#is refusing to let me resume care for him beyond the feeding I was already doing

[hello-delicious-tea]

MrTea just made me hot orange and honey drink as we have used all the lemons already in the quest to keep me from perishing of COVID. I feel extremely touched by this.

[latte-fairytaekwoon]

𝑫𝒂𝒅! 𝑨𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒛: 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝑾𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝑪𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈

❥𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓗𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓳𝓸𝓸𝓷𝓰

"What is it? You wanna come out of confinement?"

Hongjoong picked up his baby son and held him for a few seconds.

"I know. You must be bored to death in that thing."

Hongjoong was surprised when he started crying even harder than before. He gently rocked the boy in his arms.

"Are you hungry? Want me to get your bottle?"

Hongjoong quickly dashed into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle. He tried feeding it to him, but the baby swatted the bottle away with such force, it ended up spilling all over the floor. Hongjoong groaned in frustration as he tried to calm the crying baby down.

"Y/N.......please get here already..." He whined, a small pout on his face.

Sighing he went back inside the living room and put the baby back in his play pen, which of course made him whine and wriggle more. Hongjoong went over to the piano on the corner. It was the last idea he had so he began playing a soft lullaby on the piano. As soon as the baby heard the first notes, his crying ceased and instead he made low guttural sounds as he began calming down from his crying fit.

Hongjoong kept playing 2 more songs until he looked over and saw that his son was already fast asleep. He finished the last song and walked over to see his son sleeping like a little angel, a fond smile on his face.

"Who would have thought you loved music just like me?"

❥𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓢𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝔀𝓪

You were whining at this point.

"Sweetheart please! Just eat the food."

Your baby daughter once again refused to open her mouth as you placed the spoonful of puree in front of her. With a loud squeal she slapped it out of your hand, tossing the spoon and the mushy content onto the table in front of you both. You let out a groan as your hands clutched your head, feeling like you were about to break down like her at any minute.

As if on cue, Seonghwa came in and immediately rushed over to the kitchen when he heard your daughter's crying.

"What's wrong?" He asked as he scanned her all over.

"I don't know! She won't eat her food and I'm just tired at this point!" You didn't mean to come off so angry, but you were beyond frustrated.

Seonghwa understood and simply helped you up. He gave your nose a tender kiss and hugged you briefly.

"Here. Let me try."

He took the space you previously occupied and looked at your daughter. He smiled at her and began doing cutesy signs at her, varying from hearts to bunny ears. Once he began using his aegyo voice, the baby began calming down, now only sniffling softly. Seeing an opportunity, Seonghwa picked up the spoon and scooping up more puree, he successfully managed to get her to start eating.

"Seriously?!" You were indignated but Seonghwa chuckled.

"I told you she would be daddy's girl."

❥𝓙𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓾𝓷𝓱𝓸

Although his son was crying on the top of his lungs for several minutes now, Yunho still had a smile plastered on his face.

"There there. Calm down kiddo. Mommy will be here soon."

That answer didn't seem to satisfy the infant, who only began crying harder, making Yunho pout.

"Well dang, do you really miss her that much?"

Taking a peek out the window and seeing that it was not cloudy, Yunho picked up the baby bag and grabbed his keys. Making sure to lock the door, he carried his son all the way into the car and strapped him into the baby seat in the back. As soon as Yunho started the car, the baby stopped screaming, although he kept spilling out tears. Once they were further on in the road, he stopped crying and his eyes struggled to keep open. Yunho looked at him from the rearview mirror and chuckled.

"Maybe that documentary I watched was correct. Babies do fall asleep in car rides."

Yunho decided to turn on the radio for a little while, which only helped to make the baby fully fall asleep in no time. Even after he had parked in front of the office building, the baby still stayed asleep. When you came out, Yunho immediately got out of the car and opened the back door.

"Did you get here early?" You asked.

Yunho sighed softly before getting the sleeping baby out.

"Well if I didn't, he would have continued crying his eyes out from missing you too much."

He carefully handed you the baby, who squirmed around before opening his eyes. The instant he saw you, his eyes lit up and he stretched his arms out to touch your face, making you giggle at how adorable your baby was.

"Mommy missed you too." You kissed his tiny nose.

Yunho frowned.

"I missed you too. Where's my kiss?"

❥𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓮𝓸𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓰

You were both woken up when your baby daughter started crying.

"Yeosang." You called out.

"Mmmm?" He mumbled.

"It's your turn." You said.

He merely let out an inaudible groan.

"I took care of her yesterday. It's your turn."

Realizing he was right, you got up and went over to the adjoining room to yours. Picking up your daughter, first you made sure her diaper didn't need changing. Then you held her up to your chest, thinking she was hungry. But it was none of them since she kept crying and crying. You gently rocked her in your arms, even singing a soft lullaby to her, but she just began wailing even harder.

"Yeosang!" You cried out.

Huffing softly, he sat up and made his way to the nursery with slow, tired steps.

"Ok give me her. Let's see what's wrong."

He cooed at her softly and as soon as the little girl was in her father's arms and heard his voice, she immediately stopped crying.

"That was easy." He smiled proudly.

He tried setting her back down on her crib, but just as soon as she felt his hands off her, her crying resumed, this time harder than before.

"Ok! That's not going to work."

Picking her up again, once more she stopped crying and instead nestled herself in Yeosang's embrace. You both looked at each other in disbelief. Yeosang couldn't help but snort.

"She loves me better than you."

Not in the mood or headspace for his jokes, you lifted your hand up to hit him but immediately put it down.

"Let's just go back to sleep."

You both crawled back into bed, Yeosang being a little more careful as he adjusted himself so the baby could properly sleep in his arms.

"This better not become a daily thing." You said as you closed your eyes.

Not missing the opportunity even in his exhausted state, Yeosang teased:

"If you don't like it, you could always sleep on the couch."

❥𝓒𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓢𝓪𝓷

San waved the rattle in front of the crying baby's face.

"Look! It makes noise! Don't you wanna play with it?"

The baby only smacked it with his hand, making San step back.

"Well damn son, a simple no would have sufficed."

Not about to give up, he picked up a cat headband and placed it on his hand before shamelessly doing aegyo in front of his son.

"Would you please stop crying for your dad? It makes him sad to see you cry."

When the baby continued crying, San began to whine loudly.

"What's wrong?! Speak to me! What do you want?! What will it take for you to stop crying?!"

Unable to take anymore noise, Byeol woke up and sauntered over to where all the commotion was. Her tiny paw latched onto San's pant leg as she began meowing at him.

"Not now Byeol. I'll feed you once I calm him down."

San was busy making funny faces to hopefully get his son to laugh that he didn't realize Byeol had climbed into a play pen until she jumped right next to the crying baby.

"Whoah! What the- Byeol! Get out of there immediately!"

The feline however ignored him and began rubbing her body against the baby, her soft purring and silky fur proving in aiding to help the baby calm down. The baby wrapped its tiny arms around her neck and Byeol didn't mind when he began cuddling her like one of his plushies, instead placing a paw on his tiny hand to keep him from squeezing too hard. San was stunned though as he watched them slowly drift off to sleep in each other's arms.

"You mean a cat knows how to take better care of my own son than me?"

❥𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓲

Mingi was on the verge of breaking down.

"I've fed you, I've changed your diaper and even made a fool of myself by doing aegyo, what more do you want from me?!"

Mingi poked his bottom lip out as he held his crying daughter up, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He then gasped.

"Oh my god! What if you're sick?!"

Mingi quickly rushed over to the bathroom to look for the thermometer. He let out a scream when he couldn't find it that only served to agitate the baby more, causing her to start crying harder.

You quickly ran towards the sound of the crying once you came back from work.

"What did you do?!" You yelled causing Mingi to whimper.

"I swear I did nothing! She just won't stop crying! I didn't mean to break our baby!"

You sighed and quickly took the baby from him. Noticing how the baby kept shaking her head and her hands were flying in all directions, you guessed something was bothering her. You took a chance and opted for taking off the beanie she was wearing. Once your daughter felt the beanie taken off, she stopped screaming, although now she just sniffed slightly.

"Oh my poor baby. Was your hat too tight on that not so tiny head of yours?"

Mingi was stunned that a stupid article of clothing was the whole reason for the ordeal to drag on. You gently placed kisses on the top of your daughter's head, trying to soothe her pain. Then you turned your attention to Mingi who had a look of disappointment and sadness in his eyes.

"Hey come on now. It's a learning process. She is our first child after all." You reminded him.

Mingi nodded and accepted when you handed the baby over to him so you could go get changed and wash up. Mingi began making funny faces at his daughter, who immediately began squealing and giggling at him.

"That's what I like to see. A happy babygirl who loves her daddy so much."

❥𝓙𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝓦𝓸𝓸𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰

Wooyoung grunted as he once again went back to the living room to go attend to his son who was in his baby blue jumperoo.

"Ok what now?" Wooyoung asked the crying infant.

Contrary to what most people expected, Wooyoung's son definitely cried a lot, but he never screamed or full on wailed. He mostly just whimpered or let out tiny sobs whenever he was upset. Wooyoung sighed.

"Buddy, I know you can't actually talk, but I need you to help me out here."

Wooyoung spun and shook some of the toys surrounding the jumperoo in an effort to make his son stop crying, but it didn't work. The little boy just kept looking up at his father with teary eyes and pouty lips.

"Don't give me those sad eyes, please! What is it you want?"

Wooyoung leaned his face in, looking straight in his son's eyes. Stretching his arms out, the baby began making grabby hands towards Wooyoung's face.

"Ohh....I get it now."

Wooyoung immediately picked up the baby and held him. Placing a kiss on his head, he went back to the kitchen to check on the food. Although he had trouble maneuvering himself while holding a baby, he nonetheless managed to make sure the food didn't burn or turn out gross.

"No, unfortunately you can't eat some of my delicious food yet." Wooyoung said when his son pointed to the pot on the stove.

Wooyoung decided to have a tiny conversation with his son as he finished cooking, of course the baby didn't reply or made any sign that he was actually listening to him. The only sound he made was a tiny squeak when he saw you come in, making Wooyoung turn to see you.

"Welcome home Mrs. Jung. Care to join us this evening for supper?"

❥𝓒𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓙𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝓸

Jongho came in the house, surprised to see that you were still awake.

"Baby? What are you doing up?"

When you turned to him and he saw the weeping baby in your hands, he let out a soft 'oh.'

"How long has she been crying?" He asked.

"10 minutes. I don't know what to do. She's fed, changed and she simply won't go to bed."

Noticing how you looked exhausted, Jongho took the girl from your care.

"Go to bed honey. I'll take care of her."

Jongho gently rocked her in his arms, shushing her slightly before opting for a new method. He began singing a lullaby to her, his sweet honey voice helping her relax and cease her crying. Slowly, her eyes began to shut and open before eventually drifting off to sleep. Carefully, Jongho placed her inside her crib, tucking her under her pink blanket. He chuckled before poking her nose.

"Good night my little princess."

He went inside your room and noticed that you too were fast asleep. Going over to your side, he kissed your forehead.

"And good night my beautiful queen."

Gifs not mine. Credit goes to their respective owners.

[shiny-armin]

“Legend has it that a deep, pure affection filled this ancient garden, creating the Luhua Pool as it is known today.”

The two Gods of Geo and Dust took their daily nature stroll around their realms, until arriving at a waterscape with turquoise and yellow shades.

The goddess with sand coloured hair sure had wandered off this time. They used to take walks across the plains they ruled over, never venturing beyond what was usual to him. If offered a map, it would have taken a while for the Lord of Geo to find his whereabouts. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been that difficult, since they were approaching a vast and shimmering lake, which could be easily spotted on a map after all.

Anyhow, it was the first time he laid eyes on that waterscape and was enthralled by it right away. So enthralled, he hadn’t noticed his horns getting entangled in a tree. He yanked his head free, earning a shower of leaves. Guizhong turned around at the creaking sound, and chortled when she discovered her friend grimacing as he shook off the foliage.

“Not even Moon Carver has as much trouble as you do where trees are concerned,” she teased with a grin, resuming her walk. The taller Archon only sighed at her words, since it happened more frequently than he would like to admit. It was true that the stag Adeptus, despite his large antlers, didn’t struggle while walking through the mountain forests, unlike him. In his defense, the Geo Archon had the greatest stature out of all of the Adepti, but he could shrink to a human-like size if desired. Amidst nature, he didn’t bother to adopt a less threatening appearance, and he took pride in his golden horns, too.

They made their way down through the rocky hillside. Although the land was deserted and swallowed up in the undergrowth below ginkgo trees, there was a clear trail among the wildness. A trail made by something, or someone, who certainly frequented the place.

“It is plain to see you’re acquainted with this area,” the dragon Adeptus pointed out, his eyes observing how the fabric of her coral coloured hanfu brushed over the vegetation as she walked.

“Oh? Yes. In fact, under this lake lies the entrance to a secret sanctum of mine. Not so secret anymore, for you already know,” she gave a sly chuckle, while pointing at a ring of stone where pillars gathered around in the middle of the lake. “My research hideout of preference, as I like to call it.”  

The man’s eyebrows shot up in intrigue, wondering if that was where she ran off to whenever she was out of sight. Sometimes, Morax didn’t set foot in their residence for days, but that didn’t startle the Goddess of Dust in the slightest. Eventually, he would show up with a blank but bloodied face, framed by branches, foliage and other gifts of nature dangling from his contorted horns. Often, he would also bring some weapon snatched from the dying enemy’s hands, as a present for his dear goddess. She would describe him as a lead wolf returning to his pack after hunting the meal of the day. “Is this device of your liking, Guizhong? ” he would ask. With concern written all over her face, she’d chide, “What on Earth have you done this very time? ” and after caring for his wounds, she would passionately unravel the war artifact and use it as inspiration for future inventions of her own.

Other days, it was all the way around. Guizhong disappeared, not before leaving a reassuring note on a table, since Morax would be the one to silently panic due to his overprotective nature.

They left the lush greenery behind to walk on white sand, their shoes sinking in the shore. “I see, this is where you are always scheming and plotting behind my back,” he said, not a sign of resentment in his voice.

“My dear Morax,” she laughed. “I have the urge to always keep my mind full. Can you blame me?” There was no answer from him, he just kept walking beside her like an overly attached guardian. She averted her amber eyes and fixed them on the crystal clear water. “Actually, I had some plans for this place.”

“Plans?” the man inquired, looking at her with interest. She spun and glanced at a clear spot among the wild grass, and with a swift movement of her hand, lines were traced at her will across the soft dust. A scale-like pattern appeared on the ground.

She sighed in resignation. “I wish to shape the lake this way, however…” she bit her lower lip. “Stirring up dust and sand is never sufficient, it seems.”

The God of Geo set his piercing eyes on the lake which spread before them and crossed his arms, eyebrows knitting together in thought. The ground under their feet began to tremble ever so slightly, then a wall of stone emerged from the shallow waters, creating a miniature dam.

From the corner of his golden eye, he saw his friend’s face light up like a firework. “Oh my! That’s splendid, I cannot believe I had not thought of you for this task earlier,” she exclaimed, hands clasped together while admiring the work she had yearned to accomplish on her own. Alas, she was not a powerful goddess, but she made for it in brilliance. That lack of strength, plus her sympathetic nature, allowed Guizhong to understand and feel closer to human beings.

The rigid Lord of Stone, on the other hand, struggled to find even a single trait that could put him and mere mortals on the same level. It was not as if he despised them, on the contrary. He just never seemed to figure out their motives and ambitions. Hence, he admired how his long-time friend could blend in the common folk, leaving her godhood behind to seem as one of them.

“All you had to do was ask,” he said in a calm but firm voice, arms crossed while drumming a finger on his sleeve.

“Hmm… Do you think you could make some more for me, oh, Great God of Stone?” she asked with a playful smile, some dimples making an appearance on her face.

The man answered only with a low hum of acquiescence. The Lord of Geo would not take orders from anyone other than Guizhong, although it had been a long way since he had come around to listen to her demands. He had forcibly found out that good things came to him – to them – whenever he acted as she wished. She was a far-sighted and wise woman, after all.

He then spread his arms, the long sleeves of his hanfu and untied hair fluttering in the late spring breeze. The ground rumbled once again, and all kinds of lifeforms – terrestrial, aquatic, or flying – fled from their nearby shelters. The crystalline waters sloshed about, new rock walls appearing on the surface next to the already created pool.

“Oh… Try to move that one… a little to the left,” she said, a crooked finger on her chin. He then proceeded to do as she had said. Several scale-shaped pools piled up in different levels, adding to the tranquil beauty of the lake. “Good, good.” A smile of satisfaction appeared on her rosy lips.

When it came to her and their people, but especially her , the savagery and ruthlessness that characterized the renowned God of War disappeared, becoming relatively meek and indulgent instead. And yet, he would not let it completely show in front of their worshippers, coming off as distant and indifferent about many matters, which Guizhong took over. All in all, both gods were equally loved since each one took care of the village in their own way. As if it were their child, Morax provided the Guili Assembly with unwavering protection and stability, while Guizhong nurtured it with wisdom, values, and affection. Both of them took great pride in seeing how their creation blossomed into a lively city.

“What is its purpose?” His draconic eyes searched for hers, sparking with curiosity.

She arched a confused eyebrow. “Purpose?”

“The pools.”

Upon hearing his answer, she couldn’t help but let out a laugh. His obliviousness was entertaining at times. She loved seeing his puzzled expression whenever she talked about the most mundane things. “Purpose! They don’t have one. Well, except for visual aesthetic, of course,” she explained, linking their arms together and admiring the landscape.

“What you mean is… They are supposed to be beautiful, and naught else?” he asked once again, the lower tips of his dark hanfu soaking on the shore.

“Is being merely beautiful not enough for you, Morax?”

“I suppose not. I think everything should have a deeper meaning.”

She chuckled. “Well then. You appreciate flowers almost as much as I do. How can you explain them?”

His forehead furrowed in confusion, as if she had given him a riddle to solve. “Flowers,” he began with his deep voice. “Are not there just for their beauty. They feed animals and humans, and some of them have a commercial interest, such as for creating perfume. Moreover, you like to play with them and put them in my hair. They have a further purpose.”

She shook her head, fair locks blowing in the breeze. His opinions were as immovable as the boulders he created, and could only be eroded with continuous discussion. “Morax, your stubbornness is as limitless as Barbatos’ wine supply. Let’s just accept these pools are beautiful and nothing more,” she said, a warm smile tugging at the corners of her lips. As much as she enjoyed their lengthy debates about the world, she knew when it was pointless to push further. Someday, he would appreciate things just the way they were, without looking for any logical explanation. Someday. “Now, what shall be your reward for this marvellous job? Let’s see…” She shifted her weight from one leg to another, still grabbing his arm and a thoughtful expression on her face.

“You are not to reward me, Guizhong. It is my greatest joy to do you a favor. We are committed to helping one another in our weaknesses,” Morax declared, mentally revising the first contract to ever be made on that land.

“Do you need me to file down your horns?” she suggested, purposely ignoring what he had said. The man refused her offer with a shake of his head.

“I can take care of it on my own,” he answered with a half-smile. She hummed pensively.

“Oh, I know. You will pay me a visit to the Realm of Clouds. I will show you my weapon collection,” the Lady of Dust gushed excitedly, her amber eyes shimmering with anticipation while tugging at his arm. Morax shifted a slightly surprised gaze to his friend as they started to walk back.

“Am I allowed to enter?” he asked, a sheepish yet small smile touching his lips. He felt happy he could get to see the place where she created all these sophisticated gadgets, where her beautiful mind was unleashed.

She pondered with a long hum, teasing him with all that hesitation. “Hm… Just this time, I suppose. We do not want you swishing your tail around my exhibition tables,” she joked with a coy grin, but he couldn’t see it as she was walking in front. The God of War peeked at his rear, suddenly self-conscious.

“I… I have got no tail at this time. I will not hurt anything, upon my word,” he promised a bit crestfallen by her accusations.  

Guizhong pivoted on her heels and stretched her hands to cup his face, catching him off guard. She had an expression of fondness on her face. “I know you will not. You can come whenever you please. You can even help me, too.”

