#and yet the rational of them recognize that the gods and their support just disappearing overnight

[12pt-times-new-roman]

c3e59

let's go back in tiiiiime

"Where are we?" "Where's everybody else?" "Where's Imogen?"

This area is rife with not just volcanic activity, but with seismic activity as well, and Ruidus is to the south.

Laudna identifies a handful of places that match this description: the Truskan Vale (near Kamordah), the Panagrip Sands (to the far east of Marquet), and the Spectrum Gorge in the middle of Issylra.

Orym to Caleb, via sending stone: "Um... Caleb Widogast? Are you alright? Where are you? Not sure we're even in Marquet anymore. Please respond." He's met with a feedback loop and static.

Orym to Dorian, vis sending stone: "Dorian? Can you hear me? Uh... what's the sky look like where you are? Tell me you're okay." Same thing.

They crest a ridge of the gorge, and beyond, there's a dense forest, a cluster of growth affixed to the mineral-rich earth. Orym, with a passive perception of 31, sees movement — 

AIMEE!!!!

She's a dwarf with long blond hair, covered in tattoos — two stand out, one of a banner heart that says "me" instead of "mom," and one with a large cursive D. She's wearing earring hoops that say "fuck off." A corset, bejeweled boots, a massive gold belt buckle, carrying a whip and a sickle.

I'm calling it right now, this woman is going to romance Laudna and Ashton.

An hour ago, she was in Tal'dorei looking for her ex. She almost found him when she heard Ludinus' voice, saw white light, then appeared in this forest.

Mona is a barbarian/rogue (who rolled excellent stats btw).

From the top, they can see that the gorge is a massive canyon at least two miles long. Ruidus is to the southwest of them. An extremely overgrown and vibrant forest surrounds the canyon, and there's a river nearby.

Orym can see another gathering of leylines to the northeast — another nexus point, miles off. Loosely in that direction, he can see a township, and beyond that, a massive mountain range with one singular mountain taller than any he's ever seen — the Heaven's Stair. The entire western side of his vision is taken up by a mountain range that looks so foreboding and ominous that he doesn't even want to go near it. To the south, ocean.

Traveling to the northeast, they encounter a fire and send Pate to scout. (Friendly reminder that Pate uses the stat block of an imp, so he can turn invisible at will.) At the fire, there's a cart, a reindeer-looking beast of burden, and a humanoid figure warming their hands.

Utkarsh Ambudkar is an actor best known for his roles in Pitch Perfect and Avatar: the Last Airbender.

Bor'dor is a half-elf "built like a coat hanger." 6'4 but hunched over, delicate fingers, no scars or tattoos. Brown skin with shades of green and gold, unkempt hair, and large gold-amber eyes. A face that carries the resting expression of "what the fuck is going on?" No armor, a green cloak, leather shoes, and a crossbow.

He shoots a 5th-level lightning bolt at Mona, then casts cure wounds at second level. He's a divine soul sorcerer!

He was in the Cyrios Mountains on Wildemount (near Pride's Call) with his sheep — his family raises sheep and sheepdogs — and caring for his sick brother. Then he felt a humming, heard a voice and a droning, a pain in his forehead — then he got teleported here, along with his cart.

And apparently he just... spontaneously gained 9 levels in sorcerer over the course of the hours he's been here. Which, if he's a divine soul sorcerer, is super fucking concerning considering what we know about the gods giving large amounts of power to their followers from EXU: Calamity.

Mona's whip is a whip of warning, which gives her advantage on initiative rolls. Also, creatures within 30 feet of her cannot be surprised, and if they're sleeping naturally and combat starts, they wake up at the start of combat.

Orym spots another figure, walking through the forest, approaching the light and conversation.

EMILY!!

She's a shadar-kai elf with emo girl tattoos with runes instead of song lyrics, but she's dressed in the formal attire of a mage's apprentice. Indoor kid vibes, clothes not meant for adventuring, "coming out of a tense conversation with a book."

She's a Cobalt Soul apprentice!! She's here asking about their "experiences with the apogee solstice."

Her book talks to her. She was sent by the Cobalt Soul, but with a sentient book chaperone. It's a tome with black and brown leather and silver runes, with a scrunched face roughly pressed into the front. Denios was trapped in a book during a rivalry, the Cobalt Soul got their hands on it, and now he's a chaperone.

The Cobalt Soul didn't know where she was gonna end up, but they sent her through a teleport spell hoping for a metropolis — and ended up here. So this confirms that teleport works, but there's no guarantee where you're gonna end up.

Prism was stepping outside the library to prepare for her teleportation when she heard Ludinus, saw a flash, and ended up here.

The Soul knew that the apogee solstice would be a "cataclysmic event." They scrounged up everyone they could and dispatched them to try to figure out what's happening.

The sentient book is also her spellbook, so she's stuck with him.

It sounds like Prism is an order of scribes wizard? That would make sense for the Cobalt Soul.

Mona's "real" name is Deni$e. Her nails are incredibly sharp stilettos. Her demeanor reminds me a lot of Keg.

More rustling in the bushes! More people?

Nope! Initiative at the end of the break.

Prism has a raven familiar she calls "mother." She also invokes the spirit of her spellbook, confirming that she's an Order of Scribes wizard.

Denise has at least 3 levels in rogue, because her sneak attack is 2d6, and at least 2 levels in barbarian, because she has reckless attack.

Gods, I forgot how much I love Talisein's descriptions of Ashton's attacks and rage builds. They're all so good.

Oooooh, I've never seen steel wind strike used in a game before! It's a 5th level ranger/wizard spell from Xanithar's that deals 6d10 force damage on a hit to up to 5 creatures within range. Then, regardless of whether it hit or not, the caster can teleport to a space within 5 feet of any of the targets.

Also, yes, rules-as-written a familiar counts as an ally that can proc sneak attack. So if Veth, as an arcane trickster, had taken find familiar, or if Frumpkin was used in this way, she could've gotten sneak attack much more reliably. Personally, I find it strange that familiars can do this while spiritual weapons cannot, but yeah.

I love that Bor'dor, the newly-minted sorcerer who has no idea how to use his magic purposefully, is this party's only source of healing (besides Laudna's wither and bloom, which hardly counts). From that, it seems like this group is much more geared toward social encounters than physical ones,

YO. EMILY. that is a DOPE FUCKING MOVE

The plant swallows Orym, then the book goes in behind him and gets into contact, then Prism casts dimension door through the book on Orym to teleport them out.

THIS is why I absolutely love watching veteran players on Critical Role. People new to the system have their own unique charm to the way they play their characters, but people like Emily and Aabria who are highly experienced with and aware of D&D 5e know to make incredibly creative moves like that.

And at the same time, Utkarsh (and guests new to 5e) pushes the limits of the rules, because they're not familiar with those rules, to a point that they come up with wildly creative plays based on what knowledge they do have of the rules-as-written that end up being clutch moves.

Combat ends.

Prism's raven is named after both her own mother and the Matron of Ravens, because the latter is prominent in the Shadowfell.

Prism is "really new to spellcasting," despite being a 9th-level wizard who is therefore capable of casting things like contact other plane, create spelljamming helm, legend lore, and teleportation circle. tbh this is such a cool take on wizards -- someone who's never tested their spells in combat situations, but who's confident in their own ability with those spells in more innocuous circumstances, due to their expansive study and lack of practical experience.

Also, Prism knows exactly who Ludinus Da'leth is, though she's never interacted with him directly, because of his leadership of the Cerberus Assembly.

"We don't leave people behind. That's the rule. You do not leave people the fuck behind." I love that this has become the center of Ashton's philosophy, because it makes so much sense. They were left behind, left for dead, and a single person stayed by their side, helped them, saved them. So of course they are going to be that person for someone else. Of course they would rather be the Milo, of course they'd rather try in vain to save someone instead of leaving them behind and subjecting them to the same pain and isolation that they themself felt.

Also, again, Emily is using the same logic for Prism as Aabria did for Laerryn. Maybe it's just because we've never really had a proper elf PC (or a player-character who had the trance ability), but this is just such a cool take on trance...... I love it.

Ahhh, so Prism doesn't necessarily believe the gods should die but she does believe that they might deserve to be usurped by mortals ascending to godhood like the Raven Queen. With a skill check, Prism's truthful reason is that she's feeling excited to be out of the library. She thought she was going to freak out, but she didn't, and she's excited by that -- she feels like she could smoke a cigarette in a single drag, she feels that rush of adrenalin. It's like when Caleb said in C2 that they were all addicts to the thrill of battle, the adrenalin of purpose.

Bor'dor doesn't remember his mother very well, and he hasn't seen her in a very long time. He believes that his magic comes from the love of his mother, and he's clinging to that. He and Prism take the first watch, and bond over their ability to trance.

Yep, Prism is 100% an order of scribes wizard. Manifest Mind is a 6th level ability of that subclass.

Ashton panicked, down in the mines. They thought they'd won, they thought Laudna had won, and they think they made some bad calls. Laudna says that "we're a bunch of dumb-fucks, going up against a 500-year-old wizard, so..." And Ashton reassures her that they're gonna get their people. They're gonna get Prism, Bor'dor, and Deni$e to where they need to go, then they're gonna find Imogen. "If they went to space, then we'll go to space... if she got vaporized, we'll bring her back. This is what we do. We bring everybody back. There is no failure in this, and we're going to figure it out because it's what matters. I have-- whatever broken thing that's in my head, that means that anything's possible now, that's what I've decided. We brought you back, and we can do it again... sure, we're not enough to save the world, but we are more than enough to bring everybody back... we can't save the world, but we can save our people. We're going to."

I never really got to know Percy, I liked Molly, I loved Caduceus... but I want to fucking study Ashton like a bug under a microscope, I want to turn them around in my brain like a microwave. They are fascinating,

Deni$e and Orym take the last watch. Deni$e knows Shaun Gilmore! She went to Emon looking for him specifically. She also knows Dariax, "that piece of shit." She knows Orym from wanted posters all over Emon -- the Nameless Ones have put up wanted posters for all of the Crown Keepers.

Dariax has a dumptruck ass, canon.

DARIAX IS THE EX DENI$E WAS LOOKING FOR

And the Nameless Ones were going after her because they were looking for what Dariax stole, and as soon as she saw him months later, she got teleported here.

Orym has flashes of Keyleth, Will, the horrors they've witnessed. It permeates this light conversation, his entire existence. He drinks, heavier than we've seen him drink the entire campaign. "I just... I just don't think I've ever felt so small."

Prism doesn't know sending, but if she can find a scroll or a copy of a spell, she can transcribe it into her spellbook very quickly. She wants to find a library or some discarded spellbooks so she can help, so she can cast sending.

As an interesting note, this is also an Order of Scribes ability! Usually, it takes 2 hours per spell level for a wizard to transcribe a spell, but for an Order of Scribes wizard it takes two minutes per spell level.

"That mountain to the north is the Ascendant Bridge, the tallest mountain in Exandria... it's visible as far away as Vasselheim. It's believed to be where the gods first arrived in the world." The party is within a gorge of Othanzia, the region in which Vasselheim, the dawn of all civilization, sits.

The party can still see Ruidus, even in the early daylight. They can see townships around -- they have options scattered in every direction.

[theprayerfulword]

August 10

Psalm 46:1 God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.

Joshua 1:8 You shall meditate on [the book of the law] day and night, so that you may be careful to act in accordance with all that is written in it. For then you shall make your way prosperous, and then you shall be successful.

Isaiah 54:10 For the mountains may move and the hills disappear, but even then My faithful love for you will remain. My covenant of blessing will never be broken,” says the LORD, who has mercy on you.

1 Peter 2:9 you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light.

Romans 12:1 I appeal to you therefore, brethren, {and} beg of you in view of [all] the mercies of God, to make a decisive dedication of your bodies [presenting all your members and faculties] as a living sacrifice, holy (devoted, consecrated) and well pleasing to God, which is your reasonable (rational, intelligent) service {and} spiritual worship.

1 Thessalonians 5:19 Do not quench the Spirit.

May you put away those ideas and principles, ways of thinking and planning, methods of working and perspectives of both the world and events around that you have accepted and joined yourself to, giving up the half-finished projects and separating yourself from those incomplete accomplishments that have come from those influences so that you may be renewed in your mind and aligned with the Spirit of God to walk before Him in purity of heart and mind, soul and spirit, intent and deed. Ezra 10

May you sorrow before God for the sin of the people, praying and confessing in repentance, weeping prostrate in humility, gathering with others in fellowship of sincerity to seek God and find hope for His people, then rise with courage to do His work with the support of others in agreement with you and the direction of the Spirit of God. Ezra 10

May you seek counsel of others in whom the Spirit of God is cherished and the Word of God is obeyed, taking time to talk and to listen, humbling your heart to receive from God and trusting the Lord to reveal His will, that the methods and actions, being carefully agreed to, will prove to be lasting and bring enduring results. Ezra 10

May you recognize the power and ability of God, giving Him praise for His excellency of Spirit, as you come to understand the extent of the work He has promised to do within us to prepare us and make us ready, when the Word of God says the saints will judge the world, and angels, for who among us is currently fit for that destiny? And yet we know that God makes no casual promises. 1 Corinthians 6

May you be willing to be wronged by a brother, and cheated, rather than allow division and dispute to completely defeat you, though it is caused by the flesh and aggravated by the enemy, lest it steals the unity of the Spirit and disrupts the functioning of Christ's body. 1 Corinthians 6

May you be washed, sanctified, and justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God so that you will no longer be separated from the kingdom of God, but made rightful inheritors, through Christ Jesus. 1 Corinthians 6

Cling to Me, My child, as to a lifeline. Let go of all weights and attachments, allowing every one of them to drop off as you latch on to Me with all your might. Let nothing drag you down or tear you away; My strength is sufficient to carry you, My love, but how much extra can you hold on to while trying to hold on to Me? What more do you need, as long as you have Me? Release the burdens, the worries, the cares into the darkness of the storm. Allow the wind to carry away the “just in case” provisions and “what if I need” options. I will never let go of you, My precious one, but, unless you trust utterly and completely in Me, you will try to hold onto the world's options while reaching for Me. You cannot be rescued by two sources. You must let go of one, when it is time, and cling to the other. Lighten your load when it is no longer of use to you, My love, lest concern for what you carry cause you to release your hold on Me. Nothing can separate you, My dear one, from My love, but you must choose Me over all others, following My directions which tell you when to move and where to step; other voices have other agendas. Consider the motives, My anxious one. Who lived as you live, and understands what you are facing, having dealt with it personally and walked through it successfully, and thus can guide you correctly? Who gave Himself for you, even to death, after living sinlessly, dying for you so that you may live for Him? Whose sacrifice was accepted, My child, by the Father above, the God of all creation, and Who did the Lord seat at the right side of His throne? Trust Me in full confidence of faith, showing others around you in the storms of doubt and uncertainty how I keep and protect My own. Release what does not come from Me, and depend on that which you receive from Me. Seek to abide in Me, sheltering deeper into the cleft of the Rock. Look for Me as you spend time in My Word, and learn My voice as you spend time in prayer in the Spirit. Do you have any better, or more richly rewarding way to spend your time preparing, once your responsibilities of the day are met? Seek Me, My lovely one, and I will be found by you.

May you not be mastered by anything, save Christ, for though all things are permissible, yet not all are beneficial, to you through the Spirit. 1 Corinthians 6

May you know that the physical body is meant for the Lord, and the Lord for the body, just as the power of God raised the Lord from the dead, and will raise us up also, for the one who unites with the Lord is one with Him in spirit. 1 Corinthians 6

May you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, Who is in you, Whom you have received from God; you are not your own, but were bought at a price – therefore honor God with your body. 1 Corinthians 6

When you are in distress and your eyes grow weak with sorrow, and your body and soul with grief, your life consumed by anguish and your years by groaning, and your affliction making your strength fail and your bones grow weak, may the Lord be merciful to you. Psalm 31

May you trust in the Lord and acknowledge that He is God, knowing that your times are in His hands, and that He will deliver you from your enemies and from those who pursue you. Psalm 31

May the Lord let His face shine on you as you serve Him, and save you from shame in His unfailing love, as you honor Him by turning to Him and crying to God in your need. Psalm 31

May you give to the Lord obedience and reverence, doing what is right and just, for that is more acceptable than sacrifice. Proverbs 21:3

[0littlestwolf0]

Straight to Hell Pt. 2

Ship: Percy Jackson x Reader

Warnings: just a bit of crying towards the end.

Requested by: @msmissinghome

Author note: I swear I wanted to put a fight scene at the end, but I just couldn’t shake this thought that if I managed to get out of Tartarus, on my own, and then be hugged by Percy I would cry all my fears out. I’m sorry it took me so long, I tried to find a better ending.

Also @tobios-shawty here’s part two! I hope you like it!

Silence was a funny companion.

It had a way to make you uneasy, to creep inside your skin and force you to destroy it, to scream it away or to laugh your way through it.

Percy thought he would never be a prey to silence, after all, it was always the apocalypse around him, someone was always fighting (him for the most part), chasing, or running.

But right now, deep in the shadows, he couldn’t catch a single noise, he could barely register his grip on the back of Nico’s jacket as he shadow-traveled them.

What was that place supposed to be anyways?

Or, better yet,

How in Hades did Nico manage to find a path through it?

He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter much to him at the moment, his senses, his brain, his entire body was only focused on finding you, on getting you back.

Maybe on another circumstances he would’ve thought about how that same dark landscape would probably make for some really nasty nightmares, and yet, he doubted he would even remember it.

He was just finally adjusting at the darkness when the light came back, dazzling him.

And then Nico was on the floor, barely able to pull himself to his knees and hands, breathing heavily.

Percy took a calculated look around him, his right hand gripping Riptide tightly, he didn’t recognize his surroundings, but as far as he could tell, there were no monsters in sight “What happened? Are we there yet?”

The king of ghosts only replied with a sneer and a roll of his eyes

“What is that supposed to mean?” Percy asked as a sudden, all-too-familiar rage filled him, he couldn’t waste any more time, because what if you made it and he wasn’t there? You would’ve walked through Hell only for him to not comply on his side, not opening the doors on his side.

“Asshole” Nico mumbled “The doors are in Greece” he said as if it explained everything, Percy looked around, and even though the surroundings were new, probably somewhere in Italy, it wasn’t Greece.

“We aren’t in Greece yet” Percy added, the rage filling his every word with venom.

“We were just in Manhattan! Traveling here took almost all of my strength!” Nico yelled, breathing between words, and only in that moment did Percy fully acknowledge him, the bloody nose, panting, even the shaking.

He felt as though he was being stabbed with guilt over and over again, the entirety of his situation made his eyes water, but he forced the tears away rapidly, he didn’t deserve to cry, he scolded himself, besides, that would do nothing to either save you nor help Nico.

“I’m sorry” he apologized wholeheartedly “I’m just-“

“I know, just shut up and let me regain my strength so we can get to her” he cut right through his words

Percy bit his tongue until he felt a metallic taste and nodded, his eyes skipping trough the town they were in until something clicked, a building with very specific windows

“I know this place-“ he whispered to himself, trailing off at the end, there was no way he’d been there, and he didn’t have social media or watch enough TV to recognize it from anywhere.

Nico rolled his eyes again “I said-“ he trailed off looking at the same building “oh”

“Oh?” Percy repeated “You know this place?”

Of course he did, Percy rationalized, he’d probably been there before, but then again, why did Percy felt like he knew it too? Maybe some type of deja vu?

“You don’t?” Was Nico’s answer “She has a photo of this place that she parades with her wherever she goes, you must’ve seen it”

Oh, now the son of the sea understood the sentiment.

“I did, but she never really told me about this place”

Nico scoffed “Well of course she didn’t! She hated being here”

Percy had figured that much, you never talked about your childhood more than strictly necessary, sometimes even going out of your way to drive any conversation away from that topic.

But,

“Why?” He didn’t realized he wondered out loud.

“Her mortal parent, for starters, abandoning her” Percy realized Nico still looked angry, but now the anger wasn’t directed at him “forcing her to raise herself from childhood until she was taken to camp”

Still, it worried him further, that anger he was escaping was directed at one person that should’ve been close to you, someone who you should’ve relied on that abandoned you, pretty much like he thought he was doing by not being there with you already.

Gods he needed you.

But, he’d get you back, and once he did, he’d never let go of you again.

The resolve compressed his heart a little, but he accepted the feeling, from now on, you’d have someone to rely on that would never let you down.

That, he was willing to swear on the Styx.

***********

Had it been entire days or mere hours you just couldn’t tell.

Nothing really changed in Tartarus from the second you fell in, nothing but the multitude of monsters hunting you down.

Trying to track down the first demigod they’d seen since being killed by, most likely, another demigod just like you.

But your resolution never once wavered, you were getting out, one way or another, you hid until you had slaughtered one of them, not quite killing, just creating a gush big enough to sprinkle some ichor in your clothes, enough to change your scent but not so much as to tear through the entirety of the fabric.

Eventually, with a new limp, and a few ugly wounds that would soon enough turn into ugly scars, you got to the door.

A heavy sigh left you, and suddenly you became an anxious mess altogether What if Percy hadn’t made it? What if they finally realized that you didn’t belong with them? That after all you were still just walking anxiety coated on fear and deep rooted issues?

Maybe they’d finally realized that they’d be better off without-

No

You couldn’t allow yourself to keep thinking like that, you couldn’t give up on yourself because knowing them, they wouldn’t give up on you.

It was Percy Jackson for crying out loud! He wouldn’t give up on anyone! Less of all you.

So, with a burning throat after swallowing your fears and an ever growing tremble on your body did you step on the elevator.

And you waited.

And waited.

The fear was eating you whole when you felt it beginning to move.

You forced yourself to stand up, leaning against a corner for support and taking a hold of your weapon.

Then the doors open and you lunged forward, wanting nothing more than to get as further away from the entrance as you could.

“Whoa!” Exclaimed a voice you knew too well as your blue-green-eyed boy held your face

His eyes were finally letting go of all the tears he managed to contain, denying himself to even blink in case you’d disappear, he knew it was a stupid fear to have, but still, he wouldn’t dare to take the chance.

