#i keep thinking how empty and pathetic and yes thin my life is compared to others

[cheekblush]

feeling very embarrassed about the thinness of my life tonight...

the lonely city: adventures in the art of being alone by olivia laing

[sserpente]

Pastel Blue (Chapter 6)

A/N: I hate how I have barely had any time to write lately! In all honesty, moving to a different country is quite  the challenge! 😂 I hope you enjoy the new chapter, I can’t wait to dive back into writing excessively, haha! ♥

Jess breathed out, watching how the warm air turned into fog. It was way too chilly down here. She had asked Mobius to install some radiators months ago but he wouldn’t listen. Loki on the other hand seemed to have no problem with the cold at all. He strutted next to her like he owned the place, with his head held high and a dark expression on his face.

M had a point. Despite the collar, it was a risk bringing Loki to a party of all things. But then again… she would be sure to laugh if he jumbled up the celebrations. Dave deserved it, kind of. Frankly, he could be a dick sometimes.

Loki smirked to himself. Her dress was green, with thin shoulder straps and a heart-shaped neckline. He offered her his arm when they stepped into the cafeteria, bathing in the mistrustful looks the whole of TVA eyed them with.

Mobius was stood at the buffet table, holding a glass filled with vodka and a green olive swimming in it in one hand while the other was buried in his pocket. The tawdry music, the chatting and the constant clattering of plates and cutlery made it nearly impossible for him to make out what the senior manager was saying now.

Warily, Loki glared him down. He was either oblivious to his excellent hearing, stupid enough to discuss such clandestine matters in the hallway or… or he meant for him to eavesdrop. Loki held on to the thought. He trusted him to feed him pathetic bits and pieces of information to keep him on his toes, to throw him small bones like a starved dog.

What if he was cleverer than he assumed he was? If he had incited Jess to spend time with him, make him believe she was on his side when she secretly ran off every day to tell Mobius about his behaviour like a child in day-care? If he used her to keep him on a leash in this godforsaken place? Loki gnashed his teeth.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” He mocked when he spotted him. The Trickster narrowed his eyes at him. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Jess rolling hers. Either way, he would not allow them to manipulate him and instead turn the tables. He was the master of mischief, after all.

“Enjoy yourself while you still can, Loki.” Dave added. “There’s a high chance you’ll kick the bucket next week.”

Jess rolled her eyes once more—or perhaps she was still rolling them, Loki was unsure. His eyes darted over to Mobius again, noticing with both dismay and an odd feeling of satisfaction making itself comfortable in his guts how the senior manager studied their interlinked arms.

A thin smile formed on his lips. Oh yes. Whatever your play is, I will turn it against you and I will burn this entire place to the ground until all you have left is a pile of ash and Jess—lovely and delicate Jess—will help me do so whether she is willing or not.

“Suck it up, Dave.” Jess barked. “Do you drink coke?” She continued sweetly then, directed at Loki.

“I beg your pardon?” He leaned forward slightly—close enough for her nostrils to be filled with his scent like she was some goddamn predator sensing its prey. If anything, Loki would be the predator in this scenario. She was but a lamb compared to him—a lamb who could kick his shin but a lamb nonetheless.

“Coke. Black fizzy drink, very sweet, spiked with Whiskey—not normally but definitely tonight.” She cleared her throat and winked at him and, much to his own surprise, his heart skipped a beat upon the flirty gesture. Perhaps this was the very reason he let her grab his arm and drag him away from both Mobius and Dave to plunder the bar.

“Don’t let her get drunk!” He heard Mobius call after him. Loki frowned.

Whoever was playing bartender tonight and doing a terribly slow job with that, Jess paid them no attention. Unceremoniously, she leaned over the counter, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of Whiskey. Granted, Loki knew nothing of Midgardian drinks and how there were properly mixed, he had a feeling, however, that more than half of the glass filled with Whiskey was not the proper way to mix a delightful alcoholic refreshment.

At least, so he had to admit, the view was a rather delectable one, with her backside wiggling around right before his eyes. He suppressed a dark chuckle.

Once she had tapped the faucet pouring a dark brown liquid to mix with the Whiskey and handed him one, she grinned, heaving herself up onto the counter completely and resting her feet on the barstool.

“Skål!” She announced, winking once more. Loki took a sip to conceal how thickly he had to swallow. As expected, the coke-Whiskey-mixture tasted horrible. His face distorted, making Jess laugh.

“There’s no Asgardian ale in this place, I’m afraid. Do you dance? You’re the God of Mischief, you must be dancing.”

Loki raised his eyebrows in response. “Is that all you will do at this so-called party? Drink and dance and then drink some more?”

Jess shrugged. “Never let anyone tell you that alcohol is not the solution. I’ve had some amazing nights forgetting my own name. So?” She downed her drink, slamming the empty glass on the counter so forcefully he feared it would break under the impact. “Do you dance?”

The music, whatever it was, was too slow for Jess’ taste. She’d much rather listen to some techno hits, and some Hip Hop and Dubstep hits to move her body to. It almost felt a little like space. A place to lose herself in, utterly and wholly, a place making her stronger rather than taking her energy away from her.

But Dave had always had a very uninspiring music taste and, given it was his anniversary, the music was unlikely to change anytime soon. Loki’s lips parted when she took his glass from his hand and downed it too. Neither of them expected the jolt of electricity rippling through them when she took his hand and entangled her fingers with his to pull him towards the middle of the cafeteria where Minutemen of all departments, scientists and even some of the security were moving to the music.

“That’s an interesting development after all, don’t you think?” Loki heard Dave say. Jess swirled them both around, her blue eyes closed in an attempt to dream herself into a reality where she could go out with her friends and lose her mind in a dimly lit nightclub surrounded and desired by both men and women alike. She would drink until she had forgotten about her parents and until she had lost her grasp on reality to enter space and be free and independent. Jess did not allow herself to dream often these days, for when she did… the urge to escape this place once more and turn her back on Mobius rose to an extent it brought her physical pain to resist.

“Well, he is charismatic. That doesn’t mean anything, does it? Jess has a weakness for bad boys and Loki is pretty much the definition of that.”

“Please. Thor’s little brother, how strong could he possibly be without his beloved sceptre?” Dave snorted.

“I wouldn’t underestimate him, especially not this variant. I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think he’d be of use. He’s smart. He doesn’t trust us.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mobius shrug. “We have a good reason not to trust him either. Not yet, at least. I’ve studied his entire life, remember?”

“You are not seriously thinking about removing that collar at some point, are you?”

Loki growled, lest he could not decide whether it was because of how good his palm felt against the small of Jess’ back or the way Dave and Mobius kept talking about him behind his back.

“Now I thought you said he couldn’t possibly be that strong without the sceptre?” Dave replied nothing to that. He did not need to. Mobius had made it clear enough that he was the figure of authority here. There was no way, however, he was going to be able to concentrate on this devilish bureaucrat and his ridiculous attempts to manipulate him as long as Jess’ body was rubbing against his in the most wicked ways. This woman, human or not, knew exactly what she was doing, regardless of the alcohol already clouding her system.

He smirked when another song ended and there was a moment of silence in his heart upon the lack of a loud bass reverberating in his chest. Jess opened her eyes in an almost luscious manner and took his hand once more to pour herself another drink.

He liked the way she took charge. Apart from Sif, she was so unlike all the Asgardian women he had known during his time in the realm he grew up in. Jess was neither offering him her devotion nor was she withholding her affection. His heart jumped upon remembering how she had hugged him in the bathroom. Peculiar.

While she emptied another repulsive coke-and-whiskey-mixture, his eyes caught another buffet table positioned at the other end of the room—one he had not seen upon first entering this absurd get-together.

“What is this?” Jess spun around.

“What is what?”

“This.” He pointed at the table. The cooks had outdone themselves with the number of bowls full of fruit neatly chopped up—the highlight, however, was the massive chocolate fountain bubbling away peacefully and luring every passer-by into tasting it.

“Have you never seen a chocolate fountain before?”

Loki frowned, making Jess chuckle. Heavens, if he keeps doing that, his face might stay like that, she thought.

“Come on, I’ll show you.” Once within reach of the buffet table, she treated herself to a strawberry that she stabbed with one of the provided plastic toothpicks and coated it with chocolate. She grinned when Loki’s smirk returned and copied her with the sole difference of picking a grape instead.

“How does this thing operate?”

“Well, I’m not an engineer but as far as I’m concerned, you pour molten chocolate into the fountain, which is electric, and the pump inside will make sure to keep it flowing. Apparently, Asgard is not as advanced as I thought it was. Chocolate fountains are extremely important for one’s emotional wellbeing, you know.” Jess downed the Whiskey glass she had taken with her. “And so is alcohol. Are you gonna stay here all evening now?”

“I just might.” Loki winked.

“Suit yourself.” She announced, holding up her empty glass. “I’m getting another drink.”

The God of Mischief rolled his eyes and snatched her upper arm, holding it tightly enough for to gasp—and not in a terrified or intimidated way, so he noticed. But either way, he was not going to let her poison herself.

“You’ve had enough, don’t you think?” He snarled, snatching the glass from her.

“Excuse me? Give that back.”

“No. I said you’ve had enough.”

“I’m supposed to supervise you, not the other way around! Now give that back.”

Loki scoffed. “You’ll do a marvellous job with that, all drunk and out of your mind.”

Heavens, not again. Jess gasped for air—a desperate sound swallowed by the loud music and the bass vibrating in her chest. Loki caught it nonetheless. There it was, this figurative magnet, this invisible rope tying him to her like a bloody lap dog.

It was genuine concern purling in his stomach, he did know this much. Regardless of Mobius’ half-hearted request, Loki certainly did not want Jess to get drunk and damage her liver beyond repair. Mortals were fragile as was and yet here they were, stuffing themselves with ridiculous amounts of sugar and fat, spending all day watching silly TV shows and pouring alcohol down their throats like it was water from Mimir’s fountain itself.

“I dare you…” He murmured, his composure on the edge of a steep cliff threatening to overwhelm him, rip all control from him. Jess leaned back some more, a feeble attempt to escape his advances that she did not wish to refuse altogether. “I dare you.” He repeated, jumping in at the deep end if anything to quench the curiosity and feel what his body and, for Heaven’s sake, even his mind had been longing for. What had he to lose? “Kiss me. I know you have been thinking about it.”

He pulled her close again and this time, he was certain to have heard a whimper. Loki’s cock stirred, even more so when she turned her head away and his nose brushed against her cheek.

“Is it Mobius?” He purred. Jess struggled to form a proper sentence in response or even breathe evenly. Eventually, she nodded. “I believe… I believe we have both had enough of this party, have we not?”

Jess bit her lower lip and glanced behind herself. M was engrossed in a conversation with Ravonna Renslayer, the badass time judge she never interacted with much. Well… she certainly was none of her concern now.

“Quick,” she breathed out, “before they notice us leaving.”

 ~*~

You are a grown woman. Loki is a handsome man. It’s obvious the chemistry between you is right. You’re sexually attracted to him and he just confirmed that the feeling is mutual. This is not your first one-night stand. It might not be your last. God, I hope it’s not my last. That man is literally not from this world.

“What are you doing?” Jess snapped herself out of her thoughts when Loki stopped in front of one of the control rooms. The walls were made entirely of glass, revealing a bored security officer staring at about a dozen computer screens in utter darkness. “He’ll see us!”

Loki narrowed his eyes and huffed when he found what he was looking for—the camera monitoring Jess’ unit. Ah… this was indeed perfect. Just like he had suspected. He could see the sofa and the unmade sheets on top of it, and the coffee table with countless peanut bags on it. But even without his powers, nobody would see him sneak along the wall and into Jess’ bedroom.

“Loki?”

“There is a dead angle in your unit.”

“So?” He winked again, making her lower regions clench. When he simply kept on walking, she rushed after him like a cat knowing it was about to be fed.

~*~

A/N: Muhahaha. In case anyone is interested what song Loki and Jess danced to, you can find it right here!

[everlarkficexchange]

A Simple Choice

Written by: @justajjfan​​​​

Beta’d by: @sunsetsrmydreams​​​​

Prompt 83: Katniss is whipped instead of Gale in Catching Fire, Peeta’s the one who’s there to take care of her after. [submitted by anonymous].

Prompt 116: Peeta braids Katniss’ hair to soothe her. [submitted by anonymous] 

Rating: Mature 

Warning: Mention of whipping. Use of coarse language.