He cherished her so, so much. But he would not say it. Sadly, he didn’t know how much he would regret all these unsaid words centuries later. He took her hand in his, her clothing then matching the color of the evening sky. They skirted the shore until Guizhong’s secret palace, their most recent joint creation lying peacefully behind their backs. The Luhua Pool.

A/N: not me creating even more Liyue lore!! Btw, that quote in the summary is from the game itself, the Luhua Pool viewpoint description /cries/ I hope you enjoyed it.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Of Dust and Ashes (Chapter 26)

Hello, did you miss me? I’m looking at resuming biweekly updates for the time being. I wanted to return to weekly but with home schooling for the remainder of the year, that’s not likely to happen. I did get moved just fine, all things considered. Moving during a global pandemic isn’t a experience I wish to repeat. 

Stay home, stay safe, stay healthy <3

Chapter warnings: Gunfire, Bloodshed, killing, corpses, blade violence...

Series rated: M

Masterlist Kofi

Chapter 26: Killing a King

Clint took a deep breath and released it, blowing the air out in front of him in a slow, controlled stream. Every breath he took was controlled to avoid giving away his position behind the platform. There was a small lip around the edge of the platform where those who built it couldn’t be bothered to saw down the planks to fit right.  

Frankly, the craftsmanship was terrible. While the space under was completely closed off, the boards had large gaps. The work wasn’t up to his standards and the thing likely wouldn't last the winter.

Through the gaps, he watched as the gruff men. They were armed with large guns and milling about, some with little clear direction beyond to look intimidating. He watched their shadows as they climbed onto the platform. Their weight bent boards that had lacked the proper support.

Most of them looked uncomfortable carrying such large guns. While some were likely hunters in their prior life, the guns they carried were military grade. While some carefully handled the weapons, others confidently carried them with their fingers on the trigger. It was an accident in the making.

“Today we are blessed!” A woman’s voice called out. She was the only woman on the platform and seemed to be one of the only free women in the city. “We are supported by and cared for by King Jacob. It is in his wisdom and his kindness that the people are safe, that they can eat and live.”

Clint snorted at the comment. Safe? They ones in charge were doing an amazing job at keeping themselves safe, of that he was sure. In the process, they were abusing those they claimed to care for. He could step up and give them a warning, show them that they couldn’t continue that way.  

“In order to remain safe and to continue to have enough for all of our people, there must be order.” The woman continued, her strong voice calling out over the park. People were gathered around. To the left, he could see where what appeared to be guards hands clutching a boy who had to be no less than 14 years old. “Don’t you agree?” Voices called out in agreement. Most were subdued and tense. Something bad was coming and it was clear half the people there were not wanting to be a part of it.  

“Supplies are limited. Food is limited. Everything is controlled. Everyone gets their fair share.” There was a mummer through the group. “We can’t have people taking more than their fair share.”

“You take more than your fair share!” The woman held off to the side yelled, struggling to keep her mouth uncovered. “You rape. You pillage. You take and take and leave the things you don’t like for those who agree to live by your rules. Crumbs are left for those of us who are your slaves!”

Clint realized that she was Elsa’s mother. This was not good. Very not good.  

“Shut her up!” The woman yelled and Clint prayed she would stop yelling before she got herself killed. “What do we do with those who steal from us? Who steal from you? Who take more than their fair share?”

More uncomfortable murmuring spread through the crowd. It was clear as day to him that a good portion of the people wanted little to do with what was going to happen. That didn’t change the fact that they were complacent. There was enough of them to take control. It was only a matter of organizing to do so.  

These people had been given a chance to start over. They had been given the chance to change their lives. They could have been the hero in their stories. They could have made something better of themselves. They could have done something. They could have supported each other.  

Instead, those who were free to roam in this city made the choice to sit back. It was easier to accept living in a hell of abuse if they were not the victims. They were just like everyone who looked the other way when he would show up at school with bruises as a boy. They were experts in looking the other way. They were just as guilty as the rest.

“For the crime of stealing from our glorious King Jacob and His People the sentence is death by hanging. His corpse will feed the crows. For the crime of defying our glorious King Jacob and hiding a criminal, the sentence is death by hanging. Her corpse will likewise feed the crows.” The woman spoke over the crowd as the men serving as guards dragged Elsa’s mother onto the stage. The boy fought to free himself from the guards who pulled him toward the stage.

Clint worked his way backward after checking both directions for anyone who could spot him. Each crouched step was slow and as controlled as his breathing. All he needed was a few feet, enough to give him a line of sight. Taking the gun from his hip, he took aim.  

One deep breath in and as he began to let it out, his finger tightened around the trigger. Guns were never something he was fond of. They were too loud for his taste but they did the job. The first guard fell like a sack of meat and Clint took aim at the other. Another bullet went through a skull.

Elsa’s mother was left standing, screaming on the platform with a dead man on either side of her. Clint wasted no time at all in throwing himself up on the platform. His arm went around the woman and he rather harshly yanked her behind him. It would only serve to protect her from one side but it was better than nothing.  

“Who the hell are you?” The man yelled, voice full of gravel and deep with age. He’d stormed out of the small shed set up to the right of the platform. Atop his head was a crude crown made of what looked to be gold crafting wire wrapped around what could have been a couple children’s play crowns.  

Clint Barton was a man who had seen royalty. He had held royal crowns in his hands as he worked to assassinate heads of state. Being the one to do the dirty work, either for any given price or later for the government had exposed him to the weight and feel of a proper royal crown. The thing perched atop the man’s head could be knocked off with the slightest breeze.  

“Just a friendly wanderer with something against human trafficking.” Clint answered, adjusting his grip on the gun in his hand.

To the side, the boy struggled with them guards still holding him. He kicked and bit but it did no good. They were much bigger than him. Clint watched from the corner of his eye, keeping most of his attention on the so called King.

The boy's legs tangled and he went down in a heap. The guard raised his gun. The fear in the child's eyes was clear, even from a distance.

Clint didn't think twice. It was quick, calculated. In a blink of an eye, Clint had his own gun up and his finger twitched. The bullet exploded the guard's head before he had a chance to do the same to the boy.

“He’s that guy from the fenced property- the one who refused to pay you tax.” another man yelled. He was thin and small. It honestly looked as if the gun he was carrying weighed more than him. Clint remembered seeing him at the caravan, timidly saying nothing as sticks were jabbed into the cage at the women.  

“Kill him.” The King ordered. “No one withholds tax!”  

It sounded beyond cheesy to Clint. Straight out of some low budget mobster movie. Did the self proclaimed King know how ridiculous he sounded?

“I mean, I did? So clearly someone did.” Sassing him wasn’t the best idea, he knew that. He was already outnumbered and had someone to protect but god dammit he couldn’t help it.  

Guns raised and pointed at him. Well, at his general direction. A good number of the guards appeared to have poor aim. Seconds passed and bullets hit the wall around him. He was becoming more and more sure that most of these people had never actually held these types of weapons before. Those who have were finding it hard to shoot at a stranger in unusual situation, it seemed.

That worked in his favor as he picked the three with the best aim off. The less he had to worry about getting shot, the better. An arrow moving through the air caught his eye and pulled the corners of his lips up. It hit the edge of the park, landing under the edge of a bench. It wasn’t where he would have liked it but it was there. She was there, watching his back. She was there.

After a moment, it exploded. Rocks and dirt were thrown into the air. It didn’t do anything to actually kill or even harm anyone but that didn’t matter. It provided him a distraction.  

All eyes turned toward the blast. The sound of shouting covered up the sound of the blade of his sword as he pulled it from the sheath. Now was time to move. Now was his chance.  

“Stay with me.” He ordered to the woman behind him. Not too close. Kindergarten rules- if you can’t see me that’s a problem.”  

When she nodded, he took off. There was something freeing about wielding a blade. He had always felt at one with his bow but once that arrow left his string, it left his control. With blades, it was always all him. There was no difference between weapon and man as they cut through bodies and snuffed out lives together.  

Another arrow impaled the ground. Her aim was getting better and Clint smiled. This time, when the explosive charge went off, it took the life of one of the guards and injured two others. The next arrow didn’t have such lucky aim. The point sank into the wood beam at the top of the platform and Clint became once again very aware of the bodies swaying by ropes above him.  

“Come on.”  

Clint wrapped his hand around his charge’s arm and pushed her in front of him. He kept pushing her until they reached the edge of the platform where he rather unceremoniously picked her up and chucked her off the edge. As he launched himself of the edge of the platform, he sank the tip of his blade into the chest of a heavily armed man to the right. The beam exploded in a rain of splinters as he hit the ground.

As the body fell from his blade, so did those hanging behind him. Turning on his heel, he grabbed his charge by her arm and pulled her close. She struggled and screamed for a moment before realizing it was him. Her breaths where tight and shallow as panic ate at her.  

He pointed with his blade after using it to cut a woman down who rushed them with a knife pointed and ready to attack. “Take this. Run there. Get behind that dumpster. Stay until I come for you.”  

There was no time to wait to see if she understood or was even able to do as he asked. He shoved her in the direction of the dumpster. He gave her the chance, found her a clearing but now it was up to her. She had to make it there herself. He couldn’t do everything for her.  

He could at least serve as a distraction. She had plenty of time to make it there. What better distraction was there than going after their leader.  

“Hey, Mr. King?” Clint called. “My daughter had a better crown than you when she was six.”  

Okay, so the insult could use some work. But it got their attention. In the end, that’s all he needed. The more eyes on him, the less eyes were on her. Plus, the crown really was fucking ridiculous.

Every muscle in him was tense and ready to attack. He sent a silent ‘thank you’ to Dee, who rained down a steady stream of exploding arrows. Their placement was hardly ideal but considering the distance and her level of skill, it was more than he had dared ask for.  

It was enough to keep the group disjointed and looking for another attacker. A misfired charge caught the table on fire, adding smoke to the cloud of dirt and debris. It gave him something close to a cover and he took advantage of it. He took down anyone who dared to raise their gun to him on his way to the King.  

Each if his movements were precise. Each sweep of his blade was quick and cut cleanly through flesh and bone. Warm blood splattered onto his face and soaked into the arms of his coat. It quickly cooled but he paid it no mind.  

Keep cutting. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Don’t let a threat get away. Anyone who got away would be a threat later. Each threat had to be eliminated for fear that they would regroup and follow him. Only those he was sure wouldn’t stab them in the back could be allowed to live.

Death was everywhere, all around him. Ash, dirt and smoke clogged the air as another arrow exploded the front of a building.

He was death and he was closing in on the last target. The so called King was running through an alley way with Clint hot on his heels. The crown crushed so easily under Clint’s boot that he hardly realized he had stepped on it.  

Low quality. Fake. Cheap. Worthless. Just like the King who’s head it had sat upon.  

It didn’t take long for Clint to overtake the man, even with the substantial head start. There was no ceremony in his death. This man deserved no ceremony. The blade whipped around the front of the man and cut into the exposed throat of the once self crowned King. Hands flew up to his neck as red poured down his front. He'd had his neck cut before he had even been aware Clint was within reach.  

Clint stepped away and watched for a moment as the King leaned against a wall, then turned his back and walked away. Behind him, there was a soft scraping sound followed by a thud. He didn’t need to look behind him to know that it was the sound of a lifeless body sliding down a rough wall and landing on the ground.  

For what he had done, this so called King and his followers had gotten only a fraction of what they deserved.  

~~~~~<3

The woman was right where he told her to wait. She was shaking, cowering close to the wall. The cold of the metal surely was seeping into her but she still held herself close to it. That was the only thing she had been doing right, the gun was sitting in her lap.  

If he had been someone else, someone meaning her harm she wouldn’t have had a chance to grab the gun. She was lucky everything went according to what little plan he had. There wasn’t much he could have done if even one person had branched off and found her.  

“It’s me.” Clint knelt in front of her, being sure to give her space.  

“Is it over?” She asked, wide eyes wet with tears.  

“For the most part. It’s time to give me back the gun.” The idea of traveling with an armed woman he didn’t know wasn’t high on his list of things he wanted to do. Dee was different. He trusted her. He trusted Dee with his life.  

“But- But- What if-” She stammered out, stumbling over words and thoughts.  

“You don’t need it anymore. I’m here.”

“But- But-”  

“Do you remember me?” Clint softly asked. His arm was getting cold now or maybe with the adrenaline fading from his system he was simply beginning to notice it. He made a mental note to wear something waterproof next time he exterminated rats.  

“You- you’re- The man from the fence?” He was hoping that she would remember him as ‘Hawkeye’ but that worked. At least she remembered him. It’s not like he was all that well known. He didn’t go to most of the press conferences or anything, there were simply not a lot of pictures of him out there, all things considered. Not like Tony or Steve at least.  

“I am-”

“Did you find her? Did you look for her? Did- did you give her a good burial? Can- Can I see where she is?” The woman curled in on herself as he watched her spiral. At least she knew who he was.  

“What’s your name?” he reached out and took the gun from her lap. She made no move to stop him. “What can I call you?”

“R-Rachel- I-

“Nice to meet you Rachel, I’m Clint and we need to get moving.”  

“Did- did you find her? My baby. They left her to die.” Clint pulled the woman to her feet. She wasn’t dressed for the weather. If she could even make it back to the building was something Clint wasn’t sure about.  

“We did. She’s okay. Let’s get moving.”  

People were peeking out of buildings. He didn’t see a single weapon in hand or aimed at him but that didn’t mean that they were safe at all. The sooner they were out of the open, the better. The sooner he was with Dee again, the better.  

“She’s okay?” Fear and hope mixed on her face.  

“She’s okay. She’s waiting for you but we’ve got to get going.”

The woman he had stopped before the battle started slowly approached. Her head was down and shoulders slumped as she shuffled forward.  

“Yes?” He asked, standing. He didn’t want to keep fighting but if there were more to fight, he would take them down.  

“They’re gone.” She whispered. “The ones you didn’t kill- they’re running away. Are- Are we free?”  

“Yeah. Free.”

“What do we do now?” The woman asked. Clint really wanted her to go away.

“What ever you want.” He said instead. She wasn’t his responsibility. Now that the fighting was done, he wanted to get back to Dee and make sure she was alright.

“Where do we go?” The woman asked.  

“Where ever you want, if you want to go anywhere at all.” Clint swallowed the urge to snap at her.

“What do we do now?” She asked again and he couldn’t stop the sigh that ripped out of his chest.  

“What ever the fuck you want. I’m going and taking her to her baby. Then I’m going home. What you do now that you’re free is your problem. I’m going home with my- with Dee.” He took a deep breath and tried to calm his frustration. He was cold, his jacket was damp and the sleeve was soaked. “Listen- Say here and try and survive the winter if you want. The government is working on restoring order but it will be a while. You can wait for order to reach us here or make your way east. There is more order to the east. What you decide to do is your problem.”

He pulled Rachel along as he started walking, not bothering to wait for the other woman to continue her questioning. Thankfully, Rachel was silent while they walked. He wished he could call Dee, contact her and make sure she was alright.

~~~~~<3

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[thirstyforred]

I played The Wretched by Chris Bissette [it’s currently in the bundle] and since part of the game is to create a log I guess can share mine. It’s also kinda fun writing exercise even tho I died before I could save myself and the log just ends abruptly. I really recommend this game, especially to if you like things like Alien movies or survival horror in general [or if you’re easily spooked you can imagine your character with GLOOcannon from Prey 2017. GLOOcannon makes everything better]

Day 1, salvage ship The Wretched. Flight Engineer Martin reporting. The other members of the crew are dead and the engines remain non-operational, though ship integrity remains good and life support systems are still active. I successfully jettisoned the intruder from the airlock. With a little luck, I can repair the distress beacon and somebody will pick me up. This is Martin, the last survivor of the Wretched, signing off.

Day 2, salvage ship The Wretched, Flight Engineer Martin reporting. At 0300 fire alarm and fire suppression systems were activated. I started auto diagnosis on all systems but I'm still not sure what caused the fire. The damage is hopefully fixable. That alarm woke me up and I couldn't sleep anymore... I found a journal of A. He wrote like a whole list of things he wants to cook and eat one we get back home. Even here A managed to make something edible out of nothing. I think I was so tired, after waking up in the middle of my sleeping cycle and monitoring all systems for other fires and then reading that damned journal for hours, that- I think I heard something. Something like a whisper coming through the comms. I don't know what was it. Maybe I should also put comms through that diagnosis check? Of other things: water smells kinda like ammonia. The purification system works, just seems to be less efficient. Maybe I should be disgusted by this, I don't know, I'm just too tired to care I guess.

Day 3. I was so wrong. I was in the Mess trying to eat something when I heard that scraping sound from the corridor. I managed to duck behind the counter before it reached the open door. Thank gods, it didn't decide to actually enter! It moved past, somewhere in the direction of the Bridge, and then, I think entered the vents. It certainly knows I'm here.

Day 4. I'm carrying weapons, electric baton and a handgun, on me all the time, even tho I know it will only slow down that thing. But also I can't spend all the time locked somewhere wishing for it to be gone. So, one of the things I did today was checking my food supplies. There wasn't much to begin with, and now, that mold took over, there's even less. I can't exactly dump it, so I locked it in one of the cabinets. Maybe mold won't spread. I also managed to lock myself on the Bridge. Or it was that alien. I'm starting to think that it was the thing that I heard over the comms 2 days ago - if it can access and operate the comm system why would it be able to mess with the doors? It might be also responsible for the failure of the generator that happened 4 hours later. And failing of the backup generator as well. I had to use parts of the backup generator to fix the main one. So in case, the power goes out again it goes all down... Yeah. But after another fire alarm, I straight up jettisoned that section of the ship. It was the Crew Quarters, so all that's lost in just my sleeping bag. Maybe the alien asshole was caught and is now drifting out of the station. I can only hope.

Day 5. I spend the whole morning trying to pull the engine together. I may have an engineer as part of my title, but honestly, rocket science is beyond me. I'm afraid I only made more mess. The airlock I jettisoned alien thought the first time is still unsealed. The one in Crew Quarters locked back properly, but that one I just didn't manage to fix it properly. There's now only a single door between me, the interior of the ship, and that thing. Since it already got inside once, I guess it's only a matter of time till it finds a way to walk around it again or pry it open, and then I'll be the one that's jettisoned. There's nothing I can really do at this point.

Day 6. There's still a lot of internal damages I'm tracking down and fixing. Tiny but vital things. Like the door to the Docking Bay that M jacked to give us more time running away. It worked, even if soon later alien discovered that it prefers vents anyway. Part of the unblocking process involved cleaning whatever was left of M there - I already stalled long enough. When I finally went back to the Bridge I got to hear the last seconds of signal from some far-off vessel. I couldn't signal them back, I lost it. "Dear listeners..." they said. Might be some audio drama, sounds like fun. Also, It got back on the ship. Persistent beast. I hid in the locker when I heard it moving in the vent above. Either it missed me or just really loves to fuck with me, because it didn't immediately go for my very obvious hiding spot. But it knocked one of the desk lamps with its tail and I think got spooked. It ran back to the vents, which I soldered as soon as I was sure it's not nearby. Should have done it days ago.

Day 7. And that's a full week of living with an extra passager on my ship. At this point, I maybe should give it a name... I almost got a heart attack when I saw it on the camera feed of the corridors I have access to on the Bridge. It moves like a spider. Mr. Spider. Before it all, K told me about a children's book she heard once about. One of the spooky kind. I hate those so I kindly told her to fuck off, but now looking at that jumpy camera feed of Mr. Spider - how can stories for kids be worse than reality?

Day 8. I can no longer focus on anything. My every thought is like 'It's here! It's here!'. I'm so tired. It was here for the past week. But I got to do some spacewalking, first and let's hope the last time. I wasn't sure what to do to ensure that Mr. Spider won't try to stop me from my attempt to boost the antenna, but I opened the mold cabinet in the Mess and it seems that awful smell managed to get its attention. The antenna works, now to repair and activate the distress beacon.