Suddenly you were pressed against his trembling body, it was a good match, you realized, with the both of you shaking there was a strange sense of stability.

“You’re okay, you’re here” he kept mumbling against your hair, over and over like a mantra or a prayer you couldn’t tell, it took you a moment to realize he was talking to himself.

“I’m out” was all you could say, a broken voice finding a way out of your closed off throat, it was funny how before that moment you’d wholeheartedly believed that your first thought after getting out would’ve been Percy.

It wasn’t.

Your first thought was how incredibly stupid you had been for jumping in the first place, I mean, of course you’d do it again but the matter at hand was that it was a very stupid move from your part.

Going to Tartarus? Where a thousand bloodthirsty monsters (who by the way had been killed by your kin) were? Poisoned air and burning rivers? The odds had been against you from the moment you landed!

By all means you shouldn’t have survived.

But you did, and finally all the tears you had suppressed came to life, Percy held you with unwavering arms as his own legs gave up and the both of you landed on your knees.

He held you as you screamed and yelled between tears, as you sobbed so much he thought you’d have an attack, because you were out of the woods now, all the fear and anger you suppressed could finally come out.

You hit him a few times but that was okay, he only held you tighter as his own sobbing became loud, breaking out all the way from his chest.

At some point in all the crying you felt an extra pair of arms around you, your first instinct made you stiffen until you saw black eyes full of worry, then you began crying again, and so did he.

Because now you were safe.

[fleckcmscott]

Stepping Stones - Chapter 2

Chapter links: 1

Summary: Y/N and Arthur share a delightful life, one that isn’t perfect but wholly theirs. When his struggles take a serious turn, she's surprised by the toll it exacts. Though the steps they'll have to take aren't easy, walking them together makes all the difference.

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Struggles with mental illness

Words: 3,739

A/N: Once again, a heartfelt thanks to @sweet-nothings04​ for offering to beta-read this story and her encouragement. Her contributions have been invaluable! Also, thank you guys for your support! I hope you continue to enjoy this story. And don’t worry: there may be angst - but there’s love, too. 

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! I’m still working on requests and Way Back Home!

Y/N wasn't used to being searched. It'd last happened at the District Courthouse when she'd gotten in the wrong line and nearly wound up in the jury room for a murder trial. At least the stout woman in Arkham's visitor entrance lobby was more pleasant than the bailiffs.

Unassuming in a white polo shirt and black pants, her nametag introduced her as Gladys, and the split "I Can Help!" sticker along the top cemented her as a fixture. She was friendly for a Gothamite, commenting on the sunny weather while unceremoniously dumping the contents of Y/N's handbag onto a plastic table pad. Asking about the ride over as she politely ignored tampons and confiscated a nail file. She spelled Y/N's name back to her before jotting it on the sign-in sheet and offered a genuine smile. "You have a nice time with your husband, dear. Just check out with me before you leave."

Visitor's badge pinned above her left breast, Y/N adjusted the collar of her red silk blouse, ensured the heart pendent around her neck was centered, and pushed through the door marked "Visitation."

Her kitten heels click-clacked across the checkerboard linoleum floor. The cafeteria was large, like an elementary school gymnasium without the scoreboards. Lack of funding had turned the once pristine walls to the off-white of a bathtub that had seen too few scrubbings. Large windows dotted them in sets of two, each covered with grate from the inside. Metal fans were riveted to their frames, a poor attempt to compensate for the lack of fresh air. To her left, six rows of steel tables stretched halfway across the room, about a third full of staff and patients, family members and friends. A metal buffet stood to her right, along with a sign stating a menu of beef cutlets and gravy would be served at 5:30 PM. A pony wall separated a family area on the far end. She spotted a patient with his wife and daughter watching cartoons together, ones that were old enough for Y/N to have grown up on.

It struck her how average the place felt, similar to the hospital back home she'd spent far too many hours in. It made sense: the people here were patients like any other, even if they were under lock and key. When she headed to the aluminum coffee urn on a rickety steel cart, there was a woman, around thirty, making conversation with a new wave chick, holding a ragged teddy bear and pulling her hair. Their eyes met and Y/N attempted a friendly smile. Once she'd purchased two cups, she sat by a window and crossed her legs, foot swinging back and forth as she sipped the stale liquid.

She tried to quell her nervous anticipation. Due to his time of admittance, Arthur's forty-eight-hour observation period had stretched late into Thursday night, well after visiting hours. Tasks big and small had punctuated the wait. One of Arthur's clients called to confirm a birthday party, and Y/N, hazy from lack of sleep, explained there'd been a family emergency.

Then it dawned on her that she'd have to find Arthur's gig list, which meant rummaging through his desk, a private space she'd respected since presenting him with it for their anniversary. Thank god he no longer locked the drawers, because she had no idea where he kept the key. (There were only so many hiding places in their three-room apartment, but she had no desire to search every nook and cranny.) The yellow legal pad resided in the top left drawer, under a prop catalog and kraft paper notebook. After ringing Gary and asking him to fill in ("I'm not sure I can do all these, but I can mention them at HaHa's." "That'd be great but don't get yourself in trouble. And, please, leave out Randall."), she telephoned eight households and three businesses with his contact information and apologies.

She worked extra hours in the evening to make up for the time she'd inevitably take off when Arthur was home, an arrangement that wasn't strictly legal, but she didn't see the harm in. Her colleagues graciously ignored the number of personal calls she made, to ask how Arthur was doing and learn about policies. While he wasn't yet rational, staff said, he was cooperative. Well, mostly cooperative. He'd eaten breakfast and referred to everyone as sir or ma'am, but he'd also caused a ruckus when he'd come to and found his wedding ring missing. They'd made an exception to the no jewelry rule and given it back. Personal clothing wasn't permitted, either, besides underwear, and toiletries were out of the question. It irked her - he deserved the dignity of his own hairbrush - but she didn't want to single him out by arguing for further favors. So she shuttled over a week's worth of briefs on her lunch break, chest tight as she gave it to the man with headphones at reception.

Despite the setting, despite the weight of not knowing what mood he'd be in, a thrill bubbled through her veins. Whenever a silhouette appeared behind the glue chip glass of the patient entrance, her pulse skipped. Y/N knew it was silly to expect a lot this first visit but she couldn't help it. She missed him. She missed him. Like it had been thirty days instead of three.

It took about six minutes for the door to crack an inch, and a full ten seconds for it to open completely. An orderly propped his weight against it, pointing in her general direction with his head. She stood and smoothed her palm down her A-line skirt, ensured the hem was at her knee. Maybe it was selfish, perhaps even foolish, but she hoped the surprise would be a highlight of Arthur's day, make him feel better, and she hoped seeing him would be one of hers. He was still her partner, after all. Still her Arthur. That would never change.

Clad in white scrubs and white shoes and about twenty feet away, Arthur stepped over the threshold and scanned the room. She gave him a modest wave when she caught his eye. His approach was more tentative than she would have liked, his steps shorter than usual, fists balled at his sides. As he drew closer, she noted the oiliness of his hair, the two-day black and grey stubble on his chin. His crow's feet had grown deeper, his eyelids slightly purple. Exhaustion dripped from every pore. The cut on his forehead had scabbed over into a thin line, quite modest considering its origin and how much he'd bled.

But he was as beautiful to her as always. The hint of a smile tipped her mouth. "Hi, Arthur."

"Hi," he said lowly. A reservation she barely recognized clouded his light green irises.

Part of her began to suspect popping in like this had been a mistake. Giving up wasn't in her nature, however, especially when it came to the love of her life. She forged ahead, closing the gap between them. Dr. Kellerman had advised her to let Arthur set the pace of their visits, to offer support while respecting his boundaries. Yet, touching him had become as vital to her as breathing, and it didn't occur to her to ask for permission before she reached to cup his face.

His skin felt papery under her fingertips, and red, flakey spots of dermatitis bloomed next to his nose and below his eye. He smelled of cheap bar soap and detergent, though whiffs of his woodsy masculine scent lurked underneath. But his clothes were clean and fit him well, better than half his own wardrobe. "I'm so happy to see you," she said, tracing his sharpened cheeks.

He nodded weakly, lips pursed into a grimace of disbelief. "Good."

"I got us some coffee. We can sit here or on one of the sofas."

"Here's fine."

She took his hand and led him to their table, itching for him to entwine their fingers, lamenting a little when he didn't. While he followed closely, his posture radiated tension like an oven radiated heat. Rather than the gait they'd adopted over the years, he moved as if he was afraid to touch her, as if he feared she'd disappear. Or reject him. Once he was situated and stirring sugar into his cup, she sat beside him and bumped their legs, refusing to let his fears go unchallenged. "How's your room?"

"It's okay. Just me. I'm not there much." He blew lightly on his steaming brew. "I haven't seen this part of the hospital before."

Y/N arched her brow. "No?"

"Penny had trouble getting over here to visit. When I had episodes."

Flabbergasted, a huff of disapproval escaped her. Arthur had been in out Arkham six or seven times, and Penny hadn't made it over once? According to Arthur, she'd been sick for a while, but what about twenty years ago? Even later, they hadn't had any money, which meant she would've had to care for herself while he was away. If she had had the wherewithal to go through the process of committing her son, couldn't she have at least called a cab? Y/N pushed her ire aside, not wanting it to affect Arthur. "Did you see your therapist today?"

"Mhm."

"Is he good? Does he listen to you?"

"He's fine."

She took a long drink. "Did you get the underwear I brought over?"

"Yeah." he sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. "They wrote my name on the waistband."

"I'll get new ones," she said, tapping her chin in contemplation, opting for a little cheer. "Donahue's has a racy number from Mad Mod. How'd you feel about zig-zag bikinis in maroon?" Instead of the laugh she'd craved, the incredulous smirk he saved for ridiculous suggestions, his knees quaked, bouncing and bouncing, freshly wound springs in bleached cotton.

None of this was going as she'd pictured.

Self-consciousness was atypical for her, a personality trait she'd shed in her late twenties after a failed marriage and the beginning of her parents' declines. Being with Arthur felt secure, open, even during his worst days. When he'd discovered his mother's Arkham file, learned the details of his abuse. Or the weeks after she'd passed and any chance of finding out more about himself, the truth about his father and chance to get a crumb of paternal affection, had died along with her.

Gathered at this table with her husband and bad coffee, old insecurities returned with the force of a subway careening at full speed. She sought to encourage him but didn't want to dismiss his feelings, harken back when he'd been burdened with "Happy." Her questions were obviously getting on his nerves - she was at a loss as to how he'd react to more of them. Their banter had vanished. The clues she had to follow were based on an old map, comprised of well-worn paths to joy she could walk with her eyes closed. Now those paths were overgrown with weeds.

But she wouldn't stop trying to trim them. Some shears were in reach: a woman's magazine lay abandoned on a nearby table, famous for its relationship quizzes and bedroom advice. She snagged it, scooted her chair closer to Arthur, and flipped through the glossy pages until the headline "Are You Meant To Be?" screamed in bright pink font. She cleared her throat and read aloud. "'You and your husband are shipwrecked on a desert island. You can take any household item with you. What item would you bring?'" She paused, then went with what first came to mind. "Toothbrush. I can't expect you to kiss me when I-"

"Why are you acting like this?"

Her gaze locked on him. "Like what?"

"Like I haven't fucked everything up."

Automatically, she reached for his thigh, not heeding the angry twitch of his jaw. "You haven-"

He batted her arm away, inadvertently knocking the magazine to the floor. "Don't lie to me," he rasped. "I don't like you seeing me like this. I don't want you to have to come visit and pretend." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, an anger she recognized as shame dripping from every word. "Can you please just go?"

Pain lanced through her, pain she hadn't felt since her father, deep in the throes of dementia, had accused her of stealing from him. Her lashes lowered to hide her hurt. Arthur acting like this was proof of how out of sorts he was, how much he was struggling with his illnesses. But it didn't make his behavior any easier to take, even if she firmly believed it should. She had to try to accept him as he was in the moment. To forgive him and herself for pressing him too far, too quickly. To listen to his request for time, the way he'd listened to hers after the Murray show, giving her the gift of patience and understanding. A gift he also deserved.

Pushing herself to stand, she glanced at the orderly and lay a gentle palm on Arthur's back. To her relief, he didn't retreat. "I'm here if you need me," she said softly. "If you feel up to it, give me a ring. We could both use a joke or two." Fingertips caressed his distended shoulder, and she pecked the crown of his head, breathed in the oily musk of his scalp. Not entirely pleasant but him all the same. "We'll see each other soon. Get some rest and remember I love you."

~~~~~

"This woman wandered in off the street the other day. Pointy-toed shoes, fur coat, pillbox hat like she thinks she's Jackie Kennedy..." Perched on Y/N's side of the bed, Patricia dunked her orange pekoe teabag, gave it a good squeeze, laid it on her saucer. "She wanted to sue the Wayne Estate for damages to her Bentley, because Thomas Wayne had broken a legally binding oral agreement - she must have read a legal thriller and gotten haughty - to fix the potholes in Old Gotham when he was mayor. I told her to complain to Public Works, but she decided to camp out at your old desk to clip her nails. Finally, Matt had enough and offered her a phone call to Gotham PD or ten bucks for her trouble." She shook her head with a chuckle. "What a jackass. Retirement can't come soon enough."

"Don't wish your life away," Y/N retorted, inadvertently quoting a pamphlet she'd gotten from the Arkham gift shop, "Care for the Caregiver." The title had made her balk: Arthur bathed himself, fed himself, knew who she was. But it had been a straw to hold onto, albeit feebly. She retrieved a curved, wooden hanger from the closet and stuck one end in the arm of her freshly ironed blouse. "Besides, you've been working since you were sixteen, right? I give it a year before you'd go stir-crazy."

"Actually, I've been thinking about taking a class or two at the learning center," said Patricia.

"Oh, really? What kind? Pottery, advanced baking, conversational Spanish?"

"How to find nicer friends."

Hand on her hip, Y/N smirked over her shoulder to find Patricia's teacup raised for a toast. "Let me know what you learn," Y/N said, hoisting the laundry basket onto the bed. "I could use a few pointers." She batted the older woman with a dress sock, then fished for its companion. She shook them out. Aligned the cuffs and toes, smoothed the nylon with the side of her hand, folded the fabric into thirds. The top drawer's left ball-bearing slide stuck when she tried to pull it open, and she made a mental note to ask Arthur to take a look at it.

Without warning, a profound sense of loss swept over her, flushing her cheeks, her forehead. He'd been gone almost a week, the longest they'd been apart aside from conferences and training. Her days had been blessedly busy but dragged on nonetheless, slow as the secondhand on her watch when the battery had to be replaced.

Arthur had gotten in the habit of leaving a note whenever he had an early gig or errand to run, just a few words stating where he was, that he'd be home later, that he loved her. Though she knew he was in Arkham, she couldn't stop her heart from expecting one when she made morning coffee. She ached to pull him inside before he lit a second cigarette, and for his teasing kisses when he'd resist. The way he brushed his teeth from side-to-side, eschewing her method of small circles and daily flossing. Last night, a hot flash had kept her awake, and she'd longed for the feel of his strong, slender hands rubbing refrigerated lotion into her calves, a trick he'd learned to quiet his mother when she'd gone through what he politely referred to as The Change.

Y/N had never wanted to love someone so much she needed them, but Arthur had made it safe. And now here she was, anguishing over a stubborn piece of furniture. She gave the knob another good, hard heave until it popped off into her palm. With a groan, she slapped it on the top of the dresser, between his wallet and her jewelry box.

A gentle hold on her elbow halted her. "The clothes'll keep," Patricia said.

The compassion in her voice, subtle chords that would sound like judgement to others, loosened Y/N's stance. Granted permission for her to take a break from coping and give into grief. Slinking down onto the mattress, she picked up Arthur's blue house pants from the mound of panties and trousers and hugged them to her breast.

"Your anniversary is coming up," Patricia continued. "Will Arthur be home for it?"

"Yes. Three weeks is all the insurance will pay for, and Dr. Kellerman said we were lucky to get that." Most patients were discharged after two, even if they had nowhere else to go.

"How is he? Do you think he'll be ready then?"

"I'm not sure. He barely comes to the phone." She'd tried letters, too. Written on her office letterhead, declarations of her support and affection that were as stilted as the motions she regularly drafted. Something for him to read when they couldn't speak, when they couldn't touch. But he hadn't responded.

Although Y/N was the sole person he'd added to his list of allowed visitors, he hadn't signed the release. Sure, she'd learn the details of his care if a court remanded him, but she wasn't about to have him declared legally incompetent, not unless everything went to shit. But she had deduced his schedule by calling and asking if he could come to the phone. He's in group, Mrs. Fleck, the charge nurse had let slip. Or, You can try in an hour. He should be out of one-on-one by then.

Therapy three times a day. Safety and daily living skills. Goal setting before bed. No wonder he hadn't had the energy to say good night.

"I know what you're going through," Patricia said. She stretched to put her empty teacup on the nightstand. "When Robert got back from Korea, he kept his distance. Buried himself in starting his business, was gone most nights on extra late repair jobs, worked, worked, worked. It was nearly a year before he really came home. But he made it and Arthur will, too."

The intimacy behind the disclosure was a welcome invitation, a hook that tugged at Y/N's core and confirmed honesty would be all right. She drew a shaky breath, fiddled with a loose thread on the hem of Arthur's pajamas. "I thought I'd seen everything. Losing my mother, going out of my mind with my father. Those were finalities I couldn't prevent." Rapid blinking fought the wetness of her eyes. She swiped at them with the heel of her hand. "If you had seen him, Patricia... I just hope Arthur understands. I don't want him to think I wanted him to leave."

"Listen to me." Patricia adopted her mentor tone and hugged her tight around the middle. "There's no way he'd believe that. Remember when we doubled at Kao Wah? When we were in the restroom, and he ordered your favorite dish without having to ask what it was? He adores you." She swept her hand through the air as if she could sweep away Y/N's woes. "You promised to take care of him through everything. You did what you had to to keep him safe. You couldn't have done anything else, Y/N. Don't doubt yourself."

After some moments Y/N nodded. "You know, my parents had a swimming hole on our property. When I was young, I used to skip stones across it and make wishes. For my doll's arm to mend, for my parents to say safe, for my sister's surgeries to go well." She chuckled and dabbed at her cheeks with Arthur's house pants. "I guess it was like praying, which I never had use for." The slightest smile edging her lips, she turned to Patricia. "Let's go to Gotham Park and throw some rocks."

~~~~~

The next morning, eleven percent of her worries cast away by a currently sore right arm, Y/N walked past Sherwood Florist, a closet of a shop around the corner from her office. Storefront freshly washed, robust floral arrangements on display in large, spotless windows, and an owner in horn-rimmed glasses checking the temperature of the nearest cooler, she decided to stop in. Yes, the florist told her, an expression of dubious curiosity on his face. They delivered to Arkham. Just include the patient's full name and ward in the address, and it'd be sent this afternoon.

