#someone simply unfailingly holding me up

[koipalm]

im down on my knees im bowing im weeping im holding fate by the hands shes intertwined our fingers. she is this glowing bright thing above me in front of me we are face to face. and she is telling me that everything i have done, each terrible little unforgivable mistake, will be figured out. she cannot promise it will not hurt, that to resolve these it might take everything in me. but she is holding me by the hands.

im in my room on the floor kneeling. she is sitting right in front of me, doing the same. my headis bowed and like one would grip the sink mirror in front of them, i grip her hands. i have a tight, trembling grip. but she is holding my hands. maybe, just maybe, one more day.

[sniperct]

While I recommend reading the whole thing, I'm just going to quote a few bits from this person's experience back in 2019:

I introduced myself, thanked him for his support of same-sex marriage in those early days in 2012, and asked my question about trans rights. While I was doing this, Mr. Biden had casually taken my hand and held it in his own between our chests like it was the most natural thing in the world. He stared intently with kind eyes. I might as well have been the only person in the room. When I got to the trans rights question, his demeanor suddenly changed. He got very serious, his eyes sharpened, and, still holding my hand in his own, he took his other hand and pointed a finger at my chest and said: “I am in this fight with you. Trans rights are human rights.” He then talked with me for several minutes about trans equality, offered up a surprisingly informed policy nuance (even for him), and told me unreservedly he had our backs. He then gave me a hug. And left.

He wasn’t my first choice. Or my second or third choice before that little chat. But of all the candidates with whom I spoke, it was Mr. Biden, by a country mile, who impressed me the most. Yet, it’s not enough to like someone. It’s not. There are politicians whom I like quite a lot that I wouldn’t trust with the presidency. I would much rather trust a highly competent and capable politician whom I don’t like than one I like but in whom I can’t quite vouch for their competency and capability. It’s not enough for me to simply like Mr. Biden. Given the grave and immediate threat to our democracy and the overwhelming sense of survival I have voting in this election, it’s just not enough to like him.

I’ve watched as he has centered trans rights as an imperative in his administration. I have been consistently been touched with the way in which he has refused to back down in support of the trans community. I have watched as he’s rejected calls—many public and I assume many private—to wholly abandon the trans community. He refuses. I believe Mr. Biden is our best choice to win in the fall. I understand there are many who disagree with me, and that’s fine. Reasonable adults can disagree. I respect the understandable concern many have expressed. But respectfully, Joe Biden has earned my trust, many times over, and I know, deep down, there’s no one I’d rather have fighting for me in this moment. I believe in Joe Biden, especially given how unfailingly he’s believed in me. I don’t give a damn what political media says, particularly since their alleged craving for competency seems to largely fail in holding Donald Trump accountable on his pervasive litany of illegal and immoral failings.

[professional-tooka-herder]

Dear Captain,

Is it too bold of me to tell you how much I admire the strength of character that it takes for someone to have gone through as much as you have and to still remain unfailingly kind, brave, and true to yourself? So many people would become embittered or closed off, or would have allowed their resentment to consume them, but you never did, and that's one of the many reasons why you will always be my favorite. Don't tell Kix I said that.

Sincerely,

DJ

P.S. Is it true that Wolffe was literally rendered speechless the first time a cute civilian flirted with him?

Hello mesh'la

I'm sorry it took me so long to respond but I was so flustered by your comment I had to put my data pad down and take a few laps.

This was....a lot, nothing bad I assure you Cyar'ika, and I'm genuinely genuinely amazed you think of me this way. I'm simply doing my duty as a member of the GAR and the 501st.

My life is no harder or better than any of my brothers. But...I'm flattered by your admiration. I've definitely been asked by multiple people why my face is red.

....now onto Wolffe.

Yes he definitely did and he probably won't like me telling you this. But we were standing there, first time in shore leave and she sauntered up and said something, some line I don't remember. But Wolffe just stood there, holding up the bar like it was his job, Cocky smile on his face. And then when she finally gets a bit annoyed he's just been staring at him he about faces and stalks off to the bathroom.

Hid there the rest of the night.

She might have gone home with Fox. Sorry vod

....I'm so getting punched for telling you all that. Going to get me in trouble mesh'la.

