close at your heels, afraid that I'll be left behind unseen.

I rush past where Aria holds the door, afraid she'll follow too close and crash into my unseen form. In doing so, I trod too near your skirt. The fabric tears beneath my foot as you take your first steps down the stairs.

You shriek and grab hold of Lyra, standing just before you on the stairs. "Someone stood on my skirt!" you scream.

I hold myself flat against the damp stone wall, heart pounding so fast that I'm certain you hear me.

Aria breezes down the staircase, rolling her eyes at her foolish juniors. "Don't be silly, Tina," Aria says. "I was nowhere near you on the stairs."

You protest that you felt someone on your skirt, but your cries for belief are drowned out by eleven dissenting voices, and your sisters continue down the staircase. You go only reluctantly, looking back at me—right through me—a thousand times as you go forth. Were it not for the weight of my mission, I would cast off the rose in the hope of a single moment when our eyes could truly meet.

After what seems like a million stairs, we emerge into an open clearing that would look like the outdoors if there was any sight of sky above. Trees tower over us with drops of silver on their branches, like rain upon the leaves. Further down the path is a gold-spattered orchard, each precious drop catching the soft white light that comes from I know not where. Even further beyond is a forest full of diamonds, every stone flashing fiery rainbows.

The forests are strange, but also strangely unsurprising—as though they've always been here, but simply unseen. Your sisters whisper of the night that this place was wished into existence—a place where they might revel in pure beauty and joy, away from the weighty expectations of the watchful world.

But the forest, it seems, is only a prelude—the true marvel is far ahead. We emerge onto the shores of a shimmering lake—so vast, so deep, and so darkly blue that I can see neither the bottom nor the opposite shore. On an island in its center stands a castle so magnificent that it makes your father's palace seem like a paper toy. Its white, sculpted spires glitter with gems in a thousand colors, every brick spangled with precious stones. Its windows hold wonders caught in flawless stained glass. Music sweeter than any I've ever heard pours out its open doors. Light from within forms a shining path across the lake, upon which float twelve sleek obsidian-colored boats.

Each boat has a boatman who rows swiftly toward the shore, and as they approach, I find that I know all the faces. Every one of these men is a prince who failed at finding your secret—or rather, they found it, and did not return. They are dressed in silks and velvets unlike any I've seen in the outer world, too rich for comprehension. As they slide up to the shore and each offer a place to one of you girls, they wear smiles that shine as bright as your own—but there is also something empty in their eyes.

You, as the youngest, take your place in the very last boat of all, piloted by a king's younger son whose sires have ruled half a continent for centuries. He smiles and bows as he takes you by the hand. The way your eyes light up make me wonder if I've seen what you look like in love.

The prince rows with arms strengthened by a warrior's skill—I doubt he's ever held a shovel in his life—but the other boats still outpace us by far.

"Why are you so slow tonight?" you ask him, half teasing, but with a trace of true annoyance.

"The boat is heavy," he says, "and I know not why."

You glance backward, toward where I sit in the stern, and again, I half-wish you could see me. But I let out a sigh of relief when you turn your eyes back toward the castle and give no further thought to unknowable truths.

We disembark on a dock just beneath the castle entrance, and in moments we are inside the palace of enchantment. This is a ballroom beyond what I could imagine—floors of marble streaked with gold and silver, towering windows displaying fantastical birds and beasts, spidery silver chandeliers holding thousands of brightly-lit candles, and at the far end of the room, tables tottering beneath food enough to half a nation.

But this splendor is nothing compared to the beauty of the music. It is like a living thing—vibrant, rapturous, all-consuming, pulling all into it like a roaring, flowing river. The moment one steps through the door, there is nothing one can do but dance. Your prince pulls you into his arms, and your sisters' princes do the same, and soon you are swirling through that wondrous room, beauty and motion and life all brought to their fullness and put into perfect order. All along the edges of that room are other faces—other princes who've failed at your father's quest—and they all take their turn in the dance.

If I thought you alive in the gardens, you are a thousand times more vibrant now, laughing and dancing so you glow with pure joy. These princes are your perfect partners, matching you with every step, reflecting the glow that you bring to the room. If I ever thought that I could take a place beside them, maybe win your father's wager and claim a princess for my bride, that spark is snuffed by the brightness of your blaze. You are ethereal, almost angelic, and could never be happy with one whose hands are stained from working with the common, solid Earth.

While the princes take their turns, you and your sisters dance without ceasing, and I no longer wonder how you could wear through your shoes in a single night. Those shoes are little more than tatters by the time the last note of the last dance plays, and the twelve of you trudge toward the boats to reach bed. Your princes are silent as they row the boats to the forested shore, and you, Sonatina, do not say a word about his slowness.

When you reach the banks, your prince bids you farewell, then all twelve of them row back to the palace, choosing to stay in the splendor rather than return to the pressures of their ordinary lives. After what I have seen, I cannot blame them for their choice.

But you and your sisters choose to return to your father. You trudge through the diamond, then gold, then silver-spangled forests, and as your sisters file one-by-one up the staircase, I realize that none of this fantastic tale will have a ring of truth unless I have something to bring as proof. I reach toward the nearest tree and snap off a slender silver branch. It disappears from sight as soon as I touch it to my clothes, but the sound of its breaking rings through that silent wood like a gunshot.

You jump at the sound and are suddenly wide, wide awake.

"What was that?" you ask your sister.

Aria rolls her eyes. "Only an owl," she says. "You know it roosts in the castle at night."

The explanation does not please you, I can tell, but having no other, you fall silent and leave the silver woods behind.

When you are all safely asleep in bed, I slip unseen through the door and make my way invisibly to my small cot in the servants' quarters. When I lay on my bunk, I take off the rose, and my face reappears in the reflection off the washing bowl. I look as I did before I left, though infinitely wearier, and perhaps—though it might only be fancy—I carry something in my eyes of the enchantment of the night.

In my hands sits the branch I broke, its leaves as green, its silver dewdrops as solid, as they were in that fantastical land. I imagine myself taking it to the king at dawn, having triumphed where the sons of kings and emperors have failed.

Then I imagine the you and your sisters standing by. In a horrible flash, the daydream shatters, and I see myself for what I am—a sneak and a spook, who crept uninvited into a strange woman's room to steal evidence that would bar her from the place she loves most in the world. If I have a role in this tale, it is as the villain, not the hero. I have triumphed in discovering the secret, but if I have any love in my heart for you, I cannot think of speaking.

After a short hour's sleep, I awake with the dawn, but I do not go to the king with what I've found. Instead, I go to the head gardener and get myself assigned the task of bringing the twelve princesses their morning bouquets. I gather careful handfuls of daisies and larkspur and bind them together with handfuls of greenery. I hand them to your sisters one by one as they come bleary-eyed to your bedroom door. When you come to me, last of all, I make sure that your bouquet contains a single silver-spangled branch.

Then, at last, you see me.

#

Golden sunlight streams down upon a freshly-turned flower bed. I am soaked with sweat and crusted with dirt as I shovel mulch around newly-planted seedlings. I can imagine no scene less like the moonlit enchantment of your jeweled forests and wondrous dances. Even you, when you come into the garden, are nothing like you were last night. Your golden brown hair is unruly, your dress is hastily done-up, and instead of floating with ethereal grace, you storm toward me like an angry warrior goddess.

Only the branch, silver-spangled, is the same as it was last night, when you brandish it beneath my nose.

"Garden boy, where did this branch come from?" you demand.

Your eyes blaze and your golden curls flash in the sun. I could cast myself at your feet in devotion.

I keep my countenance blank and my eyes downcast—the dutiful, lowly servant. "Your highness knows better than I," I reply.

"You have followed us!" you hiss.

I raise my head to meet your gaze. It is a wonder I am not struck dead by your fury. "Yes, your highness."

"How? I saw no one."

"I hid myself."

"It is impossible. I don't believe it."

"Believe as you like," I say. "You will still hold the branch."

You scramble to grasp something at your belt, and you throw a sack full of gold at my feet. "Keep your silence, and you will have this and more besides."

I stare at the bag of gold—more than I could earn with a year's labor—and my heart sinks like a stone. This is what I am to you. Not a man of honor, whose heart and reason can be trusted, but a common blackmailer whose silence can be purchased for a price.

"I will not be bought," I say, and when your face goes white, I add gently, "You have nothing to fear from me."

It is only after dark that it strikes me I may have something to fear from you. I have vowed my silence, but you have said nothing about yours. The secret encompasses your sisters and nearly two dozen princes. What would they be willing to do to ensure my silence?

Though the thought shames me, I cannot vanquish the fear. I must know more about you royals and your hidden world—and I long to spend just one more night in that palace of enchantment. I take the pale rose from its cup on my washstand, place it in my buttonhole, and make my way invisibly to your room.

You and your sisters are already dressed for the evening when I make my way among you. You are pale, and quieter than you were last evening, but none of your sisters remark upon it. I follow you down the staircase, through the forest, and to another wondrous dance. I can tell you are watching for me, but none of your sisters join in the search. They and all the princes laugh and dance as usual. At midnight, you dine upon a feast of impossible delicacies, and though the conversation is steady and quick-witted, none of you makes the least mention of me or the secret I know.

As dawn nears, I take my place in the rear of the boat that you ride in with your prince. Tonight, it is he who comments on the unexpected weight of the boat he steers.

My heart stops. Now you will tell him of my spying, and since there are few places to hide in a small boat, like as not I will be pitched headlong into that bottomless lake.

Your answer lifts my heart like the arrival of the long-awaited dawn. You take up a second oar and say to your prince, "It feels light to me."

The wonder of your defense of me makes me love you more than ever. I all but float behind you as you make your way through the jeweled forests.

In the golden orchards, I stumble and snap off a branch. I hide it against my invisible clothes, just a moment before your sister Melody looks toward where I stand.

"What was that sound?" she asks in fright.

"Only an owl," you answer quickly.

Though you do not know it, you meet my eyes. I bow my head in thanks.

The next morning, the golden-spattered branch I place in your bouquet is a gift of thanks—and an expression of trust.

#

When you storm toward me in the gardens the next morning, the golden branch quivers in your iron grip.

"What is it you want?" you ask. "You won't take gold. Do you plan to win yourself a princess, garden boy?"

"I do not plan to take a wife," I say. "When I wed, it must be to a woman whose love is freely given."

"Then why did you follow us?"

"I had to know if I could trust you. I now know that I can." I pluck an ordinary blossom from a nearby rose bush. I focus on its petals so I do not have to take the daring step of meeting your gaze while I ask my more-daring question. "Why did you shield me? You could have betrayed me to your princes or your sisters a thousand times."

"This is between you and me alone. I saw no need to frighten them."

I nod, understanding, even as I fight a strange sense of disappointment. It is love for your sisters, not care for me, that leads you to keep my secret.

"Do you see need now?" I ask.

You examine me, and you look at the golden branch, and I can tell you are thinking of the events of the last two nights. "You do not merely hide yourself," you say. "You make yourself invisible. How?"

I could no more lie to you than tear out my own heart. "I made a wish, and it was granted me."

"By whom?"

"Rather, by what. Your garden holds a wishing tree."

You seize my wrist. “Show it to me.”

I stand firm. "Tell me, Princess Sonatina, if you found such a tree, would you suffer to let it live?"

"I should tear it out by the roots," you say, and I know it is true that you would do anything you thought necessary to guard your secret.

"Then although it pains me to disappoint you, I must refuse your request. The trees serve me because I serve them. I cannot repay their gifts by bringing about their destruction."

Your eyes flash. "You refuse your princess?"

I bow my head in apology. "Because it is my duty as a gardener to the king."

You release my wrist and pull away. You pace in frustration—back and forth, back and forth, your golden-brown curls wilder than ever. "There is nothing to prevent my finding it?"

"It is not concealed," I say.

"If it is fair for you to follow me to find our secret, it is only right that I can follow you to find yours."

"It is not my place to say otherwise."

You come to the garden every day after that—sometimes openly, sometimes skulking behind bushes or trees. Some days, I am sure, you watch from places I cannot see. But I do nothing save my ordinary gardening tasks, and I do not try to follow you at night. If I were the sort of man to make wishes for my own benefit, this would be the perfect way to make me use that gift against you. I love you more than ever because this does not occur to you—either you are too pure-hearted to suspect such villainy, or too trusting to imagine it in me.