Day 9. The Mess is unsalvagable. It looks like Mr. Spider decided that it's its nest now. Good thing I already moved all my things to the Bridge. Since Mr. Spider seems to be preoccupied with the mold cabinet, I decided to take care of the last of the bodies in the storage room in Engineering. That's the place we wanted to hole up in, but the vents... It doesn't like the ones there that much - too near the cold hull of the ship if I had to guess - but used them anyway to get to us. Now I also had to squeeze there to fix some cables that might help me with boosting that beacon. It was an experience. I still periodically check sensors and monitors to see if by chance there are some other vessels nearby. Of course, that's mostly wasting my time.

Day 10.

I spend some extra hours on the beacon instead of sleeping and I managed to finally fix it! Now all I have to do is wait for someone to catch my signal. I soldered the Mess door so it has only the vents if it wants to get back inside. I did it mostly for my own benefit, so when I'm going around trying to fix this rooting ship I don't have to look at things that are inside. I refuse to even guess what Mr. Spider is doing there. If it's really building a nest or something like that, it would mean that I'm the asshole for invading its territory. But on the other hand, it killed the whole crew of The Wretched, I would say that's a bit too extreme reaction on Mr. Spider's part. That being said I decided to make the list of my top 5 hiding places:

the Bridge - the real commanding center, now with soldered vents

storage room next to the Medical Bay - small and cozy, perfect for napping

Crew Quarter - already jettisoned once, so maybe Mr. Spider wouldn't look for me there

office in Life Support - mostly because it is Life Support and I would like to believe it will support my life

life capsule that's broken and can't leave its dock

I don't really intend to move out of the Bridge, but man I need some backup plans... I somewhat prepared them all today - I had to use K's keycard to get into her office in Life Support.

Day 11. I don't know how, but Mr. Spider managed to detach the whole module holding Crew Quarter from the rest of the ship. Now it's just drifting nearby. I don't know if it read my list of potential hiding places or just decided that it no longer vibes with it. Shame that the Mess didn't drift away as well. It's weird enough that it wasn't the part of the Crew module in the first place. Mr. Spider would be pissed that its nest-mess got jettisoned away... Sometimes I wonder what it calls itself. I guess something less stupid than Mr. Spider or Gorlam the Brave, my old teddy who now drifts somewhere in the space. RIP Gorlam. And I guess soon RIP me... There are weird noises in the Life Support. Not the crazy creature from outer space kind of noises, more like the machinery is failing and there's no one with enough knowledge to fix it. I'm starting to think that lying on my resume was a bad idea... At this point, I might be a better funeral official than an engineer... Today I jettisoned the last bodies. There wasn't really that much to say, so I just mostly cried.

Day 12. Gravity drive crashed today. It was real hell to drag myself all the way to it and fix it, but I managed. I should get a badge or something. The rest of the day I spend monitoring the beacon signal. It looks good. Like it might actually work kind of good.

Day 13. I fixed one of the small leaks of oxygen in the hull. I wonder how I didn't see it before. Spend a few hours walking cluelessly around Engineering trying to fix anything. I even finally cleaned M's rifle that I found by him, but I have seen no sign of Mr. Spider in the past 2 days. I wonder... [log abruptly ends here]

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― III.i. A Funeral and a Pyre

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART III ⥽

— Virginia, 1857. It was supposed to be their chance at freedom — their Shadow Kingdom. Instead it has become a battlefield. Tensions rise as the nation whispers of civil war and humans and vampires alike learn even freedom demands blood. No more will they pray to be saved. Not when the Shadow eclipses the Dawn.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Trinity will always be fighting for their freedom. The Godmaker has made sure of that.

WARNING: this chapter contains mature sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

Virginia, 1857

They get a fair distance from camp before it dawns on them both. They aren’t far enough.

Perhaps they have been spending too much time around mortal-kind. Not that either man would admit it.

So a fair distance goes just a little but further. Until their ears cannot pick up the din of tin flatware and the crackle of the fire. If they cannot hear their companions then they, too, cannot be heard.

The canopy is thin this time of year — summer long-gone and autumn welcomed in its place in falling leaves and nights that leave bitter fingertips come morning light.

Fingertips that, now and finally blissfully alone, come together in barely-there touches. They know the other’s touch as well as—if not better than—their own. Proven as much in the surety of their actions. In the wordless way their foreheads come together and share the things that should repulse them; the dirt and sweat and gunpowder clinging in vain.

But they know better; know one another better know themselves better than to think something as temporary as the earth beneath their boots could lessen their inevitable desires.

The rugged palm of his forever comes up to hold Cynbel’s cheek — to capture this moment in time and bring it to the reverent place where they keep every other.

Distraught are the souls who are unknown of such rapture, he thinks — and pities them, that they may try to take their god into themselves in words and scripture, but know flesh is beyond them.

He’ll never know what blind faith feels like. He walked in to his faith with eyes wide open and led by a divine hand.

Supplies are low—have been for some time though that is a thought for any time but now—but they make due. Use blood and spit and take their precious time while grass tickles their bare skin. At one point a dead leaf crumbles under Valdas’ palm and the pair laugh at the sight. Find joy in the little moments even after all these years.

And oh, how many years there have been. How is it that each time is as familiar and as new as their first had been? How is he so lucky?

Valdas stills inside of him; eclipses the sliver of the moon overhead as if he was not already Cynbel’s sky and stars. “Does my lovemaking bore you?”

What a ridiculous question. “Never.”

“Then what has you both beneath me and so very far away?”

Ah. He nods, feels the catch of twigs in his hair absently. Runs long fingers up the canvas of Valdas’ outer thigh before gripping it tight to hold them together as only lovers know.

“Do you know something I hate about this continent?”

Valdas barks a laugh. “I know many things you hate about America, my darling. You never waste an opportunity to make that abundantly clear.”

“Fair point.”

“But for the sake of the vice-grip you have on my cock, what do you hate about this continent, Cynbel?”

As amusing as it would be to torture them both for hours upon hours… They just don’t have that kind of time here.

“There are no ruins. No crumbled temples or ill-kept shrines. Well… none that have not been bastardized by invaders but —” but he, too, would seek release at least thrice tonight, “— and somehow the lack of such things makes me miss them all the more. It makes me miss your altar all the more, my Holy One.”

He smiles as recognition can be found in the dark eyes overhead. In the curve of Valdas’ smirk and the way he rolls his hips and brings them together near-seamlessly.

“While I too find myself reminiscing on such glory days —” the man beneath him keens in pleasure, body scrambling desperately to keep him inside but unable to deny him, “— I don’t let them take priority over the now. Especially when now is equally glorious.”

Valdas punctuates the word with a jerk of his hand, stroking Cynbel in something akin to haste. A direct opposition to his leisurely fucking. And while the contrast is good enough to bring his devoted progeny back with him to the present something unfamiliar lingers.

Hesitation. Doubt?

“It… is found equally so Cynbel… right?”

Perhaps before he would have taken such a question as insult. Would have disparaged his god for believing him to be anything other than in a constant state of growing love for him. Before all of this.

Before the war.

Thankfully for them both Valdas knows better than to take his lover’s silence as an answer he may not wish to hear. Resumes his pace and lets it build — lets them build. But his patience has a limit. Cynbel would know… he’s been the test of it for millennia now. He will have his answer before the night is through.

And he does — his golden son’s spite showing through in that he withholds it until Valdas falls atop the length of him, utterly spent and not in the least bit sated. Sweat and orgasm smeared between the places they long to knit together. To become one.

“It is not.”

The body above his tenses, readies to pull away. But it is only in things like this that Cynbel can refuse his Lord and Light. Only in the ways that ensure they are kept close; that they are kept whole and together.

Valdas pulls his head back enough to look up with guarded eyes. Sees mirth reflected back in dim pools of blue and the frustration he feels isn’t unknown to either of them. Though it is usually reserved for their beloved third.

Cynbel cards his fingers through Valdas’ dark hair and continues, “It can never be equally so, never in all our years. Because, my petulant divinity, each time with you is made ripe with age, seasoned with our years and the things we have done together, done with Isseya.

“It is never the same. It is always better.”

It is how they came to start and how they will end.

Though, he thinks — and lets himself fall back into the embrace of the earth with his religion hovering atop him, enveloping him; keeping him safe and giving him purpose in this endless labyrinth of eternity, if they are truly so blessed it will not be for many years to come.

Cynbel always makes sure he is the last of their regiment to enter the mines. Not only to ensure the safety of his beloveds but because it gives him the chance to see the barest ridges of sunrise over the steep Virginia hills. He waits until his eyes burn and send tears tracking hot down his cheeks — and then just a moment more.

He is never more glad of having no need to breathe than he is here. The newest among them still cover their mouths with scraps of cloth as though it is the coal around them they must fear, not the circumstances in which they have found themselves.

Especially to those such as the Trinity. To have wandered the freedom of the undiscovered world only now to cower under piles of stone.

One way in, one way out.

One more thing stacked against their favor in this their war for survival.

The hard-packed dirt makes it impossible for him to settle comfortable. Cynbel tries his best to find distraction in something—anything. And would be lost if he did not have the beauty of Isseya to gaze upon in the black.

She removes her hat and goes about the same routine she always does come morning light. Removes each of the fastenings that pin up her hair with the same care she used to give to the finest silks and fastenings of pure gold. The uniform she wears now does not do her justice — rather the opposite. She makes the ill-fitting coat look worthy of royalty even now.

“You’re staring.”

His smile is biological; instinctual. “Can you blame me? You know I have a weakness for pretty things.”

“Indeed…” she cards through her hair; lets the waves rest and he couldn’t possibly find her anything other than ethereal, “as I know they will be your undoing. You linger too long, Cynbel.”

Yet even as she says it she leans against him. Emotions are beyond the touch of flesh, now. And in this dirty hole no better than the coffins they have avoided for two thousand years… he cannot imagine doing it without her comfort.

“Yes yes — save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

“When you were feeding regularly. And I don’t chide you for stealing a moment away with our beloved—really I don’t. But you’re both fools for choosing not to conserve your strength.”

Their eyes meet in the dark. Held in a gaze of mutual longing… before he throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tighter against him. “Careful, Iss’. You almost sound responsible.”

“Someone has to be, what with you two wandering the woods like incubi.”

“What happened to the fun Isseya? I miss her.”

“Piss off…”

Their words may sting but all is soothed in a kiss. Long enough to make the vampires trying to sleep on the other side of the tunnel shift in discomfort — because she still is his darling minx at heart. But without her clear head they might not have lasted this long.

“Where is Valdas?”

Cynbel rests their foreheads close. “First watch.” Immediately he feels Isseya’s anger — holds her ever-tighter to ensure she doesn’t do anything brash. Not much for them to do stuck in here as they are, but he understands. “This is why he did not tell you. Relax, my love, please. We would not be here if it was not a secure place to hide from the daylight.”

The day watch is something they all must endure at one point or another. Such is their duty to the regiment; a task that discriminates on nothing and asks only that you do your part. As they all are doing their parts in this war.

And, as he is quite sure Isseya will agree, he rests easier knowing the one on the front line, the first defense between a den of sleeping vampires and the onslaught of the Order, is someone he would (and has) trusted with his life for thousands of years before.

For example — the scraggly boy who sits across, whose head keeps lolling around from slumber only to wake himself back up — Cynbel would rather place his fate in the hands of, say, Kamilah Sayeed. That boy looks like he can defend nothing.

But surely he looks no better. Starving as he is and now with a night of rough passion to further sap his strength.

One more day of this and they will reach Charlottesville. Hopefully with enough moonlight left in the night to sate their hunger. Even the thought of a neck, warm and not-necessarily-willing, underneath his mouth leaves him craven.

Isseya sees the needless torture in his eyes and at the very least it helps to know he isn’t alone.

Falling asleep is the hardest part. While Cynbel hasn’t slept alone in over a thousand years he isn’t exactly accustomed to sharing quarters with more than his lovers. With more than those he know intimately. Now he is expected to share the daylight hours meant for rest with complete strangers; their faces and stories ever-changing, one swapped out for another with every battle and every loss. More losses than he cares to think about — even if the dead have no one to blame but themselves for their fate.

But like all things it is made easier with her presence. Her touch, her breath on his neck. The Children of Valdemaras cling to one another among the rest and know that they are together.

And together they are made immortal.

It is rare to find a church in disrepair in these times. Faith seems to have an endless strength with which to carry humanity. And with which to draft them for battle, he thinks, and knows he isn’t the only one who finds a twisted sense of satisfaction as they pass the church’s boarded-up front doors.

Charlottesville. The last safe place left for their kind in the colonies — though even those were but a sliver of the developing nation that called itself America. While most cities and towns would be found with barren midnight streets it is the opposite here. Cynbel’s roaming eyes take in clusters of evening gatherers, are taken in themselves by the very same, and they simply know.

They were all summoned by the same man after all.

Even in the midst of a war for their very survival Cynbel finds it hard to believe the Godmaker has even the slightest capacity for compassion. Once upon a time it was simply fact that Augustine cared for naught but his ambitions. But over time all facts from the Old World were becoming irrelevant; laughable superstition even.

He would amend his beliefs, then. Allow for the same leniency Augustine had shown them no more than a decade ago — the wolves let back among the rest of the pack to ensure their species would continue. Would have a chance to continue.

The lists of names in smudge-free care that hang in the foyer, however, would challenge those beliefs further.

Near a dozen frames hang on either side of the corridor stretching back into the heart of Augustine’s Manor. He recognizes the handwriting to be the same from the missive which drew them all to Virginia in the first place. Takes in each name as passively as he does the faces of the flock.

What good does it do him to idolize the fallen? No longer will they accomplish anything worth being honored for.

Isseya’s hand brushes against his; a subtle comfort in unfamiliar territory. One he returns in kind.

“Remember,” she says to him, says to Valdas half a step ahead of them both, “all of this will be worth it in the end. Our freedom will be sweeter than the spoils of this war.”

Still, Cynbel’s upper lip curls in distaste. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then look it, perhaps?”

The last page must be a recent addition. The lacquered frame shiny and new and without dust, the wall around it smelling of fresh paint. And inside — a memorial not-yet finished, the last name still an aching distance away from the bottom of the page.

Hung in effigy and removed when the time comes to grow the collection of the dead.

“It’s these names…” Cynbel catches his reflection and stops; takes in the gaunt hollowness of his eternal youth in the protective glass, “they mock me — they mock us all.”

Valdas watches him with an unreadable expression. “They are the fallen.”

“They are the weak.” He corrects, in that moment made no more than men on equal standing.

“Weak enough to fail; to die. There is no honor in only being remembered after you’re dead. Honor me in life—demand more of me than I have already achieved. Instead of… idolizing me in my failure.”

Battles bring out in him the thrilled hunter. Wars, however, have made him old and temperamental.

Valdas’ hand finds his, laces their fingers together sure and strong. Isseya’s soft hand on his cheek is the only thing that drags Cynbel’s eyes from his contempt and to them — he could never look at them in such a way and they know it.

“We are fortunate then to never have to worry about such things.” She reminds him. And it is enough.

Together the Trinity is led onward. Passed what must have been built as a polished office but instead serves better purpose as a war room. Papers and maps strewn on every available surface and then some. The toll war takes on even those as seasoned as the Godmaker brought to life.

One map is hammered into the wall obscuring a painting of some kind. Knowing Augustine — one of his many portraits sacrificed for the ‘greater good.’ He recognizes landmarks and the border territories of Virginia’s surrounding states all hidden underneath spools’ worth of colored yarn acting as… as…

Ah, he understands after the office and map are several paces abandoned. Dark wax seals acting as markers for battles Cynbel himself had participated in… had fled from against everything gnawing hungry at his gut…

Far more losses than victories. Their supply routes bottlenecked — then extinguished. Fewer and fewer safe places to hold down fort through the long summering days to come. Battle after battle has blinded him to the truth now laid bare; unavoidable.

The Order is winning.

The air in the dining room, when they arrive, is a stifling heat. The smell of gas lingering high towards the ceiling. Antique candelabras—remnants from the Old World—stand vigil over a feast of kings. Sweet breads still steaming and the ashy aroma of well-bred meats. Vegetables no doubt from the fields they had just passed through on their journey. All decadent — all utterly wasteful.

All no better than a table of writhing maggots and soured mold in the face of the real hunger that consumes them.

“Valdemaras — how kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Of course the Godmaker’s first words are a snide remark. Cynbel expects nothing less. But to bite the hand that feeds now would be suicide. He bites his tongue instead.

The King and Queen of Vampires take up either end of the long oak table. Guests — an unexpected and certainly unwelcome surprise — litter across the length of it. He can smell the blood in their wine glasses. Reaches out to cut his nail into Isseya’s palm to keep himself in check.

Cynbel doesn’t have to look up to know Augustine is looking upon the pair of them, Valdas’ only children, with disdain.

“I believe I told the messenger boy the nature of this meeting.”

Valdas nods; his chin raised among his lessers but eyes downcast in the face of his Maker. “A meeting of officers, yes. The message was relayed in full.”

“Then explain yourself.” Why are they with you, the question unasked. That he still has to ask in some form or another after all these years…

“Where I go they will follow. Always.”

Always.

But this war has changed more than the Trinity — it has changed the so-called ruler of their people. Gaius’ noise of discontent is only brief; stifled with supper. He waves to an empty seat on his right. “Enough time has been wasted in anticipation of your arrival. Join us and send your ilk elsewhere.”

“I would see them fed after the long journey.”

“Very well.”

Though their devotion is like a brand upon their shared skins — their love as famous as their cruelty, as infamous as the bodies left in their wake — Cynbel and Isseya don’t allow themselves the pettiness that might come with the way Valdas takes his leave of them. They must play their role as their Lord and Light plays his. All of it an act; dancing around a carnival faire for the Godmaker’s amusement.

When the curtain closes they will be free of him. Valdas ensures it with every placating act. He is willing to sacrifice for them — how could they do anything less but the same?

They wait until he is seated. A young boy approaches with a pitcher and pours their beloved his fresh meal. Their eyes meet over the head of a bearded officer and Cynbel knows his beloved will not consume in front of them. In solidarity.

“Leave!” Augustine barks; they do not give him chance to do so twice.

They arrive at the end of a funeral. Isseya recognizes the sight of ashes catching on the breeze; carrying whoever they once were far off and to a better life than the one that failed them.

How very… human. The sight of it nearly ruins his appetite.

In front of a dozen or so gathered stands a lone man. In his hands rests a plain box bearing no carvings or paint. The dead as nameless as the living.

Together they have no intention of stopping — when Cynbel feels resistance in their held hands he even looks at her as though she’s gone a touch mad.

But his beloved girl’s focus is cast over the field of grass to the ceremony. A furrow he does not like crinkles restless on her brow. They keep their distance but, for all intents and purposes, join in.

The leader’s voice carries rich and sweet over them all.

“It is from Her blood we are made anew; given strength and life where there was none to be found. But with each life born another must depart, for only She may live forever. And in that eternity we must believe She will be there to welcome our fallen friend, that She will accept the gift he now gives — Her strength no longer needed in this life.

“In these ill times, my brothers and sisters, the journey seems an unending path. But with each departed Her power grows… And I believe that by the end of this war it will be enough to see Her risen again, to bring Her to us in our darkest hour. Have faith beside me and She will see it rewarded.”

Cynbel would recognize such a reverence anywhere — bastardized by the New World though it may be. Of course the Godmaker had taken upon himself an opportunity that could not be passed up. The First Son of Valdemaras can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same in Augustine’s shoes.

Everyone needed something to believe in. Someone in which to rest their faith when they believed their destiny out of their own hands.

Not all were as lucky as Cynbel and Isseya. Not all were able to see the living face of their god and know the surety that came with it.

Not all yet understood that none could make their path but themselves. Divine intervention would not come unless one took it by the reins.

Or… in Valdas’ case, anyway, the fangs.

“Must we really house ourselves among these fanatics?” Whispers his darling, and Cynbel’s nod is a reluctant one.

“Better than a mine shaft.”

“And not with our heart.”

“He will join us soon enough. Rather in this life than in the home that Augustine would no doubt set aflame if we even tried.”