Captain Rex | CT 7567

[irregularjohnnywiggins]

So, because I'm in a Doctor Who mood at the moment and you all willingly followed me, here's one of my favourites in the ongoing saga of 'Doctor Who continuity does not matter, except when it does':

In the 1996 Movie, the Doctor opens the film describing the Master being put on trial on Skaro and summarily executed by presumably the Daleks, and for the next 26 years fans have been confused about that plot point, although I will note with amusement that they're not confused about how exactly Skaro is back when the last time we saw it the Doctor tricked the Daleks into blowing it up.

No, the main thing that threw people about this line is that... the Daleks have a legal system? The literal embodiments of fascism and ethnic cleansing have a concept of 'innocent until proven guilty'? The routine manipulators and masters of deception, who in every story they appear in working alongside someone else inevitabily kill them as soon as they get the opportunity have a concept of perjury? When I say fans have been confused about that plot point for 26 years, I'm not kidding - I still occasionally see someone edit a Dalek into a judge's robes and wig, or an Ace Attorney case, and whilst that may simply be the immortal and unfailingly funny joke of Daleks doing anything aside from ethnic cleansing, I can't help but feel like it's also a reference to this.

However, I have good news for you all: this plot point is actually explained, and in a really cool way to boot, in the 2006 Big Finish Audio Drama I, Davros. See, the framing device of that series is Davros conveying his backstory to the Daleks, for this stated purpose:

Dalek: YOU ARE ON TRIAL.

Davros: And I am to recognise the authority of this "court"? Daleks holding a trial... how low have you sunk without me? ... For what crimes am I accused?

Dalek: NO CRIMES.

Davros: Then what am I on trial for?

Dalek: YOU ARE ON TRIAL!

Davros: I say again, what- Ah... I see. Not a trial. I feel like secondhand goods. I cannot be returned if you consider me faulty!

It's never explicitly stated, in this piece of EU or any other to my knowledge, but I do like the idea of the Daleks trying out the Master to see if he'd be able to help them, and coming to the conclusion that the Master is way too unstable an ally to trust him - especially because, this being at the end of Seven's time and the beginning of Eight, we're barely a few centuries away from the Time War, where the Time Lords will actually resurrect the Master specifically to fight for them, and I just really like the idea of the Daleks being more savvy of what the Master is than the Time Lords.

It's also a great example of what I mean when I say 'Doctor Who continuity does not matter, except when it does': Doctor Who is a massive endeavour, it would take 18 straight days without sleep or breaks to just watch the tv show, let alone all the supplementary stuff like Torchwood or SJA or Big Finish, but the series is built so that its really easy to get into it - pick a starting point (a Doctor, a companion, hell watch all the Dalek episodes and nothing else if you want) and you're off, and you don't need to worry about continuity the way you would for, say, your average comic. But at the same time it is really fun to get into the lore, and debate and argue about stuff like the Daleks holding a trial or the Timeless Child vs the crying boy in the barn or hell even what the hell all the plot holes and inconsistencies mean in a Watsonian sense. Doctor Who is one of those experiences where you get in what you get out, and I love it for that.

[bloody-bee-tea]

Joke

This starts out as Xicheng, but they break-up. The endgame is Mingcheng.

When Jiang Cheng steps into the café, he’s calm and collected and he inwardly laughs at his own thoughts, because the only thing he truly is is numb.

But he at least hopes it comes off as calm and collected.

He doesn’t have to be a genius to know why Lan Xichen asked to meet him here, what today’s discussion will be about, and if Jiang Cheng is being honest, he expected it to happen a lot sooner.

Because of course Lan Xichen would want to break up with him. 

It was only a matter of time—always has been, really—and the only truly surprising thing about their relationship besides the fact that Lan Xichen had been willing to enter one, was the fact that he endured Jiang Cheng for this long.

So really, this talk is long overdue.

“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen greets him with a smile when Jiang Cheng finally makes it over to his table and he’s surprised to see that Lan Xichen already ordered his favourite for him.

Jiang Cheng didn’t expect Lan Xichen to waste anything on him anymore, but then again, Lan Xichen is unfailingly polite.

“Xichen,” Jiang Cheng replies as he slides into the booth and for all that he pretends to be calm and collected he can’t quite meet Lan Xichen’s eyes.