Eventually, your constant watch breaks down the barriers between us, and you begin to speak to me. You ask me the names of the flowers I tend, and I tell you of the lilies that bloom by day and by night. The next day, you ask me about the blue flowers in your bouquet, and I tell you of the morning glories that make a gorgeous arch over the path you stand upon. In the days that follow, you pepper me with questions, wanting to know the names of every flower and bush and weed that grows in your father's gardens. And then, at last, one day, the name you ask to know is my own.

"I am called Michael Stargazer," I say, as I hand you a white bloom like a five-pointed star.

"Is it not your true name?"

"The first was written on a slip of paper in the basket where I was found upon a church's doorstep. The second was given to me for daydreaming too much."

You sit upon the edge of a fountain and stroke the petals of the flower. "It suits you," you say. "Michael the guardian."

"And the Stargazer who spends too much time dreaming of what is unreachable?" I ask, feeling the rebuke I deserve.

"No," you say—firmly, kindly. "The one who watches. So he can know what is true. And know what to do with his knowledge."

"You trust that I judge rightly?" I ask.

"I trust you," is all you say.

After that, you are with me in the gardens—not merely watching, but being, doing, helping. You wish to help the flowers grow, so I teach you of spades and trowels, watering cans and fertilizer, pruning and grafting and weeding. We start out hesitant—you uncertain of your tasks, I afraid to put a princess to work—but soon, you work with enthusiastic gusto, and I am glad to let you do what gives you joy.

Every night, you still wear through your dancing shoes, but yours are less ragged than the other eleven pairs, and you are wide awake with me in the gardens every morning. We talk while we work, but we do not even mention wishing trees or diamond groves or the music of enchanted palaces; there are too many other things to discuss in the sunlit world. You tell me of your sisters, of growing up royal, of books you've read and tutors you've teased. I tell you of the village where I was raised, of the dreams I had of one day meeting a princess—though I do not tell you that I've dreamed I will marry one.

One morning, in the height of summer, you are kneeling beside me, in a gown that you borrowed from a serving girl, wearing work gloves you borrowed from the gardener's shed. There are streaks of dirt on your face, and you smile at me in triumph as you dig up a bulb for transplanting.

In that moment, the sun shines full upon you, setting the gold and brown streaks of your hair alight. Suddenly, you are not an ethereal being, too high and fine for me to reach. You are here, with me, laboring in the Earth—and you glow with joy. It is not the blazing joy of your dances in the midnight palace—burning bright and fast and destructive. This joy is gentler, life-giving—like a hearth fire or a candle flame. It warms and nourishes, comforts and caresses. For the first time, I can picture you as a gardener's wife, laboring with me in a cottage, caring for our children, giving life to sons and daughters and helping me to make good things grow.

I nearly speak something of the joy in my own heart—but the words freeze on my tongue when I hear a laugh high above us.

Five of your sisters—Lyra and Cadence, Harmony and Melody, and in the center of them all, elegant, dark-haired Aria—stand on the other side of the flower bed, peering down at us.

"Is this where you sneak off to every morning, Tina?" Lyra laughs. "Grubbing in the dirt with the garden boy?"

You drop the bulb as though it burns you, desperately try to brush the dirt off your skirt, and back as far away from me as possible on the narrow path between flower beds. Your face burns bright red. "No," you stammer. "I was only..."

"What a charming couple you make," Aria sneers.

"You wouldn't have to leave us if you married him," Harmony laughs.

Her twin adds, "You could live in a cottage at the bottom of the park, and you could bring us our flowers every morning!"

"He is nothing!" you snarl at your sisters. You storm toward the palace, and you do not look back.

I do not see you for two days.

#

On the third day, you and your sisters return to the garden in the company of a prince—yet another who has taken up your father's impossible task. To spare you the horror of seeing me, I keep the white rose in my buttonhole and invisibly tend the wishing trees while you entertain the prince nearby.

Prince Ivan is sterner, more solemn than some of the others. Even I, a lowly gardener, have heard tales of his valor in battle. A thick saber-scar runs from his temple to his chin. He knows the danger he has placed himself in and faces it without flinching. There is something in his eyes that makes me think he welcomes it.

As I watch him, I wonder how he will fare in his quest. Will he reveal your secret or remain in the enchanted world with all the others? For the first time, I question the fate of those other princes. I have assumed they remained by choice, but in such a magical place, can first impressions ever be trusted? For their sake, as well as yours, I must follow you to the dance one more time.

When I reach your chamber in the evening, Prince Ivan is already among you. The twins, Melody and Harmony, focus on flattering him while your sisters tie on the last of their ribbons. His eyes, however, are for the dark-haired, sweet-tempered Princess Melisma. I think she does not dislike the attention.

As you descend the staircase—Melody and Harmony taking the lead with Prince Ivan—Princess Aria keeps Melisma at the end of the line.

"You mustn't encourage him," Aria says. "It might give him reason to follow us back home."

"He is so brave," Melisma says, "and so gentle. Would it be so terrible for me to have him as a husband?"

"If he weds you, he will take you to the Northlands, and we shall never see you again. Is that the life you want?"

Melisma blushes. "No," she whispers.

"Then let him drink," Aria says in a low tone. "He shall be here always, for you to dance with as much as you like. He will be the same brave and gentle prince, but will never take you away from us."

That night at the dance, there is a banquet in honor of the new guest. The tables pile high with delicacies I cannot name, and silent, ghostly servants keep your plates and goblets constantly filled. Prince Ivan looks younger, almost childlike, as he takes in the wonders, and his eyes have lost their haunted look.

"Such a wondrous place!" he breathlessly declares. "All beauty and joy! No sorrow, no politics, no battle."

Aria, seated at his right hand, plies him with red wine, and leads him to speak upon the war he won such honors in. He served with valor and is proud of protecting his people, but he has lost friends and brothers, is haunted by the fields strewn with the bodies of those who died too young.

"I should not speak of such things," Ivan says, putting down another empty goblet. "They are better forgotten."

"Do you not cherish some memories?" Aria asks.

"If I could forget every moment of it, I would," Ivan declares, "and stay always in this dance.

Aria smiles, then takes a golden goblet—the largest and most ornate in the room—from a servant standing at her shoulder. "You may do so," Aria says, "if you only drink this elixir. You shall have no regrets. No duties. No memories of battle. Only the beauties of this world."

Ivan looks to Melisma, seated at his left hand. She squeezes his scarred fingers in her long, delicate ones. "I shall come every night," she says softly.

Ivan takes the goblet from Aria's hand. His face holds the grim determination of a soldier, and the innocent bravery of a child hoping a bitter tonic will bring relief from pain. He drains the cup to its dregs.

When Aria takes the empty goblet, the prince is transformed. His eyes hold the same light of joy as all the other princes, but the honorable nobility of his bearing has drained away, leaving behind an empty imitation, all paper and gold leaf with nothing solid behind. For the rest of the night, he dances every dance with Princess Melisma. She is all joy when she looks in his face, but every time she turns away, she seems close to bursting into tears.

For the rest of the night, I cannot enter into the enchantment of the dance. I see only those princes, and wonder who they were before their will was drained away. I see your sisters dancing, each choosing one partner more than all others, and wonder if they too renounced marriage to someone they admired for the sake of this endless courtship. I travel across the lake in Aria's boat instead of yours, and as her prince hands her off to shore, I see even she seems on the point of asking him to come with her, before dropping his hand and turning resolutely to the diamond forest.

When you alight from your prince's boat, I see no similar love or regret in your eyes. At first I am relieved, and then my anger flares at your heartlessness. I snap off a diamond-spangled branch so fiercely that the sound of its breaking makes your every sister jump.

They glance in all directions, bewildered by the sound. You look directly toward me, your face burning with shame. Though I remain invisible, I know you feel me standing before you.

"What was that?" Melody shrieks in alarm.

"My guardian angel," is all you say, and though your sisters pelt you with questions all the way through the forests and up the staircase, you do not say another word.

When I leave your room, part of me wants to run to the king and tell all, but I cannot let judgment fall upon you without giving you a chance to speak for yourself. The diamond-spangled branch I place in your bouquet is both an accusation and an offer of parley.

You come to me—though you do not know it—when I am tending to the wishing trees, in the most secluded corner of the garden. "You have seen," you say.

"You have witnessed every one and said nothing. I want to know how you can defend yourself."

The innocent confusion in your eyes makes me repent of every crime I imputed to you. "What is there to defend?" you ask. "Every prince chooses to drink. We cannot deny them their choice."

"Do they know what it makes them?" I ask.

"If they do, they don't care," you say.

"Because they have been made incapable of caring for anything but the dance."

"Would you send Ivan back to his wars?" you ask. "Edmund to his awful father? Kristoff to his plague-filled land? They all have horrors they are escaping. It would be cruel to make them remember all the sorrows they were so desperate to forget."

The things that seemed so simple when I stood invisibly at your shoulder are more muddled now that you can look me clear in the face. There is one place in the world untouched by sorrow or strife—can I judge those who have fled for refuge there?

"You have had your wishes granted," you say softly. "Would you deny all of us ours?"

Looking into your innocent, imploring face, I find that I cannot. Your silence, I see now, is not heartlessness, but compassion. Loyalty to your sisters who wish to remain together. Pity for those princes who can find no other peace from their sorrows. There is no simple answer to the riddle that has entangled us all.

"Will you follow us again?" you ask.

"I do not know," I say. "Will you tell your sisters that I do?"

"I do not know," you say.

When you wander at last from the garden, your eyes—and thoughts—are far from me. This game has gone much further than any of us could have predicted. Any bond the two of us have built will break, I think, when pitted against the bond that you share with your sisters.

So that evening, when I pin the rose to my collar and invisibly slip into your room, I am not surprised to find that I am the topic of discussion. You are seated on a trunk in the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of glaring sisters.

"You knew all this time," Aria says, her voice low with anger, "and only now choose to tell us?"

"He vowed to keep the secret," you say. "He could do us no harm."

“Yet now you fear he will speak! He could destroy everything!”

“I told you when I thought you needed to know.”

Aria steps back and smooths her skirts and hair, becoming in one fluid motion the ever-composed crown princess. "There is only one thing we can do," she says. "We hand him over to the king’s justice. He has violated our royal persons by coming uninvited to our bedchamber. He will be hanged before the end of the week."

"No!" you shriek, jumping from your seat.

Your other sisters murmur in surprise—I cannot tell if more of it is directed toward you or Aria.

“There must be some other way,” says soft-hearted Allegra.

“Not if we wish to protect our secret," Aria says. "We have a world of perfection, an escape from all sorrows. We have twenty men who wish to stay there all their lives. We can’t endanger it for the sake of a presumptuous servant.”

You turn to Aria and say, “ He is not the first to know our secret. None of the other princes have had to die.”

Harmony says, "The garden boy is no prince."

Aria gazes thoughtfully at you. "Do you wish us to treat him as one? Let him present himself as a suitor for your hand?"

"I will not marry him,” you say, turning red.

"No one expects you to," Aria soothes. "But he can share the fate of the better-born. Let him dance and dine with us, then, at the end of the night, he will drink and forget there ever was a world above."

Your lips make a thin line, and your face goes white. “He would not like it.”

“Better than death, surely.”

You leave the circle of your sisters, tears in your eyes.

Aria follows you to where you gaze out the window. I could reach out and touch both of you. “Sonatina,” she says, soft and sweet as a mother. “I know you are fond of the garden boy. But you must be realistic. In this world, he can be nothing to you. You cannot marry a servant. He cannot marry a princess. Even friendship between you two can only be a scandal.”

Her words sink into my heart—cold, cruel, yet undeniably true. I have never dared to dream myself worthy of you—but there was, despite all, a small part of me that hoped for the impossible. Yet even if I could wish myself up a name and a title, it would not change who I truly was. Though I will love you to the end of my days, you can never love one such as me.

Aria’s voice becomes brighter, enticing. “But we have another world, where he can be whatever he wishes. You can dance with him every night without shame. You never have to face the impossible choice. You have him, and us, your title, your dances—forever.”

You gaze silently out the window. I stand at your side. I think of the world I would leave behind—the sunlight in the gardens, the wind and the rain and the wonderful flowers—in favor of that underground palace. I think of you laughing in the sun with dirt on your hands, and my wish that we could stay in that moment forever, ‘til death do us part.

It can never be anything more than a wish.

When you assent to your sister’s plan, my fate is sealed. I would risk all to give you the slightest joy. If it is your wish that I drink, I will drink—and gladly.

#

Your sisters come to me with their proposal, offering to present me to the king. They say nothing of their plan to give me the drink that will keep me forever in the dance. You, pale-faced at the rear of the crowd, say nothing at all. I say nothing of my presence at your midnight council. We are all trapped in the deafening silence of our secrets.