The look he gives her is rueful enough. Presses a solid kiss to her frown because he hates the sight of it, truly, and they leave the mourners to their invisible Goddess and Her empty promises for the promise of temporary peace.

Inside the barn has been converted into barracks for their like. Windows covered in layers of cloth and boarded up for good measure. Anything to keep the numbers of Augustine’s army. The Trinity exchange looks and know they are of the same mind; that to stay in such squalor is, as he said, “better than a mine shaft” but not by much.

They used to rest their heads under endless skies. After that with headboards of marble, of gold. Sheets beneath bare flesh woven by expert hands until they bled… and then more. Certainly more than the thin cots of stuffed hay and threadbare blankets they take up in this hellish space.

The blood is fresh enough to still be liquid in the bowls they take but only just. It curdles on the back of Cynbel’s tongue to the point where he has to hold Isseya’s hand near-breaking to stomach it. And on an empty stomach it refuses to settle — makes him feel sluggish and not at all satisfied.

Isseya coaxes Cynbel to sit on the edge of a bunk near the back of their quarters. Lets him hang his head while she comes up from behind and eases his uniform from his shoulders. That her touch does not immediately excite him is a testament to how hungry he truly is — but she knows him well enough by now not to take offense.

She’s seen him in the heat of the slaughter after all. Let her nakedness be a canvas of blood of which he was a master on par with the greats of the Renaissance.

They have before and they will again. Together. A trinity.

Though the closed-off space makes it impossible to know for certain Cynbel is sure he can feel morning dogging at the heels of the vampires who finally join them. Their things already resting by besides, some sharing a bucket of well-water to wash old blood from their bowls; they have called this place home for longer than the lovers.

The contentment of their routine disgusts him. The ageless thumbs pressing into the base of his spine eases that hatred only just.

She works him as she always has — down to the bone and further still. His muscles gone pliant under her touch, craven for it to continue. Desperate for the solace only she can provide.

Hands that once slaughtered her own family in the name of the Made-God and his Firstborn… that would have soaked endless stretches of land in blood if it meant appeasing them.

They pretend to sleep before they really are. He pulls Isseya on top of him and she doesn’t resist in the least. Here at least they can sleep comfortable even if it only ends up being the barest definition of the word.

Cynbel hears a whisper that might sound something like “They’ll break the cot that way,” but he’s hungry, he’s exhausted, and damnable hells he’s horny too and Isseya’s no prude but neither of them are in any fit state to be working themselves up right now.

So he lets it slide. This time. But his generosity has its limits.

They’ve gotten so used to the darkness of the mines during their slumbering hours that seeing sunlight stream through one uncovered sliver in the barn thatching is jarring to say the least.

But it reminds Cynbel of better times. Some happier — some not. But all of them better. Better than this hell he cannot even find contentment in. If it were a hell of his own making, perhaps… but it is not even that!

“What are you thinking about?”

The bunk they’ve taken is several cots away from the last of the vampires. And Isseya — his darling girl knows exactly how to whisper so their better ears cannot hear. Usually used for things of a far more seductive and sultry nature… but it works, too, in this.

“What would you wish me to think of?” She smacks his chest none-too-lightly and his laughter isn’t without a cough or two.

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“Fine, fine —” he relents and her heart leaps against his chest in victory, “— but you of all people know my thoughts are rarely so simple.”

He laces their fingers together, would rather she simply find what she wishes inside of his mind. A memory or dream that could take them far away from here and, ideally, with their beloved Lord.

They’re both too hungry, too weak for that. And without Valdas wrapped somewhere around or between them it just isn’t worth the energy.

“You like to think yourself so complicated… but I know otherwise.”

“Oh do you now?”

Her touch slithers downward, grasps him cheeky and knows even weak he can still get it up for her. “I do.”

He can have all of the silent moments he wishes… but she won’t rest until she has an answer — and that means neither will he.

“Oddly enough I was thinking to when we met you, Valdas and I.”

Such a fussy subject when it comes to his darling girl. Some days she enjoys thinking of the last act of her humanity to be anything but. Others… well there’s a growing concern for where exactly she’s grabbing… and how long healing might take in their current state.

So he can’t help but sigh in relief when she finally speaks.

“What brought that on?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Cyn…”

“What does it matter? It’s not as if we could go back to those times. Free of war… of pollution in blood and land. Before the forsaken fucking Order took a fucking continent for their own.”

And there it is. Cynbel raises his chin enough to see the sparkle of knowing, of understanding in her eyes. He may not be as skilled as they in the psychic arts but what he lacks there he makes up for in his memory. In all the things he’s learned and practiced… and one thing he can never forget—will never forget—is the happier times. The simpler times.

“You could not have known their intention to sail to the New World. None could.”

“No… I know that.”

“Then why do you linger on it?”

“I caused the actions that led to this, did I not? Paris, my love, Paris. It put them on the Godmaker’s heels and moreover put him on those of the Colonies.”

It’s a rare kind of talk from him and Isseya knows it better than any. Has her propping herself up on splayed palms and a dark concern in her eyes still like stars…

“Remorse is not like you, Cynbel.” Her curls tickle at his cheeks.

“Think of what we could have been doing these last years. The gifts we could have given you — the ones you and I could have bestowed upon him. The wonders of the other side of the world where all this… nonsensical fighting is beyond us.”

In Valdemaras’ name… what is that look in her eyes? Frustration but… pity? Psychic though he may not be he knows her. She’s angry at him. Why the fuck is she angry at him?

“You spend one breath taking the blame and the next calling it all ‘nonsensical.’ You contradict yourself, my bloodsoaked lover.”

“You know I’m better with actions than words.”

“Yet words show your true colors. Not just red… spare me the guilt, Cynbel. You feel nothing for this conflict but what it has cost us.”

Through his furrowed brow… he relents. “Yes. Yes that’s… that’s true.”

“Only it isn’t enough for you to say it. You must mean it, too.”

He doesn’t have to push her further. Knows exactly what she means… But what they both know is that certain things are just out of their control.

“I will,” he swears; and like pack animals they butt heads, nuzzle their noses, the intimacy of the moment temporarily granting their wish to live outside of time… outside of the things that keep them bound to all this madness, “just as I will spend the decades to come making it up to you—to Valdas—to you both.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my life.”

Then Isseya’s hand is in his hair, golden bright on her olive skin. She forces him to meet the same eyes that have served as the doors of death for legions. “Swear on something that matters to you.”

Cynbel hesitates only in that he would loathe for her hold on him to end.

“I swear on your lives. Yours, and His.”

“Again.”

“I swear on your lives.”

She leans down and licks the outer shell of his ear. Immediately takes it back with a sharp pain… Cynbel watches in rapture at the sight of her pulling back to swallow the cartilage whole.

“Again.” The Priestess of Valdemaras demands through bloodstained teeth.

As if he could ever deny her looking like that.

“I swear on your lives.”

“Hey, hey here he is! Over here!”

“Cynbel! CYNBEL!”

“Help me lift this —”

“— HEAVE!”

Laying there choking on ash—ash from hay, from old rotting wood, from his dead kind but not his kin—gives Cynbel a strange kind of perspective on immortality.

He’s never been a fan of self-reflection.

Relief hardens into confusion, into anger at the sight that filters through burning eyes and tears. Not the face of his beloveds but someone else. Cynbel recoils because the mere possibility of death, even a terrible death such as this, is better than what seeing a strange face as his rescuer implies.

Perhaps I am already dead, Cynbel thinks as the face laughs above him, because none other than the Devil himself would separate them, would laugh and revel in his misery. I deserve Hell — for that I could not kiss them one final time…

“What disappointing rumors, Old Blood!” The Devil says through pearly fangs, “that the infamous Golden Son would need rescuing by one such as I!”

The words force Cynbel to stir. Yet… why would he? Why should he? Surely they are each in their own separate voids, to be cut off from one another their eternal damnation…

“Hey—hey! Come on now!” A few harsh smacks to his cheek, stinging offsetting the burn of flames under his heels. Hadn’t he worn stockings to bed…?

“You really gonna let your grave be a damp barn in Charlottesville, Old Blood?”

Unfortunately the Devil has a point. Always knows how best to tempt the vices of sinners.

“My… my bb-beloveds…”

“— would have my head if I walked outta this barn without you.”

Begone, tempter. Please.

Though Cynbel can’t help but wonder where the Devil truly lies this day. Is he the face above shrouded in smoke and flame, the one that hauls the smoldering remnants of a rafter off of him? Or is he the ones who tells him to turn away from the choked-out light of day and slumber deep?

No… no he has seen Hell before—

Hell was watching them swept in a manic crowd and to an uncertain fate.

Hell was screaming, begging through skin splitting open watching her lips whisper a silent “I love you, goodbye.”

Hell was the broken will of a God who would sacrifice every ounce of his pride for his first and only loves.

No. He is Cynbel of the Riedones and he has seen Hell every time they have been beaten and broken against the hard edges of the world. He has walked through those flames and been made molten; hammered into something stronger. This fire, too, will strengthen him.

It has to. For them.

When he reaches out there’s a hand to grab him. To help pull him and the smoldering husk of the rafter up and bat it aside.

The face of the Devil isn’t what he’d expect. But Cynbel doesn’t give himself time to linger on it — some things are a bit more pressing.

They make their way through the chaos; the air like burned molasses. When the Golden Son realizes he is the one slowing them down he only pushes himself that much harder — refuses to be left to die in this… this madness.

Everything is supposed to feel better once he’s left the burning barn behind, so why does he still feel alight? Cynbel looks up and has his answer — eyes stinging the same way they did in the last moments before the mines swallowed them all up.

Daylight.

And if he had hoped for salvation once they were clear of it, he’s sorely mistaken. It isn’t just the barn but the entire field; everything scorched as far as his watery eyes can see.

“What—” gasping for air like he needs it, but what he needs is blood, “—happened?!”

The other vampire scans the smoky horizon with dark eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know. We woke up, everything aflame… the lands reeked of oil. We couldn’t even find cover in the nearby forest — whatever this was it was planned.”

He knows the rage that laces the man’s words. He’s felt that kind of rage — been it incarnate — and were he able to he would feed from it, let it seep into his pores beautiful and righteous.

But even the thought of raising his hand to a sword saps energy from him. His rescuer will have to do.

And if he is as weak as he is…

But Fate doesn’t let him entertain the thought. Perhaps they know the chaos he will reign should such a thought come to pass… should it be true.

“CYNBEL!”

The very sound of her voice pulls him forward on a tether. He breaks away from the man, learns a little too late he doesn’t even have the strength to stand alone—

But she’s never let him fall before. She doesn’t now.

“Iss’…”

Isseya pushes the ash-covered hair from his eyes and the fire that prickles on the edges of his vision is nothing like the fire he just left behind. Cynbel’s lungs are raw but give him the blessed ability to sob in relief. They will burn out here, exposed.

And as they pull back from a kiss of peeling lips and dry tongues they share the same thought. As they always have.

They will not burn without him.

“How did you—”

“I couldn’t —” her voice chokes in her throat, she chokes on the air, “— I was too weak. Too—too weak and…”

She’d fled for help. Even now, especially now, it pains her to admit weakness. His unbreakable darling girl… And she thinks she has to look away, to shed her tears alone?

Their second kiss is harder; more a demand of her. They have demanded so much of one another. To die, to live… to be…

“We must find him.”

“We cannot— not alone.”

But the vampires at her back, stragglers relying on luck as a means to an end? They aren’t worth the time to waste.

Isseya looks over Cynbel’s shoulder, barks an unfamiliar name like an order—like the General she should have been. “Ambrose!”

Cynbel watches as his rescuer turns with a grim face. He recognizes the man, then. How the smoke reminds him of the ash from earlier that night. The leader of the ceremony.

Ambrose waves away a scout and approaches. “You should find shelter before you take to the sun, the both of you.”

“We will do nothing without our own.”

“Not even die, apparently.” Before he can continue there’s a whistle; through the haze they can see the swish of horse tails, the creatures riled and desperate to escape the oncoming blaze but held tight by the vampires clutching at their reins.

Ambrose shakes his head; makes to leave them to their own devices. “Your choices are your own. I have no time to argue with Old Blood! Not when there are others who need me.”

“Ambrose, quickly!” calls one, heaving himself on one of the load-bearing steeds, “The fire’s took up the main house and the well is emptied! We’re wastin’ time!”

The Trinity reach as one — weak as they are but still stronger than the likes of these. Grasp with the weight of ages and bear down on the man before he can take flight.

“What are you—let go of me!”

Cynbel snarls with bared fangs.

“What house?!”

But they already know, don’t they? They already know.

[tales-from-exo-planet]

COLORADO II PATHCODES VOL. II

COLORADO || PATHCODES VOL. II

ACT II. “To have and to hold”

Length - 7,236

Mood - grief stricken, indelicate

Pairing - Kyungsoo x Reader

Warning - Mature content for sexual references, mention of miscarriage

“I've been homeless, hopeless with no address

'Til my heart, you chose

Now I got a home, baby

Out here in the world I'm not alone

As long as I've got you, I've got a home

If you just don't let go so I don't feel the cold

As long as I've got you, I've got a home

These four walls, they can't hold me like you do

You already know, babe

And I'll just fit my life inside you

Taking you everywhere I go, babe”

“Home” by - Snoh Aalegra

____________________________

You made it so easy

To forget the world beyond ours

But then I realized

I never wanted

To know anything

Beyond you

©️Asteria-Amphitrite

________________________

“Have you decided _____?” He asked, a slight quiver of nerves disrupting the smooth cadence of his voice as your eyes rose to his at his sudden question.

You sat beside one another in the town car Minseok and ____ (Berlin Reader) had arranged for the departing Pathcodes board.

Earlier, Jongin and his dear ____ (London Reader) had alighted from your vehicle, ____ (London Reader) waving after leaning forward to hug both you and your husband while Jongin held the door open, his farewell hugs already given.

“I hope to see you again soon. Take care,” she beamed at you, her smile as brilliant as the sun’s first light in winter.

“Take care ____. Be of good health,” your husband called after her nodding as she turned once more to wave, Jongin’s hand enveloping hers that wasn’t sparing you a parting greeting.

“Travel safe and well hyung. I love you both. See you very soon,” Jongin leaned down, ducking his head inside to wave once again now that she was by his side, leaning against him, her eyes on him.

You both waved.

“Take care Jongin. It’s good to see you both again. Please be well until we see each other again,” you called out and Jongin nodded in acknowledgment before gently shutting the door as they walked away, their eyes on each other.

Now you looked at him, slightly confused.

“I’d like to go with you. I know you planned out the alternative for me and I appreciate it. But I would like to see the family home and I would like to support you, if that’s ok?” You were sure that your smile was sweet and harmless. That’s what you intended and meant it to be.

But he watched you still, even as your hands took his within your own.

He allowed you to bring him closer, his eyes large and ever patient.

“I know this event has been hard for us. I know it’s not fair to you and I haven’t been fair in how I tried to hold back everything I felt. I know it’s not easy for us to come back into our relationship after so much time spent apart. I’m not sure where we start over but I want to start again. Please Soo. Please let me go with you,” you asked, feeling the resolve in your intended harmless, guileless smile cracking to reveal your anxiety that he was actually indifferent to you after so much time.

He sighed, breaking eye contact to look down at your hands in his.

After studying them for a moment, he brought your hands to his lips, kissing them with the ultimate tenderness, caressing the skin at the back of your hands over and over and over again with kisses as he began to murmur, “I have missed you so much.”

________________

Together, prior to your departure from your semi rural home, you decided that you would return with him to his home city in Seoul following the New Year's gala in Berlin.

Your in-laws seemed altogether surprised that you would return to the family restaurant to invite them to your family home for dinner where the announcement was made.

And you felt the telltale sting of guilt, embedded like a stitch in your side, as you watched their reaction to your husband’s declaration.

“Will you return together?” Your father-in-law asked, pointedly pausing in his meal to place his utensils down to give you his undivided attention.

A chilled silence fell over the usually hushed dinner and your husband quietly protested after a moment, “father, yes. I will return home with my wife.”

______________

You knew then of course how much rode on this journey.

You knew also how far you had fallen in their eyes.

You knew then a feeling of such intense foreboding that broke the false security that you thought your relationship had always held tethered about it.

You understood how much he shielded you from and how selfishly you had expected him to do so.

Your vows came to you as you washed the dishes that night from your family dinner, looking at his traveling bags that he had dropped at the front door just the night before upon his return to your broken home on your request following your phone call all those months earlier.

You remembered again the way he had allowed you the illusion and the dream of an alternate place you two entered.

You remembered how easy he had made it to be for it to always just be you and him, separate from everything and everyone that chose to inflict hurt.

You realized that you counted on him to protect you in this way.

You realized that you had depended on him to sacrifice his needs before yours even to the detriment of your relationship.

What vows had you truly upheld?

What had you promised?

_______________

“This may take some time,” he spoke to you as he always did, patiently and with great consideration in his inflection.

Never to worry ____. I have it all under control.

“I can wait. I am not anxious for anything,” you lied.

You fidgeted all the way from Berlin to Seoul, 14 hours straight.

You couldn’t sleep.

You couldn’t eat.

But you pretended you did to allow him to rest.

His eyebrows seemed to quirk up as if he knew you were only running on maybe an hour or two worth of sleep.

“If you’d like to tour the city? I’m sure I could ask my aunts to take you with them on an outing-”

“Oh I...well I don’t want to trouble anyone. I’m happy to go with them. It’s been a while since we saw each other last. But I would like to stay as well...I. Well whatever you think is best,” you felt strange trying to hide your worry in front of him and you knew that he knew you were trying despite your promise to be transparent.

“I don’t want anything to happen as it has before. Promise me that whenever you feel anxious that you will tell me and we’ll figure out an alternative,” he asked of you the first night you arrived in Berlin where he had resigned himself to sleeping in the guest room of your hotel suite.

You were dumbfounded that he refused your offer to spend the night together after such a long time spent apart but knew that it was frightening to you too to consider resuming intimacy as if nothing had been stolen from you both after all this time. Even when he returned to your home from his personal business schedule abroad, you hadn’t laid together as husband and wife even once.

Suddenly you were shy about being naked in front of him, preferring to change your clothes in the bathroom after your shower.

He also wore longer pants to bed, and asked you if it was all right if he brought an extra blanket to bed to keep warm with.

You were too shy to ask him to hold you instead and he was too reserved to cross the space your blankets now created between you.

You wanted him just as you did before and you could see that he wanted you.

You could smell it on each other.

The heat of your mutual lusts.

But it was as if you were assessing whether you were ready to face not only yourselves but the many, many hurts collected along the way.

He looked at you with the same consideration and understanding, reaching forward with a heart filled gesture, taking your face in his hands as he leaned in to kiss you wholeheartedly.

“I need you to trust me. I have been trying to put this off but there is now an issue with the family that I need to take care of. After I take care of it, I can tell you everything. I’m not sure if I was ever ready to tell you all of this but I cannot keep this from you anymore. But no matter what happens or what you see or what you hear please remember that I do love you, ok,” he seemed to be warning you that the anxiety you felt now would be nothing compared to the devastation that awaited you.

And as the gentleman he was, as the true prince of peace that he was to his earthen core, he prepared you ahead of it, readying himself to take the sword in his own heart all the way to its hilt if but to spare you the searing pain of judgement.

_______________

His family home, belonging at this time to his paternal grandmother, was settled in one of the bustling satellite cities of Seoul and a gathering place for many generations of his family.

You had visited once many years ago upon the initial news of your engagement for a brief introduction during a winter family holiday after his birthday.

The family was welcoming of newcomers but distant even then, asking through your husband then fiancé about your career and what aspirations you held.

“A modern woman,” you had heard his cousins chatter behind manicured hands, followed by raised full and filled-in eyebrows at his answers to his aunts and cousins.

You returned now to that house, all these years later seeing those same manicured hands now sporting engagement and wedding bands of their own, the children of some of those cousins twittering parroted conversations of their parents.

“Cousin is back”

“His modern woman came too!”

______________________

Your husband went ahead of you into the private room where his grandmother waited on him alone and you waited in the kitchen, attempting to help with meal time for his younger cousins.