A/N: We’re half-way…ish there. Thanks again @everlarkficexchange​ ; @javistg​ and @xerxia31​ for continuing to post my really late submission. @sunsetsrmydreams​ 💚

~~~

Chapter 4

Back in the kitchen I make quick work of preparing breakfast by slicing two thick pieces of bread and while I wait for them to toast lightly, I scoop a few teaspoons of home-made strawberry jam into a small dish before placing everything on the serving tray. Once the kettle has boiled, I pour the hot water into the tea pot and inhale the fragrant steam from the herbal tea leaves.

These are the things I know Katniss likes so I hope it will entice her enough to eat.

I had planned on running over to Katniss’ house earlier to grab a nightgown or something loose fitting for her to change into while her wounds healed but with my unexpected visitor, there isn’t time so it will have to wait until after she’s had something to eat.

Balancing the tray carefully, I approach my bedroom door to find it slightly open. I was positive I closed it before I came downstairs this morning so I wouldn’t wake Katniss from what looked like a peaceful sleep. But as I nudge the door gently open all the way with my foot, I am surprised to see Katniss standing by the window wrapped loosely in the thin bedsheet I draped over her yesterday, starring out towards the pathway and beyond the gate.

I take careful steps so I don’t startle her but the rattle from the empty teacup on top of its saucer ruins any attempt at me being quiet. Needless to say, Katniss doesn’t appear to have noticed me entering the room and seems caught in a trance clutching a separate piece of cloth close to her chest.

I know I shouldn’t be thinking this way about her but even draped in something as plain as a bedsheet and seeing the contours of her body as she stands in the morning light, Katniss is still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on and the urge to sketch her image is overwhelming. But any urges I feel right now are quickly supressed with a more pressing need to check on her wounds.

With that thought in mind, my eyes dart straight to the part of Katniss’ back not covered by the sheet and what I see…or rather don’t see, causes me to loosen my grip on the tray. Luckily, I make a quick recovery of my senses and save her freshly made breakfast from ending up in a messy heap on the carpeted floor.

“Oh my God Katniss,” I announce, my voice choked with elation. “Your wounds…they’re so much better,” I manage to say as I gawk at her bare back in amazement.

The criss-cross of jagged and bloodied welts of flesh that were spread across her back and shoulders yesterday have been replaced by faint pink lines. If I hadn’t cleaned and dressed her wounds myself, I wouldn’t have known they were there. 

She nods, bringing the cloth to her face and rubbing it lightly against her cheek, clearly not startled and being completely aware of my presence the whole time, “because you took good care of me,” she replies in a soft tone.

“I think it had a lot to do with Madge Undersee’s miracle salve…not me.”

Katniss shakes her head, “it was you…even after everything. You saved me and cleaned my wounds and—” her words fade as she tries to keep her emotions in check.

She’s always been so strong but seeing her like this surprises me and it hurts in ways I cannot even describe, “it’s what we do…you and me. Protect each other…no matter what,” I concede.

“She was right.”

“Who was?” I ask but she shakes her head again before burying her face in the cloth. Whether she meant her mother or maybe her sister I don’t want to press the issue. Katniss must still be a little groggy from the pain medication and having an empty stomach isn’t helping. 

Still holding onto that mysterious cloth as if her life depended on it, Katniss steps away from the window and walks slowly towards the bed and sits, “when I woke I couldn’t find you and I called out but you didn’t answer,” she tells me, her eyes slowly cast to the armchair beside the bed.

“Did you sleep there all night?” she questions, raising her head to look at me. I nod in silent reply. “It must have been uncomfortable for you.”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” I say as I edge closer, recalling our nights in the cave and I wonder if Katniss remembers too.

Our eyes lock onto each other and I have to clench my fists tighter around the handles of the breakfast tray to fight the strong desire to wrap my arms around her and kiss her deeply on the lips. The mere thought is threatening to engulf me like a burning ring of fire.

I’m setting myself for heartbreak all over again and I need to shake these feelings away. Katniss will leave as soon as she has her strength back and when that happens, I’ll be resigned to living the rest of my lonely and pathetic life with only her memory to keep me company.

Clearing my throat, I move to the bedside table and rest the tray on top, “I’m used to waking early and I didn’t want to disturb you…and what looked like a happy dream, so I went downstairs to make a start on preparing breakfast and some broth for lunch,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you call out for me. I tend to get a little distracted when I’m kneading bread and I wanted to make sure you had a fresh loaf for toast and of course, strawberry jam. It’s still your favourite, right?”

She smiles shyly and nods, “you remembered.”

“I’d never forget something as important as that.”

Our eyes meet again and for a few seconds, neither of us utter a word. I clear my throat to break the silence and nervously reach for the breakfast tray, placing it carefully between us and pour the tea as Katniss watches on, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears.

I guess my hair braiding skills leave a lot to be desired.

“Mmmm…peppermint tea,” Katniss says before taking a careful sip from the steaming cup. “Won’t your mother be angry with you for not turning up for work this morning?” she adds a moment later.

“I don’t care if she is,” I say, breaking a piece of toast and holding it out for her to take.

Katniss straightens up and looks at me before her eyes fall on the piece of toast then she draws in a deep breath before taking a bite straight from my hands. When her lips brush against my fingers, my breath hitches at the sensation and I struggle to stay focused.

“I-I’m part owner of the bakery now and I decide my own hours…n-not my mother,” I say as Katniss chews slowly, her grey eyes never leaving mine.

“Looking after you will always be my first priority,” I blurt out without thinking. I should probably apologies for my forwardness but I’m so transfixed on her mouth as she chews and swallows the first piece of toast, I’d only end up saying something even more stupid.

Katniss places the teacup back on the tray and breaks a piece of toast. Good, I think to myself, she’s hungry. But instead of taking a bite herself, she brings it to my lips in offering and I open my mouth wide and gently take it from her delicate fingers.

“Yes,” she whispers as I roll the toasted bread around in my mouth. Caught under a magical spell I want to live in forever, I find myself repeating it but as soon as the word leaves my lips, the smile on my face drops when Katniss brings the cloth close to her chest.

It’s the shirt I wore yesterday.

I get up from the bed a little too quickly and spill some tea on the tray but I don’t care. I’m annoyed and angry with myself for leaving the shirt on the bathroom floor. I meant to take it with me after I showered to throw it in the trash but my mind was happily tossing on what kind of bread I would bake for Katniss, it completely slipped my mind.

Katniss doesn’t say anything as I walk over to the dresser and pull out a clean white shirt from the top drawer which I think will do until we can get something of hers.

“I always forget to pick up after myself,” I laugh, trying to make light of the situation. “Here…let me take that from you and give you this to put on instead of that bedsheet,” I say, holding out my hand with the clean shirt. “We can go to your house later to grab some of your clothes, if you’re up to it,” I suggest.

Katniss nods and takes it with one hand but still clings to the shirt I carelessly left on the floor with the other. “The bread…it smelt so familiar and I was about to come downstairs to find you but I needed to use the bathroom first and…” she says looking down at the crumbled and soiled shirt still clutched tightly in her hand. “I never meant for any of this to happen…not to you.”

“And I wished with all my heart none of this happened to you, but here we both are.”

“How many?” Katniss asks, lifting her head to look at me.

I know what she’s asking and consider lying by giving her some lame explanation but how can I when she’s been holding onto the truth so tightly in her hands all this time, “just the one but I hardly think it matters…not compared to yours.”

“It matters to me!” Katniss says in a raised voice, her chin quivering. “The salve…you used some on yourself and it’s healed just like mine, right?” There’s a desperate look on her face as she waits for my confirmation.

“Peeta?”

I feel a huge lump in my throat and swallow hard, “you needed every bit of that salve and I wasn’t about to waste a drop of it on me. Besides, I hardly feel a thing now,” I admit truthfully.

“Take off your shirt!” Katniss demands as she turns to the bedside table and reaches frantically for the tin box containing what I know sits an empty jar inside. “There’s got to be a little left for you. Your shirt Peeta…please,” she pleads, trying to scrape any remnant of salve that I know isn’t there on her finger.

I take a hold of her dainty wrist and gently remove the jar from her fingers and place it back on the bedside table, “it’s okay Katniss…it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“But you need some too. We look after each other…you said so yourself.”

Katniss places her trembling hands on my chest and guides them down my shirt and I don’t resist. Neither do I when she starts to undo each button one by one then gently pushes the fabric over my shoulders and down my arms. I stay silent the whole time and watch her face intently as she kneels on the bed and begins to trace her fingers ever-so softly over the single welt splayed mostly across my shoulder. My heart skips a beat and I let out a hiss but it’s not from any discomfort I’m feeling.

“Why is it every time I try to protect you, all I seem to do is cause you nothing but pain,” she sniffs, stopping her tender touch. “It was stupid of you to try and stop Thread. You should have stayed away.”

“Both us know I wasn’t about to stand back and watch Thread try to kill you. What were you thinking sneaking back to Twelve after you escaped with Gale and your family? That was pretty stupid too,” I counter, pulling my shirt back over my shoulders. “Why did you do that…come back I mean?”

“I-I already told you,” she answers as she helps me rebutton my shirt.

“You weren’t making much sense,” I admit. “You mentioned something about coming back for me but I’m sure that can’t be true. It was just the medicine talking,” I say as my mind replayed her slurred and sleepy words from yesterday.

“It is true Peeta. I came back for you.”

Her words are clear and precise and this time there’s no mistaking them.

…tbc

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Could you do 5: “ Why do you hate me? ” with Arthur and his crush because I live to suffer

Oh my God, how many weeks ago were these requests sent in? Well, here it is! For once, it turned out shorter than I imagined! 

Request sheet here

Read all my works here on AO3

You finish cleaning the last of the laundry for the day. It’s nearly sunset and the tips of your fingers have been rubbed raw from the washboard, but you ignore the slight burn. Your hands have been getting tougher the last few weeks, calluses developing on your once soft skin. Your entire body is growing firmer living here with this wild bunch. 

You’ve been with the gang just a little over a month now and your life couldn’t be more different. You spent most of your life with your parents until they both died years ago in a drowning accident near the banks of Blackwater. Since you weren’t quite an adult yet, you were sent to live with your uncle. He was a pastor for the local church, but he was as far from Godly as he could be. 

For the next few years, your life with your uncle was horrible. Your uncle, despite his preaching to be good, clean people, he constantly got drunk and beat you. There were a few times he even touched you inappropriately, and when you tried fighting back he’d beat you even harder. He dragged you to church every Sunday and you’d have to sit through his sermons and hear the hypocrisy spill from his mouth. How you hated hearing him tell everyone else to be kind and patient, to give charitably, to avoid excessive drinking and to be as much like Christ as they could be. How dare he say those things when he was doing such terrible things to you behind closed doors? 

When you got to be older, you tried many times to leave, to run away, but he seemed to have a sense of when you’d try and break out. It got to the point he started chaining you to your bed at night, and sometimes left you there for days, bringing you just enough food to stay alive. When people mentioned your absence, he’d wave them off by saying you were visiting a cousin and would return shortly. He also brushed away any visible marks he left on you by stating you were a wild child, falling from horses and running through the brush, but that he wouldn’t try to curb your active nature. 

Finally it all got to be too much, the beatings, the rape, the lies. The hungry nights chained to a bed. One night at the table, he started getting drunk and you could see the telling signs he was preparing to attack you. You armed yourself with a large knife and when he rushed you, you shoved it into his throat and killed him. It was only a day or two before people discovered him, but you’d already fled town. Everyone knew it was you and you heard rumors they wanted to hang you for killing the preacher. 

A week after killing your uncle, you were in desperate need of help as you knew nothing of living outdoors and on your own. You had no food or any kind of shelter. All you had was your horse and a few sparse supplies. You didn’t even have a gun. 

You went to Blackwater, where no one was looking for you. You became a street beggar, but with little success, so you started pick-pocketing people when you could risk it. One day, you picked the pocket of a tall man with black hair and a thick mustache. He caught on quick and dragged you down an alleyway where he was met by another man, thin and grey-haired. 