I accept their offer, but ask for time to prepare. Before I present myself at the palace, I make another trip to my faithful rose trees.

"Dress me as a prince," I beg. "Give me clothes fine enough to be seen in any royal court."

The second rose tree sprouts a crimson bloom, every petal as crisp as if cut by a tailor's scissors. When I place it in my buttonhole, my gardening clothes become a suit of black velvet, and a white-feathered cap appears upon my head.

As I stride toward the main doors of the palace, not one set of eyes knows me. Guards do not stop me as a presumptuous garden boy. I present myself before your father and he gives me all the respect due a prince.

When I rise from my bow of greeting, your eyes are riveted to my form. As I follow your father from the throne room, you stop me in the doorway with a hand upon my arm.

"Michael?" you ask, all amazed. "Can it truly be you?"

I bow my head—more garden boy than prince. "You need not be ashamed to be seen with me tonight."

Even so, you keep your distance. In the enchanted lake, I ride in a boat as Aria's guest, not yours. During the dance, your sisters all take their turns with me, from eldest to youngest. At last, I come to offer you my hand, but you seem reluctant to take it.

"Will you not dance with me, Princess Sonatina?" I ask.

"What need have you of my hand," you ask lightly, "when my sisters all treat you as a prince?"

"I want no hand but yours," I say.

You look down, your face drawn.

I bow over your hand and say softly, "Fear not, princess. You shall not be a gardener's wife."

I sweep you into the dance, and it is everything I could have dreamed. You are a wisp, a breath, a butterfly, moving at a touch, at a thought, stepping perfectly with my every unschooled motion. There is an energy between us, and at last you yield to it, looking deeply into my eyes.

In your gaze, I see the princess who I loved from a distance in the gardens, the companion who planted flowers at my side, the friend who defended me from her sisters' threats, and now a woman waiting to doom me to an eternal dance.

In this moment, such a fate does not seem a terror—it seems a gift. Here in this enchanted place, I am no gardener, no nameless, abandoned son. I can dwell here and see you night after night, as worthy as any man, if not to wed you, at least to take you in a dance, and know, if only for a moment, that I am the cause of your joy.

We whirl through the ballroom, through dance after dance after dance, neither able nor wishing to stop. After a time, all your sisters and their partners fall still, watching as we move in flawless harmony, our very heartbeats seeming to move in perfect time.

As the final dance draws to a close, you are silently weeping, tears in crystal rivers streaming down your face.

"Michael," you say. "After dinner—"

There is no need for you to speak what I already know. "Peace," I say. "All will be well."

At the dinner, your sisters flatter me, distracting me with delicacies and drink. Yet, they all seem restless, unsatisfied for once with this perfect palace and their empty-eyed princes.

At last Aria approaches with an ornate golden goblet.

"Garden boy," Aria says. "In the world above, you are a common laborer, unworthy even to gaze upon a princess. Here, you are an honored guest, who could dance with her every night should you choose. With this drink, you may stay here always, without the shame of your birth standing between you. Will you drink, Michael Stargazer, and forget all pain?"

I take the goblet between two work-hardened hands. The wine inside is clear as water and thick as blood. The scent intoxicates me, promising me endless joy in exchange for all memories.

There is much I loved in the world above—I love none of it so well as I love you. I close my eyes and set the cup to my lips.

There is a cry, and the cup is dashed from my hands. It crashes to the marble floor, and the wine oozes out in a thick mass.

Suddenly your arms are around my neck, and your face buried in my shoulder as you weep desperate tears.

"Michael, my love! Don't drink! I will love you beneath the open sky, in sun and rain and wind! I will be a gardener's wife! Let this castle crumble into dust! I would rather lose all the world than lose the man I love!”

My despair—though I did not know it by its true name until this moment—becomes hope, bright and dancing. I gather you in my arms and rain kisses upon your brow. It seems impossible that you love me, which makes it all the more wondrous to find it real.

Around us, the princes wake from their trance, and there is life in their gazes. They are men again, with minds and hearts, and the ones who served as boatmen each take one of your sisters in their arms. Your sisters—even Aria—cry with joy to see their restoration.

Suddenly, the ground shakes beneath us. Shards of colored glass and precious stones rain down from the castle walls.

“What is happening?” you cry.

I bend my head to kiss your brow, then look up at the castle. “You no longer wish for this world,” I say. “It cannot last.”

The other princes are already leading your sisters out the door, with Prince Ivan—Melisma at his side—taking charge of all. Each boatman leads one of your sisters to the water. They pile you into boats, and I help them arrange the transport, until you, your sisters, all the spare princes—and, least of all, myself—are safely across to the other shore.

We race through the forests—jeweled branches shattering as they fall—and clamber up the crumbling staircase. You and I are at the back of the line, hand in hand. As we stand at the base of the stairs, we look back at the crumbling palace, the destruction of a wondrous world of wishes.

“I am sorry,” I say, as the palace sinks into the black water of the lake.

You smile at me. “There is nothing to mourn.”

Laughing with joy, you tug my hand and lead me up the stairs.

#

In your moonlit bedroom, you and your sisters are as alive and beautiful as you once were in your mornings in the garden—moreso, because every eye is lit with love. Your sisters stand hand-in-hand with the princes who served as their boatmen. No longer empty revelers, they are men—noble, true, devoted—and overjoyed to be back in the world, despite its pain, rather than trapped in the never-ending dance.

Aria comes to us as we emerge from the staircase. She embraces each of us in turn, then closes and locks the wooden door behind us. The door disappears and becomes a blank stone wall once more. A low roar sounds as the tunnel and its staircase crumble.

“It is gone,” Aria says, "and good riddance.”

We gaze at her in astonishment, shocked to hear those words coming from the one who had been the greatest defender of the dance.

“I lost myself in wishes,” she says, “but I have found the truth again.” She takes the hand of her boatman—a dark man with kind eyes who reigns as prince of a far-southern realm. “I feared the future because I feared change. I thought the dance could keep us together—young and careless forever. Blinded by enchantments, I could not see that I kept us all from the possibility of a better world. You saved all of us.”

Your sister embraces you, and then—one of the night’s most astonishing sights—the crown princess of one of the greatest nations in the world kneels before a garden boy and bows over his dirt-stained hand.

You all ask for forgiveness, but there is nothing to forgive. All your princes—even myself—fell to the despair that kept them in the dance. We can forget the dance and its soulless wonders and return to the real, bright world.

But first, we must tell your father.

#

You all agree that the honor of revealing the secret should fall to me. You give me the three branches I placed in your bouquets, and at first light, still dressed in my princely clothes, I ask for an audience with the king.

Your father needs little convincing to believe my tale—with so many witnesses, and so many lost princes standing before him, there is little room for doubt.

“You have solved the mystery, Michael Stargazer,” the king says, “and have earned the offered prize. Which of my daughters will you have to wife?”

Stepping before all the assembled royalty, I say, “Majesty, I do not wish for a wife that I claim as a prize. I will only take the wife who chooses me freely, with all her heart and mind.”

In the moment of silence that follows, the glimmer of doubt reappears. You declared your love for me in that unreal underground kingdom, but can you do the same in the sunlit world, where your words have real and eternal consequences?

In that dawn-lit room, before all your sisters, your father, and twenty foreign princes, you come to my side and place your hand in mine. “I will be your wife, Michael Stargazer, with all my heart, mind, body and soul, until the end of my days.”

I answer with a kiss upon your brow. “I give you the same, and all my worldly goods, if you will join me in a cottage in the gardens.”

“There’s no need for that,” your father says. “You have helped to save the royal sons of more than fifteen kingdoms. No one would question your right to a title after such service. I can make you a prince, and you and my daughter can have a royal estate as a wedding present.”

After that is a day of rejoicing, your sisters and their princes all celebrating their restoration and my elevation. But before sunset, you and I slip away to the gardens, where I at last show you the two little rose trees that made all of this possible.

“They are beautiful,” you say.

“They have brought me all I could desire,” I say, “but I have one last wish to make.”

In answer to my whispered words, a pink rose blooms on the smallest bush, with a lady’s ring—twined gold and silver, with a diamond at its center—sitting at its heart.

I kneel before you and place it upon your finger. With your ringed hand, you raise me to my feet and pull me into a kiss.

The rose trees are transplanted to a place of honor in the gardens of our new home. You and I tend to them every day, but since we’ve had our three wishes, they grow only ordinary roses.

I am glad.

With you as my wife in such a glorious world, what further need have I of wishes?

[nanaminokanojo]

THAWING ICE QUEEN (part 107)

–one night of fooling around with the annoying campus king gojo satoru (he thinks so), turns into...well, something else more long term

CHARACTERS: gojo satoru x you | geto suguru | jjk characters

GENRE: college au | smut | smau | smau + prose | everything in between | ons | fubus to lovers | aged-up characters | idk where this is going

⚠️ TW/CW: strong/mature language | 🔞 | mentions of alcohol, smoking, etc. | this has narrations | god-awful pet names | will add more if something arises

MASTERLIST | CHAPTER INDEX

<<prev part 107 next>>

A/N: This has prose.

“What?”

Nothing was making sense. You don’t even know if you’ve heard right as you watched everything suddenly slow into a snail’s pace and blur out into nothing but colors. It was as if you were submerged in a transparent water tank where nothing was exactly clear, not sight or sound, although you were somehow aware of what was going on. You knew your father stood up from his seat, looking deathly pale as he looked towards the stage. You followed the direction of his eyes, that, too, seeming to take an eternity to accomplish as you turned your head and saw none other than Gojo Satoru standing behind the podium, smiling bright as he addressed the applauding crowd, dazzling under the ambient lights and seemingly not existing in the same realm as everyone was.

You whirled around to look at Kento, having to steady yourself on one of the chairs as questions, one after the other started to flood your mind, except you couldn’t voice them out, not knowing which one to ask first. Why was Satoru suddenly named the head of a company his maternal grandfather owns? Does he know the real reason why you were leaving? Did he do just that for you? What the hell was your father telling you to ask your friends what he was doing there? You held onto Kento’s arm, your eyes conveying every single one of the things you couldn’t say. His expression told you everything you needed to know.

“What?” you asked again, but your voice came out weak, drowned out by another round of applause that was addling your thought process, making you incoherent and unable to do anything. What did you want to do anyway? There wasn’t one thing that came to mind, not even the scathing smirk your father shot your way when your eyes met his again. You just wanted it to be over, but then again, in what way?

You swallowed, thick and hard, wishing you could say something. You knew what it meant, that same accusing look he threw your way all those years ago when your mother died, a core memory that hardened at the back of your mind. He might not have said it out loud, but it spoke volumes of how he wished you were gone instead of her, how he blames you for the loss of the only woman he ever cared about. He looked at you the same way now as if you wounded him the same way again, as if you were making him go through the pain again.

He held you frozen with his cold gaze, making you hold your breath until it hurt, when suddenly, he turned away to address someone else behind you. “I believe congratulations are in order,” he stated in a tone that was anything but congratulatory, “Mr. Gojo.”

“Hardly, but I believe thanks are in order,” Satoru responded, repeating your father’s words and returning it to him. “I have yet to fulfill the purpose of it all.”

You heard the smirk in his voice as opposed to seeing it, unable to move on your spot as Kento kept you steady, merely looking down on the floor. You wanted to do something, anything, take him away from there perhaps. Your father wasn’t worth the time, not Satoru’s anyway. Mustering all the wits you had left, you finally managed to turn around, looking at Satoru to ground yourself. He was there. Everything will be okay…right?

Satoru smiled at you and winked as if to answer your unspoken question. He stepped towards your father, and in a low tone, said, “If you think you can use me to hurt your own daughter, you couldn’t have been more mistaken.” Although he kept a pleasant look on his face, the playfulness was gone, replaced by a threat instead.

Your father scoffed. “Very valiant of you then, young man. All this for my daughter.” He chuckled. “But you said it yourself. She is my daughter, and what goes in our family neither involves you nor does it change things because you suddenly decided you’d want to go this far for her. Commendable, I must say –”

“I’ll take that as a compliment without the catch, if you don’t mind.” He leveled his expression with your father. “Of course, you are right. It changes nothing if you still want Y/N to leave, but she can decide on that without you threatening to tear me down should she disagree.”

You merely blinked slowly as your thoughts were confirmed, but before you could even wrap your head around it, Satoru was suddenly beside you, taking your hand in his, boldly displaying it in front of your father.

“Satoru –”

“I love your daughter, Atty. L/N. And yes, I’m willing to go through lengths to make her happy. I may not decide on that, but I’m giving her the freedom to do just that without anyone, not even you, interfering in it.”