The youngest girl, who couldn’t be more than two years old, that you were helping to feed, snuggled against you, smiling at you genuinely as you raised the spoon to her lips.

She clapped as you mimicked the eating action to encourage her, giggling open mouthed before taking a bite that you offered to her.

“She usually does not eat so well with others. What kind of magic is this?” One of his cousins muttered, once again behind her hand.

The young girl’s mother had gone in behind her cousin, your husband, as she apparently also had paperwork to fulfill.

“Ah...I don’t know. She does seem to be eating very well,” you acknowledged her statement but she didn’t look at you and instead turned further away towards her companion, another distant cousin.

“They say when children are sweet to you like that that you must be pregnant.” You felt a sudden tempered blaze budding against your cheeks as they pretended to hush their voices in front of you.

The little girl in your arms tugged at your sleeve, waiting on you to serve her.

“I’m so sorry. Were you ready for another bite already?” You shifted your focus to her, guiding the spoon gently as you heard them gasp.

“But I thought she was barren?”

“That’s what Aunt told us.”

“Well she has every right to be upset. He gave up so much to marry her and now look what this marriage has done. It has no future.”

“But what alternative does he have? He can’t dishonor his vows.”

“But he would forsake the family?”

You finished spooning the rest of the pumpkin porridge into her mouth and carefully placed the dishes on the table before turning to face his cousins.

“Excuse me...excuse me what are you talking about?” You asked, waiting on both of them to turn to you.

They waited you out, finishing another spoonful of porridge before turning to you.

“Aunt came to visit us when you were mysteriously ill and told us how you had ruined her son. That your family was negligent and how much you depended on him.”

“What could have attracted him to you? He could have had any woman within our country.”

“I’m sorry? What are you talking about?”

His cousin rose to her feet abruptly, leaning forward as she planted her hands on the table before her, grounding herself as she lurched towards you until your noses almost touched.

The child in your arms yelped and began to cry aloud in shock at the sudden commotion.

You were surprised that her mother didn’t rush out to tend to her with the way she shrieked and refused to be consoled.

“You have no idea who we are. He made sure to keep you out of it. I told him that he would regret it. And now he does. You’ll see,” she spat in your face before wrenching herself away from the table, picking up her child she had been feeding.

The cousin who sat beside her reached for the young girl who was crying and clinging to you, wrestling her out of your grasp as she followed her cousin down the hall.

“C-come back here! Come back!” You called after her, wiping away the spit from your hair and face, reaching frantically for a cloth to clean yourself with.

There was a slammed door and a shuffle of footsteps down the hall as the children shrieked again at a sudden enraged shout.

“내 아내한테서 떨어져요!”

As you opened your eyes and stood to follow them, you saw your husband at the entryway of the kitchen and the women retreating from him, the rage in his eyes dimming.

His expression was gray and withdrawn as he came towards you, hurrying around the kitchen table to help you sit down.

But you felt yourself resisting at first, alarmed by his sudden shout at his departed cousins.

“Kyungsoo what-”

“Please sit down 여보,” he asked, reaching for the cloth you were at dabbing your hair and face with.

“Kyungsoo what did they mean?! What were they saying? Why did she spit at me?! What’s going on?! What’s-”

He helped you clean up the rest of it speaking in hushed penitent tones.

“I never wanted you to be part of this. But now I don’t have a choice.”

__________________

You departed from his grandmother’s house on foot just as quickly though not as peacefully as you had originally come.

He held your hand gripped tightly in his, brusquely leading the way.

“Kyungsoo please let’s talk about this now. I want to understand. Is there something about being married to me that your family doesn’t like? We have never had a close relationship but her anger towards me caught me off guard...did something happen-”

“I would prefer that we wait-”

“Please Kyungsoo. I-i understand that you want to wait but-”

“Can we at least just get inside and not be on the street?” He demanded, motioning towards the rental car you’d purchased.

You hurried along after him, jumping back as he wrenched and slammed at the car door and gasped as he pulled away from the house quickly, moving along the street at a jilted pace.

“Kyungsoo-”

He shook his head, continuing to drive in agitated silence amongst the traffic cluttered roads until he came to a lesser populated rural highway road where he pulled over.

“Kyungsoo-”

He leaned forward to kiss you then, taking you in his arms roughly, hungrily as if he was aching for nourishment.

You melted against him, pulling his arms closer around you.

“여보,” he moaned against your parted lips.

“Kyungsoo please tell me what’s going on. Why did we come here? Why did your grandmother refuse to see me?”

He slowly sat back, his head resting against the top of the seat.

“____. I would have never told you all of this because this isn’t your world. I brought you here today in response to my grandmother’s request and my family didn’t appreciate that-”

“What request?” You asked though you remembered again now his father’s pointed question.

“Will you return together?”

“What did your grandmother ask you to do?”

He turned his eyes towards you, reaching for your hand as he said, “she asked me whether I was still considering a divorce.”

_______________

The word shattered your mind.

_______________

“Were you? Did you want a divorce?” You managed to squeeze out of your throat and he shook his head resolutely.

“I don’t know what I want anymore-”

“What does that mean? What-what-what paperwork did she ask you to sign?”

“Rights to our family company-”

“Through the Pathcodes? I thought-”

“No...it’s…” he paused again, seeming to grow exhausted by the perpetual onslaught of your questions.

He dispiritedly folded forward until his forehead rested against the car horn at the center of the steering wheel.

“Kyungsoo talk to me. What don’t I know? There’s something you’re not telling me? What did your mother say to your cousins about us? Did she tell the whole family?”

“Yes. Yes she did. It was at dinner. She had been drinking-”

His tone became increasingly subdued in its delivery though he remained exasperated as he answered you and that only heightened your anxiety.

“Kyungsoo. What-what-what don’t I know?! What-”

“Everything ____! Everything! I kept everything from you-”

“What do you mean? Like you lied about who you are-”

“I didn’t lie about who I am. I just didn’t-”

“Even if you kept certain parts to yourself that is still not telling me the complete truth-”

“Oh now I’m not telling the truth?!? Now I am the one keeping things from you? We have spent an entire year and a half away from each other because you chose to shut me out. You walked away from me for an entire year and a half ____.”

His tone was stricken as he spoke to you but he remained eerily calm as he brought up your chosen separation and solitude from your relationship.

“I am guilty of that yes. I did walk away from you. I am sorry-”

“I don’t want you to apologize to me. I want to know why you did it-”

“I could not face you after that...after that ma-many miscarriages. I was embarrassed...I-”

“Did you think that I thought it was your fault? Did you think I was angry at you?”

“But weren’t you angry at me? Even just a little bit? Weren’t you disappointed in me? Weren’t you sorry that you married me?! Weren’t you?! Just say it! Just tell me the truth! Didn’t you hate me?!” The resolve you had held so close, gripping it between not only your fingertips but between your teeth as well was finally torn from you.

You tasted blood as you continued to speak, feeling a stinging pain within your cheek that you had bitten through.

“You’re all I have. I hated that you would keep yourself from me. But I don’t hate you ____. I have never hated you. Never.”

The tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, shaking your head in miserable disbelief.

“What don’t I know Kyungsoo! What aren’t you telling me?! Is there someone else?” You pulled away from him as he reached for you.

And he sat back from your reluctance, allowing you space from him once again.

“Yes,” he admitted after what felt like an eternity.

—————————

He told you in that weary grief stricken tone that he belonged to an older farming family who had grown from their small rural field to comfortably support territories in South & North Korea, Japan, China, Thailand and Cambodia.

While they steadily acquired and maintained a significant profit from their satellite operations, infighting for redistribution of wealth constantly threatened to topple their family’s dominance within their own empire.

As part of their created tradition, an available male member of the founding family was required to marry into the neighboring farming families to maintain the founding family’s domination and to “secure their future” as he derisively put it.

“I always thought that I could live a normal life like my peers. I thought that I could marry the person that I wanted and have the career that I wanted. I thought that I didn’t have to be what others wanted me to be just because of the family I was born into.”

“I knew a dear friend once whom I thought that I could have married...but she was married young because her family did not agree with mine over land and territory disputes. I thought that if I could convince my grandmother to reconsider some of our land development here that would be a sign of good faith to her father…but in the end she loved her husband and when I learned that...I gave up on that entirely.”

He was quiet after confessing that there had been someone before you.

Someone he had loved a lifetime ago.

What of himself had he shared with her that you had never known?

What of herself had she shared with him that he still treasured and missed?

Was there a man other than your husband that you knew?

Never.

Not in all the years had you been together had he ever mentioned this family history.

Not the Fourth of July celebration where your paths first crossed.

Not after the first time you went to his family’s restaurant.

Not after your first official date.

Not after you moved into your shared home.

It had never slipped.

Never.

Even when you had traveled here after your engagement.

They were just family.

No secret meetings to sign paperwork.

No forward and bold faced aggression.

How and why had you been kept from the truth?

Were you a weak and willing pawn so taken by the comfortable, unassuming life he had offered to ever wonder if there was more to the story?

“I chose to leave home and to be stripped of my birthright. My grandmother allowed me until my 25th birthday to choose someone to marry. If I hadn’t found someone I would still be considered an available suitor…”

Cars rattled by on the lone country highway.

The sun shifted behind the clouds, peeking from above, below, and in between.

You felt the fabric of your dress sticking to the back of your legs and smelled the faint scent of sweat mingling with his cologne.

A dusty whirl of wind caused a slight tremble to shake your vehicle.

All the while you struggled to breath past the reality that had overcome you, your tongue puffed and sticking against the roof of your mouth, bearing down upon you within this car’s deliriously unbearable heat.

Hot seat.

“When you came here for the film festival...did they...had they found a suitor yet?” You counted the years again knowing that his 25th birthday had well passed since your first year of marriage since the miscarriages began and again the weight of the knowledge he shared pressed you further back into the car door’s frame jumping away from its metal brackets and pieces.

“My brother...his health issues kept him from ever being considered. But because of my example...there are quite a few people in my generation that have done what I did. Many of us have moved away to other parts of the world and that puts a strain on our family…”

“And my miscarriages...the way that my parents handled the engagement and our marriage...that reflected poorly on you. Your mother...she told them everything and they thought badly of you didn’t they?” The tears welled in your eyes as he nodded.

And you finally understood the extent of your transgressions.

“I was so selfish. I was so embarrassed Kyungsoo. I thought if we just got married then everything would figure itself out. My parents would come to their senses and you and I would be as happy as we always were. But we didn’t truly know each other did we? I didn’t know everything that was riding on our marriage...I didn’t know how much you were risking...but why did you never tell me?”

His gaze shifted to his wedding band.

“I gave you space because I knew it was incredibly hard for you to deal with that heartbreak in front of me. I knew that you blamed yourself and that no matter how much I told you that it wasn’t your fault and that we weren’t the only ones faced with that kind of hardship that you would not believe me. I wanted to comfort you. You knew what it was to be neglected by your family but losing our children broke your heart. It broke my heart. I wanted to mourn our children. So many of our children with you,” he had reached down to turn his wedding band on his finger and tightened his grasp as he uttered the end of his phrase, his mouth wrenching closed.

He sniffled after a moment, exhaling as he opened his tearful eyes to go on turning his band about his finger, “but I knew you wouldn’t let me be there for you and that I had to wait until you were ready. And that waiting was agonizing. I hated it more than anything. I second guessed us. Many a time I considered divorce to spare you and to spare us because I didn’t know whether you would ever have the heart to try reconciling. It was around that time that my mother mentioned the divorce to my grandmother that I met her again, my childhood friend, when I came back for the film festival. She came to one of my press conferences. And seeing her again was like a breath of fresh air that I needed. She knew everything about me since childhood. I didn’t have to put part of myself away for her.”

You felt your heart shrinking and straining to continue its mournful beat at his words.

“She was newly widowed. Her husband served in the unit my father and grandfather and her father and his grandfather served in. He carried a wound from training that developed into a sickness that he ultimately passed away from. But she still seemed hopeful. She was at peace. And I had a moment where I wondered what life would have been like if I hadn’t left. Just a moment,” he looked at you as he disclosed his brief emotional betrayal and you allowed him that waiting helplessly as he went on.

“We talked for a little while after the press conference just standing to the side and she asked about my family. She already knew about my marriage and our hardships. And she offered us sympathy...she said ‘I know your heart aches for her. You must be patient with her.’ And I knew she was right.”

“I didn’t come back to you because she told me to. I didn’t come back to you to spite my family. I came back to you because that world, with its politics, and its traditions is no place for me. I came back to you because I want our life. I want the simplicity of our life. At one time or another yes I loved that woman when we were children and rebellious and carefree. But as the man I am today...I have made a commitment that I have given my heart to. I would gladly give up that life for you ____. I was wrong to keep that from you. I was wrong to think I was doing the right thing by shielding you from it.”

“Because I kept it from you you didn’t understand my anxiety about delaying the marriage or even tossing it altogether. You didn’t even know who I was. I didn’t allow you to and I am sorry,” he reached for you again, with both arms, but you held your position.

“I haven’t held you as your husband in such a long, long time and I don’t know how we get back to that point. I don’t know how we come back together when you’re just learning all of these things about me before we met. I don’t deserve your forgiveness for concealing myself but I want your forgiveness-”

“How could I not forgive you? After everything I have done-”

“It’s not...I don’t want you to forgive me as a way to punish yourself. I want us to move past that now ____,” he sternly disagreed, his arms dropping, allowing you to keep distance from his soothing touch.

“Is this life not second best to you? To everything you could have had? If she is a widow now...why not marry her? You don’t think that you’re settling for me? For us? For this life? When you deserve so much more? Don’t you think they were right? That you deserve more?” You asked.

“Loving you even through the lens I allowed myself to love you was what I needed. Before I would have said that I chose us because your world was so different. You were so separate from everything I knew growing up. I fell in love with the worlds you illustrated and I wanted to remain in the dreams of those worlds rather than face the reality of my own.”

“And now?”

“And now I see how selfish I was and what heartache that has caused us both for me to not live in the truth-”

“And what is the truth-”

“The truth is that I am from an older farming family that advocates for inhumane labor conditions and financial and political domination in multiple regions. If I stayed within that family structure I would have had a hand in some of those despicable things. I chose to leave as a child to find new opportunities for my family. I met you and I hoped that you and I could find a way to be happy together. I didn’t tell you everything because I didn’t want you to be tainted by that but I ended up hurting us and tainting our relationship anyway. The truth is that I hadn’t given you the chance to get to know me and now I hope you will…”

He looked at you with those hopeful eyes, brimming with unshed tears as he waited for you.

But you couldn’t breathe.

“I need some air,” you rasped, coughing past a dry patch in your throat.

He fumbled with the car keys turning the car’s A/C on and blasting it in your direction.

He leaned over to your side to turn the fans on you and you caught his arm before he leaned away.

You briefly caught the look in his eyes as you leaned forward to kiss him.

He moaned against you, bringing his arms around you to hold you firmly to him.

“I don’t know how to do this…” you started breathlessly between kisses.

“Together. We do this together,” he insisted and you nodded, pulling away to look at him.

“What do you want this life...our life together to be like?” You asked him, his hands holding you just above your hips.

“I…”

“Knowing there’s another woman out there...that there’s someone who loved you and that you loved. I know it’s over now but Kyungsoo...I have a hard time believing that you love me for who I am. I...can we actually be together? Is it possible to move past this?” You couldn’t stop the questions and he seemed to understand, his hold on you loosening as his arms came around you to pull you closer again.

“It’s a lot that I am asking…”

“What exactly were you going to sign?” You asked quietly as he finished and he stiffened in your embrace.

“I...they did...my family wants me to allow them partnership in some of our operations in the Pathcodes especially if we do plan to pursue work in Seoul. If I won’t give you up and come back then I have to do that. I told them that I cannot make any decisions until our board has a chance to discuss it.” He kept his voice low as he spoke against your shoulder.

“And if we got a divorce?”

“They would give up their interest in the Pathcodes but I would have to go back to Seoul with my family. It would be easier for my brother to stay where we are. It’s healthier for him to stay where he is now. But my parents miss everyone. Even if I want to stay they want to go home.”

You shifted out of his embrace wiping the tears from your eyes and nose.

“I don’t want you to continue to miss out on things in life because of me, Kyungsoo. I don’t want to hold you back ever in life-”

“You’re not holding me back-”

“Kyungsoo!”

“___! You’re not holding me back! Don’t you ever say that! Ever-”

“Kyungsoo!”

“Why would you say that?! Why wouldn’t you just say that you would go with me?! Why don’t you just say that you’ll be by my side?! Do you want me to leave you? Do you want me to hurt you like that? Do you want me to break my own heart like that-”

“But am I the one you actually want by your side? Is it wrong for me to question that now? Kyungsoo how do we actually do this-”

“We just do it ___! We just-”

“Could you really be here without your family? The family you just said you did everything for? I may have been a terrible daughter in law so far but I know better than that…”

You realized how heavy you both were breathing, and how much stickier your skin was at all the added hot air.

You gripped at his forearms, your nails tentatively digging into his flesh.

He looked down at your hands, stopping abruptly.

“___?”

“I can’t bear this heat anymore…”

“Ok let’s...let’s at least get back-”

He hurried to put the car into drive, turning up dust and dirt in his rush to get you both back to the hotel in the city where you had planned to stay.

You reserved yourselves in normal company, politely thanking the staff for their accommodations as they guided you up to your lodgings.

You went to the bathroom immediately, tearing at your clothes, hearing Kyungsoo come in after you.

“Kyungsoo-” you fumbled with your dress’ buttons, trying to pull the fabric back together modestly at least.

But he charged across the marble bathroom floor, pulling at your arms until you released them.

“Don’t hide from me anymore ___. I need you,” he groaned, crushing you against him as he pressed you against the bathroom wall beside the couple sinks.

“Kyungsoo!” You cried out in anguished desire as he took your chin between his fingers, pressing your face away from him so he could kiss your neck, pulling your dress open until it fell from your shoulders to your waist.

Your hands frantically scaled him, from his forearms to his chest where you teared at his dress shirt. As you pulled it from his taut and twitching shoulders, he pushed himself forward, pressing your legs apart as you brought your thighs around him struggling to lift yourself higher.

His kisses became more insistent in their sucking, and you cried against his lips as he lifted you up against him turning with you abruptly to head back into the bedroom.

A flash of lights from the hallway made you gasp as you realized that the door was still open where the staff was bringing in your luggage behind you both to the suite’s living room.

“Kyungsoo!” You whimpered against him, shrinking in his arms but he didn’t mind them and continued carrying you into the bedroom down the hall, kicking the door closed behind him.

Just before he had closed the door you had heard their bashful choruses of “excuse us” before they closed the door to your suite behind them.

“I don’t care who is looking…” he grumbled as he came to a stop before the bed.

You felt yourself slipping slowly to its surface and as you went you pulled at where your dress sat at your hips.

His hands found yours, pulling determinedly at the fabric until it gave way and you shimmied out, rising on your shins to help him pull off his dress shirt that hung bound at his forearms as he pulled at his belt buckle.

“Hurry…” he groaned hotly, waiting for you to finish getting his arms through though his pants and briefs were already at his ankles.

“I...I’m trying-”

“Don’t make me wait anymore ____. I want you right now. I need you right now…” he groaned as you finally pulled both of his arms free.

Reaching down he grabbed underneath your thighs as you reached for his neck, whimpering at the singing heat of his bare skin as he crushed you against him. Finally.

“I am sorry for how rough I am going to be…” he apologized as he walked around the bed, lifting himself up as he brought a hand down to anchor you above him, crawling with you in his arms until he found the center of the bed.

He let you fall and you trembled as he moved down and away from your hands that reached to bring him back to kiss and caress him.

Following the trail of his kisses in your mind’s eye you knew where he was headed.

“I haven’t tasted you in so long…” he whimpered aloud, expressing desires he had always only ever done in quiet reverence.

“Kyungsoo!” You screamed as he brought himself down into you, kissing and suckling at you zealously.

You writhed onto and against him, crying as he brought you higher and further and further until-

“____...come here,” he murmured lovingly, sitting back to give you room. He stood now where he had kneeled before you.

