#the man lives with the constant knowledge that sometimes all it takes is a tempting ravine and a badly timed creeper to end a life

[time-is-restored]

btw not to make everything about My Fucking Guy but i honestly think one of the things that seperates q!phil out from the other islanders is the approach he takes to dealing with the lack of agency + control all the islanders have over whatever the fuck the federation's doing.

it shows up most prominently whenever tubbo is excitedly telling him about the 'progress' he's made with cucurucho or various investigations (ie: trapping him into a corner with the 'do you have free will' questions), and phil always shoots it down w an immediate 'that doesn't mean anything. curucuho will say anything to mess with you. you can't take anything he says as true.'

and it's not that phil is... a paticularly pessimistic character? he's just EXTREMELY practical. like, he's yet to give up on anyone EVER finding ANY answers (he was the one who initially gave the federation that one week ultimatum w the cage for a cage stream), he just doesn't trust the idea that curucuho is ever going to voluntarily give them. they're uncontrollable + senseless - you might as well argue with the weather.

and like, if that's how he sees the one (1) and only point of contact the islanders HAD with the federation for months, it explains a lot abt his characters lifestyle! ofc he sits on the wall all day, talking to his kids, and keeping his head down. he believes that the federation wants nothing more than to drag the islanders into sick games + tasks just so they can fuck with their head (ie: curucuho revealing he was the one cellbit gathered all that information for). and while he can't totally PREVENT any of that from ever impacting him, he can make sure his kids are well fed, well protected, and as happy + comfortable as he can manage. this is objectively not a perfect situation, there is a guaranteed amount of suffering + fear that he can't mitigate, but he can at least account for it.

like, he REFUSES to engage. whenever curucho shows up, he treats them with total ambivalence. he's not going to get riled up by anything they do, he's not going to get super attached to the guy, he's just gonna laugh it off and irish goodbye it when things drag on. the ONLY time he's strayed from that general guiding principle has been since he's lost his eggs, and can no longer afford to let the federation's fuckery go: those are his fucking kids.

hence the completely unprecedented levels of outward rage and sadness and terror he shows throughout the birdcage streams - almost all directed directly to cucurucho. it's all a completely fair + proportional response to the horror the islanders are being subjected to, but it feels so different bc until now, q!phil has been so dedicated to not reacting, and not giving the federation any sign that they're actually getting to him.

[usmsgutterson]

Are you Really Okay?- Kaz Brekker

I am in no way trying to romanticize depression or suicidal ideations. I’ve dealt with them my entire life and it’s been no easy feat, and I know several others who’ve dealt with them the same. I am merely basing this off my own experiences and how I’ve dealt with it when things have gotten tough in the past, this is in no way meant to put down others who’ve had different experiences to me. 

Trigger warning- talk of depression, suicidal thoughts and suicidal ideations. If you are sensitive to those topics, for your safety, I advise that this be a work of mine that you stay away from.

Fic type- angst t

Warnings- mentions of Kaz’s trauma

Kaz couldn’t understand what’d happened. A few weeks before, you’d seemed fine. You were smiling, laughing with Inej and joking with Jesper. You’d gone to every meal, ate every last bit of your food. In between bites, you indulged Jespers talk of his guns, talked to Wylan about his flute, spoke with Kaz about a plan for a heist. You were okay. 

But that’d been the weeks before. That hadn’t been the two months it took to plan the heist, or the heist itself. 

The first thing that ticked him off that day was your failure to meet everyone for breakfast. You never missed out on a good meal, especially not when good conversation came with it, and Kaz had sent Rotty up to your room to see what’d happened.

Rotty came up empty, with just a note in his hand. In the note, you’d apologized, but promised to be on time to the first rendezvous point. Kaz wouldn’t reprimand you for it. He knew you’d come and go as you pleased, whether or not you had his permission to do so, so there really was no point in reprimanding and starting a fight. 

The heist went well, as they normally did, but you didn’t go out for the victory dinner, either. He’d gone, but as the six of them walked, slowly, back to The Slat, Kaz made sure to ask Inej what the hell had been up with you, see if she knew anything.

Inej, to his delight, hadn’t come up empty. “They have depression,” she’d said. “I can’t explain it, though. I just have a baseline understanding.” 

“Tell me,” Kaz demanded. “I want to know what’s wrong. They’ve been off for weeks now.”

“Careful, Brekker,” Nina taunted. “Keep going the way that you are, it might start to sound like you actually care!” 

“He doesn’t,” Jesper quipped, and for once, Kaz found himself grateful for Jesper and his constant need to be involved in conversations. “They’re not more than an investment to him. Isn’t that right, Kaz?” He said nothing, just glanced at Inej expectantly.

“They’re sad,” Nina input before Inej got the chance. “Isn’t that what it is?”

“It’s technically defined as a severe feeling of despondency and dejection, actually,” that was Wylan. “It’s coupled with a constant feeling of sadness, emptiness and not wanting to do what might’ve once peaked their interest.”

“It goes along with suicidal thoughts, too,” Inej spoke. “And ideations. They go hand in hand. You can’t treat one without also treating the other.” Kaz felt tempted to run the rest of the way back to The Slat, all the way up to your room and demand why you’d not told him, but he resisted.

“They should’ve gotten their meds refilled a while ago, though,” Inej matched the pace when Kaz began to move just a bit quicker. “I don’t know why they haven’t, to be completely candid.”

The rest of the way back, Nina and Matthias conversed with Inej and Jesper and Wylan laughed so loud they almost woke the city up, but Kaz kept quiet, his brain overtaken with questions.

Why haven’t they told me? He thought. Why didn’t I know? I care about them, don’t I? And isn’t that a bit of a crucial detail?

It slowly began to make sense to him. The red rimmed eyes some mornings, coupled with puffy cheeks, it should’ve been clear to him that you’d cried at some point through the night while he slept. The bags under your eyes slowly becoming more pronounced as you began to stay awake later; your reluctance to tell him anything, despite how close you were. All the meals you’d missed. 

Your smile.

You’d stopped smiling so much.

Kaz missed it. The sound of your laugh circulating through the room, your smile that managed to brighten his entire day. 

He felt like an idiot for not seeing the signs when they were right there, seemingly right in front of his face. He could’ve helped you, could’ve made sure you stayed on track with the medication, he could’ve done so much, and yet, as he walked, he felt as though he’d done so little. It infuriated him.  

When the six of them had arrived back at The Slat, he turned to Inej. “I’m going to go up to their room,” he whispered. “See how they’re doing.” Inej tossed him a smile.

“You do care, don’t you?” She asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Only a little,” Kaz murmured, almost hating that he admitted it to someone other than himself. “I just want to make sure that they’re okay.”

“And if they aren’t?” Matthias’ voice almost sounded like a scold. “What will you do then, demjin? Comfort them from a doorway?” 

“Matthias!” Nina scolded. “Let Kaz do his thing, okay? You don’t know Y/N like he does. He’ll comfort them in whatever way he sees fit.” Kaz shot a grateful nod at Nina as he made his way over to the stairs and up to your room. 

After a quick break in front of your door to catch his breath, he knocked three times.

“Come in,” you called, but your voice had waivered. “Just a moment, though, okay? I have to clean some things up!” Kaz went in anyway, opening the door just enough to slide in and closing it using his back. 

“Brekker,” you whispered, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt. Kaz noticed scarring, but he decided not to say anything. “Hello.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, not at all caring that he was being so blunt. “Are you really okay, Y/N?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” you murmured as you went around the room, plucking laundry off the floor and putting trash into the small trash bin you kept beside your bed. “Why are you asking if I’m okay when I’ve done nothing to say otherwise?”

“You’ve missed meals. You’re slower than normal. You smile less,” part of him wants to reach out, take your hand in his and rub your knuckles with his thumb and be a man who can touch another human being without issue, but he knows it’s unrealistic. 

“Well, forgive me for thinking that The Bastard of The Barrel wouldn’t pick up on how many times I smiled throughout the run of a day,” you quipped. “The heist was done just fine. We all got our shares of the money, and we all returned unscathed. I fail to see why you’ve put so much effort into caring.”

“Because it’s you,” he whispered.

“I’m just another investment, Brekker. You’re welcome to stop caring now. I’m going to sleep, and I’d as soon do it without the knowledge that your back is pressed against my door.”

“You’re more than an investment,” he whispered. “I care about you. I want to know when somethings wrong. Depression isn’t the kind of thing you keep from me, Y/N.” 

“I’ve kept it from you just fine, Kaz,” you shot back, wiping at your eyes. “I’ve been able to live with it since I was a kid without issue, without you noticing, so why notice now? Is it because I’ve been slower? Because I’ve slept in and missed breakfast? Because I’ve not felt the motivation to get and up and do what we do everyday?” 

“It’s because I care, Y/N,” he took a step toward you as you set to making the small bed that you slept on. 

“How many times have you considered climbing to the roof and jumping off it?” You winced at the question, and Kaz felt his heart clench for a single moment in time. 

“Are you asking me if I’m suicidal, Brekker?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, I think about it. I think about going down to Fifth Harbor, jumping into the lake and swimming until the bottom is so far down that I wouldn’t be able to reach it without drowning,” Kaz moved to sit on the bed next to you, keeping a little distance.

“When I take my meds, I’m not even happy,”

“So what are you?”

“Numb. I don’t feel anything. All of the pain goes away, but so does the happiness. The joy. The smiles.” Kaz winced. He’d gone through enough days without getting a smile from you or hearing your laugh that he was almost completely sure another of them might’ve been his breaking point. 

“And without your medication?”

“Highs and lows. Mostly lows, unfortunately. Depressive episodes, no motivation. Without my meds, my emotions are a tsunami and my conscious mind is the city that it runs through.”

“How can I help?”

“This is helping,” you admit. “It’s just--I’ve talked with Wylan and Jesper about it before, but neither of them ever have anything to say about any of it. They’re understanding, but sometimes, it just...”

“Wylan says things that’d come off a motivation quote poster and Jesper cracks a joke?” Kaz questions. 

You laughed then, and Kaz, completely and utterly unsure of himself, wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

For a couple of long lasting seconds, he was there again. In the barge, with Jordies slippery, slimy body beneath him as he kicked his way back to shore, but then he glanced at you. Saw the fear in your eyes as you registered what he’d done, trying to study him and figure out if you’d crossed a boundary, but all Kaz did was nod.

“I’m okay, L/N,” he whispered. “I’m fine.” 

You two stayed like that for a long, long time, until both of your eyes fluttered closed and sleep dragged you under. 

[archived-kin]

solomon deserves a husband so i'm giving him one (it's you)

note from kin: i don’t know HOW i’ve managed to get this out so soon after my last piece but i do know that it is a miracle (now watch me disappear for like a month lmao)

anyway there’s a severe lack of content for the boys in this fandom and therefore i am here to try to mitigate that!!

(as a heads up, this is sort of an au version of obey me’s story?? there’s no exchange program, and the general human world doesn’t know about the devildom or celestial realm, apart from sorcerers and similar special cases. solomon and simeon both still visit the devildom, though - solomon because he has a sort of job at the r.a.d., and simeon as an ambassador sort of thing for the celestial realm. the r.a.d.’s also less of a school and more of an organisation?? i haven’t really fleshed it out haha)

fandom: obey me!

character(s): male! reader, solomon, mammon (briefly), simeon (briefly)

pairing(s): solomon/reader

warning(s): blasphemy??? solomon disses god really briefly and that’s about it

genre: fluff!!!!!!!!!

As a general rule of thumb, Solomon doesn’t believe in destiny.

He’s lived long enough to know that, no matter what he does, the universe does not care about him, much less have some sort of plan for his future. The course that the world takes isn’t affected by some grand puppet master pulling the strings; one has to force the so-called path of fate in the direction they want it to take if they want something. Solomon knows this better than anyone.

It’s as much a downfall as it is a strength - as much as power as he’s amassed over the countless years, his constant need to challenge the universe’s power has lead him down a path far from humanity. There had been a time when he was like every other human on the Earth, when he was still young, full of hope and determination and promise, believing earnestly in some God high in the sky who would guide him through his life.

He shudders to think what sort of insufferable fool he’d been back then. An almighty God? Don’t make him laugh. The ruler of the Celestial Realm is incompetent at best, and a downright childish brat at worst. He doesn’t know how the angels put up with him - though he supposes his realm-smiting power is part of it. Why the universe chose to place such power on such a being’s shoulders will always be beyond him.

Long as it has been since he had been so naive, Solomon has learnt his lesson, to say the least. He’s seen people come and go, witnessed kings and queens reign and fall, watched on as friends and family live and die. It’s a truth that he’s been forced to learn across the years of his long, long life, a curse that he brought upon himself the moment he gave up the purity of his soul in pursuit of magical arts. 

He supposes he’s always had an insatiable thirst for the unknown - to play all his cards out front, to tempt fate’s hand, to jump into the void and hope to find ground beneath his feet when he lands. It’s that sort of reckless abandon and hunt for knowledge that has led him so far down this path, through so many years, across so many sleepless nights. The world continues to swirl around him, always changing, but Solomon refuses to be swept away. Because, even in the tumultuous movement of the universe, there has always been one constant that keeps him anchored - you.

The night he'd first met you isn’t as clear in his mind as he would have liked. He wants to be able to remember everything - the way the soft blue light of the will-o’-whisps had lit up your eyes in the dark of the night, the way that your hand had felt in his as you greeted him with a handshake, the way that you had said his name for the first time - in sharp detail, but Solomon knows better than to hope to recall something so long ago so perfectly.

He’d still been relatively new to a sorcerer’s life at the time - excited and determined and a little too full of himself. You… well, he doesn’t remember exactly, but he does remember thinking that you must be the most handsome being to exist. The you of today would probably shake your head and dismiss the past you as an obnoxious high hoper, but Solomon has loved you for so many years that he’s never been able to think of you as anything less than perfect.

There are times when he wondered how he managed to stumble upon such luck. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Solomon has has had truly insufferable periods over the years he’s known you, and he’s always considered it a miracle that you still chose to stay. Even through all the restless nights and the exhausting trips, even after all of the clashes and vexation, you have refused to give up on him.

He had asked you once, in the aftermath of an argument spurred by his inability to confide in you and your own frustration with his refusal to communicate. He remembers that night so vividly that it might well have happened just yesterday - the frustrated shouts, the shattering of glass, the warmth of your arms around his shoulders as he finally collapsed on himself. He doesn’t know what your face had looked like as he stuttered the question out in stuttering breaths, head buried in your shoulder in an effort to conceal his tears, but he imagines that it had been soft.

“I’m not going to leave you to yourself,” You had told him matter-of-factly, stroking his hair with such fondness  that it still sometimes brings a tear to his eye when he remembers it on particularly long nights. “And I’m not giving up on you, either - not now, not ever.”

Solomon had been unable to speak, too choked up by his feelings and the sudden, overwhelming love spreading through his entire body to reply. He’d only sunk deeper into your embrace, wishing that the moment could last forever.

I wonder if he still remembers that…?

“...lomon! Anyone home?!”

He jolts up from the table he’s sitting at so abruptly that he nearly knocks his head right into Mammon’s chin. The Avater of Greed, however, reacts quickly, and hops back before Solomon can break his jawbone.

“Jeez, you’re off on a different planet today,” He comments, setting his hands on his hips as Solomon shoots him the sort of look that tells him that he’s not particularly enthused about his presence at the moment. “What’s up with ya?”

Solomon isn’t quite sure how to answer. Sorry, I got distracted thinking about how perfect and lovely my husband is and how I’m the luckiest man in the entire world - nay, the universe - to have him. He nearly physically shudders at the thought of how much teasing he’d receive if he answered like that.

Instead, he chooses a much safer and still technically true option. “Just thinking about going home today.”

Mammon nods in understanding, pulling up a seat next to him and throwing himself down into it without much grace. “I feel ya. S’ been a long day.”

“You’ve barely done anything today,” Solomon quips flatly, not particularly impressed by the demon’s attempt at… empathy? Relatability? Either way, it isn’t working. “I doubt it’s been that hard.”

“Now, now, Solomon, let’s not be rude,” interjects a soft voice from behind them. Simeon is still dressed in his fancy envoy cloak - the one so long and heavy that it trails along behind him like a bridal train, decorated with a number of elaborate golden charms that jingle as he moves.

Solomon attempts to shoot him a slightly annoyed look, but it’s kind of hard to stay irritated by one of the literal embodiments of holiness and light, even if he wakes you up at very unholy hours of the morning to help him figure out how to answer an email. Solomon isn’t ungrateful for the new age of technology descending on humanity, but he’d like it a lot better if it hadn’t somehow reached the angels as well. The amount of times he’s had to tell Simeon that he needs to actually turn his D.D.D. on before he starts calling someone is… embarrassing, to say the least.

“You’re back in the Devildom, I see,” He observes as the angel pulls up a seat and sits beside him. “Did Michael send you down again?”

Simeon nods with a smile. “There were some arrangements that needed to be made with Lord Diavolo. Naturally, I volunteered.”

“Naturally,” Solomon echoes, raising a brow at his friend. “I don’t suppose your biases had anything to do with your decision?”

“Well, they may have had some effect,” Simeon answers with a shameless smile and shrug, beginning to undo the tassels of his heavy cloak and draping it on the back of chair he’s sitting on. He’s still wearing all of his regular clothes underneath it - including the other, much smaller cloak. Solomon wonders how he hasn’t somehow melted in the heat.

“When’re you gonna start heading home, anyway?” Mammon asks, beginning to pick at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. “It’s gettin’ late.”

Solomon blinks and looks up at the clock. “...ah, you’re right. In that case, I'll get going now.”

Mammon shoots him an odd look as he pushes himself up from the table and reaches for his bag, managing to hoist it onto his shoulder with some effort. He’s never been particularly good at heavy lifting - you’re usually the one helping him carry everything around the house.

“Oi, oi, what’s the rush?” the demon asks as Solomon adjusts the weight of his bag and starts heading for the door. “You on a timer or something?”

“I promised [Name] I’d be home earlier tonight,” is Solomon’s slightly absent-minded reply as he fiddles about in his pocket to find his transportation charm, nearly losing his balance and dropping his bag in the process. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Mammon watches him in clear confusion for a moment as he pats down his pockets, mumbling a quiet curse under his breath as he realises that he’s left his charm at home again. How many times this month does that make it now...? He supposes that he could always perform a teleportation spell, but knowing his luck with those, he’ll probably end up somewhere in Morocco again.

“Oi, Simeon,” Mammon hisses to the angel, who cocks his head slightly to the side and leans over so as to hear him more clearly. “Who’s this ‘[Name]’ Solomon’s talkin’ about?”

“You don’t know?” Simeon blinks at him in blatant perplexion - as if he can’t even fathom the idea that Mammon might not know who Solomon’s talking about. “He’s talking about his husband.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Then—

“Solomon has a HUSBAND!?” Mammon practically shrieks, completely flabbergasted. “I thought he was totally, like, the forever alone type!”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed?” is Simeon’s bewildered response. “Who do you think Solomon is always talking about buying groceries for?”

“I thought he was just buyin’ them for himself!” Mammon fires back, looking far more ruffled and shocked than he probably should be. He whips around to look at Solomon, who’s flicking through the little packet of blank charms he keeps on him at all times in an effort to find the right one to create a temporary transportation charm. He’s had to do it so many times this month that he’s already beginning to run out. “You’re married?!”

“Of course,” Solomon answers vaguely, briefly raising his left hand, allowing Mammon to spot the soft glint of a ring around his fourth finger. “You’re not?”

“Wh— ‘course I’m not!” Mammon exclaims, positively scandalised by the very concept. “Why would I get married, huh?! It’s a waste of time and a waste of money!”

“Think whatever you like,” Solomon dismisses him easily, which only seems to irritate Mammon further.

Finally having found the right blank charm, he plucks it out and begins carefully tracing patterns onto it with a single glowing finger. He’s dimly aware of Mammon furiously whispering to Simeon in the background, with the angel responding in kind, most likely sharing some exaggerated story from back when the three of you had worked together - when Solomon had accepted a job from the Celestial Realm. The details of the whole thing are a little fuzzy to him now, long as it has been, but he’s almost completely sure that Simeon somehow still remembers the whole thing flawlessly.

“How old even is he?!” He hears Mammon hiss.

“I’m not so sure myself,” Simeon replies, placing his chin in a thoughtful hand. “Let’s see… their two millennial anniversary’s coming up in about two years, and I remember Solomon saying that they got married when he was around two hundred or so… which means he’s about twenty-one hundred years old.”

“Holy shit,” Mammon mutters in disbelief, turning glance at the sorcerer as he starts folding down the corners of his charm into the right shape. “Humans aren’t supposed to live that long. How’s his husband still alive, then?”

“That isn’t really a question for me to answer,” Simeon shakes his head slightly. “I suppose you can always ask him yourself if Solomon ever brings him to work with him.”

“I doubt it,” Solomon speaks up for the first time since announcing his departure. “He’s usually busy during the day. Besides, transportation charms make him queasy, and I’m not making him walk all the way down here.”

“Aren’t you a wizard?” Mammon asks, scratching his head. “Just do one of ya fancy teleportation spells. Why d’you need a charm?”

Solomon sighs. He hates to admit it, but he can’t be bothered to make up some other reason to cover up for himself. “I’m afraid that teleportation spells aren’t actually particularly accurate. We could end up somewhere in the Pacific if I’m not careful.”

Mammon looks thunderstruck. “Then what about all those times you’ve teleported us?! Don’t tell me we coulda ended up in, like, the Archaic Pit or something?!”

“Well, it was always a possibility,” Solomon shrugs in reply, finishing the charm with a deft flick of his hand. “You’re a demon, I sure you could have handled yourself.”

“But…!” Mammon crosses his arms and turns away like a grumpy child. “Hmph…”

“Do say hello to [Name] for me, will you?” Simeon requests as Solomon turns to open the door, ignoring the sulking demon sitting beside him. “We haven’t been able to talk for a while.”

“You text him every day, don’t you?” Solomon asks, shooting him an unimpressed look. “I’d say that’s conversation enough.”

“Now, now, there’s no need to be stingy,” Simeon countered with a smile, tilting his head slightly to the side and leaning forward. “Besides, one misses the presence of an actual person after a while of nothing but electronic communication... especially texting is so difficult. Tell him he’s always welcome to come around for some tea - Luke would be happy to see him.”

Solomon shakes his head, but makes a sound of affirmation nevertheless. You had mentioned that you’ve missed seeing Simeon since he’d started the whole negotiator businesss, and he isn’t the sort of person to deny you the company of a friend. “I’ll let him know. Anyway, I should really be going now…”

“Have a safe journey!” Simeon calls after him as he swings the door open and sweeps out. Solomon waves a hand over his shoulder in response, then disappears down the corridor, most likely to a quiet spot in the courtyard to use his charm. He’s been banned from using them indoors ever since he accidentally shattered one of the fancy artifacts in the assembly hall and sent hundreds of shards flying everywhere. Apparently Barbatos is still finding tiny pieces of glass in the crevices of the floor.

“Why didn’t Solomon ever say anythin’?” Mammon asks Simeon after a moment of quietude. “Seems like the sorta thing you’d mention.”

“Solomon’s a private man,” Simeon says with a shrug. “Besides, he and [Name] have made plenty of enemies over the years, and you’d be shocked by how quickly names and locations can spread…”

“Does he mind us knowin’ about it, then?”

“Well, personally, I’ve known for a while,” Simeon answers, “And I’m sure the others will have worked it out by now - Solomon’s always finding ways to mention [Name] in passing. But no, I’m sure he doesn’t mind. He’d say something if he did.”