“You seem—tense,” Lan Xichen starts with and Jiang Cheng can’t help himself, he snorts into his coffee.

“Shouldn’t I be tense when you call me here to break up with me?” he shoots back, momentarily forgetting that he wanted to come off as calm and collected and when he drags his eyes up to meet Lan Xichen’s gaze, he seems honestly surprised.

“You know?” Lan Xichen breathes out, and he does seem apologetic but it doesn’t change the fact that this will probably be the last time they will ever speak like this.

“Of course I know,” Jiang Cheng scoffs. “I expected it much sooner, to be honest,” he then adds, always unable to keep even a single thought from Lan Xichen and Jiang Cheng only drops his gaze again when he sees Lan Xichen wince.

“Wanyin, don’t,” he pleads and Jiang Cheng knows that this is at least half the reason Lan Xichen is breaking up with him.

His self-deprecation is simply too much for him and Jiang Cheng can’t even fault him for that.

“You are lovable,” Lan Xichen says and it’s a bold enough lie that Jiang Cheng laughs straight in his face.

“Just not enough to be loved by you, right?” he gives back and he knows that he’s making this unreasonably hard on Lan Xichen, but he can’t help himself.

He can never help himself.

“Wanyin, sometimes people just don’t fit together,” Lan Xichen whispers and Jiang Cheng scoffs, because he knows that better than anyone.

He sees that day after day after day with his parents, and in hindsight he should have never gotten together with Lan Xichen.

He’s too much like his father—gentle and soft and peace-loving—and Jiang Cheng is too much like his mother—sharp and cruel and angry.

Their relationship was always doomed.

“You will find someone who is better for you,” Lan Xichen whispers and Jiang Cheng has to give it to him, he almost sounds like he believes it. “You will find love again.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth twists, because he knows it won’t happen.

It was already a fluke that Lan Xichen fell in love with him; it’s unlikely that Jiang Cheng will get this lucky twice over. 

Sure, Jiang Cheng will fall in love again, eventually, that much he’s certain about—he always did love too easily, too quickly—but the reverse is much harder to come by.

And Jiang Cheng is definitely not going to hold his breath for it.

“Sure,” Jiang Cheng says and then rubs his forehead. 

“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen says and he sounds pained.

“I’m not—it’s okay, Xichen. We both knew this was coming, after all,” Jiang Cheng says with a sigh and a small shrug, because they had known. 

Jiang Cheng even expected this much earlier. 

“I don’t want us to part on bad terms,” Lan Xichen says into his tea and Jiang Cheng even manages a small smile for him.

“We won’t,” he promises, because if they do, it would just be unnecessary hard.

They have to see each other regularly, because of work and because of their brother’s, and if they are constantly fighting that would just put a strain on everyone.

Besides, it’s not like Jiang Cheng can be mad at Lan Xichen for realizing his enormous mistake and getting out of dodge before Jiang Cheng’s temper can erupt and ruin something between them that cannot be repaired.

“Thank you,” Lan Xichen earnestly says and despite how much it hurts, Jiang Cheng knows that he could never be mad at Lan Xichen.

He will need some time, that’s for sure, because he loves Lan Xichen, but he will get over that.

Jiang Cheng dealt with his crush and unreciprocated feelings before. He can do it again.

And when Lan Xichen smiles at him, he knows that it’s worth it.

~*~*~

Love finds Jiang Cheng a little bit quicker again then he expected it to.

But one day he’s hanging out with Nie Huaisang and Nie Mingjue and everything is fine, and then the next day there are butterflies in his stomach when Nie Mingjue laughs.

Jiang Cheng freezes for one second, before he shakes it off.

He’s used to dealing with unattainable crushes-mostly because for him, everyone is unattainable—and he honestly enjoys Nie Huaisang’s and Nie Mingjue’s company too much to let this ruin anything.

Jiang Cheng very deliberately does not think about the fact that by now, those two are like the only friends he has left.

It’s not a thought Jiang Cheng enjoys.

Jiang Cheng excuses himself for a moment nevertheless, pretends that he has to use the bathroom, when really he just needs a moment to let it sink in that he’s in love with Nie Mingjue, and then he very heartfelt says “Fuck me.”

