#is there like a carrying capacity for languages where you know too many words

[kennabeth]

"boy" in german is so similar to "english" in korean that I short-circuited and just stared at my phone for two minutes

[ts-porter]

The Shanty and the Hive

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The first time the humans told us they sang their way through subspace, we thought it a translation error.

.

We-the-hive were overjoyed to meet them. Finally, finally, it was proven that we were not alone! And though we already knew that we must not be, given the vastness of time and the multiverse, we also knew that those same vastnesses were against us. Civilizations we could meet are greatly outnumbered by those who came before us and we are too late to meet, those who will come after us and we are too early for, and those so far away that we cannot find them.

A starfaring civilization, like our own, increased the chances of meeting greatly. One of our most distant scientific surveyors sensed a faint and far away disturbance, similar to the waves our own ships make when diving into and out of subspace. An exploratory team was sent to investigate, and there at the furthest reach ever taken from the hive's center, to our everlasting joy, we found human explorers on the far edges of their own range.

Their ships were strange to us, and their selves even stranger. Translation, and the mutual communication of peaceful intentions, was difficult. Mathematics was the first understanding we were able to share, as the basic principles do not change—though their and our systems of harnessing it are different. Science followed after, as the elements and natural laws are unchanging. So it was discovered that we-the-hive and the humans share the common ground of being carbon-based heterotrophs who consume water to maintain life processes.

These commonalities were far outnumbered by our differences. Yet, the most important thing we had in common was the desire to understand each other. With earnest effort, with forgiveness for unintended insult and misunderstanding, we worked to learn each other's languages.

Science being an early part of our understanding of each other, we asked them about the construction of their ships. They told us of their material compositions and their subspace engines, different in design but similar in purpose to our own technology—but when we asked them about the shielding and stabilization they used to make the journey survivable, they told us only that they sang their way through.

Translations were imprecise, and their language often contradictory. Of course we believed that it was yet another translation error. We believed there was a nuance we were missing.

The humans were a very musical civilization. They were always singing, all of them. They sang for joy, and they sang for mourning, and they sang for any reason at all between the two extremes.

(Later, we would discover that this was not universally true. That those who crewed their ships were chosen from the most musical among them. We only met their singers, their travelers, their ship's crews. How could we know differently?)

We believed, with music such a central part of their civilization, that they had given the words for song more meaning. Their subspace stabilization and shielding technology, without which any ship that dove into the confusion of subspace would be utterly destroyed and lost, had taken its name from music. We-the-hive noted the mistranslation, and worked to increase our understanding.

As our trust and understanding increased, as the human linguists became haltingly conversant in our language and we in theirs, the humans introduced to us a group of their hatchlings. It was a mighty show of trust, as they valued their younger generations as deeply as we did our own. Though still flexible, an adult human's mind was too set in its ways to easily become fluent in another language. That of their hatchlings was far more suited to the acquisition of language. With equal time spent between their own language and ours, it was hoped that the young would grow to be adults who could serve as translators and teachers to increase the closeness and understanding of our peoples.

We allowed our hatchlings and theirs to mingle, to play together, to bond. We spoke to the human hatchlings, and the speed at which they learned our language matched the speed they learned the language of their own people. It was to be a long project, but a joyful and an exciting one.

We learned more about the humans, and they learned more about us. Along with scientific sharing, we established a small trade, exchange of goods and curiosities from one civilization to another.

Our understanding grew, but we still did not understand completely. The humans told us that they sang their way through subspace. When we could no longer believe that the translation was so deeply in error, we instead believed that the crews who piloted the human ships did not understand the technology they used. They were such a granular species, not unified. We believed that those who built the ships had not shared knowledge with those who piloted them, and so they had developed superstitions around technology they did not comprehend.

We-the-hive asked to send a pod of researchers through a subspace dive on one of the human ships. We asked for it. The humans agreed, willingly, in exchange for an equal number of their own scientists to take the same trip aboard one of our ships. Our pod and their scientists were chosen. The ships and the destination were chosen.

The pod boarded the human ship with nothing but curiosity and excitement. As the humans were wont to limit the number of dives they took and make the most of every trip, a ship carrying cargo on one of their usual supply runs was chosen. The ship was called the Merry Dancer, of the type the humans called a 'small freighter'.

It was greatly open through the inside. The 'bird's nest' hung from the ceiling at the center, and there the Captain and Pilots had their stations. Room had been found to rig up two safety harnesses, to secure two individuals from the research pod where we could watch the Captain and Pilots work. The rest of us joined the singers, who stood in a line from stem to stern along the bottom of the ship.

The mood was solemn and focused as the humans prepared for the journey. The subspace engines were prepped, their rumble vibrating through the ship. The Pilots and Captain stretched their hands and rolled their necks, loosening themselves up. The singers took deep breaths and hummed, warming their voices.

"All Ready?" the Captain asked. She was a small human, her wrinkled skin a pleasingly luminous deep brown and her thickly curly silver hair tied up in many braids and twisted into a knot at the back of her head. She was called Janette, and when she spoke, in her firm and quiet voice, the crew of the Merry Dancer listened closely and with respect.

"Singers in Position," the chief among the singers—the Lead Chanter—reported. "At your command, Captain." He was a large human, hairless and very round, with pink skin heavily freckled with brown spots. He was called George, and his voice was big and booming as so many of the ship's singers were. Even when he was not working he was always surrounded by the singers of the Merry Dancer, in a loud and happy group that was always singing, for they trusted him and liked to be close.

After a look and a nod with the two pilots, the Captain spoke again. "You may begin when ready," she said. And then, informally and with a small smile, "Sing to me."

Lead Chanter George stamped out a beat that the rest of the singers took up immediately. He inhaled a massive breath, filling his belly and broad chest to its limit. (And we had heard of the training most ship's singers chose to undertake from childhood, exercises to increase their lung capacity and improve the volume and resonance of their voices, that they might sing loud and long without doing themselves damage. George epitomized the results, as so many lead chanters did.)

He belted out the line to song we had heard the humans singing before. A 'shanty', they called it; an old one. It was dated from long before their species even dreamed that they could leave their birth planet and sail across the stars rather than the oceans of their homeworld.

"Oh, we'll blow the man up and we'll blow the man down!" George led.

And every singer through the ship, in time and at great volume, sang out in answer: "Way, hey, blow the man down!"

George spared a brief moment of attention to wink at the nearest member of the research pod as he led again: "We'll make the trip over, won't let our friends down."

"Give us some time to blow the man down!" the singers responded.

The sound of their voices and the solid beat of their stamping boots vibrated the entire ship. It was clear that the acoustics were designed such that the vibrations bounced off the walls of the ship, centering unerringly on the crow's nest. The Captain and the Pilots nodded in time as the Lead Chanter improvised the next verse and sang it up to them, as the singers responded in tuneful chorus.

The Captain's hand clenched on a lever, the subspace engine throttle, tight enough her knuckles paled. A deep breath, and she slammed the throttle wide open in time with the singers. The engine roared briefly, outclassed only by the song. Immediately it was clear why the humans, in their language, had named their version of the subspace dive after a violent strike—the punch. It was a hard transition, swift and jarring.

Then. Oh, then. We understood, suddenly and most terribly, why the humans could not describe their subspace shielding and stabilization technology to us, for they had none.

They had none!

Their minds, bodies, and their entire ships were fully exposed to the nongeometrical confusion of subspace. The research pod, we who had asked to be there and been eagerly chosen, were caught up in it as well. Spacetime was ruffled, twisted, wrinkled, defying understanding in ways that three-dimensional space and regularly linear time never did. Unshielded subspace was a mind-destroying horror, the likes of which we-the-hive had never experienced.

And through the midst of the direful disorientation, the humans were singing.

We-the-hive discovered the principles of subspace engines, the basics for the traversing of subspace to make the lightyears of interstellar travel pass in hours, long before we used them. The dive to the space below the three dimensional and outside of linear spacetime requires mere force. Three generations were born and died while we developed the much more difficult shielding and stabilization technology, which requires finesse. Only when we had perfected it, when we could hold an entire ship in a stable pocket of three dimensions through a subspace trip, did we become starfarers.

The humans had taken a very different approach.

Lead Chanter George stood like a stone against the wind, inventing lyrics for his ancient shanty, and the ship's singers stomped the deck in time and answered, never faltering. Above them, Captain Janette and her pilots listened hard to the song and the echoes. Their hands were on their controls, manually firing the ship's small stabilization engines. They judged by the sound alone whether any part of the ship was warping, if it was redshifting or blueshifting out of tune or out of time.

Ship's singers had told us, proudly, that they lived and died by their voices. We had thought it hyperbole.

The twist and shake of the ship, what the humans called the shimmy and roll and the bucking gravitational waves, never abated. The singing never ceased. In between lines of the call and response of the shanty, singers took sips of water from the bottles on their belts to keep their throats from growing dry. George communicated with his Second with brief hand signs, and sie took over leading with a different shanty—another ancient song, The Wellerman. The pilots breathed hard with the effort of concentration. Sweat beaded at the Captain's hairline. A thin trickle ran down her cheek and neck in a jaggedly uneven line, pushed and pulled by the roiling of subspace.

The humans, with their fortitude and adaptability, and specifically the crew of the Merry Dancer with their long experience, were able to keep functioning. They could continue to work despite the tearing disorientation, else the ship and all in it would have been lost. The members of the research pod were not so prepared, and were not so adaptable. With communication disrupted between us so each was utterly alone, with the confusion and isolation overwhelming, we had all curled up tight inside our carapaces for safety, like frightened hatchlings. Only one in three were able to even peek a single eyestalk out to observe with shattered perception, to increase our knowledge and understanding as had been the intention of the trade.

(On the hive's ship, mid journey, one of the human researchers aboard hesitantly asked when the trip was going to begin. This caused great confusion all around.)

Another unknowable and incomprehensible time later, the Second signaled to Lead Chanter George, and he led again with a third song—Roll The Old Chariot Along. The music, sure and unending, was a comfort in the confusion. The singers' strong voices, unified, were a touchstone in the chaos.

The third song was ongoing when the subspace engine began cycling again, powering up for the punch back out. Despite the strain, despite the confused length of time of their singing, George's voice grew in volume, and the rest of the singers followed. They overwhelmed the sound of the engine, providing Captain Janette and the Pilots with the guidance they needed through the last moments.

The second punch was every bit as harsh as the first. Space time warped, twisted, and then snapped back into three dimensional linearity. Through the transition, the singers never faltered. The reverberation of their voices rang through the ship, a joyful shout. George had his hands raised high as he led one final chorus at half time.

"Lead Chanter, singers, you may stand down," the Captain announced, formally, and then smiling but still dignified despite her obvious weariness. "Nicely done, crew."

Some of the singers cheered and hugged each other, or slapped each other's backs in celebration. Others, though, ran and fell to their knees by the nearest of the research pod to them.

"What happened?", "Are they ok?" "Are they hurt?", "I don't understand they just collapsed as soon as we punched!"

Lead Chanter George, trusted and respected by the singers he led, sang out calming words even as he sat on the deck beside one the nearest researcher from the pod—one who had an eye stalk out monitoring. He smiled at us, human expression of happiness. He placed one large warm hand on the back of the researcher's carapace. He could not speak our language, but with his tired voice he sang the tone of safety—with the caress and the crooning he communicated an absence of danger as we might to our own hatchlings.

We would learn that a young relative of his was among the human hatchlings who mingled with ours, that by observing us with our own hatchlings he'd learned the way to offer comfort. One and another of the singers took up the tone, until the ship throbbed with it. The research pod were given care and reassurance, and with the sharp reduction in stress we were able to uncurl, to communicate and reintegrate and return to a harmonious whole as we worked to piece together our shattered understanding of what had occurred.

The touch and the tone were not quite the same as our own, similar enough, but different. Still, the difference was not unpleasant. In that moment, in the relief and the... the kindness, the sonorous resonance of a human singer's voice and the softness of a human hand were fixed as beautiful. These humans were not us, not ours, but become beloved. When the research pod was reintegrated in the whole of we-the-hive, the beauty and affection remained.

We would learn that the journey we observed had been 'easy', routine, as safe as any trip could be. The humans had pride in the safety of their ships and in the training of their capable crews—that they lost, astoundingly, merely one in two thousand ships in unstabilized dives.

They had done so much with so little, singing their way through subspace while still researching the technologies that would make it safe.

When we-the-hive truly understood the risks the humans took with every single journey, when the research pod's knowledge was fully integrated, we knew we could not leave them without the advantages we had.

.

The decision to share all details of our subspace shielding and stabilization technology with the humans—with our friends—was swift and without dissent.

.

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Edit - 04/20/21 So! This story is actually an eventual-future-worldbuilding of a short story about space shanties that I wrote in 2018, and which I have finally found a home for! The story in question sadly does not include aliens, but it does have ace lesbians singing their way through danger. It’s sweet and hope-punky and I think that if you enjoyed this one, you’d enjoy that one too!

“(don’t you) love a singer” is available in the It Gets Even Better: Stories of Queer Possibility anthology by Speculatively Queer. You can grab a copy [here]!

[gojoho]

PATIENCE

• pairing; au!ryomen sukuna x reader

• premise; you were different than the rest, and with a simple touch the devil makes peace with his boredom for the taste of your skin.

• words; 2,798

• note & warning; every time i proofread what my demon chose to write at three in the morning i cry. why am i like this? honestly, i had so much trouble with sukuna it's amazing that i found a ground to make this on. anyway...unprotected sex ( wrap it up or pack it up ), dirty language, ownership, creampie-breeding kink? i never know which one it is, these mfs just never pullout. enjoy i suppose?

Sukuna was accustomed to the cults that proudly proclaimed him as their leader, or better yet, The Chosen. False disciples to his name, many of which tried to justify their treacherous lives in comparison to his glory. A pathetic bunch he wasted little time over, not one of them much of a rivalry towards that of a king. Though your blood was far too innocent, even for a ruthlessly being as himself, he would not take on such a burdened responsibility. Having been blamed for far less, he wouldn’t live this one down. Feasibly the only reason death escaped you.

Obsession, fascination, none of which seemed that far from one another with him, nor did it matter. At any capacity mortals were tedious, their petty materialistic need; gold this, that, and whatnot. Maybe he was just bored, but then he wouldn’t be giving you much credit, would he? He was quite patient for his tetchy personality, letting you grow accustomed to his territory, where you’d spend the rest of your days. A cub seeing the pride lands for the first time.

“Follow the rules, and you’ll do just fine little cub.” You never shied from his touch, letting him indulge your soft skin, squeezing, nipping, kissing every and anywhere he pleased. But your worth was still up for question thus far, what did you bring that the others couldn’t.

“Open.” You would sit between his legs, knees bent to his divinity abiding every command. Allowing his salty fingers against your tongue, their cleanliness unbeknownst to everyone except him, but it only made you suck on them more. “So eager for me to ruin you.”

That made two of you, but he wouldn’t, not just yet.

He kept you, his precious new pet, close. Allowing your scent to fill his bed, swarm his clothes, and plague him with a hunger driven by an appetite that was you. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust you, he didn’t trust anyone, but he did trust your behavior. The way you managed to curl up against him at night, your soft snores fanning his back, no matter how much space there was in his bed. How you followed behind him everywhere he went, involuntarily making things less...irritating. Yet your consistency didn’t extend towards the others. Vicious and vengeful, they’d see to it that he’d fall by any means necessary. Even if it meant going through you or letting it be by your own hand.

“Cub,” he’d call you over, legs wide and waiting. You’d mount him facing forward, shamelessly letting your body unwind against his touch.

Fingers working the robes from your frame with ease, instant access to the skin beneath. All while his lips worked around your neck, touching up his handiwork of pink and purple blotches around it. The product of every session. Before he’d break you off, truly make you his, preparation was in order. It’s started with your chest, his hold over your bosom, the small mouthes in each hand working their peaks. Swirling sucking nibbling away at their tenderness until you’d grind against his bulge. Drenching him with your arousal. Clothes only got in his way, he’d have you roam around naked if he pleased but that was sight met only for his eyes, and his alone. Your robes, makeshift Sukuna hand-me-downs, was a barrier between the world and what was his.

After all, it was his touch that made you a mess. ”You're already so wet for me, little cub. Maybe I'll fuck you tonight. Maybe.”

He moved a hand to your heat, parted your folds with two slender fingers while the other hand still devoured your nipple. Sukuna was greedy, common knowledge to anyone who came across the curse, but with a hunger driven by your flesh, he was more insatiable than ever. It wouldn't be long until you were writhing in his lap, every bit of noise coming from your lips. Crying out as he worked your orgasm with his fingers plunged deep in your depths and the tongue on his palm lapping at your clit feverishly.

”Kuna,” you'd mewl, with arms stretched up to his face. The only person still alive to say it let alone give him a nickname.

The rules were simple;

Speak when spoken too

Eye contact

No kissing

A cruel rule that reminded you what the relationship was. He wasn't your lover or anything to you. You belonged to him and he'd use you however he saw fit. If that meant raw dogging you, believe he'd fuck you silly.

Simple, but still difficult nonetheless. He watched your face upturn in admiration, eyes flickering between his and his lips with each whimper. You wanted to kiss him, have his tongue so far down your throat until you choked. Sukuna knew all too well the look you gave him and smirked pressing his fingers deeper, taking your wanton ones to hold his cheek into his mouth. The closet you've gotten to a kiss, but soon your eyes would wander to mess that was your body, watching him unravel your seams, the first orgasm shuddered throughout you.

The first time he had his way, you'd barely made it past one orgasm from his fingers. Now it was six, with at most his fingers and three mouths. He wondered if you’d handle his cock if thrown into the mix. With that thought alone his mind wandered, you handled his hands well but the mystery behind your lips made him twitch just thinking about it. A pretty face with such a content expression, so grateful he granted you a full mouth. Could you handle all of him? If you could, he would've taken what was already his, turned you inside out, and left your body useless to any other being but him.

He deprived himself of a release, letting it build along his thighs and boil at the deepest parts of his body. You were going to take it all from him, feed his hunger while he quenched yours. Truly teaching you what it meant to belong to Ryomen Sukuna, The Great King of Curses.

Each session left you craving more, made your hips sink further against his moving in pure need. Sukuna let you wallow in your tension, desire unkempt and rowdy beneath his nose. You were conflicted between the logic prancing your mind and the hunger of your heat. Where the thought of him feeding you more than just a few fingers made it throb for a release, to be relieved from the fear that kept it empty and unfulfilled.

You'd missed the comfort his presence brought to the bed when pressing matters stole his attention, without it sleep was surreal. Eluding your conscience till he would come back late into the morning, exhaustion settling through the afternoon if he allowed you to. Until one afternoon where he’d prepare to set off again, another village another reign of terror, Sukuna almost missed the tiny grasp at his robes. The few steps he took towards to the exit fell short by his other end.

”Please,” you'd whisper out pleading for him to stay with a mere word.

For a minute, with his sudden stride and grip over your jaw, you think it's enough. That the way he searched your eyes with his bright red pair, you thought you’d convince him. ”If you expect me to abandon my duties for that cunt of yours, you’re going to have to try harder than that little cub.”

His lips ghosted yours, taunting that separate ache from the rest of your body. Practically testing you to see if you’d break one of his rules; screaming to go ahead, kiss him.

”Well then?” he cooed, lips nearly there but your silence only irritated him. Did he spoil you too much, indeed give you too much credit and mistaken you for something you weren't—

”Please Kuna, I need you.”

”Cute…” He smirked, thumb slipping between the two of you teasing your bottom lip. ”No.”

It was a lie if he said he wouldn't turn you around right there and give in to the temptation. Fill your womb with what felt like decades' worth of his cum. Staining his sheets and your insides. Sukuna already knew you needed him, it was because of that need, that the light in your eyes settled to a palpable glow. Later completely gone by the time of his return.

Sukuna never thought to imagine you upset, not with the way you clung to him. Never did he think it would upset him as much as it did. You slept far from his end of the bed, shielding your body from his touch with the linen. The nerve of you, but he knew it was only a matter of time until he’d have you in his lap again.

Wrong.

Too much time had passed since he denied you of your request, too much time since he’s touched you, too much time since you’ve touched him.

“Cub” he called, but for the first time, he was met with hesitance.

You sat on his lap, back to his chest as per usual, but without your usual excitement. Nothing he couldn’t fix, and like always he started with your chest, getting you to flood over his crotch. By then Sukuna would’ve gotten at least a whimper but you remain uncharacteristically quiet to his touch, jabbing at his ego. Come to find out you’d bitten your lip, holding off from letting him hear just how good he was making you feel.

“Brat,” he hissed with the teeth in his hand nibbling at nothing but your clit but even then the most he got was a huff. “Fine, if that’s how you want to play this game.”

It didn’t take much to lift you up from his chair, face planting you straight into the bed. You yelp at the sudden grip over your waist as it hauls your bottom half into to air. This was far from what he planned, but he’d be a fool to let you carry on with your childish ways.

There was no protest with the way he positioned himself to his knees behind you, shedding himself of his robes, setting his cock free into the late-night air. You would never shy away from looking at him naked, curious of every black line, where they connected and didn’t connect. Still, only catching brief glimpses of him, but now that it was there before you—just one taste, that was enough right? It would make any man happy to hide his cock in a pretty mouth like yours, burying it far beneath your throat, hell it made Sukuna weigh his options but he was beyond horny and irritated.  

He gifts himself a few strokes, over your cunt, introducing it to its owner. Coating himself in the mix of his salvia and your arousal before pushing the tip past the slick gates of his personal Eden. He sunk into your bowels just past the tip before meeting the resistance of your walls. There was no distinction as to whether you’d been too tight or that he was too big, just that it made him want more. A snug fit, one in which he yearned to destroy, leaving you walls irreversibly stretched.

Your arms flailed around, desperate to find anything to grip onto but Sukuna didn’t give you much of a chance before introducing the rest of his inches to your heat.

“Fuck,” you whined. A squeak of unbearable amazement that all of him was inside you. “Wait.”

He was going to bury himself down to the hilt, each time, fuck you till you were a simpleton. It was always his intention to do so, but your impatience got the best of him.

”Quiet, ” he growled spreading your ass to see himself encased by your insides. Surprisingly you swallowed him whole, but he was sure if you kept squirming away it’d be even more painful. ”This is what you wanted, wasn't it? My cock in this slutty hole of yours.”

”Kuna please.”

”Please Kuna, I need you—is that not what you said?”

”Yes…but fuck—”

”Well now you got me, so keep fucking still and take it.” He shooed your pleading palm from his view and adjusted himself. The movement drove him deeper and you mewled beneath him like a feral feline.

A draft followed behind his pelvis as he pulled out only about halfway, your pussy gripping him as he did. He didn’t trust you wouldn’t squirm again and anchored your hips to his grip. Snapping into you once more, stretching more than his previous thrust.

Sukuna took pride in the size of his cock, in the way it left room for only one, only him. You were going to split in two, or at least it felt like it; he was so big, out of place, but just big. Though that was merely the calm before the storm, with no confirmation let alone sign to warn you, he moved again. Starting off with a strong rhythm that rocked the entire bed. He didn’t do slow, his adjective was to punish, ruin, destroy exactly why you were to be prepared.

With a guttural groan, you felt his cock work, biting against the linens as it drilled in and out of your slickness, squelching all around it.

“Listen to that,” he cooed. “Telling me to wait when your pussy sounds like this. I’m going to fill you up so well. Is that what you want kitten?”

Kitten…

An upgrade from little cub you suppose. The harder he goes, the louder both ends of your body get. Wanted was putting it loosely, it was something, if not the only thing, you needed. Yet it’s still not enough, and so Sukuna stops, leaving you lost to the pleasure he provided. Still full with his cock you moan, pleading for him to continue, eyes barely open and lips pierced by your top teeth. “You know the rules. Speak.”

Bucking against him, desperate for any friction, you whined. “Kuna.”

“Whining gets you nowhere,” He said teasing you with slow strokes in time with your desperate hips. “Answer. The. Question.”

“Yes, ” You were begging for it, the high fading from the mind a little too quickly. ”I need it, all of it.”

Now that you stroked his pride, it was only fair he’d returned the favor. Fleeing from their post against your chest, Sukuna’s hands reach up to your throat. Pulling you up to your own knees, squeeze gently. Pumping into your dripping cunt faster, harder, deeper. Strumming at the chords of your orgasm with each lewd noise he pulled with his cock. Saliva dribbling from your chin.