You thought these two men would shoot you, and for a moment they seemed to think they might. Then they surprised you by suggesting you come with them, join their gang of outlaws. You took their offering. 

Not long after you joined, the Blackwater heist fell apart, forcing you and everyone else to flee and leaving a couple of the others scattered or dead. A young girl close to your age named Jenny was killed and another man named Mac was shot. He died on the way to a frozen town named Colter. 

Now, here in Horseshoe Overlook, you and the others are settling in. You’ve become quite close with most of the others. You work with the other three girls, Karen, Mary-Beth and Tilly. They welcomed you with curiosity and friendship. They helped teach you how to survive in this gang, how to pull your weight to keep an old crone named Grimshaw from getting after you. 

When you first arrived, you were horribly afraid of a man named Swanson as he was a drunken reverend. It didn’t take long though to realize that he was completely harmless and he never showed interest in attacking anyone. In fact, he was more prone to hurt himself instead of any of the others. He was a man of God who’d just fallen on hard times. 

You get along with pretty much everyone, and most of them seem to like you. Or at least they’ve accepted you. There is one exception though: a man named Arthur Morgan doesn’t seem to like you at all. He’s pretty much ignored you this whole time and he only spoke with you once when you first arrived. He did nothing but ask your name and your story and when you finished telling him, he wandered off and said nothing more. 

A few times, Dutch and Hosea, the patriarchs of the gang, have suggested to the other girls that you go with them and learn how to do some proper robbing. Whenever Arthur heard though, he’d come over and tell them you were the worst choice to go out and do any work like that, you simply couldn’t handle it. 

There’s been other instances where Arthur seemed to think you were too weak to handle yourself. Sure, you grew up in a luxurious life, but you were willing to learn. Arthur just didn’t want to let you for some reason. In fact, he seemed to think you didn’t belong here. You wondered many times why he disliked you so much. It unsettled you a bit how you often found him staring at you, and when you looked at him, he’d look away. The other girls said that Arthur had an extremely tough exterior but he possessed a good, soft heart. They could always depend on him to protect them when they needed it. You just couldn’t see how that could be. 

Grimshaw comes over and tells you to stop working, that the day’s chores are done and to get yourself some dinner. You go over to Pearson’s wagon and scoop yourself some of his stew onto a plate. Most days, this is what Pearson makes, but on occasion, he’ll mix it up with some cornbread or fresh vegetables. Of course, he always has cans of food and other provisions available at his wagon. You take a can of peaches before heading to the round table to eat. 

Just as you’ve sat down and begun eating, Arthur walks over and sits down across from you. You don’t know why he does since he clearly doesn’t like you. He’s done this a number of times, sitting near you at the fire or coming to listen when you’re chatting with the others. He never says anything and you can’t read what he’s thinking from his face. You swallow heavily and debate on whether or not to leave. After all, he’s a high-ranking member of the gang, directly underneath Dutch and Hosea. You’re just some dumb newbie compared to him. But you decide to stay, not wanting to seem rude and give him a reason to like you even less. 

The two of you sit at the table and eat, not speaking. He glances up at you every so often, making you feel incredibly small and pathetic. As you finish your meal, Pearson walks over. 

“Arthur, can you go to Valentine tomorrow? I need some supplies picked up from the store.” 

“Sure,” Arthur says and Pearson hands him a list. 

“Oh, and can you stop at the post office too?” 

Arthur nods and looks at the list. “Guess I’ll need to take someone along. Quite a list, Mr. Pearson.” 

Pearson looks at you and points in your direction. “Take Y/N here. Sure she can handle it just fine.” 

“No,” Arthur says, returning to his plate of stew. “No, she needs to stay here. Stay where the others can keep an eye on her.” 

Your heart sinks. You’d been hoping you could go to town, you’ve been cooped up here for weeks. You’re tired of seeing the same trees, the same people. Pearson sighs. “Just take her, Mr. Morgan. What’s the worst that can happen on a shopping trip?” 

Arthur throws him a look as if to say Pearson didn’t know how dangerous a shopping trip could be, but then he shrugs his shoulders. “Fine. Y/N, I’ll be leaving early. Be ready.” 

“Yes sir,” you say quietly. 

He throws you a curious glance but then he gets up and takes his empty plate over to the wash barrel. He doesn’t say anything or even look at you the rest of the night. You know he’s only taking you because Pearson twisted his arm. 

In the morning, you get ready as soon as the sun is up, but Arthur doesn’t even stir from his cot until the sun’s well up. Even then, he doesn’t leave immediately. He gets himself some coffee, chops some wood and then has a quick discussion with Dutch. You stay ready to go at any moment though, not wanting to give him a reason to get angry with you. 

Finally, Arthur calls you. “Let’s go,” he says. You rush over and climb into the wagon. He sits down next to you and you stiffen up. He lights a cigarette and then grabs the reins. 

“Know anythin’ ‘bout drivin’ wagons?” he asks. 

“A little,” you say. “My dad taught me the basics when I was young.” 

He hands you the reins and you drive the wagon to Valentine. Nothing happens on the way there, but you’re happy to see the little, muddy town. Other people mill about, most looking like ranchers and farmers. You drive the wagon down the main street and stop near the stables, not too far from the store. 

Arthur hops down without a word and throws the butt of his cigarette into the mud. He hands you Pearson’s list. “I’m gonna go check the post office,” he says and walks off. 

You go into the store and hand the clerk the list. He snaps at a shopboy who begins piling items into a box. You help him carry the boxes out to the wagon and start sliding them into the back. Arthur comes back after a short period, his hands empty. Post office must not have had anything. 

When the shopboy’s done loading up the wagon, you both climb up into it. You’re about to grab the reins but Arthur takes them and whips the horses into a steady trot. You wait for him to say something during the trip, but he doesn’t. He seems tense, anxious. You are, too. Why does he dislike you so much? Sure, you’re extremely inexperienced, but he won’t give you the chance to go out and learn. It’s not that you’re unwilling, you’ve even begged Dutch and Hosea a few times, but Arthur wins them out, pointing out that something is surely to go wrong. 

When you get back to camp, you start unloading the wagon when Bill and Lenny come up to you. 

“Y/N, you ever rob a stage before?” Bill says. 

“I’ve barely robbed anything before,” you say. 

“She’s perfect for the job!” Lenny says with a smile. He explains that the stage he and Bill want to rob will have drivers that are heavily suspicious of being robbed. They want you to go and stop the stage and pretend to be lost. Since you have no experience robbing, you’re the most innocent person in camp. 

“It’ll be easy,” Lenny finishes. 

“Just make sure you get into cover as quick as you can if they start shootin’,” Bill adds. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Arthur says, attracted by Lenny’s excitement. Lenny tells him the plan and Arthur lowers his brow. “Absolutely not. You ain’t takin’ her nowhere. She’s gonna stay in camp, work with the girls.” 

“But she’s perfect, Arthur!” Lenny pleads. “You’ve robbed this company before, you know how quick they are to draw fire.” 

“Exactly my point! She don’t know nothin’ about robbin’, ya ain’t takin’ her!” Arthur says. 

“Mr. Morgan!” you say sharply. “I want to help! People keep asking me to help with jobs and you won’t let me! Dutch and Grimshaw are always saying that everyone needs to earn my keep, now let me do my part!” 

“You ain’t goin’ and that’s final!” he snarls. You hold your ground. Arthur turns to Bill and Lenny and orders them to get someone else. When they turn away, muttering, you glare at Arthur. 

“Can I talk to you? Alone?” you ask. 

He sighs. “Fine.” 

You lead him into the trees and then round on him as soon as you’re out of shot from camp. 

“What is your problem with me?” you demand. 

“I ain’t got a problem-” 

“Yes you do, Mr. Morgan! Ever since I showed up, you haven’t liked me for even a second. The others want to teach me how to do work and I want to learn, but you always get in my way! I can learn, I’m a fast learner. I know I don’t know much now but that’ll change.” 

“You ain’t goin’ robbin’, Y/N. You ain’t right for the job!” he says. 

You stand there for a second, your anger rising. This man has done nothing except make your life even more difficult than it is, given the situation. You can see now he’s arrogant and prideful, and he doesn’t want you taking a share of the profits. 

“Why do you hate me?” you demand of him. 

“What?” he says, clearly taken off guard. 

“I said why do you hate me?” 

“I don’t hate-”

“Bullshit, don’t lie to me, Mr. Morgan! You haven’t liked me from the start. I don’t know what I said or did to piss you off, but you’re being an ass! All the other girls keep telling me I’ll see that you’re a nice guy, but you’ve done nothing to prove them right!” 

He sighs, his mouth in a tight frown. He looks down, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “I don’t hate ya, Y/N. Farthest thing from it, actually.” His voice is soft and rough. 

“Then why are you doing this?” You put your hands on your hips. 

“Because I… I’m afraid for ya. You’ve been hurt a lot by that awful uncle, I just want ya safe.” 

This is the last thing you expected. Safe? Why would he care for your safety? Then you begin recalling all the arguments you’ve heard him have with the others when it came to you going out and working. He’s always mentioned that something could go wrong and you might get hurt, but not that you’d be the one causing it to go wrong. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve come off coarse,” he continues. “It’s just I… when I first met ya I…. I just wanted to… just wanted to protect ya.” 

He rubs the back of his neck. You take a step back from him, confused still. 

“Protect me? But you seem to be unhappy that I’m here.” 

“I’m not. Y/N, I don’t dislike ya. Maybe that’s the problem. I…. I really like ya. Been wantin’ to talk to ya for weeks, just didn’t know what to say.” 

“You say hello. You ask me my favorite color, for God’s sake, Arthur!” you say a little more harshly than you meant to. Is he being serious? Has he been so stern about you doing work because he wants you safe because he has a crush on you? That can’t be right. You’re a nobody and he’s, well, he’s Arthur Morgan! When you first saw him, you noted how tall and broad he was, and how lovely his eyes were. 

“I know. I been doin’ this all wrong,” Arthur says. “I just didn’t think you’d want to talk to me, big ugly bastard that I am.” 

You frown at him a bit. Those are the last words you’d use to describe him. “You always assume things when you meet someone new?” you ask quietly. “Don’t you?” he says. “I’m real sorry I came off that way, Y/N. Do you mind if maybe we start over? Try to get off on the right foot?” 

You sigh. “Sure, Arthur.” 

He smiles and it brightens up his face. “Thank ya. By the way, what is your favorite color?”

[mirai-eats]

Rewind and Start Over:: Mid-Afternoon

Bingqiu, rated M, 5,381 words, part 3/5, Incomplete

Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, re-transmigration, Angst with a Happy Ending, Rating May Change

Modern science is so good it kept a dead man alive.

Shen Yuan is dragged forward but his feet are stubbornly digging in the ground. Luo Binghe is running as fast as he can to catch up.

-

Luo Binghe is adjusting and Shen Yuan is conflicted.

read on AO3

It was a douse of hot water to find Binghe standing at his door, towered above in his midnight black glory, his hair even wilder than he could recall and redwood eyes sunk deep into his tired face. He was frozen in the spot, had half out as if he wanted more than anything to grab Shen Yuan and pull him back into his arms. He wanted him to do it. 

“Sh-shizun?” Luo Binghe said hesitantly. His face. He has a different face, one that could not hide his emotions as well as Shen Qingqiu’s naturally cold mask.

“Binghe, it’s me,” Shen Yuan gulped and shakily climbed to his feet. After all this time, after all the waiting, he was finally here to take him back but only after he’d finally fixed his gaze to the approaching horizon instead of checking every second to see if Luo Binghe had followed him. The luggage his sister had bought him was sitting as a painful reminder in the living room; of how he was paying to leave Luo Binghe behind for good. “It’s Shizun.” He pulled his spine taught, and fixed his best cool and collected immortal Shen Qingqiu mask over his face. He’d been practicing, but he wasn’t nearly as good as the original. 

There was a moment before the dams broke and tears flooded Luo Binghe’s eyes and his face scrunched up in what would be an ugly, twisted mess, but he was still very handsome. “Shizun!” He sobbed and with all his demon strength, he gathered Shen Yuan into his arms and held him close. “Shizun, Shizun, Shizun!” 

Ignoring the painful cracking of his spine, he reached up and wrapped his arms around Luo Binghe’s broad shoulders, the width spanning larger than he remembered and his head pressed firmly into his chest. His original body is smaller than Shen Qingqiu’s, less lean and more skin on bones and vertically challenged, perhaps that’s why he felt so large. Luo Binghe was bigger than him before but now it felt as if he was being wrapped in a sticky, heated Binghe blanket. 

“Binghe I-” he choked off, his heart overflowing with the year and a half he spent missing, yearning, for him. 

“Is it really you, Shizun?” 

“It’s me, I promise it’s me.”

Luo Binghe seemed to sink into him, letting his wound-up joints relax and rested his weary weight on Shen Yuan’s body. His hands gripped the back of his jacket so tight, shaking with unbridled emotions, Shen Yuan swore it might tear the fabric. 