“And here I thought you’d rather have my brother fuck you,” Nie Huaisang suddenly says from the door and Jiang Cheng startles so badly he lets out a little yelp.

“What the fuck, Huaisang!” he hisses, but Nie Huaisang only smiles at him.

“And again, I think you should rather say that to my brother,” he easily says and Jiang Cheng’s stomach drops.

He barely accepted his own crush; he’s not ready for anyone else to know about it.

“No,” Jiang Cheng tries, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nie Huaisang gives him a judging look, and despite having to endure Lan Wangji for entire evenings sometimes, no one gives judging looks like Nie Huaisang.

“I saw how you used to look at er-ge,” Nie Huaisang says and Jiang Cheng goes cold. “And I see how you look at da-ge now.”

“I don’t look at him any kind of way,” Jiang Cheng rushes out and then walks past Nie Huaisang to close the door behind him.

“Sure,” Nie Huaisang easily says, but he’s judging Jiang Cheng and his every life-choice and Jiang Cheng knows it.

“How can you even know?” Jiang Cheng desperately says. “How can you possibly know when I just realized it a few moments ago?”

“You always were slow on the uptake,” Nie Huaisang says with a shrug but it’s not unkind, not mean. “You’ve been looking at da-ge like that for a while now.”

Jiang Cheng wants to protest, wants to deny everything but Nie Huaisang silences him with a look.

“Do not even try to play dumb,” he threatens and Jiang Cheng deflates.

“Don’t say anything,” he pleads with Nie Huaisang, because the thought that Nie Mingjue should find out about his feelings is the single most terrifying thought Jiang Cheng has had in his life.

“And why not?” Nie Huaisang says, narrowing his eyes at Jiang Cheng. 

“Because you’re the only friends I have left,” Jiang Cheng whispers. “Because I don’t want to lose this, too.”

He didn’t completely lose Lan Xichen after their break-up, but it was understandably a bit awkward and they never got over that stage. They are polite to each other and are able to do small talk, but that’s about it.

And now that Lan Xichen is dating Jin Guangyao it even got worse, in Jiang Cheng’s opinion, which has a lot to do with Jin Guangyao’s glares, but it didn’t fundamentally change anything.

That change happened before Lan Xichen’s new relationship and so now Nie Huaisang and Nie Mingjue are the only ones Jiang Cheng has left.

Alone for that, he would never say something, the fear to lose this as well too great.

“You’re not going to lose anything,” Nie Huaisang says with a frown. “You would only gain something.”

“And for how long?” Jiang Cheng says with a bitter laugh. “Until I confess and Mingjue regrettably tells me he doesn’t feel the same and then it gets awkward?”

“He might say something different,” Nie Huaisang says, but the thought that Nie Mingjue might reciprocate his feelings makes Jiang Cheng panic almost more than the thought of him saying no.

“And then what? He endures me for a while, before he too realizes that I’m too much? Too angry and too stupid and too sharp and not soft and good enough? You think I want to do that again? If Lan Xichen couldn’t stand me, you think there’s anyone out there who could?”

“I can stand you,” Nie Huaisang says and he honestly sounds a little bit hurt. 

“Yeah, because you can tell me to fuck off when I get on your nerves. It’s different in a relationship, Huaisang. Mingjue would have to endure so much of my shit and he’s not going to like it.”

“You don’t know that,” Nie Huaisang tries, but Jiang Cheng only laughs in his face.

“Please. Not even Wei Wuxian can stand me for longer than a week,” Jiang Cheng says and his mouth twists bitterly when he remembers how Wei Wuxian flees their apartment more often than not lately.

“That’s because he doesn’t know how to properly appreciate you,” Nie Huaisang gives back.

‘There is nothing to appreciate about me’ is already on the tip of Jiang Cheng’s tongue but then he swallows it down.

He’s too tired to have this fight with Nie Huaisang today and so he simply shrugs.

“Just don’t say anything,” Jiang Cheng whispers instead and Nie Huaisang looks about as unhappy as Jiang Cheng feels. “Please,” he adds, when Nie Huaisang doesn’t say anything for the longest time and Nie Huaisang deflates.