“Look at you,” he grunted, his own pleasure catching up to him. “Drooling from both ends.”

“Sukuna.”

He leaned into your hands, giving permission for them to tug at his roots, while he nuzzled his nose over your cheek, taking in every crude scent. “Hmm, fucking perfect.”

A compliment if he’d ever given you one, his irritation fleeing from his body and the only thing he can think about is just how good it felt to finally be inside you. The ache of his cock finally being milked.  His hand traveled down your body, caressed every curve, every nipple until they settled on your hips.

”Get down, and open up for me.” he ordered quietly, letting his pace falter before getting an obedient ’hmm’

Anything for Sukuna, anything that brought on your orgasm. You arched forward and parted your knees wider, sighing from his hand over your ass again. Kneading and pulling each cheek apart. Picking up the pace again, he wanted to see his cock twitch inside you. See how your body would react. Sukuna wanted to see the mess he made of your hole.

You let a series of colorful curses fly, it was hard to say anything with the explosion inside you, the heat itching just beneath your skin as the adrenaline spiked and rocked you into oblivion.

“Sukuna,” you managed to say but he already knew, feeling the coiling contraction refusing to let him go. A deadly grip that sucked his orgasm through.

The visible veins around his cock, throbbing beneath the thin layer of skin. Slightly moving as the rest of his length spasmed violently against the confines of your flutters. ”Fuck, look at you go, milking me dry.”

His cum wasn't as fluid as it was thick, weeks of pent up lust oozing from your folds. But it meant nothing more but for Sukuna to click his tongue and thrust forward gently a few more times. Fucking it all back into you. Your body twitched ”Oi, shape up, I've only just begun. Besides, I want to try that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You were going to ruin him, as he was you.

[miekasa]

more boyfriend headcanons: love languages

↯ pairing: eren jaeger x (fem) reader

↯ genres and warnings: modern au, college au to some extent, fluff

↯ notes: i cannot stop thinking about him, so have 50 more head canons about this absolute menace. despite the title, he can and will turn anything into a love language, so beware.

annoying the hell out of you (quality time)

You’ve heard of girls sitting on their boyfriend’s laps and hugging them/falling asleep while they play games, now get ready for: boyfriends hugging you from the back while you attempt to do any mundane activity bc they miss you.

Because that’s Eren. About almost anything, because his physical affection, when not in the presence of other people, is absolutely on ten thousand and one.

The only public place he doesn’t mind cuddling up to you is the library. He doesn’t mind putting his arm around you or leaning his head on your shoulder, or even doing the sitting hugging thing in the library. Mostly because few people are there anyway.

Mind you, you’re the one who even showed him where the library was, and now he doesn’t know how to act. “Eren it’s not a ‘cuddling spot.’ It’s the library where I—and lots of other people, including yourself—go to do homework.” “If not cuddling spot, then why library chairs and study rooms cuddly?”

Particularly when it’s getting late and you’ve been crammed in the library for hours, and Eren just wants you to pack it up so he can drive you home. He’ll squeeze himself between your body and the back of your chair, wrap his arms around your stomach, and lay his cheek on your back.

Most times he falls asleep waiting for you to be finished. Sometimes he gets impatient and tickles you until you agree to leave. Either works for him.

He doesn’t not like holding hands in public, but it’s not his go to either. If you’re walking together, sometimes he’ll wrap his arm around your shoulder—usually after some cocky comment—or even walk behind you with his hands on your shoulders like it’s a two person conga line.

He doesn’t kiss you in public a lot, and never around his friends. They can see the literal hearts in his eyes when he’s around you though, so it’s not like he has to. On occasion, he will kiss your cheek. It’s kind of random, but you don’t question it.

In all honestly, whenever he gets affectionate or cuddly in public is all pretty random, even to him. Sometimes he’ll just be standing around you and he’s hit with the urge to engulf you in a hug and kiss your cheeks and he has to stop himself like, “....Why did I just think about doing that?”

Partially because he wasn’t outwardly hugged or shown affection a lot as a child, so sometimes he gets to urges children do to just want a hug. But he’s also pretty bad and/or new at processing his emotions like that so he mostly stands there like 🧍 looking at you with lovey dovey eyes instead.

Touchy when he’s drunk. But that’s not exclusive to you; anyone in a five foot radius of him will be subject to his arm slung around their shoulders, or him being slumped over their back, or random head ruffles.

Most commonly Armin, but I think we all knew that. Sometimes it’s Jean, and Jean is an even messier drunk, which results in the both of them actually being overly affectionate with each other in a strange, but endearing way. They both deny it to their graves when they’re sober, though.

Hovers around you. Constantly. Like a shadow. 

Does not leave you the hell alone when you’re in the kitchen. Will make it 100x more difficult for you to cook or just maneuver, which is ironic seeing as the most gourmet thing he can cook up is bagel with cream cheese. 

Sometimes Eren seems unaware of his size in comparison to you and your friends. It’s very sweet that he laughs with his whole body, but he’s got to realize that if bumps into you because of his sporadic laughter, that he might accidentally knock you into next Tuesday.

Likes when you touch his hair, doesn’t matter where or when, or who’s around. He loves it, all of it.

Will press his face against yours if he has stubble, just to be annoying. Like always.

If you hadn’t gotten it from everything else, he just likes to annoy you in general. But, like, affectionately. I keep saying it’s his love language and I mean it. Really—what it is is that he likes spending time with you, but he also likes annoying the hell out of you, too.

Bites. Not in a sexy way—well, unless you want him too—but, just because. Bites your shoulder when you’re not expecting it, bites your cheek while you’re in the middle of watching a show. Sometimes he takes your hand in his and your think it’s going to be sweet and he’s going to kiss it, but really he just brings it to his mouth to bite it.

Bites your ass, too. Again, just for fun. Because he thinks he can get away with it. Biting is a love language I’m telling y’all.

Likes to give you piggy back rides, even if you don’t ask for them or need one. You could be going from your room to the living room and Eren insists on carrying you there. 

And for some reason, he thinks that because he likes to hold/lift you, that that should apply to you as well?? Like he’s not 6′1 and big bodied, hello?? Eren you cannot just jump on top of people, you’re grown. 

He lets you dress him a lot. His fashion sense isn’t bad, and to be honest with you, I think he’d be a little bit of a hypebeast LOL. I don’t mean decked out head to toe in Supreme (god forbid...) but definitely has a bit of a sneaker obsession.

Not that he keeps them clean or is obsessive about creasing them he couldn’t care less. He just thinks they’re cool. Maybe even some accessories too, like those KAWS toys. Not a lot because they’re hard to get, but is really proud of his little growing collection.

But if you want to dress him up, he’s down for it. Would even let you buy him a pea coat so he can pretend to be a scholar. (He’s not BYE). He’ll tell you if something really isn’t his style, but he’ll wear it if you tell him he looks hot 🙄

Kinda forces his way into your life in little ways. Like, he’ll start adding his favorite snacks to your grocery lists. Moves a pair of your shoes from the door to make room for his own when he’s over. Basically claims two drawers for himself in your dresser. Annoying. Endearing.

Lowkey has his own intricate skincare routine, but he likes doing it with you more. He’ll make it a whole thing, and buy wine, and stupid drinking card games, and sit with you on your bed for 2 hours playing while your face masks dry. 

Texts you if you’re in the same room as him, but not paying attention to him. Especially if you’re doing schoolwork.

Throws pillows at you while you’re sitting at your desk to get your attention. He could just say your name, but it’s so much more fun this way (according to him anyway). It’s all fun and games until you smother him with one. 

Thinks arguing with you is cute, and sometimes says or does—or doesn’t do, for that matter—things just to incite an argument. Not a big one, or something serious, just petty things to rile you up so he can kiss and make up for it. For example, he’ll purposely putting the dishes in the wrong place, or hiding the remote from you, or putting his clothes in the wrong hamper.

“Eren, I swear to god, if you don’t stop putting the water bottles on the top shelf—” “What are you gonna do it about, pretty girl? Hit me with it? You can’t even reach—ow!”

being your loudest hype man (words of affirmation) 

The amount of pictures he has of you... criminal. From off-guards, to posed photos, to selfies, to screenshots, he has them all tucked away in a little folder with your name and a string of very inappropriate emojis after it.

Screenshots 90% of your snaps to him, even if his just of your eyebrows up. Sometimes because he thinks it’s funny, sometimes to save the picture because he likes it, but mostly because he knows you don’t understand WHY and that’s gives him the most satisfaction 😌

Loud and annoying in your comments on social media too. Hype man almost to a cringe fail level. He doesn’t care though, he has to let it be known. 

You could post a simple picture of you and Mikasa at lunch and Eren is in the comments screaming as per usual. @jaegerbomb: do i see TWO pretty best friends??? fuck it up besties 😫🥵🥵😜

GOD. HE WOULD RESPOND WITH “SO TRUE, BESTIE” TO ANYTHING ONCE HE LEARNS WHAT IT MEANS.

Oh, but he doesn’t take to it lightly when you call him bestie, or refer to him as your friend in any capacity. He’s your boyfriend, and would like to be labeled as such.

If you did that prank where you pick up the phone while you’re around him and say “Oh, I’m not too busy, I’m hanging with a friend right now,” he would pout about it for days. Days. Doesn’t get over it, and reminds you of your transgressions every two to three business weeks.

Tells you you look hot all the time, regardless of what you’re doing or wearing. He means it, too, genuinely, he thinks you’re hot. But he does get a kick out of how potentially embarrassed it makes you.

Tells you you’re smart and beautiful and his favorite person on the planet. He means it, always, even if the delivery isn’t romantic. Although, he would argue that telling you he would “tap that” is very romantic. 

for him: receiving gifts & words of affirmation

Eren would be really humbled and honored to receive a gift from you. He needs to receive physical affection, too—but something about you thinking about him enough to buy or make him a gift that he’ll love and cherish really hits home for him. He doesn’t have many people who would do that for him.

If you buy him anything, he’s using it the second it’s out of the wrapping paper. You buy him shoes? He’s wearing them the next day. A new case for his phone? Rips the old one off in an instant. A little trinket for his keychain? He can barely remember to carry his keys in the first place, but suddenly he can’t ever forget them now.

He just can’t get over the fact that you think about him and know him well enough to tailor your purchases to his liking. It’s almost an impossible concept to him, and really reassuring that you love him as much as he loves you.

On a similar note, he actually doesn’t mind couple items, as long as they’re not obvious and/or corny. Down to have a pair of matching hats or phone cases or even sneakers. You don’t even have to always/only wear them at the same time, just knowing you have the same thing at home kinda makes him feel fuzzy inside.

He also thinks it’s hot. He can’t explain why knowing his girl has the same kicks at him is hot, he just knows it is.

As much as he likes telling you how hot you are, Eren also likes to hear that you find him attractive—and that you like him, in general. For the most part, he gets that from your physical reciprocity and quite literally letting him hover around you like a fly, but it’s nice to be told with words every once in a while.

For as much as he knows it, he gets a little caught of guard whenever you tell him you love him. He knows you love him, but hearing it sometimes is a little surreal to him. Very reassuring, too, and everyone needs a little reassurance from time to time.

[kyun-toast]

[ATEEZ] Mafia!Hongjoong - Fateful

word count: 2.2k warnings: explicit language, gun use, death, mentions of alcohol summary: a feisty baby for a feisty scorpio a/n: I started writing this so loyal to mafia!ateez but now that I’ve watched kingdom, I’ve changed my mind - I wanna be a pirate hoe.

“You forgot your toothbrush.” You said, sat by the desk, arms crossed. “Good thing I didn’t finish unpacking right, you can take your shit just the way it came in the boxes, hmm?” You didn’t get angry very often due to the pure fact that your expectations for your boyfriend were so low at this point. The way that your words, let alone your face, held no emotion terrified the boy. He shuffled around your apartment, gathering his things with eyes to the ground in guilt.

“Can you hurry up? I have places to be.” You said, fingers massaging your temple.

Stopping in his tracks, the boy turned to you with pleading eyes for the nth time today, “Baby, I’m so sorry, please, I didn’t mean to hurt you like tha-”

“I’m sorry, what? You disrespected me, not hurt me, there’s a difference-”

“Why are you doing this to me? You know I love you.” He pleaded.

“Is that a serious question right now? You cheated with my assistant in your first week as intern at my firm, then tried and miserably failed to gaslight and manipulate me into believing your lies which I find pretty bold considering that I’m literally a lawyer. I respect the attempt though.”

“Baby, it was an acci-”

“No, shut up, I’m not done speaking. And you did this while I bought out this apartment for you because I felt bad for your sorry ass having to live with your dumb friends. I had to spoon feed you through law school and now through life too? You should be grateful that I’m letting you leave with all your things considering I bought them all too.”

He stood there with his hands gathered, staring back at the floor again.

“What. You got nothing to say? I thought so. You gonna leave now or what?” You questioned. He took his boxes, feet dragging across the floor to the door. You rolled your eyes as you closed the door on him. Before needing to look for a new intern and a new assistant, you needed a drink more than anything.

-

It was a regular Friday evening at the bar for Hongjoong and the boys. In celebration of Ateez’s successful expansion of their ‘business ventures’, Hongjoong had decided to spend the rest of the day at their usual spot. Despite having been set up for the sole purpose of laundering their dirty money, Bar 1117 was doing ironically well. Due to the nightlife business booming, Hongjoong had gained another alibi to keep him under the radar and he couldn’t be more comfortable with where his life was at.

“No, I reckon it’s Yeosang” San said, bringing the glass of whisky to his lips.

“I back that, he’s not got the emotional capacity for it.” Woo agreed, laughing.

“Yeah, just because I don’t take any of your shit doesn’t mean I’ll do the same to my wife. I bet Mingi. He’s definitely getting married last.” Yeo rebutted.

“What wh-”

Before Mingi could finish, Seonghwa cut through, “Considering our line of work, no one’s gonna be getting married any time soon. Right Joong?”

Turning to the leader of the boys, Seonghwa saw that Hongjoong had his head turned away from the conversation, eyes scanning up and down a figure at the bar. Hongjoong was never a man to be distracted by anything or anyone, always focused on his business so it was a rare occurrence for him to be looking so intently at a person. The boys catching onto this, they followed his gaze to a man sat so close to the lucky person’s face, his facial expressions showing his desperation for a way to break down their walls.

“This might be interesting…” Wooyoung smirked.

-

“I genuinely couldn’t care less.” You said, head cocked to the side in your hand, staring dead straight into the man’s eyes. However, the man had no intention of ever stopping his speech as he sat next to you at the bar.

“Come on, you really don’t know my father? He was in today’s paper?” He carried on as you zoned out of the conversation and occasionally cringed at the man’s stale breath, wondering how many more men were going to be responsible for the deepening wrinkles between your brows. As you took a sip from your drink, you locked eyes with a blonde-haired man across the room. His features were delicate yet sharp like the thorn of a rose, or a shard of glass, eyes twinkling with mischief. He raised his glass at you and smirked, amused by the situation that you were in.

“Listen here, bitch-” The man grabbed your wrist, forcing your attention back to him, “You’re gonna take the drinks I buy you, listen when I speak and sit pretty like a woman is supposed to.” He spat.

“Grrrr, scary.” You crudely imitated the growl in the man’s voice, still uninterested, “What a man your mother raised. I bet she’s proud, hmm?”

Anger radiating from the man’s body, he grabbed the glass out of your hand and threw it at the wall behind you, missing your face by inches.

“Oh, so now you’re going to scare me into sleeping with you? You need to brush up on some people skills.” You laughed, throwing you head back. You only composed yourself to grab the man’s collar, causing him to stumble off his stool. “You want to throw another glass at me? Try it.”

You hadn’t noticed the blonde-haired man stroll up to your table seeing that you were so caught up in the situation.

“Hi, I’m Hongjoong. How’s your night going? Anything I can help you with?” He asked, rubbing his hands together, surprisingly composed despite the mess. You let go of the man as the name triggered something in your head, remembering it being mentioned a few times behind closed-door meetings with your father.

“Are all the whores around here like this? I came here for some fun and this is how I’m treated? Fuck this place and every one of you here.” The man started at Hongjoong. You sat there, curling your fists ready to punch the man this time but Hongjoong noticed and interjected.

He placed his hands on the ledge of the table, leaning forward to obstruct the space between you and the man. As he did, you noticed the glimpse of a gun hanging from inside his fitted jacket, the slick shine of the metal winking at you in the light.

“I’d rather die than come to this shithole again.” The man carried on and you noticed the mischievous glint that was once in Hongjoong’s eyes finally fade to black.

“Oh, sure thing, I don’t think I want to see you here again anyway.” Hongjoong muttered and what happened in the next few seconds flew by so fast it barely registered in your brain.

The blonde-haired man reached into his jacket to pull the handgun out and shoot the man clean between the brows. At the same time, you pointed the small pistol you always kept concealed on your body at Hongjoong in reflex, having been taught to react to the sound of gunmetal in this way since you were a child.

Once you realised that the bullet wasn’t intended for you, you sensed seven pairs of eyes trained on you. Out of the corner of your vision, you saw that the boys once sat at Hongjoong’s table were all stood up, half of their guns out pointed to the man, and the other half at you, the next possible threat to their leader.

It was then that you realised that this man was the leader of Ateez, Seoul’s biggest underground organization responsible for the running of the city. It may have been politicians and businessmen in the spotlight, but behind the curtains, it was Ateez pulling at their puppet strings.

“Easy with that, angel.” Hongjoong turned to you smiling and raised a hand at the boys to lower their weapons. He continued chuckling, “I felt like you might have an attitude, but I didn’t expect this from you.”

As if it were a regular occurrence, two barmen came round to dispose of the body and your eyes followed, gun still pointing at the blonde man. Using the tip of his fingers, he gently lowered your gun to point at the floor.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said, “I know some people that can sort that out.”

“Yeah those people are my paralegals paying off police in their missing persons hunts and forging their death certificates.”

Everything had fallen into place for you in that brief encounter. You knew that your father and his firm were involved in some dark business, but you never questioned it. Respecting your father’s wishes in telling you that keeping you in the dark was keeping you safe, you let it go.

However, it was only a few years ago that he had begun to tell you about his private dealings as consigliere to the organisation Ateez. That recently, his age-old friend had stepped down as mob boss and handed everything down to his son. Chuckling at how much he saw the image of his friend in the young blood, he mentioned that you would be in a similar position, that you too would be handed the law firm and become consigliere by tradition.

You had always expected to take up this mantle since you were young, as you figured that the men coming to your house for private meetings while you played in the garden did not treat you with unparalleled respect for no reason. You just didn’t realise that it would mean for you to be so heavily tied with the illicit world of the mafia then.

From then on, you trained close by your father’s side, learning the ins and outs of the world of jurisdiction, though you were never exposed directly to the ongoings with the mafia as your father had said, “the time will come when it needs to.”

“Then I guess today is the day.” You whispered to yourself smiling, you held your hand out to Hongjoong. “I’m Y/N L/N, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, my father has always spoken very highly of you.”

Confused at first, a spark was ignited in Hongjoong as the shine returned to his eyes, and the amused smirk to his lips, your name triggering something in him. Realising that you were the daughter to one of the men he most respected in his life, he took your hand and brought it to his face to kiss gently, “And it’s a pleasure to meet you too, I’ve heard a great deal about you as well, but who knew my future right-hand man would be so hot.” He said as he flashed a sly smile.

The more he observed, the flames within Hongjoong only grew as he could sense the fire in you too. The most beautiful person he had ever set eyes on was to be his consigliere? Couldn’t be any more perfect. He wondered what more you could achieve together and pictured only pure wildfire.

“You better watch your mouth Mr. Kim, unless you want to start a war between the family before I even take up my position.”

“Of course, I have nothing but respect for you and your father. I was told that I wouldn’t be meeting you until he was to step down from his position, but I guess my lucky stars have aligned perfectly tonight.”

“Also, I’m more than capable of dealing with these things myself, there was no need for you to play knight in shining armour.”

“Sure, holed up in your guarded palace of a law firm, you’ve never had experience in the real world. Things are different here and what happened at this bar is just the cusp of it, princess.” He rebutted voice dripping honey, flirting his way through the conversation.

“But who is it advising your every action and saving your asses in the courtrooms, hmm?”

You and Hongjoong continued to jab at each other while the boys sat back in disbelief at the situation. Common people would have run the other way as soon as a gun was shot in their vicinity. So for you to have pulled one out in retaliation and furthering that, started arguing with their Captain, it was a sight to see.

“Bets on who’s going to win this one?” Yunho broke the silence.

“I’m betting tonight’s drinks on the lady.” Mingi said, throwing his black card onto the table.

“Me too, Hongjoong hyung looks too smitten for pride games right now.” Jongho agreed.

“Looks like we’ve got our first to tie the knot then.” San chuckled, nudging at Wooyoung who replied, “Hmmm, she doesn’t look like the typical housewife type though.” Analysing the unmatched confidence exuding from your body language.

Soon after, Hongjoong led you to the table of boys, pulling a chair out for you.

“Guys, this is Y/N L/N, future consigliere to Ateez, and not to mention, my future wife.” He smirked, eyes glowing.

“Carry on and I’ll be future Captain by regicide, Hongjoong,” you shot him a glare as you took your seat, “considering our fateful encounter, it looks like I’ll be seeing you more often with my father now, I hope we can get along.”

You poured yourself a glass of whisky and smiled while Hongjoong could already sense the eventful days ahead with none other than you by his side. -

Mafia AU Masterlist

[whetstonefires]

in the shadows

hey guess who has two thumbs and just spent 5 hours straight writing another batman AU?

-

Batman wasn’t a person.

He faked it very well. When the League gathered, the line of his mask against pale skin looked natural and human, a little more perfectly fitted than the Flash’s but not quite as perfect as Green Lantern’s, which was an energy projection and not a real object and thus lay against his face flawlessly, without shift or gap.

His mouth didn’t bend into many expressions and his body language wasn’t voluble, but the emotive gestures that he did make were pretty normal. The rare smile seemed honest. He had a heartbeat, perfectly steady. His shadow (almost) always matched the shape that was blocking the light.

The stories that came out of Gotham, about the Bat—those could be exaggerations, born of terror and manipulated perception. Clark, of all people, knew how much you could convince people to believe things that weren’t real, because they made a better story. Even the scraps of photography and film showing a towering thing of black fog and long fangs could have been some clever trick with projectors.

The fact that Superman couldn’t see through his suit just meant it was well made.

He’d had to pool his observations with Diana and J’onn before he’d been sure he wasn’t imagining things. But Martian Manhunter knew shapeshifting, and said the block against his mind when he tried to touch Batman’s thoughts did not feel quite human. And Superman knew what posing as human looked like. And Wonder Woman knew truth, and its absence.

Batman wasn’t human. Which wasn’t the problem, of course.

The problem was that he was pretending he was. Pretending it rigorously in a situation where there shouldn’t be any need, unless he had something worse to hide. Pretending it in a way that overlaid on a certain inhuman predatory grace began to look very dangerous indeed.

Superman could see both things in him now, watching narrow-eyed through a roof into the room where Batman bent over a child’s bed, cape swirling up larger and darker than he let it get around them. The man and the hungry creature, flipping in and out of focus, neither ever gone but superimposed, like a trick picture that was two things at once.

Knuckles ghosted over the boy’s cheek, claws turned inward, and the child sighed softly, and sunk deeper into sleep. Batman’s heart wasn’t beating, but Clark could monitor the child’s vitals easily from here.

Batman drew his hand back, and tipped his head up—looking back at Superman as though the roof was no more a barrier to his perceptions than to Clark’s. Waited a beat, as if making sure his attention had been noticed, and then passed soundlessly between the other beds to the window, slid it open, and launched himself out through it and up onto the roof.

He didn’t bother to restrain himself to even a plausible approximation of human limits, now. The arm he reached up to the edge of the roof to pivot himself up by was too long, and his shoulder rotated further than it should have been able to, and he landed with impossible soundlessness in a billow of cape that was far, far larger than any cape that only reached to his heels should have managed, and which faded out at the edges into shadow. He knew he was found out.

Superman took the obvious invitation, and sunk down to join him. It was better, sitting like this, facing the same way on the ridgepole of a two-story building. Batman hadn’t hurt that child, that he could tell. There was no need to make this a confrontation.