She chose a squat, plastic vase filled with daisies and a yellow enclosure card with a bumblebee in the lower left corner. A bit cutsie for her taste, but it was the only neutral choice among birthdays and congratulations. She pondered what to write, pushing back the urge to ask him to reach out. A minute later, she put her pen to the cardstock. "I miss you like thread misses a needle. (Good thing you're the comedian - that was terrible.) You're not alone in this. You have my whole heart. - Y/N."

~~~~~

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[bad-bitch-beauchamp]

Songs About Me: Chapter Five

Thanks for your continued support for these sweet artsy bairns! Here’s the next installment! I read all of your kind comments and they mean the absolute world to me.

READ ON AO3

Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, Boston

Claire was just walking up to the picturesque green of Louisburg Square, where her townhouse sat facing the gardens, when her phone began an incessant buzzing. She had her hands full after stopping at the market for dinner staples (otherwise known as a box of Velveeta Shells & Cheese). She was fumbling with her purse and muttering a not-so-quiet “Shit,” when she dropped her keys on the porch. When she stooped lower to get the keys, more toiletries from the market spilled onto the ground and rolled down the steps while her phone continued to buzz. “Oh fuck it all to hell… Oh hello, Mr. Grant!” Claire’s next door neighbor was a kind man, but always appeared perplexed -- whether by her uncontrollable hair, clothes splattered with dirt from the shop, or simply by wondering how she came to be the owner of one of the most coveted real estate properties in New England, Claire would never know.

“Hello dear. Are you alright over there?” His brow was knit as Claire shoved her scattered belongings back into their various bags all while muttering under her breath as to not offend the old man’s sensibilities. She stood, and realized he had most definitely already heard her vocabulary choices.

“Oh, I’m fine, just one of those days!” One of those days where you fall head over heels for the strange guy you met last night and then all your shit falls on the sidewalk because your brain is short-circuiting.

“Well as always, if you need anything, I’m just here and happy to help.”

“Thank you! One day I’ll absolutely take you up on it -- I’m usually less of a mess!” She tried to joke it off, but it sounded a little too much like she was trying to justify herself to neighbor, and herself.

Mr. Grant smiled. “Of course, dear. Ah, you seem to be very popular today!”

Claire’s phone went off for at least the fifth time. She tried to reign in her annoyance, said her goodbyes to the man, and using her foot to kick a back of groceries inside the doorway finally made it inside. She dug around her bag for the phone ready to lash out at whatever telemarketer couldn’t take a hint, but stopped.

Two missed phone calls, four missed texts. The caller left a voicemail for each call. She pressed play on the earlier one.

“Hi Sassenach, uh, Claire, I guess I should call ye Claire since that’s yer name, huh? Shit. Hold on… Okay, let me start over. Hello Claire, this is Jamie. James. James Fraser? From the bookshop and the karaoke, ye ken? Of course she kens, ye damn eedjit… Me! Not you! Oh god this is literally the worst call I’ve ever made in my life. Fuck it, I’m just going to try again.” The voicemail abruptly ended. Claire was in stitches at his earnest attempt to just talk to her. At least he wasn’t lying when she heard him say she wouldn’t have to wait long at all for message from him. She pressed play on the second voicemail.

“Hello Claire, I hope this message finds ye well. It was verra nice to see ye today at my shop. It may be the cool, relaxed thing tae do would be to not call ye right away, but ye make me feel anything but cool and relaxed and under control. Ye make me feel… like there’s something different between us, mo nighean donn. As I told ye in the shop, I dinna think I can wait another week to see ye. If you would do me the honor of saying yes, I would verra much like to take ye out for dinner and drinks. Or anything ye wanted to do, really. Dinner and drinks was just my idea… okay I think I’m getting flustered again so I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. Okay thanks, talk to you soon hopefully, bye. Oh, and this is Jamie Fraser.”

Her laughter had died out the moment he said how she made him feel. Is that really how he felt about her? Did he mean it? Claire had a feeling that Jamie Fraser from the bookshop and the karaoke, ye ken didn’t ever say things he didn’t mean. She fell into the couch facing the big bay window, and breathed. Her breath came in heavy, her heartbeats fast. Her thoughts were swirling and her mind racing and everything felt light around here. A little breathlessly, she opened her text app to a number she didn’t recognize.

[+16178256192]: Hello Claire, this is James Fraser from Fraser Literature and from karaoke last night at The 21st Amendment.

Claire actually laughed out loud now. As if she could forget who he was! He had turned her world upside down at the bar, she sang in his shop, she gave him her phone number less than an hour ago! She added his number to her contacts before reading his following texts.

[Jamie]: Okay that was weirdly formal, sorry

[Jamie]: Could ye do me a favor and just delete the first voicemail?

[Jamie]: I was hoping we could maybe set up a time for the date I mentioned earlier at the shop? I would really like to see ye again before next week.

[Jamie]: And maybe before we have to hang out with the Spanish Inquisition. ;)

Claire laughed through her nose at that last one; apparently, Jamie had been grilled about their relationship? Interaction? by Rupert and Angus like Claire had been by Joe and Geillis. She reread all the messages he’d sent her before responding.

[Claire]: Hello James Fraser, owner of Fraser Literature and karaoke. I do indeed remember and even if I didn’t, you’ve reminded me several times in your many incessant texts/voicemails. ;)

Three dots immediately popped up, disappeared, popped up, and a next text appeared.

[Jamie]: I told ye to delete the first voicemail! You weren’t supposed to hear my rambling!

[Claire]: Uh huh, seems likely. ;) Maybe I have a super power that renders you useless around me?

[Jamie]: Well lass you're not far off.

[Jamie]: How’s about that date? What are you doing tonight?

[Claire]: Lol, you’re not tired of seeing my face yet?

[Jamie]: Not yet, not ever.

[Jamie]: Sooooooooo, dinner? ;)

Eventually, they decided on a little Italian place close to Claire’s place. Claire paced around the upstairs bedroom, trying out an outfit only to rip it off and throw it in a pile on the floor. She’d walk to the bathroom, evaluate her look, give a deep breath out her nose, and was now at the point of yelling about how she had no clothes. But, she remembered. In a garment bag at the back of her closet hung a blood-orange dress. A square neckline gave way to a triangle dip in the middle, the hem came just to the middle of her thigh with a cinched waistline.. She smiled, sadly. The last time she wore the dress, she was still in med school. Frank had asked her out to “a dinner with a few medical friends” and promised she could make a few connections to help her down the road. Claire ended up discarded at the door until Frank needed to show her off to a classmate or professor or colleague. She learned he hadn’t told anyone she was also studying medicine, telling her he “wanted to let you stand on your own, darling.” The last time she had worn that dress, she realized she wouldn’t resign herself to a life of being second-best to her partner, to a group of strangers, or to anyone. Tonight was the perfect time to remind herself she was taking things into her own hands yet again -- with Jamie at her side. Her smile turned genuine, and she pulled it off the hanger.

-- -- --

Jamie knew this was unusual. Claire wasn’t the first girl he’d ever been interested in, but if he had any choice in the matter, she would be the last one. Rationally, he should’ve been talking himself out of planning a future with the girl from the bar, but he couldn’t help himself. When he was in high school in Scotland, he kissed a girl who smelled like hairspray and spun sugar and he didn’t like that at all. He kissed a few lasses before rugby games and they’d tell him it was all for good luck. He enjoyed them (didn’t every red-blooded teenage boy enjoy kisses before sports games?), but enjoyment was the extent of it. In college, he had met Annalise. She was smart and kind and lovely, and so bonny. She’d loved his family, loved him. And he had loved her, too. Their relationship started after their first year at school when they became close friends and confidants. She was truly one of the best friends he’d ever had, outside of the lads. When he said he was leaving Scotland to pursue his dreams in the states, she said she was being “abandoned”. Jamie considered asking her to come with him to build a life, but reconsidered. After many long conversations, many tears, many honest words… they had decided their relationship was based in comfort. They loved each other, there was no doubt about that. They loved each other because of their close friendship, their proximity to each other at school, their families’ friendship that developed because of their own. When Jamie confronted Annalise about his realization that he would forever be grateful for her, but didn’t see a romantic future together, she had cried and told him she was so happy -- she felt the same. They split amicably and continued to call and text when they could. Friendships like theirs didn’t just dissipate.

With Claire, things felt… different. Emotional, raw, honest, profound. It felt like something he couldn’t quite place. Something he didn’t have words for. The mere thought of her made his pulse quicken, made his breath catch in his chest. Their connection last night at the bar, their physical connection at the bookshop (god, how it felt to be touched by her…) , their easy banter over text, and then when she gave him her address… he had to sit down. He knew her address exactly. He’d passed it every time he went home, or went to work, or went anywhere at all. She lived in Louisburg Square, across the garden and just to the right of a place he knew intimately. She lived across the garden and just to the right, of his place. They were neighbors. He never knew. He thought back to telling her how they must have just been missing each other for years, but god, he never knew how close they really were.

Jamie finished tying up his leather boots and took a look in the mirror. Hair brushed back, curls falling at his neck, a light blue button-up, a leather jacket. Not too bad. Still not good enough for her, though. He tugged at the neck of his shirt, and left his townhouse. He made his way up his side of the square, and stopped not ten feet up the sidewalk. He saw her. From the second floor, Claire was illuminated by soft light in the window, gauzy curtains framing her. He could only watch in awe as her head tilted to the side to fit an earring to her ear. She reached for a brush and started to comb out a curl. Jamie sighed contentedly when he noticed her hair was still down, curled around her face, wild as ever. Claire gave up with the brush and settled herself to smoothing down creases in her wee dress with delicate hands. Hands that had touched him, healed him, had literally written her name over his heart. She was... ethereal. Tearing his eyes away from the window, he managed to send her a message:

[Jamie]: On my way there Sassenach

[Claire]: No worries, take your time. See you soon!

Jamie rounded the center garden and up to her steps. The light from the window was still glowing, but he could no longer see her. One more text:

[Jamie]: Just outside

He walked up the steps, raised his knuckles to the brass knocker, and paused. First step to forever… His phone buzzed.

[Claire]: I thought I said to take your time? ;) seriously, how’d you get here so fast? Just a sec and I’ll be down!

He did knock then, answered her text to say there was no rush, he wasn’t going anywhere. Behind the door he heard a literal run down the stairs and he stifled a chuckle. There was a jingle of keys, a fairly loud, “Shit!” as the keys hit the floor, a scuttle of shoes around the entry, and the door opened.

Here we go, lad.

[wisdomrays]

TAFAKKUR: Part 433

THE MAIN FACTORS IN THE SPREAD OF ISLAM: Part 2

A. J. Arberry has also pointed out that the reason for the spread of Islam is Islam itself and its religious values. (Aspects of Islamic Civilization, p.12)

He writes:

‘The rapidity of the spread of Islam, noticeably through extensive provinces which had long been Christian, is a crucial fact of history. The sublime rhetoric of the Qur’an, that inimitable symphony, the very sounds of which move men to tears and ecstasy…and the urgency of the simple message carried, holds the key to the mystery of one of the greatest catalysms in the history of religion. When all military, political and economic factors have been exhausted, the religious impulse must still be recognized as the most vital and enduring.’

Brockelman, who is usually very unsympathetic and partial, also recognizes the religious values of Islam as the main factor for the spread of Islam (History of the Islamic Peoples, p.37). Rosenthal makes his point as follows: ‘The more important factor for the spread of Islam is the religious Law of Islam (Shari‘a, which is an inclusive, all-embracing, all-comprehensive way of thinking and living) which was designed to cover all manifestations of life.’ (Political Thought in Medieval Islam, p.21).

Besides many other reasons which are responsible for the spread of Islam, it is the exemplary life-style and unceasing efforts of individual Muslims to transmit the message of Islam throughout the world which lie at the root of the conquest of hearts by Islam. Islamic universalism is closely associated with the principle of ‘amr bi’l-ma’ruf (enjoining the good) for Islam is to be spread by Muslims by means of ‘amr bi’l-ma’ruf. This principle seeks to convey the message of Islam to all human beings in the world and to establish a model Islamic community on a worldwide basis. The Islamic community is introduced by the Qur’an as a model community: We have made of you an Ummah justly balanced, that you might be witnesses (models) for the peoples, and the Messenger has been a witness for you (2.143). A Muslim or the Muslim community as a whole thus has a goal to achieve. This is the spread of Islam, conveying the truth to the remotest corner of the world, the eradication of oppression and tyranny and the establishment of justice all over the world. This requires the Muslim to live an exemplary life, and thus the moral and the ethical values of Islam have usually played an important part in the spread of Islam. Here follow the impressions of the influence of Islamic ethics on black Africans of a Western writer of the nineteenth century:

‘As to the effects of Islam when first embraced by a Negro tribe, can there, when viewed as a whole, be any reasonable doubt? Polytheism disappears almost instantaneously; sorcery, with its attendant evils, gradually dies away; human sacrifice becomes a thing of the past. The general moral elevation is most marked; the natives begin for the first time in their history to dress, and that neatly. Squalid filth is replaced by some approach to personal cleanliness; hospitality becomes a religious duty; drunkenness, instead of the rule becomes a comparatively rare exception chastity is looked upon as one of the highest, and becomes, in fact, one of the commoner virtues. It is idleness that henceforward degrades, and industry that elevates, instead of the reverse. Offences are henceforward measured by a written code instead of the arbitrary caprice of a chieftain–a step, as everyone will admit, of vast importance in the progress of a tribe. The Mosque gives an idea of architecture at all events higher than any the Negro has yet had. A thirst for literature is created and that for works of science and philosophy as well as for the commentaries on the Qur’an.’ (Quoted from Waitz by B. Smith, Muhammad and Muhammadanism, pp.42-43)

The tolerance of Islam is another factor in the spread of Islam. Toynbee praises this tolerance towards the People of the Book after comparing it with the attitude of the Christians towards Muslims and Jews in their lands. (A Historian’s Approach to Religion, p.246). T. Link attributes the spread of Islam to the credibility of its principles together with its tolerance, persuasion and other kinds of attractions (A History of Religion). Makarios, Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch in the seventeenth century, compared the harsh treatment received by the Russians of the Orthodox Church at the hands of the Roman Catholic Poles with the tolerant attitude towards Orthodox Christians shown by the Ottoman Government and prayed for the Sultans (T. Link, A History of Religion).

This is not the only example of preference by the followers of the religions for Muslim rule over that of their own co-religionist. The Orthodox Christians of Byzantium openly expressed their preference for the Ottoman turban in Istanbul to the hats of the Catholic cardinals. Elisee Reclus, the French traveller of the nineteenth century, wrote that the Muslim Turk allowed all the followers of different religions to perform their religious duties and rituals, and that the Christian subjects of the Ottoman Sultan were more free to live their own lives than the Christians who lived in the lands under the rule of any rival Christian sect (Nouvelle Geographie Universelle, vol. 9). Popescu Ciocanel pays tribute to the Muslim Turks by stating that it was luck for the Romanian people that they lived under the government of the Turks rather than the domination of the Russians and Austrians. Otherwise, he points out, ‘no trace of the Romanian nation would have remained,’ (La Crise de l’Orient).

The Muslims’ attitude towards the people they conquered is quite clear in the instructions given by the rightly-guided Caliphs: ‘Always keep fear of God in your mind; remember that you cannot afford to do anything without His grace. Do not forget that Islam is a mission of peace and love. Keep the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) before you as a model of bravery and piety. Do not destroy fruit-trees nor fertile fields in your paths. Be just, and spare the feelings of the vanquished. Respect all religious persons who live in hermitages or convents and spare their edifices. Do not kill civilians. Do not outrage the chastity of women and the honour of the conquered. Do not harm old people and children. Do not accept any gifts from the civil population of any place. Do not billet your soldiers or officers in the houses of civilians. Do not forget to perform your daily prayers. Fear God. Remember that death will inevitably come to every one of you some time or other, even if you are thousands of miles away from a battlefield; therefore be always ready to face death.’ (Andrew Miller, Church History; Ali lbn Abi Talib, Nahj al-Balagha)

A historical episode which Balazouri, a famous Muslim historian, relates, tells about how pleased the native peoples were with their Muslim conquerors is of great significance

When Heraclius massed his troops against the Muslims, and the Muslims heard that they were coming to meet them, they refunded the inhabitants of Hims the tribute they had taken from them, saying: ‘We are too busy to support and protect you. Take care of yourselves.’ But the people of Hims replied: ‘We like your rule and justice far better than the state of oppression and tyranny in which we were. The army of Heraclius we shall indeed, with your help, repulse from the city.’ The Jews rose and said: ‘We swear by the Torah, no governor of Heraclius shall enter the city of Hims unless we are first vanquished and exhausted.’ Saying this, they closed the gates of the city and guarded them. The inhabitants of other cities–Christians and Jews–that had capitulated did the same. When by God’s help the unbelievers were defeated and Muslims won, they opened the gates of their cities, went out with singers and players of music, and paid the tribute (Futuh al-Buldan).

To sum up, although most Western writers, under the instigation of biased Orientalists of the Church, have alleged that Islam spread by the force of the sword, the spread of Islam was because of its religious content and values, and ‘its power of appeal and ability to meet the spiritual and material needs of people adhering to cultures totally alien to their Muslim conquerors’, together with some other factors. Some of these factors are the tolerance which Islam showed to people of other religions, the absence of ecclesiastic orders and hierarchy in Islam, mental freedom and absolute justice which Islam envisages and has exercised throughout the centuries, the ethical values it propagates, and Islamic humanitarianism, universalism and brotherhood, and its inclusiveness. Sufi activities, the moral superiority of Muslim tradesmen, the principle of ‘enjoining the good’, and Islamic dynamism and the magnificence of the Islamic civilization contributed of their own to the spread of Islam.

The main religious qualities which attracted people to Islam were:

(i) the simplicity of the theological doctrines of Islam based on the Divine Unity;

(ii) rationalism of the Islamic teachings;

(iii) the complete harmony of the Islamic ideals and values with human conscience;

(iv) the inclusiveness and comprehensives of Islam, covering all aspects of physical, mental, and spiritual life of individuals and societies, hence the harmony of religion and life which it established;

(v) the lack of formalism and mediation;

(vi) the vividness, dynamism and resilience of the Islamic theology, and its creativity and universalism, and its compatibility with established scientific facts;

(vii) the cohesion and harmony of the Islamic principles, and

(viii) the shortcomings of other theological systems.

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

People are Alike All Over Part 3

For @whumptober2020

No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO Panic Attacks | Phobias | Paranoia

Summary: Nightmares, therapy, aftermath.

Read on Ao3

Bucky hears a noise.

He knows that noise.

The key pitched beeping of the keypad lock of his cage. 

Bucky smells something. 

He knows that smell.

The feed that they force him to eat, shoved into his mouth by the rough, uncaring hands of his handler.

Bucky feels something heavy around his neck.

He knows that feeling.

The collar they locked around his neck.

Bucky’s too afraid to open his eyes again. He knew it’d been too good to be true. There was no rescue. He’s still here. In this godforsaken alien zoo. Naked and on display for entertainment. He shivers. Trembles. Whimpers. 

Rumlow is here for him. The man who’s in charge of his training, who beats Bucky if he doesn’t obey, who forces him to do tricks for visitors. He’s going to make him eat that disgusting feed. He’ll mock him. 

The bucket lands next to Bucky. Tears slip out of his closed eyes. He wants to plead to a God he’s sure has turned His back on him to take him away from here. Even if that means death. But they won’t let him escape. Not even by taking his own life. 

“Did you really think we would let you escape?” Rumlow asks, lips right against Bucky’s ear. “You are ours. Our pathetic little asset. You will never leave here.” 

Bucky smothers down a sob. He can’t do this anymore; he just can’t. It’s too much. It’s just too much and he needs it to end. 

“Please,” Bucky cries. Stupid. So stupid; he knows that speaking is met with pain, but he can’t help it. “No more. Please, no more.”

“Time to wake up, human.”

“No.” Bucky squeezes his eyes tighter. All this misbehavior is bound to be punished, but he can’t stop himself. “Please. Please. Please.”

“Bucky--”

“No. No, no. No!”

“--come on, wake up.”

Hands land on Bucky’s shoulders and shake. They’re going to hurt him again, he knows it, but he just goes on crying and screaming and begging for them to leave him alone. 

“Oh, God, please, let me go! Please!”

“Bucky, baby, come on, open your eyes!” 

Someone’s using his name. Bucky doesn’t understand; they don’t use his name. They don’t even acknowledge the fact that he’s a sentient creature. A person with emotions and complex thought and an identity. They took that from him. All of it. Bit by bit. 

“Shit, c’mon, baby.” There’s a hand at his cheek. Soft. Tender. Cupping it in strength but safety. “Bucky, sweetheart, you have to wake up. Please. Open your eyes for me.” 

It takes hearing his name for a second time for Bucky to realize that he’s not actually saying anything. All he’s doing is screaming at the top of his lungs while someone cups the back of his head and shakes him. 

The screaming doesn’t stop, but Bucky does start to pry open his eyes. They’re wet and blurry with tears. What he can make out of the ceiling…it’s not the ceiling of his cage. Not that cold, hard stone. Overhead is plaster. Painted blue. Sky blue with big fluffy clouds. Bucky has a perfect view of it since his head is tilted all the way back. Not just any clouds. They form words. 

You’re Safe, Bucky.

“That’s it, that’s right, baby, look at the ceiling. Read the words. You’re safe, Bucky. You’re in a recovery room in a facility in upstate New York.”

New York. Yes, right. That’s right. Things begin to fall into place, the fog of terror lifting and leaving Bucky’s mind a little clearer. He’s in a soft, comfortable bed, his weight being supported by someone else since his body feels limp and weak. 

“Bucky, can you look at me? Can you say something?” 

His head is coaxed back up and his eyes land on the one holding him. Steve. Steve Rogers is holding him, and somewhere in the back of Bucky’s mind he knows that’s right. Unfortunately, his brain seems to be misfiring and he couldn’t respond. Too many thoughts all at once. 

The room spins around him in dizzying circles. Fire burned through his lungs and he kept gasping for air. He couldn’t breathe. His heart desperately tried to break through his rib and burst from his chest. His cheeks were stained wet with teartracks. Tears continued to drip from his chin. 

“Okay. Okay, Bucky, you’re having a panic attack,” Steve says, gently petting a hand over Bucky’s hair and then reaching to the side for something. An oxygen mask. “This will help you breathe; it’s gonna fit over your mouth and nose, and I’ll hold it in place for you. Okay? Blink once if you understand me.”

A panic attack. 