“Fine,” he agrees, but he doesn’t seem happy about it at all and Jiang Cheng wonders if this is already enough to break this friendship as well.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it does.

~*~*~

Jiang Cheng is not entirely sure how he ends up with Nie Mingjue kissing him, but he figures it must be a dream. 

A dream now and a nightmare later, when Nie Mingjue inevitably realizes his mistake and that’s the thought that makes Jiang Cheng push Nie Mingjue away.

“Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue says and he looks at Jiang Cheng with such an intense feeling that Jiang Cheng can feel himself blush, but he still shakes his head.

“No,” he gets out and he hates himself a little bit for how his voice shakes. 

“No what?” Nie Mingjue asks, a small frown now on his face and Jiang Cheng gets up from the couch to put some distance between them.

He wants nothing more than to repeat what they just did, but he knows they can’t. Right now there’s still a chance they can somehow salvage this; if they continue then that will be lost as well.

“You’re confused,” Jiang Cheng says and presses his hand to his mouth. “You didn’t mean to do that, I know,” he reassures Nie Mingjue, tries to somehow make this situation more bearable, but he can tell that Nie Mingjue is not convinced by anything he says.

“I’m giving you an out here,” Jiang Cheng hisses when Nie Mingjue tries to reach for him again, and Nie Mingjue shakes his head.

“I don’t want an out, Wanyin,” he says. “I am not confused and I absolutely meant to do that,” Nie Mingjue tells him and Jiang Cheng’s stomach drops.

So it will be like with Lan Xichen; he will be happy for a short while only to lose everything in the end. 

“This is the worst decision you have ever made in your life,” Jiang Cheng tells him and he watches as Nie Mingjue’s face falls.

“You’re not a terrible decision, Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue tells him, but Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

“Of course I am. I am the worst decision. You should ask Xichen all about it, I bet he has many a thing to say about that.”

“Yes, he does, actually,” Nie Mingjue says, and Jiang Cheng was not prepared for how that hurts. “He warned me that it would be hard,” Nie Mingjue goes on, but before he can even properly finish that sentence, Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“If it’s so hard to love me, why even try? Don’t strain yourself on my account,” he hisses out but Nie Mingjue shakes his head.

“He said it would be hard to make you understand. To make you believe that I love you.”

“Hard enough that he’d rather not have anything to do with that at all,” Jiang Cheng presses out. “Maybe you should take his example and get out while you still can.”

“Wanyin, it didn’t work out between you because sometimes it just doesn’t. It has nothing to do with how lovable you are or if Xichen was willing to put in work. Sometimes it’s just not right.”

“And sometimes I’m just too much trouble.”

“No offense, but I think the most trouble in my life is Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue says with a wry smile and it’s surprising enough of a joke that it startles a laugh out of Jiang Cheng. “You’re welcome to try for second place, though.”

Jiang Cheng understands what Nie Mingjue is doing; he’s subtly letting him know that even though Nie Huaisang is the most trouble in his life, Nie Mingjue still values him above everything, but it’s not the same for Jiang Cheng.

There are blood ties tying Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang together; it would be different with Jiang Cheng.

“Let me love you,” Nie Mingjue says when Jiang Cheng kept silent for too long. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

There are a billion things that can happen but only one worth speaking out loud: “I’m going to lose you and Huaisang when this inevitably ends.”

“And you think that after everything that already happened we can just go back to normal?” Nie Mingjue curiously asks and Jiang Cheng realizes with a sinking feeling that no matter what Nie Mingjue’s answer to that is, his is no.

Nie Mingjue talked about love; Jiang Cheng will not ever forget that and he will not be able to be just friends.

“Then what’s the harm in trying?” Nie Mingjue asks, clearly reading the thought right off Jiang Cheng’s face. 

“The harm is that I end up with a broken heart again,” Jiang Cheng hisses, but he sees Nie Mingjue’s logic and his self-preservation instinct isn’t strong enough to simply walk away from this now.

“Maybe you’re going to break my heart,” Nie Mingjue says with a shrug. “Or maybe we end up very happy, all hearts unbroken.”

It’s a nice thought, that, but Jiang Cheng thinks it’s highly unlikely that he should end up that lucky.