Mammon nods and goes silent for a little while. Then he asks, “What’s this [Name] like, then? Must be some guy if Solomon liked him enough to put a ring on him and keep him for that long.”

“Well, let’s see…” Simeon drums his fingers thoughtfully against the tabletop. “He has quite the penchant for raising deadly plants, he hasn’t gone more than a full month without exploding something or another for about five centuries, he takes clocks apart in his spare time, he likes his coffee with a touch of vanilla, he collects cursed books, he makes a lovely butterscotch-cinnamon pie, and he works as a curse breaker for hire.”

It takes a moment for Mammon to process all of the information that’s just been dumped on him. “...sounds like the kinda guy Satan would get along with.”

“I thought so as well,” Simeon agrees. “Their house even reminds me of Satan’s room, in a way… [Name] is quite the avid reader.”

“What, you’ve been?”

“Only once,” Simeon’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as he reminisces. “Quite a long time ago now. I wouldn’t know where to find it even if I wanted to go again, though - it’s always moving.”

“Do they move house a lot, then?”

Simeon shakes his head. “Oh, no, no. They’ve lived in the same house for centuries - it’s the house that moves itself.”

Mammon pauses. “...what?”

“The building,” Simeon clarifies. “They’ve got an enchantment on the whole thing that makes it change locations every couple of weeks or so.”

“But… why?”

Simeon shrugs. “[Name] doesn’t like staying in one place for too long.”

“Still, isn’t that a bit much…?” Mammon pulls a face. “They could always just travel, ya know…”

“As Solomon said, transportation talismans make [Name] feel queasy,” Simeon explains. “And he prefers not to use teleportation spells when it comes to him, just in case they end up somewhere dangerous.”

“And he doesn’t care about the rest of us ending up somewhere dangerous?” Mammon huffs and collapses forwards onto the table.

“Well, you can’t really compare the two,” Simeon says patiently as the demon continues to mutter indignantly under his breath. “He’s his husband, and we’re essentially just his friends from work.”

Mammon opens his mouth to make a rebuttal, then thinks about it for a moment and changes his mind. After a moment, he comments, a little less resentfully, “Well, you’d think he’d at least introduce us.”

“He’s been planning to for a while, actually,” Simeon tells him. “Give him some time and he’ll probably bring it up on his own.”

Mammon nods. “He’d better!”

“I’m home.”

You look up from the book you’re reading and hop down from your seat on the roof just in time to see Solomon emerge from the back garden, looking noticeably dishevelled, with leaves decorating his head like some sort of fancy accessory.

“Welcome back!” You greet him happily, setting the book aside and moving forward to start picking the leaves from his hair. Solomon smiles softly at you as you take his bag in one hand and start pulling him to the front door with the other. “You forgot your talisman again, by the way.”

“I noticed,” He laughs, gently removing your hand from his upper arm and wrapping his fingers around it instead. “Why else do you think I ended up in the hedges again?”

“It’s a wonder that you’ve had to make these temporary talismans so many times and you still haven’t gotten one right yet,” You tease in reply, nudging him in the shoulder. “How many points is that on the tally now, then?”

“Ten for the basement, seven for the roof, and eleven for the hedges now,” He answers with a small pout as you laugh. “Honestly, you’d think I would have learnt my lesson...”

“You never do, love.” 

The door creaks as you and your husband enter the house, only to immediately be greeted by a bundle of scales hitting you head-on. You manage to keep your footing and steady yourself on the doorway; Solomon isn’t so lucky, and ends up laying spread-eagled on the floor with about two hundred kilograms of excited adolescent dragon purring on his chest.

“Looks like Triton missed you,” You comment with a bright smile, setting Solomon’s bag down beside the umbrella rack and leaning over to give the dragon a scratch behind his left horn, just the way he likes it. He rumbles happily and jingles the little bell around his neck at you. “Isn’t he getting big?”

“I saw him this morning, [Name],” Solomon wheezes from his position on the floor, somehow managing to reach up and tickle Triton’s chin with one hand despite the dragon’s weight. “He can’t have grown that much in ten hours.”

“You never know!” You tell him, reaching up and wrapping your arms around Triton’s neck. He coos in a delighted fashion and raises his head, setting it heavily on your shoulder. Solomon uses the brief lightening of the weight on him to take in a deep breath as you allow your dragon to nuzzle furiously into your neck. “Dragons are unpredictable, you know.”

“Believe me, I do,” He sighs tiredly as Triton blows out a pleased puff of hot air and knocks the clock off the wall again. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Triton, I’d quite like to get back up again.”

The dragon blinks and raises his head from your shoulder, glancing down at the sorcerer that he’s crushing under his weight. Then he huffs and turns away again.

“Oh, you—!” Solomon curses as the dragon seems to press even harder into him. Your laughter rings out across the hall, and while he’d normally take a moment to admire the sound, he’s a little preoccupied. “[Name], stop laughing and help me!”

“He’s like a rebellious teenager!” You splutter helplessly in reply, voice still trembling slightly out of mirth. Triton makes a happy noise as you reach up and rub his scaly cheeks, his ears fluttering slightly. “Awww, you’re really growing up, aren’t you, baby? Your poor dads are really going to have their work cut out for them, huh?”

“Hey,” Solomon calls reproachfully from beneath Triton’s enormous chest. “Your husband’s still being crushed down here.”

“Oh, right!” You click your tongue and give Triton a meaningful look. He grumbles but obeys nevertheless, hopping off of Solomon (though not without knocking all the air out of him by using his chest as a launchpad) and scampering off, most likely to go play with the salamanders that have set up shop in the storage room again.

“I’ll never understand how you manage him so well,” Solomon sighs as you bend down to pull him to his feet, rubbing at the sore spot on his chest. “He never listens to me.”

“Aw, he loves you, really,” You reassure him, taking his hand and pressing a comforting kiss to his knuckles. “He just likes roughhousing with you.”

Solomon shakes his head, wanting to complain further about the big lizard that the two of you had adopted six months ago after the last one grew up and flew the nest, but then he sees the smile on your face, and he feels the flicker of irritation in his chest die down almost immediately. It’s at times like this that he’s really reminded of how absolutely worth it all of the nonsense he has to put up with at work is - because, at the end of the day, you are here, with your warm eyes and your lovely smile, with your comforting hands and your warm embrace, and there is no road too long to walk if you are waiting for him at the end of it.

“I know,” He sighs, tugging off his shoes and stepping into his favourite pair of slippers - the ones with the little cat faces printed on them that you’ve charmed to always maintain a perfect temperature for his feet. He glances at your own feet and notes that you’re wearing your matching pair as well.

The two of you have long since set up a routine for this sort of occasion, and you both fall into it with unconscious ease. Solomon changes into something more comfortable while you put the kettle on in the kitchen, and the two of you inevitably spend so long snuggled up together on the largest armchair in the living room, unwilling to leave the warmth of each other’s presence, that the water cools down, and you end up having to put it back on again. Then you sit together at the table, you with a coffee with a dash of vanilla and him with his favourite chrysanthemum tea that you always brew just the way he likes it. Sometimes you’ll sit side by side, shoulders pressed up against each other as you show him the specifics of your latest curse-breaking commission, and sometimes you’ll sit across from each other, holding hands across the tabletop as he tells you about his day.

Today it is the former, but Solomon can’t help but zone a little out of the detailed deep-dive you’re giving him about the intricacies of the spell that’s cursed this teapot to shoot its contents at anyone who attempts to fill it. It isn’t that your explanation is boring - quite the contrary, in fact; Solomon could probably listen to you describing the most mundane or trivial of things on loop for the rest of his life and be perfectly content with it. No, it’s more to do with the fact that this is the first time he’s been home before dark in a long while, and he can’t help but revel in the fact that he can spend time with you like this again. Of course, there’s something wonderful in coming home to be able to collapse into bed beside you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, drifting to sleep as you burrow closer to him even in your sleep, but Solomon can’t run off of that forever - he needs to see you with your eyes open as well, after all. 

“You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?” You ask as you note the far-off look on your husband’s face. You’re not offended in the slightest by the way he starts at the directed question, evidently guilty, but you are a little puzzled. “Is there something wrong?”

Solomon’s mouth falls open slightly, then shuts again. There’s something about the way you’re looking at him so earnestly that makes his heart stutter like nothing else. Honestly, you’d think he’d be used to this after nearly two thousand years, but it seems that he’s still as weak for you as he was on the very first day of your marriage. “...I suppose I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“You always have a lot on your mind,” You counter softly, giving his hand a brief squeeze. “Come on, you can tell me.”

He laughs quietly, bringing your linked hands up to his face and gently holding yours to the side of his face; you, in turn, unfurl your fingers from around his and rub his cheek affectionately. After a moment, a fond smile pulling at his lips, Solomon replies, “I’ve… missed you a lot this week.”

You pause in mild surprise, but it quickly turns to endearment as Solomon presses his body even closer to yours. The hand that you’re using to hold your mug of coffee moves to settle on his shoulder as you pull him closer. “Really now? What a coincidence. I’ve missed you lots as well, love.”

He chuckles a little bashfully, his cheeks flushing. It seems that your ability to fluster him hasn’t declined even a bit over the years. He’s still well and truly besotted.

You can’t help but find it rather amusing that, despite already having spent a good hour and a half or so in the living room, bundled so close together in the blankets that you could feel his breath on your skin, the two of you are still nestling so close together now. You suppose it’s the effects of a week with much less contact than usual.

You lean forward and press a kiss to his jaw before pulling back again, reaching for your coffee and taking a sip. Solomon exhales softly, pulling his own drink towards him and draining the last of the tea in a single mouthful.

“You know,” He says, setting his empty cup down on the table. “One of my coworkers was asking about you earlier.”

“‘Coworkers’,” You snort at his choice of language, earning a reproachful poke in the side as punishment. “Come on, just admit that they’re your friends.”

“Fine,” He sighs. “One of my friends, then - Mammon, the one that Lucifer’s stringing up all the time.”

“The one with white hair?” You recall, thinking back to the group photo that Simeon had sent you a while back. “He’s the Avatar of Greed, right?”

“That’s the one,” Solomon nods. “Apparently he never noticed that I was married.”

“Well, you can’t really blame him,” You say, giving him a playful nudge. “Honestly, the way you keep your mouth shut, you’d think I was some shameful secret or something.”

Solomon looks scandalised by the very idea - it had only been a little joke, but his eyes flash with such affront that it’s almost as if someone has genuinely called you such a thing. “Of course not! I’d never—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I was joking,” You cut him off before he can get more riled up. Solomon calms down quickly once you set a comforting hand on his knee, though he still looks a little indignant. “I know why you don’t like talking about us much, but really, it’s okay. They’re your friends, aren't they?”

He hesitates, then nods, releasing another deep sigh soon afterwards. “I suppose. There isn’t much I can really do about it at this point anyway… according to Simeon, most of them have somehow figured it out already.”

“They’re probably a lot smarter than you give them credit for, Sol,” You hum, reaching up and brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes for him. “They’re demons, after all. They’ve lived even longer than us.”

“Believe me, they really aren’t.” Solomon shakes his head, a frown pinching at his brow at the very memory of the amount of things that his coworkers have done recently - some of the most notable being Diavolo setting an entire flock of geese free in the courtyard for an ‘experiment’, Levi quite literally throwing himself out of a window just to win a bet against Mammon about who could get down the stairs faster, Asmo causing a stampede in the main hall by dropping and shattering a bottle full of a powerful aphrodisiac potion that became even more powerful once released into the air, and Lucifer accidentally breaking one of Solomon’s favourite cauldrons when he’d transformed into his demon form and inadvertently smacked halfway across the room it with one of his upper wings.

“I’d really love to meet them some day,” You sigh, swirling the contents of your mug around. “They sound like fun.”

“Trust me, the trouble isn’t worth it—” Solomon attempts to reason with you, but he gives up laughably quickly as you pout at him in protest. “Oh, fine. But don’t blame me if you get sick because of the charm again.”

“We don’t have to use the charm,” You shake your head. “Just do a teleportation spell!”

“You know that that’s risky,” Solomon sighs, chucking you under the chin and leaning forward to kiss the tip of your nose. You laugh as he draws back again, a pleased smile rising on his face at your reaction. “We could end up anywhere.”

“You’ve teleported them a bunch of times, though, haven’t you? And you haven’t ended up in Texas or the Sahara Desert any of those times!”

The resemblance to his earlier conversation with Mammon and Simeon is almost uncanny. “That’s different. I was still teleporting them within the Devildom, not across an entire realm barrier… and besides, I can afford the risk with them. You’re a different story.”

You pout again, shoulders dropping in defeat, though it doesn’t escape Solomon’s notice that his sentiment seems to have appeased you at least a little. “...guess we’ll just have to use a transportation talisman, huh…?”

“That’s your only option if you really want to visit, yes.”

You go quiet for a moment or two, nose wrinkling and face scrunching as you think it over. Solomon doesn’t mind the lack of conversation - he entertains himself by studying your features, wondering for perhaps the millionth time how he managed to find someone like you.

Finally, a determined look rising on your face, you nod and proclaim, “Then I’ll do it!”

Solomon cocks his head slightly to the side. He can’t say he’s surprised by your eagerness, but he had expected it to take you longer to make up your mind. He opens his mouth to say something, but tou answer his question before he’s even asked it, a skill that you’d managed to pick up within the first year or so of knowing him.

“I really wanna see what you actually get up to when you work,” You explain, looking a little sheepish. “You’ve had a job there for nearly two years and I’ve never even said a word to the people you work with.”

Solomon laughs. “It isn’t usually a requirement in the workplace. Wear appropriate uniform, bring any equipment you need, introduce your husband to your coworkers within the decade…”

“Still, I’d feel bad if I didn’t at least meet them,” You say. “Besides, I want to see Simeon as well. You said he’s working down in the Devildom for a bit as well, didn’t you?”

“Why are you so eager to see him, huh?” Solomon’s tone is light and teasing, so you know not to take him seriously as he puts on an hurt expression. “I’m offended. Your dear husband’s right here and you’re thinking about some angel.”

“Oh, stop it, you,” You shake your head in slightly exasperated amusement as he runs a finger down his cheek in lieu of a tear. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He pulls an exaggeratedly petulant face and pretends to turn away like an upset child. “Sometimes I feel like you love him more than me.”

“Simeon’s a lovely guy, but you’re still the only guy for me, you doof,” You tell him, tapping fondly at the cheek he’s turned to you with your free hand. Solomon obligingly turns back around to look at you, a grin pulling at his mouth. “Why would I marry you and then stay here for two thousand years if you weren't?”

“I guess I always assumed it was out of pity or something,” He jokes in response, leaning forward and briefly brushing his nose against yours. “And, just so you know, you’re the only guy for me as well.”

“I’d better be,” is your lighthearted reply as he pulls away. After a moment, looking at him expectantly, you begin tentatively, “So…?”

He sighs, but gives you a smile nevertheless. “I’ll ask Diavolo. He probably wouldn’t mind if I brought you without asking first, but Lucifer definitely would.”

“What’ll we do if they hate me?” You ask. “Do demons actually eat humans?”

“They wouldn’t dare,” He replies firmly. “Not if I have anything to say about it. Besides, they won’t hate you. I doubt anyone could.”

You laugh and drop your head to rest on his chest. “You’re too nice to me, love.”

Solomon turns to wrap both his arms around your shoulders, setting his chin on the crown of your head. You smile into his jumper, looping your own arms around his waist and pushing yourself closer to him.

“I’m not just being nice. Honestly, [Name], you’re kind of the most perfect man in the universe.”

[starkravinghazelnoots]

It shouldn’t have been a big deal to Sam that Bucky was taller than him. In fact, it wasn’t a big deal to Sam, no matter what Sarah insisted.

“There is only one thing you men are more sensitive about than your height,” Sarah had teased with a knowing smirk, “and that would be y’all’s foot size.”

Sam had wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Please don’t ever speak to me again.”

“You are the one living under my roof, Samuel.”

Unfortunately, his sister had been right about that, too.

Except no, no, it didn’t matter that Bucky was taller than Sam! The difference was a measly two inches, so small it could hardly even be called a ‘difference’ with total seriousness. And Bucky was yet to boast of this slight advantage he had in height, either, thus reinforcing the fact that it really and truly did not at all matter to Sam that Bucky was the teensiest bit taller than him. Sure, maybe sometimes Sam wanted to be the one who leaned down into a tender kiss, but that wish was not so strong as to be the only thing ever on his mind.

“If that’s the case, why can’t you stop talking my ear off about it?”

Sam frowned at his sister’s irritated tone, though her dramatic eye roll that followed told him Sarah’s exasperation was only half-genuine. “Well, since you’re always telling the boys you know everything, I figured you’d be the best person to ask for adv—”

“Oh, you hush.” Sarah swatted his arm with the kitchen towel. “I don’t tell them I know everything. I just remind them that if they have questions, they should come to me before you or Bucky.”

Yeah, Sam couldn’t blame her for that one. Bucky’s knowledge was antiquated at best and Sam no longer bothered to deny how his constant to and fro across the country meant he was oftentimes out the loop. “Okay, well, now I’m the one coming to you with a question. So what should I do? Buy a pair of heels?” He was pretty sure he’d hate wearing them, but Bucky’s reaction would inevitably be hilarious. Sam was tempted.

“Hell no, do not waste your paycheck on that.” Sarah sighed as she hung the beige towel up beside the sink. “Look, bro. If you’re coming to me like AJ and Cass do with a question about people, I’m gonna give you the same answer I always give them. If you got a problem with someone…” She gave him a flat look that immediately clued Sam in to the fact that he was going to hate her advice. “Talk. It. Out.”

Sam groaned, leaning back against the wooden cabinets of the kitchen. “You already know Bucky’s the quiet and condescending type.”

“Who gives a shit? Clearly you’re the one with a problem here, not your beau.”

Touché.

“Also, you chose to date him.”

“Alright, alright,” Sam grumbled. “You’ve made your point.”

“Thank you. Now go put all your counselor skills to use and have a talk with your man,” Sarah concluded with a shooing gesture. “Oh, also—wake up the boys for me, will you? They’re gonna be late for school if they don’t get moving.”

Sam gave her a mock salute, grinning as Sarah rolled her eyes a second time before turning back towards the eggs she was scrambling on the stove. Knowing such a reaction meant their conversation was over, Sam resigned himself to maybe—maybe—talking to Bucky about his… see, he didn’t even know what to call the issue. His height complex? God no, that sounded horrible.

Well, first things first—he needed to wake up the boys.

As Sam headed towards the stairs, he passed a sleepy Bucky emerging from the small half bath, his normal hand covering his mouth as he yawned while the vibranium one scratched his stomach. Sam did his best to ignore the way the latter action made the hem of Bucky’s shirt ride up a fraction of an inch.

“Morning,” he said, earning a tired nod from Bucky in response as he reached the foot of the stairs, pausing after taking only a few steps up. “Sleep well?”

Bucky nodded again, a content smile tugging at his lips. “Through the whole night.”

Sam’s chest swelled with pride at the revelation. It had now been—what, a week and a half of restful nights for Bucky? Surely he was verging on a new record. “Hell yeah, man. That’s great.”

Bucky’s little smile became a pleased smirk. “I still think I’d sleep even better in your room—”

Sam laughed. “Sorry, Buck. Not with kids in the house.” He glanced at the clock across the hall before taking another step up the stairs. “Speaking of the boys, I need to wake them up before Sarah has my head.”

“Oh, wait. I’ll come with you.”

Sam pretended his heart didn’t flutter at the near-insufferable domesticity of the mental image that followed, one of Bucky gently shaking his nephews’ shoulders to get them out of bed. Christ. Sam was so whipped.

When Bucky reached the foot of the stairwell, Sam couldn’t help but notice the scattered fluffy tufts his partner’s hair had developed into throughout the night. Unfairly-attractive bed head, as it were. This casual observation was followed by a more intense thought that hit Sam like a sledgehammer.

He could see the top of Bucky’s head. Because, on the stairs, he was taller than Bucky.

Sam didn’t consider himself to be an impulsive person—no matter what Bucky said—but at that moment, he threw forethought to the wind. Bucky only had his feet on the first and second steps when Sam leaned down to cup his partner’s face with both hands and crash their lips together in a kiss that made fireworks explode in Sam’s stomach. Bucky’s morning breath wasn’t even too bad—rinsed his mouth, maybe?—and Sam soon found himself lost in the warmth of Bucky’s lips on his and the firm grip Bucky now had on his hips. Although he sorely regretted the eventual need to pull away for air, Sam had to admit that the dazed, blissful expression on Bucky’s face almost made breaking the kiss worth it.

God. Fuck. That settled it. If this was what it was like to kiss Bucky Barnes from above, Sam was going to suck it up and lay everything out to Bucky. Sarah would tease him endlessly, as sisters were wont to do, but damn.

It’d be so worth it.

“What was that for?” Bucky finally murmured, running a hand up and down Sam’s side.

Sam smiled as he traced Bucky’s bottom lip with his thumb. Ha. “Ask me later. We gotta wake up the boys.”

Bucky nodded. He made absolutely no move to continue up the stairs. “Kiss me again, first?”

Well, who was Sam to refuse such a polite request?

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Stalker X Stalker, Part 2

First part

Next

Perma tag: @nathleigh

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades

Tim wheeled his bike into the alleyway nearby and set the alarm to call him if someone messed with it beyond the normal ‘must touch cool thing’ instincts.

Once he was sure that his bike couldn’t be easily stolen, he turned back to where Marinette was waiting for him.

She struggled with her phone with her gloved fingers. His lips twitched into a grin and he took a moment to school his face into a neutral expression before he started over.

After a second, her head turned to look at him and she flashed a wink, pocketing her phone.

“Cheers!” She chirped, flashing him a wave.

Tim raised an eyebrow at her behind his domino mask. “I hate to break this to you, but that’s a British thing.”

He could only see the top half of her face, and yet he was sure she was pouting. “Kwami, this is Canada French all over again.”

“Canada --?”

“They speak the language all wrong,” she said, as if that made it make more sense.

“I feel like you’re implying that I speak English wrong.”

“Would you rather I say it outright? ‘Cheers’ is a cute word and it sucks that Americans don’t use it.”

“Is this really a hill you’re going to die on?”

“Not just a hill I’m going to die on, it’s the hill.”

He scoffed lightly at that, then turned to get the door for her. The moment they stepped inside they tensed. The silent stares pressed in on them on all sides and he felt Marinette shuffle just the slightest bit closer to him as they took their place in line. The Gothamites continued watching them -- no, they were watching her -- warily, and of course they were (new people in costumes usually meant pain for them).

Well, he could assure them she was safe, at least.

He slowly, carefully, threw his arm over his shoulders. Marinette’s hand twitched towards the arm on instinct to throw him off, but otherwise she didn’t give much indication that what was going on was weird. There were a few more tense seconds before people turned back to what they were doing, visibly relieved by the fact that she was apparently on the good side. Chatter started back up.

Marinette relaxed slightly under his arm and he gave her shoulder a little squeeze in a weak attempt at comfort.

“Kwami, I forgot how much being a new hero sucks.”

“Vigilante,” he corrected her absently.

She rolled her eyes. “At least try and make it sound like you’re not a cop with a bird theme.”

He sputtered, pulling away to cross his arms over his chest. “Hey!”

“Am I wrong?”

“Yes!”

She rested her hands on her hips.

“We break laws!”

She snickered. “So do cops.”

Tim… didn’t have a retort for that. Luckily, he didn’t need to have one, because it was their turn to order. Neither of them hesitated and within a minute they had their drinks and were out the door. They waved for the few cameras pointed at them on their way out, false smiles lighting up their faces, and then quickly ducked back into the alleyway to have their drinks in privacy.