The words he wanted to say were caught in his throat. The nights he had spent staring up at his pale ceiling with the street lights ruining the opaque night and the seamless noise pollution disrupting however much sound of Binghe’s voice he could recollect. Hours and days and weeks and months spent with a weight on his chest that he couldn’t pull off and now it was forced into his lungs waiting for him to-

To do what?

Tears blurred his vision. He wants Shen Qingqiu’s face back. 

They pulled each other into Shen Yuan’s room, which he noticed was much neater than when he’d left it that morning. Finals were just beyond the horizon and the looming threat had left him careless in taking care of himself and his space. He only caught a glimpse of it before Luo Binghe had walked them back to the bed and tumbled down onto the Tempurpedic mattress, sinking into he duvet with a soft gasp of surprise from Luo Binghe. His body was still pressed firmly against Shen Yuan’s, arms wrapped around his narrow frame with no will to let him go. 

Simply relishing in their warmth was what they needed right now. Shen Yuan stroked his tear-stained cheeks and brushed stray locks from his brow, the glimmering demon mark tempted him to bring his lips down to a soothing kiss, which he gave into easily, to the first kiss in so, so long. Luo Binghe sighed into his hold, his eyes fluttering under his tender touch, long fingers stroking a pattern in the small of Shen Yuan’s back.

Neither wanted to break the peace and neither dared to try.

---

It was later after Shen Yuan let his heavy head rest on Luo Binghe’s warm chest and dozed for a bit did he curse the phone alarm that went off to remind him to get ready for work. Luo Binghe half sat up with him and glared at the phone in his hand.

“Give me a second, Binghe,” Shen Yuan painfully extracted himself from Luo Binghe’s warmth. “I need to clear something up.”

He stepped out of the room, leaving the door open and himself in view for Binghe’s sake and quietly called his work to use up a little of his sick hours to ditch his short closing shift. With an apology, he hung up and went back into the room. He finally peeled off his jacket, his skin feeling toasty from intensely cuddling Binghe. He crawled back into bed and felt Binghe’s eyes lingering on his exposed arms. 

“What?” He asked, flushing under his gaze.

“This place, tell me about it,” Luo Binghe said slowly. “It’s… different. You’re different.”

Ah. “I- well, you’ve probably figured it out but this is where I’m from.”

Luo Binghe nodded. “Shang Qinghua told me you two transmigrated into our world he wrote, but that’s it.”

Shen Yuan breathed, sitting up from his warmth and proceeded to tell Luo Binghe everything. The System isn’t here to deduct points as he’s technically offline, so he was free to tell him everything that’s been gnawing at his bones since day one. His old life as Shen Yuan, a second-generation third son with too much time on his hands and a heart too weak to keep him going, his brutal curses and a fading death that lead him to rewrite the novel. His requirements, the tasks he had to complete.

Luo Binghe was crying, full-blown sobs toward the end when he told him about how he had no choice but to push him and Bingge came from a System punishment meant to kill him originally.

“If Shizun had asked,” he wept, “I would have jumped into the Endless Abyss a thousand times and more if its to save you.”

“I couldn’t,” Shen Yuan wiped away his hot tears. These weren’t his crocodile tears used to pull and push Shen Yuan around. “That was dangerous, too. The condition of the System is that I must never speak of it and never imply your world was a novel or I would have died again.”

“The other Shen Qingqiu, from the other me’s world,” Luo Binghe started. “Is…?” He could almost see the original good’s limbless, blind body dangling reflecting in Luo Binghe’s star shine eyes.

Shen Yuan nodded. “Yes. That’s why I ran away.”

A fresh wave of salty tears broke dripped down Luo Binghe’s sobbing face and he pulled Shen Yuan into a crushing hug. “I would never! I could never hurt you! I don’t even want to think of hurting you!” He cried his big, fat tears into the thin cotton of his shirt. 

Shen Yuan hugged him back tighter, his usually shy exterior thrown away for the moment only to soak up his Binghe. They sank back into each other’s arms and felt the dripping daylight fade to molten gold and then a sleepy grey, the only sound besides the constant city humming was their sweet whispers, old endearments they swore they would never be able to say again, and hushed cries when their hearts grew too full. 

---

“My name is Shen Yuan.” 

Luo Binghe nodded. “May Shizun… allow this lowly disciple to call you as such?” 

“I would rather you call me that than Shizun here.” He could feel the flush staining his cheeks.

“A-Yuan,” Luo Binghe murmured, slipping his arms around his waist from behind. He pressed a kiss to his nape, relished into the hitched gasp from Shen Yuan’s throat. “I called you A-Jiu once and you didn’t like it and I thought you didn’t want to get that close with me, but now it all makes much more sense. It was never your name.”

“Yeah uh, please let go just for now? I need to move around.” Shen Yuan ducked out of Luo Binghe’s corded arms and went back to the stovetop where he was making dinner.

“I’m sorry, A-Yuan, please continue.” Luo Binghe stepped back into his space and with a large hand placed on the small of Shen Yuan’s back, he leaned in and closely watched Shen Yuan mix together the last of the vegetables into the fried rice. “This disciple wishes to learn how to utilize your kitchen in order to make you excellent meals again. But I also don’t mind A-Yuan cooking for me, too.” 

“This is the only thing I know how to make besides a mean scrambled egg,” Shen Yuan said. “It’s not the best tasting fried rice, my brother makes it so much better.” 

To prove his point, he turned off the heat and served the lackluster fried rice into bowls, shuffling awkwardly around the already too-small kitchen with Binghe latched to his side. He served it at his kitchen bar with mismatching cups of his favorite iced jasmine tea and with a flourish presented his go-to meal to his husband. 

Luo Binghe’s eyes sparkled and dove right into the bland meal, the eggs a little too jiggly for comfort and the vegetables almost tasteless from being overcooked. A crunch of undercooked rice hit Shen Yuan’s molars and he did his best to bury his face into his bowl so Luo Binghe didn’t need to see the face of the man who made the pathetic meal. How could he compare to the perfect protagonist?! This is a meal he makes to eat alone if he doesn’t want to buy meals at school and work the next day or two! It’s not supposed to be fed to anyone but him, who cares if it tastes good if he's the only one eating his shame?! 

“Shizun this is delicious!” Luo Binghe said between bites, his bowl already almost empty. He scraped the rest of it into his gaping maw, not leaving a single grain of rice behind, and chugged his whole glass of iced tea in one go. “May I have seconds?” His eyes, his smile, was all so bright. A bit of green onion was stuck to the corner of his mouth. 

Shen Yuan felt a warmth in his core melt his aching heart. Of course, he loves it, Shen Yuan could feed him dirt and he’d say it’s the best meal he’s ever had simply because Shen Yuan gave it to him. “Go ahead, have as much as you’d like.” Without thinking, Shen Yuan reached over and picked the green onion from Luo Binghe’s mouth. 

“I almost missed a bit, thank you Shizun.” And with no shame, Luo Binghe leaned in and took the fingers that’d pinched the green onion from his face and licked them into his mouth. 

“Shameless,” Shen Yuan hissed, his thin face flaming. 

“I will not let a scrap of my A-Yuan’s hard work go to waste.” As if to prove his point, he rose and piled himself another bowl. 

—-

“How are we going to get you back?” Luo Binghe asked. 

Shen Yuan froze at his laptop, fingers hovering over his keyboard. “I don’t know. I died the first time I transmigrated. There could be a chance it just takes me to die again to go back to Shen Qingqiu’s body, but…” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“Not unless we’re certain your soul will go back. How did you do it the first time, with the Dew Seed?” 

—-

They decided not to try yet, to take their time working on a solution to get him home without even the slightest chance of failing. Luo Binghe had already tried popping back to their world and grabbing Shen Qingqiu’s body, dropping it on the bed and asking Shen Yuan to get in. 

He asked him instead to put more clothes on him and put him back. He obliged, promising he got the sect lords to take turns daily replenishing Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual energy so he wouldn’t rot away. He didn’t say anything about redressing the body. 

—-

That night they laid curled up into each other in Shen Yuan’s too small bed, sleepy kisses pressed into their skin until they couldn’t anymore. Shen Yuan could smell the horny on Luo Binghe, especially after he unceremoniously shoved his hand down the loose waistband of his pajama pants and was batted away. Another time, he promised. He’s been abstinent for a year and a half, and this body has never felt Luo Binghe before. It would be like the first time. 

“I’m going to class tomorrow, you should stay here and relax-” Shen Yuan started

“Absolutely not.” Luo Binghe left no room to question. Shen Yuan sat up and found Luo Binghe’s face amongst the silvery traces of moonlight bleeding through the blinds. Determination laced the lines of his face and Shen Yuan, unrestricted finally, softly trailed a light finger along his strong jawline. Luo Binghe melted under his touch, but the firmness never left his gaze. 

“You don’t have proper clothes to be going around,” Shen Yuan tried to reason. “I’m only going to my classes, I’ll be home by dinner. You’ll just be bored waiting for me to finish.”

“But I’ll be near you.”

“You’re not allowed in the classroom unless you paid to be there too.”

“I can wait outside.”

“You can wait here.”

---

Home, he realized. He had said “going home” without realizing the true implication. This is his home, this modern China where he had an apartment and a car and a job and so, so close to graduating with his Bachelor’s degree. Shen Yuan is a student and a son, a brother and a friend. His home is where his family is in their lovely manor uptown where lived his mother with her string of pearls necklace gifted to her by his father for their 20th anniversary and his father with his favorite coat with the patches on the elbows like some eccentric literature professor. His eldest brother is going to inherit the company once their father retires, his second brother recently passed the bar exam, and his little sister is working at her first salon as a hairstylist. 

This is a home, but not his home now. His home was now, wrapped in Luo Binghe’s arms as his sleepy breath tickled his neck, his unruly hair brushing his cheek and sticking to his bare arm. There was no rush to go back to the Proud Immortal Demon Way, Shen Yuan felt he was fine where he was now that he at least had Luo Binghe next to him again. He wasn’t shy to whisper a soft “I missed you so much, husband.” into his hair. They needn’t force themselves back so soon when they just found each other again. 

Going home, he’d whispered into countless nights, was going back to Luo Binghe. He didn’t feel the need to rush back just yet.

Besides, Shen Yuan put all this work into this semester so far he wanted to at least finish it off before he disappeared again.

---

Luo Binghe pitifully waved goodbye from the door as he left the next morning a little after dawn, a painfully early morning class that left a sharper burn than usual when he had to leave Luo Binghe behind. He didn’t do any work last night and lugged his laptop case and heavy anthology book with him to school to work on during his break (and during one of his lectures that was a little boring, it wouldn’t affect his grade if he hunched over his laptop in the back the whole time). He’d showed Luo Binghe how to work the TV and where he kept the tea and snacks and, by Luo Binghe’s insistence, his cleaning supplies. 

Coming home a little after four, he found Luo Binghe shaking with unshed tears in the middle of the now spotless living room. 

“This disciple tried going to buy some fresh food to make Shizun a grand dinner today but they wouldn’t take my money and had people take me away when I tried to shove it in their little boxes and take the food anyway. I gave them more than enough but it wasn’t the paper stuff they had so I was forced to leave,” Luo Binghe blubbered, tears now freefalling down his face and dripping across his exquisite black robes. “I’m so sorry, Shizun. I wanted to make sure you ate very good so you can do your work with a full stomach but I can’t even do this for you here.”

Shen Yuan reached up, uncomfortable with how high he had to reach with their new height difference, and patted his lovely husband’s head. “I told you to stay here. I appreciate the effort, Binghe. We can go shopping now, I have the money they use here.” He was between paychecks right now but his credit card was nearly paid off. This constituted as an emergency in his head so figured this should be fine. 

---

First, he found some too big clothes for Luo Binghe to wear. A pair of sweatpants he bought too large for the purpose of wanting to swim in them or when it was really cold he would layer those over a smaller pair of pajama pants. They fit quite snug over Binghe’s figure and considered he might have to go a size or two up to find a pair of pants that would fit. There was a shirt he dug up from the depths of his closet that also fit a little snug, too snug across Luo Binghe’s chest, stretching poor Hatsune Miku’s face into a warped mess. He mentally poured one out for her. A too-big hoodie he had he liked to relax in was thrown over, the sleeves short but it covered how the pants stretched across his firm butt and his too big…. you know. For shoes, he found the sandals his older brother left at his place over the summer, Binghe’s heels slipped off the back but it would do. A beanie was the finishing touch, olive green knit used to cover his demon mark.

He took him to his work, a department store with a little bit of everything (plus his employee discount) and dug through the racks to find the largest size of everything. It took a little too long and he tried to not meet his coworker’s eyes (which he could certainly feel on the back of his head) and pushed himself and Luo Binghe into the fitting room to try it all on. It was a chore showing Luo Binghe how to put everything on and finding what sizes worked best until finally, he had a handful of outfits plus a pair of sneakers, underwear, a soft hoodie, and a baseall cap to cover his forehead. Luo Binghe was nearly vibrating with interest, his head swinging left and right to take everything in.