The older male glared at Satoru. “This was all in vain, but you knew that.”

“We’ll see,” the blue-eyed menace beside you stated in that happy-go-lucky tone of his, even having the gall to grin at your father. “Now, if you don’t mind…” He shifted his gaze to you, a love-struck smile replacing his earlier expression. “I have a date with your daughter, father-in-law.”

With that, he turned around, dragging you away, but not before you saw your father fall onto his seat, evidently seething as he watched the pair of you go. But before you could dwell on that thought, you heard Satoru’s laughter ringing through the hallway as he looked back at you with nothing but that tender, adoring look he always has for you, enough to convince you to join in as you both ran towards your own fairy tale albeit momentary.

A/N: Hi, everyone! Just gonna leave this here for now and will update this over the next days one or two at a time, depending on how much I can create per day. Again, thank you for the love. We're almost to the end! Thanks for staying.

TAGS LIST: @arxliana @neeneee @charlie-xo @aelynaneedsalottathing @cloudxp @justpuddinglol @mikkies @nyfwyeonjun @whats-humanity-lol @letthewindlead @whore-of-many-hot-men @localgaytrainwreck @pikibee @bloombb @mr-underhills-things @lysaray @chocoyanchan @poemzcheng @bookswillfindyouaway @dreamxiing @koutaroo @taelattecookie @kazuhasmaid @weebbuscuit @moonmalice @taengkatsu @reagan707 @to0ruu @shirabane @yell0wdreams @r0ckst4rjk @megtheebimbo @tmvll9 @kibananya @ti-mame @niko-ash @minzxec

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI’S JUJUTSU KAISEN. [20240415]

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART/ANY MEDIA CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[harmonysanreads]

Since you have requests open: I love the way you write Venti, but I don’t think I’ve seen a yan!venti written by you. I’d love you see your take with him!

Hiraeth

yandere!venti x reader

cw: yandere, venti needs therapy probably, old writing style.

I've wanted to write Yandere Venti for the longest time actually! But the reason why I stalled on writing him is because I had the nagging feeling that Venti was different from the classic yandere, however, I just couldn't pinpoint what exactly. Thankfully, I had an epiphany prior to this ask and in its honor, here's a proper oneshot for everyone's favourite drunkard :)

Venti had let you go.

Morax and Beelzebul were baffled when the news reached them ; what went through the wind-wisp's archaic, intoxicated head were never apparent to the other archons to begin with, but this, this really might've been the most befuddling decision the anemo archon had made — by their logic, at least.

After all, they wouldn't be so careless, unclipping the wings of the object of their unbridled affections and letting them soar, watch as it pranced around the beautiful world and unto the cage of another even so — the other archons are not so rid of paranoia, they are not so selfless. Hardened by the passage of time, they merely know how to own and chain what they deem precious. Such was their simple rationale ; to hold onto the one thing keeping them sane and by doing so, rob them of their freedom.

But by what logicality, what justice, can Venti deprive you of the same freedom he preached? He might instead just steal away your ability to breathe. The anemo archon digresses, it's not like this was another one of his drunken whims, no, no. He'd already made peace with himself, as the patron of the winds, he understood the vitality of his decision and neither did he care for who it baffled or who put effort to understand.

After all, when you love a bird too much, you let it go.

Such was Venti's simple logic and when he came into terms with the same conflict that currently plagued the other archons, when the sight of your grateful and elated smile reflected on his cerulean orbs along with the unhesitant promise of returning to the City of Freedom soon — Venti knew he'd made the right choice.

For he knew this just as well, when an overly attached bird finally tastes true freedom, by its own gratitude to the owner, it'll one day fly back to its previous cage.

Therefore, the wind-wisp was worry-less ; further adding to this was the fact that despite not technically being within arms reach, you actually always are for him. Because, even the all grounding earth must stop to let the water take reigns, no thunder crackles forever, snow and fire extinguish each other and flora and fauna cannot grow in the air — but the wind, it flows to every crevice of the waking world, forever cradling it and keeping its pace to the marching of time. The winds are limitless, so there is not a single moment where Venti cannot feel your presence or hear your breath and voice. There is not a single instance where he has you out of his sight, not a single time where the same winds hadn't coerced those who'd meant you harm.

Though, it's also true that a chief characteristic of the wind is mischief. As it protects, so does it nudge towards danger. But the fun part is actually this : you'll never be able to accuse it because of its ever fleeting nature. So then, who else do you blame when everything in your life seems to go wrong in all the unfortunate times, when every turn and stride has you plunging deeper, deeper, deeper in failure and you're left beaten, broken and never having wished to leave your safe home — why, you blame the entire world and the heavens alongside it, of course.

But you can never blame the one who'd unclipped your wings, not when they'd already given their warnings but still allowed you to fly because they love you so. The blame can only be shifted to you, yourself for not listening, for being so desperate. Never to the one who'd opened the gates for you to fall victim to the world's cruelty, the same freedom's cruelty ; even if the person happened to be the patron of it.

Wandering the world, uncovering its secrets and witnessing all the events it had to offer was your wish. To not be bound to Mondstadt solely and to have the freedom of traversing the entirety of Teyvat was your one desire. The wish your ever so benevolent archon had granted you, chaining you with the shackles of gratitude. But when you finally see the world's true colours, would you wish for that same freedom again? Mondstadt is the sole nation capable of bestowing true freedom, this, Venti had told you before. But since you're so insistent, so curious, so suspecting of him — he wouldn't mind letting you see it for yourself. After all, time is something he never lacked.

Venti had let you go, yes. But it's also true that he wouldn't have done so, if he wasn't certain you'd crawl back to his arms in the first place.

[prickly-paprikash]

Feels like the beef is over. Possible Kendrick album drop on the horizon. He even went and lifted copyright claims over any video that uses his four diss tracks since him and his team knew the fire they started over the weekend and that this would go a long way in helping out reactors, edit channels, dissection channels and more.

With the (likely) end of this feud, investigations need to begin. If Kendrick has proper receipts over his allegations, it needs to see the light of day and I hope it's soon. Rap disses is one thing—these are predator accusations that need to be met with the proper gravity. Given his relations with Baka and the stories in Toronto cropping up of his activities, I feel at the very least confident that there will be things Drake needs to address. And address them soon.

But I also want to discuss the (possible) last diss. The Heart Part 6.

A pathetic attempt to steal a title from Kendrick's own series of singles "The Heart Parts I-V". Songs that Kendrick has utilized to give introspection regarding the industry, his masculinity, depression, his savior complex and so much more. And Drake uses that title for what exactly?

Not a brutal response. Not a catchy summer bop.

He sounds defeated. His lyrics are incoherent, going from saying he planted that false information, to also saying that those who planted it are clowns and fakes. He dismisses and ridicules Kendrick's "Mother, I Sober" song, a story about Kendrick being harassed and SA. Except, as I have since corrected myself over thanks to others on here, that the entire song is him saying the assault never happened and no one believes him. So not only did Drake contradict his claims in one song, he showed his illiteracy.

And Kendrick doesn't respond like he does with Family Matters. When Drake dropped FM, Kendrick immediately invalidated an entire seven minute track by dropping his own response, a haunting meet the grahams, within thirty minutes. A malicious dissection and mock therapy session between him and every member of the Grahams, including Drake's alleged hidden daughter. And finishes the blow by dropping Not Like Us in less than a day, a certified summer hit that has already been played over and over again across the world. When Drake stans accused him of making boring, sleep-causing disses because they were too deep and complex, Kendrick dropped all pretense and released a song produced by DJ Mustard himself to bluntly call Drake and his posse predators while making everyone, including Drake's own base, to dance to the beat.

And we return to Drake's last response. More dislikes than likes. Boring. Lacking the pettiness and replayability that previous disses possessed. A sad, final attempt at a defense and Kendrick doesn't seem to bother responding.

Instead, it seems he leaves it up to the public now. Let them do the rest of the work.

I have to ask one final time.

What made Drake think it was a smart idea to go bar for bar in a lyrical war against a man who won a Pulitzer and has more than three times the amount of Grammy's he does?

RIP Drake, I guess. Didn't realize your entire legacy would be destroyed on a club beat. Ironic, actually.

[feroluce]

So I adore time loops and I think Sampo would be very fun in a time loop AU. Because despite having so many onscreen interactions with so many characters, he almost always seems to hold people at a certain careful distance, so it's fun to imagine what or who he's willing to use a time loop for, how far he's willing to go, how much he actually does care.

At the end of the Masquerade Duet companion quest, Sparkle mentions a catastrophe soon to befall Jarilo-VI. And some players have interpreted this as a past event (the catastrophe being the story quests we took part in there), but other players have speculated this as an upcoming disaster that Sampo is trying to mitigate.

And so, Gepard finds Sampo in Belobog, right after he was supposed to return from Penacony...or whatever it was called, Gepard had almost been too relieved to remember the name after Natasha assured him that Sampo was fine and not missing or dead, just on a trip since the planet was finally open for travel.

He had assumed this was some kind of vacation, or some shady business endeavor (valid), but when he sees him, Sampo looks. Exhausted.

His usual smirk is there, but there's something horribly off about it that Gepard can't put into words. His voice doesn't have the usual bounce in it. His gait slightly off. There are bags under his eyes, his hair is just the slightest bit out of place. Sampo looks exhausted.

His feet move without him really thinking, he goes up to Sampo to say...something. Maybe just ask him if he's ok. But he can't leave this alone and not do anything, because Gepard can feel it, something is wrong.

And that feeling sticks with him, like the persistent cold, like frostbite, all day. Gepard can't seem to shake it. There is a collective unease seeping through Belobog, sinking deep, tangling around their bones. And the only one who seems to be reacting truly different to it is Sampo.

Gepard tries to tail the guy a few times, anything he can do to learn about what's going on and ease this devouring dread, but Sampo seems to know where he's hiding and calls him out every single time.

He dodges every question (normal), slips out of every grab and grasp (normal), barely even looks at Gepard (decidedly NOT normal).

And maybe it's the darkness that seems to hover over them. The way the air feels like it is pressing down and smothering the breath out of his lungs. But Gepard's patience finally snaps, much sooner than he ever would have thought it would, and he finally grabs Sampo by the collar, hauls him up and forces his back against the brick wall of the alleyway. Because maybe Sampo makes his living double crossing and stabbing backs and he wouldn't understand this, but Gepard has a family, he has people he wants to protect, and so he needs to know what the fuck is going on.

And he knows he's crossed a line the moment he says it. He knows it's not true. Gepard has seen the way Sampo and Caelus sneak around in the Fragmentum or meander down the alleys, snickering with their arms slung around each other. He's seen the way Sampo lets Hook climb up his back onto his shoulders while he takes the moles on little adventures. He's seen the way he and Serval rib each other like it was natural, easy, and the way he goes out of his way for Natasha like he wouldn't any other client, had even trusted her with the knowledge that he was leaving off-planet.

Sampo has people he wants to protect, too, and Gepard shouldn't have accused him otherwise.

But before he can even apologize, Sampo does something stranger still.

Instead of telling him off, or taking a swing at him- both things Gepard would admit he deserved- Sampo just. Lifts one hand, lays it over Gepard's fists still balled in his jacket. Like he's keeping him there. Even through his gloves, his hand is warm.

And Sampo doesn't even really look at him, he leaves his head hung low as he quietly tells Gepard to just go home. Stay in with his family. Don't come out. Please. Please.

But eventually, the catastrophe strikes.

And Gepard can't. He can't stay safe inside his home while this is happening. He can't ignore this. He tells Serval and Lynx to stay in. Don't come out. And he dons his armor and marches out to protect as many people as he can.

When it's all said and done, all Gepard can see is rubble piled around him and a blackened sky. He can hear fire crackling. He can hear a voice he recognizes as Serval's wailing and screaming his name, and he knows she's not going to find him in time. She shouldn't even be out here.

A bloodied face swims into view, bright green eyes looking hollowed and haunted, posture weary and defeated. Gepard reaches out a shaking arm, trying to grab at Sampo's pantleg, trying to make any sound other than gurgling the blood filling his throat, because he knows it for certain now, he knew, Sampo knew.

"Not this time either, huh...?" The sigh he heaves isn't theatrical, for once. Somewhere, rubble groans and loudly collapses. Sampo doesn't even startle or turn to look at it. "I'll figure it out soon, I promise. There has to be a way to pull you through this alive. There has to be."

Something materializes in his hand, something red. Gepard's vision dims at the edges as he watches Sampo hold the mask over his face, as it seemingly attaches itself directly to his skin.