“I don’t understand why,” he said at last. Out of deference for sleeping children, he kept his voice soft—he would have worried about a human being able to hear it, but now he knew he didn’t have to worry about that with Batman. “Why go to so much trouble to deceive us? We haven’t kept secret what we are. Not from you.”

Alien, alien, user of alien weapon, magical princess…

Batman sighed. He spoke almost as softly as Clark had, and his voice sounded the same as ever, except for the fact that a human voice couldn’t get this quiet without falling into a whisper. “I’m not like you.” He turned.

He’d let some of the details of his human mask fall away—what must have been the exhaustively rendered texture of skin, the flakes of dry skin on chapping lips, a crease at the corner of his mouth that had suggested he scowled or smiled more, outside of his costume. There was no pretense of a jawbone, under the skin, though the jawline externally hadn’t changed. The cowl still looked like something he was wearing, but Clark knew it was not. It flexed like skin when Batman narrowed his blank white eyes and said, “I can see you know that.”

“You’ve visited that kid every day for weeks,” Clark said. “Why?”

Batman stared at him. “How long have you known?”

“Batman…”

“You’re confronting me now because you’re worried about my intentions toward Dick. He changed your mind about something. Ergo, you’ve been sitting on this for a while. How long have you known I wasn’t real?”

That was such a bizarre choice of words Clark almost skipped answering the question to chase it down, but he held himself back. This wasn’t a story, and Batman wasn’t even a hostile source so far, if it had been. “Wonder Woman, J’onn and I pooled our observations about four months ago, in April. We were pretty sure by the time we finished comparing notes.” He shrugged. “I suspected something a long time before that, but it’s hard to say when it started to be more than…a feeling.”

“A feeling,” Batman echoed. “Yes, it would start there.”

“So?” Superman prompted. He had liked Batman. He was the last person who could insist that someone hiding the truth of his own nature was reprehensible, though the sting he’d felt about it was an uncomfortable reminder of how much most of his friends would resent him, if they knew the truth. So he’d meant to let it lie, until Batman chose to trust them, or gave them a reason not to trust him. “Why have you been visiting…Dick?”

It wouldn’t be suspicious on its own—well, not very suspicious, all things considered, in context—except that Batman had changed, around the same time. Diana said his presence seemed deeper, Clark thought he seemed to be having trouble staying within the outlines of his human mask. J’onn agreed that he seemed somehow more powerful.

Batman stayed silent a long time. Eighteen heartbeats from the boy below them, slower than those of his peers because he had an athlete’s conditioning already and was more deeply asleep than most of them. At last, the being beside him confessed, “He’s carrying me.”

“What?”

“You noticed I’m stronger now,” Batman said matter-of-factly, in a way that almost managed to cover up emotion. “That’s his doing. I was…fading, when you met me. Not up to capacity. I’m not really meant to exist that way.” He glanced over at Superman again, as though evaluating his reaction, and Clark wondered if he had really needed to do that—if he really only saw out of his eyes. J’onn could make eyes anywhere he wanted some, but he needed them to see. Batman seemed somehow less constrained by biology than that.

“Is it hurting him?”

“No! No. It…shouldn’t.” Batman ghosted a sigh, voiceless, inhuman as the wind. “I don’t know that it’s good for a child to be around me. But I’m not…taking anything from him. I’m not…feeding on him, if that’s what you think.”

It was what Clark had feared. And probably anything that would eat a child would also lie about it, but Batman was his teammate and very nearly his friend. So it was reassuring to have it so firmly denied. He’d come braced for only a little and no lasting damage and he said it was fine.

“Please,” he said. “Can you explain it to me?”

“I suppose I have to.” Batman tipped his head back, to look up at the few stars that smudged themselves visible through the red blanket of light-polluted smog overhead. Clark could make out more of them, even with his ordinary visible-light vision, than a human could have. He wondered what Batman saw. “Will you tell the others for me? Your little conspiracy?”

“Not Green Lantern and Flash?”

“Hal and Barry can figure me out on their own.” That dry sense of humor was the same, even if it was bending amusement onto a mouth that could no longer pass as human.

A breath Clark suspected he didn’t need was drawn. “A different little boy made me up,” Batman said. “Bruce Wayne. You can look the story up in the newspaper archives.

“It was a little over twenty years ago, in Gotham. A mugger shot his parents in front of him.” Another slanted glance, and then he looked away again. He certainly acted like he needed his eyes to see. “It wasn’t more terrible than things that happen to a hundred other people every day, really. But he was the right kind of terrified and angry, in the right place, at the right moment…the police reports all say he tackled the mugger from behind, and got lucky that the man hit his head. But it was me. I took him down.”

He raised his face back toward the smudged stars. “I was such a small thing, then. If that vengeance had been enough—the killer taken in and sentenced, brought to justice—I would have faded away again. Things like me are summoned and dispelled that way all the time. Or he could have taken me back into himself—the danger was past, it wasn’t a chronic part of his existence, so I would have reintegrated, probably, and not hung around rising up to protect him for the rest of his life, and probably disrupting it in the process.”

That amused quirk to the horizontal slash of a mouth, again. “But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. He clung. He brooded. He wanted to protect everyone. And I grew.” Bittersweet and fond. “I grew until I really could help. Until anyone could see me, any time I liked. Until I was solid enough to get in half a dozen fights in one night without my blows starting to go right through the enemy.”

There was no way Batman was letting him know these things about how he worked, when he wasn’t holding back, by accident. They were being given.

“Where’s Bruce now?” Clark asked. Knowing it was probably a painful topic, but hoping to hear it was some rule of magic out of a storybook, that only a child had the right kind of belief to sustain a projection of this nature. That Bruce Wayne had grown up and moved on and had a career and a family, and perhaps didn’t remember that Batman was something he’d made.

Batman’s eyes closed, and vanished completely into the black of his head. He’d kept unspooling all the while he’d been talking, Clark realized, and the gouts and folds and flame-like flickers of his cape now sprawled over more than half the roof, leaving a great circle of open space around Superman himself, and a broad open route away from Batman, as though he couldn’t just go straight up if he wanted to get away. The billows of it had now collapsed in on themselves. His voice, when he spoke, was hushed and solemn, but calm. “He didn’t make it to sixteen. He died tackling a gunman who’d been holding up a corner store where he happened to be, buying junk food he wasn’t supposed to have. The cashier fumbled the register key and bent over to pick it up, and the man panicked and started shooting. Bruce saved lives, that night. But he didn’t survive. Because I wasn’t there. I was away protecting other people, like he’d asked me to.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark said. Inadequate as always, but more so, when he’d pushed for this truth and didn’t even understand enough to know how to offer comfort. He reached out to offer a comforting, boundary-respecting brief pat on the shoulder, like he might have when he had less idea what Batman was, and his hand hung still in the air, as the face Batman turned toward him was human again, so abruptly that even to his accelerated visual perceptions it looked like some sort of glitch.

“This is his face,” Batman told him, and the grief that hadn’t been in his voice before was worn on it, in the pull of the mouth and the bend of pain around the blank white eyes. He looked like he might cry. “The way he would have looked. He never…grew this far, but…”

“In memory of him, then,” Superman said, soothing, and was able to deliver the pat on the shoulder and withdraw. It sounded like Batman was in some ways the only surviving part of Bruce Wayne, and as such had every right to his appearance, but he clearly didn’t think of himself that way, and it wasn’t Clark’s place to try to alter his self-concept, or even make comment when he’d only just been introduced to it. “That seems appropriate.”

Batman shrugged. It looked very human, except for the way the cape parts of him reacted. “I knew it best.”

Had he held the memory of his…creator’s face in his head, updating it carefully to how he would have looked with every year or month that passed? That couldn’t be healthy. It also might be unavoidable, considering Batman’s origins.

“You went on protecting Gotham, afterward?”

“What else would I do?”

“And you joined us. When Starro came.” Batman nodded, as though that was only obvious. Clark supposed it was—when you were a supernatural entity created to protect human beings, why would you not answer a call to band together with other superpowered beings to save the world? “Why did you pretend?” he asked. “To be…”

“Human?” Batman asked. He snorted in derision, either at Clark’s inability to choose a word or his own deceit. “It wasn’t the first time. I talk to the police like this, sometimes. Witnesses. It reassures people, to be talking to a…person.”

That was the same reason J’onn made himself look more human, even in blatant green—it wasn’t entirely unlike why Clark kept his own life as Clark, why Superman didn’t wear a mask. “But why…” He’d gone to such lengths, to maintain the façade. Human jaw and teeth, sculpted solid to catch X-ray vision behind flesh he’d carefully made permeable to it, when even now with the image of Bruce Wayne’s face restored he wasn’t bothering. Consistent physical proportions. Always running close against the edge of normal human limits, of strength and speed and length of jump—not hanging back, but not throwing himself onto the front line either, contributing as much with tactics and analysis as actual combat. “Why try so hard to convince us?”

Batman shrugged. “I wasn’t holding back that much. I told you. I was fading. I was never meant to last. Once it turned out the team wasn’t a one-time thing, I still didn’t want to go through the whole…process of revelation.”

“But you’re doing it now.” Clark found he was grinding his teeth, because he was putting together a picture he didn’t like. “Because. Now you’re expecting to survive.” Batman had been dying. He hadn’t thought it was worth the stress of being honest with them, because he hadn’t expected to exist long enough for their relationships to matter.

Superman glanced down through the roof at the sleeping children, and one child in particular.

“I wasn’t there in time to save his parents, either,” Batman said, and Clark knew that feeling—all this power and yet you could still arrive too late, and be too little. But Batman was defined by that feeling, founded upon it almost, so it probably struck him deeper. “But I was there afterward. I protected him from the followup attacks, meant to stop him testifying about the sabotage he’d witnessed.

“And he clung to me, whenever I came…I do try to comfort them, especially when it’s children, but usually they’re at least a little bit afraid. He wasn’t. And he didn’t have anyone else to cling to. They wouldn’t let his parents’ friends in to see him more than once, and then they left town. And then, after I came to tell him that Zucco and his men were taken care of for good, when I left I felt the distance opening…I realized I was…his, now.”

There was a strange, wondering ache in the way he said it that made it easy for Clark to repress his own discomfort with the idea of anyone belonging to anyone else, and of something that looked like a grown man asserting an intimate personal bond with an unrelated child. Batman was supposed to belong to a child, it was how he’d been made, and he’d expected to die by inches in the absence of the one who’d made him, and now he suddenly wasn’t. This little orphan was the most precious thing in his world, that was plain, and to Clark at least it was equally plain that he felt a deep guilt at replacing the boy who had been his world before.

He wondered, suddenly, if Batman had ever been this honest with anyone in his existence. Had he been this open even with his Bruce, or had his need to protect led him to put on a front, and conceal every uncertainty?

The pale smudge of Batman’s face was still and remote, and his voice was nearly calm, but the darkness of his cape had spilled out over the whole roof now, and it was gently writhing. The route out for Superman, opposite Batman’s main body, had shrunk to the merest footpath. Was that there out of instinct, or a more conscious courtesy?

“You don’t have to leave that,” Superman said quietly, flipping his thumb toward the corridor of open shingle and beam. “I know you aren’t trying to trap me, and it won’t anyway.”

The path snapped shut almost instantaneously, and a little of the strain in the atmosphere faded—Batman had been holding himself back from encircling him completely only with continuous effort. Why? Did he naturally expand to fill the available space? Or was expanding in the form of the cape an expression of emotion that was uncomfortable to suppress, in the same way it was hard to sit still when you felt anxious, or hold your tongue when you got mad?

His teammate’s whole torso was turned away, now, and this too was easy to read—shame at his own inhumanity. In front of Clark, of all people. But then, Clark made it look easy, didn’t he? It even was easy for him, when it came to things like looking like he fit in.

J’onn should have been the one to come. But it disconcerted him not to be able to pick up anything Batman did not intentionally share—Clark didn’t think he’d learned to read human body language yet, beyond the most obvious things—and Batman had been known to use fire.

“It didn’t seem wise to seem to be trying to threaten you,” Batman said flatly, into the night.

“Thank you,” said Superman, because while he didn’t mind at this point, it would definitely have made him uncomfortable earlier, before Batman had made himself so vulnerable. “Could you, do you think?”

A sidelong look. “You’re less invulnerable to magic,” Batman said. “Probably.”

Something to keep in mind. The Flash was the only teammate he had now that he was reasonably sure he could take three falls out of three. Maybe they could start practicing against each other, if they could find somewhere they could risk making a mess on that scale. Sparring—he and Diana had tried it out, gingerly. If Batman wanted to stretch out his re-expanding powers in a secure environment…

“Do you have any plans, going forward?” Now that he had a future to plan for.

“I have someone who helps me,” Batman replied. “Bruce’s guardian, after his parents died. He wanted to leave Gotham, after…but he stayed. To try to help the city, in Bruce’s memory. And to keep an eye on me.” The amusement this time was bitter. “We don’t really get along. He thinks Bruce died because of me—that I made him feel invulnerable, and then didn’t protect him. He’s projecting. But I suppose that’s what I’m for.”

Clark made a face; he didn’t like the idea of people being for purposes. Even people who’d been made. This wasn’t the time to argue about it. “But he helps you?”

“He helps.” Batman glanced down, toward Dick’s bed, as though once again he could see through the roof. “I’m trying to get him to agree to take Dick in. He did a good job with Bruce, even if he doesn’t think so.”

“Will that be the best for Dick?” Clark asked, as neutrally as he could manage. He could tell Batman’s intentions were good, but he didn’t know if putting a child entirely within the influence of a supernatural being that had latched onto him, without an external line of support, was a good idea. On the other hand, putting him in the care of an adult who would know he wasn’t delusional could only help. And Clark could be the outside support, if necessary—not that he wasn’t under Batman’s influence himself, but he wasn’t within his circle of it the way this Alfred seemed to be, resentment or not. The resentment might be the most dangerous part.

What part of this train of thought Batman sensed, he couldn’t tell, as his comrade only retorted, “It can’t be worse than here!”

A group home with four beds to a room certainly wasn’t the best environment, but surely he couldn’t be here much longer. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“He doesn’t get much privacy. He agreed to meet with Alfred last time he ducked into a closet while I was there, so now Alfred’s the focus of the plan.” Batman sighed again. “He’s so brave,” he said fondly. “It worries me. I wish he were somewhere safe.”

The wild impulse rose to offer to step in, to take the role of legal guardian if this Alfred wouldn’t. Clark sat on it. He didn’t want a child, he wasn’t equipped to care for a child, CPS would be able to see that perfectly well in a single reporter in his 20s living in a one-bedroom apartment in a somewhat run-down building. He didn’t even live in the same state, and child placement was handled on a state-by-state basis so even petitioning for custody would be horrifically involved, never mind obtaining it. Also, he had a secret identity to protect.

He couldn’t always help. The hardest lesson in life, and one he had to keep relearning.

“So your plans are…to get Dick into a safe home environment.”

“And keep him alive,” Batman affirmed. Quick, and firm, and almost not obvious about what a vital goal this was to him. Keeping this child alive, the way he’d failed to keep the one before.

“Of course.” Clark nodded. If everything he’d been told was true—and he thought it was, it felt true—then there was no need for the League to intervene. Gotham was probably safer than it had ever been. “Can I meet him, sometime?” Partly to do his part as an outside support network. Partly because he was curious, to meet this child who’d been able to reach his hand into Batman’s chest and close his fingers around his heart.

Batman glanced over, and then seemed to relax. Even the endless piles of his cape seemed suddenly to behave more like ordinary fabric. “I passed, then?”

“What?” Oh. Of course he’d known. Clark had hardly been sneaky. “Yes.”

“Not that I know what you were planning to do if I hadn’t.”

Clark didn’t know either, other than get Dick away of he seemed to need it.

“All of this is off the record, of course,” Batman added. It was a testament to how distracted Superman was by Batman’s problems that it took a long second for him to realize the potential implications of that choice of words, and read in Batman’s posture and the way his cape had developed hooks of tension in some of its folds that they were entirely intentional.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

“You attended a press event in Gotham two years ago. You still feel like you, no matter how you dress.”

“Well.” Superman tried to shake the sudden tension out of his shoulders. Batman was a good detective and data analyst, that hadn’t changed with the rest of it. He’d certainly tracked down the name of the gentleman from the Planet. “I guess that’s fair. And of course it’s off the record. I won’t even tell J’onn and Diana anything but the basics without your permission.”

“Oh.” Batman clearly hadn’t expected that. “Why?”

“You have a right to your privacy.” Clark thought back over his own approach to the whole situation and said, with a gentleness born somewhat of guilt, “You are a person, after all.”

“I’m really not,” Batman said, corner of his mouth ticking up just slightly to underline the easy irony in his voice. But the great spread of cape had fallen into easier, more geometric wrinkles, and Clark was beginning to learn to trust that over what he said with his borrowed face. Though he could almost definitely lie with the cape part of himself, too, if he needed to.

“Don’t…” His tongue flickered across the back of his teeth; be brave, Kent. “Don’t talk about my friend that way, huh?”

[whump-a-la-mode]

Villian-Sicle | Part 5

I feel like now would be a pertinent time to mention that this is my first attempt at writing a sort of drabble series. The majority of my work is 50k-100k word nerd ass novels, and I think that this part will make that unfortunately abundantly apparent. I’m sorry for just how long it is, but I’ve absolutely loved writing these characters, and I got a little bit carried away with fleshing out the world a bit more ^^

Also, I feel I should probably mention that, though characters in this story speak Latin, I do not know any Latin. I wrote this using dictionaries and very basic grammar guides, and I sincerely hope I did not mess up too bad.

Thank you for reading! It’s a long one, but I hope you’ll enjoy.

CW//Superhero whump, villain whumpee, hypothermia, military setting (kinda), pet whump, dehumanization, past trauma, muzzles, restraints, conditioned whumpee, depiction of an implied panic attack, denial of water

Taglist:

@whatwhumpcomments

@sola-whumping

@professional-idiocy

Villain couldn’t help but shake and buck their head as a corrugation of metal and leather was slipped over their face, securing their jaw in its current position and forcing them to bite down against the pressure. It had been fitted since last time, they noted rather hollowly-- with a piece of padding now standing between the bridge of their noise and the harsh metal wires. Regardless of how many adjustments were made to the piece, however, making it comfortable seemed beyond their ability.

They, in this specific circumstance, referred mainly to the two soldiers before Villain. Trainer was the only one of the two that they knew the name of-- though they were nearly unrecognizable beneath the layers of gear shrouding their appearance.

The helmet they wore resembled more so that of a motorcyclist rather than that of an armed combatant, but the rest of their kit was far more military. Beneath their uniform bulged the clear outlines of a tac-vest, with their hands shielded by Kevlar gloves, constructed of an intricate mesh of triangular pieces, in a similar manner to chain-mail.

The other soldier was dressed in nearly identical kit, just without the gloves-- those were for handlers, which this other soldier must’ve surely not been. They turned to Trainer, noises in an odd language curling off their tongue. Trainer replied with a laugh.

With practiced hands, Trainer took the muzzle’s straps and secured them behind Villain’s head, tightening the metal until it dug into their skin, tearing at old sores created by the same device. Their leash was quickly hooked to a ring protruding from the muzzle’s wires.

“Manibus.” Trainer’s voice spoke. They nearly flinched at the sheer speed at which Villain offered their hands. Momentarily, Trainer ghosted their fingers over the leather mitten restraints that kept Villain’s fine motor abilities under control. They checked the wrist straps, ensuring their tautness, nodding their approval.

“Abeamus?” The other soldier suggested, to which Trainer gave another nod. They wrapped Villain’s leash around their wrist, halving its length, until there was negligible slack in the line.

Another group of soldiers, all dressed in military-style garments of their own, loitered together by the door to the staging room. They looked to Trainer, marginally straightening their postures, and, presumably, minimizing the amount of swearing in their speech.

With a few words and a flick of the wrist, the squadron was off.

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Leader couldn’t stop looking at Villain’s eyes.

They weren’t quite certain what had pulled them into such an odd trance. It was nothing about color, certainly, nor anything else physical or inherent-- they were unremarkable, in such respects. No, it was certainly something about the expression they portrayed.

A moment ago, they’d seen shattering fear turn to fury in these eyes. Now, they seemed blank, as though constructed of glass and merely painted upon. There was no expression beyond them, no recognition, no indication that Villain’s mind was occupied by anything at all. Their gaze stared straight through Leader, through the ceiling above as well.

Leader was torn from their daze by a commotion from behind them as the door was thrown open. Medic was nearly knocked over as Hero burst in, followed more ploddingly by Counselor.

“Be careful.” Leader warned, looking up and turning to the group. “There’s broken shit everywhere.”

Hero’s eyes darted around the room, seemingly taking in the mess. Broken glass coated the tile floor in a thin dusting of shards, while various mechanical parts still smoked in whatever place they had happened to end up. The lights had been blown out completely, leaving the lighting in the room to be provided by a flashlight laid on a countertop, as well as, now, the light soaking in from the hallway.

After their panicked scan, Hero settled their gaze on Villain.

“Are they...”

“They’re fine.” Medic interrupted.

“They’re not moving.”

“Well... I’m going to hazard to say that that’s a good thing. If I had to guess, it seems like a shock response. It’s not exactly my biggest concern, right about now.”

“What about the, uh, bleeding hole in their chest?”

“That would be my biggest concern.”

Medic grabbed a variety of, miraculously undamaged, medical supplies from a cupboard, setting to work at Villain’s wound. It was small, deliberate, having been incised to be used as an access point for the dialysis machine, but Leader had a feeling that even minor blood loss could be a death sentence, at this point.

Hero and Counselor hovered, for a moment, at Villain’s bedside, while Medic did their work. Leader stood back, nearly having to forcibly tear their gaze from that of Villain.

That odd sort of silence remained for several moments, if not minutes, as Medic’s deft hands worked to close the wound. It was only when the last suture was tied that Counselor spoke up-- one of the only times they had done so for the whole mission.

“Leader?”

“Hm?”

“What’s our plan, exactly? What are our orders?”

They raised a brow. Counselor was never that direct-- nor that military.

“Um...” It felt quite stupid, being caught unprepared like this, but in their defense, they had nearly just been killed by an exploding air conditioner. “I... I don’t want to hazard doing anything until Villain is stable.”

“That was your plan before.” Medic muttered as they pried latex gloves from their hands. “It almost got us killed.”

“Right. Yeah, um, are they stable enough? For transport?”

“They’re not going to bleed out, if that’s your concern. Physically, I’d say they’re stable. Mentally? I think we need to get them to a secure location before they snap out of this fugue state.”

“Alright.” Leader chewed their tongue. “Let’s get the van ready, then.”

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The ship’s deck was notably busy, despite the fact that it was relatively late at night. The vessel’s skeleton crew hurried about, keeping it afloat and on track, while outdated Humvees drove in chaotic paths. What the commotion was about was beyond Villain’s knowledge, or their capacity to care. All that mattered was fighting their instinct to cover their ears, and ensuring that they were keeping up with Trainer.

They could feel it-- the boat-- beneath them. The millions of systems and circuits and electrons, thrumming and being jolted about by a swaying sea.

The small company that Trainer had gathered made their way to the far end of the deck, where a VTOL plane was already humming, waiting for its crew to board. They did so, clustering themselves into the compact cabin. There was, notably, no room the vessel for a pilot-- all steering operations would be handled by an artificial intelligence of sorts. Villain greeted the computer program, but it did not respond.

Trainer settled themself into a middle seat at the front of the cabin. Villain sat obediently at their side, at which point their leash was secured to a handrail sticking out of the wall. They rested their head against the window. Though the cabin was crowded, at the very least, Villain was no longer forced to make the trip in the K9 compartment.

Once every member of the company was settled and seated, the VTOL’s doors slid shut, and the engine thwapp-thwapp-thwapped until the aircraft was off the ground. It shot upwards for a second, traveling several hundred feet in the time, before entering a linear dive and settling for a position around fifty feet above the choppy waters.

Villain closed their eyes, allowing their mind to wander to the creature around them. The VTOL contained what was likely the most complex computer program that the Organization had. Despite all its bells and whistles, however, it paid no mind to Villain’s prodding and wandering.

The plane’s route was not awfully complex. The vehicle was designed, surtout, for water-based travel. Though it could move over land, it struggled to rise above three hundred or so feet, making it useless for far-inland routes. Wherever it was going today was, luckily, on the coast-- somewhere in the forests of Washington state.