“I’m going to start going places as Red Robin more often since it seems to mean I’ll get served quicker,” joked Tim as he leaned against the wall.

She gave him a puff of laughter and then pulled the bottom of her mask up to take a sip of her caramel frappe. He watched her expression for a moment and then decided that it must have been good because she didn’t instantly recoil. He pulled his coffee to his lips and took a confident gulp, only to choke.

“Shit,” he hissed, fighting the urge to spit it out.

Now that he knew what to look for he could see the pain behind her eyes.

“It’s really bad,” she informed him, purposefully just a moment too late in her warning.

He huffed a little, looking at the cup in his hand. It’s an iced coffee! How do you even mess that up?

There was a beat as the two vigilantes considered their options, before giving each other shrugs and downing their drinks. It may have been bad, but at least it was caffeinated. Marinette, lucky her, had an easier time of it because she’d gotten whipped cream with hers. He was tempted to snatch the drink from her hands to have something to wash down the cup threatening to sully the good name of coffee for him…

But he didn’t have to. She smiled and offered him the last of her whipped cream. He squinted at it suspiciously as if expecting it to be poisoned. After the coffee incident just a moment before he wasn’t about to take any chances.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s actually good, promise.”

“If you’re lying I’m taking back vouching for you to Batman,” he told her.

Her eyes crinkled with mirth.

“I’m serious! If it’s terrible I’m marching back to the Batcave --!”

“All the way back?”

“Yes! All the way back to the Batcave! And I’m going to revoke my vouching!”

“Oh noooooo, not the vouching!” She said, bringing her hands to her cheeks in mock terror. When he continued to ‘glare’ at her she snickered and assured him that: “It’s fine, I’m pretty sure it’s from a can.”

He squinted at her, because canned whipped cream was still far below his normal standard, but he did end up taking it. It was… okay.

“See? Not poisoned.”

“Very suspicious thing to say unprompted but okay.”

She grinned, reaching over to swipe some cream off his nose. “You’ll die in exactly four hours”

He rolled his eyes. “Hm. I guess I should go home and work on making an antidote, then.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that. I’ll see you later.” She leaned forward and pressed her mask to his cheek in a sort of kiss before heading off.

He watched her leave, smiling to himself. He leaned back against his motorbike absently, thinking.

Well, he supposed he didn’t need to watch her to make sure she was safe anymore. She was Ladybug, she could take care of herself in a fight…

But then a thought occurred to him: she couldn’t detect him when he had been watching her earlier. He bit his lip anxiously. Sure, he was trained to evade detection but did he really want to chance it? In a place like Gotham the ability to tell when you’re being watched is an absolute must.

Okay. Fine. He’d watch her just a little longer…

~

Marinette frowned when her phone rang while she was doing some late-night work.

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, M’lady?”

A wide grin stretched across her face and she fell back in her bed. “Chaton! And here I was thinking you would never call!”

Adrien laughed. “Well, our time zones don’t exactly match up and I forgot that your sleep schedule is less of a schedule and more of a suggestion.”

“Fuck you, too, then.”

He laughed and she could hear him shifting around on the other side. She heard him zip something up on the other side and she lit up. “When’re you coming over?” He sighed and that was all it took to let her know that he had bad news. The momentary silence afterwards as he tried to figure out what to say was a good indication, too.

“I can’t, unfortunately. The Son of Hawkmoth moving away right after he gets jailed isn’t a good look. The United States Government isn’t that eager to have me, either.”

She wasn’t about to give up that easily. “Just steal the horse miraculous from Fu and come over illegally.”

He snorted. “Yeah, no, straight up disappearing is even more suspicious, thanks.”

Marinette frowned. She supposed that made sense…

She pulled her cat plush over so she could rest her head against it. “It’s so boring without you.”

“You’re making new friends, right?” He questioned, concerned. “I saw on the news that you’ve met the other vigilantes already.”

“Yeah, I guess… but they clearly don’t trust me.”

“Well, did you trust me when we started out?”

“No…”

“So give them time. They’ll realize you’re the best person on Earth soon enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, obviously. They’d have to be blind not to notice that.”

“Well, one of them is called Batman --.”

“I’m hanging up on you.”

He laughed at her and she smiled as she burrowed into her plush.

“Thanks, Chaton.”

“Anytime. Now, go to sleep.”

She rolled her eyes and hung up on him without promising him anything.

~

He leaned against the concrete of the roof, head on his arms to prevent scratching up his chin as he watched her through the window. He kind of worried about her having the blinds open like that, anyone could look in at her, but at least she closed it at night.

Still, he couldn’t deny that it certainly made things easier for him. She did most things by window light -- to save electricity, he theorized -- so he didn’t have to work all that hard to keep track of her.

Currently, she was working on stitching some pieces of an outfit. Her tongue poked out of her mouth a little when she concentrated, he had learned. A tiny part of him wondered if she did that as Ladybug, too, and he just couldn’t see it under her mask.

He kind of wished he could ask. Maybe one day he would (if they ever got close enough for him to reveal he’d been watching her without her knowledge, of course).

His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts, and he groaned to himself as he synced his earbuds and picked up.

“Yeah, B, what do you need?”

~

Listen, Marinette liked her job. She had the privilege of designing most of the outfits she did and that was a lot of fun -- certainly more fun than working solely on commissions -- but… sometimes she just wants to be told what to do. Artist’s Block is real and it fucking sucks.

Thankfully, Gotham gave quite a bit of inspiration. The difference between Gotham and Paris was striking. Paris was pristine; lots of tourists meant keeping the city in a constant state of newness, all bright colors and surfaces so clean you can see your reflection in them. Gotham, on the other hand, felt exceptionally lived in; graffiti, decaying buildings, cracked sidewalks…

She found a nice vantage point that overlooked the city and looked out over the horizon. That was another difference between the two: the height of buildings in Gotham was far more varied than those of Paris. It was more interesting to look at, she thought.

(It had been a point of annoyance at night as she could no longer jump from rooftop to rooftop with ease, but that’s not the point here.)

Maybe she could do something inspired by all the different heights. Audrey would probably like a dress like that.

She smiled walking to a nearby gargoyle. Red graffiti dubbed them Charlie, and who was she to not use his preferred name?

“Hello, Charlie, may I sit on you?” She joked quietly.

Charlie did not answer, not that she really expected him to.

She perched herself on the gargoyle’s back and pulled her sketchbook from a secret pocket in her leather jacket. She hummed tunelessly as she sketched out the shape.

Layers of different lengths -- and different colors, too, of course, she thought as she pulled out some colored pens (what’s the point of different layers if you don’t make it rainbow?) -- and oh it definitely had to trail a little in the back for the drama…

Artist’s block hit her like a too-high wall on patrols as she stared at where the bodice needed to be. What should she do? Obviously it needed to be relatively simple otherwise she risked the dress being an eyesore but…

It was just her luck that the moment she came to a decision about what to do for the bodice and accessories is the moment the first water droplet hit her sketchbook. She pulled her gaze to the sky and noticed the storm cloud overhead.

Shit, it was starting to rain.

She looked back down at her sketchbook, irritation spiking under her skin.

Option one: tough it out and continue drawing so she doesn’t risk forgetting the idea she’d had.

Option two: don’t risk her outfit (or her health, she guessed) and just head inside like a sane person.

… Marinette chose option one. She wouldn’t be herself without the occasional bad decision.

She drew her jacket over her head and hunched over her sketchbook as she continued sketching out her design.

Except, after a few minutes, she didn’t feel the beat of the rain on her jacket. She blinked a few times because she could still hear the rain nearby and she started to wonder if she had died somehow before she caught the sound of someone moving just out of her seeing range.

She turned her head to see a man holding an umbrella over her head, her jacket falling back to rest on her shoulders.

She gave him a once over. It was a little paranoid, she could admit, but she was in Gotham; it paid to be cautious. He was wearing a thick trench coat and gloves, which was a big red flag. He also had open posture -- more open than was natural, actually -- what with his slight slouch and hands spread wide in a somewhat placating gesture. The only good thing was that he was keeping a respectful distance, even standing a bit in the rain in order to avoid crowding her.

… well, he had an umbrella, at least.

She gripped the gargoyle tighter with her legs just in case he decided he wanted to try and push her, then turned to face him more.

“Hi,” she said carefully.

“You know, it’s illegal to be up here,” he said, flashing her an almost blindingly white smile.

She grinned. “You’re breaking the law, too, then.”

“Yeah. I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me.”

She reached a pinky out and, after a second’s hesitation, he returned the gesture.

Deal made, he wiped some of the water away with gloved fingers and took a seat beside her.

He clearly trusted her more than she trusted him, even allowing his legs to hang over the side of the building. She wondered why, vaguely, but she couldn’t exactly go and ask...

So, instead she smiled and said: “Thanks for the help. Water stains are a bitch to get out of leather.”

“You’re welcome, but I really can’t believe you went out without an umbrella in this city of all places.”

She shrugged sheepishly. “I’m a little new here, to be honest.”

She watched him carefully out of the corner of his eyes. The man frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by her laughter.

“I’m kidding, I’m not stupid enough to genuinely tell someone that. I was just going for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl aesthetic.”

His shoulders relaxed in a way that would have been imperceptible if she hadn’t been trained to check body language. She let herself relax her grip on the gargoyle a little as well; he had been concerned about her right then, he was probably pretty safe. Safe enough to not strain her legs too much, at least.

“Well, I do like your aesthetic,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “The Manic Pixie Dream Girl stuff, my outfit, or what I’m drawing?”

“All of it. But mostly the outfit.”

She felt a faint blush rise to her face but she brushed him off with a: “Yeah, thanks, but I’m not about to start taking fashion advice from a guy in a trenchcoat.”

He gasped and brought his free hand to his chest in mock offense. “Excuse you, this is peak Gotham fashion!”

“It’s shady, that’s what it is.”

“That’s what Gotham fashion is!”

She couldn’t have rolled her eyes harder if she tried. And she did try.

Her gaze fell back to her work and she sighed as she pulled out her pens and started working on finishing up her sketch.

“So, what’re you up here for?” She asked because she didn’t want to risk him getting bored and leaving with the umbrella.

“Hm? Oh, I do photography in my spare time. Figured I’d scope out some new areas.”

“Know all the best places in Gotham?”

“You have no idea.” The man flashed her a grin. “It’s been a while since I’ve gone in person, though, so I figured I’d get some update shots.”

“Well, if we both need to go sightseeing around Gotham for our things, why not do it together?”

He raised an eyebrow at her but she could see the way his lips twitched downwards with concern. “Trust me that much already? We’ve just met.”

“Well, you seem like a nice guy...” She smirked. “And I could totally beat your ass.”

He scoffed and unbuttoned his trenchcoat to prove to her that he did, in fact, have muscles hidden beneath all those layers and she laughed before she noticed the shirt he was wearing.

Holy shit. She’d made that shirt. He was wearing one of her shirts. She could see the gold stitching partially hidden beneath his collar, and fuck maybe she was concerned about all the wrong things.

Her eyes narrowed in on him just slightly. He clearly wasn’t actively hiding the shirt and didn’t seem concerned that he had shown her, which meant he:

a) didn’t know she was MDC,

b) saw her as just another artist,

or c) was showing her on purpose so she could make an informed decision about being his friend.

So… he didn’t seem to be a threat to her.

Maybe she could do some checking up on him, though, just to be safe.

She smiled. “I realize I never got your name. Probably would be a problem if we’re going to be spending more time together from now on.”

He grinned. “Yeah, it’s kinda hard to be friends with someone if you don’t even know their name. I’m Tim Drake.”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she said, watching his expression carefully.

He remained impassive. She wasn’t sure what that meant -- or if it meant anything at all, for that matter.

She pulled out her phone and offered it to him, taking the umbrella so he could type his number in with both hands. That done, she stuck the phone back in her pocket and smiled up at him.

“I’m stealing your umbrella, by the way,” she informed him, grip tightening on the handle in case he tried to take it back from her.

He grinned and made no move to do so. “If you must. Can you at least walk me inside the building before you run off with it?”

She giggled. “I guess I can do that, yes.”

~

It had been a long time since Tim had fanboyed this hard.

If he was any younger, he would have fallen back on his bed and squealed like a person in those old movies. As it were, he still wore a dopey smile.

He had MDC’s number! And not her work number, because he’d already had that, this was her real number!

And, even cooler, she might just let him go with her to get inspiration! Who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to watch one of their favorite artists do their thing?!

… oh, yeah, also the protection thing, obviously. That was the whole reason he was doing this, after all.

It would be so much easier to protect her if he went out with her on these excursions. Just being around men tended to ward off potential assailants. It was perfect!

Which meant he wouldn’t have any reason to follow her for her own protection anymore…

Wait, what about when she needed to go out for chores like groceries? She’d still need to be safe for that! Gotham is a scary place! What if someone tried to follo -- what if someone tried to mug her or something dangerous like that? No, she still needed his help!

Yeah, no, he has to do this. It’s for her own safety.

[enigma-im]

Twelfth day of Christmas...

Trope: Mutual pining Relationship: Robot x Human Word count: 6,589

The bell chimes from the door. Without missing a beat I continue welding the derby car in front of me. It doesn't take a genius to realize who is here at such a ridiculous hour. Tenna just has to wait till I'm finished fixing up Bruce's dumpster car. Sparks fly off the dented pieces of metal, splashing around in wonderous fireworks. If the sight wasn't a norm I'd almost consider its beauty. As I lower the flame to judge my work I see Tenna sitting on the couch across from me. I try not to look at him, knowing the second he has my attention I'm done for. I can kiss getting this done before tomorrow morning goodbye.

I try my damndest to ignore him, just finishing off the line before I can bother thinking about him. It's a hard task as I already feel anxious with him watching me. His stare picks at me till I'm honestly fighting the urge to look up. It's like he has some gravity to him that I'm drawn to.

"Damn it," I sigh. I turn off the torch and slam it on the hood of the Junker. I snap my helmet covered eye to him, seeing that infuriating smirk on his skull-like face. He has to know what that does to me. Tenna is an annoying little tick that has no business getting under my skin the way he does. His constant presence and never-ending teasing will be my undoing one day.

But damn if I don't love him for it.

Slamming my helmet up I glare at him," Have any idea what time it is?"

"10:34pm exactly," he spreads his arms wide on the couch headrest," is that a problem?"

Scoffing at his know-it-all look I toss the helmet on top of the car with the welding torch. I walk over to my workbench, picking up a used rag to wipe my face. Glancing over at Tenna I catch him staring, his legs spreading wide in an 'I'm powerful' pose. I roll my eyes as my heart flutters. How dare he.

"What do you need this time, Tenna," I ask, cutting to the chase.

"Haven't seen you in nearly a week and all you've got to say is 'you know what time it is' and 'what do you need this time'," he mocks my voice," can't I just come to see my favorite mechanic?"

I look deadpan to him," I've known you for nearly two years, not once have you just come to visit me. So I'll ask one more time, what do you need?"

He drops the act quickly, his shoulders sagging as he leans forward," Ricky Bower accidentally knocked me on my ass last week, and ever since I've been losing feeling to my hands." he raises his palms upwards, clenching his hand into fists. "It's strange and I'd greatly appreciate your help," he attempts to be kind as he asks. Knowing I can't ever say no to this idiot I motion him over to the bench.

Tenna hops up with a pep in his step. I watch him snatch the roller chair from beside the car, bringing it over before plopping down. Holding my hands out he sets his gently over them. I take the moment to feel his lightly warmed metal and leathery palms. His body has fascinated me for as long as I've known him. Having great knowledge in most things that deal with metal and wires I have never really understood how someone can make life like him. He is amazing.

Shaking out of my exploration I trace my fingers over his palm, looking up to him. "Feel that," I ask.

"Nope," he pops the P. I pinch at his fingers, digging my nail into the springy synthetic.

"That?"

"Why all the testing? I told you I can't feel a thing," he snaps. I grind my teeth at his tone, tempted to drop the task. I don't need him charging in here and demanding a fix. Scoffing I give into my petty ire and push his hands away.

"Alright, Mr. Know-it-all, fix your damn self," I hop out of my chair, ready to abscond to my office to pout like a lovesick teen. Before I can make it a step he snatches my wrist, tugging me back.

"Fine, fine," he sighs," I'm sorry. Will you please ignore my pitiful outbursts, I'm just a tad frustrated not being able to feel anything." his gaze drops to where he Is holding me, rubbing his thumb across my skin. He huffs.

I snatch my hand out of his," Fine, but one more and I'm kicking ya out."

"Wouldn't expect anything less," he smirks.

I grab his hand again, trailing my hands to his forearm where I open a panel. The underside of his arm pops off easily. Having replaced this very piece long before it no longer stays connected. I set it off to the side. I expertly look over his wires and parts. It all looks to be working fine, I dig my fingers in to investigate deeper.

"So what did Ricky do again," I ask, filling the silence as I work. I feel him shrug as his arm jostles in my hands.

"That dumb son of a bitch was wobbling on his way out the bar. Being the kind soul I am-" I roll my eyes,"-I walked him home. As he nearly caves his head in on the street I grab him, trading places with him as the dumb son of a bitch to cave his head in on the street." I snort at the image. The all graceful Tenna falling headfirst into the pavement like a drunkard. The scene replays in my mind as I snap my eyes up to him.

"So it's your head, not your arm," I bark as I grab the panel and click it back to place. Standing, I snatch his head and tug it towards me. He hovers close to my bosom but I'm far too distracted with tearing off the cranium plating to care.

"Very grabby today," he chuckles. I toss the panel to the bench and dig through the countless wires to reach where the small dent on the back of his head is. The protective layer that sits on the back of his head is pressing too hard on his processor. The wires are detached and loose. I scoff, pleased but annoyed at finding the issue. What an idiot for going a week without coming in.

I try to take a step away from him to grab my wire welding set but I'm held in place. Confused, I look to the hands holding my hips. Tenna looks up, quickly letting go and sliding back with the chair.

"Sorry," he coughs," you kept bumping me and I-uhh- yep." I stare for a moment, squinting at his strange behavior before I run off to my office.

I fix up his head, pleased as can be as I shut the panel back. Plopping down onto my chair I hold my palms out again. I gesture him forward. He drops his hand unceremoniously onto mine.

"Have you always been this warm," he asks, pressing his palm against mine.

"Does it feel different," I ask worried I screwed something up. I'm no genius in the ways of advanced robotics. He doesn't answer, trailing his hands over my wrist. Growing curious he abandons my hands and cups my cheeks. His fingers pet over my nose and under my eye. Smoothing down my eyebrows as I tense.

"What are you doing," I slowly recoil from his touch though it feels so welcoming. His thumbs grace the corners of my eyes as he smiles sweetly to himself.

"I can feel the crow's feet, ya fixed me again, doc," he jokes. I slap his hands away, insulted at the insinuation that I have crow's feet. He laughs, letting me walk away in a huff.

Tenna

I left her place later than I intended, leaving her asleep on the couch. Heading out of her scrap yard I make my way down the road towards my home. Passing many closing bars and dark alleys. I manage to get out of the dumpster fire that is downtown to get to my humble abode out of the city. It's not a far walk, a decent enough journey to a sweet little place in a sweet little neighborhood.

I trot up the steps, the door unlocking at my proximity. Stepping into the living room I find Ricky asleep on the couch similar to Valerie. Quietly I make my way to my room, flipping the light on to look at the large messy room. I step over the clutter of junk, passing by my vanity. Stopping for a moment I admire the dent on the back of my head, wincing at it.

"Didn't have to hit so hard," I grunt.

Quickly completing my nighttime rituals I plug myself in and power down for the night.

The next morning I sit in the kitchen, reading on my tablet as Ricky steps in. He's a half-dressed, sloppy man, sorting through the fridge.

"How did last night go," he asks. I sigh, dropping the tablet to the table.

"Pretty good actually. She fixed me up quickly, got to even hold her for that bit, and we talked afterward. You know Gilbert stiffed her the forty he owed her for fixing up his Camry," I answer. He grunts in answer, chugging milk like the slob he is. I grimace at the white trickle going down his neck. With a satisfied gasp, he wipes his face.

"Did you actually get anywhere this time or did you play annoying best friend again," he asks.

"No," I cross my arms," I didn't plan to do anything anyways."

Ricky snorts," wimp."

"Hey," I bark," I'm not a wimp. I'm just a good guy trying not to ruin a good thing going for me."

"yea," he shrugs," a wimp."

I pout, grumbling under my breath as I try to think of something clever to say. Ricky just snorts again, heading towards the cupboards for a snack.

"Just go for it, you beating around the bush just leaves time for her to find someone better. She puts up with your stupid injuries that you cause just as an excuse to see her. Nut up and make a move," he suggests. I can't help but chuckle at the pun. It trails off as I grovel in self-pity some more.

"It's not that easy, Rick," I sneer," she can barely stand me, and asking for more than what we have would be me just ruining something good. If all I can get is once a week with her then I'll take it. She doesn't need some idiot pulling her back anyway."

Ricky glares at me but shakes it off as the argument goes in circles. I adore Valerie, ever since she first fixed me up. She's so snarky and kind, I couldn't help but adore her. But, I'm nothing special and I know she finds me tolerable at best. I sigh, slacking in the chair.

Valerie

Bruce stops by sometime this week to grab his Junker car for the derby this weekend. With the bit of money he gives me I have enough to splurge on some necessities for the shop. I spend my day off cleaning up and ordering pieces online. Though I'm one for always working I enjoy getting to calm it all down every Tuesday. No customers to argue with, pieces of shit cars to try to fix up. Just alone with some loud music.

I sweep the garage floor, startled at the bot standing by the front door. Jumping nearly out of my skin I pause the music and catch my breath. Tenna laughs at me as I hold my hand to my chest.

"If I wasn't mistaken I think I scared ya," he teases.

"Yea," I shout," not shit." Tenna gives me a moment to ease my racing heart before continuing his teasing.

"You humans are just so jumpy. Scared of your own shadow," he snickers.

I scoff, setting the broom aside," cause you're any better? I remember vividly you whimpering over me replacing the pistons on your back."

"Hey," he barks, pointing to me," being in pain and getting scared are two different things and I wasn't whimpering. If I was, it was because you don't have a gentle bone in your body."

I wave him off," excuses, excuses. What do you want anyway?"

Shoving his hands in his pockets he walks further into the shop," was just passing by and figured you could be of help in fixing the dent on the back of my head. You see, the ladies don't find the battle wound charming."

I snort," battle wound? Falling onto concrete sounds extremely heroic."

"Saving poor old men from cracking their skull on the sidewalk sounds pretty damn heroic," he defends himself. I smile, waving him over to the workbench.

"I'd recommend stopping with the 'heroics' though. You're in here nearly every week with some 'battle scars'," I scold halfheartedly. He sits down at the bench as I circle him to check out the dented metal on his head. Grabbing him and tilting him forward I see what I can do.

"Not my fault I'm such a good person," he grumbles. I snort, shaking my head.

I try just removing the dent the old fashion way, pulling it back into place. With that not working I remove the piece and try to hammer it back. That just makes it look worse. As all else fails I set out to make a new piece. I sort through some scrap I have mashed together in a milk crate. Jabbing myself on different bits of loose metal I find a sheet perfect enough to mold.

All the while I'm working I can feel Tenna's gaze on me. It makes me fumble with my work as I feel pressured by his attention. I want to seem smart and capable around him but he has a tendency to leave me flustered. I bite my cheek and try to think of something else while I cut the sheet of metal.

With the piece made I head back over, ready to try and perfect it. I stand behind him, tilting his head back down.

"Anything new lately," I ask him to fill the silence. He shrugs.

"I've been trying this new drink for bots, it's supposed to keep the inners all clean and oiled," he answers.