Has he ever had a panic attack before?  He can’t recall. It then dawns on Bucky that Steve’s asked him to do something. If Bucky doesn’t listen and obey in a timely manner, he’ll be punished. Or, wait, no, maybe it’s not Steve who punishes him. It’s Rumlow. 

Rumlow isn’t here. Steve is. And Steve is holding Bucky and trying to comfort him and offering him oxygen to help him breathe. Steve won’t hurt him. Bucky shuts his eyes tight to blink once and let Steve know that he understands him. 

“There you go,” Steve murmurs as he slips the oxygen mask of Bucky’s face. “Breathe in deep, honey.” 

Through his nose, Steve instructs and then counts as Bucky’s inhales, tells him to hold his breath for a few seconds before allowing him to release it. As he continues doing that, Steve lifts up his other hand.

“I’m gonna put this hand over your fingers,” he explains. “All I’m gonna do is rub your knuckles. Just concentrate on that feeling, okay? Can you do that?”

Remembering his orders, Bucky knows that proper way to respond to that is the blink for yes. Or, wait. No, not orders. Steve doesn’t give him orders. Steve requests things from him. Asks for permission before touching. Which is why that hand is still up. He’s waiting for Bucky to let him know it’s okay to place it down over Bucky’s. 

Somewhere in the corner of his mind, blocked by the fear that he’s going to do something wrong and be in trouble for it and wake up back in his cage, Bucky knows that it’s also appropriate to nod in answer. Since he can’t quite manage that right now, he blinks again, and Steve slowly lowers his hand. Bucky immediately recognizes the touch. That soft, tender way Steve’s thumb runs over his knuckles. Just as he said. 

“That’s it,” Steve says. “You’re doing so good, Bucky. Just keep breathing, nice and deep. Feel my hand in yours. That’s real. This is real. You’re safe. This will pass.”  

Little by little, bit by bit, Bucky’s breathing starts to slow. His heartbeat gradually evens. The trembling comes to a stop. A few shivers run up his spine and through his limbs. That, he thinks, is from the chill in the air. Steve must notice it too since he pulls the covers around him.

Now that Bucky’s starting to settle, Steve removes the oxygen mask from his face and sets it aside somewhere else. Things are also starting to clear in Bucky’s mind. He remembers everything. Even the things he wishes he’d forget forever.

Bucky remembers going to bed one night and waking up on a metal table. Realizing halfway through that nightmare that he’d been abducted. Not by people. Not by some horrible, evil human--which would be bad enough--but by aliens. Extraterrestrial beings that, up till that horrifying moment, had been nothing but a scary story. The monsters kids told stories about trying to scare each other and Hollywood made movies about and some people claimed to be real.

At that time, Bucky’d been so sure that no one had ever really been abducted. People who claimed to have been were experiencing something that could be explained away rationally. Bucky even laughed at the idea. 

Not so much at the idea of being alone in the world. He’d always imagined there might be other life forms out there. Just not to the extent that he now knows. And certainly not beings that went around collecting life from other planets. 

It'd actually taken Bucky quite some time to really believe that he’d been abducted by aliens. He desperately searched for a more rational reason to explain whatever the fuck had been happening. 

After a while, though…after hearing them talk about him like he had no reasoning skills or complex thought, after being “trained”, after the beatings and experiments and mistreatment, Bucky finally realized there was no other explanation. There was no hope. If his family and friends were looking for him, they’d never find him. 

Turns out, no one had even been looking for him yet. 

That’s because Bucky had been taken to a planet in the Black Eye Galaxy, approximately seventeen million lightyears away from home. Each day on their planet is only about an hour in Earth time. The five and a half months Bucky spent in the zoo was only about a week to everyone else, and as an engineering student, particularly a bookworm like Bucky, he was prone to disappearing for days at a time to study. 

In fact, the first person who even realized there might be something wrong was his classmate and friend, Shuri, who noticed his week-long absence from class. When her visits to his room and calls went unanswered, she tried getting in touch with their other friends. Of course, none of them had heard from or could get in touch with him either.

Before anyone could panic, S.H.I.E.L.D., an international covert government agency, intercepted a message from their intergalactic division about their most recent mission, including the discovery of one human being. 

The director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury, quickly devised a cover story. Not one that involved alien abductions. Apparently, the story they threw together in just a few hours, or maybe it’s the one they have on hand, is that Bucky had tuberculosis.  

Both a feasible and workable lie. Gave Bucky some time to start recuperating before even attempting an actual conversation with someone. 

He still isn’t great with that, even these six months later, but he’s getting better. 

“Bucky?”

Eyes flicking from the ceiling to Steve, Bucky tries to focus on him. On Steve Rogers, or, as he’s known to his team, Captain America. Recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. for his brain, Steve was selected by a brilliant scientist, Dr. Erskine, for an experimental procedure that made him what he is now. 

The serum has enhanced both his body and mind, and Steve joined the Intergalactic Task Force after Dr. Erskine was killed by a Life Model Decoy that infiltrated from unknown origins.

To be honest, Bucky doesn’t really give a shit about any of that. Whatever made Steve the way he is now and whoever the fuck S.H.I.E.L.D. is and whoever the Intergalactic Task Force does…they got Bucky out of that hellhole. 

They’ve also given him a therapist who deals with these kinds of trauma. She’s helping him with his PTSD. There are support groups, too. Other victims of varying types of abductions that come together to talk about their experiences. No one’s ever told a story like Bucky’s. Bucky hasn’t shared his with them either. 

Maybe one day. 

“Tired…” Bucky whispers, and the word, as soft as it is, produces a smile from Steve. Bucky likes it when Steve smiles. He’s very beautiful. He’s always been beautiful. 

“That’s okay,” Steve assures him, opening his arms and allowing Bucky to fall into them. “That took a lot out of you. But you did it. You’re okay.”

Bucky nods at this comfort, finding some contentment and safety in Steve’s soft voice and strong presence. He doesn’t know what they are. If there’s even a word for it. Steve hasn’t gone back into the field since he brought Bucky home. Bucky feels safe with him and he’s promised not to leave as long as Bucky wants him to stay.

“Steve?” Bucky clings to Steve’s shirt. 

“Yes, Bucky?”

“Can they find me?”

They’ve been over this before. Over and over and over. But no matter how many times he’s assured by all different people -- Steve, his therapist, Sam or Carol or Tony when they return from missions -- Bucky’s still not convinced. 

After all, all he did was go to bed and then everything went to hell.

If they found him once, they can find him again.

Right?

“No, Bucky,” Steve says and then grazes the scar on the side of Bucky’s neck with the tip of his finger. “See? We took the tracker out of you. And the two poachers have been arrested and the zoo shut down. They’re being held by the Nova Corps.” 

The intergalactic police task force that S.H.I.E.L.D. works alongside. 

“You’re…you’re sure?”  

“Yes. You’re under our protection. No one would dare touch you again.”

Maybe. 

Maybe not.

Bucky can only hope.

***

“You’re sure you want to do this?” 

That’s got to be at least the hundredth time Steve’s asked. It’s sweet, in a way. How protective he is. But Bucky sighs as he suits up and puts his weapons together. He’s waited three years to get here. His first mission with the task force. 

There’s no turning back now. 

“Yes, Steve.” Bucky shoves a magazine into his gun. “I’ve passed every test.” Physical and psychological. “They’ve cleared me for active duty. I’m doing this.” 

“I know you’re cleared for duty,” Steve says. “I just wanna make sure--”

“I’m sure, babe.” Bucky grabs him by the shirt and tugs him in for a kiss. “You’re not gonna talk me out of it.” 

“I know, I know.” He sighs. “If you need this…I’m with you.” 

Bucky doesn’t know if this will give him the catharsis he’s looking for or if it will even heal him a little more. All he knows for certain is that there are other places out there. Places that have people -- human and alien alike -- in captivity and in horrendous conditions. Bucky refuses to leave them there to suffer. 

And with Steve and the rest of the team by his side, Bucky will do his part in making the universe safer. 

One mission at a time. 

[shrapnelsong]

@setternine​​ asked: [ shh ] and [ dirty talk ] from smutty interactions :33cc [ the good ole sunday special~ ]

     She hardly recognizes herself. Standing in front of the mirror in her stage outfit with Tobio’s strong hands on her hips, holding her flush against him. Alice never knew she could look so... erotic. The flush that starts on her chest and goes all the way up to the tips of her ears, the inviting part of her lips as she tries to take in air that doesn’t seem to reach her lungs, and the look in her eyes. The desperate, lustful need in her gaze. Is this what she always looks like when they make love..?

Well... While they do love each other dearly, this can hardly count as making love. What with the two of them being in her dressing room and all. But it certainly makes things so much more exciting... It might have been her fault. Tobio had been so nice to accompany her on his day off, and since he was there, she figured she could ask him which outfit he preferred. 

She didn’t mind changing in front of him, but perhaps underestimated what kind of reaction it could bring out of her boyfriend. He silently watched her holding piece after piece in front of herself in nothing but lingerie for a while, nodding at the ones he approved of. Only when she finished dressing herself did he get up from his seat and sauntered towards her.

Alice suddenly found herself trapped by his looming presence and the heat of his eyes alone. “Is it... to your liking..?” She asked quietly, nearly startling at the way his stare snapped up to her face, dropping again to linger on her lips. “Yeah...” He mumbled, brows furrowing. Her make-up was already done, so they couldn’t kiss. But she could see the cogs in his brain turning and turning until clicking in place as he seemed to come to the conclusion that he didn’t have to kiss her in order to make her squirm. 

A tiny gasp escaped her as a long hand caressed the back of her thigh, only to stop when a loud noise sounded just outside the door. Tobio looked behind them with a an annoyed click of his tongue, looking displeased by the possibility of being interrupted. So he took the next rational step and pulled her into the bathroom. with the added layer of privacy, he felt free to explore to his heart’s content, fingers contouring down the tight fit of her top and playing with the soft material of the skirt. 

“Tobio...” Alice sighed, that hint of a whine in her voice going against her better senses and spurring him on. Suddenly being pulled back and feeling the hard press of his cock against her... thank god she always arrived up to an hour in advance to these sorts of programs. And knowing they had the time - even though they shouldn’t - was enough for desire to take over her rationality. Grinding back against him had her breath faltering slightly, biting her lower lip at the way his fingers gently dug into her hips, keeping that tight, delicious friction between them.

It felt so good that she forgot about the make-up and turned her head, lifting her chin as she asked for a kiss. Tobio seemed to pause for a second, but ultimately lifted a hand to gingerly cup her chin and guide her gaze forward to their reflection. “Can’t.” His mumble was whispered with an apologetic kiss to the base of her neck that sent a pleasant shiver tickling down her spine. The fact that he’d refused for her sake only made her love and want him more.

But him bringing her attention to the mirror further sets her desire ablaze. The singer can feel her hips quivering under his touch, trying to keep that slow, hard grind he’s settled for them while eagerly waiting for what is to come. His lips continue to pepper kisses on her skin as he holds her face forward, and it’s incredibly difficult to not ask him to mark her even when she’s supposed to be recording a program in less than an hour. 

If the singer walks into the set with hickeys on her neck it will be all over the news in an instant. And yet... the thought of it is also exceedingly arousing. To carry the proof that she belongs to him on her body and show it off in a television broadcast? How outrageous. So much so that she has to press her thighs together to keep from reaching a hand between them.

That’s when the sound of his voice snaps her out of that little reverie and makes her weak in the knees. “Spread your legs.” It’s an order. One she is more than happy to obey. Taking in a shaky breath, Alice does as she’s told, a little step to each side to widen her stance for him. The lack of pressure leaves her aching, clenching in want, and she grinds back against him a little harder, nearly whining when he pulls away. But his hand finally lets go of her chin, and a shudder of pleasure wracks her body when those smoldering glacial eyes of his lock onto hers through the mirror as he unzips his pants.

Alice couldn’t look away if her life depended on it, focusing so her ears can pick up every little noise. The shifting of fabric as he pulls out his cock, the slide of skin on skin as he slowly pumps himself a couple of times. Come on, baby..! She begs in her mind, brows furrowing in frustration as he lets the moment drag on. Unable to see what he’s doing, the anticipation makes her arousal grown tenfold, leaving her absolutely restless. Until the scorching heat of his cock presses up against her center, his swollen tip teasing at her still clothed entrance before sliding back and forth along her slit.

She is momentarily distracted by the gratification of it, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning too loud when she suddenly gasps at a flash of forethought. Quickly, the singer lifts the front of her skirt up to keep him from dirtying the fabric. Tobio leaks a lot of precum, and she can’t walk out of the dressing room with a stain right between her legs. That mini panic averted, she looks back up and her stomach flips at the sight they make. He is leaking. Pearly beads forming at the tip and joining the wet lace he’s rubbing against. She swallows in dry, suddenly wanting to lick him clean, but he pulls her focus back again lighting quick.

“Panties.” Is all he needs to say, and Alice gingerly slides the soaked fabric to the side, hips buckling when she feels the heat of his skin on hers and moaning as a tiny shift has his cock fitting between her lips, his teasing made so much easier now. “You’re so fucking wet.” He growls by her ear and she wonders if he can feel the way her little hole keeps tightening against his shaft. “Can you see it? You’re gonna make a mess on the floor.” And she can see it. The way his cock is already glistening, coated in her pleasure. All ready to slide home inside her.

“Tobio..!” His name is a moaned complaint, hips squirming as she tries to line them up so she can push back and take him in, but he holds her securely in place. She knows what he wants. And she’s not going to wait until he asks for it. “Please~” Alice begs openly in a whisper, grinding against his cock and trembling whenever his tip scores against her clit. “Please, I need you inside me, spreading me open and fuck-” She doesn’t even get to finish, clamping a hand over her mouth despite her make-up to try and stifle a loud, gasping moan at suddenly being stuffed full with all of him.

The overwhelming pleasure leaves her lightheaded, chest falling and rising to try and support her heavy breathing. Alice rests her head back against his chest, biting her lip as to not be too loud while her hips work in tandem with his, slamming back whenever he thrusts forward and quickly working them both right up to the edge. Which is why they failed to hear the several knocks to the door of the dressing room, nor the staffer’s deeply formal apology as he opened it and peeked inside, finding it strangely empty when their main guest had already arrived.

The knock on the bathroom door is a violent shock to their systems, and Alice clamps a hand over Tobio’s mouth this time around. “I’m so sorry, Sakurazuka-san, are you in there? Is everything okay?” The staffer is nothing but polite, apologetic and concerned, but it takes all of Alice’s self control and more to not tell him to get the hell out. 

“...I’m fine..! Just give me a moment and I’ll be right out!” She promises, doing her absolute best to sound normal and cheerful. Her entire body is tense, and she wants to curse her boyfriend out for only slowing down his thrust and herself for enjoying it so much.

“Of course! I’ll come back later!” She can see the deep bow the staffer offered the closed door in the eye of her mind, and pays close attention to the sound of him leaving, sighing deeply in relief once the coast is clear. Only to inhale sharply at the way Tobio lifts one of her legs and buries himself even deeper inside her. 

“You got really tight there...” He growls, snapping his hips against hers, fucking her hard and fast. Do you like that? She can hear him ask in her mind, eyes drawn lower on the mirror because now she can see the place where they’re connected, how his thick cock has molded her to his size, and how her wetness is dripping down her thighs, disappearing under her stockings.

“Alice... I’m gonna-” Tobio whimpers between heavy breaths, groaning when she tightens around him even more. 

“I-Inside..!” She begs him, bringing her gaze back to meet his and shivering at the sight of his sharp stare. “I-I... Want to go out there full of your cum...”

[webcricket]

Castiel Drabbles

Characters: CastielXDemon!Reader

Bat Out of Hell Lyric Prompt: #17 - “You’ve been nothing but an angel every day of your life, and now you wonder what it’s like to be damned.”

Word Count: 1362

Requested by: @ladyofletters67

Summary: The reader uses a bit of veracity and sass to vie for an angel’s affection.

<<<   >>>

Over the years, trial after trauma after countless trial compounding into a constant uncontrolled free fall toward humanity’s cause, everything Castiel thought he knew for fact dissolved into mere fiction perpetrated by his Father in a plot seemingly created solely for the entertainment of that self-same Creator.

Everything, that is, except one universal tenet of reckoning arising over and over no matter the situation: Everything comes at a cost. Nothing in life is free, least of all that will he fought fist and wing and wit whilst falling to embrace.

Which accounts for his stubborn suspicion about your motives in helping the Winchesters - not coming to their aid on one or two occasions, but rising from the fires of Hell whenever they get stuck in a rut, and just as often availing your support even when they aren’t. After all, demons don’t take day trips out of the pell-mell of perdition to offer assistance unless they want something in return.

The what is what the seraph cannot figure out. What has him both dubious and intrigued in such a manner he can’t keep his thoughts, idle or otherwise, from wandering to you and the conflict of emotion - a push and pull dance between light and dark, divinity and doom, a cosmic waltz that leaves him dizzy - he feels every time he’s in your presence.

It’s what has him summoning you for interrogation to a generically furnished motel room off the I-90 with Sam and Dean well out of the way - generic save for the addition of a demon trap fastidiously spray painted in crimson on the carpet and for which Castiel’s, or rather, Jimmy Novak’s credit card will be docked for damages after he checks out and housekeeping discovers the disturbing decor.

You’ve dodged his queries before by disappearing - an action usually preceded by a flirtatious fluttering pink smirk and a suggestive wink. The trap guarantees you won’t get away without clearing up his confusion.

You manifest in an onyx-eyed akimbo-stance huff cursing the rudeness of your summoner when they could have simply picked up the phone and called because, ‘Hello! It’s not the dark ages.’

The dissatisfied murmur ceases, a smile spreading your lips to flash the pearly whites veiled beneath when you see the angel is the source of your involuntary vexation because this particular angel intrigues you as much, if not more, than you intrigue him.

Sure, when you first sauntered into the Winchester’s wheel house uninvited it was with the idea of indebting them to you in return for some future favor; but when you laid eyes on their ally, you got a glimpse of actual glory, and although your mortal soul be damned beyond saving, all else fled your thoughts save a taste for a different type of seraphim-assisted salvation.

If he doesn’t recognize your interest - nay, overt attraction - yet through that thickly righteous skull housing his celestial grey matter, all it means is that you need to keep knock-knock-knocking at Heaven’s door a little longer and, perhaps, a little louder.

“Angelcake, to what do I owe the pleasure?” You move a step and a half in his direction, stopping short at the outer line of the circle.

The seraph didn’t doubt the tried and true tactic would hold you, but still, his chest swells with a sense of satisfaction in seeing you at his mercy. Studying your face in anticipation of a frown emerging thereon, a surprising observation surfaces from his subconscious to tickle his rational fancy that the bedlam of twisted soul behind those inky irises, a creature unrecognizable as a human anymore, appears to him as a chaos of stormy hues not sinister in disorder, but as compelling as the shifting colors of a sunset so stunning one cannot look away from it.

The thought, twitching his upper lip, tests his stolid facade.

You peer up in time to catch the subtle crack in his stoicism. Defiant of how he thinks you’ll react, your smile widens, stretching up at one corner in sultry reach toward an equally grinning gaze. “If you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask.”

“What? I-” A squint dims the vibrant blaze of his blues; the lids flare after a second or two in sudden understanding of your debauched implication- “no, that’s not-”

“You really don’t know, do you? You angelic ass.” Smile and patience summarily fading, you interrupt a train of verbalized thought definitely not traveling to the destination you desire. If you stuck a Post-It note to your forehead that read, ‘Fuck me!’ in block letters you couldn’t be any more obvious; not that the feeling is strictly physical for you, that’s just the superficial iceberg of a much deeper emotion.

The hot white neon radiance of raggedly feathered wings stacked over his shoulders - clear as day to your demonic second sight - shudder in revolt of the accusation. “What are you talking about?”

Evidently he needs you to spell it out for him like a prophet writing on a wall; God’s team never did fair well without a playbook. But the problem here isn’t him knowing - that ruffling of feathers tells you on some level, he knows enough to rile him - it’s one of doubt. The problem with him is always freaking doubt. Doubt, like everything, exists in balance; the other side of fear is bravery.

You’ve witnessed first hand he isn’t lacking for courage in other areas, you just need to lube the cogs of the celestial machine enough to loosen them in your favor. “I see the way you look at me, Castiel. The way you don’t look away.”

The continued intensity of his stare and shiver of plumes scream out the truth skimmed by the statement; and yet, his tongue wields incongruous words. “I look because you’re an abomination and it’s my duty not to turn a blind eye.”

“Pshaw, duty,” you blow a puff of disenchanted air through pursed lips. Toeing the very edge of the sigil until your chest tightens in a crush of ribs, you steal a couple of extra millimeters of pain-stifled space in order to drive the point home as close to its heavenly host as possible. “An abomination according to who? You, Castiel?”

The query jars him into motion and the guilty realization you aren’t off base in asking about his assumption gravitates him nearer; demons are a species he thought he knew, but he thought he knew a lot of other things too and he was wrong. He lifts a palm to lightly press your arm to encourage you to retreat back within bounds and out of suffering, confessing in a penitence-laden lowness of tone, “No. No one.”

You swat at the kindness; wincing, arm breaching the barrier to follow his, your fingers wrap his wrist. Panting at the onslaught of pain, you yank him into the trap with you.

Instinct guides his hands to hook your waist, stabilizing you while you steady your breath.

Your body hums in gratitude for the gesture. Straightening yourself with the leverage of his lapels, peering up, you pierce his glossy blues with a blackly earnest gaze. “So then what do you really think I am? ‘Cause I think you’ve been nothing but an angel every day of your life, and now you wonder what it’s like to be damned.”

Although the interrogation didn’t go exactly to plan - things rarely ever do - your challenge to his foundation clarifies to him what it is you want, not from the Winchesters, but from him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, amid the lies programed as gospel on the day of his making, a once firmly held belief that all demons are abominations buries itself in the ruins of false reason. Reverberating in a swift smash of sweetly soft lips to yours, the truth of what he feels asserts itself in the knee-weakening, grace-revving, loin girding proof of a kiss.

Everything comes at a cost, and once in an epoch, payment is tendered in the love-bridled beating of an angel’s heart for his beautiful abomination.