If they so wished, Villain could alter the route in any way they so pleased. They could send the aircraft into the ocean below, or back into the ship, or into the first land they saw. It would be simple-- all their problems gone in a moment.

Once the plane’s angle had leveled out, Trainer stood, moving to the front of the plane. Villain gnashed their teeth, attempting to rise from their seat, but finding themself limited by the taut leather line on their muzzle. They were too far, they were on mission, they shouldn’t have been so far, come on, come on. The leash refused to give way, however, leaving them firmly affixed in position.

Trainer cleared their throat, drawing the attention of the gathered company. They began to speak, words taking on quite a commanding air, though Villain only understand a few choice phrases.

“Incursus” was the one that made them prick their ears. They had heard it only a few times before. In conversation, once or twice, but more notably during mission briefings. The last time they had heard it... several missions ago, before they had been briefly confined to the medical wing.

The word itself was meaningless-- its implications less so.

Villain gulped, their jaw straining against the wires of their muzzle.

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Leader walked at the side of the gurney, ghosting a hand over one of the siderails all the while. A pair of doctors pushed the gurney itself, with Medic trailing close behind, and Hero and Counselor at their sides.

In contrast with the upper floors, the hospital’s lobby floor was brightly lit, almost overwhelmingly so, with expanses of floor-to-ceiling windows. The beige carpeting was bathed with the last remnants of sunrise orange-- it had been a long night.

The few patients in the hospital at such as hour were hurried out of the way as the gurney moved through. A scattering of nurses and varied hospital personnel were littered about, watching the Heroes’ procession, but staying several yards away, unwilling to even be in Villain’s vicinity.

Leader looked down at the gurney. A blanket had been draped over Villain, working to keep them at a stable temperature. Their fabric and webbing restraints had been replaced by those made of metal.

Their eyes were open. They had been the whole time. Despite, they had yet to struggle in any form.

The automatic doors at the front of the lobby rumbled open, allowing the gurney to be pushed through. A team of doctors and Leader’s own personnel stood outside, gathered around an ambulance with its back doors hanging open. The doctors pushing the gurney passed it off to some of the stronger personnel, who lifted the contraption into the vehicle’s back, securing it.

Leader nodded their thanks, and moved to get behind the vehicle’s wheel.

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The ship hadn’t been too far off of the East coast to begin with, making the trip to Washington a relatively short one. It took one hour, thirty-six minutes, and eighty-two seconds, to be exact-- far more amicable than the 16-hour trips they had endured in the past.

The VTOL had made a measured descent into a forest clearing, shredding the grass below with its landing gear. With the doors open, the company had scrambled out; Trainer taking Villain’s leash in hand once more.

In the clearing, there had been no sign of life besides a scurrying songbird or two. Villain had only then realized a far more unpleasant aspect of the mission.

They were going to be marching.

Not marching, exactly, they supposed. There was no regimented order to it, it was more like hiking. Just... hiking for hours. The VTOL couldn’t go too far inland, and landing it close to a target was often impossible.

So, they marched.

Sometimes, heaven would be merciful, and the trek would be short, of only a mile or so. On crueler days, though, they would move for hours-- breaking only for water, which Villain would watch the soldiers drink with a parched throat.

Even just from the look of the clearing, and its location, however, Villain had been able to tell that today was not one of those more merciful occasions.

When the plane had landed, the moon at been at its highest point--signifying that midnight had struck. For the first few hours, they walked in darkness, until dawn slowly began to creep up.

All in all, the trek had taken four hours, most of which were spent walking. By the time the group stopped and crouched down, Villain felt their legs were about to snap. It had been far too many hours and far too many miles since they had cared to look at their surroundings. All that mattered was Trainer, and staying awake.

The company made themselves small among an area of heavy undergrowth. Trainer let Villain’s leash loosely hang around their wrist. Even if the technopath had any desire to flee, they doubted they could even get their legs back under them.

One of the soldiers spoke up, somehow sounding hardly winded. Though most of their words served as nonsense to Villain’s ears, one did stick out: Scopum. It was one of the words Trainer had used, back when they were teaching Villain how to search and retrieve objects.

Trainer nodded, took a drink of water from a canteen, and got to their knees. They pointed to something behind the bushes-- Villain got on their knees to look at well.

Over the wall of undergrowth, a building could be seen. It wasn’t particularly notable-- it would be best described as a cabin, with rustic architecture and an array of out-of-season Christmas lights. It seemed to be a vacation home of sorts; large enough to fit a family, certainly, but not a place anyone would live permanently.

Was this their Scopum? Their goal?

Trainer took hold again of Villain’s leash and stood. The real mission was just about to begin, and Villain could hardly stand.

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The drive from the hospital to their base was longer than Leader would have preferred, enough to make them nervously request updates every few minutes, much to Medic’s distaste.

The base stood at the edge of one of Washington’s denser forests, about half an hour out from the city proper. The location provided security, and in their group’s early days, secrecy, but it made transport difficult.

“Hey, Medic?” Leader started.

“Villain is fine. They’re still out of it. Cabin temperature is staying steady at 70, their body temperature is just about where it should be. Keep your damn eyes on the road.”

Leader nodded, biting the inside of their cheek. City traffic had been left behind a few miles ago, leaving only empty back roads. Seven minutes to go, the GPS diligently reported.

“We’re close now, then.” Medic spoke, starting the conversation for once. They weren’t usually the one to do such a thing, but Hero and Counselor were in the ambulance’s back. “What are you thinking?”

“Thinking?”

“Your plans. Please don’t forget that you’re the leader around here, you give the orders. What do we do, when we get back to base?”

Leader bit their tongue to prevent themself from snapping at that passive insult. They were glad for the change in topic, at least.

“Our first priority is keeping ourselves safe. Villain’s safety is second priority-- I’m not sacrificing anything to keep their wellbeing. But I wouldn’t consider them a threat, right now. I assume you would like to keep them in the med bay?”

“For now, at least. They’re stable, but the fact that they’re still breathing is a miracle. I want to have my equipment nearby if they crash.”

“As long as it’s safe, then.”

“And then what?”

“Then... they’re still a prisoner, injured or not. Then we put them in the cells.”

“We don’t have any cells?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The company moved swiftly, forcing Villain’s legs to wake up to the horrible feeling of pins and needles. Trainer remained at the group’s head, leading them forth to the cabin.

It must have looked quite ridiculous, to an outsider. Villain would have laughed if they were able.

The group stopped before the quaint structure.

“Aperire.” Trainer ordered. Villain gnashed their teeth.

The command was a simple one, generally. It meant that they were to open something-- usually a door, or a box, or an encrypted device. The wooden door before them, however, had no electric component; it didn’t even seem to have a lock at all.

Still, they dove into the few electronics that the building did host. The Christmas lights seemed to be meaningless noise-- they tore through those, searching instead through the inner electronics. They were uncomplicated, so much so that their purpose couldn’t be so much as guessed.

Villain panicked, gnashing their teeth, shaking their head against the muzzle. They didn’t know what to do. They could feel their heartbeat, pounding in their head, throbbing.

“Aperire.” Trainer repeated. It only increased Villain’s heartrate-- what were hey doing wrong? Please, what were they doing wrong? They dove back into the systems. There was no door to be seen, just the lights, just some random system. They decided on the latter, tripping the system, just as they drew blood from biting down on their own tongue.

The house rumbled.

Instead of opening as a door should, the rustic home’s door slid into the wall, revealing a brightly-lit interior-- devoid of both furniture and interest.

The only point of interest was at the very center of the floor: A ramp, leading downwards.

Villain gulped. With rougher hands than before, Trainer yanked at their leash, forcing them forth. Together, the two descended, the company right on their heels.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

The base-- it had no real name, it was simply “the base”-- was an uncomplicated corrugation of concrete walls and sparse entranceways. It had been constructed as the shell of a factory, years ago, a factory which eventually fell through. Since then, Leader had organized quite a renovation of the property.

They drove the ambulance to the base’s parking lot, backing up to the curb as near to the entrance as they could.

“You worried?” Medic asked.

“Mhm.” Leader nodded, hopping out of the cockpit and to the asphalt below. The ambulance’s rear doors had already been swung open, with Hero and Counselor working to guide the gurney from it.

Villain still laid on the bed, shrouded with blankets, nearly comatose.

Their eyes moved.

Leader did a double-take, looking back to the figure on the gurney. Villain’s gaze had moved, now directing itself straight at Leader. Whatever expression they were portraying... it looked like fear.

Leader frowned. They moved to the transport bed’s side, placing their hands on the rails.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The ramp descended at least a story into the earth.

With every step they took, Villain could feel their mind become more and more cluttered. At first, they could only hear the simple lighting and ventilation systems, but as they grew deeper, more noises joined the cacophony. Computers and servers, medical equipment and weaponry, it all blended together, all humming, all whirring, all chanting until it made Villain’s head hurt.

At the base of the ramp, which they only reached after what felt like an eternity, stood a simple door. Nothing more than a steel barrier.

“Perdere.”

That command was about as simple as they came. Within a split second, the door, and half of the wall, before Villain had been decimated to rubble.

On the other side of the newly-torn door, a figure moved. Villain flinched, gnawing again on their bloodied tongue. Trainer forced them forward.

The room was empty, devoid, as the past one had been. There was no furniture, no weaponry, no defense. Only a person, standing squarely before the door at the far end.

Their wings brushed the room’s walls.

Leader glared.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

As they leaned over Villain’s bedside, Leader smiled-- an expression as gentle as they could make it. They weren’t sure what had suddenly turned them so soft. Pity, maybe? Somehow, though, it tugged at them in the same way as nostalgia.

They brushed a hand over Villain’s shoulder.

“Hey. You’re gonna be okay.”

The next part was the stupid one. The soft one, the one that would have made anyone in any faction laugh. One that, if anyone had heard it, Leader surely never would have lived down. Even they were not sure why they spoke it.

Five simple words. Five words without meaning.

“Welcome to your new home.”

[anika-ann]

WINSoD - Epilogue

We’re Tied Together (Always and Forever)

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2, part 3)  

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader  Word count: 3750

Summary: In which you reach the end of the line. Is it though? The end?

Warnings: battle with Thanos no.2, blood and violence, character death, religious motives, mention of afterlife, language

A/N:  Do you ever look at your fic and are like… you know this was supposed to be a cheesy one-shot, right? Soulmate meet-cute one-shot to be precise. Well. That work out splendidly... Anyway, here – the epilogue! Enjoy! Oh, and prepare tissues :-*

Part 6

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Waking up in a comfy bed was surreal; mostly because you knew that after falling – or half-jumping – from a cliff, this wasn’t what was usually happening. You didn’t have much experience, but you still had some common sense left.

Right?

Why did nothing hurt?

“Hello, Little One,” a voice greeted you, startling you enough to roll over and fall from the bed – only to land back in the cushions, confusing the Hell out of you – or perhaps you should have thought Heaven.

Because this was positively Castiel‘s voice. Castiel as an angel. Angels, as far as you were concerned, belonged to Heaven.

Was it possible that… that- this was--?

“Yes, you’re in Heaven… again,” he hummed nonchalantly as if it was perfectly common to just die twice and he seated himself on the edge of your bed.

“I killed myself,” you blurted out the first thing that came to your mind, instantly slapping your palm over your mouth. It sounded terrible, hearing yourself say it out loud, just throw it out in the open as if it was not a big deal.

Which in fact, it was. Since when suicidal people went to Heaven? You never had been good with the whole faith thing, but this sounded a bit sketchy.

“To save half of the Universe,” Castiel questioned, frowning. “Or would you say your soulmate belonged to hell after had once forced the plane down, expecting to die in exchange of saving millions?”

Silently admitting he had a point, you let the issue alone for the moment. Instead, you blinked, taking his appearance in. He was wearing his typical trench-coat, making him look like an accountant, dorky for a celestial being. He fitted in here though – bright room, white sheets, no windows…

“You’ll get a better room soon, less prison-like,” he explained as if he could hear your thoughts. Which he as well might, because he was an angel, you were in freaking Heaven, again, which what the Hell, if you had been before, how could you not remember that-- and everything was so confusing and… lonely. “But I thought you’d like to see your soulmate first.”

Your heart stopped. Later, you would question why did you still have a fucking heartbeat, or why did it feel like it, but did he just say-

“What the Hell is Steve doing here?!” you shrieked in horror and Castiel sighed, possibly at your swearing, but you didn’t give a fuck. What was Steve-

“He’s not here. But a battle with Thanos occurred and I thought you might like to see.”

You ran your hand down your face tiredly, relieved beyond words. Steve was alive, still on Earth – probably.

Christ. Castiel sure didn’t know how to talk to a girl who had a superhero for husband. Or he in fact did, since he was willing to show you.

It took one single snap of Castiel’s fingers and a scene of horror – fire, ash and blood – unfolded in front of you. There was nothing but smother from the debris where the compound had used to be, the Titan with an enormous space ship probably the one to blame.

And barely three defenders of Earth stood against him and his endless rows of army, thousands of monsters ready to take the half of population one by one, just waiting to be released from the ship.

Where were the others? And… Thanos! They killed him! What-

“How-“

“The Avengers gathered all the Stones. Hulk snapped this time, bringing everyone who had died in the original Snap back. Unfortunately, a spy infiltrated the team and led Thanos from the past to the present,” Castiel explained patiently, but you were anything but patient, suddenly angry as gnawing fear bit into your stomach.

“Then why are you here?! There’s… there’s Tony, Thor and Steve, three people—sorta people – facing a fucking ARMY FROM SPACE!” you yelled at the angel, a being powerful enough to drag your ass from Heaven – which you didn’t care for in the slightest.

How could he just... sit here with you?!

“We cannot interfere-“

“The fuck did you just say?!” you spitted out, rising to your feet. “Aren’t angels supposed to be guardians? You-“ you continued your verbal assault in attempt to get him moving, only to freeze when a blinding lightning hit Thor’s hammers (plural?!) and the infamous trio threw themselves into the battle.

You barely had few seconds to feast your eyes on Steve in one piece; he was glorious, standing straight with his chin up, jaw clenched in determination and all you could think of was how strong he was, carrying on with the mission.

You knew it wasn’t that he didn’t miss you, that he didn’t grieve you; he was simply the bravest person you had ever met, just like you had told him before--- ugh, before you had died.

If you only weren’t so terrified for him.

Where was everyone? If the Snap worked and people had been brought back, where was the whole bunch of warriors from Wakanda? The rest of the Avengers’ crew?

Breathless, your heart pounding in both your ribcage and temples, you watched as Thanos tossed the three figures around, almost as if he was playing with them despite their best efforts.

“Get up, Stevie. God, please, get up, get up, be okay,” you whispered urgently with your throat swollen at one particular blow that had your soulmate landing on his back and lying down with his breath knocked out of his chest, his eyes closed in what could only be agony.

With horror, you saw his body turn almost limp, your nails digging into your palms.

GET. UP. Don’t you dare to stay down and get yourself killed!

He clenched his jaw, glint of something that twisted your insides in genuine fear in his eyes. This wasn’t determination anymore. This was madness. He pushed himself on his feet and you couldn’t quite make yourself to feel relieved despite him fulfilling your earlier silent wish.

Determined Steve was a great Steve. Mad Steve? Mad Steve did crazy-ass decisions that could cost him his life. You had that in common.

Your jaw slowly went slack when your very husband grabbed Thor’s Mjölnir as if it was not a mythical weapon from the legends only Thor could lift and… banged up the Titan as if he had been fighting with it his whole life.

Incredulous chuckle escaped your lips when a flash of lightning connected with the hammer as Steve… charged it, only to aim its power at Thanos.

“I told him he could lift it,” you murmured despite yourself, letting yourself to feel a tinniest bit of hope and pride.

There was only three of them now, but surely the people who had been dusted were on their way. Steve, Thor and Tony just had to keep the Titan occupied-

Then the army stood, exiting the ship in a deadly march, no, in a deadly race and Steve got himself into trouble.

You grinded your teeth, unable to look away, but present enough to be pissed as Hell at Heaven and its angels and let them know.

“Do something! He’s gonna-“

A circle of amber-coloured sparkles appeared on Steve’s left and you could cry, recognizing Strange’s handiwork. The back-up was there. The army. The King of Wakanda with his badass sister. Sam. Bucky. Strange, Peter, the Maximoffs. Carol Danvers flying through the alien spaceship as if it was made of cotton candy. Even Natasha emerged from the debris with Clint and the others, causing you to breathe out in relief.

Now the true fight would start.

You weren’t calm by any means. But you were hopeful. Just glancing at the briefest encounter of Natasha with Sam was sweet enough to bring tears in your eyes.

“Kick their asses,” you whispered encouragingly, swallowing thickly and actually praying.

It was nearly impossible to follow the battle then; too many fronts, too many people, half-people and alien creatures. You saw the gauntlet they were trying to protect, you kept your eye on Steve, finding Thanos and his momentary enemies when you had the capacity to do so.

You honestly couldn’t tell how the fight was going, if it was in your favour or not, there was so much blood and smoke and noise… and then something caught your attention with painful clarity.

Several things happened at once; Carol, literally glued to Thanos, who had somehow got a hold of the gauntlet with all of the stones in it (oh God, oh my God, this couldn’t happen again-), was thrown away as if she was nothing but an annoying fly, Tony registered a part of his armour having been ripped away – his hand-piece – and found it with his gaze at Steve’s feet as Stephen Strange raised one shaky finger towards Tony, who suddenly had an expression of utter defeat on his face.

Your slow, terror-struck mind didn’t do the math when Steve jumped on Thanos’ arm, forcing his fingers away so he couldn’t snap his fingers. Something red and flashy glimmered in the mess of limbs, but you didn’t pay enough attention to make the connection. Peter, Spider-man, managed to web the gauntlet, helping out Steve and you almost breathed out the air suffocating your lungs.

Almost.

Because the next moment, Steve was tossed away like a rag-doll, much like Carol had been.

Like in a slow motion, the infamous effect in movies to add dramatics, you saw the Titan raise his hand with a smug smirk; and you noticed, unlike him, that his gauntlet was, in fact, empty of the Stones. But-

“I am… inevitable,” he exclaimed, a dull mechanic snap following his statement.

Nothing happened, except for the huge and ugly purple head whipping towards his useless weapon in confusion.

And that was when you saw it. The glow of the stones in a red piece of armour, Ironman’s armour, that was no longer worn by its owner.

All of the puzzle pieces fell into place, clicking with a painful clack.

Strange’s gesture. Tony’s expression. Crowley’s words of one future, matching the story of the contemporary Sorcerer Supreme. And the red flash when Steve had been fighting Thanos.

“No,” you whispered breathlessly, remembering with startling clarity what Steve had told you about Thanos – the Titan, stronger than all of the Avengers together – looked like after he finished his mission. He had nearly died.  

“NO!” you repeated with more force, horror filling your very being, dimming the world around you, a violent tremble attacking your body at the glint in Steve’s eye.

It was the one that had shaken you so much before. The mad spark.

Do whatever it takes, consequences be damned.

His raspy voice broke your heart in two, tearing your soul when you realized the implication of his words:

“No. You are only dust. And to dust you shall return.”

The snap of Steve’s metal-clad fingers echoed in the room and in your head, the sound seeping into your bones as you were blinded by the streak of colours, the white swallowing the whole world for long seconds.

You were sure that this was what actual death looked like. Nothing but emptiness.

You reflected several of your last words to Steve, wanting to rip your hair out. Why had you told him such nonsense? Why would you tell him that God had wanted it this way, that you had only played your part in His grand scheme?

You finally understood the words Sam had told you so many years ago, about similar people in a relationship being a disaster in making. Steve had embraced your belief in being only a tiny wheel in the God’s great plan.

That was the meaning of the words he said. A famous line from Bible, reflecting how much he believed in God’s work at the moment.  

You are only dust. And to dust you shall return.

In the critical seconds, Steve believed he had been chosen by God to be the tool delivering Thanos his defeat.

And to very likely to pay his life as a price.

Your eyes adjusted to the once again dark scene, where the hostile army started indeed turning back to dust. You desperately searched the only figure that mattered, finding him with his back resting against a random vertical flat surface, his chest barely rising.

The sight on half of his body severely burned, multiple spots on his skin blacking as it already died, had your eyes squeezed shut, your knees giving out as the sob shook your whole body.

The scene was burned into your brain, an image carved into your eyelids, sharp and precise as if you were still watching with your eyes wide open. You whimpered, shaking your head to chase it away. Vainly.  You didn’t remember looking into his eyes, yet you saw them hollow, blue and green always so brilliant misted. Dead.

A hand landed on your shoulder and you winced, releasing another whine, sobs braking through your palm that at some point covered your mouth – whether to be silent of not to throw up, you couldn’t tell. The hand gave you a gentle squeeze that did nothing to sooth your grief.

Oh God, oh you ignorant God, why are you such a DICK?!

“Why? Why did-- it have to--- be him?!” you choked out, avoiding the post-battle sight and instead shot Castiel a glare that could murder.

Your chest hurt. They just tore your heart away, easily as that, hollow gaping space in its place and you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t breathe and hear and see-

“I don’t know, Little One. It was as it was meant to be. You wouldn’t want to see him suffer through your loss again anyway, believe me.”

“That doesn’t make it right!” you spitted out, disgusted at such implication. As if this happened to make you feel better! You were suffering. Hurting. But most of all, you were so fucking angry. With God. With Castiel. With… with yourself. Maybe if you hadn’t told him— perhaps- oh God, oh Satan, let the pain go away… let him rest at least. “What happens to him now?”

“Watch, Little One. He’s not gone yet,” Castiel encouraged you kindly, but you couldn’t- couldn’t—what was happening? Was he trying to tell you that they might be able to save him?

The flare of hope ignited in your body died as fast as it caught fire; why would Castiel say that you wouldn’t want to Steve go through losing you again if there had been a chance to save Steve still?

Steve was about to die. If he wasn’t gone yet, then he must have been in so much pain that your own, this paralyzing feeling, must have been nothing in comparison.

Why were you forced to witness his last moments? What kind of a twisted Heaven was this?

“You fucking idiot,” Tony rushed to his friend’s side, pissed and resigned at the same time.

“We won,” Steve breathed out weakly, only one eye following the movements around him. You buried your nails in the flesh of your palm, choking on your own spit as the sob tried to fight its way out of your chest.

“Yeah, we did,” Bucky confirmed softly, kneeling to his brother; they were nothing less than that. Hesitant hand curled around Steve’s seemingly unharmed bicep and he made a lame attempt at moving his arm to return that gesture. Bucky clenched his jaw, a tear appearing in the corner of his eye. “Don’t call him an idiot, Stark. That’s my job.”

His voice broke at the end of the sentence and your heart shattered as you felt his pain as your own. You couldn’t see anymore. The image was so blurry, but now new fear controlled your body, the fact Castiel never answered you and that meant something horrible awaited Steve in death and this was in fact your last moments of seeing him and— God, oh God, who had ever dared to call you merciful?

“I’m talking to God,” Tony specified and you wordlessly thanked him. “Clearly, he’s a dick for making it this way.”

“Nah. ‘s smart. S-sam?” Steve choked out, voice barely audible and the therapist (with wings now, having returned to his previous job) was instantly by his side, his eyes glassy as well.

“Yeah, Cap?”

An attempt at shake of head was given, you assumed, but barely a motion was the result. “You Cap now. Will ya’?”

If you had any capacity for being astonished left, you would have been at the request. But you were far too gone, drowning in misery.

“…yeah. Of course. I will if that’s what you want.”

“ ’sanks.”

Thor’s enormous figure took a step closer, thunderous voice uncharacteristically quiet. “We’ll remember you, brother. Both of you.”

A faint smile appeared on Steve’s lips, only one corner capable of rising, and yet he closed both of his eyes for a long moment, clearly struggling to stay conscious.

That’s a lie, your mind whispered. Not just conscious. Struggling to stay alive. And losing!

Only one eye opening, Steve managed to cast a half-lidded glance in Bucky’s direction, flickering to Tony for a second.

His next word was crystal clear. “Home.”

Natasha sobbed into her palm, but her delicate fingers curled around Steve’s arm as well, right next to Bucky’s, giving her friend a tight-lipped pained smile.

“Yeah, Steve. It’s okay to go home. To her. Tell her we say hi, yeah?” she pleaded lowly, keeping her voice without a crack despite few tears escaping her eyes.

You stopped breathing altogether and prayed. God, please, let him find peace. With me. And if not with me, at least give him the peace he deserves, I beg you.