But even in your quaking surprise you found strength enough to move to stand and take tremoring steps back towards him, turning to look at him over your shoulder as you swept your hair away from your gaze.

“I know you love it that way but I need to look at you this way…” he whispered, bringing your hips towards him as you rose and turned to face him.

You sat where you prepared to bend over and he laid you down, your hands spanning the expanse of his waist to crest over the top of his broad shoulders holding him as he slowly pressed into you, pushing further until you wailed before pulling away and crushing himself against you again.

“Haaaaaa _____. Baby...baby I….baby…” he whimpered against you as you hissed and cried, forgetting yourself in your movements, your fingernails scratching at his shoulders.

You went on like this until he stood, your hands trying fruitlessly to keep him directly above you as he barreled on.

He pulled your thighs aching and sweating from round him to rest upright against his chest.

“Show me that sweet face you make when it feels good,” he murmured under his breath and you gasped as his rhythm increased feeling yourself bouncing and bucking harder against his swift pulsing.

You turned away shyly as the curl of a fevered hedonistic smile broke your consumed amorous gaze, putting your hands over your face in lieu of calming the bounce of your body against his every thrust.

“Mm there you are let me see you. Don’t hide from me. Tell me how much you missed me. Tell me ____,” he called aloud to you.

“Kyungsoo we’re too loud already. Baby I-”

“I don’t give a damn. Tell me how much you missed me. I can feel that you missed me. I feel it everywhere. And I love that so much baby. Tell me ____. Tell me baby. I want to hear you say it,” he stopped mid motion to push you up further so that he kneeled above you, your thighs around his waist again like you liked.

His grip slipped from the backs of your calves as he leaned down into your whispering.

“I can’t hear you,” he taunted, leaning back up, the change in position while maintaining consistent motion making you flush hotly.

“Kyungsoo-ah…” you moaned but he wouldn’t relent.

It had been a while but you remembered the stubbornness of your husband.

Especially in this capacity.

“Say it ____. For me, baby. I need to hear it,” he demanded, enunciating every word with movement.

You uncovered your eyes, looking into his as you said it, for once, finally, forgetting who was around, who was listening and what the consequences might be.

You told him plainly how much you missed him and how much you needed him and how much you wanted him, luxuriating in the way he moaned your name at your submission to his request, riding the blissful high when it came to you and followed for him.

You knew, though you had heard him apologize earlier, by the way he helped you to his chest, carefully tucking you into him as you wiped away the tears from your feverish cries, that he was sorry that he needed to be that rough with you.

Even in your special place, the private place, where you loved, he hadn’t loved you as fervidly as he just had. There were pauses and coaxing, so much goading on and on until you did.

But it had been so much time and space between loving.

And in his gestures, his intense gaze, his open hearted cries of ecstasy in union with you...you knew that there was no one else for him just as you felt for him.

There had been no one else that loved him as you did.

...and there never would be.

The fears you kept in your heart, the way you thought yourself less deserving, a peon worth no more than the spit hocked in your face earlier that afternoon, all of that pitiful miserable self wallowing and search for commiseration, were suddenly abominations in your eyes.

Think again about who this man is that is lying here with you.

Think again about what he told you.

Yes he didn’t tell you everything.

Yes he kept things to himself.

Yes.

But did you ask?

Did you ever really wonder?

What were you so focused on?

And whomever she was...that person whom he had loved then...it was you who he came back to.

Think again about how he pleaded with you, worshiping you as he begged you to affirm him and his place in your heart.

How powerful is the love you share for him to endure all that he did?

Think again about what you must mean to him?

Who is this woman he is looking to with such trust?

Who is this woman that he so desperately needs?

It’s you isn’t it?

What does that say about you?

You touched your husband, his chest rising and falling slower as he settled into sleep, his lips parted as he breathed, his eyelids fluttering briefly until they closed, his hands on the small of your back, feeling yourself wrapped around him, cradling him as he cradled you.

That’s right.

He is my husband.

And me?

I, am his wife.

[bitletsanddrabbles]

Too Easy: First Draft, Working Title

This is what happens when we get the DA trailer and the GO release in the same month. Of course, having thoroughly reread GO, I’m going to be giving this a pretty hefty over haul before I put it up anywhere else - so many references that need making, etc. - but as an initial concept piece it pleases.

Fandom: Downton Abbey/Good Omens

Characters: Crowley, Thomas Barrow

Relationship: N/A

Warnings: Season 2. Characterization is probably not 100% there yet, but close enough for government work.

Crowley never would have imagined England being boring after a war. Really, even for the English ‘war’ was basically the antonym for ‘boring’ and there was always fuss and bother putting things back in order when one ended and yet here it was, the tail end of a war - The War, if the press was to be believed, which it wasn’t - and, while nowhere near a redeux of the fourteenth century, he was fighting to stave off monotony.  It wasn’t that there wasn’t plenty of room for corruption, mind. It was that he didn’t need to do anything to further said corruption. The men who had lost arms and legs to the German bombs sat on the street corners, begging for food, while the people who had sat at home through the whole thing hurried past pretending not to see them. Soldiers who had fought and come home in one piece looked down their noses at the less fortunate and the men who hadn’t fought at all with equal disdain. Girls who had been seduced by men in uniform worked the street corners, trying to feed children whose fathers denied their existence. It had taken him an age to hit upon a scheme to actually help things along.

Of course, if he was honest about it the black market didn’t need his help much either, but he wasn’t exactly trying to help. The real black marketeers already had their suppliers and their clients and had generally built up a tidy sum to live off of, assuming the government hadn’t caught them and shunted them into prison. No, the people who came to Crowley were the desperate and inexperienced lot, looking to get started. They were the men without hands or half of their faces burned off, men who had given the country everything they had to give and been left to starve as payment. Unable to find good, paying work, they turned to dishonest, risky work that had a great pay off, or so they’d heard.

If they’d found a different supplier, it might have done.

A soft knock, two taps in quick succession, followed after a long pause by a third, made Crowley look up from where the tip of his cigarette met the lighter he carried for appearances, adjust his dark glasses, and call, “Come in.”  The door swung inward. One of these times he was dead certain the knocker was going to prove to be Aziraphael, come to scold him for his misdeeds, but not today. Today the angel was off serving at a soup kitchen or acting as an orderly in a hospital or whatever it was he did to pass the time.

The man who slipped through into the dingy pub backroom was still a surprise. Unlike most of the men who came looking for him to supply their fortunes, this one was awfully respectable looking. Young, tall, well groomed, excellent posture, he looked every inch a respectable member of the English working class. Then he caught sight of Crowley, sitting at the table with his carefully judged rakish posture (looking devil may care was part of the look when one was a black market supplier, after all) and he paused, eyes drinking him in slowly.

That was it then, the demon thought with a private smirk. He was one of those. And wasn’t that just another shining example of mankind at it’s most hellish? All of that insistence that the populace be loyal, upstanding, law abiding citizens and they went and made laws assuring that certain members of that populace couldn’t be law abiding if they wanted to? If society had let him, this fellow might be anything from a spokesperson for public reform to a knowledgeable tailor, but Parliament couldn’t have that, could they? Instead he was here, angry, alienated, and more than ready to take some of his own back from the world.

Well, Crowley wished him all the luck in the world, where that was concerned. Just not today.

“Mr. Crowley?” the man asked, not taking more than a half step from the door. His expression was calmly confident, but his eyes gave him away, shifting from the shadows to Crowley and back. He was young, and probably a fool, but he wasn’t stupid.

Crowley stood, extending his hand and grinning broadly around his cigarette. “At your service, Mr….?”

“Barrow,” the man replied, crossing the room to take the offered hand. Despite the fact he’d apparently liked what he saw, there was no flirtation in his manner at all, meaning he either refused to mix business with pleasure, or he’d been bitten once recently and was now being twice shy. Not that Crowley minded. Flirting was easy enough, all told, but he didn’t feel like dredging up the energy and focus to exude anything resembling ‘sexuality’.

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Barrow?” Crowley asked, even though he knew full well what the answer was. He resumed his seat and gestured for his companion to take the one across the table.

Barrow sat, working the glove off of his right hand and fishing a pack of Black Cats out of his pocket. Crowley approved of the brand on general principle. He also noted that the left hand stayed gloved. “I’m looking to go into business,” Barrow replied, working a cigarette out of the pack and placing it between his lips. Since Crowley hadn’t gotten around to putting his own lighter away, he flicked it to life and held it out. His companion looked momentarily startled, then leaned forward and set the end of his fag in the flame. As soon as it was glowing sufficiently, he sat back and blew a ring of smoke into the air. “Dry goods.”

“Whereabouts are you looking to start this business?” Crowley asked, blowing a smoke ring of his own. The man’s accent placed him somewhere north of Cheshire, but south of Bolton, in the general vicinity of Manchester. Crowley considered that another point in his favor. (He was still quite proud of Manchester. He should stop past at some point before he left the country. See if there was anything he could improve while he was here.) Of course, they were in a pub in Leeds, so no telling where Barrow lived now. “Competition can be fierce.��

Barrow gave a light snort. “No competition in Downton, I promise you. There’s clientele, though. If nothing else, the Earl’s family is looking at a wedding soon. Can’t have a wedding without a proper cake, can you? Other toffs wouldn’t let you live it down.”

“And you’re certain you can get in to pitch your sale?”

“Used to be a footman for the family, back before the war.” The reply held a note of defiance, daring Crowley to look down on him for his service. There was also a spark of ambition, which fanned with his next words. “Not looking to go back to the job. And of course I served in the trenches with the heir, Mr. Crawley. He’s the one getting married. So yeah, pretty sure they’ll buy from me.”

The name caught Crowley off guard and nearly made him choke on a lungful of ash, but he caught himself. He always managed to forget that the name had somehow (he had no idea how) caught on as a human surname. Instead he concentrated on the implications of a wedding. Along with a cake, weddings meant feasts and any feast could benefit from sugar and flour. And when all of that went sour? Even the most lenient of aristocrat would have his nose out of joint at his son’s wedding being spoiled. He’d undoubtedly yell at the cook, possibly at the butler and housekeeper, and if his temper was bad enough, possibly the entire staff. Cooks were even less known for mild tempers than their employers were. All of this, of course, would eventually make its way down to Barrow, as the one who supplied the goods, making him a villain right when he’d be expecting to be everyone’s savior. By that time Crowley would be long gone. He’d already decided to take a trip to America after he’d sold off this lot. There were some interesting rumors coming from that direction in regards to alcohol. “Well then, sounds like the basis for a solid business,” he grinned. “How much do you think you’ll need to get started?”

“Sugar and flour for a start,” Barrow ticked the ingredients off on his fingers. “Sugar in particular. Butter if you can get it. Anything connected to baking, really. Even if it’s not rationed, I know Mrs. Patmore. She’ll be worried that this is going to continue and spread, even if she won’t let on, and if she’s not now, I can make sure she starts.”

“I have that,” Crowley promised. “Give me a time and a place and I can have it delivered.”

“I’ll give you a time and a place when you give me a price,” Barrow countered. So far he hadn’t shown much shrewd business sense, outside of being able to spot an opportunity and knowing what was needed for a cake, more or less. Crowley had no reason to believe he had much more beyond that, but even if his innate business sense began and ended at ‘toffs like cake’, someone had taught him a modicum of caution.

“Getting all of that past the police isn’t an easy job,” Crowley hedged, pretending to think it over. Instead he tallied what he knew of Barrow, adding it up to a crippling sum, but not too outrageous. As a footman he should have made a modest sum, given his height. As a soldier he’d have made spit, same as the rest of them. If he was trying to start a business, he must have squirreled some away for a rainy day. Either that or Crowley had sorely misjudged and he was the biggest idiot in England, but that didn’t seem likely. A fool, yes, or he wouldn’t be here, but a shrewd fool. “A good supply will cost ninety pounds.”

Barrow’s eyes narrowed. “What can you give me for sixty?”

He didn’t as much as say that was all he had, but Crowley could tell it was. “Less than I could give you for eighty,” he countered. “And that’s the least I’d recommend for starting a business like yours.”

For a moment the young man simply watched him through the haze of smoke. “Seventy’s worth, then,” he finally offered. “Sixty now and I’ll pay you the rest from my profits.”

Crowley debated. On the one hand, if he really had risked his neck for these goods, he’d want to get as much from them as possible. On the other hand, he hadn’t risked a thing. The goods were only a few years younger than the earth itself, give or take a century, and there would be no profit. He knew that, but he didn’t need Barrow to figure it out. Finally he smiled and held out his hand, “Deal.”

Barrow shook the offered hand and gave him the address of a vacant shed in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside. He then pulled out his wallet and, without a hint of hesitation, handed over a generous fistful of pound notes. Sixty, as promised. Crowley grinned. The boy had lots of promise, but in the end he was nothing but the shrewdest fool in the land, and now, whether he knew it or not, a penniless fool. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Crowley,” Barrow stood, working his right glove back on his hand and tipping his hat in parting.

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

[easyhairstylesbest]

Cicely Tyson on the ‘Power’ of Her 1973 Oscar Nom: ‘That Was My Dream’

The day I learned I’d been nominated for an Oscar, I was filming a small role for a new Black director. Just as I was delivering an important line, I heard laughter on the sidelines of the set. “Don’t they know we’re shooting in here?” I snapped. “What’s the matter with them?” A moment later, a producer walked in. “We’ve just gotten some good news,” he said. I held up my hand. “I don’t want to hear anything,” I told him. “Whatever it is can wait.” When I am working, I show up to do exactly that. All else is a distraction, a disruption to an unfolding moment. The gentleman smiled, shook his head, and left.

The director, who must’ve heard the news that awaited, gave me a strange look before we resumed. We completed the scene, and even on my way out, I wouldn’t let anyone tell me anything. It was upon arriving home, at my agent Haber’s place, that he gave me the exhilarating announcement: I’d been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actress. “Really?” I said, the living room suddenly swirling out of focus. “Yes!” he yelped. As tears flooded my face, all I could think about were my friend Arthur Mitchell’s words to me: “You’re going to be nominated for an Oscar.” My friend’s what-if had come true.

I don’t care what any actor says, that golden statue matters. It is what we’re all vying for—the ultimate validation from our peers. You empty yourself into a character, you labor hour upon hour to get every single gesture and sentence precise, and you mean to tell me that such an affirmation means nothing to you? It holds tremendous power. When I was just getting into the business, I’d looked on in awe as Sidney Poitier earned that affirmation for his marvelous work in Lilies of the Field, becoming the first Black man to win an Academy Award for Best Actor. That evening, as I watched the ceremony on my old black-and-white RCA set, I said to myself, I’m going to sit in the front at the Oscars one day. That was my dream. But as my career carried me mostly toward stage and television, that hope seemed unlikely. That is why, long before I did Sounder, I’d quietly accepted that the Academy Awards would probably not be part of my path. And yet, lo and behold, here I was, on the verge of taking a seat in that front row I’d envisioned for myself.

Cicely Tyson as Rebecca in Sounder.

Stanley Bielecki Movie CollectionGetty Images

My good news was just the beginning. Sounder received a slew of nominations, for Best Picture, Best Writing (Lonne Elder), and Best Actor (I was as delighted for Paul Winfield as I was for myself). The film’s message also reverberated beyond our shores, earning a BAFTA nomination for its score, created by Taj Mahal, who also earned a Grammy for his work. Kevin Hooks, who played my son (and who, in real life, is the son of director and actor Robert Hooks), received a Golden Globe nomination. That awards season also became a landmark recognition of Black talent: Diana Ross was nominated for an Oscar for her role in Lady Sings the Blues, as was screenplay writer Suzanne de Passe. The 1973 nominations for Diana Ross and myself were the first time Black women had been nominated in the Best Actress category since trailblazer Dorothy Dandridge received the honor in 1954 for her role in Carmen Jones.

The morning after the official nomination announcement in Los Angeles, I called my mother in New York. On television, she’d seen how all those white folks had stood and applauded me. “Well?” I said to her. “Well, what?” she said chuckling. “You’d better tell me something,” I said. The line went silent. “I am so proud of you, Sister,” she finally said. I could feel tears brimming and I let them fall, unable to speak because I was so overcome by what I’d longed to hear. If I had not heard those words from my mother, none of this would have made any difference. If she had not been able to participate in the acclaim I was receiving, all of it would’ve felt empty to me.

I, of course, already knew she and my father recognized my work. “Why do you do such sad movies?” my dad once joked after he’d seen me in Brown Girl, Brownstones. Likewise, Mom would often tell me what her friends were always asking her: “Why is she always wearing rags in her movies? Doesn’t she ever dress up?” Though their teasing was an indirect acknowledgment of their pride, I needed my mother, in particular, to voice her validation. She’d been my greatest source of energy, the reason I’d devoted myself so wholly to my work. She had believed I’d go out and become a slut of some kind, had no idea this Hollywood journey could lead me to play a character as honorable as Rebecca. My nomination did more than just prove my mother wrong. After a childhood during which my mother’s opinions drowned out all others, it gave me the last say.

“If I had not heard those words from my mother, none of this would have made any difference.”

I flew my mother to Los Angeles to attend the screening of Sounder. We were seated in the mezzanine, and she was one row behind me. In the dark, just as the curtains parted, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Ed Sullivan is sitting behind me,” she said, pronouncing his last name Sulli-wan, because for whatever reason, West Indians can’t say v’s. For years, she’d never missed The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday nights. I turned around and whispered to her, “And I am sitting here.” We both snickered, her loudly enough to prompt Ed Sulli-wan to smile in my mother’s direction.

To celebrate Sounder’s cascade of nominations, the studio hosted a splashy New York premiere. I called upon acclaimed fashion designer Bill Whitten to design my dress (years later, Bill would design Michael Jackson’s rhinestone glove to cover the singer’s early signs of vitiligo). “I want to create the kind of gown that Rebecca might have worn if she’d had money,” I told Bill. That sent him in search of the prints and cottons poor colored women would’ve worn in 1933. Using the fabric remnants he found, he pieced together a treasure. The dress, antebellum in style, came with a fancy apron that served as a flower sack. He filled it with cotton balls he’d sent for from down South. It was the most glorious creation. The same woman who braided my hair for the movie created a crown of beautiful cornrows to complement my look. When I strode into the theater that evening, chin lifted, pride on my brow, I showed up in the name of the ancestors whose sweat and sorrow had carried me there.

In the months leading up to the ceremony, the devil got to work doing what he does best: attempting to pit Black women against each other. In the lead-up to the Oscars, one of Diana Ross’s designers tried to keep my dress from being finished by hiring my designer to make suits for the Jackson Five. I don’t know whether Diana knew anything about it, but I heard the whispers. The media, for months, had been playing up the narrative that there was some big competition between the two of us. I refused to feed into that storyline, which was false. I have never been in competition with anybody but myself, and I wanted no part in such unpleasantness. Just Breathing While Black is trouble enough.

A month before the ceremony, the studio sent me overseas on a promotional tour in Europe, my first time in Paris and London. Months before I left town, I’d rubbed elbows with British royalty. Antony Charles Robert Armstrong-Jones, First Earl of Snowdon, was then husband to Princess Margaret and an avid photographer and filmmaker. Lord Snowdon had taken quite an interest in Arthur’s work at Dance Theatre of Harlem. The two began a partnership, with Lord Snowdon investing in the school. Arthur connected me with him, and during one of Lord Snowdon’s trips to New York, he and I met for appetizers and a brief conversation. As we awaited our order, he kept glancing over his left shoulder. How strange, I thought. I wonder if he’s expecting someone. As it turned out, he was on the lookout for the paparazzi, who of course had followed him to the restaurant. Later, on another one of his trips to New York, Lord Snowdon photographed me wearing that Bill Whitten masterpiece of a dress. What a memory.

Cicely Tyson at England’s Heathrow Airport in February 1973, a month before the Oscars.

George StroudGetty Images

In London, the marveling began with my ride from Heathrow in an enormous black taxi, a Hackney carriage so gargantuan that I could stand up inside of it! In a penthouse suite in the Dorchester Hotel, I spent a half-hour just wandering around the space, gawking at the grandeur of the accommodations, thinking back on those days when my siblings, Emily and Melrose, and I had all been squished together on a rollaway bed in our parents’ living room.