"Yea, how's it taste," I ask, knowing how picky he can be.

"Like shit. It's like they make us taste everything but won't put the effort into making things we can eat good," he huffs," it's almost insulting." I hum in answer. I lose track of the conversation for a bit as I walk off to smooth the edges so it can click into place.

"So Christmas is next week," I shout from across the shop.

"Yea, and?"

"What do you me 'yea, and', are you not doing anything," I ask.

He shrugs," what is there to do? Ricky is heading off to his parents then and I'm left alone till he comes back."

I nod in understanding. Ricky is Tenna's only friend. Though I have no room to talk, Tenna is my only friend. I fiddle with the piece in my hand as I ponder asking him to spend his holiday here. Surely that's a stupid question, why would he want to spend his day with me?

"Besides, it's a family holiday. As you know I lack in that department," he tries to joke. I swallow a comforting comment.

Walking around him again I set the piece, admiring the handiwork. I turn to the workbench for some spray paint to keep the color scheme. Though I've replaced most of his parts with scarp I do try to keep it presentable. I shake the can as I fight back the urge to invite him. It's a waste invitation, he wouldn't want to. I sigh.

"Tenna," I start, he hums," do you want to spend Christmas here with me?"

He straightens at the question, asking defensively," Why?"

"What do you mean why," I bite back.

"What do you mean 'what do you mean'? Why are you inviting me to your human celebration," he barks. I scoff, spraying the back of his head quickly.

"You're going to be alone and I thought it would be a nice thing for me to do," I answer.

"Oh, how giving of you. Don't put yourself out just for me," he folds his arms. I toss the can onto the desk, circling to his front.

"What is your problem, I'm just being nice," I sneer.

He glares up at me," I don't want the charity. I imagine you have better people to spend this time with."

"Oh yea, cause I'm drowning in friends right now. Got a family halfway across the country and no money to get to them. I'm spending this time of year alone and you of all people should know that," I shake my head, holding up my hand before he can speak," know what, never mind. Didn't know having to spend Christmas with me would be such a hassle."

His shoulders drop as he begins to stand," I didn't mean it like that, Val-"

I stop him," No, it's my fault. Should have known better. It's my bad." I turn on my heels and make my way to my office, Tenna trailing after me.

"Valerie, I didn't mean it that way. I was-," I interrupt him again.

"Fucking aye, Tenna, I get it," I snap," I fixed your stupid head, you can leave now."

Tenna tries to get in another word before I slam the door in his face. I stomp to the desk, collapsing in my chair as Tenna tries to knock on the door. His words are muffled but constant. I ignore him either way, stewing in my hurt feelings like a petulant child. Damn robots.

Tenna

I reluctantly leave her place, feeling like utter shit as I do. I hardly meant for it to come out like that but I couldn't help but get defensive. She wanted to spend her special holiday with me? Surely that had to be pity. I never want her pity, that alone stings more than anything.

I walk home, feeling the cold air more than before. Heading into my home I go straight for my room to stew in my ignorance for a little longer. Falling onto my bed I groan as I recall the conversation. How can I be such a fool? Rolling onto my side I rub at the new plate sitting on the back of my head. She always fixes me right up. Not once has she said no. I smile to myself before the image of the door slamming in my face came back. I groan again.

A while later I come out of my room to speak with Ricky, finishing with my moping for the time being. I find the slobby man lounged on the couch watching tv. Falling into the chair across from him I let out an exaggerated sigh. Ricky pretends to not notice so I do it again. With a roll of his eyes, he mutes the tv, turning to me with a fake smile.

"Hello, how may I help you," he says with great theatrics. I rest my cheek on my palm.

"Valerie's mad at me," I answer. Ricky tosses the remote down the couch, clenching his jaw.

"Yea? What did you do," he asks. I don't bother pretending I did no wrong.

"She asked to if I wanted to spend Christmas with her and I got all in my emotions about it," I grumble. Ricky scoffs, looking at me bemused.

"Your girl asks you to spend a holiday with her and you got pissy," he sits up, throwing his feet onto the floor," are you dense? Your girl asks you to spend time with her outside this stupid arrangement you two have and you don't immediately say yes and jump for joy?"

Well, when you say it like that I feel like more of an asshole. I lean forward and groan into my hands. I'm truly a fool.

"I couldn't help it. It felt like she was doing it because she felt bad and I couldn't handle her feeling like she had to do that," I clarify. Ricky barks out a humorless laugh, reaching over for a pillow and tossing it at me.

"You fucking idiot," he barks," what does it matter if she felt bad for you? If a girl wants you to spend time with her then the answer should always be yes!"

"I'm aware of that now," I shove the pillow aside," you know I suffer from lack of filter from brain to mouth."

He snickers," as do all men."

"so what should I do?"

Ricky stands from the couch," go back and apologies then kiss her like the lovesick fool you are."

"Be serious, please," I fall back against the chair. Ricky walks past, heading to the kitchen.

"I am. You keep beating around the bush and you need to be direct. Tell her how you feel- or better yet, show her how you feel- and then you two can get down to fucking like rabbits in her garage," he answers, shouting as he rounds into the kitchen. I stumble on my retort as I think about having my way with her in her shop. Her sweaty body against mine as I listen to her sweet cries of pleasure. I nearly short circuit at the thought, drooling if I could.

Ricky comes back in, hitting me on the head," Stop that, I don't wanna see if a robot can get a boner."

I shoo his hand away," shut up. That's a stupid plan."

He falls to the couch with his bowl of mixed snacks," compare to your year-long plan of injuring yourself I'd say it's fucking genius." I chuff, looking towards to tv in thought. They aren't stupid plans, they've worked every time. Even when she's been mad at me I've managed to get back in there to apologize with a well-placed missing wire. I snap my head to Ricky.

"There's an idea," I smirk," she has never said no so far." Ricky looks from the tv back to me, gawking before sneering.

"No," he points at me," don't chase that thought. For the love of God, just talk to her. You are making this harder than it has to be."

I rest my elbow on my knees," no, no. it will work. Just need your help trying to break something easily fixable and-"

"NO," he jumps up, slamming his bowl on the table," I'm not going to keep helping you hurt yourself just so you can go see her. I'm fucking done with this childish game. You need to get your shit together and talk to her like a damn adult."

I stare at him for a moment, caving quickly," but Ricky, just be a bro one more time. I promise I'll try to make some headway but for right now I just need to get her to talk with me and sh-"

"Tenna," he shouts," I can't keep doing this! I'm fucking done." he storms out the room. I shout after him, trying to plead before he slams his door. Huffing I fall back into the chair, looking to the space in thought. Well, that didn't work.

Valerie

I stew for the week, growing angrier as Christmas nears. The one time I try to reach out to him as more than his mechanic he shuts me down. How could I even hope for a second that he would see me more than that? Under the feeling of rage I have the weak sensation of disappointment and pain.

Wanting an actual friendship wasn't asking for much, right? It's not like I confessed my feeling, laying myself bare for him to judge and reject. It was a simple invitation for us both not to spend this time of year alone. I scoff, slamming my tools round harder than needed.

"Don't fucking need him anyway," I grumble," far too busy to spend Christmas with him." it's a lie but it does make me feel better. I can use the free time sorting through that horrendous filing cabinet. Yea, that's a good way to spend my day off.

I power through the week working on odd jobs, secretly holding out for Tenna to walk through the door. He never does though, staying away the whole week while I continue to stew. I don't miss him, no, far from it. It's just quiet around here, that's all. I sigh at the lie.

Christmas eve leaves me cold and alone. I try to work, keeping with the minor distractions till I'm just left numb. Some self-pampering is needed. I make myself a hot chocolate, sitting on my couch, and playing Christmas music throughout the shop. I mumble along to the overly repeated songs as I sip my drink, chewing on some marshmallows.

"Merry Christmas to me," I groan.

Nearly asleep I jolt awake at a pounding at my door. The cold leftover bit of cocoa spills on my blanket as my muddled brain tries to sort out what's happening. The pounding sounds again from the front entrance, followed by some shouting. Scared, I grab a tall wrench off the workbench as I head to the door. The second the entrance is inches open does the person on the other side barge in.

A sloppy-looking man charges in, carrying a tarp behind him. I scowl at the guy, barely noticing the heap of metal strewn across the blue tarp.

"Excuse me, what are you doing," I snap. The man lets go of the tarp with a heavy grunt.

"Help him," he glares down at the heap on the tarp. I finally take a moment to look, gasping at the sight.

"Tenna," I drop to my knees, grabbing at him. He is laid wrecked on the ground, not moving. The lights in his eyes are dim but still there. It's a minimal relief but the black scorch marks up his arms aren't.

"What happened, who are you, why is he-," I try to ask.

"He fucking shocked himself with a socket, and I'm Ricky. Now fix him so I can kick his ass when he's alright," the man growls. I nearly recoil at his volume but I can't look away from Tenna. Focusing, I grab at his arms, tearing off the panel to see the damage done. There are plenty of popped fuses, the wires leaving black marks where they meet. I reach in to find the most damage, throwing my hand back as the metal burns my fingers. I press my hand to his chest, wincing at the heat.

"He's overheating," I say as I jump up. I run over to my office, grabbing plyers and a screwdriver.

"Yea, what does that mean," Ricky asks, panicked. I shoo him aside, falling to my knees besides Tenna. Reaching for his torso again I slide his shirt up to his chest and begin to pry the plate off. Using the screwdriver I manage it easily. Looking at his bare inners I use the plyer to dig in the tiny hole near his artificial heart. I press the button deep down in there, turning him off. The light dims from his eyes as his body shuts down. The barely-there glow of his pupils is a faint relief.

"What are you doing," Ricky shouts," why did you turn him off, is he dead?"

I scoff," he isn't dead, or he better not be. I shut off most of his main functions so he can cool off while I fix the wires that he popped. He is technically still on but it's minor functions, mostly."

"Mostly," Ricky barks," can you fix him?"

"Of course I can fix him," I answer with false confidence. I think I can fix him. I'm sure as hell going to try because if this idiot dies on me I'm going to turn his body into a coffee machine. No, he won't get out of this that easy.

"yea, ok," Ricky answers, shaking a bit. Before I can start on Tenna I turn to Ricky.

"It's going to be ok, I got this. Why don't you grab my tools off the bench while you tell me what happened," I ask calmly. He nods, stumbling over to the bench while I pry off the plating on both arms. Ricky passes me the set, sitting down at Tenna's feet. I wait for him to start.

"I found him in his room after I heard a loud pop. I didn't think it came from him but when I saw him laid out jerking around on the floor I couldn't think. Gods," he rubs his face," I could kill him for putting me through that."

I rip the worn wires out, stripping them and re-welding them to his body," what did he do?"

Ricky scoffs, turning away," fucking shocking himself with the outlet. I swear, he is like a child sometimes." I scrunch my face up confused.

"Why would he do that," I ask.

"Because of you," he answers easily. I snap my attention to him, defensive and confused.

"Because of me?"

Ricky looks at me, fighting with himself before he reluctantly answers," this idiot has been making up every excuse to see you."

"So he shocked himself to see me," I ask, not really getting it.

"Shocked, maimed, dented, sabotaged. You name it, he had done it just so he had a reason to see you," he shrugs. I finish with one arm, leaving the plates off to let it cool. I start on the other side.

"Why would he do that," I wince as I burn my finger again. I feel Ricky's heavy gaze on me. Turning to him he sighs.

"Because he is in love with you and only idiots in love do stupid shit like this," he gestures to Tenna. I bark out a laugh, startling Ricky.

"No, that's not it. Why did he really do this," I shake my head amused. This hunk of junk couldn't be in love with me. That's funny in itself to assume such.

"He's in love with you. Has been since he met you," he answers. I scoff.

"I doubt that very much. He has been nothing but an ass, only coming to visit when he needs something. I consider him a good friend but I know he only sees me as his mechanic," I try to smile through the bitterness. Ricky laughs, throwing his head back as he busts a gut.

"Are you kidding me," he snickers," you two are exactly the same! Two idiots who just don't get the other."

I sneer, finishing up the wires before grabbing my soldering kit. Surely Ricky is mistaken, Tenna isn't in love with me.

"So, Valerie, are you in love with him," he asks with a big grin on his face. I fluster at the question, making him laugh again. "I fucking knew it. To think, I never met you and could tell you were as enamored with him as he is with you. If only he took my advice then you two would be spending your Christmas humping like lovesick teens," he chortles. I fluster more, wanting to roll up into a ball.

I solder the last wire, grumbling under my breath at everything. How can he go and do something like this? And just to get my attention? If what Ricky said is true then Tenna is more of an idiot than I thought. He never gave any hint that he liked me, let alone loved me. I spent the whole year feeling like shit because I adored this idiot, thinking he couldn't even give me a second glance. When he wakes up he is going to have an earful.

As I put away my tools I grab the plyers again. Stretching over his chest I press the thin tip into the hole, pressing the button. I wait for the telltale sign of his rebooting but there is nothing. I press it again, holding it before releasing. Nothing. Before I can push it again there is a loud drawn out beep.

"What's happening," Ricky jumps to attention. I don't answer, having the same question myself. Leaning over his body I stare into his eyes, the dim light extinguishing completely. My heart plummets, a cold chill running up my spine.

I jump up, bolting across the shop for my trolley. Ricky stands, asking too many flustered questions as he watches me wheel the trolley over. I grab the jump-started off the middle shelf, slamming it a tad too hard on the floor. Reaching for the two clamps I attached them to Tenna's chest. I look at the machine, ready to turn the knob. Before I can start, I check Ricky, making sure he isn't in danger of being shocked as well.

I turn the knob, a charge running through Tenna. I hold it for a few seconds. Leaning over Tenna I look for his lights, seeing none I try again. I mumble under my breath pleas and prayers. Checking again for a light I truly panic.

"No, no, no," I readjust the clamps on his body," you do not get to do this to me, you damn idiot!" I twist the knob again, asking any higher power for this hunk of junk to start.

"What's going on, is it working," Ricky asks unhelpfully. I ignore him, sitting in my own fear. I twist the knob, antsy as I wait.

It's a harsh few seconds of nothing. My heart feels like it's squeezing, threatening to pop with such force. A litter of please escape my lips as my eyes sting. He can't do this to me, he fucking can't.

"You son of a bitch," I whimper in anger," I do not deserve to find out you love me too and then have you die on me. You damn piece of shit, reboot!"

I twist the knob again, perhaps turning it a tad too hard. His body gives a sudden jolt, convulsing for a moment before he sits upright.

"Motherfucker," he shouts, clenching at his open chest. He tears off the clamps, curling into himself as he shudders. I can't describe the utter joy I feel at hearing him speak. Without much thought I grab him, pulling him into a hug. He tilts into my hold, still shaking and clenching his chest.

I grab his face, turning to me," If you ever scare me like that again I will turn you into a metal scrap cube." before he can answer I smash my lips again his less soft ones. He grunts in surprise, nearly recoiling. I hold him firm, annoyed and overjoyed all at once. Tenna melts into the actions, the hands curled against his chest grabbing at my shirt to tug me closer.

"Aw, that’s sweet," Ricky tease, smacking Tenna on the back of the head," glad you're alright but if you do that shit again I'm turning your scrap cube into a toilet." Tenna parts from me, smiling up at his friend.

"Wouldn't expect anything less," Tenna chuckles.

Ricky nods, rubbing snot on his sleeve," see you at home."

"You're leaving," I ask, watching him head to the door.

"Yea, you two have a lot to talk about. I'll get my words in later when he isn't high off you," he waves dismissively. As Ricky shuts the door behind himself Tenna and I are left in tense silence.

I look to Tenna, happy to see the bright glow in his eyes. He was nearly lost to me, left to be just a piece of fine metal on my floor. I smile at him, he returns the gesture. I then punch him in the chest, wincing at the metal. He winces, curling into himself again.

"Ow, let's not punch the injured man," he snaps. I growl at him.

"Wouldn't be injured if you weren't such an idiot," I snap," Of all the moronic things I know you're capable of, this tops the list. What were you even thinking? You could have been wiped, gone forever at Tenna the robot. Left at factory reset as a blank slate. God, I could kill you right now for being so blasé about hurting yourself!"

"I did what I had to do, ok," he bites back," it's not my fault that it's the only way you would give me the time of day."

I scoff, pushing him away," only time? Excuse me but I don't think you even bother trying a different way. Not once did you stop by for a casual chat or asked me out for some dinner. Hell, I've never even been to your place. I'm not the one in the wrong here just because you're an idiot!"

Tenna groans, starting up a sentence before backing off with a shake of his head. He tries again, falling short once more. In the end, he grabs for me, tugging my reluctant self into a hug. He drops his forehead to my shoulder, holding me sweetly.

"I'm sorry," he says simply," I've been reckless and unrefined ever since I met you. It's not your fault, I'm just a fool who has no idea what he's doing."

I tug him closer, petting at his back," yea, but you are the fool I fell in love with."

He squeezes tighter, rubbing his face against me. Tugging me into his lap we take the silent moment to bask in the glow of just being alive. I'm livid with him, beyond belief am I angry, but I nearly lost him today. That alone is enough for me to just sit in his lap and hold him.

"Do you really love me," he mumbles near my ear. I pet the back of his head, pressing a kiss to him.

"Sadly," I tease. He chuckles, leaning back to look in my eyes. He slants his lips against mine, timid and slow as he does.

"Well, I'm happily in love with you too," he says against my mouth. I tug him in for the next kiss, leisurely licking his lips and cupping the back of his head. We part only for us to rest against the other.

"I'm really sorry though," he nuzzles my head," I feel like a great idiot now."

"Truly the king of idiots, actually," I joke. He smiles, nodding in agreement.

"Can you forgive me," he asks. I nod.

"My biggest flaw is I can never say no to you," I say," it will surely be my undoing."

Tenna smiles big and wide, hands falling down to my hips to tug me close. We kiss like lovesick fools we are, straying off any more words for the enjoyment of just being here. Somehow we make it to the couch where he corners me against himself and the cushion. I fall asleep to him playing with my hair. Before I can succumb to rest I mumble to him.

"Merry Christmas."

He presses a gentle kiss to my head," Merry Christmas, love."

[salchat]

Angels is Green - a Stargate Atlantis short story

Of course, he had been there before, to that planet they called Earth.  He had been there before they returned to his galaxy, those brave few, unaware of the dangers they would wake.

The first time was when he was very young and the small ones had come across him in his time of testing, on the planet where his hive had left him, alone and feral and near the point of starvation, not having had the courage to hunt and to feed.  They had taken him to their ship and somehow nourished him and studied him in their detached yet compassionate manner, their huge, inscrutable black eyes blinking with impartial curiosity.

Perhaps they had regarded him as a pet, for he had run wild about their ship, and, perhaps also they had underestimated his intellect, because he had successfully manipulated their technology and managed to beam himself down to the surface of a planet.  He had spent a strange day communing with the odd inhabitants.  They were definitely human, their skins brown and soft and without the sheen of moisture that protected the skin of wraithkind, but their speech was crude and their manner of living primitive in the extreme.  He felt no urge to feed, presumably due to the small ones’ mysterious replenishing of his cells.  So he made himself known to the humans and they, having no knowledge that he might be dangerous, played with him happily enough; simple games involving running along the sands of their seaside home and splashing in the waves.

The small grey ones had found him, blinked and twittered at him amiably, behaved in a similarly indulgent manner toward the primitive humans, and taken him back to their ship.  They had eventually returned him to the planet where they had found him and at last his hunger had driven him to feed and he had taken his place as a full adult member of the hive.

The second time was much, much more recent, although still long before the lifetime of any of the humans who had repopulated Atlantis.

He had found an Ancient ship.  He had made it work.  He had travelled.  And, the ship’s hyperdrive having, at best, one or two journeys left in its decaying circuits, he had searched the database and found that far off planet of his youth.  That it was in a different galaxy had surprised him, but, not one to brook a challenge, he had directed the ship to take him there, had landed undetected, in a remote spot, and set out to explore.

The humans had advanced.  They had tainted the air with the bitter scent of fossil fuels, they had grown in number and clustered into cities of dark and dirty streets that reeked of poverty and disease.  They were no longer the simple, playful creatures that he had known, but separated themselves into those who worked long and hard and ate little and those who dressed well and ate much and apparently lived solely to be entertained.

The one that had, soon after joining the hive, been given the name ‘He who goes far’ or ‘He who finds a way’ or simply ‘Wayfarer,’ quickly realised that the overcrowded streets of a huge and often noisome and fog-bound city were excellent feeding grounds and, moreover, that he needed to do very little to blend into such pleasantly gloomy surroundings.  All he required was a suit of clothes; an elegant coat or a many-layered cape; a hat such as might be worn by a gentleman of the time, or one who aspired to be a gentleman; and perhaps a tall cane and a handkerchief to complete the ensemble.  These things were easily acquired in the usual course of a night’s feeding.  

Thus attired, Wayfarer found that he had no difficulty at all in passing for a normal human, because there was such a wonderful variety of what was regarded as normal in this place of transience.  There were constant arrivals of tall wooden ships, from which all manner of humans came forth, emanating through scent and taste and mind-sight their tantalising glimpses of desert-heat, ice-cold, jungle-rich, mountain-clear; so many impressions that, strolling among the wooden piers and stagings of the docks, Wayfarer nearly reeled from such life-rich promise.

And, though green skin, a spiracled countenance, pointed teeth and a feeding slit might have set him apart even amid such a myriad of individuals, the fact that disfiguring disease was rife also worked to his advantage.  It galled Wayfarer to be thought of as disfigured when his form, amongst his own kind, was considered decidedly pleasing, but expedience was everything in such a situation and he was, after all, glad to be able to hide in plain sight.  When glances or outright gasps of horror followed him down a filthy alley, he merely shrugged his shoulders in the manner of the locals and continued on his way.

The city and its great river teemed with life during the day and scarcely less so at night.  The humans swarmed the streets along with their animal or hand-drawn conveyances and swarmed the river in their little floating craft, and their business of buying and selling, gossiping and jeering, posturing and posing, living and dying took place in plenitude and abandon wherever and whenever they swarmed.  Wayfarer gloried in the abundance.

He loved best the narrow streets where houses overhung their boundaries and light was a rare commodity and he walked freely among them, becoming a familiar figure to the inhabitants, from the children who played amongst the filth to the watchman who tipped his hat warily in the blackest hours of the night.   

And Wayfarer observed that even in such poverty and deprivation there was often an undaunted spirit, a camaraderie of squalor, that led cross-shawled women to pass a shared bottle from gap-toothed mouth to wizened, grasping hand while calling out their raucous cries to tempt a passing stranger to the delights of their ravaged bodies.  Wayfarer would tip his hat at their earthy humour and greet their mock-refined responses with a hissing acknowledgement, leaving shrieks of alcohol-roughened laughter and broad winks and gestures in his wake.

The men brawling outside the public houses, the women scrubbing their doorsteps in a vain attempt to stave off the tide of dirt, all lived and laboured in common hardship, their solidarity as thick in the air as the blanketing fog.

But when that great, grey swathe slid up from the broad bends of the river and covered the city, sometimes for days at a time, there were dark deeds done in its choking miasma by those minds pushed too hard by the cruelties of life.  Wayfarer’s subtle stealth had no need of the fog’s heavy, grey cloak but he found himself venturing forth from his comfortable lodging more frequently than usual, prowling the alleys where hurried footsteps echoed over the damp cobbles, where yellow gas lamps barely penetrated the gloom.  Scents hung on the air, trailing behind tattered threads of mind-sight; scents of hunger and grief, lust and passion, fear and pursuit, and the sharp bitter tang of sudden, slashing violence.  He followed the dreadful spoor and rid the city of those who would prey on their own kind, those who would kill not for the gain of a few coins or trinkets that might feed themselves or their family, but for the bloody joy of the taking of life, the perverted ecstasy that hung in the air around their slain victims as thickly as the enveloping fog.  Such distorted figures of humanity found themselves the victims and were taken and given swift judgement.