Clint fell to one knee, bowing his head.

At first, you didn’t realize it wasn’t just grief sucking the strength out of him. No. Bucky, Sam and Nat instantly followed, mirroring his position precisely.

They were paying their respect to a fallen comrade, you realized.

You couldn’t take it anymore as you noticed everyone else doing the same. Not when during the process Steve’s chest ceased its motions, the life leaving his body.

And your heart left with him, along with your sanity.

Nothing made sense anymore. You fucked up, God himself fucked up and Castiel, and angels and Universe and-- and it hurt. Steve had said that they had won, but you lost. You lost everything.

Your vision was clouded by both tears of sorrow and anger, your body numb from all the pain.

Castiel’s hand slid from your shoulder, finally, but instead, you were pulled into an embrace.

You wanted to push away and run and punch and curl up on the floor, but the arms around you held you too firmly, your head was buried in your captor’s chest. You wanted to fight it, refuse the lame attempt at comfort, and you breathed in furiously to brace yourself to free your body-- but the sudden familiarity, faint cologne and warmth, body large enough to engulf yours, lips in your hair…

“S-st-steve?” you choked out, disgusting gurgle sounding in your throat, but in that moment, you suddenly couldn’t bring yourself to care.

The way you said his name was more a question, but you didn’t need an answer. You would recognize him anywhere.

You husband. Your soulmate. Your Steve.

The arms around you tightened, his embrace turning nearly crushing, his chest expanding with generous inhale as his face buried in your hair further. Your lips curled up in a tight smile and you let out a hysterical laugh, sorrow and joy, pain and relief.

“You’re here,” he mumbled to your scalp, hot tears following his words and you found yourself lifted from the floor, your body nearly merging with his and you could finally breathe again, your heart fluttering in your chest. One of his arms held you securely to his form while the other fisted in the mess of your hair. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here.”

“Then why did you do it?” you asked him, the anger seeping through despite the delight at the encounter you could have only prayed for. He was here. “I’m so fucking mad at you.”

“So am I at you,” he opposed, but the growling of his voice was too soft for you to believe him that his rage was larger than his relief.

And so you let go of your own anger too.

This was all beyond your control. Deep inside, you knew that. You had been just playing a part; neither of you had asked for that. You surely didn’t ask to be approached by Crowley and being given the mission, while there was little Steve could do differently when the weapon had been thrown to his feet; a literal throw of the gauntlet that was impossible to ignore.

There was a large scheme of the inevitable put in motion. Who were you to challenge fate?

No point at being mad at each other. Especially when graced with this opportunity to… whatever this was.

“Truce?” you quipped hesitantly and Steve chuckled, a watery sound that made your chest ache, yet filled it with warmth that could never be replicated. For this sensation, so unique, you needed your soulmate only.

And you had him. Forever, perhaps?

Steve withdrew a fraction, his hand caressing your damp cheek as his own glistened with salty drops, but the magnitude of his love, the amount of affection written all over his face, took your breath away, making you forget all about ugly crying.

One look into his twinkling eyes, full of devotion, and nothing else mattered.

“Yeah, doll. Truce. I love you.”

You didn’t get a chance to tell him the same, since he kissed your nose, your watery giggle having his lips spread in the boyish smile you adored.

“I love you too,” you whispered then, planting your own kiss on his lips, chaste and short.

He wouldn’t take it. His mouth locked with yours in a searing kiss instead, emotion pouring from each tiny motion of his lips against yours and you gave in, engaging in the dance of love, your fingers tangled in his locks.

Now this felt like Heaven.

“We’re okay. Everything is going to be okay,” he breathed into your mouth then, fresh tears spicing your kiss.

You didn’t care if you sounded like a child, you asked anyway. “Promise?”

Steve retreated as little as possible to be able to look into your eyes, his own still glassy, but serious and heavy with a vow.

“Promise.”

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S.R. masterlist

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Am I forgiven? Technically, this could be considered a sort of a happy ending, right? To a point, of course. I mean. Morgan still has her dad. No soulmate pairs were split… :)

Some awesome readers on AO3 suggested that the Winchesters then bullied Cas into bringing the lovebirds back to life, fixed them a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and granted them an actual happy ending. Well. If that makes you feel better, roll with that :-*

BTW, about the scene where they honour the fallen Cap: that scene (with Tony, obviously) WAS supposed to be in Endgame, how dare you, fix that at instant!

I love you if you read this till the end, till the last line. Thank you with my whole heart for your support 🤍

-.-.-

Also, while I love Steve to bits (in case you couldn’t tell) and I was happy for him because of the ending he got in Endgame, understanding the arc the writers made, the more and more I think about it, it was kinda out of character and… maybe I would have been more satisfied if heStevewas the one snapping and taking Tony’s fate. I mean… I would have cried my eyes out, sure, but… but.  Sorry for the ramble O:-)

[1vintage]

Ocean Vuong on Metaphor

below is a transcript of an Instagram story from Ocean Vuong, available here in his story highlights under Metaphor.

Q: How do you make sure your metaphors have real depth?

metaphors should have two things: (1) sensory (visual, texture, sound, etc) connector between origin image and the transforming image as well as (2) a clear logical connector between both images. 

if you have only one of either, best to forgo the metaphor, otherwise it will seem forced or read like “writing” if that makes sense.

~

a lot of ya’ll asked for examples re:metaphor. I can explain better if I had 15 minutes of class time (apply to UMASS!). But essentially, metaphors that go awry can signal a hurried desire to be “literary” or “poetic” (ie “writing”), which can lose traction/trust with a reader. in other words, a metaphor is a detour—but that detour better lead to discoveries that alter/amplify the meaning of what is already there, so that a reader sees you as a servant of possibility rather than someone trying to prove that they are a “writer.” One is performative, the other exploratory. In this way, the metaphor acts as a virtual medium, ejecting the text’s optical realism into an “elsewhere”. But this elsewhere should inform the original upon our return. otherwise the journey would feel like an ejection from a crash rather than a curated journey toward more complex meaning.

example:

“The road curves like a cat’s tail.”

This is a weak metaphor because the transforming image (tail) does not amplify/alter the original. The transfer of meaning flattens and dies. Logic is weak or moot: A cat’s tail does not really change the nature of the road. You can certainly add to this with a few more expository sentences which might rescue the logic—but by then you’re just doing cpr on your metaphor.

Sensory, too, is weak: a cat’s tail has little optical resemblance to a road other than being curved (roads are not furry, for one.)

So this is 0 for 2 and should be scrapped. (Just my opinion though! Not a rule!)

okay so what about:

“The road runs between two groves of pine, like the first stroke of a buzzcut.”

this is better. the optical sensory of the transforming image (a clipper thru a head of hair) matches well with the original.

but the logic feels arbitrary. again it doesn’t substantially alter the original.

in the end this is just an “interesting image” but not strong enough to keep I’d say.

Now here’s one from Sharon Olds:

“The hair on my father’s arms like blades of molasses.”

Sensory connector: check. A man’s dark hair indeed can look like blades (also suggestive of grass) of molasses.

Logical connector: check. the father is both sharp and sweet. Something once soft and sticky about him (connotations of youth) sweets, has now hardened the confection no longer fresh etc.

It’s an ambitious metaphor that is packed with resonance. In other words, it does worlds of work and actually deepens the more you dit with it. A metaphor that actually invites you to put the book down, think on it, absorb it, before returning. a good metaphor uses detours to add power to the text. poor metaphors distract you from the text and leave you bereft, laid to the side.

lastly, the prior examples are technically “similes” but I believe similes reside under the umbrella of metaphor. although a simile is a demarcation, ie: this is “like” that. but this is “not”, ontologically, that.

however, I think something happens in the act of reading wherein we collapse the “bridge” and the mind automatically forges synergy between the two images, so that all similes, once read, “act” like metaphors in the mind.

but again this is all subjective. you might have a better way of going about it.

Another very ambitious metaphor is this one from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Moss intensifies up the tree, like applause.”

This is a masterful metaphor, risky and requires a lot of faith, restraint, and experience to pull it off.

Difficult mainly because we now see a surrealist “distortion” of the sensory realm: origin IMAGE (moss) is paired with transforming SOUND (applause).

There is now a leap in comparable elements. But the adherence to our two vital factors are still present.

Sensory: moss, though silent, grows slowly (the word “intensifies” does major work here becuz it foreshadows the transforming element). Applause, too, grows gradually, before dying down.

Logic: the growth of the moss suggests spring, lushness, life, resilience, and connotes anticipatory hope, much like applause. In turn, applause modifies the nature of moss and imbues, at least this moss, with a sense of accomplishment, closure, it’s refreshment a cause for celebration.

God I love words.

~

I’ve gotten so many responses from folks the past few days asking for a deeper dive into my personal theory on metaphor.

So I'm taking a moment here to do a more in-depth mini essay since my answer to the Q/A the other day was off the cuff (I was typing while walking to my haircut appointment).

What I’m proposing, of course, is merely a THEORY, not a gospel, so please take whatever is useful to you and ignore what isn’t.

This essay will be in 25 slides. I will save this in my IG highlights after 24 hrs.

Before I begin I want to encourage everyone to forge your own theories and praxi for your work, especially if you’re a BIPOC artist.

Often, we are perceived by established powers as merely “performers,” suitable for a (brief) stint on stage—but not thinkers and creators with our own autonomy, intelligence, and capacity to question the framework in our fields.

It is not lost on me, as a yellow body in America, with the false connotations therein, where I’m often seen as diminutive, quiet, accommodating, agreeable, submissive, that I am not expected to think against the grain, to have my own theories on how I practice my art and my life.

I became a writer knowing I am entering a field (fine arts) where there are few faces like my own (and with many missing), a field where we are expected to succeed only when we pick up a violin or a cello in order to serve Euro-Centric “masterpieces.”

For so long, to be an Asian American “prodigy” in art was to be a fine-tuned instrument for Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

It is no surprise, then, that if you, as a BIPOC artist, dare to come up with your own ideas, to say “no” to what they shove/have been shoving down your throat for so long, you will be infantilized, seen as foolish, moronic, stupid, disobedient, uneducated, and untamed.

Because it means the instrument that was once in the service of their “work” has now begun to speak, has decided, despite being inconceivable to them, to sing its own songs.

I want you, I need you, to sing with me. I want to hear what you sound like when it’s just us, and you sound so much like yourself that I recognize you even in the darkest rooms, even when I recognize nothing else. And I know your name is “little brother” or “big sister,” or “light bean,” or “my-echo-returned-to-me-intact.” And I smile.

In the dark I smile.

Art has no rules—yes—but it does have methods, which vary for each individual. The following are some of my own methods and how I came to them.

I’m very happy ya’ll are so into figurative language! It’s my favorite literary device because it reveals a second IDEA behind an object or abstraction via comparison.

When done well, it creates what I call the “DNA of seeing.” That is, a strong metaphor “Greek for “to carry over”) can enact the autobiography of sight. For example, what does it say about a person who sees the stars in the night sky—as exit wounds?

What does it say about their history, their worldview, their relationship to beauty and violence? All this can be garnered in the metaphor itself—without context—when the comparative elements have strong multifaceted bonds.

How we see the world reveals who we are. And metaphors explicate that sight.

My personal feeling is that the strongest metaphors do not require context for clarity. However, this does not mean that weaker metaphors that DO require context are useless or wrong.

Weak metaphors use context to achieve CLARITY.

Strong metaphors use context to SUPPORT what’s already clear.

BOTH are viable in ANY literary text.

But for the sake of this deeper exploration into metaphors and their gradients, I will attempt to identify the latter.

I feel it is important for a writer to understand the STRENGTHS of the devices they use, even when WEAKER versions of said devices can achieve the same goal via different means.

Sometimes we want a life raft, sometimes we want a steam boat—but we should know which is which (for us).

My focus then, will be specifically the ornamental or overt metaphor. That is, metaphors that occur inside the line—as opposed to conceptual, thematic, extended metaphors, or Homeric simile (which is a whole different animal).

My thinking here begins with the (debated) theory that similes reside under metaphors. That is, (non-Homeric) similes, behave cognitively, like metaphors.

This DOES NOT mean that similes do not matter (far from it), as we’ll see later on, but that the compared elements, once read, begin to merge in the mind, resulting in a metaphoric OCCURRENCE via a simileac vehicle.

This thinking is not entirely my own, but one informed by my interest in Phenomenology. Founded by Edmund Husserl in the early 20th century and later expanded by Heidegger, Phenomenology is, in short, interested in how objects or phenomena are perceived in the mind, which renewed interest in subjectivity across Europe, as opposed to the Enlightenment’s quest for ultimate, finite truths.

By the time Husserl “discovered” this, however, Tibetan Buddhists scholars have already been practicing Phenomenology as something called Lojong, or “mind training,” for over half a millennia.

Whereas Husserl believes, in part, that a finite truth does exist but that the myopic nature of human perception hinders us from seeing all of it, Tibetan Lojong purports that no finite “truth” exists at all.

In Lojong, the world and its objects are pure perception. That is, a fly looks at a tree and sees, due to its compound eyes, hundreds of trees, while we see only one. For Buddhists, neither fly nor human is “correct” because a fixed truth is not present. Reality is only real according to one’s bodily medium.

I’m keenly interested in Lojong’s approach because it inheritably advocates for an anti-colonial gaze of the world. If objects in the real are not tenable, there is no reason they should be captured, conquered or pillaged.

In other words, we are in a “simulation” and because there is no true gain in acquiring something that is only an illusion, it is better to observe and learn from phenomena as guests passing through this world with respect to things—rather than to possess them.

The reason I bring this up is because Buddhist philosophy is the main influence of 8th century Chinese and 15th-17th century Japanese poetics, which fundamentally inform my understanding of metaphor.

While I appreciate Aristotle’s take on metaphor and rhetoric in his Poetics, particularly his thesis that strong metaphors move from species to genus, it is not a robust influence on my thinking.

After all, like sex and water, metaphors have been enjoyed by humans across the world long before Aristotle-- and evidently long after. In fact, Buddhist teachings, which widely employ metaphor and analogy, predates Aristotle by roughly 150 years.

Now, to better see how Buddhist Phenomenology informs the transformation of images into metaphor, let’s look at this poem by Moritake.

“The fallen blossom flies back to its branch. No, a butterfly.”

When considering (western-dominated) discourse surrounding analogues using “like” or “is”, is this image a metaphor or a simile?

It is technically neither. The construction of this poem does not employ metaphor or simile.

And yet, to my eye, a metaphor, although not present, does indeed HAPPEN.

What’s more, the poem, which is essentially a single metaphor, is complete.

No further context is needed for its clarity. If context is needed for a metaphor, then the metaphor is (IMO) weak—but that doesn’t mean the writing, as a whole, is bad. Weak metaphors and good context bring us home safe and sound.

Okay, so what is happening here?

By the time I read “butterfly,” my mind corrects the blossom so that the latter image retroactively changes/informs the former. We see the blossom float up, then re-see it as a butterfly. The metaphoric figuration is complete with or without “like” or “is.”

Buddhism explains this by saying that, although a text IS thought, it does not THINK. We, the readers, must think upon it. The text, then, only curates thinking.

Words, in this way, begin on the page but LIVE in the mind which, due to limited and subjective scope of human perception, shift seemingly fixed elements into something entirely new.

The key here is proximity. Similes provide buffers to mediate impact between two elements, but they do not rule over how images coincide upon reading. One the page, text is fossil; in the mind, text is life.

Nearly 5000 years after Maritake, Ezra Pound, via Fenolosa, reads Maritake’s poem and writes what becomes the seminal poem on Imagism in 1912, which was subsequently highly influential to early Modernists:

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough.”

Like Maritake, Pound’s poem technically has no metaphor or simile. However, he adds the vital colon after “crowd,” which arguably works as an “equal sign”, thereby implying metaphor. But the reason why he did not use “are” or “is” is telling.

Pound understood, like Maritake, that the metaphor would occur in the mind, regardless of connecting verbiage due to the images’ close proximity. We would come to know this as “association.”

Even if the colon was replaced by the word “like,” the transformation, though a bit slower, would still occur.

In fact, when I first studied Pound years ago, I had trouble recalling whether this poem was fashioned as a simile or not—mainly because the faces change to fully into blossoms each time I try to recall the poem.

Now, let’s look at a simile that, to me, metaphorizes in the same way as the examples above, in the line we saw before from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Jade moss on the tree intensifies, like applause.”

The origin/tenor image (moss) is connected to the transforming element (applause). This metaphor suggests, not an optical relationship, but a BEHAVIORAL one.

Both moss and applause are MASSES that accumulate via singularities: grains of moss and pairs of hands clapping to form a larger whole.

By comparing these two, Corral successfully suggests that moss grows at the RATE of applause, creating a masterful time lapse effect. Applause speeds up the moss growth, connoting rejuvenation, joy and refreshment. That something as mundane as moss deserves, even earns, jubilance, also offers a potent statement of alterity, that the smallest flourishing deserves celebration, which in turn suggests a subtle yet powerful political critique of hegemony.

The poet, through the metaphor, has recalibrated the traditional modes of value placed on the object (moss).

And no other context is needed for that.

You might disagree, but when I read Corral’s line, I don’t SEE an audience clapping BESIDE the moss. I see moss growing quickly to the sound of clapping. Although the simile is employed, the fusion of both elements completes the action in my mind’s eye.

Like Maritake and Pound, metaphor has OCCURRED here—but without “metaphor”.

HOWEVER, the simile is still VITAL. Why?

Because the transforming element is abstract (applause) and looks nothing like moss. We don’t want moss to BE applause, we want the nature of applause to inform, imbue, moss.

The line, I feel, would be quite poor if it was formed sans simile:

“Jade moss is applause on the tree.”

The “is” forces transposition, which is here akin to slamming two things together without mediation. We also lose the comparison of behavior, and are asked to see that moss BECOME applause, which doesn’t have the same meaning as the original.

So, although the simile fuses into metaphor (via association) in the mind, such a metaphor would NOT have been possible without the simile.

Similes matter greatly—as tools towards metaphor. Why?

Because (thank god) our minds are free to roam.

To summarize, one of the central strategies (and, to an extent, purposes) of the Japanese Haiku is to juxtapose two elements to test their synergy. This impulse is grounded in Shinto and Buddhist concepts of impermanence and structural malleability. That is, all things, even ideas and images, are subject to constant change—and such change is the most pervasive nature of perception.

The Haiku then becomes the perfect medium to test such changes. This principle is of central importance to me because it is rooted in non-dualistic (or non-binary) thinking.

The poem becomes the theatre in which fixed elements can be transformed, their borders subject to being dissolved, shifting towards something entirely new—to “create”, which is the Greek root to the word “poet.” The metaphor, then, is more like a chemical, whose elements (like hydrogen and oxygen), placed side by side, becomes water.

In this way, Buddhism’s influence on my work and, specifically, my use and understanding of metaphor, is a foundational QUEER praxis for alterity.

The reason why I emphasize the malleability of simile’s impact is that, although syntax and diction can aide a metaphor towards its more luminous embodiment, the ultimate key to its success is you, the observer.

YOU have look deeply and find lasting relationships between things in a disparate world.

In this sense, the practice of metaphor is also, I believe, the practice of compassion. How do I study a thing so that I might add to its life by introducing it to something else?

At its best, the metaphor is what we, as a species, have always done, at OUR best: which is to point at something or someone so different from us, so far from our own origins and say, “Yes, there IS a bond between us. And if I work long enough, hard enough, I can prove it to you—with this thing called language, this thing that weighs nothing but means everything to me.”

In the end, it is less about how you set up your metaphors (you will eventually find a way that suits it and you) but more about how you recognize your world. THAT is not easy to teach—it comes with patient practice, with a committed wonder for a world that at times might be too painful to look at. But you must and you should.

Good metaphors, in the end, come from writers who are committed to looking beyond what is already there, towards another possibility.

This calls that you see your life and your work as inexhaustible sites of discovery, and that you tend to them with care.

That’s it. That’s the true secret to a strong metaphor: care.

Lastly, I want to recommend the work of BIPOC poet and theorist, Thylias Moss, who discovered the Limited Fork Theory, a theory which suggests that the mind engages with the world, and especially with ideas, including text and art, the way the tines of a fork engage with a plate of food.

That is, only so much can be held on the work/mind with each attempt to consume, and that no “work” can be possessed in its entirety, which I find happily congruent with Lojong.

What a wonderful anti-imperialist and forgiving way to engage with our planet and its phenomena. Thank you, Mrs. Moss!

And thank YOU for sticking around through my little seminar.

I hope this has been helpful. Again, this is just my 2(5) cents! Now I’m going to sleep for four days.

In the meantime, me-ta-phors be with you.

—O

[shanie-the-toyaddict]

Stay

A Sami and Kevin Fanfic

_____________________________________________

4070 Words No Pairings Present (Zowens if you squint)

As Kevin lays in a hospital bed after Money in the Bank, he finds himself confronted by one Sami Zayn. But has Sami come to gloat? To enjoy Kevin's suffering yet again?

Or is there something else motivating his visit?

No violence or smut, but there is some foul language so, Rated T?

The worst thing about ladder matches was the fucking ladders.

Well, maybe not the ladders themselves; ladders were a useful tool in everyday life and carried no ill will of their own. But when you put them in the hands of the type of angry, violent assholes who filled the locker room of the WWE, it never ended well.

To be fair, Kevin Owens was one of those angry, violent assholes and he was happy to use the ladders to commit such acts himself but as he lay in a hospital bed in Fort Worth Texas battered, beaten, and with an injured neck that didn’t want to work courtesy of Seth Rollins powerbombing him through one of said ladders, he couldn’t help but curse the existence of the damn things.

Still, he wasn’t in much pain. He wasn’t feeling much of anything, really. Kevin was never one for painkillers outside the hospital; he'd been in the industry long enough to know that they could lead you down a dark path of no return and that was the last thing he wanted for himself or his family. But, as long as he was in the hospital, they were fine. Plus, if you got yourself into enough trouble to wind up in a hospital bed, you were likely at a point where they were a necessity.

This was one of those times.

On top of the painkillers, he was tired, so tired. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but it couldn’t have been long. Two days at the most. They’d taken the neck brace off at some point, although they’d warned him to try not to move his head much. He’d been sleeping on and off ever since arriving, but it never seemed to help. He wanted to sleep more, the utter exhaustion from the past few months having caught up with him.

His body was broken. Between his injured arm, his injured knee, and now his injured neck, he was ready for a vacation. He’d intended on taking one several weeks back but Sami, that infuriating bastard, couldn’t be left alone for more than a week. Kevin had been drawn back in again, this time for a Last Man Standing match, in an effort to end Sami’s reign of terror once and for all.

It hadn’t worked. He’d beaten Sami down until he couldn’t get up again, sure. But his original goal of fixing Sami went unfulfilled, and Kevin realized it always would. You couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to be helped and it was clear Sami didn’t want his help. He was too deranged and paranoid to see that Kevin gave a damn and, whatever, it was what it was. Kevin was shit at trying to help people anyway, he had no idea what made him think he could help Sami in the first place.

Best just to leave him to his insanity. He’d burn himself out eventually.

Hopefully.

Still, a break was a break, nearly literally in this case, and as he lay in the hospital bed half asleep, he couldn’t help but think that the room would be better with company. And as he stared up at the ceiling of the hospital room, contemplating another nap, he got his wish... in the worst way possible.

Kevin heard him before he saw him.

“You're an asshole, Kevin Owens,” he heard the voice say as he entered the room.

Kevin’s eyes shifted over to look towards the door.

Yep, it was definitely Sami Zayn, as bitter as ever.

Kevin squeezed his eyes shut.

Great, he thought, completely disgusted, the last fucking person I wanted to see.

“Go away,” he grumbled. His voice was raspy and weak and it only served to piss him off more. Being weak was never something Kevin tolerated from himself and being weak in front of Sami? Unacceptable.

Still, Kevin knew he didn’t have the strength left for the appropriate amount of rage warranted, so he would just have to make do with what he could give. Staring up at the ceiling once more, Kevin responded.

“I’m not dealing with your shit today,” he told Sami. “I’m tired. Whatever the hell you want, it can wait till Friday.”

A chuckle escaped Sami’s throat as he replied, “Oh, and I care so much about what you want. Really, I do. Oh, hang on, no I don't.”