And to think that I now had this sprawling space to myself, in a world where my name was plastered on billboards all over America and Europe. It was nothing short of spectacular. The same was true of my time in the City of Light, where, from my balcony, I gazed in awe at the Eiffel Tower, head held high and preening in the distance.

“When I strode into the theater that evening, chin lifted, pride on my brow, I showed up in the name of the ancestors whose sweat and sorrow had carried me there.”

Back in New York before the ceremony, the surrealism continued. In another head nod to Rebecca, I wanted my hair done in a croquignole, the deep-wave style that would’ve been popular for well-to- do women during the 1930s. “Do you know how to do that style?” I asked my hairstylist Omar. “No,” she said, “but my mother can.” Can you believe that child’s mom came out of retirement just to create my waves? The words thank you fell short of expressing the gratitude I felt. Designer Bill Whitten turned up the luxury by creating a white silk-wool fitted dress, with a touch of grey in it, complete with a heart cut-out, lace-trimmed detail across the décolletage. Gracing each sleeve was a glistening row of tiny gold buttons, with the same buttons stretching down the back. It was absolutely stunning.

When Arthur arrived, dashing in his tuxedo, he escorted me by the arm to the awaiting limo. The evening, for us, marked two celebrations: the Forty-Fifth Academy Awards, and my dear Arthur’s thirty-ninth birthday. The quintet of hosts—Carol Burnett, Michael Caine, Charlton Heston, and Rock Hudson—took the stage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. My dream was to be in the front row, and there I sat, delighted that my fantasy had come to pass.

But as for the possibility of garnering the gold statue, I had done my back-of-the-napkin math. I’m logical that way, a pragmatist who is always weighing the odds, and in Hollywood politics, those odds were decidedly not in my favor. That same year, Liza Minnelli had been nominated for her role in Cabaret. Her father, Vincente, was a big-time director, which gave her one advantage. Check. Her mother was Judy Garland. Double check. Neither of them had ever earned an Oscar. Triple check. And at the time, Liza was dating Desi Arnaz Jr., son of Desi and Lucille Ball, Hollywood royalty. Quadruple check. Common sense told me that I had no chance amid the schmoozing and vote-securing that goes on in back rooms.

So as I sat near the stage that evening, I relaxed into the joy of just being there, with Arthur to my left and with Rebecca’s spirit dancing on my shoulder. So certain was I that this was Liza’s year, when Gene Hackman said, “And the winner is…,” I turned to Arthur and said, “Liza Minnelli.” Liza made her way up to the stage, tearful and jubilant, and I sat there, palm over my heart, relishing my presence in the arena. This journey of mine, this path so unpredictable, had somehow carried me from 219 East 102nd Street in the slums to the front row of movie magic at Hollywood’s most grand affair. As Liza accepted her award, I’d already received the only prize I have ever truly wanted—the affirmation of the dear woman who gave me birth.

From the book Just as I Am: A Memoir by Cicely Tyson with Michelle Burford. Copyright © 2021 by Cicely Tyson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

Cicely Tyson Cicely Tyson has been nominated for 40 television and film awards and has won 42, most notably an Oscar, a Tony Award, 3 Emmys, 8 NAACP Image Awards, the African American Film Critics Special Achievement Award, the BAFTA Film Award, the Black Film Critics Circle Award, 4 Black Reel Awards, the Elle Women in Hollywood Award, 3 Lifetime Achievement Awards, and many more.  Ms.

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Cicely Tyson on the ‘Power’ of Her 1973 Oscar Nom: ‘That Was My Dream’

[lovefollowsknowledge]

My Vocation is Love

Life has been crazy lately. I’ve had something almost everyday after school and almost every weekend for the past month. It’s been awesome, but it’s just been a lot ;) It’s also been keeping me from writing. Well that’s not entirely true. As busy as my schedule has been, that’s also how my mind has been. I’ve come up with a lot of things I want to write about, but for some reason every time I sit down to write it just doesn’t come out. Or it does and it’s just completely incoherent. But there’s also been times I’ve written, and I feel ready to publish, but then I start to become really self-conscious and I stop. I start thinking things like no one would want to read about what I wrote, no one cares about my own personal story, it’s way too long for anyone to read the whole thing through. I get thoughts like it’s too much or sometimes I think it’s not enough. I just get bombarded with a million different thoughts of doubt. Doubt in myself but also doubt in what God is doing in my life. Like maybe I’m making it up. Or I’m being too dramatic. But lately I’ve been seeing more and more messages that essentially say to just go ahead and do it. Trust the grace that’s been given. Trust the way the Lord has been working in your life. One line in particular came from St. Faustina’s diary, “I have wasted many of God’s graces because I was always afraid of being deluded.” That’s exactly how I feel! Like the things the Lord puts on my heart to share, the miraculous ways He’s working, how truly alive He makes Himself out to be to me - like all those things I’m just making up or being too dramatic or making a bigger deal of things than they really are. But then there’s another line in the diary where St. Faustina is talking to Jesus. It goes, “In one of my morning talks with Him I said, ‘Jesus, are you not an illusion?’ Jesus answered me, ‘My love deceives no one.’” So boom baby. I cannot convince anyone of any truth, I cannot dumb down the glories the Lord has shown in my life. I can only be faithful to what the Lord has put on my heart. So here we go!

Every year I like to write a birthday blog either reflecting on the past year or sharing my goals and dreams for the next. However, I’ve been having a hard time coming up with the right words because I feel like this year just kind of happened to me and for the first time I have no plans for the future. But I finally came up with 2 words to describe this past year and 1 word to describe this next: humbling, frustrating, and adventure.

Humbling. I may have shared this already, but I’m gonna go ahead and dive into it again anyway. I used to take pride in how active and independent I am. My whole life I was always a part of something. In middle school I was ASB president. In high school I did sports, ROTC, drama, band, clubs, leadership, and was in honors/AP classes. I was never home, and I loved it! Not because I hate home, but because I just really love being active! I love serving (in whatever context or capacity that may be), and I absolutely loved being involved. And if I were to be honest, I loved leading. I loved that I could be the person to answer everyone’s questions. I loved that I could be the person people could look up to and be inspired by. As graduation was approaching, I was extremely excited to find a school out of state. Partially because I just needed to get away, but mostly because I wanted to prove I could make it out there on my own, that I didn’t need my community’s or family’s support. And again once I started college I jumped right back into being active. I was on different prayer teams, retreat teams, mission team. I was part of a household and eventually became coordinator of that household. I took pride in the fact that I was a double major with a minor (even though at my school that was completely normal haha). I was always busy. And any opportunity I had to travel the country on road trip or travel the world around Europe, I took it! Busy body was the name of the game. Fast forward a little, I graduate, get my first job as a youth minister, and after a year into my job I get seriously sick and I have to quit. That was a low blow for me, but I didn’t let that stop me. It didn’t take long for me to start making plans with my new found time off. I was going on hikes, going on trips, leading YA events. And as soon as those events were done, I moved onto my next plan which was to move to Michigan! Fast forward some more, I move to Michigan, give every ounce of energy to my job as a youth minister, and yet again after a year into my job I get even more seriously sick. This time around I waste completely no time, and I jump right into planning for the future. I start studying for my GRE and researching intensely to find the perfect grad program. But that flops and I move onto my next great idea - religious life. But then that flops and I move onto my next next great idea - dating through apps and online services. It was crazy! I’d just hop from one thing to the next. But as time progressed I seemed to only get sicker, and as many times as I heard from people back home begging me to come back I was even more staunched in my ways to prove I could make it on my own out in Michigan. But after months and months of treatment, I finally decided to come home. And of course as soon as I get back to Cali I start making plans. Right away, I start talking with my sister and cousins to move in with them. I rewrite my resume to fit the available jobs I’m finding. I refuse to let this move slow me down...And then I turn 26 and I swear everything in my life came to a screeching halt. My birthday must’ve been the last time I went out, the last time I chose to push beyond my exhaustion and rising symptoms.

As soon as I turned 26, I had no choice but to relinquish all the independence I’d always clung so tightly to. The active life I’ve always strived for, the great and many plans I had for the future, all of it just felt demolished. I was diagnosed with lupus, and my life was turned upside down. I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again, when I was in the hospital I couldn’t walk by myself, stand by myself, use the bathroom by myself. I couldn’t feed myself, I could barely talk for myself. And when I got out of the hospital, I had to let my dad bring me my meals because getting up was just too much of an ordeal. I used to have many many plans for myself. I used to have adventures planned out for the week, trips planned out for the month. But at that point all I could literally plan out was what I was going to eat for my next meal and what time I would wake up for it. There was simply no other choice but for me to rest in bed. Even if I wanted to say screw it, I don’t need rest, my body was simply not allowing it. There was no other option but to rely on the people around me. There was no other option but to be still. And it was like that for a long time. I never left the house, not even for Mass. I couldn’t see anybody unless they came to visit me. And any time I did leave the house, I couldn’t drive myself, so I was restricted to my dad’s schedule and his own outings. After a few months I was starting to feel a little better, so of course I jumped right into planning mode. I made moves to discern religious life again, I bought a ticket to visit Michigan, I bought a season pass to Universal studios. But with every single thing I planned, the door closed right in my face. Even when I tried to make moves, tried to make plans, tried to get busy again, it simply was not an option. And it has just been the most humbling thing. After making all my own choices for adventures, trips, activities, after always having a plan for my future and knowing the necessary steps to take to get there, I was finally being forced to stop, rest, and be still. I was finally being forced to receive. To receive help, receive support, receive love. I remember as everyone around me was taking care of me, and I was having the hardest time accepting the situation, I kept repeating to myself something I learned from Ate Josette and Kuya Raff (which I later found out was actually St. Francis de Sales haha), “Ask for nothing, refuse nothing.” I wouldn’t ask for anything (extra) but I also wouldn’t refuse anything if someone wanted to offer some sort of help or gift to me in my time of need. It was just the most humbling thing but definitely a way for the Lord to crumble to pieces the crusts that surrounded my prideful heart. It was humbling, but it was definitely one of the ways the Lord used to give me life in a way I had never known it before. Because it allowed me to receive love. Which I am just the worst at. I’m all about giving and receiving only from the gifts that come from that giving, if that makes sense. Like my receiving was the thanks I got at the end of a talk or retreat, or watching the transformation of kids’ hearts right before my eyes. My receiving the fruits that came out of my service. But this year the Lord has been teaching me that His love is free. That I don’t need to do anything or be anything in order to be loved by Him or by my friends and family.

I think I’ve always clung to an active lifestyle and to such great grand plans for my future because yeah I love the busyness of it all, I love serving, I love giving but also because I needed that affirmation. I needed to prove I was worthy of love because of the great things I can do and the great things I have already done. I think that’s part of why I loved being the leader so much. I think having the answers and being the go to person spoke to me that I am great, I am a worthy person because I am contributing greatly to the situation. I needed to contribute in great ways so people would know me and so people would love me. I know, it all sounds so very prideful, and I think that’s the point. I think this year the Lord wanted to free me from these lies. These lies that my busyness, my contribution, the impact I leave on people’s lives that’s what makes me great and worthwhile. That’s what makes my life worth it. That’s what gives my life dignity. I needed to break from the lies that my service is what makes me lovable and good. I needed to be seen, so I could be known, so I could be loved. I took so much pride in my service because service equaled greatness and the greater I was the more lovable I was. But this year service was completely not an option. And I know I did dabble in service here and there throughout the year, but even when I tried to dive all into that the door still closed. This year the Lord gave me no option but to sit, be still, and receive. And while it has been hard, it’s also has been the most freeing and life giving thing. Because then there’s no more of this restless striving. There’s just peace and rest. Which brings me to my next point...

Frustrating. This whole humbling process has been completely frustrating. Because my natural instinct is to resist anything that tries to slow me down. I’ve been seriously sick in the past, but like I said the moment my time opened up I always filled it with more plans. But this time that just wasn’t an option, and it’s been the most frustrating thing! I guess it goes hand in hand with the weightlifting I’ve also attempted to do this year. Thankfully we were working out in the comfort of Hydie’s garage, so we didn’t have to worry about the experienced, heavylifters we’d find at the gym. But still. It’s kinda super embarrassing, at least for me, to start with the bar because it just looks so panzy. But the truth is, when you’re first starting, that bar is a beast! So we’d do different work outs, some to work our legs, some to work our arms. The ones to work the legs weren’t necessarily easy, but I was progressing pretty steadily with them. Increasing 5lbs every session as the program says. The arm work outs, on the other hand, were a whole different story. You start with the bar for all the exercises and increase by 5lbs every session. At my best, I was squatting 145 and deadlifting 170. But in the same week, I was also benching and rowing 85 and overheading 60. But even at those weights I was never completing a full set. And after a while the program would finally say to deload on my arm workouts. Which is super humbling especially because my leg workouts were going great, but more than anything else it was super frustrating. Because as much as I wanted to lift that bar over my head, I just couldn’t do it. Or as much as I wanted to get that bar up to my chest, I couldn’t do it. And I would end sessions feeling like crap like “what can’t I do this!” But at the end of the day I had no choice but to deload and work my way up but in smaller increments (increasing by 1lb instead of 5). And that’s how I felt like my life was going. In some ways I felt like I was getting stronger faster, but in other ways I simply was not ready. And it annoyed the crap out of me. Like the traveling business. I felt physically ready to travel, but my doctors knew, my parents knew it just wasn’t time. Or when I felt ready to jump back into service. To me I saw it as a real possibility, but again my parents knew, my doctors it just wasn’t an option yet. It was so annoying, and I resented my parents a little bit for it, tbh. Just as I resented the Lord, except I resented Him quite a bit more. I was just straight mad at Him. Mad because I felt He wasn’t being faithful to His promises that He would satisfy the desires of my heart, or His promise to take care of those who are faithful to Him. Mad that He had taken me all this way just to close the door in my face. Mad simply because He wouldn’t let me do what I wanted to do. This year has been completely frustrating, and I blamed God for every bit of it. To the point, Mass had become this annoying chore I had to sit through every week. An hour where I would spend either sleeping through or rolling my eyes to every verse or word from the priest that essentially promised God’s love and providence. I thought it was all BS.

Till finally I went to the Steubie conference, and I let it all out. But I also let it all in. For the first time in a long time when I saw God’s love alive in those youth, in the worship leaders, in the speakers, for the first time I didn’t resist or roll my eyes, but by the grace of God alone I opened my heart to it. I had a moment when I was criticizing the service team in my head for all the faith and hope they had in the Lord. Any time I saw someone faithful I would think, “They must’ve never gone through shit.” Like their life has been easy. But I had a moment where as I was thinking that, it was followed by another thought, “Probably the reason they have the strong faith they have is because they’ve gone through shit.” They’re faith is as strong as it is because it’s been tested by fire. It’s gone through Hell, but it never gave up. It kept clinging to God, through all the flames, and it came out even stronger. I had another moment when I was criticizing the youth in my head thinking, “They are so naive. They have no idea what a waste of time this is. They have no idea how disappointed they’ll be in the future.” But then I thought, “I was once them. Before being jaded by this world and clinging more to hopelessnes than to hope itself, I was that kid singing my heart out. Crying out to God that I would never leave Him, that I would do whatever He wants, go wherever He leads.” One of my favorite lines as a youth was, “I would give the world to tell your story because I know that You’ve call me...Jesus I believe in You, and I would go to the ends of the earth.” That was the absolute cry of my heart, and I meant it with every bone in my body. And at that moment of the conference I thought, “This is where it counts.” Not just as a youth and not just when I’m feeling good. But now. When it hurts. So that weekend I finally spoke my frustrations, I spoke my aches and pains. I spoke to a priest, and I spoke to one of the speakers and both times they said, “keep coming.” Even if it hurts, even if it makes no sense, keep coming. And so I did. Which leads me to my last point...

Adventure. After praying and praying consistently and having my heart slowly turn back to God, the Lord drops this job in my lap. And this job has got to be the pinnacle of my entire year. It is everything this year has been - humbling and frustrating. I have a job, yes, and that is a huge accomplishment considering everything I’ve been through. But this job is part-time and it’s an aide position. I’m not the teacher. I’m not the one calling the shots. I’m not the one up there speaking. I’m not the one with all the answers. In fact kids will raise their hand, and I’ll approach them to try to help, and they’ll say, “Oh you can’t answer this. This is for Mr. so and so.” Or they will ask their question to me and I have to say, “I don’t have an answer for that, let me ask Mr. so and so.” I am not the lead. I am not in charge. In fact, my job is to sit on the sidelines. Not assistant teacher but assistant to the teacher. And it’s frustrating because those are the things I love to do. I mean yes, being the go to person. But more than that, I love teaching. There is just a certain life and joy I get when I teach or when I speak. It’s a real gift. And it’s frustrating that I have to sit in a classroom and not do what I love, not teach. So the first month or so of school was really hard. Because I just felt like a waste. I felt like I wasn’t using my gifts and talents the way I normally do, and I felt I had no way to effect change. Because I feel like my gifts lie in speaking and in writing, but this job doesn’t allow for that so much. And I was starting to feel like this job had no purpose. Like I had no purpose because I wasn’t serving in the capacity I normally do. People would ask me how I like my job or what my plans were with this job, and I honestly couldn’t answer them. The job was a lot harder than I thought it would be because of the humility it’s calling me to, and I had no plan because it literally just fell into my lap. Both of which were kind of freaking me out. I didn’t like the struggle this job had become, and I didn’t like that I had no plan from here. But as the weeks progressed in my work, suddenly the kids were really learning my name and were really asking for my help. They were asking for my opinion, they were telling me their opinion, they were asking for stories, they were telling me stories. I realized, without even trying, I had made a presence with these kids. Just by doing my simple job of grading papers, walking around the classroom, and doing recess and lunch yard duty. Somehow, I had made a presence. And this is where the Lord stepped in and kind of tied it all together.

I was getting frustrated and even restless and anxious because I was starting to feel like I had no purpose. I simply missed serving, I missed using my gifts for the glory of God. I’m sure there was pride tied up in there, but there was also just a genuine desire to serve and to speak truth. And I was getting frustrated by the humility my job was calling me to because I felt it wasn’t allowing me to do that, at least not in the leadership way I’m used to. I brought that to prayer one day, just telling the Lord how weird it is I’m not serving, how weird it is I’m not in any sort of leadership role, how weird it is I’m not discerning religious life anymore. But then I realized in that moment, as weird and as frustrating as it could be, it’s also been incredibly freeing and refreshing, for many reasons. 1) because my relationship with the Lord, the love I receive from Him no longer relies on the service I give Him. This lack of service, lack of activity has given me the gift to receive the free love of God. 2) I get to be with youth without the pressure of being in charge, without the pressure of making the calls. All I have to do is follow. Follow the lead of the teachers. And in that I get the freedom to just simply be with the youth. And then I realized, I am just about to embark on my latest and greatest adventure with the Lord!