It snowed and those without shelter died and the little barefooted children called out to Wayfarer in their hoarse voices, by turns false with bravado and then coaxing with a deep and true hunger.  Sometimes he would flick them a coin or two, because, he told himself, perhaps he would have need of their lives when his own hunger was great.

And once, strolling, cane in hand, down a dark, filthy alley, he was presented with an opportunity; an easy kill, a small morsel to stave off his growing need until nighttime presented greater opportunities.

The snow lay dirty and grey, the cobbles slick with grease and wet filth, and a scattered flock of bony, ragged children hurtled by, surrounding Wayfarer briefly, darting beneath his cane like silver fish.  One fell, but the others, swifter, had passed on and did not heed their fallen hive-mate.  The child picked himself up slowly, cursing like the man he would almost certainly never become; damning the snow and the cold and above all, condemning his own infirmity.  Wayfarer observed as the boy picked up a bent stick, padded at one end with a wrapping of rags.  He fitted it under his arm and leant heavily, his breath rasping in and out, releasing the vapour of his diseased lungs into the freezing air.  The child would surely not last the winter.  And yet his small life force might serve as a piquant appetizer to the night’s pleasure.

The boy raised red-rimmed eyes in a pale, gaunt face.  “Spare a penny guv’nor?”

Wayfarer rotated the cane in his long fingers, as if to screw it between the cobbles.  His feeding hand itched.

“Spare a ha’penny?  A farthing?  For Christmas, guv’nor?  For the little babby Jesus?”  The child’s voice was stronger than his emaciated frame, the curl of his lips a valiant attempt at winning humour.

“I will spare you what I have if you approach.”

The boy pulled himself up straight and contrived to fold his arms across his narrow chest while retaining a grip on the crutch.  “What’s your game, then, Mister?  I ain’t got nuffin for the likes o’ you to be a-thieving.”

“I am no thief.  I am merely curious and my sight is poor.  I would see the face of the one on whom I would bestow a gift.”  Fingers of fog crept up the alley, carrying with them the scent of the river and the stench of the tanneries.

The boy tipped his tattered cap further back on his head and looked directly into Wayfarer’s eyes.  “If you ask me, it’s a good thing you don’t see so well, with a phiz like that.  I bet you’d crack a mirror.”

Wayfarer added his hissing laugh to the boy’s rasping bray, not grudging the child his crude jest.  He held out his hand, his fingers crooked.  “Come.”  He let a faint imperative drift forth from his mind.

“Alright then, I ain’t afeard.”  The boy’s scent belied his words, but he thrust out his chest, took a firm grip on his crutch and hobbled boldly forward.

His cry, as Wayfarer’s fingers grasped the front of his ragged jacket, was easily stifled by a quick suppressing touch of the wraith’s mind.  Wayfarer tore the thin shirt open, adjusted his grip and applied his feeding hand over the bony ridge of the child’s sternum, enfolding the small, limp form within the wings of his cape.  It was, after all, daylight, even though it would be easy to stir ghosts within the fog to mislead any passers by.

The child began to struggle as the barbs penetrated his flesh, but his feeble attempts were no challenge, nor even a minor inconvenience to Wayfarer.  Then the struggles ceased.  The wraith sighed, a long, sibilant sigh of satisfaction.

He set the small body down on the cobbles, opened his cape wide, like a set of double doors and stepped back.

The child shuddered once all over and then was still.  

And then the boy’s wondering eyes travelled from his dirty, bare feet, planted squarely amid the grey slush, up over his two healthy legs, and his lungs expanded and contracted smoothly, without a whisper of a rasp.  His chin tipped back so that his round-cheeked, glowing face mirrored the wraith’s in a strange symmetry and his mouth fell open, the breaths in his newly-healed lungs coming quick and urgent.  

Would he speak?  Would he thank his saviour?  Would he scream in primitive incomprehension?

“I reckon the vicar got it wrong,” he said.

Wayfarer, who would later be called Todd, raised an eyebrow.

“All wrong,” whispered the child.

“How so?”

The boy swallowed, licked his lips and took a step back.  “‘Cos they ain’t white and shining with big fevvery wings.”  He shook his head, a smile slowly forming.  “Angels is green.”  

He spun around on his strong legs and jumped in the air, a young, wild human animal full of life and joy.  Then he ran, whooping and laughing, stumbling and righting himself, born a cripple and suddenly with a healthy unfamiliar body.

The fog swirled and the boy was gone.

  Wayfarer examined his thoughts.  Why had he spared the child?  Why did he take only those who made victims of their own kind?  Why, also, did he linger here, far, far from hive-mind and queen and home?  

Perhaps he would not stay much longer.  Perhaps he would return to that Ancient hulk, coax it to one more journey through the vast emptiness and then destroy it and all it contained.

And this place would remain, for these humans to grow and progress as they would, to fight amongst themselves with no great enemy from the stars, to develop and perhaps one day to strike out into the stars themselves.

The fog thickened and darkened and figures moved within, both real and phantom.  Footsteps and the tap of a cane echoed off the high walls and fluttered like shadows of sound, slowly diminishing into the gloom.  

And a few of those short human lifetimes later, as the sun’s rays touched the far side of that world they called Earth, Wayfarer was there again to see a sweeping bridge golden in the dawn light and a great bay lined with dwellings and industry.  He recalled the boy who had named him angel and his feeding hand itched to deal out summary judgement.  Because here, there were lives; many, many lives and some of those with black hearts whose minds declared their blackness to his questing tendrils of thought.  And perhaps there would be just a few, a very fortunate few, who would earn this green angel’s blessing.

Thanks for reading!  Find more of my stories on fanfiction.net or AO3.

https://m.fanfiction.net/u/11112812/Salchat

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat

[babysprouseisart]

Every story ever has its end or the summary of the thoughts on the past #sprousehart era and attempts to change the attitude of others to this illusionary world

Dear fellows, from the very first days of the origin and further existence of mankind on the planet, in each period more and more foundations, irreversible phenomena and laws in nature or the society in which man lived and continues to live appeared. Time is fleeting, night turns to morning, year to year, and every story ever has its end. You can object, say that this is complete nonsense, but unfortunately everything in our world is natural and therefore in the same way one story of two wonderful people - Lili Pauline Reinhart and Cole Mitchell Sprouse - ended.

Their relationship was and will remain one of the most beautiful and unlike in comparison with others, at least based on what I could witness, love story. And even though this love story began seemingly banal with an audition for the role and the set, it was so real, amazing, which many could dream about, with its special feature of gradual disclosure, so enticing, and that is why it probably resonated so much, along with other reasons.

Like any other relationship, this relationship was based on many things and included many reasons for existence. Starting with a slight interest in each other, first liking and flirting, then there was a strong and almost immediate attraction to each other that they both talked about, a passion visible in the way they acted out scenes together and in glimpses of information from others. Then, after some time, the romantic charm passed, and a new stage began – getting used to each other, building a joint life, adapting to the peculiarities and shortcomings of the partner, and it is during this time the couple tries to create a happy and satisfying relationship for each. Accordingly, everyone got a desire to stand out from the other, to be significant not only in the relationship, but also outside of it, which is why they kept their privacy and wanted everyone to perceive them as separate individuals. They clearly tried to control what they shared with the world, and gradually the amount of what they shared increased. We were lucky to witness many, even small, moments in their lives. We were allowed to see the whole development, although some of it was very hidden, starting with the sarcastic banter on Twitter, the tempting 'Tempt me!', then multiple photos of fans with them, then supposedly random photos of Cole, with Lili in the background, or other way around, then many other breadcrumbs, then expanding of the circle of friends where his friends are now hers and vice versa, family meetings following by huge support to the certain time, then an infinity of her photos taken by him, so divine and beautiful, as well as photos taken by her of him, then numerous long or not so long trips to various places, the first vocation trip together which was made public, then 'No comment!', then more words about love in public media, birthday wishes, comments, bouquets just like that and on special days, 72 roses, chocolate-covered strawberries, the way they were baking together, him making a grilled cheese for her, them watching the sunset at Debby's and the other times we haven't seen, the time when Antelope Valley has become an indicator, the most tender words about each other, endless heart eyes, her inability to stop sitting on his lap, and his habit of touching her shoulder, neck, jokes understandable only to them, the words of others about them as if they are friends for 20 years already, knowledge of each other's body language, bragging about wonderful sexy times and the beauty of each other, giving cute nicknames, comfort, joint red carpet moments, him shaking her of joyness, constant support and much more, what we could obviously notice in social networks, interviews, after videos/photos of paparazzi, almost complete idyll at first glance and so on. All this is certainly only what we were allowed to see or what we guessed having observed various facts and over time it has gotten more obvious, and it was an insanely beautiful experience to be a spectator of all this for which I am grateful that is why I sincerely wish myself and all of you to look at it from the point of view that you need to smile because it happened and not cry because it's over. Nevertheless sometimes if you get too involved you can start looking at it through the prism of pink glasses of love and admiration, enjoying every moment they directly or indirectly shared with us, and accordingly, the impression of a fairy tale is being formed that does not quite correctly reflect reality and it does not allow us to perceive the other part on the other side of the screen/social networks, because we simply do not see it. However, I don't want anyone to take it as if I believe that everything they shared was untrue and false, completely out of the blue. All I want to convey to any reader is that everything we saw was only in an unreal bubble of illusions, since the Internet and social networks, which are, after all, this very bubble in its essence, which we ourselves and they decided to form, allowing us to take it as they want and this is normal, and life is very far from perfect or dreamlike. That is to say life is such an unpredictable thing, where everything is justifiably natural and sometimes things just don't work out the way we would like them to, including relationships which are also a complex structure that is not easy to build correctly, sometimes even with a strong attraction and a strong sense of love, there are things that cannot be corrected or changed. As well as you cannot change the essence of a person and his worldview, his personality, internal or external qualities, his behavior, his views on life and goals, his mistakes and position in society, loss of trust, his moral and physical endurance, other side things like sharing very little time for the second half in connection with business or temporary work, unwillingness to accept any conditions, commitment, settling down or restriction of something, lack of compromise, fading feelings because of passed desire and passion, external factors, especially if we are talking about a public couple/popular people, such as dramas in social networks, created by fans or family/friends, stress from the strong involvement of others or non-acceptance of partner selection by relatives, and so on. Just sometimes if after a while two people failed to get accustomed to each other, as if a plant were transplanted into a new soil or some organ to the human body, thanks to some external or internal features, obstacles, be it custom qualities or external influence on each other with the constant tries for the reconstruction of another and over time awareness of the fact that what has been created by the supreme cannot be altered and adjusted for something else, becoming more and more negative, when one of them in its content can no longer learn to cope with the environment and the further continuation of the joint work of the struggle can lead to the bad conditions of both, with exhaustion from this struggle and, accordingly, to the death of cells. And all this exhaustion for whatever reason can also be theoretically and philosophically equated to the bowels of the earth and depleted sources. After all, a person get used to using fresh water, the earth's mineral resources, eating plants and fruits, vegetables, buying things, and so on, but sometimes it happens that this is either limited or ends and nature is no longer able to provide us with anything, after constant giving, and in return receiving only harm or damage. This is a very complex science and this is a life where, as I already said, many things are not the way we picture them to be. So many interpretations and/or reasons can and could be hidden behind all these failures/ends/dissensions/decays/breakups/bad moments in life, and I cannot even list all the options, but I have some general considerations on the specific occasion, but I do not want to start the speculation now and go into details about why and how I think the end of this love story that we all loved happened, cause it is not my business and I am no one to judge someone or even dare to talk about it when I am not them or relative/friend to any of them and I haven't seen the actual period of their relationship and how it was going from the beginning to the end except my own representation of everything based on this social-media bubble, and each of you can have your own thoughts and draw your own conclusions. However, it goes without saying that even after any obstacles, failures and heart and soul break and with the passage of time, everything constantly takes place to change in any way, people change, the behavior change, the attitude change, and so on, one moment the doors are closed, in the other you open them or they are opened for you so in the end a person finds their happiness and purpose despite previous mistakes and shortcomings.

The penultimate thing I want to say is that obviously, after all this, you are already starting to think about something and I really hope so, given what I said about life and bubbles of unreality in our time, and as you gain experience in this fandom and being a fan very much involved in all of this it can be very useful for us to eventually rethink how much we were involved and how much energy we were giving this every time, and I have already made a whole post about this. And particularly good for me were  the recent events when there is no particular food for thought and to be involved, I'm more and more alienated from the lives of other strangers, and the more time passes, the more relaxed I began to react to many things, although it also sometimes was hard to deal with all the drama and speculation, constantly think through all sorts of logical outcomes, since I am such a person by nature and I cannot be calm without a logical conclusion, and I am still digesting the whole situation happening since the beginning of this year with the fandom and the relationship of these two people, however, as much as I would not like to clearly represent everything and have a clear picture now it does not matter, the main thing is that it was and it just needs to step over, swallow and not give too much attention to this, because unfortunately we could not control the whole situation, we could not prevent what happened and what could have happened just because we are not the supreme or these same people and it is not our business.

In conclusion, even if some may think of me as a soulless person or that I do not care about others, know that this is far from it, I just try and will try to find a way out of the situation, reorganize and look at everything objectively and with a grain of salt because I believe that this is the right decision to be detached in any way from someone else's experiences, especially from those who are so far from us, and bad moments, so as not to have any attachment, hope and faith, so that it does not hurt us later. But I am certainly an emotional person and my heart just bursts with pain when I see that many people strongly bring down themselves and suffer from the fact that there was some kind of non-related to them co-ordinal change, although this is not the end of the world, and therefore I consider it my duty to try to somehow distract some of you and calm down on this account, as once I was helped by others and my own search for the right attitude.

[ibijau]

Wen Qing Lives

It’s incomplete still and I low-key hate how I’ve written it (honestly, I’m taking criticism... so much...) but heyyy

also this is firmly CQL/The untamed rather than based on the novel

“What about the others?” Wen Qing asks when Jin Guanshang is done speaking. “Are you going to release them?”

The man shrugs, but it’s clear he expected that question or he’d be angry at her for asking it.

“They don’t interest me. They can return to Yiling for all I care.”

“Even my brother?”

Jin Guanshang’s face hardens into an expression too cruel to be called a smile.

“How could I release my son’s murderer? But he would stay here, like you. Unharmed. I’m sure I can find some use for him.”

Wen Qing nods, once. Of course they’ll find a use for A-Ning. He is a good hostage, something to use against her should she refuse to hold her end of the bargain. A good threat to use against Wei Wuxian too, and so is she. Speaking of which…

“There won’t be retaliations against Wei Wuxian,” she demands.

“If you behave, there won’t be any more deaths,” Jin Guanshang promises. He’s probably the most dishonest man Wen Qing has ever met but he wants her knowledge. She survived Wen Ruohan. She can survive another tyrant, and make sure her family does too. It’s all she’s ever done with her life.

It was nice to have that year in Yiling, those precious months of… of what, anyway? Happiness ? Wen Qing isn’t sure it ever got to that, not with the constant threat of the cultivation world, the fear that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t always be enough to protect them, the lack of food and money. But if it wasn’t happiness, it was the nearest thing to it that she’s had since she was a child. Things were good in Yiling.

Maybe they’ll be good again, for those who are going back there. Wei Wuxian won’t let any harm come to them. Maybe they can be happy, even if Wen Qing couldn’t.

She takes the deal.

She’s always been too willing to give everything for her family, she hears Wen Ruohan whisper into her ear. But his family is dead and hers is alive still, so clearly she’s made some right choices along the way.

......

Long ago, Wen Qing’s first impression of Xue Yang was that he’d been too young, too small, too fragile for whatever was going on with Wen Ruohan’s plans.

Her second impression, after seeing that smile he had, was that this child would stab her in the back if given the chance, not because she was a threat, but just because he might get bored someday.

Now that they’re meeting again in Carp Tower, her third impression is that it’s not her he’ll be thinking about when he stabs. This boy holds more resentful energies than Wei Wuxian did on his darkest days, but rather than to fight it he delights in that darkness within him. 

He’s clever, though. Impossibly clever. Wen Qing has not often had the chance to speak on equal footing with another cultivator, but Xue Yang listens when she speaks and he understands. Talking to him feels almost like talking to Wei Wuxian sometimes. They even look somewhat alike, she tells herself when she feels nostalgic. If she weren’t so pragmatic, if Xue Yang weren’t such a sadistic little shit, she could be tempted to pretend she’s back in that cave in Yiling.

“Wonder how close to death we have to get them,” Xue Yang will say some days, before proceeding to torture whatever poor soul they were given to experiment on. “Mistress Wen, lend me your toys and take notes.”

She hates him as fiercely as she hates Jin Guangshan. Xue Yang knows this, and keeps asking for her assistance in his experiment. If she tries to give his victims something to ease their pain, he complains she’s ruining his results. Jin Guangshan has personally come to remind her that she must choose who will suffer between her family and those strangers.

Every day that she works with Xue Yang, she must make that choice again. She thinks of Wen Ning’s smile, Wen Yuan’s laughter, all those people whose lives depend on her. It’s selfish, but every time she chooses them. She knows it amuses Xue Yang to no end.

She’s never wanted to kill someone before. She does now. Xue Yang and Jin Guangshan die a thousand deaths in her dreams.

But the worst thing about Xue Yang is never the torture and madness.

The worst is those other days, the ones when he is just a frightfully clever boy who chats with her about demonic cultivation and medicine and whatever else he’s taking an interest in at the moment. It’s hard to fully hate someone who is excitedly explaining to you how different candies are made. It always brings Wen Qing back to her first impression: Xue Yang is too young for everything that is happening here.

And even though she knows this is probably part of whatever sick game that boy is playing with her, she pities him. She can’t help it. He reminds her too much of Wen Ning when he gets excited about something innocent. 

She’s been here for over a year, and they haven’t let her see Wen Ning once. Not until some of her research brings results, Jin Guangshan said.

She hates him. She hates them.

But she keeps working. For her family, there’s nothing she won’t do.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Xue Yang says one morning as the guard closes the door behind Wen Qing. “Took some effort to get that old fart to agree, but I thought you deserved a treat.”

Wen Qing tenses immediately. It’s been two years. She knows what sort of things to expect from Xue Yang when he speaks of surprises with a smile like that.

“Don’t bother,” she says coldly. “Let’s just get to work. What do you need from me today?”

“You’re going to help me test something,” Xue Yang replies in a singing voice, his smirk widening. 

Wen Qing has never seen him this excited about anything and it scares her more than she’ll admit. She fights to keep her expression neutral, but she can’t help glancing at Xue Yang’s work table. There’s a body there, covered by a sheet from head to toe. What new madness has that boy invented?

“Come closer, Mistress Wen!” he beckons her. “You need to be nearer for this.”

She obeys, against her will. What choice is there? She is in control when alone in her cell, but here in Xue Yang’s laboratory, he makes the rules.

When he deems her close enough, Xue Yang lifts the sheet from that body’s head.

Wen Qing screams.

They’ve let Xue Yang experiment on her brother.

Wen Ning doesn’t react to her scream even though his eyes are open. He only placidly turns his head to look at her when she shakes him, his eyes entirely black, his face showing no recognition. 

From the corner of her eye, she spots Xue Yang taking notes, a greedy smirk on his lips.

“Jin Guangshan said he’d be unharmed,” Wen Qing hisses.

“And you believed him?” Xue Yang taunts her. “Besides, he’s not harmed. What’s dead can’t feel pain, right? And no damage can’t be repaired. I know. I tested for that too.”

She glares at him, her fists clenched around the chains that cover her brother’s body. Xue Yang keeps smiling like a tiger waiting to pounce. She knows what her next question should be. She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“I know what you’re wondering,” Xue Yang says when the silence stretches too long. “Why don’t you ask, Mistress Wen? I know you're wondering how much he lied to you. Maybe I’ll be nice. Maybe I’ll answer.”

Wen Qing bites her lip. She doesn’t need to ask, and he doesn’t need to say. One look at him says it all. He wouldn’t be that excited, that giddy if he didn’t have some more horror in store for her.

She won’t give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

Wen Qing rushes to the door and into the corridor, demanding to be taken back to her cell. Behind her, Xue Yang is laughing.

For an entire week, Wen Qing refuses to leave her cell and work with Xue Yang. She has no reason to do it now. Her brother has been turned into a mindless puppet. Her family is dead. Wei Wuxian too must be dead, or he would have razed Carp Tower to the ground.

She was ready to die two years ago.

She’s ready to die now.

She doesn't even get to die. 

They don't force her to work with Xue Yang again. When Jin Guangshan comes to check on her own work, it's clear he's annoyed at his demonic cultivator for letting her know too much. That little bastard forgot that they also want her knowledge, her cooperation, that Wen Qing is a tool as valuable as he is, albeit in a different way. 

Or perhaps Xue Yang knew. Perhaps he was trying to help her by letting her know the truth. It sounds like something he'd mistake for kindness. Either way, she's grateful. 

Now she knows for sure that her new master is no better than the last. 

She knows, also, that they haven't killed her brother, and she negotiates to see him daily. Jin Guangshan, perhaps worried she'll let herself die, grants it. 

She can't do anything for Wen Ning. He doesn't react to her presence. Just another puppet. It doesn't matter. Wen Qing sees him every day, brushes his hair, and whispers promises. 

She'll get them both out of this place.

[from-etihad]

Store Piger Græder Ikke

Hana Yasmin and Estefania went into the inn right after Fay Areli handed her a letter addressed to her. Finn greeted them both, and neither woman noticed that he looked them oddly when they both went up stairs together, as he probably wondered if they knew each other. 

Once they were sitting by the little table in the room she was staying in, Hana opened the letter and read it out loud to Estefania. Hana’s heart raced as she read that plans had changed entirely, that Eamonn had chosen to live away from his families, and planned to change his name entirely. But, he still wanted her with him, and that he was planning to stay in a location for a short while, so she had to opportunity to go with him, and start anew. He offered her a clean slate, under different names, and while they could be in constant danger, they’d be together for good. 

The letter ended with Eamonn stating that he understood if she declined, but that he would always love her, and hoped for the best.

Then, in rather tiny lettering, there was the name of the place he was staying, with an urgency to destroy the letter once she read it.

Hana stared at the letter, and she could feel Estefania’s eyes on her. 

“... It’s certainly a tempting offer,” Estefania said before giving a weak smile, “It’s definitely a chance to start over--”

“He always does this.” Hana cut in quietly, “I thought our plan was to stay here. We spoke about it, we planned it together.”

Hana folded the letter and put it on the table, placing her left hand over it while she covered her eyes with her other hand. She could already feel the tears of frustration begin to well up in her eyes.

“I’m not going to pretend I know the man,” Estefania stated flatly, “But, from what I’ve seen happen here, he seems like he’s a man who does what he wants without consulting anyone before making a decision.”

Then, she let out a short sight, “And, it seems you’re not an exception to that.”

Hana ran her hand down her face, wiping her eyes before any tears fell. Even while she was no longer a Queen, she refused to show vulnerability in public. But, she felt such a heaviness, she couldn’t help but look downhearted. She thought they were on the same page. They had been in each other arms, making plans about living in Wexford together as his parents had, how many children they wanted... they had even declared themselves married. In fact, on her voyage to Wexford, and while talking to Finn there, she had referred to Eamonn as her husband. But, it was as if he had pulled the rug from under her, and she didn’t know what was going on, what had happened to make him change the plans.