“A-Yuan would look good in this color.”

“I like this, A-Yuan should get this for himself.”

“A-Yuan. I think you would look good in this.”

He had to restrain Luo Binghe from making him buy more clothes, he was already stretching his budget buying new clothes for Luo Binghe. After almost two hours they shuffled to the register with their armload of clothes to check out. 

“Hey, Shen Yuan.” It was Sun Mei. The awkwardness had worn off a couple of months ago and they were back to being friends thankfully, but he couldn’t help feeling he cheated on Luo Binghe especially when her artificial waves pulled back into a bouncy ponytail and red lipstick as vibrant as always.

“Sun Mei, hi,” he greeted warmly. He felt Luo Binghe shuffle closer. She rang them up efficiently and the two of them chatted idly until another coworker strolled over to the registers with a mischevious grin. 

“You called out last night and have the nerve to show face today and buy half our stock?” He indicated the two large bags of clothes. 

“I wasn’t feeling good, dude,” he grunted. “I’m better today, tomorrow I’ll be here for opening.”

Luo Binghe had pulled himself closer to Shen Yuan, a possessive hand hovering over his waist. He could almost taste the vinegar rolling off his skin. He quickly finished up and bid them goodbye and took Luo Binghe back to the fitting room to remove the tags and put him in his nicer clothes. He tried not to think about the number of people who’d tried them on before and the factory smell that still lingered in the fabric but this was just for their last errand. He wore taper cut jeans, black sneakers, grey heather and black raglan shirt, and a soft, black hoodie that fit his larger frame much better. The green beanie still sat on his head and Shen Yuan retied his hair into a simple low ponytail with a spare hair tie. He was undeniably handsome in the clothes that were closer cut to his figure, his heart tumbling summersaults in his chest over the nicely stretched fabric over the swell of his muscular chest. 

They stepped out and headed to the market down the street, a different one from the one closer to his apartment where Luo Binghe was kicked out of. With Shen Yuan at his side and non-cosplay looking clothes, this will go much better. It was like taking a child to a supermarket, his sticky husband constantly wandered off and reappearing with a new item and tossing it into the cart. He decided to indulge him this time and tried not to look at the total as he blindly swiped his credit card again and promised to make a payment tonight to soften the blow when the bill came in. 

Luo Binghe was almost walking on air in his new sneakers, all the groceries in his hands and the fresh bag of clothes, Shen Yuan left with nothing to carry but the crippling debt he was throwing himself under. He tried reaching out to take a bag and Luo Binghe, completely misunderstanding his intention, switched all four bags from his left hand to the right with the other five and took Shen Yuan’s hand. Show off. 

---

Living idly like this, domesticity so different from his previous life as Shen Qingqiu made it feel like he was living in a fanfiction. It was so soft, his days passing easily with Luo Binghe at his side again. They decided that there was no rush to pull Shen Yuan away from his current life just yet and let him finish the semester at least before they figured out how to get back.

A part of Shen Yuan was itching to go back to what he’d considered home for the past twelve years. Another wished to live here again with Binghe freeloading in his apartment to cook and clean for him. Their rhythm didn’t change, except Luo Binghe wasn’t pulled away to deal with demon lord business constantly, only watching dramas on TV that he said is helping him learn about this world’s culture, but Shen Yuan kept telling him things don’t actually work that way. He was so enthralled with the TV Shen Yuan was scared he was going to start neglecting everything to glue himself to the screen, much like Shen Yuan did his second year of college when a particularly thrilling and long anime came into his life. 

He was a househusband to Shen Yuan, once or twice even coming on campus with him and hanging around outside his classes until he got out, but most often stuck at home and kept the house clean and meals hot for when Shen Yuan came back from work and school. 

It was interesting teaching Luo Binghe everything he could of the culture and technology and as convenient as Luo Binghe found a rice cooker to be he still had his complaints.

“There’s no spiritual energy. I can barely pull anything from myself and there’s nothing in the air to feed me more,” he said.

“We don’t need them,” Shen Yuan answered. “There’s no monsters, and immortality is nothing but a fantasy.”

---

Luo Binghe found his fake robes one day while deep cleaning. 

“They’re lovely,” he said, neatly folding the top layer. “A-Yuan should put them on more. You would look very beautiful.”

Shen Yuan never associated his original self with that adjective. Cute in a masculine, handsome according to his mother, but he was never handed compliments for his appearance. In fact, he was pretty plain looking, especially in comparison to Shen Qingqiu. 

He put them on with Luo Binghe’s help. His hair was too short for the delicate jade hairpin he’d bought to match it. In the mirror, it was jarring seeing his plain face with short hair and glasses atop the graceful body of an immortal cultivator. It was silly in comparison when Luo Binghe saddled up next to him in the mirror, passing him his nice fan and placing his hands on his waist. His demon mark was on display and hair tied up messily, broad chest trapped in a black v-neck. Shen Yuan snapped open the fan and covered his bland face and Luo Binghe’s own beautiful one leaned down and brushed a kiss to his flushed cheek.

---

The first time Luo Binghe was in Shen Yuan’s car he kept the music off as to not overwhelm him with how different everything was. Luo Binghe had sat with his eyes wide in the passenger seat, his head swiveling around to take in as much as he could. It took a couple of drives before Luo Binghe fully relaxed, questions he had were already aired (most left unanswered because he doesn’t know jack shit about how engines work). Now, after all the TV Luo Binghe has seen, one of the tricks he picked up was shamelessly rubbing his large hand over Shen Yuan’s thigh toward the prize, only to be slapped away each time with a sharp threat of “I’ll drive us off the freeway if you don’t cut that shit out.” 

—-

Speaking of sex, they haven’t done anything since Luo Binghe’s arrival. It’s been two weeks and on top of the year and a half apart, Shen Yuan was surprised Luo Binghe wasn’t more forward with what he wanted. 

Actually, he had been. On the third day he seemed to be vibrating with want, his hands lingering like hot brands on whatever bit of Shen Yuan he could grab, his eyes dark with hunger. 

“No.” Shen Yuan told him firmly. He’s thinking about how much it hurt in the peerless immortal Shen Qingqiu’s body. He’s already very fragile, very mortal body would suffer. He would die! Actually die this time! There was no System to do a magic reboot, nor a homegrown spare body hanging around! “We can ease into it but right now can we… can we just cuddle?”

Luo Binghe had pouted, but obliged, especially to an obviously shameless request from Shen Yuan. His face was much too thin to be asking for anything like that! It took all of him just to ask him to hold him!

He remembered a coworker, during a shameless conversation during recovery after store hours, talking about practice. Maybe… maybe he’ll look into it. Or alternatives for them. 

Thank the gods Luo Binghe doesn’t know how a computer worked, let alone be able to check his search history. 

---

He let slip he was debating on canceling his study abroad trip to his brother during a video chat and shortly later received an angry phone call from his mother about how he was throwing everything away for nothing. The worst was when his sister dropped by for a surprise visit. She brought lunch, his favorite take out place, but was taken aback by the sight of Luo Binghe relaxed across the small couch with an arm obviously out from where Shen Yuan had been cuddling into him.

His sister was polite and had thankfully bought a lot of food anyway to give Shen Yuan the leftovers for later meals. They ate crammed in his little living room with Luo Binghe on the floor pressed up against She Yuan’s legs. It would have been nice if it weren’t for her eyes shifting from Luo Binghe to Shen Yuan to the luggage tucked in the corner, the price tags still on. She didn’t say anything until she left and texted him aggressively about ditching his future for “a fling”. He chose to leave it on read and went to bed with his husband.

---

Finals nearly killed him. Thanks to Luo Binghe’s support, staying up with him every night and checking through his resources with him, quizzing him and feeding him, he pushed through the last week of school with a heaving gasp that left him collapsing face-first at the front door the moment he kicked off his shoes. Luo Binghe yelped and ran over, rolling him over to hold him in his arms.

“Shizun? A-Yuan?” Luo Binghe pleaded, tears gathering in his wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

“‘M fine. Just wanna sleep a bit.” He refused to open his eyes, snuggling a little deeper into Luo Binghe’s arms. “Let’s get drinks later to celebrate."

They ended up not getting drinks, but Luo Binghe made him the congee he missed so much and laid kisses all over him. 

---

His parents were aware that there was a “someone” that influenced his decision to stay in China despite all the work he put into getting accepted into the program in the first place. His plan was to finish this semester at least then go back to Proud Immortal Demon Way. He would like to stay longer and get his whole degree, as he only had a semester left, but he missed that shitty world so much the ache weighed heavy whenever Shen Yuan left to go to class or work. He’d sit in his little car and sigh. This second chance at being Shen Yuan had left him mourning for the life he fought so hard to have

He figured at first when Luo Binghe found him again he would be happy at least with him at his side, but a gnawing restlessness ate through his insides. He craved the badly written world of Proud Immortal Demon Way where he idled away as a Peak Lord and taught children how to better themselves. Luo Binghe didn’t say, and never will, but he wasn’t totally happy living in modern China even with Shen Yuan. Finals were over and with America becoming a fading dream it was time to start figuring it out.

—-

“We should get married again,” Luo Binghe suggested. “We’re married back home, but not here.”

“We could do a courthouse wedding, sure, but you don’t have any form of ID. I technically can’t marry a person that doesn’t exist,” Shen Yuan pointed out. 

“It could be for show, for your friends and family.”

Luo Binghe hadn’t even met his whole family yet and Shen Yuan didn’t know if he wanted him to. He already met his sister against his will, but his brothers and parents? He didn’t even want to play with the idea, let alone consider introducing them as his husband. Most people in China weren’t very, ah, agreeing to same-sex marriage as of yet and he didn’t want to test if his parents were part of the smaller percentage of those who were okay with it. 

“I’ll think about it.” Shen Yuan stopped when he saw Luo Binghe’s widen, tears brimming at the corners unshed. “I want to, it-it would be lovely, but let me figure out how we can make it work here, yeah?” 

The main issue was his family thinking he ditched America to get married to some unknown man when, well, that’s what he’s doing isn’t he? 

[tanadrin]

The Stone Folk

“Let me in!”

Arok’s hands pounded the door, but it was immense and solid, and above the storm his fists made no noise. Even his voice hardly carried. But he was not deterred. Again and again he beat the door; and again and again he yelled. If anyone could hear him, they did not show it. The rampart into which the door was set might have been a ruin, a deserted fortress forgotten ages ago. But Arok did not turn away.

He had come far. Days and days, in sweltering heat over treeless ground. Over stony hills. Desperate for water, thinking perhaps that death was near at hand. But as long as he had any strength left in him, he kept walking west, to the place of rumor and fear. What else could he do? His home was gone. His people, gone. All he had left was this one small hope.

But now, it seemed, even that was nothing. There was no reply from inside. Perhaps it was all in vain. This place was empty. The valley was deserted. The builders of the wall, the raisers of the great stones he had passed--gone. Gone like his family. Gone like the day at sunset, never to return.

He leaned up against the door, and the fire which had driven him slowly began to fade. He sank down, down to the ground and closed his eyes. He was cold, exhausted, sore, and hungry. Perhaps, he thought, I shall die here. It is as good a place as any. He closed his eyes, and despite his pain and misery, began to doze. He could not say how much time had passed when he awoke, with a start.

The door was open. There was a figure standing there, in a dim, warm light. A tall, tall figure, whose face as hidden by a mask, whose body was hidden by a thick cloak. It looked down at Arok, then spoke to him in a soft, sing-song voice, a language he did not know.

“Are you--are you the Stone Folk?” he said.

The figure did not answer. Arok reached out, trying to grab on to something, to pull himself to his feet; but his legs were weak, and his hands could find no purchase. The figure said something again that Arok did not understand.

“I’ve been looking for--I’ve been looking for you,” he said. His voice was thin and hoarse. He tried to speak up. Could it even hear him over the sound of the storm?

“Please. Please, I need your help. You have to help me.”

The figure bent down, and gently lifted Arok up, setting him on his feet; its arms were stronger than his father’s. Arok stumbled when it let go; but the figure reached out to steady him, and offered him its arm for support. It looked Arok up and down again.

“Speech?” it said in Arok’s tongue. “This one? You understand?”

“Yes,” Arok said. “I understand.”