Castiel tag list:  (Closed, if you’d like to be removed please let me know!)    @jeepangel  @sammiesamness  @willowing-love  @roxy-davenport  @blueicevalkyrie   @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11  @thesugargalaxy    @bluetina-blog  @dont-trust-humanity   @honeybeetrash  @bucky-thorin-winchester  @superwholockz   @tistai  @wordstothewisereaders  @gill-ons  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @marisayouass  @stone-met   @castiel-savvy18  @samualmortgrim  @trexrambling  @magnificent-mantle  @kdfrqqg  @xdifsx   @mandilion76  @rockfairy  @peaceloveancolor  @unicorntrooper  @anisolatedship  @itsilvermorny  @aditimukul  @kudosia  @goofynerd-67babylove  @uninspirationalsonglyrics  @gray-avidan  @mishascupcake   @mishapanicmeow   @praisecastielamen  @roseyhxnt  @jessikared97  @let-the-imaginationflow  @warriorqueen1991   @sebastianstanslefteyebrow   @hisnameisboobear  @kristendanwayne  @fuschiarulerinthebluebox  @coolpencilpie  @jenabean75  @luciathewinchestergirl  @morganas-pendragons  @heyitscam99  @fangirl-and-stuff  @selahbela  @realgreglestrade  @splendidcas  @pointlesscasey  @i-larb-spooderman  @thewhiterabbit42  @thelostverse  @castieliswatchingoverme  @beccollie18  @dragonett8  @dixie-chick  @jtownraindancer   @carowinsthings  @passionghost  @ladyofletters67 @futureparent  @gabbie7-11  @myfandomlife-blog  @dreamerkim   @shamelesslydean  @earthtokace  @neaeri  @justanormalangel  @lone-loba  @supernaturalymarvel  @lilrubixx  @wings-and-halo  @thehoneybeecastielfollows  @musiclovinchic93  @81mysteriouslyme  @the-bottom-of-the-abyss  @jaylarkson @pixiedusts  @spookysculderfiles  @laqueus-ludovicus  @missjenniferb @lexininja  @jessiekay2010   @skrratata  @rhiannonj79  @calicat79

[2ndstringloser]

Tyrus x The Society

Okay second time is a charm! This is an AU where the Andi Mack characters are students from West Ham, Connecticut and they get caught up in the story of the Netflix original series, The Society. It helps to know the story of the show, but you dont have to in order to enjoy the fic. 

~

Chapter One- What Happened? 

Cyrus' head felt extremely heavy. This play felt like it was going to last forever, like seriously forever. He managed to power through the first half but after intermission he suddenly felt much more exhausted. He was only there to support Amber, who had managed to get almost everyone they knew to come watch the show. She wasn't even in the play very much. The leads were Harry and Cassandra, known for being the schools biggest rivals. But nonetheless Cyrus and the rest of his friends were there to cheer Amber on, no matter how minimal her role. 

Finally the house lights came up. However, Cyrus only knew the house lights had come up because Andi forcefully hit him over the head with her program to wake him up. He shook himself back into reality and stood up to go see Amber. 

They walked backstage, past where Cassandra and her sister were talking, and past where the stage crew was already putting things away all the way back to the dressing rooms. On their way there they saw what seemed to be Harry and some girl doing. . . well unspeakable things, but decided it was best for everyone if they just ignored it. 

In the dressing room everyone exchanged hugs, and congratulations to Amber. Even Buffy, who had definitely gotten much warmer towards her these past few years. Everyone had really, especially Andi. She'd never admit it, but there was most certainly a crush forming, maybe even a mutual one. 

After a few minutes of talking Cyrus decided to head out. He was about ready to start sleeping standing up and wanted to get home safely without dozing off at the wheel. So he said his goodbyes and left the way he came. Harry was no longer with his girl, instead he was arguing with Cassandra. What's new. Apparently there was a party that Cassandra wasn't invited to. Cyrus wasn't either, but that didn't bother him in the slightest. 

He slid past the rivals quarrel and out the double doors into the lobby. When he exited the building he was hit with a wave of an unpleasant, yet familiar smell.

"Oh god!" He exclaimed.

"Yeah," Came a voice from someone outside the door, "The smell's back."

Cyrus turned to see a boy leaning against the wall, one whom he recognized as Tj Kippen.  Cyrus didn't hate Tj, but there wasn't enough interactions between the two for him to form a good opinion either. Tj had just always been the staple jock that everyone knew. Captain of the basketball team, class clown, incredibly handsome. The boy was one big American high school cliche. 

"When did it come back?" Cyrus questioned, covering the bottom half of his face with his shirt. 

"Intermission. That's when I came out here. There wasn't a smell at first but then all of a sudden, it was just back. Like someone dropped a massive stink bomb on all of West Ham."

"Oh," Cyrus paused for a minute, unsure of whether he wanted to continue this conversation, "Can I ask why you came out of a play at intermission but never went back?" 

"Look Cyrus, that is your name right? You seem really cool, but I've never really talked to you. So I'm going to continue sitting here mysteriously and you can just go home, you look tired. Have a great night though, and make sure to keep your windows sealed tight." He said the last sentence with a chuckle. 

Cyrus looked down at his feet, "Thanks, you have a good night too." 

He started back to his car. What a weird interaction, certainly not one he expected to have tonight. 

~

Eight AM wasn't when Cyrus preferred to wake up on a Saturday, but today he found himself stumbling out of bed early in the morning. The Great Smoky Mountains field trip was today, and Cyrus was ecstatic to finally be going. His friends were already  spamming a group chat with excitement for the trip. 

Only upperclassmen are allowed on the trip so they've had two years to build up high expectations. Andi's had her bag packed for months. Cyrus on the other hand, packed his bag just last night. He gave it a once over, and once he made sure everything was there he headed out. His parents went with him to both say their goodbyes and so that his car wasn’t at the highschool for the entire duration of the trip.

Finally, after many hugs from all four parents, he was free to go meet his friends. Luckily they all got onto the same bus. But not as luckily, there were five of them and only two people could sit on a bench. A few days ago they figured out a fair way to see who’d sit alone, and Cyrus picked the short straw (literally, they drew straws). So he had to find his own seat while Andi, Buffy, Jonah, and Amber all sat together. 

After a few minutes of sitting alone, no one had tried to sit with him. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or offended. 

“Is this seat taken?” A familiar voice said, snapping Cyrus’ head towards the aisle. Tj was standing there, leaning on the seat in front of them. 

“Uh. . . no, it’s not. You can sit.” There was a moment of silence before Cyrus finally said something else, “Why did you want to sit with me? There’s tons of jocks in the back.”

“That’s the football team, I’m a basketball guy, we don’t really hang out. Plus, I’m honestly kind of scared of Clark. He seems really aggressive. What about you, you do any school activities.”  C

“Film Club,” Cyrus said, thinking that the topic of the conversation was being changed.

“Okay so if I asked you ‘Why don’t you go sit with the spanish club kids?’ You’d tell me no because you don’t know them. It’s the same for me, I don’t really know any of the football guys. Well except for Grizz, we have AP Literature together.”

“Wait, you take AP Lit?” From there the conversation flourished, there was never any awkward pauses or silences.

Cyrus was the first one to get drowsy, his answers to questions got slower and more nonsensical. Eventually the whole bus seemed to doze off, until the hissing of the bus doors opening woke them all up again. Cyrus’ head was leaning on Tj, but he quickly pulled away and hopen the other boy didn’t notice.

“Are we there?” Tj managed to say, while still waking up.

Cyrus looked out the window, and made out a figure that looked like his school, “I. . . I think we’re home.” He said, confused, and unsure of what was going on. 

“Change of plans, rock slide. The road was closed, you’re back home.” The bus driver said over the speaker. 

“Okay, well I’m gonna go back to my house. It was cool talking to you Cyrus.” Tj stood up from his seat and was the first one off. Cyrus found his friends, they were all pretty upset that the trip was canceled. They got off the bus and stood in the courtyard, where no one was waiting for them. 

“Maybe no one told our parents that we’d be back,” Amber suggested. That sounded rational, there was no reason for them to question it. 

So the group split up and all walked back to their own homes. West Ham was a safe New England town, there wasn’t a high crime rate that would’ve worried the kids. 

~

Back at his own home, he entered the door and quickly noticed that there was no one awake. That was strange because with his dad and step mom, someone was always working late or watching TV until midnight. He went up to their room, but they were nowhere to be found. Before he could even begin to question what was happening, his phone started to go crazy. Messages were spamming in at a mile a minute. It seemed that every kid from the field trip had been put in a group chat, and everyone was talking at the same time. 

Harry: people are saying their families are gone, anyone else notice that?

That was the first message, and from there everyone went crazy. It seemed that the entire town was just gone. Save for those who were on the busses. The busses had also disappeared, along with their drivers. No one knew what was going on or what to think, and the chat wasn’t helping anything. 

Cassandra: This isn’t helping! Everyone come back to the courtyard and we can see what’s happening. 

Cyrus wasn’t sure what to think. He needed his friends to help get his mind cleared. So he texted their smaller group chat, which was much more calm.

Cyrus: Are your houses empty too? Andi: Yeah. Both mine and Cece’s house. What the hell is happening? Jonah: Maybe we should go to the courtyard. Thats where everyone else is going. Amber: Yeah. I’ll meet you guys there. 

He put his shoes back on and headed right back out of his door, down the way he walked home and towards the courtyard. When he got there Andi and Jonah had already made it, so he found them to try and get more information. Someone had brought some beer, and it was being passed around, but Cyrus refrained. 

In the middle of their conversation, a loud voice boomed, “The fucking church is open!” and everyone ran to get inside. They probably figured that a church would be an amazing place for a party. Which it kind of turned out to be. There were speakers, and places to sit, if it weren’t so sinful there’d be parties in the church all the time. More and more people showed up, and more and more people brought booze. Eventually everyone was trashed. 

The other four were off dancing and drinking, while Cyrus stayed by the wall, completely sober. One person should stay responsible, he thought. Then, drunkenly, Tj stumbled over towards him. 

“Hey! Little guy. What’s up, you don’t look like you’re having any fun,” He leaned against the wall next to Cyrus in order to keep himself up. 

“I’m having a great time, I love watching people, observing them.” 

“Well I like observing you.” Tj looked into Cyrus’ eyes and sat there for a moment. Then he leaned in quickly kissed the other boy. He leaned away and stared once again. 

“You can’t just do that,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“Yeah. Well I did. Okay little guy, see ya later.” He pushed himself away from the wall and staggered away. 

Cyrus felt like he’d had enough for one night, so he let his friends know he was leaving and went back to his house. It was strange that none of his family were home, but he managed to fall asleep okay. 

~

Because he’d had to get up so early the day before Cyrus decided to sleep in today, and for a moment he’d forgotten that the people of his hometown had disappeared. The large group chat was spamming like crazy, so he checked to see what all the fuss was about. 

Campbell: Bad news, we’re fucked. The borders are nothing but woods, it’s like the real world completley fucking disapeared. 

Luke: We’re putting together a party to go out and see what’s beyond the borders lmk if you’re up for it

A few people had replied that they were interested, but Cyrus only took notice of one person. 

Tj: I’m in

He wasn’t sure why, but Tj going on the search party made him really nervous. 

~

Cassandra had organized for a town meeting that night. She was worried that since there were no adults or rule makers, people would go crazy. And she was right, people were raiding the stores to steal all the food. Hell, someone already stole all the carrots.

All five kids had been at Cece’s house all day, just talking and trying to wrap their heads around what was going on. Jonah was stuck on theories of what was happening. His favorite was that aliens took their town to a dense forest but left all the people in Connecticut. Cyrus could tell that the constant speculation was really just a coping mechanism because he was scared of what really could’ve happened. 

At 7 o’clock sharp everyone was gathered in the church for the meeting. Everyone was arguing, mostly Cassandra and Harry. The group agreed mostly with Cassandra, that they should share their belongings in order to preserve resources.

“Me and Cyrus have two houses each, there’s no reason we should just keep them to ourselves.” Andi made a good point to the rest of the kids. Although, it only stirred up more controversy. Soon there was nothing but constant noise, no one could discern what anyone else was saying. Until. . .

BANG 

A gun fired. People turned to see Campbell, known for being quite unstable, holding the gun. He argued some more, and more. Really no different from before, but now everyone was aware he had a gun. The fighting didn’t stop again until the church doors swung open. The search party had returned, and they were carrying a body. 

They cleared off the beer cans and red solo cups off of a table and set her down. 

“She died from a snake bite,” Luke said, through tears, “We did everything we could but we couldn’t save her.” 

A murmur spread throughout the crowd. Everyone was mortified. 

“Do you guys all want to stay at Cece’s house tonight? I feel like we shouldn’t be alone.” Andi offered. The rest of them replied through silent nods. Amber leaned her head on Andi’s shoulder with glossy eyes, and then they all filed out of the church. Outside, Cyrus saw an unpleasant sight. Tj was sitting on the ground with his head in his hands. 

“Hey,” he tapped Andi on the shoulder, “I’ll meet up with you in a bit I’m just gonna go grab some stuff from my house.” He walked over and slid down next to Tj. “are you okay.” No response. “That was probably pretty hard for you, I’m really sorry you had to see that.”

“Thanks I guess. I still don’t really think I’ve processed what happened. I kinda don’t wanna talk about it.” When he pulled his head from his hands Cyrus could see tear streaks and puffy eyes. 

“Okay, sorry I bothered you,” Cyrus said, then stood up to leave. 

“No wait!” Tj grabbed his arm. “I don’t want to talk about it, but I still want to talk to you. You’re the only person I want to talk to, actually,” Cyrus’ face softened into a smile and he sat back down. He put his head on Tj’s shoulder and let the conversation flow.

~

Tag List: @abg-blah @tjwatchesskam @luzawithoutu @ifcknly @shipsforsail

[thepetulantpen]

Fairytale/Emotional Support

(Here’s another late contribution for @beaujester-week , a Robin Hood AU for day 5!)

Beau crouches beside a tree and tries to ignore Jester’s giggles behind her, hoping they’re out of earshot of the guards.

“Beau,” Jester whispers as best she can but in the dead silence of the forest, it may as well be a gunshot, “which-“

A twig snaps and Beau’s ears pick up the soft sounds of footsteps on the dirt path that winds through the forest, just a few feet in front of their tree. Reflexes kicking in, Beau pulls both herself and Jester closer to the tree, making sure its silhouette obscures their forms. In the same fluid motion, she covers Jester’s mouth to cut her question short. Jester pouts beneath her hand but begrudgingly accepts the necessity of silence in a run from the sheriff and snuggles closer to Beau.

The guards on the path look irritated and confused, no doubt lost in the twists and turns Beau took through the forest. They’re all sighing with exertion and annoyance, not paid to hike through the woods all day, hunting down an elusive thief for the sake of their delusional sheriff.

“I think she took the other path. Let’s join up with our forces in the east.”

Beau exhales silently, thanking every god she knows and barely believes in. She waits until the last spot of sunlight reflecting off their stupid helmets disappears on the horizon and then moves swiftly from their hiding spot, tugging Jester along.

Her feet have memorized this forest floor, dexterously leading her around roots and rocks, choosing the path of least resistance for Jester’s sake. Jester keeps a running commentary through their walk and Beau lets her, knowing the threat has passed.

Besides, she always loves to hear Jester speak about these things, the pride and excitement in her voice is enough reward for all the trouble they’ve had.

“-then I had my doubles do a little jig to distract them and you stunned the guard like bam! Oh, Beau, it was so fun- we should do this more often!”

“Feel a little bad for getting you involved in a life of crime.” Beau glances up from ground briefly to look at Jester’s face, tone only half joking.

“Pssh, I was kicked out of the last town, remember? I’m hardly as innocent as my pretty face looks!” Jester frames her face with her hands, looking angelic one second, then grinning like a devil the next.

Beau’s heard this story before and she’s only half sure she believes it. Anybody would deny it upon first meeting Jester, a cheerful little tiefling girl clearly incapable of humiliating a politician, committing minor theft and causing mayhem in the streets to mask her flee from the city. But Beau knows her a little better than most, has seen that deeply chaotic and mischievous energy of hers in action. This is, after all, the girl who agreed, without hesitation, to join her quest to pull off one of the most high scale robberies Nottingham has ever seen.

This last job was their biggest yet- and their most personal. Lionett family wineries may not feel the loss of revenue for long, but the poor of Nottingham could certainly be sustained by their stolen money for many months to come.

Beau just wishes she could’ve seen her father’s face when he realized just how much she was able to get away with.

“Beau, are you alright?”

“Hm?” Beau blinks away bad memories and vengeful fantasies to look at Jester, frowning in concern, “Of course. Why? Do I, like, look grumpy?”

“No, it’s just that you’ve got that look on your face like you’re thinking too hard about something dumb.”

Beau laughs and opens her mouth to respond with a joke, a transition to an easier topic, but Jester interrupts, expression earnest and serious.

“Is it about your dad?”

The forest floor is a fascinating thing, textured with unexpected holes and littered with odd plant life, giving Beau something to study while she stalls for time.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Beau looks up from the roots to meet Jester’s eyes, filled with kindness that has become Beau’s lifeline the last few weeks. Those eyes have carried her through heartbreak and abuse, made her feel valuable when Nottingham treated her like a stain on society. She knows she can answer honestly, without judgement or disappointment from Jester.

“Not really.”

Jester hums, studying Beau’s face to detect a lie. When she doesn’t find one, she smiles, a little relieved.

“Well, there’s not much to say anyway- he’s just a stupid, greedy man.”

The words are flippant, easy, but the way Jester squeezes Beau’s hand is not. Her grip is strong, an unforgettable reminder that Jester is there, should Beau change her mind.

Beau would’ve said thanks, or something equally unnecessary, but she catches sight of smoke and the first patches of straw roofs. They’ve arrived.

Jester pushes ahead, switching positions with Beau to pull her ahead, knowing the way from here.

Arriving at the tiny village on the outskirts of town, where much of the poor of Nottingham find themselves, is always an event. It’s a rush of activity and sound, a rush that Jester meets with matching energy, one girl against a village. Beau just hands over the bag of gold, less good at interacting with the kids and the thankful people here. They’re hailed with aliases whispered across the country, legends of heroes who take from the wealthy and give to those less fortunate.

Beau doesn’t know how she got stuck with Robin Hood, but it’s a little late to complain about it. Jester has it easier, having chosen her own name: Maid Marion, so she can take a bit of her mother with her on her adventures.

It’s cute, though not nearly as cute as Jester and Kiri.

“Oh, you’ll finally be able to buy a new cloak and some new toys, isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful!”

Their smiles- Jester’s, Kiri’s, and the rest of the settlement’s- wipe the image of her father’s snarl.

This is the best part of her job.

...

Between jobs, Beau enjoys quiet moments in their borrowed cottage, barely managing to make her own tea and not ruin it. It’s nice out here, just her and Jester enjoying this place before they move onto the next town, the next community in need.

The peace and coziness is nice, of course, but she wouldn’t give up the thrill and the pride of their mission for it. She knows she could never commit to a life of sitting idly after she’s gotten a taste of adventure, of traveling the world in a whirlwind with Jester.

Jester couldn’t either, can’t even finish a quiet afternoon like Beau before she bursts through the door.

“Look at this! Isn’t it terrible?”

Jester shoves two pieces of paper in Beau’s face, too close for her eyes to focus on. She takes them from her and finds herself looking at two extremely shitty illustrations of her and Jester. They are truly comical, with wildly incorrect noses and stringy hair, and they’re supposed to be official Wanted posters, identifying them to the Empire. It’s laughable, and it’s exactly what she’d expect from Nottingham.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re leaving town. Don’t think I could live with people thinking I look like that.”

Jester sits down at the table with Beau, taking her own teacup and pouring it somewhat angrily. Her indignation is frankly adorable, just another faucet of her passion. She feels everything so deeply, and acts on it accordingly.

“I’m making our own Wanted posters for the next town. I mean, this is ridiculous.”

Beau takes a drink and smiles at Jester, soft and relaxed on their day off.

“You could paint pictures of totally different people just to confuse everyone.”

Jester’s entire face lights up at the idea, the inspiration sparking nearly tangible mischievous energy. When Jester has found an idea she likes, she can talk about it for hours, her voice like music in a lilting tune that keeps Beau invested in what she has to say.

It doesn’t require much to keep Jester going once she’s gotten fixated on something, but Beau interjects with her criminal expertise when needed, adding fuel to the fire. They’re a perfect duo in that way, unconditionally supportive, regardless of the quality of their ideas or rationality of their worries.

Scheming is their kind of downtime, staying outside and talking about nothing and everything until the tea is gross, fireflies are swarming, and the stars twinkle above them.

Beau calls it a night when Jester starts yawning, following her back inside the cottage with just one last glance at the night sky.

She doesn’t recognize any of the constellations, but she swears the stars are scattered in the exact same pattern as the freckles decorating Jester’s face.

For a moment, the sky seems to smile at Beau and she smiles back. She must be more tired than she thought.

She goes inside, to sleep beside her lover, partner in crime, and roommate. There’s work to be done tomorrow, they’ll need their rest.

[argyrocratie]

The revolt of life against science

In their existing organisation, monopolising science and remaining thus outside of social life, the savants form a separate caste, in many respects analogous to the priesthood. Scientific abstractions is their God, living and real individuals are their victims, and they are the consecrated and licensed sacrificers.

Science cannot go outside of the sphere of abstractions. In this respect it is infinitely inferior to art, which, in its turn, is peculiarly concerned also with general types and general situations, but which incarnates them by an artifice of its own in forms which, if they are not living in the sense of real life none the less excite in our imagination the memory and sentiment of life; art in a certain sense individualizes the types and situations which it conceives; by means of the individualities without flesh and bone, and consequently permanent and immortal, which it has the power to create, it recalls to our minds the living, real individualities which appear and disappear under our eyes. Art, then, is as it were the return of abstraction to life; science, on the contrary, is the perpetual immolation of life, fugitive, temporary, but real, on the altar of eternal abstractions.

Science is as incapable of grasping the individuality of a man as that of a rabbit, being equally indifferent to both. Not that it is ignorant of the principle of individuality: it conceives it perfectly as a principle, but not as a fact. It knows very well that all the animal species, including the human species, have no real existence outside of an indefinite number of individuals, born and dying to make room for new individuals equally fugitive. It knows that in rising from the animal species to the superior species the principle of individuality becomes more pronounced; the individuals appear freer and more complete. It knows that man, the last and most perfect animal of earth, presents the most complete and most remarkable individuality, because of his power to conceive, concrete, personify, as it were, in his social and private existence, the universal law.  It knows, finally, when it is not vitiated by theological or metaphysical, political or judicial doctrinairisme, or even by a narrow scientific pride, when it is not deaf to the instincts and spontaneous aspirations of life-- it knows (and this is its last word) that respect for man is the supreme law of Humanity, and that the great, the real object of history, its only legitimate object is the humanization and emancipation, the real liberty, the prosperity and happiness of each individual living in society.  For, if we would not fall back into the liberticidal fiction of the public welfare represented by the State, a fiction always founded on the systematic sacrifice of the people, we must clearly recognize that collective liberty and prosperity exist only so far as they represent the sum of individual liberties and prosperities.