Most of all, she was surprised at her own reaction. She felt angry, frustrated, troubled... there was no happiness, joy, or excitement. 

“I love him Stef,” Hana replied finally, looking aimlessly at the table, “I really do. But this...”

“Hana,” Stef reached out and put her hand over hers on the table, “I’m not going to speak to you as a councilwoman or your right hand, as I’m no longer those things. I’m going to speak to you as a friend: For years, you’ve done what was best for your family, for your kingdoms, for him -- but what about you want?”

Hana raised her eyes to look at Stef, who was frowning with worry, “Me?”

“Yes. You.” Stef emphasized, “There is no doubt you love him. I know you’ve been involved with him for quite a while now. But, if there’s something I learned in my time here, it’s that your wants and needs are important too. If you don’t stay true to yourself, nothing will work.”

Hana was quiet, unable to say anything. Stef stood up, and walked over, putting a hand on her shoulder. Hana looked up at her and Stef smiled, despite still having a worried look in her green eyes.

“Hana, after giving up so many years of ruling, putting others before yourself, it’s only fair for you to finally start doing what you want. Live your life your way. I’d be sad to see you go, but if this is what you want, I’ll support you as your close friend. But, you should rest on it, don’t make any impulsive decisions.”

Hana took her hand and nodded. Stef smiled once more and left her room.

----

For two nights, she thought about it. She didn’t eat anything and she didn’t speak to anyone. The more she thought about it, however, the more clouded her mind got. There was a heaviness in her heart that she could not shake since reading the letter, and it made her restless.

On the second day, she finally slept for a while, and she dreamt of him. She and he had made a home in Wexford together. He was chopping wood as she stepped outside their house, that to her knowledge, he had built for them. As soon as he saw her, he gave her that beautiful smile she adored, that was once elusive, but in that reality, it was something she saw constantly. She smiled back as he dropped his axe, and wrapped his arms around her once she walked over. They kissed long and hard, and she could feel her heart swell with joy. The sound of children made her break the kiss, and she could see from afar two children playing by a small pond. He leaned his head against hers as she looked on and then Hana woke up, alone on her bed. She laid there for a second, but then got up, got some parchment, and began to write.

It was in the middle of the night when she finally emerged from her room. In her hands was the letter sent for her, and the letter she was sending out. She went down the stairs, and the inn was quiet. Most of the patrons had either left, or retreated to their own rooms. Finn’s aunt Helka was there, and looked like she was about to call it a night. Hana managed to call her over and asked if she could have her letter sent out in the morning. Helka took the letter and agreed, wishing her a good night before retreating to the back.

Hana went up to the fireplace by the tables and tossed Eamonn’s letter in fire, destroying it just as he had asked her to. Then, she sat down by one of the tables, put her arms on the surface, and put her head down on them.

She looked up when she heard someone clear their throat. There stood Finn, who had his brows raised in concern.

“Are you alright?” He asked curiously.

 She didn’t know what it was, but she felt like she needed to tell him the truth.

“The ‘husband’ I told you about? He’s Eamonn Sargenis.” Hana told him plainly.

Finn looked surprised. Then, he looked uncomfortable, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh... well ... I had no idea. I mean -- I hope you didn’t take offense to what I said earlier.”

“You won’t have to worry about that. He’s not coming here,” Hana’s eyes went downcast, “He’s not coming here. He wrote to me, and asked me to go with him.”

“Oh.” Finn replied, still sounding uncomfortable, “...So, did you want a refund to your room? Or do you plan to stay as long as you paid before you go?”

Hana then felt unable to contain what she was holding back, as if a dam inside her finally began to break, letting what was behind it flow through. She began to fell herself shake. She shook her head as she could embarassingly feel hot tears roll down her face.

“I... I think I just divorced him.” Hana said looking up at him, before she finally felt overwhelmed.

The anxiety suddenly rushed through her body and she closed her eyes, trying to control her breathing as Rama Malik had instructed her when such attacks would occur.  But, her chest began to ache badly, and as she began to hyperventilate, she felt an urgency to go outside. She suddenly got up, and ran past Finn, outside into the cold night. She stood by the side of the inn, once again trying to control her breathing. She felt like crying, but she fought back every feeling to weep, blinking wildly while looking up towards the starry sky to prevent any tears from appearing.

She heard the inn door open, and soon, Finn appeared with something in his hand, which he extended to her. When Hana looked, she saw it was a cup.

“It’s water. You should drink it.” Finn told her with concern. 

Hana was breathing deep breathing through her nose, her entire body shaking, but she took the cup and slowly began to drink it, feeling eased by the cool water. She handed him back the cup, and he set on the ground.

“I didn’t want it to end this way...but I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t.” Hana said breathlessly as Finn stood next to her while she leaned on the outer wall of the inn.

“I’m divorced myself, and I know how difficult it is” Finn replied softly, “Especially when it’s a decision you were forced to make.”

“God... I’m breaking his heart, but I feel as though I’ve completely shattered my own,” Hana said, her voice quavering, and tears still stinging her eyes, “I’m sorry, I didn’t not mean to just run out like that--”

“Hana, there’s no one else here but you and I. Don’t worry about what I think, that’s not important.” Finn replied.

He then turned to her, and looked at her as if inspecting her. Then, Finn took her arm and pulled her to him. She gasped as he put a hand behind her head, and he pushed her head on his shoulder. 

“You look like someone who’s held back quite a bit. When you’ve worked at the inn for as long as I have, you can just tell sometimes. I don’t know how long you’ve been holding things in, but maybe it’s time to let it out.” He said with a gentleness that surprised her,  “There’s no one else here. Go ahead and cry. I won’t look.”

It was the strangest thing. Finnegan was an intimidating, angry looking man. Althought she found him kind, in an awkward way, she still knew, by the way people treated him, that he was not a man to mess with. Yet, there he was, holding her, and telling her it was alright to cry. 

It was as if something in her finally heard the right words needed to break through. The tears finally fell, and she began to cry. Soon, she was sobbing and heaving, as pain, guilt, and grief finally began to seize her entire being. She was so overtaken, she would have dropped to the ground if it wasn’t for Finn wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her up.

“It’s alright, I got you.” He reassured her. “I won’t leave until you’ve released it all.”

Hana Yasmin wept for what seemed to be like hours, and Finnegan kept his word, and stayed there holding her up as she did.

[ Title was inspired by this song because it’s super fitting.]

[rest-in-being]

Sufi Psychology Part 3 - Sufis and Human Energy centres. 2) Latifat-al-Qalbi: (the Heart); This Latifa is located in the left of Chest and is dark yellow in colour, In this Latifa, a person views his deeds both good as well as evil. By awakening it a person acquires the knowledge of the realm of Jinns.  In a Nutshell - (Nafs Al Lawwama - The Blaming Self); Light or Colour of Aura: Dark Yellow. Located: left of Chest - Liver and related to the digestive system. Soul: Ruh Nabati linked to Vegetable Soul. (see below) Traits: conscience, capacity for self-observation. Habits: backbiting, trickery, conceitedness, hypocrisy, self-consciousness, guilt, fearfulness, wishful thinking, intense desire to please others. Quran Ref: "And I swear by the reproachful soul!” (75:1-2) Healing Dhikr: is to Repeat Ya Allah - O The God. *Note -The Vegetable Soul: It is located in the liver and related to the digestive system. At this level transmission of energy and transmutation begins. Nourishment and growth is one of its functions. To have a healthy vegetable soul, we need healthy nourishment (at physical, emotional, intellectual and spiritual levels) Its Healing Remembrance or Dhikr is repeating the Name: Ya Allah (God). This is the self in its original state of birth into the world as Allah says, "By the One who brought the self to equilibrium inspiring it with its transgression and its consciousness." (91-7:8) This is the self that has been touched by Allah's Mercy so that when it commits a sin or falls into disobedience, it blames itself and turns to forgiveness and repents to its Sustainer. Then it holds on to obedience until it slips back into sin then it turns to forgiveness and repentance and so on. It has grasped what the Prophet (peace be upon him) said, "All humans are prone to sin and the best sinners are those who repent." It is a self that is in constant fluctuation between obedience and disobedience. One time it is heedless and falls and another it is aware and resists. This is the natural station which we start from at birth and from there we descend or ascend. Its sign is the fluctuation between the characteristics of the people of this world and the people of the next world. It is not in the same evil condition as the Commanding Self but the two desires of immortality and sovereignty are still active in it although in a much reduced or weakened condition. This is the first stage of salvation for the self and the first step toward its purification and success. The word Qalb, stands for heart. In Sufi terminology, this spiritual heart (not to be confused with corporeal organ) is again variously described. Some consider it to be the seat of pure vision. Others consider it the entrance of Ishq or Divine love. Some thinks that it is the battleground of two warring armies: Those of nafs (where nafs-i-natiqa/rational soul is equated with aql/intellect, the "better", rational part of the soul as opposed to animal/passionate ), and ruh/spirit, who will be the object of analysis in the next point. In short, cleansing of the Qalb or heart is a necessary spiritual discipline for salik (traveller) on the Sufi path. The term for this practice is Tazkiah-I-Qalb and the aim is the purging of everything that stands in the way of God’s love or Ishq-e-Khuda. Recitation of Kalima or the name of Allah/ Ya Allah is practised by the seekers To awaken this Latifa. When the name ‘Allah’ vibrates in the heart, an awareness of Right and Wrong, and wisdom follows. It is then called Qalb-e Salim. (the content Heart). Then the status of the meditation by Qalb changes its direction towards God; it is called Qalb-e Minib (the penitent Heart). This heart can prevent a person from mischief, but it cannot make a right judgement. When the theophanies (Tajalliyat) of God begin to fall on the Heart, it is called Qalb-e-shahid or the witnessing Heart. Qalb and Nafs form the "Rooh-e-haivani" (Animal Soul). This part of the soul has the record of every activity of life. 2. Nafsi Lawwama - ( Blaming Self or Self-accusing soul) This is the second step in the development of man, when man becomes aware of his actions, is able to differentiate right from wrong, and regrets his wrong doings. Yet he is not able to totally stop doing wrong because it is very difficult to break the habits of his previous state. He tries to follow the obligations of his religion and he prays, fasts, pays alms and tries to behave properly. But he wants to be known as a reformed person. He publicizes his piety, his good deeds, and expects appreciation from people. This makes his behavior hypocritical. Sometimes he realizes this, regrets it, and tries to change. Hypocrisy, a major sin, is the principal danger in this state. There are two other grave dangers as well: Arrogance and Anger. Every little attempt to be good, compared to the previous state, seems like a major achievement. So we think we are the best, and get angry with others who do not seem to respect us. Arrogance, lying to ourselves, hypocrisy, anger, and intolerance are the soldiers of the devil. At the level of Nafsi Lawwama we are (not safe from the devil), who injects his character of arrogance into our veins and whispers into our ear: “You are as good as your teachers now; not only do you know as much as they do, the way you behave is better. If they were able to apply what they teach in their own lives they wouldn’t be half what you are. You don’t need their preaching or their advice. Now let people see your wisdom and your deeds so that you will be an example to them.” Not only the whisperings of the devil, but all worldly life, is against the seeker at this stage. Certainly the world cannot lose its attractiveness for him; it calls to and tempts him. If the resolve of the seeker is weak, he will be afflicted with arrogance, not listen to good advice, and in fact, fight with the ones who wish for his well being, thinking they are belittling him and behaving in a superior manner. In anger, he may attempt to do much greater deeds than he is incapable of, and fail. Failure will further anger him. His mood will become dark, disappointed; he will think he took the wrong way, that he was better off before, and he may blame the ones who led him to this Path, falling back to his previous condition of being an animal in human shape. If he is warned at the beginning of the second step of Nafsi Lawwama of these dangers, and if he is intelligent enough not to release the hand which leads him, and if he follows the advice on how to fight the three enemies of hypocrisy, anger, and arrogance, he will pass this stage quickly. The longer one lingers in this transitory stage, the worse will be the trials. The cure for hypocrisy is to realize how the value of everything in the world, including the opinions of others, is temporal, inconstant and subjective, changing from minute to minute, from place to place, from person to person, and finally disappearing. Therefore, one should opt for that which is permanent, eternal, and powerful instead of something which may be here now and gone tomorrow. What fool lights a candle when the sun is out? Do not count on the respect and the praise of others, and do not fear them. For it is said, “Whoever praises you is your enemy because he is the ally of your enemy, and whoever points out what is wrong with you is the enemy of your enemy.” The cure for arrogance is to remember that your beginning came from a drop of semen from your father and an ovum in your mother’s belly, and that your end will be as a rotten corpse in the ground. Beauty, strength, intelligence, will soon dwindle and disappear. All your fortune, properties, reputation, and friends will be excluded when you are lowered alone into your tomb. Your prayers, piety and good deeds, if performed to impress others, will evaporate, and worse still, may turn against you. Realize that all you have, including your body and your very life, is not yours, but lent to you and entrusted to you by your Creator. Your actions are also His if they are good, and when they are bad, it is you who are tyrannizing yourself. Offer thanks for everything, and feel shame your wrongdoings; then you will be humble. The fall of the one who stands low is much less painful than the one who falls from high. The cure for anger is basically accomplished if you can cure your arrogance. It is the arrogant one who becomes angered by adversity, or even by lack of sufficient rewards which he thinks he is owed. The negative emotion of anger, when it flares up, is faster than the rational effort to suppress it. Once anger has caught fire it is difficult to extinguish. Like fire, it burns all that is human in us; compassion, love, gentleness, generosity, the ability to communicate, to think of consequences, and intelligence are all reduced to ashes. All that remains is a dangerous wounded wild animal. As a remedy to recall and remember our humanity, The Messenger of Allah (peace be upon him) suggests that when anger strikes, immediately you should change your posture. If you were standing, you should sit. If you were sitting you should fall to your knees. It is difficult to shout and curse in the most humble position of kneeling. Or you should lie on your back and pray: “Oh Lord, enrich me with knowledge, beautify me with kindness, give me the gift of piety and the fear and love of You and sanity and health, Amin” Or you should go and take ablution with cold water. If we could avoid these dangers, with Allah’s will and the guidance of our religion, and the help of our teacher, and our wish to advance, we might rise to the third level where we receives the Lord’s inspirations

[kelyon]

Golden Cuffs 44: The Prison

Cover art by @paradigmparadoxical​

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

Belle adapts to her new life

Trigger warnings for depression, isolation, disordered eating and sleeping, suicidal thoughts and menstruation.

Read on AO3

By the time Belle thought to create a calendar, it was already too late. Too many days had already slipped away from her. How long had she been in the library? A week? A fortnight? She had no way to know and she almost didn’t want to.

 It seemed ghoulish to count out the days since the Dark One had shut her away in this room. At one point, Belle considered making tally marks on the stone walls, or even keeping a diary. There were stacks of parchment on the worktables, plenty of quills and inkwells for her to use. But her blood ran cold when she realized just how many marks she would have to make, how many days she would have to write about. She knew it would be worse, somehow, to see the time recorded. It would be worse to keep track of every day that she had lost in this prison.  

After all, she would be in this library for the rest of her life. When he had cast the protection spell, Rumple had remarked that it would last for a hundred years. Was she really meant to remain in complete isolation for one hundred years? Did he think she would live to see the spell lifted? Or did he mean for her to grow old and die without ever leaving this room? How many hundreds of thousands of days would Belle spend alone in the library? The enormity of it boggled her mind and clenched her heart. The idea of all that time, all that future, the rest of her life filled with… nothing…

It was better not to think about the sum of the days. Better just to take every day, or even every hour, as it came. Every hour in this prison was challenging enough.

A day here started whenever she woke up. Often, she slept through the daylight hours, waking in the late afternoon, or even as the sun was beginning to set. Every time she opened her eyes, she did it reluctantly. She wanted to linger in sleep, to rest in the blackness of oblivion.

By some good fortune, Belle didn’t have any nightmares. The troubles she’d dealt with after her time with Regina and Maleficent had faded into distant aches. Sleep was a blessing to her now, a respite from her life. She didn’t have to think while she was sleeping. She didn’t have to feel. She didn’t have to be aware of her own misery. 

She would lay in bed for hours, for as long as she could bear it. Even without sleeping, Belle stayed still, with her eyes closed and her heart dulled to the pain that waking would bring. In her mind she felt that if she didn’t move, she wouldn’t have to exist. 

She wore her shift to sleep in and only occasionally bothered to put on her blue dress. Without Rumpelstiltskin to comb her hair, it grew even more tangled and wild. Belle barely managed to keep it out of her face. She tied it back with the ribbon he had given her on the last day they had been together. 

On many days, she wouldn’t get out of bed until she could no longer ignore the ache in her belly. Hunger was a sharp, gnawing sensation and sometimes she loved it. Some days she would intentionally not eat, just to feel the pain of hunger. Some days she would eat too much, just to keep herself from feeling so empty inside. Some days she would graze, eating only a few bites before the food lost its appeal. With her magic plate, Belle could summon any meal she could think of. Oftentimes the hardest part was to decide what she wanted, to conceive of a dish that would nourish her, that would taste good enough to be worth finishing.

There were many conveniences in the library, but Belle still found it difficult to take care of herself. It was hard to act like that she was worth caring for.  

In this prison she wanted for nothing, nothing except company, and purpose. For all his cruelty, Rumpelstiltskin had been thoughtful enough to furnish her cage with books. The story that never ended was a constant favorite, but there were hundreds of others for her to devour. On good days, Belle was able to lose herself for hours in the endless pages. 

She had always liked tales of thrilling heroics, but now she turned to stories of survival. She read an account of a man shipwrecked on an island who had to find ways to build shelter and find food. There was the story of a girl in the wild north who had been turned out of her home and was compelled to seek companionship with a family of wolves. Or the one about a boy who was lost in an endless forest, armed with nothing more than a hatchet. Belle read them all, relished their adventures. She took any opportunity to forget about being herself.   

But after too many days of a silent library and a door she couldn’t open and a man who didn’t love her, tales of overcoming adversity began to lose their appeal. Every character in these stories survived their trials and eventually came back to their homes and the life they had once known. The nail in the coffin was a story about a whole family shipwrecked. On every page of that book, the moral was that even though every day was a struggle, at least the husband and the wife and their children all had their love for each other to rely on. 

In her loneliness, in her knowledge that she would never have a family or be loved, such a message was a bitter gall.

So Belle began to read darker tales, stories of imprisonment and isolation. There was one told from the perspective of a man who was injured in an unjust war. He was so badly hurt he could do nothing but lie in bed and let other people care for him. Blind and deaf, speechless and limbless, the man was aware of the people around him, but could not communicate with them. He could not know them or make himself known to them as anything other than an object of pity--his own body had become his prison.

There was a story of a young girl who was ready to marry a lord. On the day of their wedding, it was revealed that the man was already married to a madwoman he kept locked up in an attic. Belle read that part of the story over and over, but she could never tell if the first wife was locked away because she was already mad, or if being imprisoned had driven her to that terrible fate.

Another story was of a man who had displeased his king, so he was sent to an oubliette--a place where people were sent to be forgotten. That prison was a black hole in the ground, the only entrance a trap door in the ceiling. There were no guards and no other prisoners. There was no light, no sound. Rotting food was thrown down to him from above, but no one ever spoke to him. Alone in the darkness, the man wasted away for years, and the king forgot all about him. 

 Such stories horrified Belle, but the fear almost felt good. It felt good to feel something, even if the feeling was pain. Her heart raced and her body shivered and for as long as she was reading about other people’s terrors, she could ignore her own. 

The library was its own sort of oubliette. The Dark One had put her here so that he could forget about her. If only he had taken the courtesy to give her a means to forget about herself! On the worst days, Belle wondered why he hadn’t just killed her. It would be nothing for him to turn her into a snail and crush her underneath his boot. If he didn’t want her anymore, if he would never let her live another day outside this prison--why let her live at all?

Why did she let herself live?

That thought frightened Belle more than any story, more than any ogre or any other threat she had ever faced. She didn’t want to stop living. She wanted to live! But the thought intruded into her mind like a worm boring into a piece of fruit. Was it really living, if she just existed in an endless haze of sorrow? Was it really living to make it through one hour, one day, and have nothing to show for it except another day closer to a death that was already inevitable?

Early on in her sentence, Belle had found that the protection spell had limits. She had been cutting a pear into slices when her hand had slipped. The blade of her dinner knife had slid across her thumb and the cut was so smooth that she didn’t feel any pain until well after it had started bleeding. It was only an accident, but it had been a powerful lesson: The spell that protected her only kept threats out. There was no magic that would save her from dangers that already existed in the library. The Dark One could not protect her from herself.

So Belle took precautions. She took the knife and hid it behind a row of books in the far corner of the library. Sometimes she would lie in bed and stare at those books, knowing that the knife was behind them, knowing that she could use it to do something terrible. She told herself she would be safe as long as she left the books alone. She never touched them, no matter how she was tempted.

How long would she have to fight herself to be safe from herself? How long could she endure this existence? How long had it been already? Would there come a time when it got easier? 

Belle had never felt a grief like this before. When her mother had died, there had been too much else to worry about. Overnight, Belle had become the lady of her father’s castle, the heir to a war that had killed Mama and would kill everyone else if she didn’t fight for them. The ogres, starvation, even fear itself had become enemies she’d had to devote all her faculties to overcoming. She’d had to fight, to be brave, every day. There had been no time to wallow in her own sorrow. 

Now she had nothing but time, and nothing but sorrow. There were so many empty hours and Belle spent so many of them in sadness. She wept for herself, for all the futures she had lost, all the versions of herself that would never be because she would never leave the library. She wept for her past as well, for the hope that she had once kindled in her heart. She wept for the love she had once thought was real.

She tried to keep her thoughts away from Rumpelstiltskin. It was impossible to forget him, but she tried not to let her mind dwell on him. She didn’t want to think about why he had sent her here, tried not to wonder why he had found her wanting. She tried not to pound her fists on the door, tried not to call his name, tried not to speak out loud to him. Even if he could hear her, he had made it clear that he would not answer. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care.

The more she thought of him, the more she wept. It astounded her, how many tears she had, how much time she could spend crying over the rejection of one man. Every day, she found something new to miss about him. Every day, she found a new way to blame herself for what he had done to her. Surely at some point it would stop hurting. Surely there had to be a part of her that could recover from this. Surely she could grow back into a whole person someday. 

It was hardest when she tried to sleep. Her body had been trained to expect at least one orgasm every night before she went to bed. But the cuffs still pulled her hands away from her secret places, even if she brushed against them on accident. 

The cuffs could move her hands but they couldn’t stop her thoughts. Sometimes she wished they could. Face pressed into her pillow, Belle tried to keep herself from imagining Rumpelstiltskin. She didn’t want to think about his hands on her body--firm and possessive as he touched her, held her. She didn’t want to think about his mouth when he smiled, when he kissed her, when he sucked her fingers between his lips. Belle didn’t want to think about Rumpelstiltskin’s body, the weight of him on top of her, the warmth of him pressed up against her back. 

She certainly didn’t want to think about his cock--the way it tasted as she licked him, the way it filled her empty places. The breathy way he moaned when she stroked him or held his balls in her hand. For so long, his cock had been all she had known of his body. His desire for her had been all she had known of his heart. 

She saw him so clearly, on those cold and empty nights in the library. Belle kept herself company by imagining his face when he was with her. When his eyes were closed and his jaw relaxed, when he looked at her softly, tenderly. When his lips quirked into half a smile at her, equal parts amusement and amazement. 

In those moments, Belle knew she wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t a fool to think Rumple had loved her. Loving him didn’t make her a silly girl. It had been real.

But it hadn’t been enough. 