"See you on the next go around, Captain."

[a-teacup-of-golden-cracks]

You are saying this because you literally don't know anything about @angelbleeding

Apparently she is the self proclaimed drama queen (more like a clown) of anime community. She is a 33-year-old who picks up fight with teen girls, she is trying way too hard to act like she's still in her prime, stirring up drama with those subposts, she has kept her own anon off and writes triggering subposts about people in the intention to hurt them and get this, she turns off her anon so she can talk smack without taking any heat herself, leaving her mutuals to deal with all the hate instead but she doesn't give a rat ass about her mutuals getting harassed, she would still trigger people and stir drama when she knows her mutuals have to deal with the hate, plus she never even apologised that her mutuals are getting harassed because she is coward who can't subpost without having her own anon off. A total coward move. She even went as far as recreating someone's deactivated blog, and when she gets called out, she pulls the victim card like a pro. She has made racist joke on POC women and to top it off she asked a minor to suck her dick, but she acts so innocent and managed to fool people by playing victim every single time.

Wow! Thats a lot of accusations! Can you come off anon and provide me with some sources for them? Surely with so much evidence against this person you'd have no reason to hide on anon, right?

Or maybe you can't and need to just shut the hell up. Almost everything you just said reeks of lies even to my tired 2 am brain. "Still in her prime" prime of what? No seriously this makes no sense and I can't think of anything you could be referring to here.

If shes doing things that leave her mutuals to rot, why are they still her mutuals? And how would people even find out who her mutuals are in the first place?

For the last few accusations, it would've been so easy to provide a link to the posts, even on anon, where this happened. Don't say bullshit like "oh it was deleted" either because that means it never happened or she made a mistake and proceeded to correct it.

Good night and goodbye person who definitely isn't deadeye anon

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

A question of loyalty: an analysis of two perspectives in season 1

The past few years, I have loved rewatching season 1 with the context of the finale, because it has been so interesting to really see things from Crosshair's perspective.

Our first hint that maybe Crosshair's motives aren't what we first thought:

Hunter's (and our) perspectives on the issue are further challenged:

And then we reach the ultimate accusation:

So, let's take a look at both sides.

POINT #1: "Crosshair was the one who kept attacking the squad! How could he POSSIBLY accuse the squad of betraying him??"

COUNTERPOINT: Because from his perspective, they had. We as the audience know the whole plan was for the squad to get Crosshair back after they escaped the brig on Kamino - in fact, Hunter was prepping to go back for Crosshair at the same time Crosshair was coming for them - but Crosshair doesn't know that. He had been arguing with his squad ever since Order 66, trying to get them to understand how important it was for them to follow orders, and they had yet another disagreement right before he was singled out. His inhibitor chip gets intensified, he gets sent after his brothers (as if Tarkin needed to do anything else to thoroughly disgust me...), and he finds them in the hangar prepping the Marauder to leave. (Just to reiterate: from Crosshair's perspective, he had recently been arguing with his brothers, and now he finds them readying to leave.) Hunter never tells him that they were coming back for him; instead, they engage in some back-and-forth about surrendering and following orders before the shooting begins.

Having left him on that note, it would be all too easy for Crosshair to work himself up over the perceived abandonment - especially if he started feeling any sort of regret over his actions toward his squad (finding a way to blame the other party is, after all, a common defense mechanism).

And every time they cross paths thereafter, instead of his brothers apologizing or listening or trying to come with him, they keep running away from him after arguing with him about how he's being controlled and forced to obey orders. I can't help but imagine that any mention of "programming" only served to stoke Crosshair's ornery side: he and his squad are "superior," after all; he can't be controlled, he is being a good soldier and following orders because HE chose to, not because of some stupid chip. (Cue Crosshair claiming it "doesn't matter" when he got his chip removed: his ideology remains the same, thank you very much.)

And so, from Crosshair's standpoint: his brothers abandoned him, they won't even talk to him except to try to convince him he's wrong about everything, and they're ruining any chance they have of finding "purpose" by remaining soldiers and serving the Empire.

POINT #2: "Hunter and the others didn't try hard enough to get Crosshair back - actually, they didn't try at all."

COUNTERPOINT: I think we overestimate just how much time passed between the Batch escaping Kamino and the events on Bracca (unless the squad was just hanging around in open space for weeks at a time, which I doubt). Consider how quickly events occur in the first eight episodes:

The squad narrowly escapes Kamino

They try to lay low at Cut and Suu's, but that lasts maybe two days before they are on the run again

The Marauder crashes

It's necessary to find a way to scramble the ship's signature, so they have to make a quick landing on Pantora

Enter Fennec

Well, now they have to find out why a bounty hunter is after Omega

Enter Cid

Cid pretty much immediately starts blackmailing them

They have to do another job for Cid - we don't know exactly how much time passed, but Cid doesn't seem to be one to wait to order the Bad Batch around, especially as this next job reasserts her claim on them.

Rex reappears - we don't know exactly how much time passed here, either, but I would guess Rex sought them out as soon as he was tipped off about them.

(Lest anyone think Tech must have just given up on the chip scanner after the Marauder crashed, remember that he needed comparative data in order to properly use the scanner. I can only imagine how much it must have eaten at Tech to not have any way of finding a source with the necessary data to complete the scanner - especially considering everything else going on - until Rex miraculously showed up.)

So, until reuniting on Bracca, there is precious little time or opportunity for the squad to formulate a plan to get Crosshair back... And then Bracca happens. Here, they are confronted by Crosshair, who responds to genuine pleas to reconsider his stance by hitting them where it hurts: "Aim for the kid." Crosshair then sets things up to literally incinerate them, and they barely make it out alive before being attacked by Cad Bane.

Now, they had seen what the chip had done to Wrecker, true; but Wrecker had previously acknowledged that he understood the chip existed and was willing to have it removed, AND it was squad+Rex against Wrecker (and even then they barely managed to subdue him). Crosshair refused to acknowledge even the possibility of a chip influencing his actions, obviously wasn't willing to have it removed at that point, had never shown any inclination of wanting to rejoin them, and squad against Crosshair+vast Imperial resources would have been suicide - ESPECIALLY since Crosshair proves time and again that he can predict their moves. There's no way around that.

So what does the squad decide to do? They run. They can't take Crosshair with them, but they aren't going to try to kill him either.

Crosshair remains too well protected for the squad to go after him, but we can see on Hunter's face as the squad leaves Ryloth after peripherally tangling with Crosshair that the situation REALLY doesn't sit well with Hunter.

And yet... WHAT ELSE CAN THEY DO?

So, from Hunter+squad's perspective: as far as they are aware, Crosshair is refusing all offers of help, and trying to go after Crosshair would be suicide. Crosshair can't be rescued if the squad is all dead.

An impasse, then.

ANOTHER FACTOR TO CONSIDER:

But the accusation of disloyalty goes far beyond Crosshair believing the squad left him behind; he sees disloyalty in the fact that they apparently don't share the same views. It's not just a conversation about why/how Crosshair was left behind; it's also an argument over ideology, as Hunter tries to point out the Empire's flaws while Crosshair is determined to remain a soldier with the one purpose he has always known.

And then we reach the climactic revelation: Hunter is trying to convince Crosshair that maybe his views are being controlled by the chip - only for Crosshair to tell Hunter he already knows about it and the chip is gone, AND he won't even tell Hunter when it happened. We can make educated guesses as to when Crosshair's chip was removed, but Hunter has been spending all this time trying to keep everyone else on the squad safe from a fellow brother who is being controlled by an inhibitor chip... only to find out that maybe Crosshair was acting of his own volition for who knows how long. This, I believe, is the point where Hunter started to consider Crosshair as having actually betrayed the Batch.

And no matter when the chip was removed, Crosshair is still convinced that the Empire is the right side, and believes that anyone who won't join the Empire is against him.

So, before the confrontation on Kamino: Crosshair is convinced the squad has abandoned him. Hunter and the squad can't feasibly do anything about it.

During the confrontation on Kamino, we learn that unless the squad is willing to join Crosshair and the Empire, he's going to continue to believe they have disowned him. And the squad will not join the Empire, much as they love Crosshair.

CONCLUSION: Crosshair's and Hunter's perspectives are both equally valid, especially based on what they know and later learn of the other's stance. Hunter rightly points out that wanting different things doesn't mean they have to be enemies; but as long as the rest of the squad members aren't willing to support tyranny enforce order, Crosshair will consider them disloyal to him, since they are opposed to the views he stands by, the views that - at that moment - define him. It will take other perspectives, outside the squad, to shift Crosshair's views (but that's the topic of another essay 😉). In the meantime, having finally had the chance to hear the other's side - even if they don't agree - Crosshair and the Bad Batch separate on at least marginally civil - if strained - terms... Though both still consider the other to be guilty of betraying the ideals of Clone Force 99.

[coochiequeens]

Natural disasters around the globe and now a war between Isreal and Palestine and instead of posting about how these issues impact women UN Women focuses on men in dresses and then doubles down when called out.

By Shay Woulahan. October 8, 2023

The official account for United Nations Women is under fire after posting in celebration of “trans lesbians” despite having released no formal statement condemning the violence against women in war-torn Israel. The posts, of which two were made on October 8, were intended to celebrate “International Lesbian Day.”

In the first post made to X (formerly Twitter), UN Women stated that there was “no one way to be a lesbian or express womanhood,” leaving many users confused as to the underlying meaning.

“There is only one way to be a lesbian,” one user wrote. “To be a female exclusively attracted to other females. And there is only one way to express womanhood — to be an adult human female,” user @OneSmallVoice wrote.

“Nah, there’s only one way to be either,” another user responded.

After hundreds of negative replies, UN Women made a second post hours later in an apparent effort to double-down on their narrative.

“Remember, trans lesbians are lesbians too,” the post read. “Let’s uplift and honor EVERY expression of love and identity!” The post was accompanied by an image reiterating “trans lesbians are lesbians.”

Immediately, UN Women was hit with a storm of backlash from users who called the post “homophobic” and “rapey.”

Giggle Founder Sall Grover said the notice was “anti-lesbian,” stating: “Men aren’t lesbians. Deal with it.”

Another top reply on the post, written by UK-based safeguarding group Safe Schools Alliance, accused UN Women of propagating rape culture.

“You are a disgrace. Delete this tweet, then delete your account. How DARE you contribute to the #RapeCulture women & girls suffer, from childhood, worldwide. Stand down & let people who know #SexMatters advocate for women & girls including our lesbian sisters.”

Other advocates that fight for women’s sex-based rights similarly called out UN Women, with many noting that the organization has yet to release an official statement condemning the brutality committed against women in Israel.

On October 7, Hamas militants launched a surprise offensive on Israel, targeting civilian areas with violence. Almost immediately, horrific videos began to circulate on social media showing the Islamic soldiers kidnapping and brutalizing women. In one of the most shocking pieces of footage, Hamas militants were seen parading around the corpse of a woman now identified as a German-Israeli civilian who had been in the region to attend a pro-peace festival.

As of the writing of this article, over 700 people in Israel have been confirmed dead and over 2000 are injured. In Gaza, the Palestinian Health Ministry has reported 370 dead, with over 2200 injured. Over 100 people have been taken as hostages by Hamas, a great number of them are women and children.

Jewish journalist Eve Barlow pointed out that despite making time to advocate for “trans lesbians,” UN Women hasn’t discussed the violence committed in Israel against females.

“@UN_Women has not issued a single tweet from their account about the crimes committed against Israel’s women. One [repost] on the subject, one tweet about Afghanistan and two about #LesbianDay. Jewish women deserve your advocacy,” stated journalist and activist Eve Barlow.

This is not the first time UN Women and the United Nations has promoted gender ideology at the expense of women. UN Women has a well-established history of calling for all nations to allow men to be able to self-declare their legal sex as female.

“Trans women have the right to recognition of their self-identified gender – but in most countries, this is not available or subject to abusive restrictions,” UN Women posted in June.

This was blasted by British Member of Parliament Rosie Duffield who responded to the organization’s statement.

“No, this is not a universally accepted ‘right’ at all. And as a Member of Parliament in England, I will continue to work with other legislators to stop self-id from destroying women’s rights – rights to sport, single sex spaces, same-sex medical care.”

On International Women’s Day in 2020, UN Women endorsed a statement made by a trans-identified male in which he referred to women as “formless.” The man being celebrated by UN Women, model Aaron Philip, bragged about being platformed by the United Nations and referred to women who protested as “TERFs.”