I have lived my whole life striving to be in the limelight. I wanted to be well known and loved by my classmates at school. I wanted to be looked up to and inspiring to the people around me. I wanted to be seen as someone super holy for entering religious life. I wanted to be Catholic famous for my speaking and writing, get into that network of people that gets asked to do conferences and speaking gigs all across the country. I wanted to be great by being known. But just through my current life circumstances, and the kind of life my health is calling me to live, the Lord is teaching me and showing me a much smaller and littler way. A way where I am no one but a girl on the sidelines, a fill in, a substitute, someone who merely passes out paper towels and baby wipes, who makes copy runs and hangs up posters, who walks around the room to keep kids in check and make sure they’re on task, someone who merely blows the whistle when kids do something stupid at recess or blow the whistle when it’s time to come back in. I am truly replaceable at my job. So much so we have parent volunteers that come in and basically do my job for free. My job is no big deal. And that used to frustrate me a lot. But through this job, the Lord is teaching me two very simple things, which I have heard over and over in the past decade but have never let sink in until now, “the little way,” as St. Therese says, and “small acts with great love,” as my beloved Mama T says. I feel like with this job the Lord is calling me to be humble, yes, but in a way that He’s calling me to be small. To not be a leader. To not rely on my words, on my gift to speak or my gift to write. I feel like He’s calling me to not limit my service, not limit the works I do for His Kingdom, not limit the ways I strive to radiate His love to just my speaking and my writing. For the past few months I feel like He’s been calling me to learn to love in all contexts. I’ve been trying to figure out what that means exactly or what that could look like, and I think this job is it. I need to learn to love not with my words, not with great speaking gigs, or great writing pieces, but I need to learn to love simply with my presence because that’s all I have with these kids. All I have is my presence. The essence of my job is all practicality. My job consists of a bunch of little tasks that need to get done right now. There is nothing deep, nothing profound. There’s not even a lot of space for that. All I have is my presence. My presence as I walk around the classroom, my presence as I walk around the lunch table, my presence as I was about the blacktop. All I have is presence. And that used to bother me because I felt so limited, but now I’m starting to see that every little encounter I have with a student is an opportunity to bring Christ’s presence to them. But it’s an opportunity to love with Christ’s love, to love even when I’m growing impatient with them, when I’m irritated, when I’m feeling close to hopeless about certain situations. Now I’m seeing that this job is an opportunity to be stretched and to love in a much truer and purer form. This is the gift of my job. Through my job I am learning that just because the Lord isn’t calling me to religious life or to full time ministry or service on some grand scale, doesn’t mean He’s no longer calling me to service. Doesn’t mean I’m no longer called to love. Doesn’t mean I’m no longer called to radiate His love. Just because God’s no longer calling me to full time ministry doesn’t mean He’s not close to me anymore. Which are all lies I was buying into. But as each day passes, I’m starting to see He is ever so present to me in each of these kids. Each of these kids is an opportunity to quench the thirst of Christ, His thirst for our love. Each of these kids is an opportunity to bring Christ the Living Water to quench their thirst for love.

I have no idea where this could lead me nor do I even have a plan of where this could lead me. Something else I keep coming back to is something my therapist taught me, “don’t focus on what you don’t know, focus on what you do know.” And well I don’t know why the Lord closed the doors that He did to me. I don’t know why I ended up with this job. I don’t what the Lord is going to do these yearnings in my heart. I don’t know if I’m called to be a teacher. I don’t know if I’m called to religious life. I don’t know if I’m called to marriage. All I know is that I work a 19 hour job at St. Catherine’s as a teacher’s aide with my best friends. Those are the facts of my life. And I can get frustrated and feel humiliated by my state of life or I can enter into possibly the greatest adventure of my life thus far. Where I completely let go of control, where I stop taking the lead, where I simply follow. An adventure where I no longer resist but I let the Lord stretch me as He sees fit. An adventure where I no longer seek for what is not but enter into what is. An adventure where I learn to love in a way I’ve never loved before. Through simple acts with great love. An adventure where I refuse Him nothing. I may not know why I ended up where I am today, why I have the job I have, but one thing remains the same; I am still called to love. Be it as a youth minister, a religious sister, a wife, a single person. As St. Therese said, my vocation is love. And I think this is the adventure the Lord is calling me to. To no longer be concerned with esteem, with titles, with roles, with even Vocations, but to simply choose to love in all contexts, to the greatest capacity He is calling me to. That love isn’t about what I’ll get out of it, what I’ll get in return, love is just about loving. For the free gift that it is. Just as He has shown me this past year with my sickness and recovery. The free love that I’ve been given without having to first give in my service, this is the free love He’s calling me to give. Not thinking of what people will think of me, positively or negatively, but to just love. No agenda. A love not focused on me and the gifts I can offer. Just love. Regardless of my position.

All the frustrating, annoying, yet freeing process of being humbled this past year has all led up to this year to come. Not that I am now a perfectly humble person, but that He continues to call me on to such humility through this job, this job of being nothing but present to these kids. This new ministry of presence. So I have no plan for the future, no plan for this next year. All I know is that I’m excited to enter into the heart of a Christ, into the heart of the Father, into a life fully immersed in the Holy Spirit, so I can receive and learn to give His love in a very new, purifying, and life giving way.

If you made it this far in the blog, join me in giving all glory and praise to God through Mary. For everything He’s done thus far and everything He will do in this next year.

Cheers to 27!

St. Faustina, pray for us! St. Therese of Lisieux, pray for us! St. Teresa of Calcutta, pray for us! LDM.

[klove0511]

At Any Cost Chapter 3

It started small. One night, maybe a month after Sam had moved in, nightmares of Sam dying in new and horrible ways woke Dean for the fifth time in a row. He lay in bed panting, surprised Lisa was still sound asleep beside him. The adrenaline from his latest round of nightmares was going to keep him up for at least an hour, he could tell. Glancing at his alarm clock, he stifled a groan. 2 AM, and he and Sam had work in the morning.

When this had happened last week, he’d found Sam up late reading and the two of them had killed the hours catching up and telling old stories. He told himself that wasn’t going to happen again, but he knew he’d feel better if he had eyes on Sam. Sliding out of bed, he padded down the hall, surprised to find Sam’s light on again. He wondered just how much sleep Sam had been getting lately. He didn’t seem sleep deprived, but Dean knew better than anyone how well Sam could function on no sleep. He tapped on Sam’s door, quiet enough that he wouldn’t wake his brother if he’d fallen asleep with the light on.

No surprise though when he heard Sam quietly call, “Come in.”

Sam had occupied this room for a month, and it still didn’t look like he’d moved in at all. The bedspread was a floral pattern Lisa had obviously picked out, the walls were still painted lavender, various boxes of their junk were still piled in the corner. The only indication that Sam spent time in here was the pile of books on his nightstand. He wasn’t sure if Sam was waiting to be kicked out or if he just didn’t know how to make a room his own, but Dean resolved to help him settle in more that weekend.

“Can’t sleep?” Dean asked, closing the door behind him.

Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Nightmares again?”

Dean shook his head and scoffed. “I always check the house at two in the morning. Saw your light on.”

Sam huffed a laugh and nodded. “Yeah, well, sleep isn’t really my friend lately. Pass the time with me?”

Dean crawled onto the bed, which was not nearly big enough for two Winchesters, and settled against the headboard, brushing shoulders with Sam. The contact was reassuring in a way Dean couldn’t explain, and though they talked for over an hour, he felt sleep beginning to tug at him almost immediately. They woke in a tangle of limbs the next morning as light spilled through the curtains and the door to Sam’s room clicked quietly shut.

 Sam worried, but Lisa never said anything, not even when it kept happening, first once a week, then twice, until nearly every night found Dean crawling into Sam’s bed at some point. They never did anything besides talk and sleep, but here, in this house, it felt like a breach in protocol. A line they shouldn’t be crossing, and nowhere close to the line Sam wished they could cross.

Sam didn’t try to stop it, though. Wrapping himself around Dean helped ground the hum of power under his skin and let him sleep more than two hours a night. Breach or not, Sam couldn’t, wouldn’t, turn Dean away.

One day, as spring was just starting to melt the piles of Indiana winter snow, Sam blinked back to consciousness and found Dean’s morning wood pressed firmly against his ass. This wasn’t unusual in and of itself, especially lately, but judging from the soft moans and minute thrusts, Dean was in the middle of a very interesting dream.

The little brother in Sam told him to wake Dean up, thus ruining the climax, as it were. Logic and self-preservation told him to sneak out of bed and leave Dean to finish his dream alone. That was what he should do. He knew it, tried to talk himself into making that first move, but there was a third part—a leaking, achingly hard part—that wanted to pretend he was still asleep and enjoy wherever this might go. He gritted his teeth. That would be wrong. It would be taking advantage of Dean, for starters, and beyond that would be crossing a line he wasn’t prepared to cross in Lisa’s house. Not when he knew for a fact Dean and Lisa were still involved. They were frequently very enthusiastic about their involvement after they went to bed, even if Dean did end up laying next to Sam, asleep, a few hours later.

Even as Sam palmed himself and stifled a moan, he knew he was going to be sneaking out of bed and into the shower to take care of things in private. He carefully shifted toward the edge of the bed, freezing when Dean’s arms tugged him back.

Dean’s sleep-rough voice grumbled, “Five more minutes.”

Sam held his breath. After a minute, Dean’s breathing deepened, and his hips resumed their small movements. Sam silently groaned. Only Dean would be able to resume a sex dream after falling back asleep. Sam’s traitorous cock was fully interested in staying in bed, and it was rewarded when one of Dean’s hands slid down Sam’s belly to within grazing distance. Not close enough, damn it.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. Lisa was right down the hall. Want or not, he was only here—they­ were only here—because she allowed it. Never mind how Sam had sworn up and down that he wasn’t going to destroy Dean’s life by coming here.

Sam whimpered when a particularly enthusiastic hip thrust shifted Dean’s hand enough to brush Sam’s hard dick. Dean didn’t seem to react, though, so Sam deemed him still asleep and took the opportunity to slip out of bed. This time, Dean let him go.

He breathed a sigh of relief and gathered his things for a shower. He briefly considered going for a run, but he didn’t relish the thought of trying to will his erection into submission lest the neighbors see. He glared at it for a moment, feeling like a horny teenager, then stealthily made his way to the shower, managing to avoid anyone else in the house.

Under the hot spray he palmed himself while mentally shuffling through his spank bank. Sure, he could probably get himself off in five minutes or less just reliving what had happened in his bed that morning, but he was looking for a distraction. Something to get him thinking about Dean and his penis less. Maybe Castiel instead. Sam had harbored a harmless crush on the angel practically from the moment they met, and it was easy to call up fantasies of that deep voice calling him a good boy. He stroked himself with one hand, lightly fingered himself with the other. He imagined Castiel pressing into him from behind, superhumanly strong arms holding Sam up as he thrust into him. Good. Yes. He was close, stroking himself faster, chasing the release. Dean on his knees, Cas feeding Sam’s cock to him. Oh. As he imagined fucking his brother’s face to the rhythm of Castiel’s thrusts, Sam came so hard he whited out for a moment and had to reach out a hand to catch himself on the shower wall.

So much for a distraction from Dean.

 After Sam crawled out of bed, Dean cracked open his eyes. That had been his imagination, right? He hadn’t actually felt Sam’s hard-on a minute ago, had he? He pressed both palms to his eyes until stars exploded behind his eyelids. No, that hadn’t been part of the dream in which he was pounding his brother into the bed. This was getting out of hand.

Lisa was already in the kitchen, and he could tell this was not going to be a good day. She looked determined, and he’d learned ages ago that a determined Lisa got her way. She didn’t even give him a chance to warm up his brain with coffee before she started talking. “We need to talk about Sam.”

Dean groaned. In truth, he’d been waiting for her to kick them out. It was weird, he knew it was weird. And great sex or not, Lisa’s patience with him could only be expected to extend so far. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to rock the boat. Sam said he was dealing, but Dean knew he was barely sleeping. Knew the kid hardly slept more than an hour or two unless Dean was in bed too. Dean wasn’t sure if it was nightmares or memories or what, but they both slept better the way they did things now. Dean briefly wondered if that was part of why she had tolerated it for as long as she did. He hadn’t woken the house up shouting in weeks.

She set her jaw and continued, undeterred by his lack of verbal response. “I know I’m the one that offered him a place to stay, but it’s time he got his own place, don’t you think?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. She wanted just Sam gone? “What, you think he isn’t pulling his weight or something?”

She sighed. “Of course not. He’s been great. And if you want me to list the ways I will, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point? He’s a great guy, just got done being tortured in Hell for saving the world and is still somehow managing to be a functional member of society, but, yeah, he definitely needs to hit the road.” Dean let a touch of his anger filter into his voice, edging his sarcasm harder.

She turned away from Dean. “You know why, Dean. I didn’t want to bring it up, but this thing between you is—It’s not what siblings do. And I’m not judging. The two of you saved the world. I’d be an idiot to be anything other than grateful. But I don’t know that there’s space for me and Ben in this tangled up mess with you and Sam. I thought if—never mind. The point is that I know it’s not like that between you.”

Dean struggled not to roll his eyes. If she only knew.

But she wasn’t done.

“Except for how it is. Maybe not yet, but it will be. I’m not blind. I see how you watch each other. So, yeah, Sam has to go. If you want to stay—”

The sound of the front door closing hard—not quite slamming shut—shut them both up. Dean winced. Son of a bitch.

 Sam sat down hard on the front porch. He’d known this wasn’t going to last. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much when it ended. It was ok, though. He’d leave after work, find a motel for the night, then get a place of his own. And he wasn’t going to drag Dean along with him. Dean would put up a fight (Sam refused to think about how one-sided the conversation he’d just heard was), but it was better this way. Dean got to keep his family, and Sam could stay close.

He stood, dusting off his pants as he prepared himself to go inside and grab some food before he and Dean left for work. Ben opened the door, stepping outside and barely glancing at Sam before starting across the lawn, heading for his bus stop. Sam checked the time—later than he’d thought.

With barely a flutter of wings preceding his arrival, an angel appeared on the lawn between Sam and Ben. Sam could hardly see the vessel past the sight of the grace. It was blinding and with a sickening roll of his stomach he realized it reminded him of Michael and Lucifer. It had to be the last archangel, Raphael.

He saw Ben pause and turn back when the angel appeared. Not good. He tried to subtly catch the kid’s eye and warn him to run, hopefully around back to get Dean, but Sam would be happy with anything involving “away.” Sam tried to think. He had no weapons, hadn’t carried one in weeks. All their sharp-edged tools were locked away in the garage, just like everything in Baby’s trunk, so no way to slice his hand and banish Raphael. He could call Cas, but his memories of Lucifer vaporizing the angel stopped him. There was no plan. Just stall until Dean realized there was something going on and banished the archangel himself.

Raphael had a darkly pleased look on his face that made Sam’s blood run cold. He flicked his wrist, and Ben flew across the yard to slam into the siding where he hovered two feet off the ground. Sam flinched and glanced over at him. No bleeding. He looked scared but not painful. Small mercies.

Sam steeled himself. “What do you want?”

Raphael sneered. “I want to hurt Castiel, and I’ve heard you’re his pet. Do I need to spell out the rest, or have my brothers taught you how we think?”

Sam blanched. No, Raphael did not need to elaborate. He was here to hurt Sam, badly, judging from the look on his face. “I’m not that important. Your plan isn’t going to work.”

Raphael laughed deeply, and Sam could see his wings flutter in amusement. “Oh, you think so? Perhaps I just wanted to hurt you. Hurting Castiel is a bonus.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you ruined everything, you vile, useless earthworm. You took my Father’s script, and you destroyed it. You think you know better than God? Than the angels? You are pathetic, and I will personally crush you for your insolence. Then, I will release my brothers, and we can have a proper Apocalypse.”

Sam felt cold fear wash down his spine. “I won’t say yes again.”

Raphael tilted his head with a look that could almost be mistaken for pity. “Don’t worry, vessel. You won’t have to.”

That sounded ominous. Sam tried to respond, do anything to keep distracting and stalling, but he abruptly found that he couldn’t. His eyes widened, and then Raphael smirked. Sam felt the snap crackle of his grace lighting up under his skin and willed it away. It might be useful if he knew what he was doing, but as it stood, he was just as likely to hurt Ben or an innocent passerby as do anything useful.

“Oh sorry, did I not mention? I’m tired of listening to your attempts to understand things obviously beyond your comprehension. It’s time I finished what I came here for.” With that, he idly waved his hand and threw Sam across the yard.

Sam landed hard on his left shoulder and felt something give way before pain flared bright from the joint. Dislocated, probably. He groaned and tried to push himself to his feet, only to be slammed back into the ground by an invisible heavy weight pressing into his back. He struggled to turn his head enough to keep breathing and winced as he felt his ribs creaking under the strain. The angel was toying with him. He cracked open his eyes just in time to see Raphael fly across the yard to deliver a hard kick to Sam’s abdomen. He followed it with two more and a kick to Sam’s head that left him stunned. Something had broken internally, he knew, and he gagged as blood started to well up in the back of his throat. The kicks had flipped him onto his back, and now he was in danger of choking on his own bodily fluids. Maybe. Maybe if he could roll over again. Could he use the blood to make a banishing sigil? No. Grass. He was laying on the grass. He needed a flatter surface.

Idly, he wondered if any of the neighbors had called the police. He hoped not. He didn’t especially want to see vaporized police officers this morning. Sam was aware enough to realize just how fuzzy his brain was. Concussion, he thought. He barely felt the next several blows Raphael rained down on him. At this rate, he wasn’t going to last until Dean made it out here to rescue him. As if on cue, he felt a surge from his grace. Still dangerous. Still likely to end up hurting Ben or someone else, but he was out of time. If he knew that Raphael would leave once Sam was dead, then he would just wait and take the damage, but he didn’t. Rather, he suspected that he was just the first person Raphael was going to hurt here. He didn’t matter that much to Cas. Dean did. Hurting Lisa or Ben would hurt Dean. Hurting Dean would hurt Cas. And, of course, Dean had failed his duties as vessel too. No, Raphael wasn’t going to leave once he was done with Sam. Sam needed to end this, if he could.

He reached for his grace, dormant for months now, and pulled. He felt the rush of power, already starting to heal his wounds. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming as his shoulder popped back into joint. Healing was good, but not what he needed at this moment. It could wait until after the psychotic archangel was gone. He tried again, reaching for his power and then pushing, trying to focus it at Raphael, who was gearing up for another round of blows. This time it worked, and Raphael went flying. He landed near Ben.

As the angel laughed—never a good sign—and reached up, twisting his arm and clenching his hand into a fist. Ben screamed, and Sam suddenly felt the weird, omnipresent itch between his shoulder blades explode outward. In a blink, he was across the yard and reaching for Raphael. Tossing the angel away, again, he stood in front of Ben protectively. Something was coming out of his back, and he was trying not to think about it too much, but a glow caught the corner of his eye. Wings. Honest to God wings, made from the same glowing grace Raphael’s were made of.

Slowly, he lowered them, keeping an eye on the angel as he checked to see how badly Ben had been hurt. Honestly, the kid looked ok. He was standing under his own power now, watching Sam with something akin to awe. Sam tried to smile reassuringly, keenly aware that he probably looked like a wreck with blood dripping down his face.

 Dean heard a commotion and stumbled outside just in time to see a winged dick start pummeling his brother. He ducked back inside for a weapon—preferably an angel blade, if he could remember where the heck he’d stashed his. No, that would take too long, it was in the Impala. He grabbed the knife he kept stashed in the living room, slashing his hand as he went back outside. Sam wasn’t on the ground anymore, he was by Ben, kneeling on the ground. Dean was alarmed by the glowing wings he could clearly see erupting from Sam’s back, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as he hastily drew an angel banishing sigil on the wall beside him. He could see angel dude when he stood up and an angel blade dropped into his hand. Dean worked faster, pumping his hand to keep the blood flowing. The angel teleported himself directly behind Sam and drew his arm back to stab his blade into Sam’s back as Dean slammed his bloody palm onto the finished sigil. Immediately, bright light flooded the area and he had to raise his arm to block the glare from burning his eyes.

He panted, trying to catch his breath until he realized he could hear Sam yelling. He blinked, trying to focus on what was going on in the yard. As his vision cleared, the only thing he was able to think about was Sam laying on the ground, curled into a ball and screaming in pain. Shit shit shit. Dean rushed over, trying to assess Sam’s injuries. His face was covered in blood, especially around his mouth which was concerning. Dean ran his hands down Sam’s back, looking for a stab wound. He’d thought he’d hit the sigil in time, but he couldn’t be sure. He fought down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He was not going to lose Sam again. Not now, not ever. Less than a minute later, Dean was still trying to figure out how badly Sam was hurt, but Sam had gone quiet and limp. As soon as he realized, Dean frantically felt for a pulse, heaving a relieved sigh when he found one, strong and steady. He held on, tipping his forehead against Sam’s. They were going to be ok. He barely registered Ben running back to the house or Lisa standing in the doorway, silently watching the scene.

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