That thought always curdled her pleasure into pain. It was as though their love had moldered--a fruit that had rotted even before it had fully ripened. It pierced her heart to hold both facts in her mind at the same time: They had loved each other once. But it had all gone wrong.

Strangely, the pain of that thought calmed her down. It helped her fall into the exhausted sleep that she needed. The horror stories helped as well, gave her a strange, paradoxical peace. After a while of thinking the worst thoughts she could, she felt the same sort of completion that she did after an orgasm. 

When she had first made a habit of touching herself, back when she was still a maiden, she had been preparing herself for her wedding night, an occasion she had dreaded. It had frightened her, to think of some man pawing at her, to think of her husband’s coarse hair and strange body. She had touched herself between her legs and thought of the man she would marry, how he would force her to do her wifely duty whether she enjoyed it or not. In secret, late at night, she had explored herself. She had touched her wetness, not knowing it was a sign of arousal. She had orgasmed, without ever knowing what that word was, or that anybody else ever did such a thing. She had been afraid, but she had turned her fear into something that she could endure and even enjoy.

Now it was the opposite. Instead of pain bringing her pleasure, now pleasure brought her pain. She sought oblivion, and she sought rest. She would accept either true peace or numb acceptance. Whether from abstinence or indulgence, whether from pleasure or from pain, Belle would take whatever solace she could find.

****

On the second floor of the library, tall, arching windows flooded the room with light from both the east and west. There was a cushioned seat below the western window, where Belle liked to sit. She would read there, or sit and watch the sun set on yet another day alone. The library was high enough in the castle that there was nothing to look at except the stony mountains and the endless sky. Sometimes she would wait for the stars to come out. She found a book on astronomy, on the shapes the stars made and the stories that could be told from those shapes. 

One star on the edge of the horizon glowed blue, brighter than anything else in the sky. It entered Belle’s head to wish on it, but she never did. There was no wishing in the Dark One’s home. 

And even if she did, what would she wish for? She could wish for her freedom, but even outside the library, a part of her would always belong to Rumpelstiltskin. She could wish for his love, but a love brought by magic would be more a curse than a blessing. If Belle dared wish for anything, she would wish to understand. If she just knew why Rumple had done this to her, perhaps her fate would be easier to bear. 

Many nights, she would stay awake with her cheek pressed against the glass, her eyes fixed on the stars while her mind reeled with questions and woes. It would never end, would it? Being trapped like this. This was her fate. Rumpelstiltskin had decided it. 

If only she were a stronger person. If only she had the spirit to fight back, to say that no one decided her fate but her. But her love for Rumpelstiltskin had made her weak. It had made her sick, pathetic. Loving him, especially now, was like walking around with a boulder on her back. If only she could lay her burden down. If only she could bring herself to hate him. 

Such thoughts made tears run down her cheeks. They were slow and quiet, but there seemed to be no end to them. Every day, every hour, Belle found a new reason to cry. Surely there would be an end to it soon. Surely, someday, her heart would be hardened enough that she wouldn’t cry over Rumpelstiltskin.

He certainly wasn’t crying over her. 

There was a lever that opened the western window if Belle pulled on it. One pane swung open like a door, just wide enough for her to fit through. The first time Belle had opened the window, her only thought had been to escape. She had planned to tie her bedsheets together into a rope long enough to reach the ground. But when she had stuck her head out to gauge what that distance might be, the cuffs had pulled her back into the library. 

So the window offered no escape, but it did allow fresh air to come in. She could smell spring in the wind, even if she couldn’t see any plants or animals. The days were getting longer, rain and thunderstorms filled the sky. Belle knew, she felt it in her bones, that outside the library things were changing. Somewhere out there, flowers were blooming and birds were singing. People were casting off their heavy winter clothes and beginning to feel light again.

It would be her birthday soon.

Belle had been born in the middle of spring, when the grass was green and the leaves on the trees were tender and new. She was not born in the time of flowers, but in the growing lettuces and herbs, just before the farmers brought the firstfruits of their labor to the market.  Every year, her mother told her that Belle’s birthday brought the world back to life.

This would be her first birthday since the ogres had killed Mama. This would be her first birthday away from her father, away from her cousins, or any of the people she’d used to spend her life with. This would have been her first birthday with Rumple. 

Now it would be her first birthday alone. 

Hugging her arms around her body, Belle turned her gaze to the cloudy sky and tried to keep herself from crying. In one year, her life had changed and changed and changed, but it would never change again. She was alone, and she would be for the rest of her days. How many more birthdays would she spend like this?

****

With no means to measure her hours and no motivation to count her days, Belle had no way to know how long she had been in the library. Not until the afternoon when she woke up with a new ache between her legs, a pain that was simultaneously strange and deeply familiar. Her body felt tight and loose at the same time--as though every part of her was about to float away in a stream and leave behind nothing but the hot, red, ball of misery that clawed below her navel.  

She remembered this pain, though she hadn’t felt it in months. It was her bleeding, a malady she hadn’t suffered since she had become the Dark One’s whore. This was her body trying to make a baby. He used to give her potions every month to prevent it, but obviously he didn’t care about that anymore. 

Belle rolled over onto her stomach. The pressure of her body against the mattress eased the pain in her womb but could do nothing to help the ache in her heart. So it had been a month. At least a month. It may have taken longer for his potion to fully wear off, for her body’s cycle to begin again once it was free of any magical influence.

But at least a month. Belle felt a tightness in her chest, but she did not cry. She lay on her bed and allowed the hollow feeling to fill her up. A month, and the door stayed shut. A month, and the Dark One didn’t miss her. A month since she had spoken to him, or seen anything besides the contents of the library. 

One month down. How many left to go?

“It doesn’t matter,” Belle croaked. Her voice sounded deep and dead. How long had it been since she’d spoken? “It doesn’t matter,” she told herself again. “This is your life. If it hasn’t changed by now, it never will.”

One of the drawers under her bed was constantly stocked with clean linens. Towels and handkerchiefs and sheets were at her disposal whenever she needed them. And whenever a cloth was dirty, she could place it inside the drawer and it would come out clean. Had the Dark One planned for this when he had fitted the library to be her prison? He must have known that she would bleed when his potion wore off. For all his faults, he did pay attention to details. 

 Still in the bed, Belle reached down and pulled open the drawer. She grabbed a wad of linen and stuck it between her legs. Then she curled up into a ball on her side and held her stomach, greeting the pain like an old friend. 

She stayed like that--still, but not exactly sleeping--until the sun set golden through the western window. She hadn’t eaten since the day before and she was ravenous. Shuffling over to the table that held her magic dishware, Belle put her hands on the rim of the plate and thought of beef--tender and fatty and cooked so rare it was still red inside. Her knife was still hidden away, so Belle stabbed at the meat with her fork and tore away chunks with her teeth. 

There was something exillherating about that, something that made her feel wild and free, even in her cage. There was a power in letting go, in feeling nothing but rage and pain. Perhaps that was why the Dark One was the way he was. Perhaps he was cruel just because it felt good. If he could choose to be a beast, why couldn’t Belle?

She ate, summoning a honey cake when the beef lost its appeal. She washed that down with cool wine and then a loaf of bread and butter. The fullness in her stomach mingled strangely with the cramping in her womb, but she didn’t mind. In its own way, utter misery felt almost pleasant. 

Her hands and face were sticky, so Belle opened a drawer and pulled out her wash rag. She covered her face with the steaming heat and breathed in the wetness, the darkness. Oh, that felt good. She moved the cloth down to her neck, lifting up the tangled mass of her hair so she could scrub away the dirt and grime. 

How long had it been since she’d done this? It was so easy not to bother bathing, not to take care of herself. Suddenly, Belle was aware of the filth all over her body. This wouldn’t do at all. Pulling her shift over her head, she opened the drawer of clean linens. She took out all the towels and handkerchiefs and put in her shift and the bloody rags. 

Belle took the clean towels and piled most of them in the center of the stone floor. Then she went to her magic cup. Holding her hands over the letters, Belle thought of hot water. She paid particular attention to just how hot she wanted the water to be, steaming but not boiling. After testing the temperature with her finger, Belle took the cup and stood on top of the towels. She tilted her head back and poured the hot water over her naked body.

It streamed  over her, running down her legs to pool on the towels at her feet.

Oh, it felt good! How long had it been since something had felt good? The water ran down her torso, in between her breasts and over her aching belly. 

Belle closed her eyes and sighed. This was how she had taken her first bath in this castle. The magic cup had only poured out cold water then, she hadn’t known it could do anything else. Rumple had had to tell her how to use the tools he’d given her.

The thought of him made Belle wince, but she didn’t cry. He had given her the wash rag too. Even that early on, he had given her things that had made it easier to live without him. Maybe she could be grateful for that. She ran the cloth over her body, scrubbing at her skin until it was pink and soft. She felt clean now, a new creation. 

She didn’t attempt to wash her hair--there was no way to comb it afterwards and getting it wet would only make it tangle more. But Belle did pour water over the curls between her legs and scrubbed with the soapy rag. The hot water eased her discomfort, and the dried blood rinsed away. 

Still wet from her bath, Belle gathered up the sopping wet cloths and took them over to the drawer. Her shift and the handkerchiefs were already cleaned and neatly folded. She dried herself off with a towel before she dressed.

“Well,” she said briskly. “That was more than enough activity for one day. Back to bed, I think.”

The only irksome part of staying awake throughout the night was how she never knew just how late it was. The candles around the library seemed to have given up on setting a schedule and always burned brightly until dawn. So when Belle put herself to bed, she had no idea how long the night would last. It didn’t matter anyway. She slept through day as well as night, napping whenever she was bored and then avoiding sleep so she could keep reading. 

Perhaps, Belle thought now, that wasn’t actually the best way to live. Perhaps it would be better if she made herself keep to a routine. It would probably help her mood to sleep at night and be awake during the day, to have a set time for meals and for reading. Perhaps she could even consider taking exercise. She could try running up and down the stairs instead of listlessly wandering or constantly sitting. 

Tucked into her little bed, Belle reached for a book. She didn’t pick a horror story tonight. She didn’t want to frighten herself, didn’t need to feel the vicarious thrill of peril. Instead, her hand felt for the book covered in copper-colored silk, the story that never ended. The first book that Rumple had ever given her. No matter what else had happened between them, at least she would always have this story. 

She read of the warrior and his horse. On his quest to find the boy who would save the world, the warrior had to travel through a treacherous swamp. The mists of the swamp clouded the vision of the warrior and the horse. It was impossible for them to know how long they had been in the swamp or whether their footsteps would lead them to dry land or plunge them into the murky water. Gradually, the horse began to lose hope. He sank ever deeper into the swamp. The warrior begged and wept for the horse to hold on, to not despair--for it was only when you believed you were sinking that you sank. But with every step, the horse grew sadder and sank deeper, until there was nothing for him to do but beg the warrior to go on without him. And so the warrior trudged on, alone through the gray gloom and the endless bog. The warrior did not sink, because he knew that his quest was too important to abandon. He was the only one who could complete this part of the journey. He could not give up hope.

Belle didn’t have a quest, but she did have a life. Right now her life was small, and limited, but it was hers. She needed to make it better than she had been. It would be hard, to live without other people. It would be hard for her to never speak to Rumple again. But that was no reason to give up on herself. She had spent a month moping over the dismal turn her life had taken. Now it was time to start living again, as best as she could manage under the circumstances. 

Determined to get a fresh start in the morning, Belle blew out the last candle and tried to sleep. But her newfound motivation had created a surplus of energy. There was a buzzing in her veins that she hadn’t felt in ages. Belle brought her hands to her face and found herself flushing. Her fingers felt delightfully cool against her skin.

She moved her hand down to her neck and felt her pulse racing with excitement. How strange it was that she could feel something this close to happiness. Even in this prison, even separated from Rumple, even with her body aching and bleeding--Belle could be happy. She took a deep breath, and her chest felt light. She put a hand underneath her collarbone and took another breath. She closed her eyes and relished this moment--this time, however brief it might be, when she was alive and she was happy to be alive.

Under her fingers, she felt the swell of her bosom and she cupped herself over her shift. Her breasts were soft and warm and she liked touching them as much as they liked being touched. How long had it been since she’d liked something? Belle sighed. There were joys to be had in this life. How pitiful she had been to forget that. 

One hand stayed at her breast, delighting in the slow rise of her nipple as she played with it. The other hand stroked a path downward, over her belly--still round from all that she’d eaten earlier--and onto her thighs. Lying on her back, Belle hitched her legs up so she could reach them too. She touched the smooth skin of her calves, ran her fingers over the light hairs, enjoyed the feeling of her own flesh. No wonder men desired her.

Belle had always taken her beauty for granted. Sometimes she had even resented it if it meant people were less likely to take her intellect seriously. But now she took the time to appreciate her body--her short but slender limbs, her delicate fingers and toes, the curves of her waist, and her soft, pale skin. Even her secret places, aching as they were right now, were a source of pleasure to her. She took a quiet satisfaction in that fact: She could use her body to make herself feel good. She could bring herself just as much pleasure as anyone else had ever brought her or that she had ever brought to them.

That was, Belle decided, a pleasant thought to have. 

With a wad of linen separating her hand from her secret places, she pushed down between her legs. The metal at her wrist pressed into her thigh uncomfortably, so Belle pulled the cuff further up her arm. Both cuffs seemed looser now than they ever had before.

She turned her thoughts back to her body, to how good she felt and how much she enjoyed what she was doing now. Even the pain in her womb had a dark pleasure to it. There was no shame in being aroused by pain--surely it was a more sensible reaction than being hurt by pleasure, as she had been lately. Belle had appetites and she wasn’t interested in denying the reality of them. Strange and monstrous as her desires might be, she knew what they were and she accepted them. She loved them, because they were a part of herself.     

Throwing her head back, Belle let out a little moan.

She rubbed herself again through the linen, her hips rocking gently and her back arching. Her other hand kneaded at her breast. Her pace quickened and she felt her pleasure rise.

“Oh,” she whimpered out loud into the silent library. “Oh!”

Suddenly, her orgasm overtook her, washing over her body like a wave that knocked her down into the ocean. Belle gasped at the power of her own pleasure, felt her body throbbing from the inside out. She clenched against her hand so hard she thought she might break her own bones.

Exhausted and satisfied and happy, Belle turned over onto her stomach to sleep. She let one arm dangle off the edge of the bed, her cuff hanging loosely on her wrist. Belle’s sleep was deep and restful, and she was only vaguely aware of the order she had just disobeyed.

[hyperionswrath--archived]

@onepartbrave

“No,” came his automatic retort of pure, boneheaded defiance when questioned about his inability to behave. Amused by his own antics, a soft, half-smile formed aimlessly on his lips and Squall resumed keeping his attention on the hand he captured. Wasn’t like he could look Seifer in the eye presently as the blond’s forehead pressed against his shoulder, him reading a sense of urgency from the gesture. No… disorientation. Thorough, if it was anything like the rest of the night provided so far. He could relate—he was only keeping a reasonably level head from, one, not looking directly at the man presently, and two, copious loads of alcohol in his bloodstream.

When Seifer’s falsely apprehended hand moved in his grasp, Squall withdrew his hold slightly. His own pair didn’t wander far and he was thankful; a moment later, larger fingers entwined with his in a token so delicate, he momentarily forgot how to breathe. They had… never been gentle. Not one memory provided him with details of tenderness shared. Perhaps, in a sense, the blond helping prepare him for the horrors of the world was a nicety in itself, but physically, it had been nothing except harsh spars and even fiercer battles.

This… this was entirely new and that was more terrifying than any demons he’d faced prior.

Letting people into his heart backfired before and he was left alone, fractured, resulting in the apathetic loner he was before them. It had taken an impending calamity and relentless persistency for him to let them in, and after he still struggled to not revert. It was always the same, to this day. None had ever truly busted through…

…That’s wrong. He did. He always has.

Backtracking while his mind processed the image of him holding Seifer’s hand, other memories played like a movie for only him to see. Endless bickering, boastful taunting, always able to ignite a fire within otherwise icy eyes—Seifer had been the only one to provoke a constant reaction from him. Whether Squall showed it or not didn’t matter because the infuriating menace learned to read the slightest nuance in a ‘blank’ expression. The guy was never clueless on what he was feeling or, sometimes, even thought…

I just never saw it before… fuck.

While the revelation was shocking to an extent, Squall wasn’t overly stunned. More… relieved. Allayed the liquor hadn’t fashioned falsities in his head and all of his inner anguish was for a genuine reason. However, now he realised and accepted the logic, what was he to do with it? Sure, the toxicity in his veins might not have influenced his behaviour (with the exception of making him far too open and docile), what’s to say it hadn’t Seifer’s? Loathing as he was contemplating it… he didn’t want to become another body to warm anyone’s bed. On the other hand, the blond had been nothing but brutally honest with him since meeting yesterday (since him recalling their first meeting really…), so he deserved the benefits of any self-doubt. It wasn’t Seifer’s fault he hardly saw himself worth a ‘catch’, or whatever.

“…I’m not sure,” he responded eventually, quiet, tentative. Gaze pinned on their joined hands still, it was only tempted away at feeling faint gliding of the man’s other limb up, up, and up… until it stopped to coil supple digits in his hair. From lack of anyone else daring to brush fingers through his hair, the impact it had wrought a distinctive quiver through his form, running straight down his spine and leaving a tingle in its wake. He knew the definition of ‘touch-starved’ but with how clingy some of his friends were, never would’ve affixed the term with himself. Clearly, he was still learning new things about his character. Intriguing things. “I—I want—”

Timid all of a sudden, Squall’s train of thought cut off sharply as the heat in his face brightened tenfold. Certain he’d be glow in the dark soon, he couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the current object of his puzzling frustration. Really, he was a sucker for punishment sometimes because seeing that clueless yet anticipating face was worse. Swallowing thickly as his inhibitions fled, he maintained unwavering eye contact as he guided their united hands up at a leisurely pace until they were level with his shoulders. Throat feeling inexplicably dry, he wasn’t sure what possessed his next action was beyond his knowledge, but no regret surfaced, only respite.

Fearlessly, yet still donning a brilliant blush, he turned their hands around until the rear of Seifer’s was facing him and he ducked his head down to cross the slightest distance and pressed his lips there. Hesitant, entirely out of his element and second-guessing himself, but still no repentance.

“…I just dunno,” he repeated softly, then choosing to break the eye contact. Bashfulness running rampant through him, he lowered their interweaved hands to his lap and covered the man’s with his own. Absently, he pressed back against the one buried in his hair, too. “…Wha’ bout you?”

Huffing somewhere between exasperation and amusement, the blond shook his head when presented with the obvious denial of proper manners when commanding them. Willing to let it slide so long as the man sat still and didn't try to bail on him again for some ludicrous reason, he watched how infatuated the other seemed to be with his hand. Callused as it was from battles, wars, and holding weapons, the limbs were still slender, though not as delicate as the pale ones of his former rival. They were complete opposites in so many regards, even their lives had taken near to exact opposite directions every possible way. And still, here they were, close to each other, drawn to each other, much like the old saying that 'opposites attract'.

Was it that simple? Was that all behind why he just didn't seem to be remotely able to keep himself from the brunet? Having their hands entwined like this, it felt strangely warm, tingling wherever their skin touched, and he soon found his thumb drawing idle circles, enjoying the feel of smooth skin below his digit. The more he pondered on it, the more he realized he had never been gentle with anyone before. People where there to be used, as he was to be used in turn, there was no gentleness in that. Yet some part of him seemed eager to make up for all the things he had done in spite and vengefulness, all the hurt and pain he had caused, as laughable as it might seem to him.

Despite never having shared their thoughts on such matters - because why would they? - Seifer had a similar stance to letting people too close, allowing them to get under his skin and making himself vulnerable. He did not, however, shy away from being physical, both things usually completely separate things in his book. And still, right here, he did not pounce the brunet every chance he got with fierce flirtations but felt rather considerate, deeming it more important that his former rival felt safe and comfortable in their new-found closeness than to satiate a hunger that had been coiling inside him for decades.

Humming at the insecure statement in understanding, having thought as much, simultaneously aware of the slight shiver making the lithe body tremble when his fingers brushed through chocolate strands, he was for once the one patiently waiting. Well, outwardly at least. For inside he could feel the restlessness again, the urge to get closer, to have more of this. More blushing, more trembling, more of everything the brunet had to offer. Yet, he let the man ponder on his question, seeing in his face clear as day how his mind worked as if trying to come to grips with something.

And wasn't that crimson hue to high cheekbones the most gorgeous he had ever seen on porcelain features? That and what followed was enough to make Seifer hold his breath, allowing the other to move their hands, lifting them all the while holding his gaze prisoner with those stormy eyes full of intent. Plush lips grazing the barest, softest kiss on his hand, a gesture he'd usually mock and comment with a dismissive notion of not being the princess among the both of them, but right now all he could focus on was how innocent the gesture appeared to be. Which nudged an entirely different train of thought into motion. Shit... was the guy still a virgin? Or was he always this gentle?

Unable to hold that thought for too long, still staring with fascination into pale blue eyes that seemed, the longer he sank into them, to have a crystalline hint to them, he finally was able to let out the breath he'd been holding quietly if accompanied by a low hum. Faintly, the mere hint of a smile tugged on one corner of his lips as he, not without regret and reluctance, freed his hand from their tangled state to reach up and gently cup the brunet's cheek, digits once more grazing the skin with fascination.

"I do have some ideas...", he mumbled, finally able to look elsewhere, trailing down so emerald gaze could come to rest on the bow of decidedly soft lips. Briefly, the fingers in soft hair curled, giving in to the coiling in his insides, tugging at the hair in their grip, but releasing it in favor for resting between prominent shoulder blades, while his other hand wandered down, fingers taking the slightest, coaxing grip on Squall's chin, motioning him closer. The blond leaned up at that, no reasonable or clear thought able to form in his head anymore as he leaned in, his mouth ghosting against the others.

[astrology-with-charu]

Till 22 Nov Scorpio Season - few tips & considerations, hopefully beyond cliche, of this very powerful, deep & intense season

Till 22 Nov Scorpio Season #Astrology #Horoscope

As incense were burning, reminding me to sage my past away for upcoming Diwali weekend, my daughter’s Ghost mask was getting ready for Halloween. Being a Hindu living in western world - the two calendars - Hindu & Gregorian - clash a lot, offending the sensitive while enriching the sensible in my view. I like to move myself as much as possible to the later category though as a Scorpio rising I have to say I bruise easily sometimes.

So as my western Hindu family was getting ready for combined celebrations of Halloween & Diwali for this weekend, it came to me they both had one thing in common - cobwebs of the past. They both remind us that to celebrate the new year - Hindu and Celtic - the first step is embrace or deal with the cobwebs of the past.

But one tries to light fire or offer gold to tempt or ward off the evil or the death or the past & focuses on attracting the light, the monetary abundance ushering in the new life with the new year. The other celebrates the evil, the dead, the past, the devil within us cause it’s very much part of us but more importantly, Celtics believed that embracing the devil or the dead would give us premonition of the future. These are in my view the two ways of dealing with Scorpio energy.

Past is a big part of our future & in Scorpio season past will always come up. But whether the rituals or the season or the Mercury retrograde get us there - the whole idea is be... well whole in this season- healing our past & burying some of it - taking some of it with us.