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Heart. Sick. (m, cold)

clearly the clicky clacky keyboard helped my writers block because here I am, back to churning out a 5k fic in one day lmao. this is a Greyson-centric one, and tbh it's a lot of exposition, and a lot of character development. but don't worry - Greyson is plenty miserable throughout 😅 I hope you guys like these ones that are a little more plot-driven! I honestly set out to write fluff but it wanted to be a drama fest. classic. enjoy!

Cw: male, cold, some mess, coughing, sick character galavanting about instead of just going to bed, implied contagion

“What is your problem today?”

Greyson’s head snapped up at the sound of his boss’s voice. He raised an eyebrow and put down his knife; this seemed like the kind of conversation that required his full attention. “What?” he asked, brilliantly.

Elijah crossed his arms. He had been leaning against the prep table, but straightened up to his full height when the chef regarded him. “You’ve been here for an hour and you haven’t even stopped in the office to say hi,” he said. Did he hear how lame and codependent he sounded? Yes. But that was their friendship – lame, codependent, and most of all consistent. Greyson always made the office his first stop when he got in; they checked in with one another, mapped out the day, traded stories from the night before if one of them had been off. Not having his morning gossip session with Greyson made Elijah feel like he was living in a weird, wrong, nega-dimension, and he didn’t want that to become a thing.

The chef huffed out a laugh. “Seriously?” he asked, picking his knife back up. “I have a lot of shit to do today, Lij,” he said. “Matt called out.”

“Oh,” Elijah said, immediately feeling stupid. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you,” Greyson said, looking pointedly up at his boss. “Right now.”

Elijah bit his tongue; this was exactly what he meant. Greyson wasn’t himself today. Matt calling out was obviously stressful, but the chef never let things like that make him angry, or short, or snippy. Something was definitely off – he didn’t know what, but it was definitely something.

“Did he say why?” Elijah asked as Greyson continued to chop. Greyson stopped short again and looked back up.

“Why what?”

“Why he called out.”

“Who?”

“Jesus Christ, Greyson,” Elijah threw his hands in the air. “Did you smoke a bowl the second before you walked in today? Matt. Did Matt say why he was calling out?”

“Oh,” Greyson said, turning once again to his prep work. “Yeah, some sort of flu thing. I said if he has a fever he can’t come in.”

Ah. There it was.

Greyson and Matt were what everyone in the restaurant affectionately called the plague rats – that is to say, they were the ones who brought any illness that was roaming around New York City into the restaurant, ad infinitum. They were the partiers, the club kids (though Greyson, at thirty-one should have reached the end of his club kid stage years ago), the chronic sleepers-around, and the past few months, it had gone from going out a couple times a week, to going out every single night. Hardly a month went by that the two of them weren’t complaining of a sore throat, a cold sore, a stomach bug that they’d been gifted by one of their many nights out.

And, of course, they never went out partying without one another.

“Did he seem okay last night when you guys went out?” Elijah asked, the question so pointed it may as well have been an accusation. Greyson shrugged, covered up the last of the prepped vegetables with plastic wrap, and slid them into the reach-in cooler below the prep station.

“Maybe a little off,” Greyson said. “He didn’t mention anything.”

“What time did you guys leave?” Elijah asked. Greyson gave his boss an incredulous look.

“What are you, a cop? I don’t know, mom, one or two? What difference does it make?”

Elijah recoiled a bit at the chef’s snappiness. “Christ, sorry, just trying to suss out whether he’s actually sick or just hungover.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Greyson asked, pushing his hair back into a small ponytail and tying it with a rubber band Elijah knew came from a package of asparagus. “He’s not coming in, that’s all we really need to know, right? Are we gonna track him down and fire him if he’s hungover?”

“You are on one today,” Elijah said. “No, we’re not going to fucking track him down, Jesus Christ.” This time, Elijah went for an honesty-is-the-best-policy approach. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re in a mood because you have extra work to do, or because you feel like shit.”

Greyson rolled his eyes and breezed past Elijah. He yanked open the walk-in and stepped inside, his boss hot on his trail. The chef grabbed two heads of cauliflower and a few bunches of radishes and nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to see Elijah practically on top of him. “Stop following me,” he growled, pushing past Elijah again.

“Greyson,” Elijah said to the rapidly-closing walk-in door. He pressed the red button to let himself out, and once again tailed the chef to the prep table. “Greyson, I just want to know if you’re alright,” Elijah said, keeping a healthy distance. Greyson took a deep breath and put down his knife.

“I am fine. Matt will be back tomorrow. Please, let me do my work. Ple – hh...hhNGSTHH-uhh!” Greyson crushed the sudden sneeze into his shoulder, picked up his knife, and continued his work, not acknowledging it at all. Elijah bit his cheek.

“Bless you,” the older man said, accusatory.

“Elijah,” Greyson said, not looking up, “leave me alone.”

Elijah nodded, not that Greyson could see it while he chopped. The GM turned, walked back to the office, and pulled out his phone to text Matt.

Hey, he typed into their chat. Heard you’re sick, hope you’re getting some rest.

Thx boss, Matt typed back almost-instantly. Should be good by tomorrow.

Elijah paused before sending his next text, but then did it before he could question himself too much. Just wanted to ask...was grey acting weird with you last night? He’s totally on one today.

It took a minute or two for Matt to text back – the three bubbles popped up and went away at least three times, as though Matt was trying to figure out what to say but kept second-guessing. Finally, the text came through.

Wait, is chef there today? He told me he was going to call shelly in.

Elijah cocked his head at the phone screen; Shelly, the sous chef Greyson had brought on a month ago, was scheduled off today. Why would he call her in?

No, it’s just greyson today. Why would he call shelly in?

This time, it took Matt no time to respond.

That asshole, he said he was going to take the day off.

I’m lost, Matt. Why would he take the day off…?

Another minute of bubbles popping up and going away ensued. When the text did come through, Elijah felt his face flame. That motherfucker, he thought, slamming his phone down, screen-up on the desk and stalking back to the prep kitchen.

On his open phone, the text from Matt: he gave me this shit. We literally went and had one drink, then he said he had to go bc he felt like trash. Fuckin greyson.

Fuckin’ Greyson. That was for damn sure.

***

He knew he was coming down with something on Monday, but it was one of those excruciatingly slow-to-come-on illnesses that made you wonder if you were actually just crazy, and this whole thing was in your head. A sneeze here, a rogue cough, the sore throat that came and went with several long drinks of water – for three days, Greyson gaslit himself, told himself he was imagining it, took Emergen-C and chalked it up to allergies.

“Morning, boss,” Matt had greeted him.

By the time Thursday – yesterday – had come around, it finally hit him properly. Greyson woke up with a heavy feeling in his chest, his head throbbing, and a lump in his throat to match the one in his stomach. He sighed as he got ready, loaded up on dayquil, and headed into work.

Greyson had returned the greeting with a rough, “HNGSTHH-ue!” and a sharp sniffle. Matt winced as his boss unpacked his knife bag.

“Yikes,” he said, “I guess that girl from the bar last night wasn’t just doing a lot of coke, then?”

“More like the guy I stayed the night with on Saturday didn’t just have a naturally deep and husky voice,” Greyson said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “It’s the world’s slowest-to-come-on cold, I swear. I’ve been almost sick since Monday.” He coughed into his sleeve for what felt like a long moment, came up to see a water bottle placed in front of him. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” Matt said. “That makes sense, though,” he continued, “because I can definitely feel it coming on. Thought maybe it was allergies.”

“Sorry, kid,” Greyson said. “We’ll get you outta here early.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “If you’re here, I’m here, boss,” he said. The two of them had prepped in near-silence for awhile, before Greyson seemed to realize something was off.

“Has Elijah come back here yet this morning?” he asked, and Matt shook his head.

“Isn’t he off today? I think Mark said he had some sort of appointment.”

Greyson flashed Matt a little look and the sous chef blushed – Matt and Mark were very recently a thing, a fact that was clear to everyone in the restaurant and that the two of them were attempting to hide, as if any fling that took place within the confines of these walls was anything other than obvious. Greyson figured now wasn’t the time to bully his muse.

“Thank god he’s not here,” he said instead. “Elijah, I mean. I’m so sick of him giving me shit every time I have a stuffy no – NGTSHH-uh! Hh...HTSHH-ue! Fuck.” Greyson slunk away from his prep area to blow his nose, cough again, and wash his hands.

“Bless,” Matt said when Greyson made his way back to his station. “To be fair to Elijah -”

“No,” Greyson stopped Matt by holding up a hand. “We’re not talking about this.”

“I was just going to say, I mean, you have been out a lot since the whole… breakup situation.” The way Matt trailed off made it obvious that he immediately regretted bringing this up. Greyson sniffled, stayed silent for a few moments, and then sighed.

“You're one to talk. And besides, I don’t know how it’s my fault that every club in a five-mile-radius is a cesspool,” Greyson muttered, a lame attempt at a joke. Matt took the bait and huffed out a laugh.

“I don’t think Elijah blames you for the general grossness that is the midtown club scene,” he said. “I think he’s just worried about you.”

Greyson wasn’t so sure. Maybe it had started as worry; worrying was one of Elijah’s greatest passions, after all. But it had been six months since Greyson and Collin had broken up, and in that time worry had turned to annoyance, which had led to what felt like resentment. A month before, Greyson had been laid up with strep throat, thanks to a girl who he swore was trying to steal his tonsils with how deep she shoved her tongue into his mouth, and Elijah didn’t even try to hide his distaste.

“Seriously, Grey?” he had asked when the chef stumbled into the restaurant sweating, shivering, and unable to speak. “Who over the age of twelve gets strep throat? What’s next, mono? Chicken pox? Run the gambit of diseases kids get from putting their hands in too many people’s mouths?”

Greyson knew it was stupid to go out drinking and partying every night; he knew he was too old, knew it was irresponsible, he knew he should be processing the breakup instead of drowning every feeling he had about it in booze and sex. He knew. But he just couldn’t do it. Collin was the first person he’d ever really loved; getting over the coldness with which his first love threw in the towel that was their relationship was easier said than done.

He certainly wasn’t going to tell Elijah of all people that. He loved the man; Elijah was his best friend, his business partner, the guy he called first when something amazing or devastating happened, but this was not his strong suit. Elijah was basically a nun when it came to all things partying; he prided himself on never having more than two drinks when they went out, never sleeping around, and being married to the restaurant. Greyson loved Elijah, but he knew that the GM just wouldn’t get it.

So, the reprieve from being harassed about his near-constant menagerie of illnesses was a welcome one. He and Matt had prepped, passing a box of tissues between them the entire time, they’d gotten through a relatively slow service and, like every night the past few months, they’d ended the evening at a bar a few blocks from Elliot’s.

Greyson wanted to want to be there, truly he did, but he didn’t have it in him. Maybe it was the thought of being the only chef in the next day – Matt was well and truly coming down with the cold Greyson had come in with – or maybe it was just that the constant barrage of illnesses was starting to wear on his body, but the thought of staying awake for another minute, let alone another few hours, made Greyson’s head pound.

“I’m gonna call it,” Greyson said, shooting back his whiskey and placing a twenty on the bar top. “Take the day tomorrow, alright?”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “What about you?” he asked, coughing into the back of his hand. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Greyson said, elbowing Matt playfully. “I’ll call Shelly in, okay? I’ll take the day, too.” It was a lie; Shelly wasn’t ready for the responsibility of running a Friday night, not even a slow one, but if it made Matt take a day off, it was worth it to lie.

“Alright,” Matt said, wary. “Well, have a good night, Chef. Feel better.”

“Same to you,” Greyson said. “Tell Mark I said night-night. Give him a little kiss for me, too.”

Matt’s face turned bright red. By the time he’d collected himself enough to respond, his boss was gone.

***

“Greyson!”

Elijah stomped his way through the kitchen, on the hunt. He reached the back kitchen before Greyson could hear him, and the chef was blowing his nose into a rough paper towel looking caught, like a deer in the headlights.

“You fuckin’ asshole,” Elijah said, “why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“I’m not sick,” Greyson said, sniffling and tossing the paper towel. His eyes, Elijah noticed now, were rimmed red, and his voice was low and gravelly. “It’s allergies.”

“Right,” Elijah rolled his eyes. “Contagious allergies? Allergies you passed along to Matt? For Christ’s sake, Greyson, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you lately, but you need to get it together. If Matt’s sick, that means Mark is going to get sick, then my entire front of house team gets it. What do you think you are, twenty-three years old? You can’t go out every single night and sleep around with anything that has a hole and also have an eighty-hour-a-week job. You’re not a kid, Greyson. This behavior? It’s childish. And I’m fuckin’ sick of it.”