Kevin sighed. If he’d had the strength, he’d already be out of his bed, strangling the lunatic. It was true that Kevin cared about Sami, but as he’d stated before, Sami wasn't Sami anymore. At the very least, he wasn’t his Sami. His Sami was an angel, kind, loving, protective, and all the things that Kevin secretly wished the powers of the universe had given him the capacity to be. But this new Sami? He was one big ball of psycho and just being around the bastard made Kevin want to throttle him.

But the truth was, there was nothing he could do about Sami being there. Sure, he could call the nurse to have him removed, but Sami would just cause a scene like he always did, and Kevin didn’t need any more stress. The best option was to ignore him until he went away.

He closed his eyes once more and said nothing.

Fuck him, he thought.

He feeds off attention. Don’t give it to him.

Kevin heard Sami drag a chair across the floor to sit down beside him.

“Besides,” Sami said, “I’m loving the look. You stuck in a hospital bed? It’s such a wonderful birthday present. A bit late, but really, great job, Kevin. A for effort. You outdid yourself this year.”

There was something about the tone in Sami’s voice, something that Kevin couldn’t quite put his finger on. Kevin pushed it from his mind. Whatever new flavor of insanity Sami had brewing he didn’t care.

Still, Sami didn’t shut up.

“I mean, I’m sure that’s what it was. A birthday present. At the very least it’s a gift from the universe. Karma for everything you’ve done to me. And it is so sweet. Sweet, beautiful Karma.”

Kevin was rapidly losing his patience. He wasn’t going to shut up. Granted, he never did, but like an idiot, Kevin had hoped this was the exception.

Mustering up all the energy he could but still not looking at Sami, Kevin responded, “Is that why you came? To gloat?”

“Gloat? Gloat?” said Sami, the mania not leaving his voice, “Why wouldn’t I? It isn’t like you didn’t try to break my back two weeks ago.Again. I mean, I have to hand it to you, credit for staying true to form. It isn’t enough to betray me time and time again, the consistency for you trying to end my career is admirable.”

There was definitely something about Sami’s tone. Kevin was trying valiantly to try and ignore it but the more the redhead ranted, the harder it got. Through the weariness, Kevin tried to place it. Once upon a time, he’d have been able to read Sami like a book without the need for words or other lesser means of communication. But whatever hellscape Sami’s mind had become, there was no understanding him anymore, even with words. Still, Kevin needed to try.

Anger? Well, that was surface level and to be expected. Hate? Again, par for the course between them. Regret? Possibly, but they’d put each other through so much by that point that their entire history was coated with regret. It was nothing new for either of them and it wasn’t what he was hearing now.

“Although, I have to say, Kevin,” Sami continued, “trying to end your own career? Odd choice. Brave, and entirely on point for your level of bullshit but still – odd choice.”

As the statement left Sami’s lips, the tonal shift became more evident than ever and, suddenly, Kevin realized what was happening.

Concern. That’s what was burning at the edges of Sami’s voice. Concern.

Suddenly, Kevin couldn’t avoid looking at Sami any longer. Pushing through the grogginess and haze, he turned his head to look at his former best friend. As he did, Kevin realized that, as tired as he felt, Sami somehow looked even more tired. His face was haggard and his already wild curls looked messier than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple of days and the sight caught Kevin off guard like a kick to the stomach.

Still, Kevin didn’t care. He knew he didn’t. Not even a little and if he could just convince himself of it long enough for Sami to leave...

“You look like shit,” Kevin said.

Sami’s eyes fell to the floor, the façade starting to break. “So do you.”

Kevin couldn’t deny it anymore. Sami was worried about him.

And somehow, that made everything so much worse.

Don’t say anything,Kevin’s mind was screaming. Just let him leave. Don’t engage, don’t say a word...

“Are you... worried about me?” Kevin asked, despite himself.

Goddammit.

“NO!” Sami replied fervently, shaking his head as his eyes darted off in another direction. “No, of course – no, no! Why would I – no. No.”

It was far too many “no’s” to be a denial.

After a moment, Sami settled down again, his eyes once more on the floor. There was a knot tying itself up in Kevin’s gut, a familiar ache that Kevin loathed with every fiber of his being. He hated that knot, but he could never seem to escape it. As much as he told himself, swore to himself that he didn’t care, it always came back. With every stunner, every beatdown, every apron powerbomb atrocity he committed against Sami, he felt it. He’d fought against the feeling for over a decade by that point but it was relentless, carving up his insides and leaving him empty.

It felt a hell of a lot like guilt.

Kevin watched as Sami rubbed his face with his hands.

“Sami...” he said warily, but he was immediately cut off.

“I mean, I hate you!” Sami exclaimed, his voice turning wild once more. “I hate you with every fiber of my being! Every part of me, every single strand, every single sinew stands in defiance against you and what you have spent your life doing to me. You represent everything that is wrong with the WWE, and you are everything that is wrong with my life! You’ve been holding me down for so long, why the hell do I care?!”

For a moment, Sami’s crazed eyes locked with Kevin's, and Kevin realized two things immediately. First, Sami had accidentally replaced the word “would” with “do” in his rant and, second, Sami knew that he had and suddenly needed a way out of it. As quickly as they met, Sami’s eyes were gone again, slammed shut, and turned away from Kevin.

“I don’t care,” he muttered. “I really, really don’t. I just -”

Sami tensed up for a moment as if trying to restrain himself from something before letting out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair, and relaxing slightly. He was still pointedly avoiding Kevin’s gaze and as Sami rubbed his nose with his hand a nagging thought crept into Kevin’s mind.

It was the kind of thought that, were things different between them, might have meant something. The kind of thought that, was Kevin’s heart not already hardened against his former friend, might have given him hope. It was the kind of thought that chewed at your soul, stabbed you in the chest, and left you feeling raw and gutted inside.

He knew he should ignore it and any other lies like it. They couldn’t be true, the universe was too indifferent to muster up that level of cruelty. Were Kevin a wiser man, he’d have thrown the idea into the metaphorical dumpster, tossed in a burning match, and slammed the lid shut. But when it came to Sami Zayn, Kevin had never been a wise man, and the thought kept building and building until it was roaring like a freight train in his brain.

Somehow, the thought told him, likely against his will and buried deep in the shattered and broken mind of his ex-best friend, Sami still loved him.

It was a horrible thought, and as it tore through Kevin like a chainsaw he realized that a far worse fact lay buried beneath that.

Despite everything he had convinced himself of, all of the violence and aggression, rage and bitterness, he felt the same way.

Fuck.

Kevin stared at Sami, the silence between them almost tactile. It was no good. Kevin knew as much. Whatever they might have had long ago, it was gone now. Whose fault it was didn’t matter, although he knew in his heart it was mostly his. His friend, his Sami, the man he loved so much and who Kevin once would have gladly laid down his life for knowing that he would do the same, was gone. Immolated and turned to ash amidst a thousand paranoias, conspiracies, and obsessions. But as Sami sat beside his bed, his shoulders slumped and what Kevin swore looked like tears in his eyes, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a chance, some excruciatingly small chance that they could be mended; Made whole once more.

Put back together.

They sat in silence for several long, agonizing minutes and Kevin watched as Sami fought the moisture in his eyes, steeling himself before finally shaking his head, scrubbing his face and eyes with his hands roughly, and hunching over in defeat.

Kevin couldn’t hold it in any longer. He had to say something, anything to break the tension.

What came out of his mouth was a question.

“Are you alright?”

Such a stupid question.

Sami didn’t respond at first, and Kevin watched as he bit his lip angrily before, strangely, he let out a small chuckle. Then another, followed by a laugh, and before Kevin could react, Sami was laughing. Rising, escalating laughter that reeked of the insanity Sami had been suffering from for so long. Crazed, maniacal laughter that shook Sami's whole body, and, as he cackled, he started shouting.

“Am I ok?” he hollered, “Am I ok? The man in the hospital bed asks me if I am ok!”

Anger filtered into Kevin's heart. What the hell was the asshole laughing at him for, all he asked was...

Sami bolted to his feet kicking the chair out from under him.

“YOU DIDN’T MOVE!” Sami cried out, and suddenly, he wasn’t laughing anymore.

Kevin’s eyes went wide as Sami’s laughter choked and sputtered turning into something that was entirely different and burned itself into Kevin’s brain.

“You didn’t move!” repeated Sami, waving his hands as the tears in his eyes threatened to spill over, “You landed on your head, bent in half and you didn’t move! I mean, it was just for a second, but I thought...”

Kevin wanted to say something, anything to calm Sami down, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth and the words got caught in his throat.

Sami’s words were soaked with pain as he continued. “... I don’t know why the fuck it matters, anyway, we aren’t friends. You didn’t... I don’t think we ever were, you just used me, used us for years until you were done with me and - and then... but we...”

Sami trailed off and Kevin watched as he fought to regain control. It struck Kevin as odd that he was fighting, that he was even trying to calm down. Sami had been ranting and raving for so long that Kevin had assumed he’d just stopped giving a damn about civility. But standing at Kevin’s bedside, Sami’s hands were now clenched into tight fists at his sides, with his body stiff, his eyes closed, and a face straining under the pressure to keep it together.

And, somehow, the impossible occurred.

Sami succeed.

Kevin watched the visible signs of Sami’s battle against his own mind start to subside and an uneasy calm fell over the redhead. Sami relaxed a bit, taking several long breaths before continuing.

When he did, he sounded nothing like the Sami that Kevin had grown accustomed to. He wasn’t Kevin’s Sami either but, somehow, it was as if a middle ground had been reached.

“I know it was Seth,” Sami told him. “Seth powerbombed you, that – you didn’t choose that, and I can’t hold it against you. It happens. But even on Smackdown, with the ladder there, and all the other crazy shit you’ve been doing? You’re going to injure yourself. End your career. Or worse…”

Sami trailed off once more, wiping his wet eyes.

Kevin knew Sami had a point, some of his antics from the past few years had reached new and creative levels of stupidity, outpacing the risks he so willingly took in his younger years. And yes, time and time again, he’d managed to injure himself in the process.

Still, it wasn’t all on his shoulders and Kevin’s jaw was tight as he replied.

“You know, I remember someone shoving me through a pair of tables a couple weeks ago,” he said.

Sami’s eyes were once more on his shoes as he responded.

“I remember some asshole powerbombing me through a pair as well. You wouldn’t happen to know who that was, would you?”

There was so much hurt in Sami’s voice that it broke Kevins’ heart. The anger was feeling dissipated and KO could feel his soul shattering into hundreds of mirrored fragments, shards of a past, present, and future devoured by fury and hatred, each reflecting back a stark reminder of who caused this, who was to blame.

He’d done this. He was the one who turned Sami into who he was now. Sure, the mental breakdown had a hand in it but Sami’s fall from grace was entirely on Kevin. He was the one who dragged Sami into his world all those years ago, determined to “fix him” and “bring him to the light”. All he had done was pull his best friend into a darkness that Sami had yet to come back from.

And still, as far as Sami had fallen, as much as he had crashed and burned, somehow Kevin was still managing to hurt him more.

Kevin’s voice was low when he finally responded.

“I never meant to -” Kevin paused for a moment, modifying the sentence in his brain, “ - worry you. Sorry.”

Sami scowled, shaking his head. “Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it, Kev. Not anymore. We have gone so far past sorry. So damn far.”

Kevin tried valiantly to shut down the part of his brain that was screaming at him. They’d gone too far, it was true. Anything they might have once had was irreparably broken. His gut was twisting as he realized it but there was a voice in his brain screaming at him to try anyway. Do whatever it took. Apologize more. Get on his knees to ask forgiveness. Plead. Beg. Hell, just kiss the guy if that’s what it took. Whatever was necessary to bring Sami back into his life. Sure, his Sami might be gone forever, but watching Sami struggle not to care, fighting back tears as Kevin lay in a hospital bed?

Part of Kevin believed that there might be enough of his Sami left to pretend they were ok.

And, at the moment, that part was winning.

Looking over at his former friend, Kevin’s brown eyes were full of love as he spoke his name once more.

“Sami...” he said.

The way the name came out, passing over his lips like a tragic reminder of what once was and what he wished could be again. It was a promise that Kevin would never give up on Sami, regardless of what new hells they might put each other through. A sacred oath that no matter what fate or any other force might do to them, Kevin would keep fighting to save them both.

Worst of all, Kevin knew it was a prayer. A prayer that, against all odds, there was something still worth fighting for.

That’s what you do with angels, isn’t it, he thought, the regret in his heart twisting like a serrated blade.

You pray to them.

Sami’s eyes returned to Kevin’s once more and KO realized that he was right. There was so much hurt, rage, and yes, insanity there in those hazel orbs. But Kevin had spent so long staring into them over the last two decades that he knew, in his heart, that his guardian angel wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

Fallen, yes.

But not dead.

And at that moment, Sami’s fight against the tears in his eyes was lost and they brimmed over, rolling down his cheeks.

“Don’t,” Sami said, his voice equally as sad as Kevin’s, “Just... don’t.”

“What?” Kevin asked.

Sami’s voice was cracking as he replied. “Don’t talk like we’re friends.”

Despite himself, a smile began to break through Kevin’s soul-torn expression

“I just said your name,” he said.

“I know.”

For the briefest of moments, Kevin thought he saw Sami smile in return when, just as before, the moment was wrenched from him as Sami broke away, turning his head aggressively to send a clear message that he was having no part of Kevin’s attempt at kindness.

“No,” said Sami firmly, “No, this isn’t happening. You don’t get off that easily, you shithead. We’re done here.”

Without looking back, Sami turned and started walking towards the door.

“Stay,” Kevin blurted out before he could stop himself.

God, you’re hopeless.

Sami stopped in his tracks, still facing the door.

“Why,” he asked. “Give me one good reason.”

Sleep was beginning to wash over Kevin. He fought it, he had to. He wasn’t ready to let go of... whatever the hell was happening between them. He had to stay awake, even if it was only until Sami was gone.

He didn’t want it to end.

“I’m waiting,” Sami said. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t just walk away.”

There was no anger or attitude in his voice and Kevin couldn’t help but think Sami sounded as tired as he felt.

“Because I... I want you to stay,” Kevin admitted. It was all he had.

With a bitter chuckle, Sami turned his head sideways to say over his shoulder, “I said a good reason.”

His voice weary with pain and exhaustion, Kevin said, “I don’t have one. Stay anyway.”

Kevin watched as Sami tensed up for a moment as if ready to throw attitude once more before he slumped and let out one final shaky breath. Wordlessly, he turned around and, retrieving the chair from where he’d kicked it, set it upright and sat down.

Nothing more was said. It was better that way.

Looking one final time at Sami in the chair, Kevin couldn’t fight the need for sleep any longer. He wanted to memorize the sight, Sami beside him for the first time in years peacefully and without them hurling insults, powerbombs, or helluva kicks at each other.

It wouldn’t last; Kevin knew that and Sami had to as well. By Friday, none of it would matter, they would be back to hating each other. Or, even worse, not caring at all.

At least when Sami was wailing on him, Kevin was close to him. Fight forever, that’s what they always said. When he was fighting Sami, they communicated on a level few could hope to comprehend. At Wrestlemania, there was an energy in the air, as if they’d found a canvas to paint a masterpiece on that would rival the greatest works of Rembrandt or Van Gogh. When he fought Sami, it still felt like home.

Sami loving him was the greatest gift of all. Sami fighting him was a close second. But indifference?

That was the worst fate imaginable.

And as sleep started to consume him, Kevin gave a silent prayer to any angel that was listening, Sami or otherwise, that that wasn’t the future that awaited him when he woke up.

The heavy silence between them faded away to foggy nothingness, and Kevin felt himself drift away.

The final thing he registered before unconsciousness took him was the feeling of a hand wrapping around his own.

[roselightfairy]

On the topic of hurt/comfort fics, do we have any Gimli/Legolas hurt comfort fics where Legolas is the one that needs comforting? Like dealing with his sea-longing and needing snuggles or he's pushing himself too hard and Gimli needs to remind him to sleep/take care of himself because even the tireless have limits, or Legolas crying over anything in general and Gimli coming to the rescue?

All right, so there are a lot more of these out there than the Gimli ones. We as a fandom do love our Legolas whump, and it was tough to cut down this list – but I tried to go for more the emotional side of h/c, which is a favorite of mine for the two of them. (Gimli physically injured; Legolas in emotional distress – that’s where it’s at!) A physical h/c fic or two did slip in, though, so I divided these into three main sections: one that deals with sea-longing, one that deals with war-related trauma, and one “other” category. As a reminder, this is not a catch-all list – again, Legolas might well be the whole fandom’s favorite whumpee – but these are some of the ones that first popped up in my mind at your request.

Sea-longing:

and yet the sea calls (series) by Laura JV (jacquez)

Summaries: [Gimli/Legolas] loves, and yet the sea calls.

…

This is a set of lovely vignettes (two stories, one from Legolas’s perspective and one from Gimli’s) about learning to live and love with the sea-longing between them, and to find comfort in one another as best they can. These stories make me feel so very many feelings and are constant rereads when I want to feel the bittersweet (but mostly sweet!) that is their love.

A Beloved Ballast, an Untethered Soul by katajainen

Summary: Gimli has spent long months on the new gates of Minas Tirith, all the while waiting for Legolas to return to him from the North.

But when he does, it's clear the year has not been altogether kind to his husband.

…

This is one of my favorites of a lot of things – a wonderful, gentle reunion in Minas Tirith after their separation after the war, Legolas worn from sea-longing and finally finding home in his husband’s arm, warm comfort and some very romantic smut. Please read it; you will not regret it.

Everything That Mattered Is Dust by SerStolas

Summary: A decade ago, the One Ring was destroyed. A decade ago, Gimli and Legolas traveled together first to the Glittering Caves and then to Fangorn. A decade ago, both of them failed to admit their deeper emotions for each other. Now they meet again in Minas Tirith during renovations on the city. But not all is well with Legolas.

Inspired by Through the Ghost by Shinedown.

…

This is another lovely story with a similar theme to the previous – but without the established relationship, so we get a very sweet love confession instead. Very gentle and loving and satisfying; this gets me right in the hurt/comfort feelings. <3

Where You Go, I Will Go by UnnamedElement

Summary: Lady Galadriel's message was a riddle too twisted for a Wood-elf and a Dwarf to initially unwind... This is a story of a friendship fraught with mutual ignorance: the concessions a dwarf makes to an elf, and the choices that elf makes for their peculiar friendship. It is how Legolas and Gimli pass through the threat of death to find, together, a better truth. (March 2016 Teitho)

…

Look, I don’t know if this is hurt/comfort as such, but it certainly comforts ME to read. This is a lovely little exploration of the sea-longing and how it changes Legolas and Gimli’s friendship – and in fact brings them closer together. It’s gen, nominally, but it’s so tender you won’t miss the romance (and I feel comfortable saying that because of multiple conversations with @unnamedelement on the subject!).

The Language of Power by Thewriternumber19238478356

Summary: It's the night before the march on the Black Gate. But sea-longing won't let Legolas sleep. Gimli offers him a secret dwarven practice that might just be the solution…

…

This is an underappreciated and really wonderful story, but contains some non-sexual BDSM, so be warned for that. It’s extremely tender and plays with the notion of power in dominance/submission with respect and love for the practice and the characters. It’s archive-locked, so you’ll need an account to read it, but I really do have such love for this story and I highly recommend it.

War-related:

A Night Beclouded by katajainen

Summary: Night falls after the fighting is done on the Pelennor Fields. For those left alive, it should be an hour for respite, for catching one's breath.

But there is the kind of darkness that seeps under one's skin, the kind not born of mere absence of sunlight, and this is not a time to be alone.

…

This is such quiet, atmospheric tenderness – comforting someone after a nightmare is such a wonderful trope, and @katajainen does it with all her usual sensitivity and care. A bit of pre-relationship sweetness and warm comfort – and honestly, it was a struggle to keep it to two fics by katajainen on this list; please go read all her stories!

Shared Spaces by mssileas

Summary: I know you think I'm a little different But I'm still somebody's son.

The night before marching on the Black Gate, neither of them can sleep.

…

Okay, so I adore this fic. I have a soft spot for any fics that focus on how Legolas must feel about Sauron and the origin of orcs, and this is a wonderful fic that deals with those ideas, as well as pre-battle anxiety, and Legolas and Gimli taking comfort in one another. Lots of lovely hand-touching and some very sweet kissing, too. <3

A time and times and half a time by Honesty

Summary: AU. Legolas, imprisoned by Saruman, discovers *exactly* how Orcs were made .... While Gimli keeps a vigil he will never forget.

…

Similar themes as the last one, though taken WAY over the edge past hurt/comfort and into serious hurt territory. Be careful with this one, because there’s a lot of pain for Legolas – warning for physical and psychological torture - but the love between him and Gimli is so powerful and all-consuming, it carries the story and provides the much-needed comfort at the end, though you’ll probably still be aching.

Comfort after Endurance by spinel

Summary: The battle of Helm's Deep takes its toll on Legolas. A stolen moment between the end of the battle at Helm's Deep and riding to Isengard.

…

Pre-relationship sweetness, comfort after battle. This one skirts the lines of physical and emotional hurt/comfort, combining the two with the soothing effect of touch and closeness after great trials. Lots of tender handling of one another – no explicit relationship content, but definitely little hints of more to come here and there. ;)

Other:

inkstains by apricae

Summary: Legolas isn't much good at reading, and an attempt at a learning his letters with Gimli turns into a revelation.

(Or: The one in which Legolas is dyslexic and sad, Gimli is a very good husband, and Dwarves are a lot better than Elves at handling disabilities.)

…

I am very big on neurodivergent Legolas in all its forms, and I love this dyslexic-Legolas headcanon a lot. Emotional distress and childhood trauma – but luckily, Legolas has a very kind, loving dwarf husband to talk him down and help him through.

Tainted Meat by lynndyre

Summary: On the road between Helm's Deep and Isengard, mistakes are made with supplies.

For the BloodyValentine prompt: someone feeds orc food to an elf, making them really sick.

…

This is one of my favorite underappreciated fics out there – I find that it really gets the way Legolas and Gimli are portrayed once they start meeting up with armies and other men: they are a bubble of two, responsible for one another’s comfort and supporting one another without question. In this fic, Legolas (and half the Rohirrim) are struck with food poisoning, and while the men deal with the aftermath, Legolas is so very much Gimli’s charge, and it’s so tender and lovely and wonderful. Gen, nominally, but it gets the particular something between them in canon that I so love. (It also fits with a line Gimli says in Two Towers about refusing to touch any orc supplies!)

 Teeth Like Knives by Evandar

Summary: Gimli wasn't expecting to have to stitch Legolas back together after their first attempt at lovemaking, but now that the initial shock has worn off, he can't say that he's surprised.

…

This is part of a larger series that involves half-orc Legolas, and all of it has some very wonderful emotional hurt/comfort. But this is my favorite of the series because of how good and gentle and wonderful Gimli is with Legolas’s existential crises and hurting himself on accident. Please do mind the tags, since this subject matter may not be for everyone, but I adore the sensitivity with which these topics are handled and reread this for comfort. <3

…

As always, if you enjoy any of these fics, please let the author know with a comment if you have capacity! Also, I encourage you to reblog this list so that we can spread the good word. :)

[vampiresuns]

Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva

Anatole has changed a bit as a character since i was around the first time, so he’s getting re introduced. His open to make friends.

art by @elizastarkart​

Name: Aelius Anatole Radoševic De Silva. He has two surnames because his mother is latina. He is a mixed Latine-Slav, with family that is all latine, vesuvian, and slavic. People he’s friend’s with call him Anatole (russian/greek pronunciation, he doesn’t acknowledge the French one). Only people he has a strictly professional relationship with, and his uncle call him Aelius.

‘Aelius’ means sun, while ‘Anatole’ means sunrise. He’s fully aware of this, he chose his name himself.

His nicknames are:

‘Nana’ is the most common nickname, and the one most people use.

His mother calls him Lilito, Nana, Nanito, Toly, Tolito, Tortolito.

His father calls him Lily or Lilu.

Toly, Tolytoly or Tolito are nicknames used by his maternal grandmother, his aunt, and his Vesuvian family.

He will not mind if you want to call him Toly, but you cannot call him Lily/Lilu if you’re not his father.

Asra came up with Nanatole, which he doesn’t like but lets Asra call him anyway. Asra also came up with Nana Banana and that is absolutely forbidden.

Family: on his father’s side both the Radošević, who are slavic (yugoslavic, specifically), and the Cassano, a prominent Vesuvian family who has had a hold of the Consulship for years.