*Bookmark full article - http://emailabuddy.com/blog/?p=828 *

So what are the after effects of Scorpio season beyond the cliche -

Being reborn yes but wiser; more strategic; with a bit less fear;

with a lot more knowing - cause premonition is essentially intuition created by those who don’t forget past patterns...our own past patterns - so yes with a lot more self knowledge;

standing a little bit taller without anyone propping us up - independent self worth as I would like to call it;

loving someone or something deeper than we have before...becoming one with someone or something or a subject so much that you know them more than they know themselves;

healing our bruises but embracing the marks left cause they make great stories & momentos...don’t they;

sheer dare - sheer hot red blood marsian dare to do what no one envisages you to dare to do cause Mr. Nice had taken over the planet for a while but we gotto get real now;

truth... your own truth... no one else’s... living with it fully unapologetically but without the need of display;

shadow on a sacred part of you - not sharing everything till you trust someone fully - holding a little part of you with you cause it’s too sacred to share till someone truly deserves it;

Creating gold or oil / liquid gold out of nothing cause you unearthed the facts someone else was too timid, too faint hearted, not intent enough, not intense enough to dig through;

Having game...having a strategy...holding a few good cards closer to chest till it’s show time...not giving all of your information professionally & personally...don’t play the game of chess with rules of ludo...nothing is fair;

Don’t bring a bouquet to a knife fight... I am saying this cause Mars is in Libra during its rulers’ season till 19 Nov, meaning we would act to reconcile compromise while in reality we don’t want to, hence the Mercury retrograde from 31 Oct-20 Nov when we would be recalibration our approach to make it more real, authentic, impactful. And just when Mercury goes direct on 20 Nov, Mars moves into Scorpio on 19 Nov. In short our ambition, talk & actions will match better & aim higher after 19th Nov. But try to not give up too much of yourself in trying to reconcile or in trying to be fair, nothing about this season is fair. We don’t have to be fair in Scorpio season we don’t have to be balanced but we do need to be true to your soul in this season;

Don’t dress the devil in a pastel frock - it won’t work - have your ambition out in bright red blue shades with kinky boots on - dress it like a devil, embrace your lust to be who you want to be, you can focus it in this season to move things you couldn’t move before, don’t become less to make the mediocre feel good about themselves, make them sweat a bit & hell yeah enjoy it a bit 😉

Deconstruct a part of you...not all parts of us are meant to go on, after all human body is in constant state of bouts of cell die off and regeneration, this season allows us to debaggage (I will keep using it till Webster’s accepts this word), debug, disengage from what we know isn’t us anymore - dead man walking besides us, draining memories, large part of this year & possibly last few, part of us that stops us for asking what we need, part of us that holds us back in the place “it” thinks we belong..this season is excellent to disengage from our own disfunctional self - first step of rebirth is death of us - you know what it is, it’s not a surprise;

Last but possibly the most interesting is the kundalini awakening - it’s sudden gust of energy compelling them to fully change their life, it’s like a dam has been broken & things in the way go combust like lava flow - it’s flood of intense emotions totally coming out of nowhere, it’s thrilling, exhilarating, freeing, sexy, mystical & connects us to our “source” in ways we didn’t imagine - it unblocks years of pent up energy blocks, hidden subtle force. Trigger can be an event, yoga mudra, sex, essentially things that disassociate you from yourself so you aren’t controlling your body so much as you would normally. It’s defined as coiled up serpent power residing down on the base of our spine as a dormant energy that needs a slight but accurate trigger to be released. It’s release is very much physically felt & spiritually experienced - it’s not a theoretical concept. Scorpio season brings the most opportunities to wake this up & you would find its obvious reflection in subtle yet intense sexual encounters, your own need to be intimate, intense yoga & meditative experiences, I don’t recommend it but in substance use.

There is an intense drive within us to start living our “real” life - where things are happening for us & what’s magical about Scorpio season is that - we are giving intensity, power, grit to make it happen - move our life lock stock & barrel to where we think it deserves to go.

Don’t try to dress it pretty, cause it’s not intended to be pretty, it’s meant to be powerful & sexy 😈

#Aries #Taurus #Gemini #Cancer #Leo #Virgo #Libra #Scorpio #Sagittarius #Capricorn #Aquarius #Pisces #ariesmoon #taurusmoon #geminimoon #cancermoon #leomoon #virgomoon #libramoon #scorpiomoon #sagittariusmoon #capricornmoon #aquariusmoon #piscesmoon #dailyhoroscope #weeklyhoroscope #horoscopeposts #astrologyposts

[avengerscompound]

Fame and Glory - The Man You’ve Become

Fame and Glory: A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist Previous //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x OFC (Glory) with some Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers x OMC

Word Count:  2280

Warnings:  Angst, smut (M|F, M|M, Bisexual MMF, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, loss of virginity (Steve’s), anal sex)

Synopsis:  After taking the Super Serum that changed him from small sickly Steve Rogers to the man we now know as Captain America, Steve is sent on a USO tour to increase sales of war bonds and entertain the troops. Being on stage and the chorus girls both terrify him.

With the help of dancer Glory, Steve begins to warm up to the idea of fame until he starts doing things he never thought he would and begins to question himself.  Does he like the man he has become and who does he want to be?

Chapter 3: The Man You’ve Become

With the new aspect of their relationship added, Steve became just that little bit more pleased with the trappings and attention that came with fame.  It was like that little guy he used to be who was angry at everyone and everything and so lonely was someone he dreamt up one day.   Captain America was who he was supposed to be.  Captain America was handsome and famous and women threw themselves at him.  Men wanted to be him.  He was someone to aspire to be and who was desirable.

He was now so comfortable around the chorus girls they felt like his family.  A strange and dysfunctional family who you saw naked a lot and who were constantly touching each other’s asses but still a family nonetheless.  He knew about all the people they had waiting for them at home.  What they wanted for their futures.  What they looked for in men.  For a couple what they looked for in women.

The touching was constant.  Not just them with him.  The dressing room was a tactile organism that seemed to demand constant physical affection from those that occupied it.  The girls always had their hands on each other and him.  Brushing them over each other’s backs as they passed each other.  Resting them on the hip of the person they stood beside.  Fixing each other’s hair.  Spanking each other playfully when the desire took.  There was a lot of kissing too.  Never sexual.  Just brief peck on cheeks or lips to say hello or thank you just because it felt right in that moment.

Steve had never been a part of something like that before.  It felt good.   He had always harbored this small piece of jealousy for how easy Bucky found it to be around women.  Now he knew he’d surpassed anything Bucky had ever had.  He was comfortable and felt at home in this dressing room with women who were often in different states of undress.  Who he could watch touch each other.   Who he could touch and who touched him.  Some of them wanted him too.  He knew that.  He knew that if he asked he could have a few at once.  Even Bucky would blush and feel uncomfortable if faced with the situation Steve lived daily.  It made him feel accomplished somehow.

It became common knowledge that Steve was now Glory’s.  They never publicly said anything and the other girls still flirted with him.  Neither he nor Glory ever stopped them.  It was just something everyone knew.  People would refer to him as ‘your fella’ when talking to Glory.  Interestingly Glory was never referred to as ‘his gal’ though.  Glory didn’t belong to anyone except Glory.  Steve quite liked that about her.  She’d often perch herself in his lap when they were taking a break.  He liked that about her too.  Public Displays of Affection had previously always made him uncomfortable.  Now, he’d wondered if that was just because he hadn’t been the one making them.

They continued having sex too.  It was regular and it was good.  They both liked to be the cause of each other’s pleasure and enjoyed exploring new ways to bring it about.

Since he had Glory he wasn’t really tempted to sleep with any of the other women who expressed an interest in him.  It was flattering.  Sometimes he considered the idea of bringing a third in.  He wondered in Captain America was that man too.  The kind of man who explored every aspect of pleasure that was available to him.  He decided he wasn’t quite that.  Captain America was desirable, but he did have some honor that meant he was loyal to the woman he was with, even if he didn’t plan to be with that woman forever.

Men though… well, men tempted him.  He kept thinking about Bucky.  About how he’d always had that desire for him that was an undercurrent for their relationship.  He’d always buried it believing it was wrong.  It was wrong to feel that way about another man.  Besides, it had always been more than obvious that Bucky liked women.  So it would have been ridiculous to out himself when it would immediately end in rejection.  Now with men approaching him.  Offering to do things to him.  To let him do things to them.  It was exciting and taboo.  Each time it happened he was tempted by it.  Just to get a taste and see if it was something he’d like.  He wished he had someone like Glory he could explore it with.  

No - that’s not exactly true.  He wished he could explore it with Bucky.  He wished he had been half as confident in himself growing up as he was now that he might have actually just once brought it up.  He wasn’t Captain America then.  He was angry little Steve who was going to die alone.

They were coming to the end of the US leg of their tour.  There were now Captain America comics.  People paid extra to meet him.  He was asked to promote other things, though his contract didn’t allow it.

They all went to a local bar to celebrate the end of the tour in the US.  Most of the girls were leaving.  Only three were continuing on to tour the military bases in Europe.  Betty, Karen and to Steve’s relief Glory.

The girls were all really letting their hair down.  Drinking, singing, flirting with the locals.  Steve danced with them for a while.  His partner’s changed like sand running through his fingers.  Each woman switching fluidly so that the dance never ended but it was always new.  Each woman would kiss and press themselves against him.  Whispering how they’d miss him and how much they’d enjoyed themselves.  How they wanted to stay in touch.  He returned the sentiment wanting it to be true but also knowing it wasn’t.  They wouldn’t stay in touch.  He probably would never speak to any of them again after tonight.

Eventually, he went and sat in a booth in the corner, just nursing a drink and watching them.  A man slid into the booth next to him and offered him his hand.  He was tall and slender, with dark hair and light eyes.  He reminded Steve of Bucky in a way.  He had the same strong jaw though he was much more clean shaven than Bucky ever was and thinner.

“You’re that Captain America, aren’t you?”  He said.

Steve shook his hand and smiled.  “That’s right.”

“My name’s Jim.  I went to the show three times.  I am such a big fan.”  The guy said, talking at a rate of knots.  Steve only really half listened as he smiled warmly at the guy.  He was used to the gushing of fans, but he was really much more caught up with how much Jim looked like James.  “I tried to enlist.  A couple of times.  They marked me 4F.  Asthma ya know?”

Steve nodded his head.  The guy kept talking, babbling about how he owned the comics.   How much he admired Captain America.  How interesting he found the science behind his change.  Steve nodded and engaged just enough that the guy felt comfortable opening up more.  As he did he edged closer and closer.

Steve slid out of the booth and offered his hand to Jim.   “It’s been nice meeting you, Jim.  I really need to …”  He gestured at the restroom and let the man’s hand go.

“Okay, yeah,”  Jim said, his eyes wide.

Steve strolled to in the direction of the bathroom, being stopped occasionally by one of the girls.  They were all quite drunk now.  He wondered if it might be time to escort them home.

He was just finishing up in the bathroom and drying his hands when Jim came in.  He walked straight over to Steve and kissed him.  Pushing him back in the direction of one of the stalls.  Steve was at first too startled to resist.  By the time he realized what was happening, he decided he didn’t want to.

Jim slammed the stall door closed behind him, turning the lock.  He broke the ferocious, needy kiss with Steve and crouched in front of him.  Frantically scrambling to unfasten Steve’s fly.

“I can’t believe this is happening,”  Jim whispered.  “You’re Captain America.”  He pulled Steve’s cock out from his pants, and his eyes went wide.  “Damn.”  He breathed and took Steve into his mouth.

Steve moaned softly.  He unfocused his eyes a little as he looked down at the complete stranger who was now sucking his cock. Now he could see it.  It wasn’t just anyone.  It was Bucky.  He and Bucky were doing this.

He pushed his hands into Jim’s hair and tightened them into fists.  Jim worked like a man on a mission.  Unlike when Glory did this, Jim was working on a time limit.  His aim was to get Steve to come quickly.  He moved quickly up and down his cock, sucking and rolling his tongue.  He took him deep into the back of this throat, right to the point he gagged and then pull back suddenly, licking up his length, only to take return him to his mouth again.

Steve started to pant.  He really wasn’t going to last long at this rate.  His hips moved, and as he felt that tightening sensation in his abdominals, he moaned softly.  “Oh god, James.”

Jim slid his hands back between Steve’s legs.  Stroking over Steve’s perineum.  It sent a jolt through Steve and as Jim’s index finger touched on Steve’s asshole and pushed in, just enough to stretch it, Steve jerked suddenly and came.

With his orgasm, came guilt and shame.  He lurched out of the stall, tucking himself back away and leaving Jim dazed and blinking at him.

As he weaved through the crowd and out the door.  Glory spotted him and took after him, catching him as he quickly moved down the street in the direction of their hotel.

“Steve, honey.  Wait up!”  Glory called, jogging to catch up.

Steve didn’t look at her, he just kept moving.  “Not now, Glory.”  He snapped.

Glory caught him and hooked her elbow in with his. He made no move to shake her off despite how ashamed he felt and undeserving of affection or understanding.

“Honey, what happened?”  She asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  He huffed.

“Alright, baby. We don’t have to talk about it.  We can just walk.”  Glory said.  She continued her hurried pace, just to keep up with Steve’s long legs as he strode down the street.

They walked in silence and when they reached the hotel, the rode the elevator up standing side by side and looking straight ahead.  At their floor, Steve turned to look at her.

“You should probably sleep in with some of the other girls.”  He said.

Glory felt a stabbing pain in her chest.  Not for her.  She was under no illusion that this was going to last forever, but this sudden change in Steve meant he was hurting.  The way he’d come hurtling out of that bathroom, she maybe had an idea why.

“Steve,”  She soothed.  “Whatever happened.  It’s okay.  You’re still you.”

Steve shook his head.  “I don’t think I am anymore.  I don’t think I’ve been me for a long time.”

Glory pulled her key from her clutch and unlocked the door to their hotel room.  She led Steve inside.  “Dahlin', if you don’t like the person you’ve been lately then you can still change.  You’ve had a lot of new things happen in your life.  It’s understandable that you are pushing at the edges of what’s normal for you.”

She started to unbutton his shirt.  Steve shook his head and looked down at her sadly.  “There’s pushing at the edges and then there’s what I just did.  I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

Glory slid his shirt down his arms and tossed it into the corner.  She started to unbutton his fly and while Steve flinched a little he didn’t stop her.

“You can tell me what happened if you want.  I won’t judge you, honey.  You know that right?  You and me are always gonna be just swell.”  She dropped to her knees and unfastened the laces of his shoes and slid them off.  She removed his socks and then stood and pushed his trousers down, followed by his boxers.  As she worked Steve unloaded everything that had just happened.  All the dirty details and how ashamed it made him feel.

When he was naked she led him to the bathroom.  She turned on the shower and Steve helped her with the zip on her dress before he stepped under the water.

“You know how I got this job, Stevie?”  She said, joining him under the spray.

“You’re really talented,”  Steve answered.

Glory ran her hands up and down his back, working the tightness out of his muscles with the aid of the hot water.  She laughed.  “Well, that’s true.  I can hoof with the best of them.  But there are lots of talented girls out there.  Girls who are more talented.  Girls who are prettier.  I got the job because I screwed Bill.  Everyone has regrets.  Now you know, what you did with that fella;  it’s not for you.  So you don’t do it again.  You don’t have to let this change you.  You are you, Steve.”

Steve felt like something broke inside him at her words.  He turned and dropped to his knees, pulling Glory against him and pressing his head against her stomach.  She put her hands on his hair and he started to sob.

// NEXT

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: The Basic Concepts of Islam: Part 6

The Concept of the Universe

In the foreword, we briefly discussed the position of the Muslims and the future of Islam in Western Hemisphere. In this part, we shall discuss the position of man in the contemporary world, the general human situation, and the Islamic concept of the universe or world view. This will reaffirm the concepts that have already been discussed, add some new ideas, and tie together the various dimensions of the subject in a summary recapitulatory fashion. The present human situation is alarming, to say the least. It demands concern and active response on the part of all people of good will and God – mindedness. But this does not, and should not, lead to despair or resignation. The spirit of hope is, and has always been, an integral part of Islam (see, e. g., Quran 12:87; 65:3) The problems and crises of modern times are not entirely unique or peculiar. It is true that they are difficult, complex, and agonizing. Perhaps this is even more so now than ever before. But the difference, however, between this age and those of yester centuries is basically a difference of degree rather than of kind. The ever-increasing complexity of our contemporary predicaments may be largely due to a similar, proportionate rise in our expectations and capacities. For many centuries and in numerous regions of the globe, the chief source of the most difficult crises has essentially been a kind of inflexible, exclusive, and intolerant attitude toward the unfamiliar, the different, and the foreign. This orientation fostered racism, elitism, bigotry, prejudice, and a whole host of other equally distasteful attitudes. Few people can really deny that humanity is facing an unusual crisis. This present human crisis seems to emanate from a serious imbalance between our external, outward, material explorations and our internal, inward, moral gropings. Nothing is simpler than calling for the maintenance of equilibrium, advocating a middle range, or crusading for the golden means. Yet nothing has been harder to attain. In the past, utterances such as man cannot live by bread alone were sometimes so distorted as to connote disregard for man’s material welfare. Similarly, trust in God has been misunderstood; it is often taken to mean helpless fatalism or categorical denial of human free will and self-realization. An overemphasis on spirituality and resignation is bound to give rise to a counter emphasis on materialism, rationalism, free will, and so on. Stressed beyond certain limits, spirituality may become superstition and confusion. Likewise, counter stress may turn materialism into laxity, free will into libertinism, and rationalism into sheer vanity. The intellectual history of the last few centuries demonstrates these tendencies only too well. Over the years of recent decades, the spiritual scale tipped up and down. In the sixties, and now in the seventies, the news-making events are those of the unsurpassed, unprecedented, outer space explorations. Equally sensational are the unprecedented explorations in the inward, internal realms of being, however faddish, cultic, or neurotic they may seem to be. The rise of these two unprecedented and unbalanced types of exploration is exceptionally alarming. The reason probably lies in the fact that the two types do not seem to relate to each other, let alone converge. There is no apparent reciprocity, mutual reinforcement, or cross-fertilization. Besides, their precarious, unbalanced existence is a constant threat to the majority of people. It may very well drive them into ambivalence and confusion which may, in turn, intensify the problems of society and harden the lot of modern men. But such a precarious course can be changed if the outward scientific explorations and the inward moral gropings are somehow reconciled. Man does not live by bread alone. That is true enough. But neither does he live by prayers only. He is both a political or materialistic animal and a religious explorer of the holy. As already mentioned, the contemporary world is clearly baffled by numerous problems. But it is equally baffled by the conflicting diagnoses and prescriptions to cope with these problems. Some people sing along with the popular lyric, what the world needs now is love etc. Some call for a human rebirth. Others turn to Marxism, Humanism, Satanism, or Scientism as the ultimate solution. Still, more are awaiting the arrival of some future Savior. Yet this long list does not even include the indifferent, the hopeless, and the apathetic who may, in fact, outnumber the optimist clubs combined. But it seems that the greatest need today is the pressing need for "understanding." What man needs most of all is to understand himself and his nature, his potentials and limitations, his place in the universe and relationships with its elements. The question now is how can Islam help man to understand himself, unclog his mind, and clear his blurred vision? To try an answer to this question, it will be necessary to keep in mind the basic concepts of Islam which have been discussed and to elaborate further some elements of its value system. This analysis will hopefully show how they may relate to modern man in his contemporary predicament, and how they may help him to find his way through. The principle of moderation is most characteristic of Islam. It is probably best expressed in the way Islam views human nature, the meaning of life, and the idea of God. Islam does not subscribe to the one-sided humanistic philosophy, which almost deifies man and recognizes nothing beyond. Neither does Islam endorse the equally one-sided verdict that human nature is inherently vicious, wicked, or sinful, Islam rejects the idea that life is nasty, brutal, short, and miserable. But it equally rejects the idea that life is an end in itself, pleasurable, and carefree. Islam does give life a positive meaning, a purpose. It would devalue life on earth only relative to the Hereafter. It is not concerned exclusively with the here and now, the instant hedonism, and the immediate pleasures. Nor does it completely bypass the here and now in pursuit of a future paradise in a hereafter. It addresses itself to both the human condition here on earth and the human destiny in the Hereafter. Such concern is, of course, proportionate; it values each phase of existence according to its relative effect on the general well-being of man (Quran 7:33; 17:18-21; 28:77; 57:20-21). In the Quran, there is a passage (2: 27-39) which is typical of so many others. This passage contains some of the fundamental principles of Islam and represents the foundations of the world view of Islam. Outstanding among these principles are the following: 1. The world is a becoming entity, created by the will of a Designer and sustained by Him for meaningful purposes. Historical currents take place in accordance with His will and follow established laws. They are not directed by blind chance, nor are they random and disorderly incidents. 

2. Man also is created by God and is commissioned to be Gods viceroy on earth. He is so chosen to cultivate the land and enrich life with knowledge, virtue, purpose, and meaning. And to achieve this goal, everything in the earth and the heavens are created for him and is made subservient to him. Life on this planet is not a prison for man; his coming into the world was not an arbitrary punishment for previously committed sins. Nor was he expelled from another world and cast out into this one. His existence was no mere chance or undesigned occurrence.

3. Knowledge is the unique faculty of man and is an integral part of his personality and his being. It is the knowledge that qualifies a man to be the viceroy of his Creator and entitles him to command the respect and allegiance even of the angels of God.

4. The first phase of life on earth began not in sin or rebellion against the Creator. The Fall from the Garden of Eden and what followed thereafter – the remorse of Adam and Eve, their repentance, God’s forgiveness of and compassion for them, the enmity between man and Satan – all this was no surprise to the Creator. Nor was it an accident in the course of events. It was too meaningful to be accidental. Rather, it seems to have been designed to discipline the first man, to give him an actual experience of fall and rise, moral defeat and triumph, straying from and reconciliation with the Creator. In this way, man would become better prepared for life and more enlightened to face its uncertainties and trying moments.

5. Eve was not the weaker party of the first human couple. She neither tempted Adam to eat of the forbidden tree nor was she alone responsible for the expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Both Adam and Eve were equally tempted and equally responsible; both were remorseful, repented, and were blessed with the forgiveness and compassion of God. This is significant as it liberates Eve from the curse that followed her and her sex throughout the ages, and acquits her of the charge that she alone bears all or most of the responsibility for the Fall. Furthermore, it declares in no uncertain terms that the belief in the moral inferiority of women is unfounded and the double standard is totally unjustifiable. Here, as elsewhere, the Quran makes it very clear that both man and women are equally capable of virtue and weakness, equally sensitive, and equally meritorious.

6. Man is a free agent endowed with a free will. This is the essence of his humanity and the basis of his responsibility to his Creator. Without man’s relative free will life would be meaningless and Gods covenant with man would be in vain. Without human free will, God would be defeating His own purpose and man would be completely incapable of bearing any responsibility. This, of course, is unthinkable.

7. Life emanates from God. It is neither eternal nor an end in itself, but a transitional phase, after which all shall return to the Creator.

8. Man is a responsible agent. But responsibility for sin is borne by the actual offender alone. Sin is not hereditary, transferable, or communal in nature. Every individual is responsible for his own deeds. And while man is susceptible to corruption, he is also capable of redemption and reform. This does not mean that Islam prefers the individual to the group. Individualism means little or nothing when severed from social context. What it means is that the individual has different sets of roles to play. He must play them in such a way as to guard his moral integrity, preserve his identity, observe the rights of God, and fulfill his social obligations.

9. Man is a dignified honorable being. His dignity derives from the fact that he is infused with the spirit of his Creator. What is more important is that such dignity is not confined to any special race, color, or class of people. It is the natural right of man, every man, the most honorable being on earth.

10. The passage, finally, points to the deep-seated roots of the Oneness of God and the unity of mankind. It shows, further, that man’s highest virtues are piety and knowledge, that when such knowledge is acquired and invested according to the divine guidance, man’s blissful destiny will be assured and his life will be serene.