“Then you had better come inside.”

“Are you--?”

“Yes,” the figure said. “You have found the Stone Folk, as you call them. Although we prefer the name Kati’lo.”

“Ka ti lo.” Arok tried the strange syllables on his tongue, and followed the tall Stone Man in out of the rain.

“Come.” The Stone Man took Arok down a long passage; everything around him was dimly lit, full of strange shapes he could not quite understand. But at least it was warm in here, and quiet. he looked back to see that the door had closed silently behind him. The storm could not be heard at all now. At the end of the passage, they turned into a large room. It was a little brighter here. The walls were smooth and dark, the same dark stone as the walls outside. There was more light, yes, but Arok could not see where it was coming from; and there were soft cushions on the floor.

“Sit.” Arok sat. 

“I will return in a moment,” the Stone Man said.

The Stone Man went out again. Arok looked around. On the wall were tapestries, showing strange figures and strange beasts he didn’t recognize. There were shelves, filled with delicate objects of metal and glass with no obvious purpose. The soft cushions he sat on were made of a fine cloth, richly dyed and embroidered. Everything they said about the Stone Folk, it seemed, was true.

When Arok had been a little child, they had sung him the songs of the hills and the plains. One of them was a song of the Stone Folk, the silent folk, the strange folk who dwelt apart. Far in the east live the Stone Folk, they say. Far in the east, up the high stone valley. Seek not the Stone Folk, they say, keep them away! For strange are the people of the dark-shouldered hills.

There were stories of their high stone houses. Stories that they could punish the wicked. That they stole naughty children. That monsters hid behind their masks, and many other dreadful things. But above all, the wise ones said, the Stone Folk had power. Strange power, and strange weapons. They could overthrow the hills and split open the sky. That was what Arok needed.

The Stone Man returned just a few moments later. He gave Arok a cloth bundle. “Clothes,” he said. “Something dry for you to wear.” And he set a small dish on the floor beside it. “Something to eat.” The Stone Man went out again.

Arok ate first, doing his best not to be greedy. But the food was good, and his hunger was like a gnawing animal in his body. And when he was done, he traded his rags for the Stone Man’s clothes. A simple robe, but it was dry and warm. Of the same fine cloth as the cushions he sat on. Arok had never worn anything so fine in his life. He waited for the Stone Man to return; but it was not long before his exhaustion overcame him, and he fell asleep.

* * *

Some time later--hours, maybe? A day? Arok woke. He was in a different room now, lying on a small, low bed. The sharp, wracking pain was gone; now his body was filled only with a dull ache. Slowly, as the fatigue left him, he sat up, then stood.

“Hello?” he called out. No answer. There were no windows in this room; he did not know whether it was night or day, or whether the storm outside was still raging. He went to the door of the room and opened it; there was a hallway outside, to which were joined other little rooms like this one. He wandered down it. Some of the rooms had beds. Some were filled with more strange metal and glass objects he didn’t recognize. One had a table and chairs, and many books, more in one place than Arok had ever seen in his life. But there were no other people.

Finally Arok came to a staircase, and went up it. At the very top, in a high, round room, he found the Stone Man, bent over some kind of mechanical apparatus. It was evening outside. The room was brightly lit, from a huge lantern in the ceiling; and tall windows looked out in all directions. Arok could see the little narrow road he had followed up the valley, and the high hills to the north, and the swift river far below at the bottom of the gorge. The Stone Man heard his footfalls, and looked up as he entered the room.

“You are awake,” the Stone Man said.

“Yes,” said Arok. “Thank you. For helping me.”

“You are welcome,” the Stone Man said. “Some of the others may be angry that I helped you, but alas, it can’t be avoided. I cannot help but pity lost little birds. It is ever our weakness.”

“And where am I now?”

“Are you not where you intended to be? This is the valley of the Kati’lo, the Stone Folk as you call us. You sought us out; here we are.”

Arok smiled for the first time in a long time. Yes, he had done it.

The Stone Man got up from the bench he was working at. “Come,” he said. He gestured to two chairs by the window. “Let us sit. Tell me your name.”

“I am Arok.”

“You are Taiwiy? You speak their tongue.”

“Taiwiy? The northerners? Yes, I suppose they are our cousins.”

“You have come a long way from the lands of the Taiwiya.”

“I want your help,” Arok said.

“I gathered as much. I should warn you, young one, that as slow as my kindred and I may be to come to the aid of little lost birds like you, we are even slower to offer aid in any grander endeavors. Yet I see you have suffered much to come here. I will listen to your plea.”

Arok nodded. “Thank you. I understand. You are a great people, a mighty people, and I must seem weak and pathetic indeed compared to you.”

The Stone Man cocked his head. Puzzlement? But the mask showed no expression. “Perhaps we are. Perhaps, to you.”

“There is a terror in the east,” Arok said. “Have you heard the name, Veyashai?”

“Veyashai, Veyashai. No, it is unknown to me.”

“He is a warrior. A king. He leads a great army. His castle is very large, as large a fortress as I have ever seen.” Arok looked around. “Though perhaps not as large as this one. He has many thousands of soldiers, and he makes slaves of everyone around him. Those who refuse to be his slave, he kills.”

“Grim business. Grim indeed,” said the Stone Man. “I have known men like Veyashai, and I do not like them.”

“He has killed many. Burned villages. He plunders and ravages as he will. He has caused terrible suffering. Will you not help us?”

“Help you?” The Stone Man seemed surprised by the idea. “Help you? How can I help your people?”

Arok looked down. A stab of grief ran through him; but he pushed it away. “You cannot help my people, Stone Man. They refused him. Veyashai has killed them all. I am all that is left of my people.” He looked up at the Stone Man again. “But you can help the others. The ones Veyashai will come to next. The ones he will enslave or kill. You can stop him. Kill Veyashai!”

“I see. I see.” The Stone Man stood, and went to the window, and said nothing for a long time.

Arok shifted nervously in his seat. “My people do not have your arts or magic,” he said. “We never had your wealth. I do not know what I can offer you in exchange, but whatever you ask, I will give it. Every drop of sweat from my brow, every drop of blood from my body. I will die for you, if you ask it. But please. Stop Veyashai.”

The Stone Man shook his head.

“Dreadful. Dreadful,” he said. “You must understand, little bird. I have no love at all for men like this Veyashai. And I know, that to you, we Stone Folk must seem strange. Powerful. But we are not as we once were. Oh! How can I explain this?”

The Stone Man came back to the chair and sat down; then he reached up and slipped the mask he wore from his head, and sat it down on the cushion beside him. His face was pale and heavily lined, but still handsome; how old he was, Arok could not guess. Dark lines ran just beneath his skin, criss-crossing his cheeks and forehead, like the tattoos of the southerners; and here and there, small ridges of metal seemed to be embedded in his flesh, like a strange jewelry.

“I did not tell you my name,” the Stone Man said.

“I would not presume to ask it,” said Arok.

“I did not tell you my name because I do not remember it.” The Stone Man sighed. “I am old, little bird. Very old. How old, I do not remember. We Stone Men, as you call us, we live very long lives, but there are not many of us. Once, there were more, yes. Once, many lived here in this house with me. It was bright and happy and full of singing. How long ago was that? Oh, I cannot say. In my memory, it was just yesterday. I keep expecting to turn a corner, and see them there. Se familiar faces, faces whose names are just on the tip of my tongue… but alas. They escape me.

“Long ago, we were a greater people. A great one, even. We had cities from the sea in the west to the sea in the east. We had knowledge, subtle knowledge, about the sky and the stars and the sun. We had power, too, oh yes. Terrible power, which we nonetheless strove to use wisely. But we dwindled with time. We have struggled to hold on to things. Struggled to build machines of preservation. Machines to extend our lives. Machines to remember our ancestors’ wisdom. We have lived so long, we have become lost in our memories. Forgotten our names. Perhaps it would have been wiser to let go, but our wisdom, too, has diminished.”

“I… I cannot believe there ever existed a greater people than you are now,” Arok said. “I have heard stories of the wonders of the Stone Men, and if even half of them a true, you terrible magic indeed. You have the power to stop Veyashai in his tracks. To save everyone.”

“Yes,” the Stone Man said. He rubbed his face with one hand and stared into the middle distance. “Yes, there are many stories about us. Probably many true ones, even. This Veyashai is what, a warlord? Perhaps one who has mastered the art of working iron, who has cobbled together himself a petty kingdom. A thug, a little tyrant, in comparison to the empires of old. But those empires fell to ruin a long time ago. You don’t remember them. I scarcely do.” He leaned back in his chair slowly. “But Arok… there are few of us now. Our power is not great. You think of us as your saviors, but I am not sure that we are.”

“How can you say that?” Arok said. “Do you not have weapons? Can you not go to Veyashai and burn him where he stands? Can you not split the ground open beneath him, shatter his house while he sleeps and bring it down on top of him? You must help!”

“Things are not as you imagine they are. Come, let me show you something.” The Stone Man stood and led Arok over to the bench he had been working at before; he bent over, and adjusted the machine on it a little, and suddenly, an image as bright as fire and as delicate as thread filled the air around them. Arok looked around bewildered.

“What is this?”

“A map,” the Stone Man said. “You’re looking at a drawing of this part of the world. See? Here are the hills just north of us. This spot, glowing, this is where we now stand. And do you see the line of the river?”

“Yes. Yes I do!”

“And over here, this is the plain. The Tawiy, they live up here, where these lights are. But this is the world as it was long ago. Long before the Tawiy came.”

“When?”

“When the cities of the Kati’lo stretched from sea to sea. Each light you see is one of our cities.”

“There must be hundreds of them.”

“And each had many thousands upon thousands of souls.”

“How many?”

“Oh, two hundred million or more, I suppose.”

Arok looked at the Stone Man with astonishment. “I don’t believe that.”

“But it is true.”

The Stone Man then reached down and touched something on the machine. Slowly, one by one, the lights of the cities began to fade and disappear.

“But that was long, long ago. Our people fell, Arok. One by one, our cities became deserted. Until all that was left--see, there it is!--was this valley. And even here there are only a few hundred of us remaining. We bent all our knowledge, all our skills skills, to the art of memory. Not to war. We did not preserve this place as a bastion again tyrants like Veyashai.”

“How could a people as great as yours fall so far?”

“Many things. War. Disease. Wicked men like Veyashai. It is not the first time that such evil has befallen the world.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think the Kati’lo were the first, or the greatest?” The Stone Man smiled sadly. “Even at the height of our glory, were were a pallid reflection of the empires that had come before. Once this world… ah, Arok, once this world was glorious indeed.”

The image changed. The cities of the Stone Men returned; then hundreds more like them. Then thousands. They shrunk, and the borders of the image grew, until they encompassed a huge swathe of land, from one enormous sea to another, just as the Stone Man had said.

“Our memory of these days is even dimmer than our memories of our own glory, but we know this: there was a time when even the Kati’lo at their peak would have been a minor nation, one people among many far stronger and more numerous than they. Oh! Once the world teemed, Arok! Once billions of souls lived and sang and struggled and died here! And for all the arts we have that to you might seem wondrous--our lasers and our radios and our telescopes and our guns--they had devices of such cunning that even to me they would seem like sorcery. They built cities of glass and light, and they crossed oceans and, long, long ago, they even journeyed between the stars. The greatest kings of the plain, for all their finery and high stone houses and the obesiance of their slaves, would have been paupers among them.”

Arok felt the great weight of grief returning, rising in his throat; but somehow greater now.

“And all that is lost?”

“Yes. Lost to time.” The Stone Man sighed. “We’re not sure why. War, disease, famine, yes. We have a chronicle of disaster stretching back many tens of thousands of years. I can cite you wars and upheavals and tumults. But I can tell you also of good souls, struggling to make the best of the world they have inherited; tales of triumphs and real redemption. I don’t know why the dark years should outnumber the bright ones. I don’t know why we should end up with more grief in the end than we do joy. It seems monstrously unfair doesn’t it?”

Arok reached over to the device, and imitated the motion the Stone Man had made; the image leapt again, filling the world with even more bright lights. He touched another part of the apparatus; the view plunged toward one of those lights, and suddenly they were standing amid high, shining towers. Machines moved like birds through the air; streets like gardens spun a maze below them. They were filled with more people than Arok had ever seen in his life. All of them were dressed as finely as kings.

“I should have been a prince.”

“What do you mean?” the Stone Man asked.

“Like them. I should have had a life like them. In a place like that. How can it be, that all of that can just go away?”

“Such is the grief of time,” the Stone Man said. “Nothing is forever.”