Science knows all these things, but it does not and cannot go beyond them. Abstraction being its very nature, it can well enough conceive the principle of real and living individuality, but it can have no dealings with real and living individuals; it concerns itself with individuals in general, but not with Peter or James, not with such or such a one, who, so far as it is concerned, do not, cannot, have any existence. Its individuals, I repeat, are only abstractions.

Now, history is made, not by abstract individuals, but by acting, living and passing individuals. Abstractions advance only when borne forward by real men. For these beings made, not in idea only, but in reality of flesh and blood, science has no heart: it considers them at most as material for intellectual and social development. What does it care for the particular conditions and chance fate of Peter or James? It would make itself ridiculous, it would abdicate, it would annihilate itself, if it wished to concern itself with them otherwise than as examples in support of its eternal theories. And it would be ridiculous to wish it to do so, for its mission lies not there. It cannot grasp the concrete; it can move only in abstractions. Its mission is to busy itself with the situation and the general conditions of the existence and development, either of the human species in general, or of such a race, such a people, such a class or category of individuals; the general causes of their prosperity, their decline, and the best general methods of securing, their progress in all ways. Provided it accomplishes this task broadly and rationally, it will do its whole duty, and it would be really unjust to expect more of it.

But it would be equally ridiculous, it would be disastrous to entrust it with a mission which it is incapable of fulfilling. Since its own nature forces it to ignore the existence of Peter and James, it must never be permitted, nor must anybody be permitted in its name, to govern Peter and James. For it were capable of treating them almost as it treats rabbits. Or rather, it would continue to ignore them; but its licensed representatives, men not at all abstract, but on the contrary in very active life and having very substantial interests, yielding to the pernicious influence which privilege inevitably exercises upon men, would finally fleece other men in the name of science, just as they have been fleeced hitherto by priests, politicians of all shades, and lawyers, in the name of God, of the State, of judicial Right.

What I preach then is, to a certain extent, the revolt of life against science, or rather against the government of science, not to destroy science-that would be high treason to humanity-but to remand it to its place so that it can never leave it again. Until now all human history has been only a perpetual and bloody immolation of millions of poor human beings in honor of some pitiless abstraction-God, country, power of State, national honor, historical rights, judicial rights, political liberty, public welfare. Such has been up to today the natural, spontaneous, and inevitable movement of human societies. We cannot undo it; we must submit to it so far as the past is concerned, as we submit to all natural fatalities. We must believe that that was the only possible way, to educate the human race. For we must not deceive ourselves: even in attributing the larger part to the Machiavellian wiles of the governing classes, we have to recognize that no minority would have been powerful enough to impose all these horrible sacrifices upon the masses if there had not been in the masses themselves a dizzy spontaneous movement which pushed them on to continual self-sacrifice, now to one, now to another of these devouring abstractions the vampires of history ever nourished upon human blood.

We readily understand that this is very gratifying, to the theologians, politicians, and jurists. Priests of these abstractions, they live only by the continual immolation of the people. Nor is it more surprising that metaphysics too, should give its consent. Its only mission is to justify and rationalize as far as possible the iniquitous and absurd. But that positive science itself should have shown the same tendencies is a fact which we must deplore while we establish it. That it has done so is due to two reasons: in the first place, because, constituted outside of life, it is represented by a privileged body; and in the second place, because thus far it has posited itself as an absolute and final object of all human development.  By a judicious criticism, which it can and finally will be forced to pass upon itself, it would understand, on the contrary, that it is only a means for the realization of a much higher object-that of the complete humanization of the real situation of all the real individuals who are born, who live, and who die, on earth.

The immense advantage of positive science over theology, metaphysics, politics, and judicial right consists in this-that, in place of the false and fatal abstractions set up by these doctrines, it posits true abstractions which express the general nature and logic of things, their general relations, and the general laws of their development. This separates it profoundly from all preceding doctrines, and will assure it for ever a great position in society: it will constitute in a certain sense society's collective consciousness. But there is one aspect in which it resembles all these doctrines: its only possible object being abstractions, it is forced by its very nature to ignore real men, outside of whom the truest abstractions have no existence. To remedy this radical defect positive science will have to proceed by a different method from that followed by the doctrines of the past. The latter have taken advantage of the ignorance of the masses to sacrifice them with delight to their abstractions, which by the way, are always very lucrative to those who represent them in flesh and bone. Positive science, recognizing its absolute inability to conceive real individuals and interest itself in their lot, must definitely and absolutely renounce all claim to the government of societies; for if it should meddle therein, it would only sacrifice continually the living men whom it ignores to the abstractions which constitute the sole object of its legitimate preoccupations.

The true science of history, for instance, does not yet exist; scarcely do we begin today to catch a glimpse of its extremely complicated conditions. But suppose it were definitely developed, what could it give us? It would exhibit a faithful and rational picture of the natural development of the general conditions-material and ideal, economical, political and social, religious, philosophical, aesthetic, and scientific-of the societies which have a history. But this universal picture of human civilization, however detailed it might be, would never show anything beyond general and consequently abstract estimates. The milliards of individuals who have furnished the living and suffering materials of this history at once triumphant and dismal-triumphant by its general results, dismal by the immense hecatomb of human victims "crushed under its car"-those milliards of obscure individuals without whom none of the great abstract results of history would have been obtained-and who, bear in mind, have never benefited by any of these results-will find no place, not even the slightest in our annals. They have lived and been sacrificed, crushed for the good of abstract humanity, that is all.

Shall we blame the science of history. That would be unjust and ridiculous. Individuals cannot be grasped by thought, by reflection, or even by human speech, which is capable of expressing abstractions only; they cannot be grasped in the present day any more than in the past. Therefore social science itself, the science of the future, will necessarily continue to ignore them. All that, we have a right to demand of it is that it shall point us with faithful and sure hand to the general causes of individual suffering- among these causes it will not forget the immolation and subordination (still too frequent, alas!) of living individuals to abstract generalities-at the same time showing us the general conditions necessary to the real emancipation of the individuals living in society. That is its mission; those are its limits, beyond which the action of social science can be only impotent and fatal. Beyond those limits being the doctrinaire and governmental pretentious of its licensed representatives, its priests. It is time to have done with all popes and priests; we want them no longer, even if they call themselves Social Democrats.

Once more, the sole mission of science is to light the road. Only Life, delivered from all its governmental and doctrinaire barriers, and given full liberty of action, can create.

(...)

- God and the State by Michael Bakunin (1870)

[bxnesof92]

gift for bmc summer gift exchange!

a fluffy boyfs as requested by @riot-meme for the @bmc-summer-gift-exchange 

 Pairing: Boyf riends (Jeremy Heere/Michael Mell)

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1,098

Warnings: None, but Jeremy does have a bit of a crisis

Read on Ao3!

It’s not beautiful, Jeremy thought, staring a little too long at Michael’s hair. The dim light above the sink silhouetted and lit it perfectly, and it had been tousled from a night of flopping and moving on basement floors. It’s not... He’s not… 

– –

The last thing Jeremy needed at the moment was a sexuality crisis. The world, being as cruel and sadistic as it was, begged to differ.

The night had started the same way most others had. The two would meet up after school, jam all the way back to Michael’s house, conveniently ignore the likelihood of his car falling apart with them in it, raid the Mell’s fridge, and disappear into the basement. Easy plan to follow, easy plan to execute, and rest assured, Jeremy and Michael were experts in the field. 

Nearing the end of their twelfth failed round of Apocalypse of the Damned, Michael flung himself backwards into his beanbag with a sigh.

“Too hard… Too fuckin’ hard.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Jeremy I am going to run you over one of these days, I swear to God.”

Despite the emptiness of the threat the two boys decided not to push it further, and instead fell back into a comfortable silence. November air outside and poor insulation in their shitty basement dwelling forced the two to create an elaborate blanket fort and lay closer than was heterosexually acceptable for two teenage boys (despite the lack of heterosexuality from at least one member of the party). 

Giving up on the game, Jeremy watched as Michael began to scroll through his movie collection. “Mmm… Wargames? No, too involved for this late… Stand By Me? Nah, I’m not in a Stephen King mood. Wait, why the hell do I only have eighties movies?”

Jeremy laid upside down on his beanbag in a daze… Were his eyes always that dark of a brown? They were kind of beautif-

“-eremy? Jer? Yo space cadet, how do we feel about Ferris Bueller?” Jeremy shook his head a little and rubbed at his eyes.

“Sounds good,” flipping right side up, “Wait to start it, I’ll be right back.”

Jeremy struggled his way out of their fort and stumbled toward the stairs a little. He filled a glass with water and sat on the kitchen counter, careful to stay quiet and not wake Michael’s sleeping mothers on the second floor. 

He gripped the glass tightly and closed his eyes, trying to rationalize his thinking. Bros can totally love each others eyes. Totally. Why was he struggling with this? Jeremy loved Michael’s moms, and was his biggest supporter when he came out as well, but couldn’t bring himself to admit that maybe he wasn’t the straightest. It would explain a lot, really, his fixation on Marty McFly and Duran Duran and Wow, did he and Michael watch and listen to a lot of eighties.

He had always admired those with exorbitant amount of pride, and never understood why he felt so insecure and longing around them, except, now he did. Jeremy Heere had just had a sexuality crisis and internal exploration session in Michael Mell’s kitchen at one in the morning. Fuck.

Jeremy heard footsteps behind him and refused to open his eyes. He had recognized Michael’s gait. “You good, Jem? It’s been half an hour…”

“I-” Jeremy opened his eyes and took a minute to gather his thoughts, “I’m good, better now, I think, but fine. Sure.” Michael, ever the saint, said nothing about the feet on his countertop, and instead hopped up to join the other boy.

He ran a hand up the shaking, Wait, when did that start?, boy’s back and into his hair. It was a soft moment of silence in the kitchen. 

Jeremy loved how Michael never rushed him to speak. Jeremy loved how he knew how to comfort him in moments of rampant and abrupt crisis. Jeremy loved Michael’s hands running through his hair, and his comforting weight against his side, and his voice softly calling,

“Jem?”

He turned his head to look at him, hand falling from his hair. Still not completely back to normal, Jeremy’s eyes fell on Michael’s hair. Michael raised his eyebrows,

“Ready to go downstairs?” Jeremy nodded in response, but wasn’t paying attention to what he agreed to. Taking Michael’s hand, he slid down from the counter. 

It’s not beautiful, Jeremy thought, staring a little too long at Michael’s hair. The dim light above the sink silhouetted and lit it perfectly, and it had been tousled from a night of flopping and moving on basement floors. It’s not... He’s not… 

Oh…

So maybe it wasn’t little things about Michael he loved, it was all of him. He stood frozen on the floor, gaze dropping to meet the other’s. 

“I think… I think I just had a sexuality crisis.”

– –

“Joining the Not Straight Gang?” Michael asked after coaxing Jeremy back into the basement and to a less anxious state. His head still rested in Michael’s lap as both hands threaded through his hair,

“Yeah… Yeah I definitely think so.”

The answer seemed unfinished, yet still they lapsed into another comfortable silence.

“Hey Micah?”

 “Hmm?”

“I think I’m like… Totally gone over you.” The hands moving through his hair paused for what felt like hours, and resumed after seconds. “You wanna, like, grace me with an answer? Or can we leave it there so I can drown in anxiety once it sinks in?”

“Shit, yeah, no, sorry, just processing.” Michael began to connect the dots in his head. 

When enough dots were connected to satisfy him, he looked at the boy in his lap, and brought a hand from his hair to trace his cheek. “Yeah… Yeah I can roll with that, I’ve been waiting a while for this.”

“For what?”

“You to realize you liked me back, like a lot, but I knew you had shit to work through that you didn’t see yet, so I’ve been waiting to tell you how much I love you.”

“You knew? I didn’t even know?”

“You’ve been giving me looks like I stole the moon just for you for a while now, and it makes me feel like I’m on top of the world, how could I not notice? But I’m so glad that we both know now.”

“Hmm, me too,” Jeremy took a breath, the dead of night wasn’t the ideal time for things this hard hitting. “Guess now would be a good time to tell you that I think you’re beautiful?”

“Well, just as long as I get to return the favor.”

[nomad-draws]

Hindsight - The Beginning

I’ve been stuck at a certain point in this story, so I’m looking back to the beginning to make sure I’m heading in the right direction. So here it is, the opening scene from Hindsight. This takes place about 20 years before the rest of the events of the story. As always, I would love feedback and constructive criticism!

Tag List: @sassywitchdraws​ @musicofglassandwords​

~*~*~*~*~*~

The wind howling, pulling at his hair and clothes, was the first thing that filtered through his blackened senses. For several moments there were no other sounds.

No other sensations.

Just the wind.

Then came the taste of sand as it was picked up at tossed about, gritting between his and scratching against his skin.

Then came the pain in his head and the stickiness of the blood matted into his hair as he carefully lifted his hand to the side of his head.

All at once, everything came rushing back to him. The mission. The attack--

He scrambled up to his feet, lifting his arm to cover his dark eyes as he squinted through the red sandstorm. Where was his partner?

The mission was supposed to be an easy one. A simple recon to see how close this dimension was getting to developing interdimensional travel and if they were ready to handle that responsibility. They were to be there for a week, record their findings, then report back to the council.

For six days, they had spent their time between the remote research center that was surrounded by miles upon miles of mostly barren wasteland, and their tent which was surrounded by much of the same. There had been the occasional conflict with the local wildlife, but there hadn’t been any situations they couldn’t handle. They’d had to carefully ration their water as the week came to a close, but they had made it.

The attack had come from nowhere.

Now, he struggled through the sand, calling through the wind, “Quinn!” So long as the sand kept moving, he knew his partner was alive. He came up short, halfway through his next call as another sound pierced through the howling of the wind.

A sharp whistle.

He quickly turned towards the sound, a long katana appearing in his hand just in time to block the attack of the oncoming creature.

At first glance, its form didn’t even seem to be tangible, a shimmering nebula of purples and black.  But its needle-like teeth scraped against the metal of the blade and its screech pierced through the air around them. He shoved the creature forcefully away from him, taking a few steps back and falling into a fighting stance as he appraised the creature through narrowed and rapidly blinking eyes.

It was nearly the same height as him, over six feet tall, even supporting its weight on all four limbs. Its gaping mouth, filled with seemingly endless rows of needle-like teeth took up most of what should have been its face. Narrow nostrils and too-small and empty eye sockets were the only other indicator that this even was a face. The rest of the creature was just as gruesome, as if the human form had been stretched and twisted around until this gaunt monstrosity had finally been the result. The legs spindly legs and wiry arms that it stood on gripped the ground with long talons that were conjoined at the fingers in order to keep itself upright.

The creature screeched again and lunged, but he was ready this time, his katana slicing clean through the middle of the beast. Instead of falling to the ground, it evaporated, a smoky after image suspended in the air for a moment before it faded away entirely. Once again, he turned his attention towards the direction the whistling had come from.

A figure was now stepping closer to him--this one completely humanoid. If not for the sand, forcing its red tint on the figure, they would have been clad entirely in white--from the boots buckled up to their knees, to the featureless mask that covered their face. The only thing not completely blank about their appearance was the vibrant red hair, elaborately braided with gold threads, giving it the appearance of flickering flames.

“Generva,” He snarled. Even with the mask, there was no disguising who she was. The woman’s hair, her abilities--how many hours had he spent helping her develop the very ability that she now used against him? More than he could remember. “What’s the meaning of this?!”

Generva chuckled, then began whistling again as the creature reformed beside her. “What do you mean, old friend?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You’ve attacked us unprovoked. The council approved you leaving the Guardians with no repercussions after what happened and yet here you are!”

“After what happened?!” She snapped at him, carefree demeanor suddenly switching to aggression, “We meddled somewhere we had no right to be and because of that, I lost my best friend! I lost the people I loved the most!” She ripped off her mask, revealing her burning orange eyes. Scars dug deep into her skin, barely missing her eyes but covering the majority of her face. They pulled at one corner of her mouth, forcing it into a permanent snarl, and they sliced through one of her ears, which was mostly missing.

“We play gods and don’t even care what happens to our own people!” She continued as the creature beside her began to grow restless, shifting between its limbs and throwing its head back and forth.

“What happened was an unfortunate accident,” He said, his voice level even as his gaze shifted between the beast and his former friend, “But if we hadn’t intervened, thousands if not millions of people would have lost their lives. That violence would have continued to spread to more worlds after that. We had to stop it.”

“No we didn’t!” Generva screeched and the beast lunged again, faster this time that it had been before.

He side-stepped and sliced straight through one of its arms. But just as quickly as the arm evaporated, it reformed and the creature clawed out, catching him in the side of the neck. He staggered back, one hand holding the side of his bleeding neck. Had the creature clawed any deeper, he would have been dead already, but as it was, blood was already seeping between his fingers and dripping off his hand.

The creature didn’t move for him a second time, pacing several feet away.

“What have you done with Quinn?” He snapped, repositioning his grip on his weapon with his one free hand. The more he talked, the more grit he could feel gathering between his teeth and under his tongue, making his words heavy and awkward.

“I haven’t touched him. He might be young, but I’m not stupid enough to go after him alone surrounded by a desert.” Generva tilted her head, smiling with her twisted mouth, “Seems like he’s doing fine now, but I wonder how long he’ll last against Cicero.”

He snarled again, lunging straight at Generva, but the creature moved faster, throwing itself between them like a shield. The blade sunk deep, straight through the creature, and lodged itself there. Already, it was beginning to evaporate, but not fast enough. With a final screech, it plunged its claws down into his shoulders.

He gritted his teeth against the pain and harshly pulled his blade sideways, tearing it out of the creature which finally disintegrated. His head was beginning to feel hazy, pain coursing through his body and blood staining his shirt. He looked around quickly for Generva, but she had disappeared, almost like one of the monsters she summoned.

He didn’t understand what her goal was or why she was dressed the way she was even when she knew both he and Quinn would be able to recognize her. The whistling began again and he spun around quickly, trying to find its source and preparing himself for another attack.

But it never came.

He had to find Quinn.

He placed his fingers against the gash on his neck, taking a deep breath as he steeled himself. Intense flames lit up along his fingers and he bit back a cry of pain as he cauterized his own wound. His shoulders, however, would have to wait.

Once again he began making his way through the swirling sand, calling out for his partner with no response. From time to time, he heard the whistling or saw one of the creatures out of the corner of his eye, a vague silhouette in the storm, but an attack never came. Generva was toying with him now, refusing to show herself.

It felt like he wandered for hours, but in reality, it could only have been a few minutes before suddenly everything stopped. Like someone had flipped a switch, the sand settled around him and the wind stopped howling.

He could see everything clearly, the light blinding him momentarily as he spun around quickly trying to gain his bearings. His eyes finally landed on a scene which nearly stopped his heart.

Quinn.

The boy was young--too young--to be out on the field on a mission like this, only sixteen. But it wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. He was partnered with one of the strongest Guardians currently active. It was only supposed to have been a recon mission.

Only sixteen but his soft blond curls and gentle grey eyes made him look even younger than that.

And now here he was, being held four feet off the ground by one of Generva’s monsters. The claws wrapped around him, poking through his shirt, but none had pierced his skin. It didn’t matter The boy was terrified, his eyes wide and his expression frozen. Generva stood several feet away, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression smug. Directly in front of Quinn stood another man, clad the same way Generva was though his mask remained fixed over his face.

But she had already given his identity away.

Cicero. Another name so familiar to him.

Another Guardian he had helped train.

Cicero turned, looking in his direction, “Oh good, I was worried that Generva had taken you too far away. I wouldn’t want you to miss this.” A sickle formed in Cicero’s hand as he turned away to face Quinn again.

Everything happened so fast, but he still felt like things were moving in slow motion. At the same time Cicero raised his arm to strike at Quinn, he through the katana from his hand, aiming to hit Cicero. Generva’s eyes widened and she lunged to try to put herself in its path. Then the sand started up again, a massive storm of red swirling around and obscuring his vision entirely.

With a scream of frustration, he dashed forward in the direction he knew his friend was. Heat rolled off him in waves and in a sudden burst, the area around him exploded into flames. The heat was overwhelming--the damage done to his body was catching up to him.

Everything went black again.

He didn’t know how long passed before his senses began to return to him, the first and only being the smooth surface beneath his hands and beneath his face, hot against his skin.

No wind, no swirling sand.

Pain came coursing over his body, his self-inflicted burns and deep wounds from the injuries he’d sustained during his battle reminding him of their presence. Struggling, he began to push himself up, looking through hazy eyes at the ground beneath him. But it wasn’t sand anymore.