On his mother side, the De Silva.

His father’s name is Vladislav, but everyone calls him Vlad, he’s an alchemist, a polymath, and works in what is most similar to biochemical engineering. He has one bother, named Valeriy, who you, however, might now as Valerius. Vlad’s biggest personality trait is being head over heels in love with his wife, and adoring his son more than he thought it was humanly possible to care about someone.

His mother’s name is Louisa De Silva (if you want to add her mother’s surname, it’s Lascal). The L-o-u spelling was a registry mistake she never changed. She moved half across the world while her native country suffer a military-civilian dictatorship to study Medicine. She swore never to go back as long as vestiges of said dictatorship remained in the country. She has two sisters: Paris, who lives in Vesuvia, and Alma, who remained with her parents out of her own choosing. Her medical experience include having been a volunteer war doctor. She didn’t change her surname when she got married.

The Radošević (pronounced Radozheveech) and the Cassano have been entangled families by friendship for generations upon generations, with some marriages between them. Notoriously: Vlad and Val’s father married a Cassano, Matilda, and his bother Mircea, Anatole’s great uncle, also married a Cassano: Florentino. Mircea’s brother and Matilda Cassano died when Vlad and Val were children still, so him and Florentino brought them up.

The Radošević are an overall eccentric family (think the european Addams family), whom are noted for: one, their self-sufficiency/self-preservation, which comes out in a very ‘eccentric people of the world unite’ manner. They appreciate people with character. Two, their leanings towards trades/professions, they do not conceive not doing anything (work hard to play hard). The Cassano, while sharing the quirk, they add the zest for life. It’s like they grabbed the Radošević and told them “you have forgotten how to live and we will remind you how.” Both of them are ridden with racially ambiguous bastard you cannot kill in any way that matters. They simply refuse to. Someone (either the courtiers or Lucio) compared them to roaches, they took it as a compliment.

This will tell you a lot about Anatole’s character.

On a last note, Anatole’s an only child. He has a good relationship with his parents, albeit marked by a sense of distance, solely because he was privately tutored from age 15 and on, which required him to travel a fair share. He was an argumentative teenager, but always cherished whenever he could see his parents. The older he gets, the closer they all become.

Favourite Food: Cake

Favourite drink: Coffee, in general.

Favourite Flower: Iris

Birthday: Nov 1st

Age: 29 (I calculate his age as if he had been born in 1991)

Zodiac:

Sun: Scorpio

Moon: Virgo

Rising: Libra

Mercury & Mars: Scorpio

Venus: Virgo

Patron arcana: Strength & Ace of Swords

Strength

Upright: inner strength, bravery, compassion, focus, Reversed: self doubt, weakness, insecurity      

Ace of Swords

Upright: breakthrough, clarity, sharp mind, Reversed: confusion, brutality, chaos

MBTI Type: INTJ-A

Gender: Transmasculine, but Nonbinary. Uses He/Him pronouns only

Orientation: Identifies as NBLM.

LIs: Julian, Muriel, @ilyamatic​‘s Andrico, @thelazaretmakesmesad​‘s Vishal.

“The sun-like strategist with a solution for everything, and a whole lot of hope in the future.”

More details under the cut!

Physical appearance:

art by @lesbianarcana​

5′4. As you can see in the sprite down below, while he’s slim but with muscle, out of doing a moderate to high level of physical activity. The man has a nice waist and inherited his mother’s hips, which he’s very proud of. He likes his legs and his butt the most about himself

Dark brown eyes, long eyelashes. His hair is naturally black, but he dyes it blond.

Has a mole over his right eyebrow, on the left side of the bridge of his nose, and on his left jaw. He has freckles.

An horizontal scar on his nose, which he got by getting hit with a wooden scaffold square in the face. His nose wasn’t broken out of sheer dumb luck. He has a smaller cut on his cheekbone, which was done by a fencing sabre which lacked the proper tip protection/button. It was done onto him by someone else.

The nose scar is how he met Julian before the plague, as he was the doctor which cured his face.

He has several tattoos:

Right arm: A rapier on his inner forearm. Over his elbow he has a black work band, and over it the words ‘THE SUN IS MY UNDOING’ in all caps, circling his arm.

Left arm: a snake wrapped around his forearm, near to the wrist. The Odyssey quote ‘let’s have a toast to the incompetence of our enemies’ under the inner crook of his elbow, and a floral half sleeve.

Chest and Torso: AMOR OMNIA VINCIT over where his heart is supposed to be. He has laurel leaves on the base of his waist.

Legs: ‘o serpent heart hid with a flowering face‘ in his upper, inner thigh, like really up his left inner thigh. A floral anklet on his right ankle.

Languages Spoken: Too many. He speaks nine languages.

Magic Specialities: His magic is connected to both light and languages (it is a play on words with ‘logos’) so he is both adept in photokinesis — he is able to create and manipulate sources of light — and language related magic — which includes incantation and language manipulation. He learns languages as a faster rate than most people, and while he cannot speak or literally understand a language unless he learns it, his magic allows him to intuitively grasp the meaning of words that are being spoken to him.

This capacity also makes him very good at recognising hidden intentions in people. This is not an ability that he broadcasts having, and when he later succeeds Valerius as the Consul, it is something which aids his diplomatic work but he keeps private.

His words tend to carry more weight sometimes because of his magic, something which he can’t always control — it depends on many factors — so he tries to choose his words carefully and with consideration.

His familiar is a Raccoon, named Antu.

Occupation: While he did study magic and is in touch with his magic, he studied politics, diplomacy and international relations. By trade, and out of will to help people, he is a political analyst and, later in life, a Statesman.

Personality/Trivia:

Willpower or Stubbornness? Depends how you look at it. Passionate, generally devoted, hopeful, independent and sometimes defiant. He is a people-oriented introvert. Competitive, but not aggressively so.

Smarter than he gives himself credit for. Overall charming, even debonair.

Curious by nature, hates having his decisions taken for him.

He is proper, sometimes even distinguished, but he is feral. A firm believer in being kind and compassionate with people, until you cross him one too many times, then nothing will make him taint his vindictive wrath.

Is he humble? For the most part. His humbleness comes from knowing his own limits and knowing he’s not infallible. He does have, however, a good deal of pride in himself and trust in what he can do, and he doesn’t like being underestimated.

He’s not particularly loud, though when the chatterbox is on, then it is on, specially if he’s nervous. He is often never still. 

He’s known he has ADHD since he was seventeen.

Likes dancing.

He fences, almost every Radošević fences/sword fights, and he will let you know at the slightest chance. Which can be either him simply being hyper-fixated in fencing, him flirting, or him letting you know that if the occasion rises, he’s armed.

Friend shaped, lover shaped if you’re daring enough.

He wrinkles his nose when he doesn’t like something.

Speaking of which: he doesn’t like abuse of power, the Court, injustice, supremacists of any kind, unkind, hurtful and selfish people in general; he doesn’t like red meat (he says it tastes like metal or dirt), narrow minded people, incompetence, specially when displayed by people in positions of power, and purposeful apathy.

A mastermind archetype, but he draws his power from connection. He does not conceive a life not lived with others.

A bit of a bastard, he enjoys a good laugh.

He plays the piano and the harp, he sings, he cannot draw, he’s a lightweight when it comes to alcohol (which doesn’t really stop him), he likes the opera because he likes watching other people’s drama without being dragged into it, and his favourite season is winter. Also likes playing chess, reading, coffee, flowers, a well tailored outfit, learning, languages, the sea, mysteries, winter, a well laid argument, collecting quills, music, winning, knowing he loves and is loved in return.

When he was 7 he bribed his dad for more dessert, and he ate so much he vomited. His sweet tooth hasn’t gone anywhere, it is alive and well.

Perceptive little bastard, will knife cat you for the sake of it. He has a way more present sense of humour than what he comes across.

Would call himself a ‘trans masculine Mary Poppins’.

He is closest to his parents, his uncle, my other ocs Leonore, Medea and Sabine, his cousins Amparo Cassano and Milenko Radošević, Natiqa, Asra, Portia and Nadia.

If he liked women, he would be paired with Nadia. The possibility both terrifies and fascinates me.

@ilyamatic​, @viviae​, @gaybirdwrites​, @arcanaprentiss​ @apprenticeofcups​

[letfatewritethewords]

I process things with art. I process with written words in the hopes that one day it can be spoken without my voice shaking. This week has been one for the books.. and I decided to share. This is long, but I want to remember what I’m learning.. how I’m processing.. if you decide to read, thank you. If not, this will still be here as a reminder of my progress every year.

I always tell people that there was no reason for my name, but it’s a lie. I’m named after Samantha on BeWitched. My grandfather loved that show and suggested it when my mother couldn’t decide. I was born in early September and that makes me a Virgo. Astrology is one of my favorite things. There’s something extraordinary about the idea that we’re connected to the universe by the positioning of the stars. Sometimes it’s so vague.. but other times, it’s right on the nose and my horoscopes will make me cry. Speaking of that, I’m an empath and a 2. When I’m unhealthy, I’m a 4 and If you know what any of that means, I’d love to talk to you more about it. Winter is my favorite season. Fall is a close second. I love the snow and how muted everything is. I like the quiet, the beauty. Sometimes, the light from the sun will shimmer off a fresh coat of snow on the ground. It is absolutely blinding, but I’d still stare, and when the snow fell at night, I’d watch it under the street light across from my house and it felt like time stood still. When I was little, I would lay in the yard full of snow, alone, in my puffy suite, until my fingers and toes would go numb from the cold, listening to the silence, but the best part of those days was going back into my grandparents house and warming up with hot coco made on the stove, wrapping myself in a soft blanket and watching old movies with my grandfather. To me, the Winter is magical. My love languages are Quality Time and Acts of Service. I’m an introvert but I love people. I like to observe, I like to really understand how the mind works and Im eager to help. I thrive in controlled chaos. I like puzzles, I love music, I like crafts, I like to fix things because grandpa always taught me that nothing is to broken to fix. Nothing. No one.

This is the light. This is the part of me that I give willingly to anyone I meet. I wear it on my sleeve. It’s only the light. Until the last 2 years.. this was all I could give of myself because I’ve always been scared of the dark.

The darkest part of me lasted 8 years, my rock bottom lasted 4.5, but as a whole it’s taken up almost 12 years of my life. Sometimes I worry that all I'm ever going to be is this thing that happened to me. That this will define me for the rest of my life and I need to remind myself that I’m a person that can live separate from an event.

I went to the police station this week, I filled out more forms. I’ve filled out so many forms over the last 2 years. For an emergency restraining order this time. For Florida this time. I knew it would eventually follow me here but typhus felt too soon. The clerk called me brave. I smile and thank them every time but I never know how to respond to that. She has no idea how weak it feels and I mean.. how could she. This is the right choice, the obvious choice, the smart choice. In a different situation, it’s one of the many steps I’d be urging someone else to take. In all the chaos, all the hurt, in all the anger and sadness.. it always circles back to “I loved him”. I did. I wanted to fix him. I wanted to see him grow and heal and if I loved him hard enough for the both of us, it would’ve evened out eventually… right?

I failed.

He was always who he was, but I was young and naive and ready to fix the whole world. When I was 18 and we were free, I would’ve told you he saved me. Now that I’m in my 30’s… and he’s in prison and I’m in limbo.. I don’t know what I’d tell you. He didn’t save me, but he didn’t destroy me either. I had every opportunity to tap out and give up.. but I grew into a person I might not have been if I never met him.

Am I angry? All of the time.

Am I scared? Yes.

I see things more clearly now though. People talk about how you never know someone’s story, and that’s because we are experts at playing pretend like we have it all figured out until we’re alone and have to face truest selves. The facade is the hardest thing to give up. Some people saw through mine and there are others, who have built their own, that never will. I share posts about what I’ve learned, how I see people, how I’ve try to treat people with grace and teach children with love and patience in hopes that a little of that sinks into whoever it reaches, but I very rarely show the journey. Partly because I know the details are gruesome and that’s not for everyone, but mostly because I’m scared.

How will you see me?

What will you think?

I’m learning that I’m not this big awful thing that happened to me. I was never anyone’s property and I’m not chained to it anymore. I was very much lied to and manipulated and hurt long enough that it flipped onto me and I carried it without missing a step. I wanted to love him so much that I would heal him. Instead, he “loved” me so much it almost killed me, and he did call it love. Enough times that he re-defined it and I didn’t use that word for a very long time in any meaningful situation. He, for better or for worse, drastically changed the trajectory of my life.

But it’s ok.

I’m wounded but I’m healing. I’m lonely, but I’m learning how to slowly welcome more people in and step out of my comfort zone. If I’m being honest, I’m relearning a lot of things, including how to exist in a world where I have room to make mistakes and fail. I can say or do the wrong thing and be gently corrected for it by my people and move on … sans violence. There are no words for amount of relief I feel because of that truth.

Is it over? No.

He was sentenced to 7 years last year and every year around mid July early August there is an opportunity to apply for an appeal based on his behavior, which will always be immaculate because he is not as tough as he thinks he is. This means that if he applies and it goes to trial, I’m also notified and have to reappear, show any new evidence, and reexplain why he needs to stay there for the safety of others and myself. Telling my story once a year on a whim to a room full of strangers, always men, so they can decide my fate, as well as the fate of this “upstanding young man with a good head on his shoulders” (actual words used during my initial rape/domestic abuse trial against him), was never what I imagined finally turning him in would look like. I really never thought that after everything, his sentence wouldn’t even be as long as our relationship. The original sentence was 5 years. After he got out on a Governor Cuomo Covid related prison loophole and broke his parole almost immediately, he was sentenced to another 2 on top of that. He has 6 left. We talk about how flawed our system is, but really seeing it is a different kind of punch. Women aren’t believed. There’s a reason so many of these crimes go unreported, and why so many women die at the hands of angry men. The hoops you have to jump through are miles high and on fire, and when you and the advocate show up armed only with your truth, your tears and a little evidence from one night at a bar when he got to drunk and forgot he was in public, it’s very easy for a judge to rule on the softer side. Because, as you all know, we’d never want to ruin a wealthy mans life unless there’s cold, hard, reason to.

Seeing his face when they read out his sentence, after years of terror, was satisfying to say the least and if I hadn’t been so numb to get through the hearing, I would’ve enjoyed it more. I will never forget going to a trusted friends house after that hearing and being completely overwhelmed with all of the emotions. Relief, guilt, sadness, anger, happiness, fear.. so many I couldn’t express.. all at once because the novocain wears off and numb isn’t forever and I fell asleep with their dog after a lot of crying. I’d be lying though if I said that 18 year old in me didn’t feel a loss. I grew up with incredible grandparents that did amazing things in teaching me how to love people and be a good human, but no one can protect us from everything. I also grew up with a mother who fights demons of her own and never had the capacity to love two kids. In a situation like that, someone becomes the punching bag. I became the punching bag and desperately looked for ways out, an opportunity to run.. and I ran right into him, who accepted me with open arms for the first time in my young, very inexperienced life.. and I followed him blindly and he was my whole world. Until I was 27, I didn’t have a guide. By the grace of God I landed into a community in Florida that slowly helped me realize my worth.

So.. what now.

How do we fix what our parents and past broke?

How do you reparent yourself?

The mental health journey is proving to be my biggest struggle yet. There’s no more outside factors, it’s just me and the lies that have fed me for years and altered how I think and feel and understand the world. I can feel myself frustrating people I’ve let close to me. I feel myself getting nervous and pushing people away. Sometimes I can catch it and regroup, other times that nasty little voice is too loud and I’m exhausted. My goodness though, how cool is it to learn so much about yourself? I know I have the capacity to love that broken part of me eventually, but it’s still hard to face. Getting to learn and understand the reason behind your actions is terrifyingly amazing. I am proud of this journey. Even when I don’t always come up on top. It’s hard to see the progress while you’re in it, but laying it all out like this.. I can safely say I’m never going to be that 18 year old girl ever again. Some days this journey looks different, some days the darkness wins, because healing isn’t linear. Sometimes it’s one step forward, 2 steps back… but nothing is too broken to fix.. and I will never call that darkness home again.

[apptowonder]

Beautiful City -- A Theological Ramble on “Godspell”-- Pt. I: Jesus Musicals and Christology

So I had a lot of thoughts and F e e l i n g s about the 2011 revival of Tebelak and Schwartz’s musical Godspell and I wanted to share some of them here. This is gonna be a pretty disorganized piece (hence the title), but I hope that whether you’re a fan of the show or a reader of my work, you might find at least one thing that resonates or helps you understand why I feel the way I do about this show. To give my thoughts some structure, I’m turning this into a blog post series. This first piece will be divided into two sections: a longer section on theology and a shorter section on personal response.

1. Godspell vs JCS, and a Brief Diversion on Christologies

So one easy hot take is to compare and contrast Godspell with Jesus Christ Superstar, the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical that came out around the same time. Conservative Christians at the time were not too fond of either of them, but both found a strong audience among secular theater-goers and (presumably) progressive Christians. Tebelak, fwiw, was gay and a lifelong Episcopalian who had considered the priesthood at various points in his life. Webber is an agnostic who says he finds Jesus fascinating as an important historical figure. These facts aren’t meant to favor one writer over the other (although I will explain below why I personally prefer Godspell), but knowing these facts does do some to explain why these shows ended up the way they did while covering very similar subjects.

The general consensus I’ve heard and would agree with is that Superstar is about the interpersonal relationships of Jesus the man, and especially his relationship with Judas Iscariot. Godspell also brings the relationship between Judas and Jesus to the foreground, but Godspell (true to its name) is ultimately more about the gospel itself. About Jesus’ teachings, about the community of love that he created, and a little bit about Jesus the Son of God.

In this respect, I’d like to propose that these two musicals unintentionally illustrate two historic approaches to understanding the person and work of Christ. Jesus Christ Superstar loosely follows a theology of Christ which is aligned with the historic Antiochene school of Christology. 

A. Antioch

(St. John Chrysostom, famed Patriarch of Constantinople and student of the Antiochene School)

The Catechetical School of Antioch was a loose affiliation/institution of theologians who trained many of the prominent clergy in the Eastern churches. It emphasized the distinction between the divine and human natures of Christ. It was most invested in historical readings of Scripture. While the orthodox Antiochene scholars certainly confessed that Christ was both divine and human, they tended to state that the divinity of God the Son was not always accessible to Jesus in his humanity. Taken to the extreme, some Antiochenes embraced the heresies of Adoptionism* or Nestorianism**. The value of this school, however, was the investment in an accessible, anthropological reading of Scripture, and an understanding of Christ that emphasized the transcendence of the Son of God and the humanity of Jesus as one of us.

Jesus Christ Superstar approaches its subject matter with a mixture of both pathos and cynicism (intentional or otherwise). Taking place entirely during the Passion, none of the theophanic moments of Christ’s life are depicted (eg, the Baptism of Christ or the Transfiguration).*** We see only his humanity, and it is a very pitiable humanity. I say this not as a criticism, clearly the show succeeds at producing a great deal of sympathy and poignancy for its characters. The presence of the divine in the show is nearly absent. The Last Supper in both shows is not given its full doctrinal weight, but Superstar tones down the spiritual significance of it more than Godspell does. In Superstar, Jesus notices the indifference of his Apostles and says “For all you care, this could be my body that you’re eating, and my blood you’re drinking.”

Jesus and Judas both talk to God, and imply that God answers, but we are only shown one side of the conversation. When Judas commits suicide and is singing the titular number to Jesus on the cross, he does so as a disembodied spirit whom Jesus is not able to interact with. Rather than the traditional account of Jesus going down to Hades and preaching to the dead, here the dead preach to a human Jesus who is doing God’s will but may or may not be able to hear them. All in all, Webber (though obviously not himself an Antiochene by confession) is showing us a Jesus who is primarily a glorified human with a relationship to God, who is nonetheless not especially divine in his capacities, outlook or body. Where he is connected to divinity, there is a clear separation between his divinity and his humanity

B. Alexandria

(St. Cyril, famed Pope (Patriarch) and student of the Alexandrian School)

The Catechetical School of Alexandria was the other major center for Christian theological training in the early Eastern Church, located at Alexandria in Eastern Roman Egypt. It traced its lineage all the way back to St. Mark, but was most strongly influenced by the teachings of Pantaenus, Origen, St. Clement and St. Cyril (above). The Alexandrians were invested in allegorical readings of Scripture, and the use of “pagan” philosophy in the service of theology. They also emphasized the union of the divine and the human in Jesus Christ. Orthodox Alexandrians recognized that Jesus’ divinity and humanity were not consumed by each other, but they tended to suggest that Christ’s divinity and humanity were always operating simultaneously and synergistically, that it was impossible to tell exactly where one ends and the other begins. Taken to the opposite extreme of the Antiochenes, some Alexandrians embraced the heresies of Monophysitism (i) or Apollinarianism (ii). The value of this school was an investment in a polyvalent, mystical approach to Scripture, and an understanding of Christ that emphasized the saving power of God’s own divinity taking on our humanity in an immanent way. 

Godspell is more invested in the ethical impact of Jesus’ life and ministry. However, it is more willing to blur the lines between the divine and human world for the sake of its message and framing of Christ. We see the Baptism of Christ on stage, and although there is no explicit depiction of the Holy Spirit or the Father, the scene is preceded by John the Baptist’s messianic song, “Prepare Ye,” and is woven in and around the song “Save the People,” a song where Jesus proclaims the coming salvation that God the Father will work in their midst for the benefit of all. This happens while the new disciples are also being baptized and receive a flower signifying their membership in the community forming organically around Christ. Jesus’ presence is charged with the eschatological promise of God being in their midst, which is a more Alexandrian reading that blurs the line between where Jesus the human ends and Jesus the divine begins.

I argue that we also see in Godspell an allusion (perhaps unintentional) to the Transfiguration. There is a scene where the stage lights are off and the disciples hold wave glow sticks around Jesus in rhythmic patterns while Jesus talks about the light within. Even if this is not an intentional reference, the visual language of the scene lends itself to the light of God being present in the midst of the people.

Before the Last Supper, Jesus sings the ballad “Beautiful City,” encouraging the disciples to continue the beloved community after his death. While it is a secularized approach in some ways, there is again that blurring of humanity and divinity where the promised city is coming, is beautiful, marked by eschatological hope, and is still “not a city of angels, but a city of man.” During the Last Supper, Jesus prays the traditional Jewish blessing over the bread and wine, and then has lines which mirror the words of institution for the Eucharist. Whether one reads it as a memorial or a sacrament, Tebelak and Schwartz choose to frame the Last Supper as an intentional institution on Jesus’ part. The table is also bathed in light and smoke, implying divine energy or grace gathered around Jesus and his disciples.

On the cross, in Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus’ last words emphasize his human obedience to the Father: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” In Godspell, the words are less literal to the Gospel text, but they lean towards a more divine-human reading of Jesus. He says, “Oh God, I’m dying,” and the disciples respond, “Oh God, You’re dying,” with the dual meaning of expressing despair and acknowledging his divinity. Jesus’ exclamation here is also very in line with Alexandrian theology, which emphasized the idea that if Christ is truly God incarnate, then a part of God did truly die on the cross, and not just a human who represented God or who was carried through his existence by God.

Finally, though both shows are ambiguous on the Resurrection in order to place their emotional cores front and center (iii), Godspell arguably has the more explicit allusion to the Resurrection. While Superstar ends with Jesus’ death on the cross and a final overture, Godspell ends with a stirring reprise of “Prepare Ye,” intermingled with “Long Live God,” again the messianic expectation. Jesus’ body is lovingly carried by the disciples offstage. In the production I saw, they carried him upwards into the house, where a bright white spotlight was shining. Though both the Antiochenes and the Alexandrians would naturally endorse faith in the Resurrection, in a secularized context, the Alexandrian-flavored Christology of Godspell is more comfortable with depicting Jesus’ divinity infusing and breaking into the human sphere of action. As such, Godspell is more comfortable than Superstar with at least alluding to the most awe-inspiring feat of Christ the God-man, his rising from the dead.