But  maybe Nie Mingjue is right. Maybe Jiang Cheng should take this chance, even if he does end up unhappy; at least then his pain will have meaning instead of simply breaking everything off now.

“Fine,” Jiang Cheng huffs out after long moments of deliberation but Nie Mingjue shakes his head.

“Fine what? You didn’t yet say how you feel about me,” he says and Jiang Cheng knows him well enough to see the teasing glint in his eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Jiang Cheng says with feeling, but then he steps closer to Nie Mingjue. “You know how I feel.”

“Do I?” Nie Mingjue asks, tilting his head in consideration. “It seems to have slipped my mind. You should remind me.”

Nie Mingjue is already 100% more asshole than Lan Xichen ever was and Jiang Cheng has to admit that he’s delighted by that.

“I’m in love with you,” he admits, almost easily with that new revelation, and Nie Mingjue rewards him with a huge smile and a sweet kiss.

Jiang Cheng figures that this is worth it, just for that combination. 

(When they pass their one, five, ten year anniversary Nie Mingjue very pointedly does not verbally tell him “I told you so”. He saves that up for the wedding.)

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Firewood

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Rating: M

Warnings: Sexy, sexy thoughts, but we all know that Sheriff Din is a proper gentleman who would never sleep with you before you’re married. But, a girl can look. 

Summary: You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.

Notes: Oh, hello, is this another firewood chopping fic? Yes. Yes it is. Do I have a thing for big, strong men chopping wood? Yes, apparently so. 

Jeans were invented in 1873 so yes, Sheriff Din, 100% can wear tight jeans to show off that fine butt. 

Archiveofourown

You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.

Every stove and every fireplace in Navarro was wood burning, gas was still a new fangled thing and hadn’t reached your little mining town yet. The metal log burner in the centre of the schoolhouse was no exception and it was on this particular Saturday, when working on marking some of the childrens’ books, that you noticed your store of firewood was rather shoddy. Something that while not an immediate concern would grow to be as the weather began to turn colder and the snow piled up outside. The children would need to be kept warm, otherwise they just simply wouldn’t learn right. 

It had been something you mentioned in passing to the sheriff that morning, you hadn’t expected him to do anything about it and certainly not immediately. Just made small talk when he’d popped in to check on you and mentioned that the wood store was getting a little low and that you'd need to sort it soon before the weather turned. You should have known that Din, the mother hen, caring and considerate man that he was, would have taken it upon himself to correct the problem and quickly. 

Had you known that that wasn’t just going to the general store and buying more logs, but instead cutting down a couple of trees near the school house and proceeding to cut them into fire logs, then you...well, you would have definitely still mentioned the problem to him. After all, the sight was definitely an enjoyable one. Not that you’d admit that to anyone. You were supposed to be a respectable lady. A school teacher. You shouldn’t have had any thoughts on Din Djarin and how he looked chopping wood. 

It’s how you found yourself looking out one of the large windows of the schoolhouse, lip bitten between your teeth and chin resting on your hand as you watch Din lift a large log over his broad shoulders and to a tree stump he’d designated for wood chopping. He managed to make carrying the heavy load seem easy, like it barely phased him, he simply redistributed his weight and stance to make the walk easier. 

He’d forgone his many layers. His hat had been placed off to the side, his usual button-up was off, now only stood in a grey union suit unbuttoned, indecently so, showing off pronounced collar bones and dark chest hair and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows displaying his thick forearms. His suspenders dug delightfully into his wide shoulders and the wide planes of his chest were captured fetchingly in the clinging fabric of the undershirt. 

Your headmistress most certainly would have clipped you around the ear you think. It was unbecoming, unladylike, most certainly not decent to watch him with thoughts of how easily he could lift you over his shoulder. How nicely it must feel to be pulled into those arms and rest your cheek against his chest. How strong his palms look and how delightful the muffled grunts he let out sounded. Most certainly unladylike, improper and you shouldn’t have sat there and watched, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tear yourself from temptation. 

There was just something, something about the way his shoulders tensed as he brought the axe back over his head before bringing it down with a sure stroke, cleaving the log in two. Something about the strength of those thick forearms, the scars that littered them from bounties he’d collected and a life of hard graft. Something about the sweat that beaded on tanned skin, that caught your eyes as you followed in down his prominent nose to his perpetually pouting lips. 