It was glass.

Glass that he had created with the flames that had exploded from him. Smeared with his blood, the glass spread out around him like a crater. He looked around slowly, in a daze. Sever feet away was what remained of Generva, katana still planted in the smoldering corpse.

But Cicero was gone.

And so was Quinn.

[wisdomrays]

THE MAIN FACTORS IN THE SPREADING OF ISLAM: Part 2

A. J. Arberry has also pointed out that the reason for the spread of Islam is Islam itself and its religious values. (Aspects of Islamic Civilization, p.12. He writes:

‘The rapidity of the spread of Islam, noticeably through extensive provinces which had long been Christian, is a crucial fact of history. The sublime rhetoric of the Qur’an, that inimitable symphony, the very sounds of which move men to tears and ecstasy…and the urgency of the simple message carried, holds the key to the mystery of one of the greatest catalysms in the history of religion. When all military, political and economic factors have been exhausted, the religious impulse must still be recognized as the most vital and enduring.’

Brockelman, who is usually very unsympathetic and partial, also recognizes the religious values of Islam as the main factor for the spread of Islam (History of the Islamic Peoples, p.37). Rosenthal makes his point as follows: ‘The more important factor for the spread of Islam is the religious Law of Islam (Shari‘a, which is an inclusive, all-embracing, all-comprehensive way of thinking and living) which was designed to cover all manifestations of life.’ (Political Thought in Medieval Islam, p.21).

Besides many other reasons which are responsible for the spread of Islam, it is the exemplary life-style and unceasing efforts of individual Muslims to transmit the message of Islam throughout the world which lie at the root of the conquest of hearts by Islam. Islamic universalism is closely associated with the principle of ‘amr bi’l-ma’ruf (enjoining the good) for Islam is to be spread by Muslims by means of ‘amr bi’l-ma’ruf. This principle seeks to convey the message of Islam to all human beings in the world and to establish a model Islamic community on a worldwide basis. The Islamic community is introduced by the Qur’an as a model community: We have made of you an Ummah justly balanced, that you might be witnesses (models) for the peoples, and the Messenger has been a witness for you (2.143). A Muslim or the Muslim community as a whole thus has a goal to achieve. This is the spread of Islam, conveying the truth to the remotest corner of the world, the eradication of oppression and tyranny and the establishment of justice all over the world. This requires the Muslim to live an exemplary life, and thus the moral and the ethical values of Islam have usually played an important part in the spread of Islam. Here follow the impressions of the influence of Islamic ethics on black Africans of a Western writer of the nineteenth century:

‘As to the effects of Islam when first embraced by a Negro tribe, can there, when viewed as a whole, be any reasonable doubt? Polytheism disappears almost instantaneously; sorcery, with its attendant evils, gradually dies away; human sacrifice becomes a thing of the past. The general moral elevation is most marked; the natives begin for the first time in their history to dress, and that neatly. Squalid filth is replaced by some approach to personal cleanliness; hospitality becomes a religious duty; drunkenness, instead of the rule becomes a comparatively rare exception chastity is looked upon as one of the highest, and becomes, in fact, one of the commoner virtues. It is idleness that henceforward degrades, and industry that elevates, instead of the reverse. Offences are henceforward measured by a written code instead of the arbitrary caprice of a chieftain–a step, as everyone will admit, of vast importance in the progress of a tribe. The Mosque gives an idea of architecture at all events higher than any the Negro has yet had. A thirst for literature is created and that for works of science and philosophy as well as for the commentaries on the Qur’an.’ (Quoted from Waitz by B. Smith, Muhammad and Muhammadanism, pp.42-43)

The tolerance of Islam is another factor in the spread of Islam. Toynbee praises this tolerance towards the People of the Book after comparing it with the attitude of the Christians towards Muslims and Jews in their lands. (A Historian’s Approach to Religion, p.246). T. Link attributes the spread of Islam to the credibility of its principles together with its tolerance, persuasion and other kinds of attractions (A History of Religion). Makarios, Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch in the seventeenth century, compared the harsh treatment received by the Russians of the Orthodox Church at the hands of the Roman Catholic Poles with the tolerant attitude towards Orthodox Christians shown by the Ottoman Government and prayed for the Sultans (T. Link, A History of Religion).

This is not the only example of preference by the followers of the religions for Muslim rule over that of their own co-religionist. The Orthodox Christians of Byzantium openly expressed their preference for the Ottoman turban in Istanbul to the hats of the Catholic cardinals. Elisee Reclus, the French traveller of the nineteenth century, wrote that the Muslim Turk allowed all the followers of different religions to perform their religious duties and rituals, and that the Christian subjects of the Ottoman Sultan were more free to live their own lives than the Christians who lived in the lands under the rule of any rival Christian sect (Nouvelle Geographie Universelle, vol. 9). Popescu Ciocanel pays tribute to the Muslim Turks by stating that it was luck for the Romanian people that they lived under the government of the Turks rather than the domination of the Russians and Austrians. Otherwise, he points out, ‘no trace of the Romanian nation would have remained,’ (La Crise de l’Orient).

The Muslims’ attitude towards the people they conquered is quite clear in the instructions given by the rightly-guided Caliphs: ‘Always keep fear of God in your mind; remember that you cannot afford to do anything without His grace. Do not forget that Islam is a mission of peace and love. Keep the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) before you as a model of bravery and piety. Do not destroy fruit-trees nor fertile fields in your paths. Be just, and spare the feelings of the vanquished. Respect all religious persons who live in hermitages or convents and spare their edifices. Do not kill civilians. Do not outrage the chastity of women and the honour of the conquered. Do not harm old people and children. Do not accept any gifts from the civil population of any place. Do not billet your soldiers or officers in the houses of civilians. Do not forget to perform your daily prayers. Fear God. Remember that death will inevitably come to every one of you some time or other, even if you are thousands of miles away from a battlefield; therefore be always ready to face death.’ (Andrew Miller, Church History; Ali lbn Abi Talib, Nahj al-Balagha)

A historical episode which Balazouri, a famous Muslim historian, relates, tells about how pleased the native peoples were with their Muslim conquerors is of great significance:

When Heraclius massed his troops against the Muslims, and the Muslims heard that they were coming to meet them, they refunded the inhabitants of Hims the tribute they had taken from them, saying: ‘We are too busy to support and protect you. Take care of yourselves.’ But the people of Hims replied: ‘We like your rule and justice far better than the state of oppression and tyranny in which we were. The army of Heraclius we shall indeed, with your help, repulse from the city.’ The Jews rose and said: ‘We swear by the Torah, no governor of Heraclius shall enter the city of Hims unless we are first vanquished and exhausted.’ Saying this, they closed the gates of the city and guarded them. The inhabitants of other cities–Christians and Jews–that had capitulated did the same. When by God’s help the unbelievers were defeated and Muslims won, they opened the gates of their cities, went out with singers and players of music, and paid the tribute (Futuh al-Buldan).

To sum up, although most Western writers, under the instigation of biased Orientalists of the Church, have alleged that Islam spread by the force of the sword, the spread of Islam was because of its religious content and values, and ‘its power of appeal and ability to meet the spiritual and material needs of people adhering to cultures totally alien to their Muslim conquerors’, together with some other factors. Some of these factors are the tolerance which Islam showed to people of other religions, the absence of ecclesiastic orders and hierarchy in Islam, mental freedom and absolute justice which Islam envisages and has exercised throughout the centuries, the ethical values it propagates, and Islamic humanitarianism, universalism and brotherhood, and its inclusiveness. Sufi activities, the moral superiority of Muslim tradesmen, the principle of ‘enjoining the good’, and Islamic dynamism and the magnificence of the Islamic civilization contributed of their own to the spread of Islam.

The main religious qualities which attracted people to Islam were:

the simplicity of the theological doctrines of Islam based on the Divine Unity;

rationalism of the Islamic teachings;

the complete harmony of the Islamic ideals and values with human conscience;

the inclusiveness and comprehensives of Islam, covering all aspects of physical, mental, and spiritual life of individuals and societies, hence the harmony of religion and life which it established;

the lack of formalism and mediation;

the vividness, dynamism and resilience of the Islamic theology, and its creativity and universalism, and its compatibility with established scientific facts;

the cohesion and harmony of the Islamic principles, and

the shortcomings of other theological systems.

[svt-husbands]

Musafir

Member: Mingyu Genre: Angst Word Count: 7859

ek musafir ki kahaani suno, aur mehsoos karo andhera ka raj. ek musafir ki kahaani suno, aur dekho do premiyon ki maut.

Mingyu felt the breeze tickle the back of his neck. It was soft and cooling against his warm skin. He felt his hair and clothing ruffle by order of the wind. He took a breath, deep in and deep out. He closed his eyes and turned up to the sun. Its warm rays heated his tanned skin, muted by the cooler breeze. Under his bare feet, he could feel the slight dampness of the grass and valley floor. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands. In his left, a silk scarf. It was white, embroidered with gold thread. It felt soft and smooth, and felt like home. It was wrapped and tied up his arm, a makeshift tourniquet. The soft white color was painted red. In his right hand, a sword. Red liquid still fell from the curved blade, dripping onto the ground and his skin. He let go of the silver hilt and felt it drop next to his feet. Turning both palms up, Mingyu saw the blood. Whether it was his own or someone else’s, he was not sure. He began to feel stinging on his back, chest, arms, and thighs. He touched his face, and felt a cut along his cheek. The pain began to blossom and he was pushed into his reality.

Mingyu looked around and saw bodies falling, swords clashing, blood spraying. Mingyu saw a soldier, wearing bronze armor and black clothing, spun and slashed at his opponent’s neck, and turned away at the exposure of blood. He used his sleeve to wipe off the blade, and saw Mingyu. The soldier gripped the bronze hilt of the sword and began to rush towards Mingyu. Mingyu could not move, still in a trance. He heard ringing in his ears, sounds getting muffled. A yell, loud and most definitely male, echoed in front of him. He saw bronze approach him, and silver blind him. He closed his eyes, but instead of feeling pain, he heard the clang of metal and felt silk against the exposed parts of his skin.

A warm palm and cool fingers gripped his forearm, just above the white silk. He opened his eyes, and saw the soldier stopped in his tracks, holding his bronze blade pressed against the curved gold sword in the hands of his savior. He smelled sweet flowers, lotus. He saw a person, covered in white silk embroidered with gold, the same white shade as the scarf tied around his arm. Just like the scarf, the clothing was covered in blood. He looked down and saw the hand on his arm. It was small and felt like home. Rings adorned the fingers, connected to a bracelet by way of chains and gemstones. His savior turned towards him upon defeating the soldier.

But Mingyu could not see their face, because as soon as they turned, his vision blurred and he fell to his knees. Unsure of what was happening, Mingyu held his chest and felt warm blood, but no pain. His vision darkened completely, and he felt the grass on his cheek. The muffled sounds silenced, and all he heard was metal. Nothing but metal clashing. No screams, no voices, nothing but metal. Eventually, the metal died down, until all he heard was his phone ring.

Mingyu shot up out of his bed, covered in sweat. Panting heavily, he saw his phone on the side table and grabbed it. It was a call from a friend, Wonwoo. He swallowed and answered.

“Hello?” He heard shouts on the other ends, and a person in the background yell for the shouts to cease in a less than polite way.

“Hey, Mingyu! Where are you?” Wonwoo asked. Mingyu shook his head and checked the time on the clock on his side table. Seeing it spell 11:12 in green numbers, Mingyu thought for a minute.

“Hello? Mingyu! Hello? What the heck, are you drunk or something?” Upon realizing that he was late to meet his friends, he jumped out of his bed and rushed towards his closet, grabbing clothing and running into the bathroom. He tripped over the bathroom rugs and fell forward, dropping his phone. He reached over and put his phone on speaker.

“Gyu?” A new voice, he recognized it and connected it to Minghao. “All good there, buddy?”

“Yeah, I’m fine! I just tripped,” he said. He heard laughs on the other end.

“God, you idiot!” Mingyu could imagine Minghao rolling his eyes. “Just get here quick! You’re already late, and we’re all here to celebrate your birthday, stupid!” Mingyu got up and began to dress.

“I’m on my way, ten minutes.”

“Five, and not a second longer.” He heard the end call beeping and washed his face. He dried it and looked in the mirror. His skin was pale and eyes bloodshot. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. Thinking back to his dream, Mingyu realized it was the same dream he had been having for months. Ignoring it, he smiled, for it was his birthday. He needed to reach the restaurant his friends had rented out for him as soon as possible. It was more important than his dream.

Upon reaching the port side restaurant, he was directed to the terrace, where his friends were gathered. He arrived silently, and they were not aware he was there until he approached Wonwoo.

“You’re here! Good, otherwise everything would have gone to waste. Happy birthday, Mingyu!” He gave his friend a hug and thanked him. He heard a loud, collective birthday wish from his friends and smiled.

“Thanks all of you!”

“Why were you so late?” Soonyoung asked from his place on the couches and chairs placed in a large semicircle around a table full of food and drinks. Mingyu bit his lip, not wanting to be mocked for the dream.

“I, uh, overslept.”

“Oh, oh, do you smell that?” Seungkwan asked, standing and grimacing as if he could smell something. Mingyu saw recognition on Seokmin’s face, who began to play along.

“Yes, I do! It smells so familiar! Smells like,” he said.

“Bullshit!” They both said together. Mingyu glared at them and began helping himself to the food.

Mingyu laughed with his friends on that port side terrace. He felt his nerves free and his heart feel happy. He did not care about that dream, because his friends were there. He laughed at Seungkwan’s drama, forgetting the soldier. He laughed at Seungcheol’s terrible jokes, forgetting the bodies falling. He joined Minghao in poking fun at various members of their friend group, forgetting the grass wet with blood. He complained about meaningless things, forgetting the silver blades and metal clanging against metal. He drank and ate and celebrated his birthday, forgetting his savior.

By the end of the night, he felt happy and free. He waved goodbye to his friends, and with Minghao, he walked alongside the riverbank.

“Gyu, were you okay this morning?” Minghao asked out of the blue. His voice was softer than usual. Mingyu stopped and turned to him.

“What do you mean?” Minghao walked to the edge of the riverbank and leaned over the railing overlooking the water.

“You were late, which you never are. You didn’t even drink that much last night.” Mingyu remembered the outing to a club the night before, and remembered the single beer he drank before leaving. “You were a little pale when you got to the restaurant, now that I think about it. So spill, what’s wrong?” Mingyu sighed and joined him. He looked out to the horizon.

“Remember that dream I told you about a couple of weeks ago?”

“The battlefield one? Did you see it again last night?” Mingyu nodded.

“Yeah, but it was different this time. It was longer, more vivid. It felt really real. I almost saw their face.” Minghao turned abruptly.

“What happened? I mean, longer?”

“They were just about to turn around, but I don’t know, I fell? I couldn’t see and could barely hear. Eventually, I woke up. It was so weird, but so real. I think I was bleeding this time. Something hurt, and it was like I was on drugs or something. Everything was so… odd. I don’t even know how to describe it. I could feel everything, but I couldn’t comprehend anything? I don’t know, Hao. Maybe someone spiked my drink last night.” Mingyu looked at Minghao, who was in deep thought.

“Highly unlikely,” he sighed. Minghao looked at Mingyu. “This one seems worse than the other times, and I assume I’m still the only one who knows?” Mingyu nodded. “You know how my mom is kind of superstitious? There’s some pundit she knows, from India or something. Maybe you should talk to him, maybe he could help?” Mingyu looked down at the reflection of the moon in the river. His mind was lost and unclear, just like the rippling image. Maybe it would benefit him to seek out spiritual help? Or maybe he is a complete fool, and just needs to sleep properly to forget what is just a dream. He wasn’t sure if it was worth it.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. Am I crazy? And since when have you supported her superstition?” Minghao squeezed Mingyu’s shoulder.

“You’re not crazy, just… lost. And I don’t, it was just a solution and I don’t see you having any rational solutions either.” Mingyu smiled and chucked. He thanked the heavens for Minghao’s friendship, forgiving and wholesome. “I’m gonna head home, Gyu. It’s late, and we both have work in the morning.”

“Yeah, damn,” Mingyu groaned, earning Minghao’s laughter.

“I’ll see you at the office.”

“Night,” Mingyu waved and watched his friend disappear into the darkness. Staying at the riverbank for a few minutes, he reflected on his friend’s words. What did Minghao mean by lost? Shaking it off, he decided to move on home, and see what the night brought him.

As he began to walk, he smelled flowers. He stopped in his tracks and looked around. He was alone, on a dark riverbank in the city. The lampposts were his only support, and there was no sign of movement. He frowned. Where was the scent coming from? Confused, he shook his head and kept going. The scent got stronger, and he was able to recognize it. He smelled the sweet flowers, fruity and fresh. It was so familiar, the lotus, and yet uncommon in the city. He spun around, looking for any sign of people. He kept going, looking for any person to give him a sign that he wasn’t imagining the strong scent. He found no one.

“What the heck? Mingyu, snap out of it. Just think about that report you need to file tomorrow,” he said to himself. As he straightened himself out, he heard metal clashing. Faint at first, but getting louder and louder. He knew he was alone, and swords were outdating now. Mingyu closed his eyes and put his hands against his ears. He yelled as loud as he could, drowning out the metal. Eventually, the metal died down, until all he heard was silence. Taking a deep breath, he released his head and opened his eyes. He was still on the riverbank, a breeze cooling down his heated skin. He panted and began to walk home. He no longer smelled the lotus. The breeze picked up, and as he turned towards an alley to lead him away from the river, he felt silk touch his neck and face. Mingyu reached the back of his neck, and pulled a white colored scarf that was blown to him. Holding it out, he realized that it was the same one tied on his arm in the dream, sans the blood. He turned around and saw a figure on the opposite side of the bank. His eyes widened, and gripping the scarf tightly, he sprinted for the bridge and crossed. When he reached the location where he saw the figure, he was alone. The figure was gone, and all Mingyu was left with was the scarf and questions. He knew this was reality, and was more confused than ever. He looked at the scarf again. The gold thread picked up the moonlight and street light and shimmered. Mingyu closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. He took the scarf with him, crossed the bridge, and walked home.

Mingyu found himself lying down on a soft blanket, looking up at a clear sky. His left arm was behind his head, his right was around a human’s waist. He could hear birds chirping, and could see flowers from his peripheral vision. His looked down, and saw a person with their head on his chest and a hand on his stomach. Soft and silky hair, tousled with the breeze.

Mingyu smiled softly, as if he was familiar with the situation, and lifted his arm from the person’s waist. He ran a hand through their hair, and felt soft strands flow through his fingers. The person laughed and sat up on the blanket. Their laugh sounded like bells ringing and birds chirping and all things pretty. Mingyu relaxed back onto the blanket and closed his eyes. He exhaled softly and opened his eyes again.

Instead of seeing a bright blue sky, he saw a darkened sky, a ominous mix of red and black. In the far distance, he could see explosions. The screams, the blasts, the clashing of metal. The sounds amplified, deafening Mingyu. He sat up, realizing that he was alone and lying on wet grass. He touched his neck, feeling a foreign liquid. It was smooth and dark, and the dim light around him revealed that it was blood. Mingyu was horrified knowing that the blood was not his, and stood up. He saw bodies around him, fires blazing, swords left behind.  Confused, Mingyu started running in an unknown direction. He began panting as he saw more and more war horror. Tears fell out of his eyes as he saw soldiers, men he recognized somehow, fall to their deaths. Mingyu stopped when a figure blocked his way. The person was tall, around Mingyu’s height. The body and face was concealed in a black cloak that was damp in places. Mingyu jumped in shock when the person came close to him. Mingyu stood at the same height as the person, and he yelled in shock as the hood was removed to reveal the face. In front of him stood himself, but different. Copy Mingyu’s eyes were completely black and his skin was pale. Black veins under the skin of his face and neck offset the pale grey color, making Mingyu’s counterpart look demonic. The copy smiled, revealing razor sharp fangs and blood drops falling from his mouth.

“This is just the beginning. You will lose so much by the end.” Mingyu frowned.

“What? Beginning of what?” The copy smiled bigger, and Mingyu felt weak all of a sudden. He fell to his knees and to the ground. The world spun and spun, until all that was left was black.

Mingyu woke up in a sweat, this time, on the floor of his living room. It seems he had fallen off the couch. Rubbing his chin, he sat up and leaned against the sofa. The television was still on. He got up, put on some coffee, and went to brush his teeth. When Mingyu looked at himself in the mirror, he had to do a double take. At first he saw the copy Mingyu and his dead eyes. He splashed some water, quite literally, on his face and rubbed his eyes. He saw his own face, pale and worried, in the mirror.

“I’m going crazy. Maybe I should talk to that pundit,” Mingyu thought, remembering the conversation he and Minghao had a few nights ago.

Going back to his living room, Mingyu picked up his phone from the floor and checked the time. It was almost 10:30, and there were new messages from Minghao

‘gyu ur not working today right’

‘come over im calling the others’

‘dude u usually respond’

‘god ur sleeping arent u’

‘WAKE UP’

Mingyu chuckled and replied back.

‘im up. what more do you want from me? ill be over at noon’

Mingyu locked his phone and tossed it onto the couch. He went to the kitchen and poured coffee for himself, reflecting over the dream. He noticed the scarf from last night sitting on his table top and stared at it. He hoped it would give him some answers as to what was going on. He thought to talk to Minghao later, maybe he could help out? Mingyu knew that his friend was always more imaginative and intuitive than himself. He could not help but wonder, maybe the copy Mingyu’s words meant something. Maybe this really was the beginning.

“Or maybe I’m going insane.”

Later that day, Mingyu sat on Minghao’s couch with the host himself, Wonwoo, Seungcheol, Hansol, Jun, and Soonyoung. The others had plans or work apparently. Minghao and Mingyu began to chat while the rest bickered about what movie to watch.

“I had another dream last night.” Minghao raised his eyebrows.

“The same one?” Mingyu shook his head.

“So different. I was in a valley, someone was with me. I’m not entirely sure, but everything became dark, there was a lot of blood and fire and screaming.”

“Another battlefield? Was the person in white there?”

“No. Not this time. This time…,” Mingyu paused. “This time, it was me.” Minghao blinked a few times.

“I’m lost.”

“I mean it literally. It was me, but not me? It was a carbon copy of me, but it was demonic. Black eyes and black veins and bloody fangs. It was really, really creepy.” Minghao was silent for a bit.

“That’s… not normal, mate.”

“I know,” Mingyu sighed. “But what do I do? Who do I talk to?” He stopped for a moment and turned to Minghao fully. “Give me the number for your mom’s pundit.” Minghao raised an eyebrow and looked at him as if he had two heads.

“You’re kidding, right? You want to talk to some loony to get a fix for your weird dreams over, I don’t know, a therapist?”