2. Conclusions and Pointing to Pt. II

In the end, the earnestness, exuberance and eschatological hopefulness of Godspell won me over, whereas after Jesus Christ Superstar I was impressed but not moved in the same way. The interplay between grounded radical ethics, unironic joy and tenderness, and the sprinklings of luminosity and divinity in Godspell spoke to me profoundly as a queer Orthodox Christian. Watching a filmed version of the stage show, I felt a visceral sense of connection to my faith and my God, one that echoed various points along my spiritual journey where my heart “burned within me” like the disciples on the Emmaus road. Where I was surrounded by friends who were seeking Christ, and the presence of God was an animating energy of love, hope and joy in our midst. In the next part, I want to pick up the Alexandrian lens to begin to talk about what moved me about this musical in particular, drawing on my specific experiences as a queer Christian, as an Eastern Orthodox Christian, and as someone who inhabits both of those identities simultaneously.

*Adoptionism is the belief that Jesus was entirely human at his birth and that the divinity of the Son of God came and inhabited him at his baptism or later.

**Nestorianism is the belief that Jesus had a human nature and a divine nature, but that the two were entirely separate from one another, with the divine nature operating the human Jesus without experiencing any of the human things Jesus experienced directly.

***The Transfiguration is not explicitly named as such in Godspell. However, I will argue later that it does make an appearance.

(i) Monophysitism is the belief that Jesus had one nature which was an indistinct mixture of humanity and divinity. This belief is not to be confused with its orthodox Alexandrian counterpart, Miaphysitism, which is the belief that Jesus has one nature where the humanity and the divinity are united but do not dissolve into each other. The latter doctrine is the belief of the Oriental Orthodox Churches.

(ii) Apollinarianism is the belief that Jesus had a human body but a divine soul/mind.

(iii) Jesus Christ Superstar’s emotional core being the pathos of the character relationships, Godspell’s emotional core being the poignancy and ethos of the gospel and the community of disciples.

[collectsfallenstars]

Azaleas for Lt. Jeong Taeeul: A close reading of Kim Sowol’s poetry in “The King: Eternal Monarch”

Korean Literature is divided into the Classical Period and the Modern Period. Literature under the Classical Period is heavily influenced by Confucianism, Buddhism, and to some extent, Taoism.  The earliest form of literature came about in the 8th Century during the Shilla Kingdom.

The break-off point between Classical and Modern Literature is found in the Choson Dynasty which lasted from 1392 to 1910.  Modern Korean Literature flourished when the Chinese writing script took a backseat to Hangul, the Korean alphabet.  It was developed by King Sejong, or Sejong the Great, who ruled between 1418 – 1450.  If you watched the first episode of The King: Eternal Monarch, that huge statue of a seated king in the middle of Gwanghwamun Square where Lee Minho hugged Kim Goeun without any warning? That’s King Sejong.  Thanks to him, Korean language and Korean literature flourished.

Now, during the Choson Dynasty, two kinds of poetic forms came about— Shijo and Kasa and some of the most common subject matters from these poetic forms can be found in the Kim Sowol poems that were used in the kdrama, “The King: Eternal Monarch.”  These are the themes of nature, grief, and the loneliness of traveling.  However, when used against the backdrop of the drama, the poems, written during Kim Sowol’s lifetime between 1902-1934, take on a new life.

Let’s take a look at the poet’s life first and see how it informs our understanding of some of his poems.  He was born in 1902 in an area that now belongs to North Korea.  He suffered from a troubled childhood with a father who was mentally ill and beaten up by Japanese construction workers and therefore was unable to provide for his family.  Kim Sowol was then raised and supported by his grandfather and his aunt.  It has been said that it was his aunt who sang folk songs to him and told him traditional stories during his childhood and that it was this that stirred his love and talent for poetry.

But aside from poetry, he also loved a woman named O-sun.  However, during their time, love rarely played a role in marriages and they were soon married off to different people.  O-san then committed suicide at a very young age and losing her led to the first and last poetry collection that Kim Sowol ever published— “Azaleas.”  His poetry carried the quality and rhythm that could be found in old Korean folk songs, possibly the ones his aunt had sung to him when he was a child.   However, Kim Sowol found it hard to find his place in the world with just his poetry but without O-san.  He committed suicide in 1934 at 32 years old.  He remains, to this day, the most beloved Korean poet.

INVOCATION OF THE DEAD Kim Sowol

O shattered name!
 O name parted from me in mid-air! O name without owner! O name I’ll call until I die!

The words left in my heart,
 In the end, I wasn’t able to utter all. O you whom I loved! O you whom I loved!

The red sun is hanging from the western summit. The herd of deer also cry sadly.
 Atop the mountain that has fallen off to the side, I call your name.

I call your name til I can’t bear the grief of it. I call your name til I can’t bear the grief of it. The sound of my call sweeps forward but sky and earth are too far apart.

Though I turn to stone standing here O name I’ll call until I die!
 O you whom I loved!
 O you whom I loved!

This poem is largely different from the rest of the collection because it is loud in its grief while the rest in the collection are like “Azaleas,” quiet, subdued and dignified in their sadness.  In this one, the persona calls out to the beloved directly with lines that begin with an expulsion of breath and grief in “O,” and punctuated with exclamation points.  But even in this intensity, the persona still can’t call out the beloved’s name.

There are several reasons for this.  It pains the persona to even say the beloved’s name.  Or it could be that the beloved’s name is as lost to the persona as the beloved is.  Or it could be a staunch denial of the beloved’s departure.  I’m going to go with the last one.    

This poem is closely linked to the Korean pre-funeral custom called the Chohon, which involves calling out the name of the dead 3 times by the Sangju, the chief mourner who is usually the closest family member of the deceased. They go to the roof of their house, face north, and wave the deceased traditional shirt or blouse in the wind.

This stems from the Confucian belief that the human being is made up of the Hon (ethereal soul) and the Baek (corporeal soul) and the union of both is what keeps humans alive while their separation means death.  The Chohon is then performed to keep the Hon from leaving the world because they hold on to the hope that they can bring back the soul to the dead. It is only when this ritual is finished that they can confirm the death of the person and then they can begin with the funeral rites.

Now, in the first stanza, “O name” appears 4 times in 4 different ways that can’t be called a repetition.  The second stanza only contains 2 of the same lines with “O you” in it. The third stanza has one line with “your name” in it while the fourth stanza has only two lines with “your name.”  The fourth stanza contains 3 lines but 1 has “o name” and the 2 have “o you.”  The persona avoids the Chohon, even though the beloved is gone.  By refusing to turn this into a Chohon, the persona evades thinking of the beloved as completely lost.

“O shattered name!” is a reference to the separation of the Hon from the Baek, resulting in the death of the beloved. “O name parted from me in mid-air” speaks of someone being gone too soon, someone who is only in the middle of his or her life. This could also mean that they are gone before the persona could even hold them, like a ball thrown in their direction and disappearing before it can be caught.  “O name without an owner!” is especially painful because even though the name belongs to no one now, it’s still in the memory and on the lips of the persona.

The second stanza has many different translations but the gist of it means that even at this point when the beloved has been lost forever, without any hope of return, he still can’t bring himself to say the beloved’s name and complete the Chohon.  He refuses to accept her death.  Undoubtedly, this sentiment comes so close to Kim Sowol’s loss of his own beloved, O-sun.

The third stanza speaks of the setting sun and the lament of animals— it is grief found at the end of something.  The top of the mountain replaces the roof of the house the persona should be on top of because they did not belong to a house, to anywhere, really.  They probably belonged to other people too, like KSL and O-sun.  

On the fourth stanza, the persona stands on top of that mountain, calling out the beloved’s name and hoping to bring back their soul, knowing it is impossible. The grief of this practice in futility comes to him in the realization that the sky and the earth are too far apart.  No matter how long he stands there calling out her name, or how loud he can be, she will never hear him, nor return.

But even under the light of his sad epiphany, he remains steadfast in his love for her. He says he will call out her name until he dies, loving her and only her, for the rest of his remaining life and possibly even after death.  It isn’t too far off to think that this may have been exactly what Kim Sowol felt at the death of his beloved.

Now, how does its use within the world of The King: Eternal Monarch add another layer to the poem.  In the third episode, Lee Gon (Lee Minho) stood in the middle of a bamboo forest arguing with Jeong Taeeul (Kim Goeun) about his name.  He’s trying to convince her that a parallel world exists alongside modern day Korea and in that parallel world, Korea is spelled with a letter C and operates as a Parliamentary Monarchy.  He is also trying to convince her that he is the king there.  Jeong Taeeul, being a police officer, insists on asking for his identification, his name, and he refuses to give it because there is a rule in Corea that no one is allowed to use the king’s name.  At this, JTE makes fun of him and asks him if he is Kim Sowol, quoting the second stanza of “Invocation of the Dead” to him.

Spoiler alert, they eventually fall in love.  But this moment leads LG to a bookstore in search for Kim Sowol’s one and only poetry collection, “Azaleas.”  He finds it and opens it to the poem that JTE quoted to him.  In the background, we hear Lady Noh, whom he eventually gifts the book to, reciting the poem. It switches to LG’s voice at the last line, indicating that he had read the poem as well.  On screen, the frame is split between JTE and LG, directing the viewer to relate the poem to the pair of lovers.

The poem then acts as, of course, a foreshadowing of the events to come. Spoiler alert, no one died. So obviously, the poem does not act in its original capacity as some form of elegy for the dead.  What it does do is drive home the point that LG and JTE are going to have a love that will be threatened by separation.  Love between two people from parallel worlds with a ticking time bomb for a gate between them will not be easy.  It will also be painful, should the separation be permanent.

Now, if one were to ask you, if you knew how painful this love was going to turn out to be, would you still have allowed yourself to fall in love?

LG’s answer will be a quick yes. He’s been in love with JTE for most of his life, and has literally held on to her name, by her ID, since he was 8 years old.  JTE, on the other hand, took longer to gain access to, and use his name.  He gives his name to her on the 5th episode, and she uses it to him on the 6th episode.   She now has his name and will now know what to call out and hold on to, when she loses him in the future. Spoiler alert, she gets him back on the last episode.

So even though they don’t exactly lose each other like the persona and his beloved in “Invocation of the Dead,” or even Kim Sowol and O-sun, who lost their beloved to the sky while they remained on earth, the poem points us to a different kind of physical separation— that of two parallel worlds. While the persona in the poem vowed that he would defy time and space by loving her until his death, and even beyond, in the world within The King: Eternal Monarch, that vow was fulfilled.  They found a love that could defy time and space.

(from Episode 10, The King: Eternal Monarch) *if anyone can help me find the title for this poem, I shall be eternally grateful to you ^_^ ---------------- by Kim Sowol

When the sun goes down over the white rapids, I shall wait by the gate. Between the shadows of the birds singing at dawn, I see the world brightening up In its still calmness. With my eyes fixated on the traveler passing by At the break of dawn, “Is that you?” “Is that you?"

By the tenth episode, LG and JTE have redefined and upped the game for long distance relationships.  Much like the Kasa poems from the Choson Dynasty, the 2nd and 3rd poems used in “The King: Eternal Monarch” have grief and loneliness in travel as their subject matter.  Long distance relationships have it easy now with plenty of choices for communication and travel (except now, with the ongoing pandemic).  But one can only imagine what it was like for a lover to leave during the feudal Choson Dynasty.  There is no assurance of a safe return, nor of an actual return.  The waiting would seem endless without any word, just silence for months or even years.  One can’t just text, “Where u?” every five minutes, or mark oneself safe during a village siege.

LG and JTE had to contend with this aspect in their relationship as both held important positions within their own worlds.  Cellphones bought in one world would not work in the other.  There’s no magic two-way mirror, faces in fireplaces for a Fire-call in the Floo Network or even owls, crows, or pigeons. Do despite being lovers in the 21st Century, LG and JTE’s temporary separations and the subsequent waiting in between visits feel like those from the Choson Dynasty.

This poem is a prime example of that with a persona who vows to wait for the return her beloved.  She positions herself by the gate by sundown and stays there until dawn.   She stays in the shadows of the birds who see the dawn before she does.  This image is especially powerful in its quiet strength and fierce loyalty. The persona vows to wait for her beloved even through the darkness of the night.  No matter how difficult or painful it is to wait, she will.  And even if she doesn’t see the light of the dawn, or the end of this long night, she will still wait. She survives the nights of waiting by holding on to hope, despite the dire circumstance.

And life rewards her with the safe return of her beloved.  It seems only fitting that this poem is read aloud during their brief reunion under a moonlit night in the bamboo forest.  They are a long way from dawn, but hope and strength are there.

Note the way that Kim Goeun, who plays Jeong Taeeul, delivers her lines, “You’re finally here. Did you just get here?” as if they are the same line even though one is a statement and the other is a questions.  Her inflections do not change.  This echoes the last two lines of the poem, “Is that you?/ Is that you?”  The repetition allows for a slight change in emotion— the first is a question, an expression of disbelief, while the second is filled with relief.

(from Episode 12, The King Eternal Monarch) *if anyone can help me find the title for this poem, I shall be eternally grateful to you ^_^ ---------------- by Kim Sowol

What is your reason for doing that? You were sitting alone by the stream The green grass was sprouting And the water was splashing From the spring breeze You promised that even if you go, You won’t be gone forever.

That is what you promised I sit by the stream each day And think about something endlessly

When you promised that even if you go, You won’t be gone forever Were you asking me not to forget you?

This poem plays on memory and remembrance. In the first stanza, the lovers are in the beginning stage of their relationship when everything is like spring—  new, full of hope and potential for growth.  While at this stage, it is easy to make promises like, “Even if I go, I won’t be gone forever.”  It is meant to comfort the one who could be left behind. In the middle of bliss, that promise might sound comforting.

But as the poem progresses to the second and third stanzas, the persona is now alone on the same stream.   No longer in spring nor the middle of bliss, the persona is left only with the vow that her beloved made to her.  And it provides no sense of comfort.  Instead, it makes her realize that the vow had been made as foresight.  Her beloved must have known of his imminent departure and it was the only way he could ask her to wait for him— because every act of remembering him is an act of loving him.  And when there is love, surely there must be hope for a return.

This poem is read by Lady Noh in background while LG and JTE are getting their picture taken— an act of remembrance, of keeping something frozen in time so that one can always remember the moment.  Ironically, this is also the time when the world freezes. This is the side effect of one half of the Manpasikjeok crossing over into the parallel world.  This is the moment that Lee Gon is made even more aware of their impending separation.  The gate between the worlds is beginning to crack and the amount of frozen time keeps increasing with every crossing.  Pretty soon, he will have to choose between righting the wrongs that Lee Lim created and staying with JTE.  He is the King of the Kingdom of Corea— there is no question what his choice will be and he knows it.

He goes through all of these emotions in the hour that JTE and the rest of the world spends frozen in a smile.  JTE is still in spring but LG is already far off into the future.  But when the world unfreezes, LG slaps a smile on his face and has his picture taken with JTE. This is the perfect adaptation of the third and last Kim Sowol poem used in “The King: Eternal Monarch.”

AZALEAS Kim Sowol

When you leave, weary of me,
 without a word I shall gently let you go.

From Mt. Yak
 in Yongbyon
 I shall gather armfuls of azaleas and scatter them on your way.

Step by step
 on the flowers placed before you tread lightly, softly as you go.

When you leave
 weary of me,
 though I die, I'll not let one tear fall.

“Azaleas,” the titular poem of the Kim Sowol poetry collection, is not included in “The King: Eternal Monarch” but I think it is still important to discuss it as it relates greatly to the character of Lt. Jeong Taeeul.

Outside the context of the kdrama, the poem “Azaleas” has a persona who is the embodiment of dignity and strength in the face of utter devastation.  The persona, by saying “When you leave,” shows her awareness of his inevitable departure.  She knows in the future that he will leave her because he will get tired of her.  And yet, she continues to love him.

And when that dreaded by unavoidable day comes when he leaves her, she vows to let him go as gently, and as lovingly as she can.

She promises to decorate his path away from her with flowers from her hometown.  This is seen as an act of blessing.  And although it’s tearing her apart in the inside, she refuses to let him know that him leaving is killing her.  So it’s an even classier way of saying, “To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left, don’t you ever for a second get to thinking you’re irreplaceable.”

Now, while Lee Gon doesn’t get tired of Jeong Taeeul in the drama, he does eventually leave her in order to save both worlds and right all the wrongs his uncle made.  And in the 15th episode, when she finally realized that Lee Gon had made his choice and it did not include her in his world, she actually says the words, “I don’t think I can stay here and endure it alone…I think I’ll die.”  Spoiler alert, she did not die. She does get stabbed though, but she did not die of waiting.

Instead, she found a way to get to him.  Although it was unsuccessful, she did manage to kill Lee Lim of the present while Lee Gon killed Lee Lim in the past.  She’s definitely not the type to spread flowers on the feet of the man who leaves her and then goes to cry quietly in the corner.

But the thing is, the azalea flower is the key to all of this.  Azaleas are wildflowers that can be found in the deepest areas of forests that were previously destroyed due to deforestation or wildfires.  According to “The Plant Book of Korea,” azaleas are known for their endurance and long lifespans.

So when the persona in the poem “Azaleas” spreads the flowers in the path of her beloved, she is reminding him that she will survive his departure.  And when used within the world of “The King: Eternal Monarch,” Lt. Jeong Taeeul is the wild and resilient azalea flower.  She will not stay in her place and simply wait for him to come back.  She tried to find a way to get to him.  And when that did not work, when being strong meant loving him even in his absence and waiting for him even if there was no hope in his return, she still mustered up enough courage and strength to love him and wait for him.  And in the end, her strength and resilience were rewarded with the return of her beloved.

REFERENCES:

“(485) Poet Kim So-Wol.” Koreatimes, 10 Jan. 2008, koreatimes.co.kr/www/news/opinon/2008/01/137_17042.html.

Foundation, CK-12. “12 Foundation.” CK, flexbooks.ck12.org/cbook/ck-12-chemistry-flexbook-2.0/section/2.1/primary/lesson/matter-mass-and-volume-ms-ps.

“In the Midst of Death, Let's Have a Party.” Korea JoongAng Daily, koreajoongangdaily.joins.com/2007/10/28/features/In-the-midst-of-death-lets-have-a-party/2882042.html.

Klaudia Krystyna Writer. “Korean Funerals: Traditions, Customs and What to Expect.” Cake Blog, www.joincake.com/blog/korean-funeral/.

Korean Literature (Character of Korean Literature, Korean Classical Literature, Modern Literature of Korea), www.asianinfo.org/asianinfo/korea/literature.htm.

“The Most Beloved Poet of Korea, Kim So-Wol.” The Yonsei Annals, annals.yonsei.ac.kr/news/articleView.html?idxno=1896.

국립민속박물관 . “Temporary Spirit Tablet.” Encyclopedia of Korean Folk Culture, folkency.nfm.go.kr/en/topic/detail/537.

[luthienne]

Truly feel like I don't even have the strenght in me to keep trying to help or make the world 'better.' It will never happen. I say this as an indigenous latina, so it isn't like I'm a white 'ally' with 'burn out.' I've literally been fighting my whole life. Don't feel like I can keep fighting. Everything is a lost cause. I lose heart I didn't know I have with every piece of news or post I see on Twitter or anywhere else. So much pain.

ay, mi amor, i’m so sorry. please know that as much as you witness cruelty and injustice, as overwhelming as it feels, as pointless as it feels to keep fighting (not just against injustices but for your own right to feel safe, to feel hopeful, to feel valued), you are not alone, you are not fighting alone, and it is not your fight alone. the joy harjo quote from her poem “the naming” comes to my mind: “truth can appear as disaster in a land of things unspoken.”

sometimes it feels like a lost cause. we are constantly assaulted w news about more injustices, more harmful actions. utter lack of accountability. and we wonder how the world can be such a violent place, after everything, after everything. but the truth is, despite everything, the world is full of tenderness and love and humans wanting to fight for what’s right and do better than they’ve done before, to do whatever they can to help even at the risk of getting hurt, of getting caught in the crossfire bc they care so much, bc they’re not willing to let these injustices happen silently.

words feel so powerless sometimes. language feels so insufficient. nothing feels enough. mary oliver can express what i’m trying to say better than i can: 

“meanwhile i know this: evil is one part of our beautiful world. and though my writing pays it small attention, i am not blinkered; i, too, have been forced to stand close to it, and have felt the almost muscular agony of impotence before it, unable to interfere or assuage or do anything effective. though i do—oh yes i do—believe the soul is improvable. oh sweet and defiant hope!”

some days, we just have to say: “i don’t have faith today. i don’t have hope today. i don’t have the strength to fight today. i can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, i can’t understand how things will ever change. maybe i’ll have faith again tomorrow. maybe i’ll have hope again tomorrow. maybe i’ll have the strength to fight again tomorrow.” and know that it’s ok. you are a human being and we are not made to endure constant horrors, what feel like never-ending battles on every front. sometimes fighting (especially things like systemic oppression) means taking a step back to take care of yourself.

i am loathe to use a choir metaphor but there’s this thing that we do when there are long lines of music: each singer drops out at different times to take a breath before coming back in, and it’s unnoticeable bc the rest of the choir is still sustaining the music. social justice in communities should be like this. you need to take a breath. we’ll still be here fighting, your community will be here to uplift you and support you and love you. you cannot continue pouring from an empty cup. you have to take care of yourself (if possible, in any way). this fight belongs to everyone. i’m so sorry that it doesn’t always feel like that’s the reality of it.

as a non-indigenous latina who grew up in new mexico alongside my indigenous latinx sisters, i recognize the harm that can come from within even the latinx community. the internalized normalization of systemic oppression, our complicity if we are not actively speaking out and working against it. it is our responsibility to step up and take on the fight in the ways that our privilege allows us. it is our job to confront racism and injustices in our communities, to not be silent, to shoulder the weight. i am here for you and w you in this fight. ♡ 

i have to believe that someday, big change will happen, that every day people are doing things that make the world a little better—and big change begins with the little changes that each of us take on every single day. it begins with people making the choice to become active in their communities, engaging w their communities about issues, looking for the places where they can donate a little bit of money even when they’re out of work, showing up to protests and vigils even in the middle of a pandemic, doing what they can to unlearn and learn and do better, voting for change, holding our elected leaders accountable. understanding that we will fuck up and that accountability is necessary (and that it is our job to hold ourselves accountable, not to expect others to do it for us). hopefully the smaller actions lead to bigger actions, hopefully this accountability carries us further in the fight than we’ve been able to go before. 

i attended a masterclass on stamina the other day--i thought it was going to be about vocal stamina (we were all opera singers), but she chose to also speak about emotional stamina, about resilience. she mentioned a ted talk she had listened to where the speaker talked about how resilient people choose where they focus their attention--is this serving me, or not? what can i change and what can’t i change? am i directing my energy toward a “positive” goal? bc we are wired to direct our attention to negativity, to danger, to threats. it is a survival instinct we all have. (i won’t get started on when we throw trauma into that mix.) she told us that our practice, not our results, is what needs to be consistent.

i personally needed that reminder: to direct my energy toward the act of simply achieving a consistent practice. all too often, my energy goes instead into the (paralyzing) fear that nothing i can do will ever be enough. the pointlessness of my efforts. the self-admonishment that my practice didn’t achieve the results that i wanted. it’s incredibly self-defeating. i don’t know if this is at all helpful for you. it is, of course, a false equivalence to say that trying to get better at singing is the same thing as trying to dismantle systemic oppression. but the reminder hit me on many levels--that everything i do isn’t necessarily going to achieve the results that i want. it’s just important that i show up to do the work.

i was chatting w my bestie @bronzeaxeli, who is an indigenous latina (and all-around amazing human being), when i received your ask. she passed along, “on the futility of fighting against an seemingly insurmountable social construct, i think my best advice is to consider how do you eat an elephant? one bite at a time. it is going to take the entire ant hill to digest this beast. but all of us together working to make the small changes incrementally will there be change. it will take a long time, but these systems weren’t built in a day. and if hope isn’t enough, then do it for the spite. living well is the best revenge. make those who look down on us paranoid, and while they are continually looking over their shoulder, they miss all of us moving forward toward our own goals.”

“You cannot destroy a soul though you may destroy a planet. You cannot destroy a song though you can make people forgetful. A soul can appear to be destroyed, and a song can disappear for a few generations only to reemerge from the heart of a child who turns and becomes a woman.”

Joy Harjo, A Map to the Next World

“To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places—and there are so many—where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction. And if we do act, in however small a way, we don’t have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.” 

Howard Zinn, A Power Governments Cannot Suppress

“No matter, I said lightly, more to myself than anyone. We will make it through this, past the edge of the wound.”

Joy Harjo, A Map to the Next World