“No. No!” Arok grabbed the machine, and pushed it away; the image vanished. “I should have been a prince! My mother, my father, my sisters and their sons. We should have all been princes!” He fell to his knees and began to sob uncontrollably. “We should have lived in castles of glass. We should have worn fine cloth. We should have never starved, never been cold, never been sick or sore! Why?” He looked up at the Stone Man, pleading with him. “Why was this denied us? Why was all this taken away?”

The Stone Man knelt down beside him, and put a hand on Arok’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s true. You should have all been princes, crowned with wisdom and love. You, and every soul that has ever struggled since the dawn of time to make whatever life you can for yourself in the world. You all should know what it is to be safe, and happy, and free. You deserve better. I wish I could give you something better.”

He stood, and went back to where they had been sitting before, and picked up his mask. He held it in his hands and looked at it for a little while. Then he came back over, and helped Arok up to his feet.

“Come, little bird,” he said. “We must go to the others. This Veyashai has sown enough terror, and if the Stone Folk can oppose him, we must. The world has seen enough grief these last few years. Maybe we cannot save the world, but we can at least do this.”

[winters-blue-children]

Scars

“There was a time Billy wanted to make him pay. We went to Bensonhurst. He wanted to tune the guy up. The guy showed up, and he changed his mind.”

“You think this asshole got jacked up in prison?”

Frank’s voice is a low rumble. He’s never been the guy that feels the need to fill uncomfortable silences. That’s more Billy’s shtick, to break the tension with a wisecrack and a dumb joke. But Billy’s not acting like his usual self. Gone is the loud-mouthed jackass that Frank knows so well. For once, Frank’s aching to hear some inane comment that’ll make him roll his eyes and call the other man a moron. But he gets nothing.

So Frank’s there to fill in the pieces.

He mostly talks to keep Billy’s mind distracted. The other man tends to get lost in his own head sometimes. Frank knows the signs by now. The first time it happened, it caught him by surprise. It was the first time they met up in New York while on leave. He never saw it coming. But now, Frank knows the signs. And he knows the triggers.

He gets the barest hint of a shrug for his troubles. Just a lift of the shoulders. Billy sits stiff and silent, dark eyes glued to the street, refusing to meet Frank’s gaze.

“Child molesters always get jacked up in prison,” Frank grumbles. He turns his head back to the shabby looking house in the middle of the block. The windows are drawn shut, heavy curtains preventing anyone from looking inside. Frank imagines the creaking of the rusty old gate that surrounds the place. Maybe they could jump it instead. Without a hint of life coming from it, the house looks practically deserted.

Frank shifts in his seat and spares another glance at his friend.

Billy sits stiff as a board in the passenger seat, like any sudden movement might make him lash out like a cornered animal. Frank knows first hand just how dangerous Billy can be. He can’t wait to see Billy unleash his rage on this bastard.

But something about Billy’s face makes Frank pause. His eyes are almost glassy, pupils blown wide. His mouth is a thin line on his face. It’s the look of a desperate man, or a terrified child. Not the toughest, most stubborn, most ambitious guy Frank knows. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Bill, we don’t gotta do this,” Frank says suddenly. “If you don’t want to go through with it,” he lets his voice trail off. He shrugs. If it’s too much for you... He doesn’t say that part out loud. Because they’re marines. Nothing’s supposed to be too much for them. But this is one situation Frank doesn’t quite know how to handle. He was never trained for this.  

“I’m good,” Billy finally manages through gritted teeth.

Frank lets it go. He turns an apprehensive gaze back to the empty street. There’s not a soul in sight, and on a street like this he would have expected kids running around the sidewalks, with bikes maybe, screaming and hollering and playing. He’s glad he doesn’t see any.

Frank feels it when Arthur shows up. He hears the sharp draw of breath through Billy’s teeth. He sees Billy flinch from out the corner of his eye. The wave of anxiety that radiates off of him chokes the air in the small car like a sickness.

“That him?” Frank’s eyes are glued to the guy climbing out of the station wagon that had pulled up in front of the residence they were watching. The man has graying hair. He’s slightly overweight with a short, stocky build, and he walks with his head bowed low. “Bill, is that him? That piece of shit—”

“Drive.” Billy’s voice is tight. “Fucking drive.”

“What?!”

Frank’s head swings around. His pulse is already racing. The blood pumps wildly through his veins. He’s so fucking ready for a fight. He’s been itching for one since they got back to the states.

And then he realizes that Billy doesn’t look like a guy who’s about to deliver a beatdown of epic proportions. Billy doesn’t look like Billy at all. He has his head bowed, chin tucked to his chest. His shoulders are clenched and trembling. A solid moment of confusion passes before Frank realizes the wheezing he’s hearing is his best friend hyperventilating.

“Shit.”

Billy’s having a goddamn panic attack.

“Drive the car. Please.”

Frank’s hands clench around the steering wheel and he’s pulling them into the street without another glance at the barren-looking house they’d been staked outside of for the better part of the afternoon.

He doesn’t know how many blocks they get between them and that house. His head whips between the road and the way Billy rocks in the passenger seat like he’s about to jump out of a moving car that’s currently breaking the speed limit. And when he sees Billy’s hand wildly pawing at the door handle, he realizes that might actually happen.

“Fuck!” Frank curses loudly as he slams on the brakes.

He’s barely stopped the car before Billy’s out and running, nothing but a blur of dark fabric. And the son of a bitch is fast. But Frank already knew that. He just wasn’t expecting to have to chase him today of all days.

“Bill! Bill, stop!” Frank pulls the keys out of the ignition and takes off after Billy while cursing under his breath.

Billy always outruns him. Always. No matter the field or the obstacles. And he never lets him forget it either. Whereas Frank is built like a tank, Billy is long limbs and slender, toned muscle. If it’s a race, Billy wins every time, not for lack of trying on Frank’s part.

But Frank never lets Billy out of his sight.

Billy takes them past a park, running like his life depends on it. Like he’s trying to outrun something impossible to leave behind.

Frank’s heart clenches when he suddenly recognizes the baseball field.

Billy doesn’t stop at the bleachers though. He doesn’t stop until he hits the treeline, ignoring the loud calls of his name.

Billy collapses with his palms against a tree trunk. Out of breath and like a man unhinged, he raises a fist and slams it into the trunk. He does it again and again. The thunderous smacks of his fist against rough wood are deafening, and they make the panic grip Frank’s heart in a vice-like grip.

“Christ, you’re gonna break your goddamn hand!”

Billy ignores him and keeps punching until he sees red.

“Billy!” Frank roars, as he struggles to pull the other man away. He’s winded and feeling ragged. But it’s nothing compared to how Billy looks. Billy screams like a madman and Frank prays that no one calls the goddamn cops on them. He finally manages to pull them both back and they fall, tumbling to the ground, wheezing and groaning in a tangle of limbs.

Billy slowly rolls off of him with a pained, muffled cry.

For a while, neither of them speak. Frank huffs and bites his tongue to keep from calling the other man a goddamn idiot. They catch their breaths as they lie in the grass, staring at the green trees above them as their chests rise and fall from their exertion.

“What do you need?” Frank asks fiercely. “Just tell me what you need, Bill.”

Billy’s eyes slip shut. He waits for his racing pulse to calm as he recalls the breathing exercises he learned as a child to keep it together when it felt like his whole world was falling apart. He slowly sits up and shakes his head. He shrugs his shoulders, his arms resting listlessly at his sides. His busted knuckles pulse with a relentless throb. “Fuck, man. I don’t know,” he murmurs.

Frank sits up and watches him. Watches the way Billy stares down at his lap and rocks slowly. There are so many things he wants to do. He wants to go back to that house and beat the old man to a bloody pulp. He wants to rant and rave and throw things and break ‘em. Because that’s what he’s good at. That’s what he’s trained at.

But he does none of these things. He just sits and watches in silence. ‘Cause he’s got to let Billy make the first move with this one. Billy’s a natural born fighter. A survivor. The toughest goddamn son of a bitch Frank’s ever met in his life. He’s not going to be okay with Frank taking the reins on this.

Only when his breathing is finally even, does Billy speak. “He took something from me.”

“Yeah,” Frank says softly, carefully. “I know, bud.”

“I’m not talking about my fucking shoulder, he—” Billy shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He draws his knees to his chest and curses, “fuck!”

“Hey,” Frank reaches out a hand before thinking twice and pulling it back. He winces, hating how helpless he feels, all the while knowing what Billy’s going through is a hundred times worse. “The guy’s a piece of shit. I want to fucking kill him. I want to stomp him into the goddamn ground. He’s not worth this, Bill—”

“I know he’s not worth it!” Billy screams. His eyes glitter like black diamonds as he rages. “Don’t you think I know that?!” He growls in frustration and runs his fingers through his hair. He draws back into himself again. “But I can’t forget, alright? I can’t forget what he did to me.” He groans, the sound weak and quiet. He hates it the second it reaches his ears. It’s pathetic.

So he focuses on the red that paints his knuckles. He flexes his hand, hisses quietly at the pain. Not broken. He’s not broken. “I see it, all the time,” he murmurs, his voice evening out as his good hand clenches into a fist. His nails dig into the meat of his palm, the pain is something to hold on to, like a lifeline. “I—I feel his hands on me. I remember the fucking leer on his face and I… I remember the pain.” He shakes his head as something twists painfully in his chest. “I’ll never forget it.”

Frank’s breath leaves his lungs in a short huff of air. He sniffs. “Just say the word, Bill.” His throat feels rough as he speaks. He’s so angry, he’d started to shake. “Just say the word and I’ll kill that motherfucker. I won’t even think twice about it, I swear.”

Billy finally looks up. He looks tired, he feels exhausted. Just drained, emotionally and physically.

“I swear it,” Frank says again, meaning every single word. “I’ll fucking kill him. Just say the word and I’ll do it.”

He wishes Billy would say yes. He wishes Billy would say yes just so Frank could pound that child rapist into the ground. He looks down at the blood, fresh and wet, dripping from Billy’s knuckles. His white-hot anger rumbles dangerously in his chest. He wants to beat the piss out of the man who ruined Billy’s childhood. He wants to choke the life out of him. To make it slow, and make it hurt, just like they were trained to do. They are trained killers. He just needs to wait for the word.

Frank swallows and slowly draws air through his nose.

Billy blinks when he suddenly feels tear tracks on his face, cooling in the crisp fall air. He jerks and looks away, quickly wiping his face with his sleeve.

Frank turns away.

Billy never got this way overseas. Only rare moments when they’re in New York. But never around Maria. Mostly not even around Frank. Just when he’s alone. Billy gets dark whenever he’s alone. That’s the real reason why Billy indulges in women and drink. It helps to keep his demons at bay. Sometimes men help too. Frank never mentions it and Billy never brings it up. But he knows Billy has taken guys home on more than one occasion.

The fucked up thing is, they both feel out of place when they’re home. Frank would never admit that to Maria. Hell, he hides it best that he can from her. But Billy gets it. And Billy’s family. When they’re home, Frank invites him over every chance he gets. Billy gets an invitation to every family outing, every trip to the park. Maria certainly loves him. Most people do when they’re only treated to his charismatic side. The kids are still too young, but Billy dotes on them like an uncle. He smiles around them, genuine and loving.

Seeing Billy smile makes Frank smile.  

His craving for violence has mostly faded, but it’s left a bitter taste in his mouth like bile.

As the silence stretches between them, Billy finally shakes his head. “I found out later, there were others,” he says, his voice dull and lacking emotion. “Before me, and after me.” He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws. “Ten years he got for what he fucking did. Ten years,” he growls and a huff falls past his red lips. “I’ll be living with it for the rest of my life.”

Frank lets the silence settle, his eyes on Billy’s face are warm and gentle.

“It ain’t right, Bill. What happened to you, it ain’t fucking right.” He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck.

He’s not going to push it. Billy doesn’t need the guy who pushes for a confrontation with the monster that hurt him. He doesn’t need lies about fairytale endings, or some bullshit that a therapist would spew, everything will be okay, just hang in there.

The truth is, Frank doesn’t know if it’ll ever be okay.

And suddenly he’s hit with a wave of longing. A yearning that hits him deep in his soul for the barracks. To be back in uniform, in a place where things are simple. Just follow orders. Kill the bad guys, survive another night, protect your brothers. Black and white.

The irony is, when he’s overseas, Frank’s counting down the days until he can come home to his wife and kids. And when he’s on home soil, he’s missing the dirt and the blood and the gunpowder. The familiarity of a weapon in his hand and his brothers by his side.

Frank sighs and reaches out a warm, heavy hand that he lays gently on Billy’s shoulder. His throat tightens.

“It ain’t fucking right.”

[artclusters]