As Reeva would say, Din Djarin was a whole lot of man and you thought perhaps a king among men. He could capture your attention just with a change to his stance or a look, you were sure every unmarried woman in town would happily marry him. He was incredibly handsome, but what made him something special you decided was his nature. 

He was unfailingly kind, sweet and gentle, he always made sure to look out for others. Every act of service was a sign of his devotion and appreciation to his community, of who he was. He would get birds out of chimneys, sweep the porch for elderly citizens, hunt down a missing pet or build a schoolhouse. You knew that you never had to worry with Din around, the moment you mentioned a problem or difficulty he would be there offering to help without asking for anything in return. A king among men indeed. 

A grunt brought you out of your thoughts and back to the view before you. Large palms and dexterous fingers twisted around the wooden handle of a heavy axe, feet planted wide to give him a better stance, jeans tight against his hips. Did the man have to own such tight trousers?

“Oh, Miss Adams, I’m terribly sorry.” You can’t help but mutter as warmth floods your body, your skin feeling too warm in your heavy skirt and blouse. A itch settling deep in your stomach. Your headmistress would have made you go to confession if she knew, forcing you to admit that your eyes and mind had sinned oh so terribly for gazing so covetously at the sheriff, at Din.

You couldn’t help it. You wondered what it would be like. To be married to him, to lie besides him on a cold night, those large palms sliding soothingly over your hips, your belly, your thighs. Wrapped so tightly in him that it would be impossible to figure out where you ended and he began. What would that deep, soothing voice feel like rumbling against your skin. 

A breathy sigh leaves your lips at the thought and you wonder how you’re supposed to ever talk to him again without thinking about how he looks in that exact moment as fabric clings tight to his body and his dark hair begins to curl at the edges from sweat and the humid air. 

You decide in that moment that he can’t ever know. It’s as simple as that. He simply can’t find out about these feelings you have or the power he holds over you. It just wouldn’t do, wouldn’t be proper. You shall simply go out there and thank him for cutting more wood for the schoolhouse, offer him a drink of water and be done with it. 

You rise with determination, hands brushing your skirts smooth before grabbing the glass you use during the school day. The outside water pump is a handy little thing, you think as you fill the glass with cold, clean water. Despite the children often using it for mischief at break times, it does everyone a world of good to have easy access to water at the school. 

“You look mighty thirsty, sheriff” You call out to him, one hand lifting your skirts to help you walk over the uneven ground, the other holding the glass of water out in front of you. 

When you reach him you offer the glass, he takes it with a thank you and you try not to stare too hard as he throws his head back and gulps the water down fast. His neck extended, Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. 

“You know you didn’t have to do this...I could have bought some wood for the fire.” There was a small school fund for that sort of thing, the mayor had reluctantly set it up so that you could buy chalk and other things that the school would need and have to replace over time. While wood was certainly not a cheap item, it was something you budgeted for every single year. 

“Cyar’ika, there’s no way I'm letting you spend good credits on firewood when there are plenty of trees for me to cut down. Besides, I’m not busy.” 

“Din…” You want to protest, remind him that he has better things to do that cut firewood for you. Mostly because you worry that you’re taking advantage of his kindness. What possibly could you offer in return to a man who was capable of doing everything himself? 

A hand reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek briefly and gently, “Just let me help you.”

It’s the gentle touch and the quiet plead in his voice that has you admitting defeat. There was no use fighting his nature and asking him to stand by if he noticed you in need of something. It just wasn’t in him and it was something you liked greatly about him. 

“Thank you. You’re always looking out for us.” 

His hand drops from your face to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a gesture you were beginning to recognise as a sign that Din was uncomfortable or nervous. More often than not when it came to feelings of any sort. “Well, I gotta keep my eye on you, make sure you’re doin’ alright.”

“I...have you...have you ever thought that you deserve someone keeping their eye on you too? To look out for you, I mean.” You rush through that last part to take some of the possible innuendo from your words. Not that your eyes had been anywhere but on Din as of late, but...you didn’t mean it like that. You could feel an embarrassed warmth radiating up your neck and into your face at the implication of your words.