Greyson stood there and took it, his mouth in a hard line. “Okay,” he said after a beat.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeated. “You’re right. I’ll – hh! HhhIGSTZH-ue! Huh! HuhhESTCHZUE!” The chef sneezed painfully into his elbow, cleared his throat, and righted himself. “I’ll stop. It’s childish. Okay?” his voice was nasal, hoarse, and tight, as though he was on the verge of tears. All the fight Elijah had brought to the back kitchen was rung out of him like a washcloth at the end of a long bath.

“Um,” he said, “okay. Good. Now, go home. I’ll call in Shelly, I’m closing the books, it’ll be an easy night. Go rest so you can be good for the weekend.”

The chef just nodded, not making eye contact. “Heard,” he said, packing up his things. He didn’t beg to stay, didn’t insist that he was fine. He just picked up his bag, nodded at Elijah, and said, “See you tomorrow.”

Elijah was so in shock, he didn’t even respond until Greyson was out the door. “Yeah,” he mumbled, blinking. “See you tomorrow.”

***

The pulse of the music thumped in time with Greyson’s headache; it was oddly soothing, if a little disconcerting how in tune the two were.

“I’ll take andother,” he called to the bartender as loudly as he could muster. The bartender nodded, brought the bottle over, and topped him off, smiling seductively all the while.

“This one’s on the house, love,” he said in a faint British accent that Greyson couldn’t decide was real or fake. “What’s your name?”

“You’re very cute,” Greyson slurred, all levity out the window three drinks ago. “But I’mb sick as a dog, and I’mb ndot trying to pass it around any mbore than I already have.”

The bartender laughed. “This job is worse than a daycare when it comes to germs,” he said over the thrum of the crowd and the bass of the music. “Pretty sure I’m immune to just about everything at this point.”

Greyson let a sloppy smile paint his face. “Mbust be ndice,” he said, taking a swallow of his drink, then turning to his elbow to cough. “I work in a kitchend, it’s just about as bad but I haven’t seemed to gain any immu – immu...huh...hhINGTZHH-ue! HTSHH-ue! HRSHH-ue!” Greyson pulled his white tshirt over his nose and mouth and ducked almost completely under the bar to sneeze. He swore under his breath, sucked in through his nose, and sat himself upright once again. The bartender tutted in sympathy.

“Poor thing,” he said, smiling slyly. “You should be in bed.”

He wasn’t wrong; after Elijah’s blowup, Greyson had certainly thought about doing the right thing, going home, crawling into bed and actually attempting to get better. It had only been noon when he left the restaurant, and if he didn’t have to be in til noon the next day, that was almost a full twenty-four hours that he could spend doing nothing except relaxing, resting… being alone with his thoughts…

Yeah, that wasn’t about to happen.

Instead, Greyson had walked forty blocks to Greenwich and had lunch at one of his favorite spots. He’d moved on to a coffee shop from there, writing in his little black notebook recipes that he wanted to try out at Elliot’s. After that, he’d stopped into a CVS and bought them out of dayquil; three or four swigs later, and he was on his phone rapidly texting anyone he’d slept with in the past two months to see if they wanted to hang out. They did not.

The failed attempts at a hookup sent him into a darker place than he’d like to admit, so Greyson decided four pm was late enough to start drinking, and he took a cab back to midtown to begin his nightly spiral. The bar with the cute bartender was stop number four of the evening; at stop two, the dayquil had worn off. By stop three, he was coughing every time he took too deep of a breath. This was the stop where he’d given up the facade of health and just allowed himself to be the grossest person at the bar – much to everyone but this bartender’s chagrin.

“Yeah,” he said to the bartender, “you’re probably right.”

The bartender winked and turned back to the other bar patrons, leaving Greyson to sit foggy-headed and cold, alone with his whiskey. He looked at the clock on his phone – 11:45PM. The restaurant was probably empty by now. He wondered if Elijah was still there, finishing up paperwork; he thought about texting him, then remembered the blowup again. Greyson put his phone away, pulled a fifty out of his wallet, and ducked out of the bar.

It was cold outside; it was barely September, but Greyson could definitely feel that fall was in the air. He didn’t realize until now that he’d forgotten his jacket at work. Fuck.

Greyson shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering – there was no way he was going to make it back to his apartment without a jacket. The chef looked up at the street signs and realized he was only a block or two from the restaurant. Fuck it, he thought, sneezing into his exposed elbow. I’m getting that jacket.

***

It had been a long shift.

Shelly was great, really – she was just young, and a little bit scared of the enormity of running a restaurant. Elijah had figured that out at about seven pm, when she was nearly in tears with just six tickets on the board. But they had gotten through it, with Elijah taking over expo and Shelly running inside middle. It was fine. Long? Yes. But fine.

At eleven, the restaurant had emptied and with it went the servers, cooks, and junior managers. Elijah finished up his paperwork, locked the front door, set the alarm, and sat down at the empty bar with a glass of whiskey – just him, the thrum of the heater, and the restaurant.

When he was feeling really low, Elijah would spend hours like this; just sitting at his bar, looking out into the dining room, reeling in what he had created. This space was his, a place that he had spent his entire life clawing upwards for, despite the drone of older restaurateurs telling him he was too young, or too poor, or too talentless to own his own place. Elijah hadn’t grown up with money, or support, or any kind of nepotism that would have propelled him into this field, but he’d grown up with something most people hadn’t – drive. Passion. An absolute need to succeed, despite it all. Sometimes he needed to remind himself of that.

He knew that no one could really understand his reasons for being as anal as he was about everything in the restaurant – not even Greyson, though his counterpart came close. Often, Elijah felt like he spent his life explaining himself; explaining why he wasn’t married or even dating at thirty-nine, explaining why things had to be done a certain way so that appliances and tables and chairs and glassware and plates would last as long as humanly possible; explaining why people should care about his restaurant, his vision. Sometimes, Elijah wished he didn’t have this fire inside him. This passion for his work. He knew damn well his life would be easier if he didn’t.

Elijah looked at his phone as midnight approached, thinking about the day, thinking about Greyson. He wished things had gone down differently this morning, but he know Greyson could be like a kid when it came to arguments – quick to forgive, quick to forget. Sometimes that made Elijah feel even worse; he wished the other man would scream back at him, give in to his baser desires like Elijah was so wont to do when it came to arguing. Greyson saved those more carnal instincts for after work, Elijah supposed.

It would be worked out by tomorrow, whether Elijah wanted it to or not. He sighed, drained his glass, and went to turn off the lights behind the bar – when the alarm began blaring.

Elijah froze in his tracks. Who the fuck was breaking into the restaurant?

The GM burst through the doors to the kitchen and ran towards the back, absolutely nothing to defend him in his hands. If he was defending his restaurant, he was doing so with his bare hands; he’d figuratively clawed his way up to this position, he would certainly literally claw someone’s eyes out if they attempted to take it from him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Elijah heard someone at the back door before he saw them. He slowed his pace when he heard the voice. Greyson.

“Grey?” Elijah called, turning the corner and seeing the chef clumsily attempting to turn the alarm off. Greyson was wearing just a tshirt and jeans despite it being near-freezing outside, and the way he was fumbling with the alarm system meant he was almost certainly wasted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Greyson turned to his boss and smiled, lopsided. He looked like shit; he was as pale as his shirt, his nose was bright red and running so much that he had taken to swiping a hand under it every few seconds, and Elijah could hear the wheeze in every breath he took. “Oh, thangk God,” he said, moving out of the way so Elijah could turn the alarm system off. “I thought if that back was opend, I could just sneak in. To grab mby jacket.” Greyson coughed away from Elijah, an angry, productive sound that made the GM flinch. “Sorry,” Greyson said. “It’s cold outside.”

“I’m well aware,” Elijah said, turning away from the now-silent alarm. “What are you doing out? You’re supposed to be at home. Getting better. Remember, I sent you home twelve hours ago? What have you been doing, out partying? You’re sick, Greyson.”

“I kndow, I kndow,” Greyson said, yanking the rubber band out of his hair and letting it fall wildly around his shoulders. “I just… I… hh… huh! HuhhhIGTSZHH-ue! HTSH! HRSHH-uh! Fuck – HNGSTHHZUE!” The sneezes wrenched themselves from him, rough and painful-sounding. Greyson stood, post-fit, and pushed his hair back with a hand. “Sorry,” he said, his voice wavering.

Elijah sighed; it was too late to fight. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s go sit for a bit. I can’t send you home like this.”

He led them both back to the bar and, despite his better judgment, poured them each a whiskey. Greyson coughed and took a swig of his before Elijah even sat down. “Thangks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.” Elijah drank his whiskey slowly, trying to decide what to say to the chef. After a moment of silence so tense it could be sliced through with a butcher knife, both Elijah and Greyson attempted to start a conversation at the same time.

“Grey, I -”

“Lij, it’s-”

They both stopped, smiled at the absurdity, and Elijah motioned to the chef as if to say the floor is yours.

“Ndo, you go ahead,” Greyson said, sipping his drink. “Besides, I cand barely talk.”

Elijah couldn’t disagree with him there, so he let out one forced little laugh and then sighed. “Grey, I’m sorry. Really. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Grey,” Elijah said finally, turning towards his friend, “what’s been going on, really? You’re… something is wrong. You’re not… you.”

Greyson shrugged. “I shouldn’t be bringing every disease kndown to mban into the restaurant, but here we are,” he said, coughing into his fist. Elijah laughed in earnest this time, and the two of them lapsed into silence once again.

Greyson pursed his lips, downed the rest of his drink, and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. I’mb ndot.” The chef sighed and turned his barstool towards Elijah. “It’s… it’s the whole Collin thing. It’s beend… a lot harder than I thought it would be. Getting over himb.” Greyson sniffled; Elijah was unsure if it was illness-related, or if the other man was crying. He was quickly given an answer when Greyson wrenched to the side – “HGTSHH-ue! Hh! HhhNGTSHZ-ue!” The chef wiped his nose on the back of his hand and cringed. “Sorry,” he said.

Elijah shook his head. “Dude,” he said, “you could’ve just told me you were taking it harder than you expected. You know I’m always here if you need to talk. I thought we were friends.”

“Lij, we are friends, but like… I don’t kndow. It’s weird talking to you about this shit because you don’t… I don’t kndow, fuck up. You take everything in stride, like it all rolls off your back. I’mb ndot like that. Plus, you literally ndever date - I’ve ndever kndown you to have a single girlfriend, let alonde break up with someone, and we’ve kndown each other for years.” Greyson pressed his hand into one of his eyes and groaned. “Fuck, I thingk I’mb getting andother fuckigg sindus infection,” he muttered. Elijah gave his friend a pointed look.

“The fact that you know off the top of you head exactly what that feels like definitely says something about these past few months,” he said, prompting a sharp laugh and the middle finger from Greyson. Elijah smiled. “You’re right,” he said, after a beat. “I don’t date. There was a girl, a long time ago – before I bought this place. I thought we were going to get married one day.”

Greyson’s eyebrows shot up, headache clearly forgotten. “Ndo way,” he said. “You’re shitting mbe. You? What was her name? Do I know her?”

Elijah laughed. “You don’t know her,” he said. “She was actually a chef, too, at this vegan brunch place in the Financial District. But she wanted kids, she wanted me to have a job where I could be home in the evenings…” Elijah shrugged, a fingernail digging into a groove in the bar top. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

“Dude,” Greyson said, placing a hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.”

Elijah shrugged again, and looked back up at Greyson. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “But I mean – I do get it. Heartbreak, that is. You can talk to me about anything, Greyson. And I’m not some let-it-roll-off-your-back, take-it-in-stride monolith, either.” He smiled, attempting to break the tension. “Obviously I get pissed all the time so just… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help.”

The two of them sat in silence once again, neither really knowing the right thing to say next. Finally, Greyson’s body broke the tension: “HNGTSHH-ue! God, fuck,” the chef reached across the bar and attempted to blow his nose in a cocktail napkin – to no avail.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, and Greyson nodded.

“Thangks,” he said, slowly lowering his head to the bar top. “Fuck, I feel like such hot garbage. The going out every ndight thigg is definitely ndot for anyone over thirty.”

Elijah couldn’t help but cackle. “And you wonder why I have a two-drink-maximum hard line? I’d be dead on the floor if I drank like you and Matt. Welcome to old age, bud.”

“Yeah, you mbight be on to something there,” Greyson said, closing his eyes. “Definitely ndot gonna be hooking up with anyone under twenty-five anymbore, either. They’re all cesspools. HGTSHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said again. “Want me to drive you home?”