A short fantasy story I wrote in 2017, that won first place in my college.

I was confined to a 2500 word limit, so I feel it can come across as having a rushed pacing, nonetheless, I still enjoy it.

Mental illness themes, LGBT characters

Heading out

Once upon a time in a kingdom, the peace was kept by the efforts of a noble hero. He fought off every monster, every creature and every danger that dared attack with his mighty sword and spirit. Not only was his fighting skill impeccable, but his looks as well: long sleek brown hair, a perfect beard, a strong fat physique, dark skin, and a dashing smile. He was loved and known by all throughout the kingdom and beyond. That was, however, quite some years ago, for our hero vanished one day without a trace. What could have happened to our hero?

The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, the centaurs are galloping around, the fairies are working, the pixies are chatting…it sure is a good morning for our hero to…

"…Stay in bed!" Azmi sighed and stared blankly at his cottage ceiling. He has retreated to an abandoned cottage in a beautiful, lively forest far from the kingdom since his mental health worsened. He can't even appreciate the scenery because he feels so empty. He thought back on his glory days. A happy, energetic, productive hero? Mingled with people? Didn’t have trouble getting out of bed? It all seems so absurd. He is but a mere husk of what he used to be. His rusty sword settled to rot in the spider-webbed corner. The puke-yellow walls, leaking roof and creaking door were breaking and decaying into pieces, repairs long overdue. His dusty armor and dirty clothes lay scattered on the floor. Crumpled maps and quest requests were strewn all around, longing to be picked up. The pantry was an indescribable mess.

Should he have asked for help? But how could he…he was a hero. Heroes don’t ask for help, they give it. He was someone people look up to. How can he show weakness?

I'll be fine….I'll be fine…it will pass…I'll be fine…I'm not fine.

A green pixie flew in from his broken window interrupting his daily self-hating ritual. They were slightly staggering from the weight of a flyer they carried in their little hands. "Hello Azmi! I have a new quest for you!" they yelled.

Azmi, irritated (and baffled) from their usual high energy let out a reply, "Hey Char… you can…uhhh," he looked around to find if he designated a spot for quest flyers but couldn’t find any. "Just put it on the floor…I’ll get to it"

"That’s what you always say! You're going to put this one off too? You're so lazy!"

"I'm not lazy, I'm depressed." He said firmly.

"You have to go on a quest again! Redeem your honor! Everyone in the kingdom says bad stuff about you…like you're a coward or you're ungrateful or you’ve abandoned your people…"

He already had his mind convincing him he's a bad person; he doesn’t need actual people badmouthing him. "They don’t know what I'm going through."

"There's a wizard who makes potions that can cure anything! You can cure your lazine- err…state?"

Azmi was skeptical. Why bother. It's not like he hasn’t tried to ''get better'' before. Maybe this depression will last forever. Maybe this is just who he IS now. He gave them a defeated, uninterested look.

"Come on! I think this one's really exciting! It's dangerous too! You love danger! Nobody made it out alive from there!"

His face immediately lit up. "I'm going." 

"Wow, really?"

"Yes, I love high danger because I'm very likely to hurt myself lightly or severely or die and I absolutely deserve it!!" he said impulsively. Wow, I need to be kinder to myself.

Char gave him a concerned look. "Okay, here's the map with the guide."

"Can you please read what's written, I hate reading words you know…the letters keep jumping around and I get a headache."

"Okay. So, there are three areas you need to go through. The first area is nearby, the forest of banshees. They say there are so many banshees wailing there that heroes went mad! After the forest, you'll arrive at a graveyard plagued with hordes of ghouls and the undead. No hero has ever succeeded in fighting them off alone. If you do get through the hordes of the undead, you'll reach the tunnel of eyes. It's where the basilisks and medusa's snakes lurk. If you meet anything's gaze there, you'll either die or turn to stone AND after that you'll meet the wizard and get your healing potion!"

"I'd prefer if the potion was just…in a chest or something. I'd really hate to have to… talk to someone."

"So, are you going to go? I want to see you be a hero again!" they cheered.

"Yes…as soon as I get out of bed!"

Azmi rolled himself off the bed and propped himself upright. He ruffled his short-bedraggled hair and dragged himself to the waterfall and took a shower for the first time in a month. I've lost weight. He cut his itchy beard carelessly with a dagger, hurting himself. Ah, what's another scar? I can't tell whether they're from fighting monsters or if they're self-inflicted. He drank his bi-weekly testosterone potion (delivered by his elf doctor), put on his enchanted pain-free chest binder, his light dull armor, his dirty boots and his tattered gauntlets. He couldn't find his helmet and didn’t bother looking. Maybe you'll bash your skull today. He sheathed his blunt sword and headed out for the first time in...ah, he lost count.

"Look whose finally out of his cottage" the fairies in the emerald grass teased.

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you. Unfortunately, I'm still alive and I'm heading out-"

"Without breakfast?" piped a voice from the water. A mermaid popped out with a box and she reached her arms out. "Its sea serpent. Take it. You have to eat."

Why do they even bother taking care of you? "Wow, haven’t killed a serpent in ages, thanks Mina. I forgot eating was a thing I have to do." he took the box. "Lured anybody to their death today?" he joked.

"I'm a mermaid, not a siren, Azmi. There's a difference."

"Right…I'm forgetting my lore." Stupid Stupid Stupid. Was that a pathetic attempt at a joke? Stupid.

"Anyway, enjoy your food! It's my wife's favorite! I can't wait to share this with her! Bye! Good luck!" she said and dived down.

Azmi eyed the map and looked towards the forest, north of his cottage. I don’t have the energy for this. "Okay….I'm doing this..." he halfheartedly raised his arm in the air "to the forest of banshees…."

The darkness grew stronger as Azmi ventured deeper into the forest. Anguished sobs echoed. Frail shadowy fingers loomed everywhere. They were grey and had a mouth for a face. They drifted around every branch, behind every tree and bobbed upwards, blocking the sky. The sobs grew stronger, turning into howls into wails into screams into grating shrieks. Azmi reached for his sword but hesitated. He…wasn’t bothered by the noise. It just seemed so…normal. Like he's been through this before. Every day, in fact. My mind is worse than this. My racing thoughts. My suicidal thoughts. My anxious thoughts. My self-blaming thoughts. He could go on and on. My mind is always wailing. He looked with pity at the banshees. "You're going to have to try harder than this…this is nothing compared to the noise I hear every day."  Of course, the banshees didn’t comprehend what he said, their empty grey mouth gaping. Azmi muttered to himself as he advanced without a care to the swarm of banshees. His mind was occupied with something else. "…that was embarrassing…what am I, a poet? Ugh I'm going to think about this for the next week….my mind is always wailing...embarrassing…"

The trees gradually disappeared as Azmi approached the cemetery. The transition between the two areas was slow, dull and undistinguishable. It's as if they just blended together. Much like Azmi's tiresome, monotonous days. He wondered why he felt so tired even though he didn’t fight anything. Of course, he knew the answer; it's just the depression sucking the life out of him.

The wailing subsided, but could still be faintly heard, like a nagging anxious thought. The ugly groans of the undead took over. Azmi drew his sword. Suicidal thoughts stirred in his head. Yes, I'd love to, but being eaten is painful. I'd rather not go through that. He moved forward slowly in circles, waiting for hordes of the ghouls and the undead to approach him. He vaguely remembered the time where he heroically fought off hordes of goblins at the kingdom borders. Who was I before being depressed? It was a familiar question to him without an answer. He kept shuffling forwards, feeling confused. At least ONE undead had to have noticed him by now! Why are they not attacking? Come here and eat me! Kill me! Do it! Azmi, his anger fizzling out, relaxed his stance and looked around. Fog consumed the graveyard. Countless undead staggered around aimlessly with empty hollow eyes, staring at nothing. Some had their arms sloppily stretched ahead, grabbing at thin air. Some stumbled and fell, not even bothering to get up but continued to groan as they weakly hauled themselves forward, to nowhere in particular. They stared at him blankly and carelessly bumped into him as they continued moaning and dragging themselves to pointless destinations. Azmi put away his sword. He didn’t know why but he felt like crying but that emotion quickly slipped away, and he felt empty again. I guess we're not very different…. We're both pretty much dead, huh? Suddenly, he felt very stupid as to why he was out there in the first place. He should’ve stayed in bed. Stupid stupid stupid….stop it stop it stop it stop it shhhhhhh…..we're going to the tunnel, to the tunnel, to the tunnel…he kept repeating that phrase like a protective chant to distract his negative thoughts. He wandered through the vast graveyard unharmed. His presence didn’t matter to the undead; he was one of their own.

Azmi reached a large gravestone marked with a bloody eye symbol, with a stairway leading deep below. This must be the tunnel of eyes. Wow, aren’t you a genius. No you're not. You're so dumb. As Azmi plunged down it was as if he was entering his own grave. Menacing hisses resounded repeatedly through the tunnel. The darkness was illuminated by the glow of countless eyes, snakes crawling on the ground and basilisks hanging to the ceiling.  If he met just one of those eyes….it's over. He can't close his eyes either; it won't be good if he bumps into a basilisk or trip on a snake. Or would it? That will hurt wouldn’t it? Azmi couldn’t help but chuckle as they tried to capture his gaze. "All the Basilisks and Medusas in the land cant harm me for I am….a master at avoiding eye contact due to my severely low self-esteem and anxiety!" he waved the sword randomly slashing away snakes. "I can literally never meet your gaze! Try as you might!" Pathetic. His eyes darted left and right, up and down, avoiding all the countless luminous eyes surrounding him. He felt intensely angry as he felt more and more unfriendly gazes, reminding him of being in public. The kingdom marketplace was the worst. A nightmare. He hasn’t been there in a long time. They got nothing to do with me, they're not talking about me; but his brain would always convince him otherwise. They're watching, the whole worlds watching and laughing at you and judging you…and as he stood there shaking and breathing heavily, more people surrounded him, looking down on him with concerned looks. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look!!! His heart raced as he struggled to forget about the memory. "I'll never meet your eyes!!" he yelled to distract himself. 

In the distance, Azmi could see a light- the stairs leading upwards. Freedom! No more eyes! Azmi hopped up the steps, tripping on the last step and landing face first on hard rubble ground. He didn’t even bother to protect his face. He didn’t feel like getting up. He wanted to lay there for a bit. Hours. Days. Years maybe. You didn’t even do anything. Heroes died on this quest and you did it so easy. You don’t deserve this. You didn’t suffer enough.

"Hey, you okay?" asked a concerned voice.

Azmi bolted upright and drew his sword. Strange, he didn’t even feel a presence. It seemed like he arrived in a small village. Deep breaths. A dark-skinned wizard with a huge floating wagon stood in front of him. He wore a glimmering blue strap dress with silver stars on it. His hat was enormous, same pattern as the dress. His long silver hair suffocated underneath, popping out the sides and down his shoulders. He had blue lips and blue eyes with silver-painted lids. His knee-high blue boots clacked softly as he approached Azmi.

 "Are you the wizard?" of course he is, you dummy.

"My name is Ghali. My specialty is magical potions." His voice was sweet.

Well, that’s the part where you get your item you so hardly fought for. Azmi was…. underwhelmed. He had hoped this quest would be his big break. Something to bring his passion back. Make him happy again. Fulfilled. But all he felt was emptiness. What did you expect? You're never going to get better.

"Wizard- Ghali - I want something to….help me? I feel sad and empty…all the time? But also my mood changes very rapidly and I think awful thoughts? I can't do or enjoy things anymore? And I want to get better?" What are you doing over-sharing you dolt?

"I have a potion that will help you get better, but it won't work overnight."

"But… you said it was magical''

"Yeah, it's magic, not an impossible miracle. You can't rush this. You have to give yourself time to heal." He took out a calm-green bubbly potion with his painted hands. "Take this once a day. When you finish the bottle, it regenerates. Keep taking it."

"...Every day?" What, no blue potion?

"Yes. There's no shame. You need it. It's like being wounded by a dragon. This isn't something you can recover from by ignoring it. You need proper treatment for it."

"…Okay." Yea, don’t blame yourself for something you can't control. People who tell you to get over it are wrong. People who tell you you're weak are wrong. You're not exaggerating. You need help. "Can I stay here for a bit? I'm tired, but I feel a bit better."

He smiled, "Sure." He waved his long arms and turned the ground into soft grass. "Just tell me when you're ready, I'll teleport you back."

Azmi blushed and awkwardly lay down, putting the potion carefully in his pocket. Wow that’s lush grass the wizard looks very cute too I'd really like to see him again I'd like him to serenade me ah I'd like to get home and talk to Char they'll be very happy, I did a quest Char I'm a good person I forgot to eat my sea serpent I'll eat it when I get up probably wow maybe I should’ve been a wizard instead of a hero…Soon, his thoughts died down and he drifted away to a good sleep, the best sleep he'd had in ages.