“I’ll go to a therapist, Hao. But it doesn’t hurt for me to try this, does it?” Minghao looked at Mingyu. Seeing the hope in his eyes, the Chinese man sighed and gave in. He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts, stopping and calling his mother. He stood up and walked past Soonyoung and Hansol, who were reading through movie reviews on Hansol’s phone. He motioned for Mingyu to follow him to the kitchen. Seungcheol saw the two move away from the living room and followed.

“What’s going on?” He asked Mingyu, who silenced him quickly. Minghao finally got through to his mother.

“Mama? Oh, Baba, can you get Mama on the phone? I need to talk to her quickly.” A pause. “Yes, yes, I’ll call again later tonight, some of the guys are over.” Another pause. “Yes, Baba, Jun-ge is here. No, you can’t speak to him right now.” Minghao rolled his eyes and Mingyu silently chuckled. “Finally, Mama! I needed the number for your pundit guy.” He listened to his mother and groaned. “No, Mama, it’s not for me! It’s for a friend!” He paused. “No, it’s not a girl! Mama, please.” He paused again, and quickly reached for a notepad and pen, hurriedly scribbling a number down. “Thanks, Mama. I’ll call back later. Bye bye!” Minghao quickly hung up and exhaled. Seungcheol laughed.

“I love your mom. Now, explain why you called her for a pundit?��� Seungcheol asked. Mingyu sighed.

“I’ve been having these dreams…”

The three in the kitchen completely forgot about the other four in the living room enjoying a film. Seungcheol listened intently to Mingyu. By the serious look on Mingyu’s face, he knew he wasn’t pulling his leg. He let the information sink in.

“These dreams have been happening for how long?”

“About two months, give or take?” Mingyu said.

“Did they just start randomly?”

“I guess so? I don’t know, man,” Mingyu sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. “God, I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m so confused about what this is.” Seungcheol knelt next to him and held his shoulder. Minghao knelt as well.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure this out, okay? You both work in the same office, when are you both off again?” Mingyu looked at Minghao and shrugged.

“Work is on the back burner right now. I just want to figure this out. God, I even found the scarf from the dream!”

“Scarf? The white thing you kept talking about?” Minghao questioned. He cussed quietly when Mingyu nodded. Mingyu stood up and went to where his jacket was, pulling out the white scarf, the one thing that was tied to his dreams. He brought it back to the kitchen, where Minghao and Seungcheol took in deep breaths.

“Fuck, this is real?” Minghao held it in his hands, feeling some foreign power. Mingyu watched as Minghao turned it over and examined the embroidery, completely fascinated. He saw his friend’s eyes glitter and the gold reflect in his eyes. He saw Minghao’s lips move, mouthing something. Mingyu turned and shared a look with Seungcheol, and did not notice the slight twitch of Minghao’s cheek.

“Do you see something, Hao?” Mingyu’s question broke Minghao out of his trance, forcing Minghao to throw the scarf away from him on his counter. Minghao felt flustered for a minute.

“That’s not a normal scarf. It’s… just not.” He looked at Mingyu with a foreign look in his eyes. “Mate, I don’t think this is a normal dream issue. There’s something deeper. Something you’re missing. That scarf… there’s something wrong with it.” Seungcheol raised an eyebrow and went to reach for the scarf. He took a hold of it, and felt his heart beat faster. He brought it closer to his face, seeing the gold thread shimmer. He saw the thread form letters and words along the edge, but could not read it.

“Gyu, it looks like there’s writing on here, but I can’t read the language. Seems foreign, or ancient.” He handed the scarf to Mingyu, and suddenly felt cold. He shivered a bit and rubbed his arms. Ignoring it, he looked at Mingyu. Mingyu saw the writing, and somehow knew what was written.

“Behold the story of the Traveler, the one who carries the dark and infects the light. Beware the story of the Traveler, the one who takes all warmth.” Minghao was taken aback.

“What the hell, Gyu? How did you read that? It’s not in…” Mingyu was at a loss for words. The intricate writing was foreign, yet so familiar to him. He shouldn’t have known the language, but he did.

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right, maybe there is something more to this whole thing. I shouldn’t have been able to read that.”

“But you d-did. T-that’s g-got to- fuck-k,” Seungcheol stuttered. He began shivering intensely, and fell to his knees. Mingyu dropped the scarf and went to help Minghao lift him from the floor.

“Cheol? Hao, what?” Minghao shook his head frantically.

“Get him to my room, come on!” The sudden shouting from the kitchen garnered the attention of the four boys from the living room. Wonwoo entered the kitchen first.

“What’s going- Cheol!” He quickly aided in getting Seungcheol to Minghao’s bedroom. Hansol helped Minghao get blankets and quilts, while Soonyoung dialed a doctor. Jun sat next to Seungcheol and felt his forehead.

“He’s burning up, guys. He wasn’t sick earlier, what happened?” Hansol and Minghao returned with blankets and began laying them on Seungcheol. Wonwoo tried to get Seungcheol’s attention, but it was futile. He wasn’t conscious.

“Soonyoung! The doctor?” Wonwoo yelled. Soonyoung frowned and shook his head.

“Have to call an ambulance. Doctor isn’t making house calls today.” He left the room to call for emergency services. Wonwoo looked at Minghao and Mingyu.

“What the hell happened?” Mingyu shrugged.

“I don’t know. One minute he’s fine, the next he’s shivering on the floor.” Minghao groaned.

“I told you that scarf isn’t normal. It started after he touched it.” Mingyu looked down and agreed silently. Wonwoo looked between both of them.

“Back up. Scarf? What scarf?” Jun asked. Mingyu rubbed his face. He did not want too many people knowing, and judging him, about the dreams. But circumstances were forcing his hand. He was not sure of the reaction he would get from his friends, but what choice did he have?

“I’ve been having these dreams. They’ve been too vivid, too real, and the night of my birthday, I found the scarf from the dream. Seungcheol was looking at it, and when he put it down, he started shivering, and I’m not sure why because both Minghao and I have touched it and we’re perfectly fine. He shouldn’t be shivering, maybe there’s something wrong with the scarf? I don’t understand why he’s like this all of a sudden, what if he’s-“ Soonyoung came into the room and put a hand over Mingyu’s mouth.

“He’s word vomiting. I think he’s just shocked, Cheol probably drank something. The doctors will help him.” Minghao shook his head in protest.

“No, Mingyu’s not shocked! I swear, he’s not kidding. That scarf is… there’s something wrong with it.” The others looked skeptical.

“Look, let’s just get Seungcheol to the hospital and then discuss this… scarf.” Hansol concluded, gaining mass agreement.

As the paramedics came to take Seungcheol, Mingyu could not help but reflect on the words he read. Minghao was right: the scarf had to have something to do with Seungcheol’s sudden sickness. But once again, he was left with more questions than answers.

By the time Seungcheol was admitted into the emergency room at their local hospital, all of their friends were gathered in the waiting room. Passing medical staff were shocked by the twelve men crowding a small waiting area for one patient. Jeonghan and Joshua, the oldest behind Seungcheol, were forced to calm everyone down.

“Okay. Minghao, he was at your place when this happened, right? What happened?” Joshua asked. Minghao said nothing and looked at Mingyu, who knew he needed to explain the situation one more time.

“Look, everything I’m about to say is going to sound absolutely insane. Just… listen to me, okay?” A chorus of quiet agreements flooded Mingyu’s ears. He took a deep breath and explained everything, from the beginning with the first dream and his savior in white, to finding the scarf on the night of his birthday, to the dream with the demonic copy, to Seungcheol touching the scarf. By the end of his thorough explanation, Mingyu was winded. He looked around the waiting area and found different reactions. Jeonghan, Jun, Wonwoo, and Jihoon looked contemplative, as if they were processing the information. Seokmin, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung looked unimpressed. Hansol and Chan shared a look of confusion. Only Joshua looked relatively understanding. Seungkwan looked at the others and groaned.

“Are you kidding? Mingyu, what? You mean to say that this ’scarf’ make Cheol sick?” He made air quotes to emphasize the mystery around the scarf. Mingyu stood up from his place.

“I think so. Look, as soon as he touched it, he got sick. Minghao was there, he knows. Right, Hao?” He turned, and ten eyes were on Minghao. He looked up at Mingyu. He blinked twice and swallowed. An eternity passed in Mingyu’s mind before his best and trusted friend said anything.

“Yeah. Believe it or not, that scarf is… it’s not normal. There’s something wrong. But…,” he broke off.

“But?” Mingyu butted in. He was unsure of what Minghao was trying to say. “But what, Hao?”

“But I touched it too, and I’m fine.” Mingyu bit his lower lip. He was right; they both touched it, and out of the three, only Seungcheol was ill. Chan piped up.

“Hold on, I think we can solve this. Gyu, do you have the scarf?” Mingyu nodded and pulled it out of his pocket. He unfolded it and held it to the light. No one dared to come closer, save for Chan, Wonwoo, and Joshua. Wonwoo focused on one symbol embroidered, while Joshua examined the writing. Chan motioned to take the cloth from Mingyu, who refused to hand it over.

“Gyu, please. Nothing will happen. Just lay it on my hands, okay?” Chan explained. Mingyu looked at the youngest of the group skeptically. “Look, I know clothes. I work in a textile company, for God’s sake. Nothing will happen. I’ll recognize the cloth and give it back.”

“Do it, Mingyu. It won’t hurt to try,” Joshua gave his two cents. Mingyu slowly put the scarf on Chan’s palms, hearing Minghao’s sharp intake of breath. He let go of the scarf and looked at Chan. The youngest examined the embroidery and the cloth, as well as the thread. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed.

“Well? Anything?” Jihoon said. Chan looked at him, then to Mingyu.

“I don’t think this was made in any factory, or by mass production. It’s definitely silk, and I think the thread is actual gold. The embroidery is too delicate to be done by machine, it’s definitely by hand.” Wonwoo moved closer to the scarf. He pointed to a symbol on the scarf.

“See that semi-circle looking thing, with two uneven lines coming down from it? It’s an Egyptian symbol, meaning the Land of the Dead.” He then pointed to another symbol. “That one there, it seems like its an eclipse. In Hinduism, it can mean evil possession.”

“Never thought your History degree would come in handy,” Soonyoung mentioned as he jumped over Jihoon to take a look at the symbols. Wonwoo exhaled.

“I know, right? A lot of these symbols mean death or evil. That flower is the Japanese Higanbana.”

“Flower of death,” Chan whispered. Wonwoo nodded. Joshua pointed to the writing.

“What does that say? It looked like script.” Minghao stood up.

“Mingyu could read it.” Ten eyes turned to Mingyu. He stayed silent, until he saw Jeonghan’s waiting face.

“I… it says ‘Behold the story of the Traveler, the one who carries the dark and infects the light. Beware the story of the traveler, the one who takes all warmth,’” Mingyu read. Joshua frowned.

“It doesn’t look like a common language. What is it?” Mingyu shrugged. “Then how can you read it?” He shrugged again and looked away.

“Guys, this feels like something from a story book. What the heck is going on?” Seokmin said.

Mingyu was about to lose it. He sat down heavily on one of the chairs in the waiting area. He was already so confused with what the scarf was, what his dreams meant. Sure, he now knew that combined with the symbols and writing from the scarf and the bloody dreams, a general answer was death. What he did not know was why the answer was death. What did the symbols have to do with him. What did that mean for Seungcheol and Chan, now that they had touched the white scarf? Realizing that the scarf was still in Chan’s hands, he shot up, ready to take it from him. But before he could, Jun took it into his hands. Mingyu watched as Jun held the scarf gingerly. He saw Jun rub the thread with the pad of his thumb. He turned to Chan, who seemed relatively okay. Chan smiled, motioning that ‘Look, I’m okay.’ Mingyu took a breath.

“Maybe Seungcheol was just sick,” he said. “Maybe we’re just assuming things.” He almost let himself smile. Almost, because as soon as he calmed down, he saw a bit of blood trickle from Chan’s nose. “No,” he whispered. Everything happened in slow motion, yet within a few seconds. Chan began to cough out blood all of a sudden. Jeonghan grabbed him and brought him down to the floor, shouting for a nurse. Soonyoung and Minghao were at his side in a flash. They rubbed his hands and tried to stop the blood flowing from his mouth and eyes, while Jun ran for a nurse, dropping the scarf. He watched in sheer horror as Jun fell to the ground, clutching his chest. Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seokmin were the closest to him. Shouts filled Mingyu’s ears as nurses and doctors brought crash carts and gurneys to the waiting area. A bloody Chan and a heaving Jun were wheeled away, out of his sight. Soonyoung looked at his hands, before looking at Mingyu with tears in his eyes.

“What the hell, Mingyu? What the hell is this?” Mingyu felt eight pairs of eyes on him. Minghao approached him and held his shoulder, but did not meet his eyes. Mingyu looked like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing without words forming. He felt tears form, and moved back. He felt the others corner him, and he crouched to the ground. He grabbed his head and covered his ears. He felt a hand on his back, but he closed his eyes. He blocked out the voices of his friends, their questions and demands for some answers. He blocked out the smell of the hospital, sterile and cold. He blocked out everything, as much as he could. Fear raced through his veins, and his heart beat faster and faster. Eventually everything was silent. He was finally at peace.

The calm disappeared relatively quickly. He felt the lower half of his jeans dampen, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the blue stained black. He looked around frantically. His heart began to thump, thump, thump harder in his chest. He saw swords clashing again, he saw bodies falling again. He saw the bright blue sky, he saw fires in the distance. He felt the blood from soldiers spray onto him, he felt the chill of death around him. He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed, louder than he ever had. There was ringing in his ear. When he opened his eyes, he saw Seungcheol fall to the ground. Mingyu got up and sprinted to him. Cuts littered his body, a deep gash across his chest. Mingyu tried to stop the blood, crying and screaming Seungcheol’s name. He felt the blood’s warmth on his hands and fell back, staring at his hands. Next to him, Chan fell. His arm was on fire, and burn marks scarred his young face. Mingyu voiced his anguish while patting out the fire, ignoring the pain from the flames. He tried to wake Chan up, but could not. He looked up and saw Jun fall in the distance, the sword in his hand falling. An arrow pierced his neck, poking out the other side. Mingyu screamed Jun’s name. He felt an arrow nick his arm, and breathed in smoke from a nearby fire. He stood up and moved back, unsure of what to do. His foot caught on something and he slipped. He felt rocks in his back. Mingyu groaned and tried to sit up. He noticed something white at his feet. Grabbing at it, he felt the silk and saw the scarf. Mingyu felt his breath get snatched away. The cursed scarf that had sickened his friends. He clutched it in his hand, getting ready to throw it away, until he noticed something new. He opened his fist, and under the transferred blood and dirt, he saw a new symbol. It looked like a V, with two extra lines at the top on the right stroke. It looked like the number 17, but compressed. It was right above the writing on the scarf. He knew it was not there originally, but was not sure of its meaning. While he examined it, he heard familiar voices. He looked up and saw Hansol on his knees. His eyes spoke volumes of fear and pain. Mingyu dropped the scarf and crawled towards him. He stopped when he saw the rest of his friends on their knees next to Hansol. In the center was Minghao. He was the only one looking down. Behind Minghao was copy Mingyu. The creature smiled, and Mingyu felt chills go down his spine.

“I told you. This was just the beginning.” The copy disappeared from behind Minghao, and reappeared directly in front of Mingyu. The suddenness of the appearance threw Mingyu back physically. He noticed small details about this demon. The edges around the copy was blurred, not clear, as if he was an apparition. The blood falling from his mouth  and eyes was not blood, or any liquid. It was a thick, opaque black gas of some sort. It fell like liquid, but never reached the ground. The gas formed around the copy creature like a cloud. Mingyu looked at the creature’s feet and saw nothing.

“What are you?” The creature tilted his head at Mingyu’s question and moved closer. Mingyu realized that it was impossible for a human to be that close to his face and not touch the ground at all. He felt the black gas envelop him, until all he could see was darkness. Gone were his friends, the fires, the fighters. Gone was the screams and swords. He could not feel grass anymore, but something smooth and cold. He could not even see himself in the darkness. In front of him appeared a person in white. The person was familiar to Mingyu and yet, he knew he had never met this person. As he focused on them, he felt as if he knew them, body and soul. The person looked down, hair covering their face. They were on their knees, hands together on their lap. Mingyu opened his mouth, and exhaled.

“(Y/N).” At hearing the name, the person looked up. Mingyu felt as if his breath was taken away. He knew them. He knew their memories. He remembered holding their hand and taking walks along an unknown riverbank. He remembered holding their face and wiping away tears. He remembered their kisses and shared moments of love. He remembered who he was to them, and who they were to him. He remembered their eyes, their beautiful eyes. They were his favorite shade of color, because the color meant happiness and love and peace to him. Mingyu reached out his hand, whispering (Y/N)’s name over and over. He saw tears fall down their beautiful cheeks, and tried to move to wipe them away. He did not want their tears falling. He felt his heart break at their tears and at the fear in their eyes. They were a symbol of happiness to him, and he got upset that someone was making them unhappy. He saw a dark shadow at their shoulder morph into a hand. (Y/N)’s eyes closed tightly and let another tear fall. Their mouth opened and let out a cry. Mingyu yelled out at the hand, not knowing what else he could do. The same shadow morphed into the copy Mingyu. With a sinister grin, the copy whispered in (Y/N)’s ear.

“Get away!” Mingyu felt himself yell. He felt his anger rise at the daring of the copy Mingyu. The copy looked at Mingyu.

“And what if I don’t? What if I do this?” His own voice, with a creepy twist, said back. The copy brought the dagger to (Y/N)’s neck and dragged it down, positioning the tip directly above their heart.

“No!” Mingyu shouted. He felt (Y/N)’s fear and their panic. “Why them? Why my friends?” The copy smiled.

“Excellent question.” Mingyu relaxed for just a moment as the dagger was moved from their heart. “Because these humans are the only things keeping your soul from the Traveler.” Mingyu remembered the writing from the scarf, to beware the Traveler.

“Who is the Traveler? What do they want from me? And what are you?” The copy clicked his tongue in response.

“One at a time, one at a time. How about we make a deal? Your soul, in exchange for answers.”

“No. Tell me, who are you?” Mingyu felt a surge of confidence suddenly. He still could not stand, but felt as if he could move the shadows around him. He felt the foreign power fill his veins, just to let him get close enough to (Y/N) to keep them safe. The copy smiled.

“You and I are one. You are what once was; I am what will be.” Mingyu frowned. Mingyu glanced at (Y/N), who still had their eyes shut. He yearned to see their beautiful eyes again, after what felt like millennia. He felt his need to see them, to hold them one more time overpower him. Mingyu felt the shadows around him morph, as if they were allowing him to approach (Y/N). Within a few moments, Mingyu found himself in front of them. He did not see the copy Mingyu anywhere and kept his guard up. He moved his hands and held (Y/N)’s shoulders. Suddenly, they opened their eyes and looked at him. Mingyu felt as if he was falling in love all over again. He remembered the first time he saw them, in a foreign location, in a different time. They opened their mouth, ready to say something.

“I am not here anymore. The men, those soldiers, fighting darkness. You must save them all,” they whispered. Mingyu was confused. He held their face in his hands. They were real, they were there. (Y/N) shook their head.

“You misunderstand me, my love. Let go of me, one more time. Save them all.” Around them, a laugh echoed. It was not the laugh of the copy. Mingyu heard (Y/N) take in a sharp breath. “The Traveler.” Mingyu looked around them and saw nothing.

“Leave us alone! Leave us all alone!” He shouted to the shadows. The laugh, somehow familiar to him, became louder and more menacing. Mingyu felt as if he had encountered the Traveler before, maybe in a different time? Mingyu was still fuzzy on a majority of the details, but he did not care. His main objective as of right now was to save (Y/N). He turned back to them, and saw a figure behind them. The blade of a dagger flashed quickly, and before he knew it, he was cradling (Y/N)’s dying body. He could feel their soul leaving them, and could somehow feel the Traveler feeding off of their life force. Mingyu did not know what to do, so he yelled and screamed. He tried to counter the increasing laugh of the Traveler, but failed. The sinister laughter drowned Mingyu, and he felt (Y/N)’s body turn to sand in his arms. All that was left in their place was the cursed white scarf, with the 17 symbol glittering gold. Mingyu stood up and felt the shadows move around him. He felt his anger swell. His anger fueled the shadows to move faster, faster, faster around him. They swallowed him in a tornado of darkness, before rushing him. Mingyu felt too cold, too hot, and comfortable all at the same time. He felt stronger, both physically and mentally. The tornado of shadows died down and Mingyu was left the only one alive on a bloody battlefield. He looked at himself, and saw the edges of his being look fuzzy. His edges blended into a dark shadowy aura around him. In his left hand was the cursed scarf, all that remained of his (Y/N). He looked around and saw the bodies of his friends. He felt despair in his heart, and walked around each one. Mingyu felt warm tears roll down his cheeks, and cried for his friends.  He saw Joshua and Wonwoo, Jeonghan, Seungcheol. He saw Hansol, Chan and Soonyoung, Jun. He saw Jihoon, Seungkwan and Seokmin. All his brothers, except for one. He looked around, trying to find Minghao. Maybe he was alive, maybe he was still here.

“You won’t find him,” he heard the Traveler say. Mingyu felt his anger rise again. He felt the shadows around him and inside him grow in strength. The loss of (Y/N) and his friends, and the Traveler’s taunt of not finding Minghao threw him over the edge. He screamed again, but it was different this time. It was deeper, more emotional, more powerful. Mingyu felt his skin burn and his heart ache. He turned around and around, trying to find the source of the voice. He became even more frustrated, his temper flaring. The space around him became engulfed in flames that matched his rage.

“Come out, you coward! You killed (Y/N), you killed my best friends! Come out, and fight me!” The Traveler laughed at Mingyu’s open challenge.

“As you wish, Shadow-wielder.” The flames immediately died away, leaving charred remains of land. Mingyu heard footsteps behind him and turned, finding a human-like being hidden under a cloak. The person walked past fallen soldiers, past the bodies of his friends. He stopped at Jun, and touched his face.

“I believed he would be an excellent prey at first, before you and I met.” The Traveler closed Jun’s still open eyes and stood up. The being approached Mingyu, not afraid of the shadows around him.

“Look at you. You’ve become what you needed to be.” Mingyu growled and tried to move towards the Traveler. He was rooted to the spot. His temper flared even more at not being able to wring the Traveler’s throat.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ah yes, you have not seen yourself yet.” In front of Mingyu appeared a mirror, and Mingyu was taken aback. He looked like the copy Mingyu, sans the bloody fangs. His eyes were deep black, his once tanned skin was pale and exposed black veins. He looked gauntly.

“You’re lying. This… this isn’t me.” The Traveler laughed again.

“You feel the strength of a thousand warriors, do you not? You feel anger, you feel the darkness in your heart. This is the curse of humanity. A born darkness in all hearts, some concealed under hope, some easily exposed by sins. Here, I get the dark souls I desire.” Mingyu felt himself shatter. He felt shadows overwhelm him.

“Who are you? What are you?” Mingyu asked meekly, the confidence from the anger vanishing. The Traveler laughed one more time. A dark cloud surrounded the being, and slowly revealed his identity. Mingyu fell into shock at seeing the familiar figure under the black trousers, turtleneck, vest, and black suit jacket. He looked at the silver chains and piercings. He thought of the stark contrast between who he knew and the dark figure in front of him. Mingyu felt the earth slip beneath him and felt as if the world would come crashing down. He fell to his knees, then collapsed on his back. The last thing he saw was Minghao smirk and wave his fingers to him.

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-t