Greyson opened one red, watering eye. “In a mbinute,” he said. “I just ndeed to...rest mby eyes.”

Elijah pursed his lips to keep from laughing at the spectacle that was Greyson; mouth-breathing, whiskey-smelling, chest-crackling Greyson. Heartbreak didn’t look good on anyone, but on him it was especially rough. Within moments, the chef was snoring.

Elijah shook his head, stripped a table of its clean white cloth, and placed it over Greyson’s shoulders. Rest was rest, he figured. Elijah poured himself a rare third drink and sat next to his ailing friend.

“Sleep well, Chef,” he said, and took a long pull.

[darkside-writing]

Mean Husband! Billy Hargrove

Warnings: 18+ Only, non-con/dub, mean husband!Billy, misogyny, abuse, babytrapping/forced breeding, mentions of blood, toxic relationships, dark content - do not read if don’t like

Billy Hargrove would absolutely take a poor, unsuspecting girl from his class and force her into a relationship. The moment he laid eyes on the frail girl was when he decided she would be his little wife. Someone like her is easy to manipulate, control and abuse to be his perfect waife. Everyone would know that the relationship was abusive and forced yet they do not voice their concerns. They see the bruises on her body and frequent screaming matches between the couple in the hallways yet only brush it off as typical relationship problems. Billy keeps his girl on a tight leash and an even tighter schedule. She has no room in her life for friends or having fun, Billy is the only one she needs. He will pick her up at home and drive them from school everyday. Their lunch time is spent inside his car in the school parking lot, away from all the other students because he hates how crowded it is. He is practically ready to explode if his girl is not waiting by his car by the time the final bell rings at the end of a school day, she knows better than to stay behind and talk to anyone. Billy has even less patience with his girl than with Max if she is late. It will result in accusations of cheating or whoring around followed by more abuse. If he catches a whiff of someone taking interest in his girl Billy will not hesitate to make their life hell, as well as hers for even catching the attention of other people.

Nothing gets his blood boiling quicker than the thought of someone trying to take away his property. Billy is devastatingly possessive with his girl and practically trains her like a dog to follow him everywhere they go. At every house party Billy’s puppy girl is guaranteed to follow his steps. Even when he is downing beers by the keg Billy always makes sure his girl does not have a single drop of alcohol and she stays by his side. During the summer when he works at the public pool, he makes her stay at a secluded picnic table. She is not allowed to wear swim suits or even get inside the pool, he is always watching very closely behind those mirrored sunglasses. It would be well established that Billy has practically demanded that she will become his little house wife. He already gave her his class ring to wear like a wedding band and introduces her as the missus, his old lady, or lil’ wifey. However, don’t think that Billy will hold back his more physical toxic traits he got from his father. He can’t help but give her a bloody lip or black eye every once in awhile. She is just so perfect for him and he feels the need to establish his power over her constantly, because he knows she deserves way better than him. Billy feels the need to toe the line of going too far, he wants to know how much he can push her around before breaking. He needs to make her afraid for her life to leave him. Yet Billy is selfish and would rather die, or instead kill her, than to allow his wifey to be happy with someone else. The thought of her being with another man makes the worst side of him come out. Everyday he expects her to be inside their shitty trailer with a pretty sundress on, cooking up his favorite food and a big smile on her face. He demands kisses when he opens the door and she must take his jacket or else face punishment. There have been many times he would throw a fit and destroy her belongings just to see her crying. He is not above guilt tripping or gaslighting his girl, either. He provides so much for her! The food she eats and the roof above her head should be more than enough. The least she should do is clean their home and tend to Billy’s every need. However, every once in awhile he might love bomb her or bring unexpected gifts like jewelry or her favorite snacks just to win back her affection. He does this periodically to manipulate her into staying and then later using those gifts against her. The poor girl will trick herself into believing the good moments with Billy outweigh the worst. Yet they both know that it’s not true.

Billy is guaranteed to babytrap his darling, especially if they have dreams of leaving for college after graduating from Hawkins Highschool. Billy knows that he is not going to college and will leave for California once he graduates high school. Most likely will have an average wage job to barely support them. He is not opposed to becoming a teen dad and will happily breed his girl until there is no chance she’s not pregnant. Billy’s parents had him at a young age and it was how Neil trapped his ex-wife into their marriage. Ever since they began their “relationship” Billy has forbidden the use of contraceptives and has bloodied her nose for even suggesting they use condoms. Every night Billy has his girl folded into a breeding press, her legs hoisted onto his broad shoulders and cunt brutally violated by his cock. He refuses to slow down or show any gentleness, even when she bleeds or sobs for Billy to slow down. His favorite positions are missionary or brutal backshots where he can control the pace. His obsession to breed and impregnate his girl overrides his brain like a natural instinct. The desire to keep his girl fat and pregnant constantly so she could not leave him. Everyone will watch as the couple walks around Hawkins and her belly is too big to hide, Billy with a smirk on his face knowing that he succeeded. Her future of leaving for college would go out the window and it is highly likely that she moves in with Billy soon after. When she eventually breaks down in Billy’s arms over how her life is practically over, he will be there silently grinning over how vulnerable she is without his support. He is quick to soothe her woes with a few rough kisses and maybe an orgasm or two. Just remember that Billy is all she needs.

[kingmagnificoofrosas]

Hello! So I figured I should probably share my two cents on this since you seem pretty open for discussion. I understand a previous anon brought up the fact that this isn’t excusing it’s just explaining and I also understand that Magnifico mainly went all villain when that rat book took control, but I also feel like there may be a slight… I’m not sure how to describe it honestly so I’ll let the rest of my ask speak and see if hopefully my point tangible.

Magnifico did hold a weapon to Amaya’s face to threaten her into agreeing with him, and based on her reaction to seeing him with the evil magic (rapid breathing, shaky speech, flinching, instant fawn + freeze reaction) it’s possible she likely has some form of trauma that I personally believe may have been a abusive relationship.

I should say I am NOT a Magnifico hater, I don’t believe he was a villain at all but I’m not sure about hero. Of course I’m open to hearing others out and I’m entirely open to learning new things and changing my opinions! So this isn’t me saying ‘No you’re wrong I’m right’ it’s just intended as me giving my own personal views and asking for yours in return! Sorry for the three paragraph ask and I hope that you have a great day! 💙

(Also to people who hate on Magnifico that are coming to this account, just why?? Just leave instead of throwing a hissy fit in this persons asks whose just being kind and sharing their personal views, it’s that easy 😒)

Hey anon!

First of all, thank you for being so nice and defending me! Absolutely right! It's beyond me how someone who doesn't like him comes to my blog to nagg at me for loving and defending him, make me a bad person and furthermore accuse me of things .... crazy, anyway! Don't apologize for this long ask! 😆 I appreciate you wanting my opinion! I also wish you a great day! 💙

Now, let's begin this, shall we?

I can actually explain this as well!! 😃 (and no, it doesn't have anything to do with me loving and defending Magnifico. (Well mostly. *Eherm*) this is based on logical observations!

Soo, Amaya's reactions ... I'm absolutely sure they're not because he's been abusive. Magnifico had been nothing but a sweetheart to her. The explanations are much simpler and relatable.

Amaya knew that Magnifico was able to do great magic, she knew he was very powerful. But she also knew the evil book was powerful. She didn't know to what degree but what do you think happens to someone who's already powerful and gets posessed/controlled by an evil force?

Exactly. They become dangerous and unpredictable. The more power someone has the more dangerous they'd be if posessed by evil. Think of the nicest, sweetest dog, who'd never bite, never do anything bad. If this dog was to get posessed by an evil force, it could maul someone to death. It has teeth and a very powerful jaw to begin with.

The other thing is, who wouldn't flinch if someone pointed a weapon at them? This is a natural human reflex. Yes, some people are jumpier than others (I am 🤣, truly! Sometimes my coworker sneaks up on me while I work on a client to whisper something in my ear and I squeal in shock every single time. It's funny for everyone but me.) But we're talking about Amaya here! It's normal for the body to react if threatened. So we have our reasons why she went fawn mode.

Also, one of the first things she says to him is "How could you!" So, he's already in a very bad place, traumatized, suffering and on top posessed by evil now, and the first thing he's confronted with by his "wife" is blame. Nice. Blame! Guilt tripping and cornering him even further! Bravo Amaya 👏🏼

So Amaya being scared is relatable and justified. But does her being afraid justify her dumping and backstabbing Magnifico? No.

Just look at her smirk as she gives the guards the order to put him in the dungeons! I'm fine with Amaya x Magnifico shippers but I personally will never ship them! Poor man was desperate and shocked at how quickly and with how much ease she was writing him off.

If Magnifico had been her soulmate, she would have fought to death to get him back. Just imagine, if she had stood up and defended him, pleading her people to help her, saying something like : "Listen to me! Magnifico isn't evil, he's posessed by evil! I know he's dangerous and unpredictable right now but I know he's still in there somewhere and if we can reach him, we can get him back! I know you're scared, I am too, but together we can make it! Please, stand with me!"

I mean, she's the queen, alright? The people of Rosas are to obey and follow her command right after Magnifico. One right word of her and her people would follow her and not Asha. Btw. She could have also asked Asha and her friends to help her. I don't think they would have disagreed if she'd pleaded with them. She's their queen! Or would Asha have turned against Amaya as well then? 😐

You cannot tell me they wouldn't have been able to reach and save Magnifico by standing together in love and bold compassion! We literally saw how the wishes and (star) were set free from the evil force just by singing and standing together! Only imagine they had done this to free Magnifico! Saying he wasn't savable because the evil book said so is bullcrap.

I don't believe the evil book! A evil book is well, evil! And light will always be more powerful than darkness! Love will always be stronger than hate! Imagine a room full of darkness, then light a match, that tiny speck of light is still glowing! The dark cannot consume it! Because in light there cannot be darkness. And what does a evil book do besides destroy and corrupt?

Also, this looks painful! 🥺☝🏻this is nothing but incredibly tragic and sad!

Also, in the past, every single heroine has managed to break curses by true love and compassion! I was reminded of Moana and Te fiti for this!

Do you guys remember that scene, where Moana realizes that Te Fiti is still inside the posessed evil monster? Was Moana afraid? Sure she was! But did that stop her from reaching out to get her back? No!

Te ka (evil Te Fiti) could have burned Moana to a crisp in the split of 2 seconds but Moana still bravely approached her! She willingly faced death because she knew Te Fiti was still in there and by her immense love and compassion she'd get her back! She went "this is not who you are!" And boom!

There's more!

I also remember a scene from the 2 Maleficent live action! When Maleficent was consumed and controlled by hate, anger and revenge. She was all hiss, roar, I'm evil and Aurora stood up to her and told her "This isn't you! There's another way! I know who you are! I know you!" And Maleficent replies "You do not!" And Aurora in tears, in pain but 100% certain, says "Yes I do! You're my mother!"

And just like that the evil in Maleficent crumbles. True loves overcomes all evil! It's always been that way.

And even if no one would have helped Amaya, we'd still have the (true love breaks every curse!) But she did nothing. Well, she did run to Asha and her friends to sing about how bad he's always been like a pop star. She gave Magnifico up over the course of minutes, didn't even try fighting to get him back and wrote him off with a smile!

Magnifico was deeply hurt, the betrayal stung and he suffered inside. He had so much pain and anger and his anger is justified! Please, put yourself in his shoes for a moment. One doesn't even have to fully understand trauma and the whole complexity of the different forms of ptsd.

He only ever tried his best to have everyone happy and content. He only ever wanted to protect and keep safe. That's always been his goal. He held onto his power because he wanted to be strong enough to keep whats dear to him from harm at all costs! If someone wants to protect that fiercly it only means that person loves immensly 1 and 2 has suffered unbelievable painful loss. He loved his people! He cared for his people immensly. So much so he was willing to get himself posessed by evil even if he never wanted to! He felt forced by his desperation and utter fear.

And what did his people do in the end? Can you imagine how badly it must have hurt to realize you've only been loved for what you can do and give? How used he must have felt? He's been celebrated more for being handsome and a limitless genie than a loving king who established an amazing kingdom and ruled it well! He's bent backwards and all it took his people to turn on him was a teenager who thinks she knows better than anyone with a strange cute looking creature from the sky, they btw. knew just as little about!

Everyone backstabbed and betrayed him. Here he is, at the peak of all his suffering and posessed. His soul surely cried for help, hoped for anyone to reach out to him but no one did. He got kicked into his wound even further. Quite literally, this was the thanks he got.