There’s a tug at the corner of his mouth, “Oh, I noticed you’ve been doin’ a mighty fine job of that yourself, cyar’ika.” It’s unusually playful coming from Din and it has your mouth drying up as you swallow harshly. Had he noticed you watching him cut wood? Or the other day when he helped carry some of Mr Hewitt’s goods into the general store? 

“I’m...I’m just looking out for you. Is all.” 

He hums, clearly not quite believing you, but lets it slide. You’re a proper lady and he knows if he teases too much he’ll scare you away. Maybe one day he’ll let you in on the secret that he caught you peering out of the school window watching him. But, today he lets it go, lets you walk away back into the school house with the excuse that you have more books to mark. 

If he decides to roll the union suit down to his waist and continue cutting wood with his torso free of clothing, then that’s not to tease you at all, it’s just because the weather’s gotten mighty hot lately. If he happens to notice you at the window again watching him then he doesn’t mention it and it means nothing, nothing at all.

                                         -------------------------------------

Mando’a Translations:

Cyar’ika - Sweetheart, Darling

[carlyraejcpsen]

#21 + kyalin if you're taking prompts?

omg totally !!

21. thank you for caring about me

Kya was exhausted. The city was still feeling the effects of the havoc that Kuvira had wrought and days at the evacuee camps were endlessly long and arduous. Despite having worked as a healer for the majority of her life, even in the most impoverished regions of the Earth Kingdom, she still never quite got used to the ache in her chest that came with seeing people suffering.

The apartment she shared with Lin wasn’t far from where she had been working and, although her entire body ached with fatigue, she decided that the walk would help to clear her head. It was reassuring, to walk through the streets she had grown up in and see that, despite the hardships they were facing, people were stubbornly going about their days. People still brushed past her in a rush to reach their destination, the sound of children’s laughter still rang out from the nearby park, and the various smells from nearby restaurants still permeated the air. The city was surviving and Kya was proud to be a part of its healing process.

Stepping through the front door, she was surprised to see her wife’s keys already in the bowl by the door. It was rare that the police chief ever arrived home before she did, especially in the past few days when she had been stuck at the station until Kya was already drifting to sleep. The waterbender felt some of the tension she had been carrying dissipate just at the thought of spending the evening with Lin. As she moved deeper into the apartment, she found the metalbender stepping around the kitchen, a fragrant smelling soup bubbling away on the stovetop as she reached into the cupboard for a pack of noodles. Kya thought she might cry with happiness just looking at her, but she kept moving; she came up behind her to wrap her arms around Lin’s waist, eliciting a yelp from the shorter woman.

“Agh! I didn’t hear you come in.” Lin immediately relaxed into Kya’s embrace and the waterbender pressed a gentle kiss against the exposed skin of her shoulder as an apology. Secretly however, her heart warmed at the fact that Lin felt safe enough in their home not to be constantly on guard, allowing her the rare opportunity to sneak up on her.

“Sorry. I didn’t expect to see you home so early?”

Lin hummed, reaching forwards to add the noodles into the pot. Kya simply moved with her, not willing to let go yet. “I think they’ll survive one evening without me, for once. It does mean I had to bring some paperwork back with me, so I’m not entirely free,” She paused, suddenly shy, “but I wanted to spend more time at home.”

Kya responded by turning her wife around in her arms and leaning down to capture her lips soundly. She smiled against Lin’s mouth as she felt the metalbender’s hands come up to rest against her cheeks, tilting her head to deepen the kiss slightly before she pulled back, “Spirits, I’ve missed you.”

Lin nodded against her forehead, closing her eyes to savour the feeling of holding her wife close again after what felt like far too long. A week of missed opportunities, of only really seeing each other when they curled up in bed to sleep and not being able to really talk, had been almost intolerable. She only pulled away, reluctantly, when the pot behind her started to bubble over. Kya let her go and opened the cupboard to retrieve bowls, but Lin swatted at her,

“Go, sit down. I’ll bring it over.” Too tired to argue, Kya did as she was told and turned to sit cross-legged on the couch. Usually she hated eating anywhere other than at the table, so Lin quirked an eyebrow at her when she followed shortly after with two bowls,

“Long day?”

Kya sighed deeply as she nodded her head in agreement, her headache worsening as she furrowed her brow. Lin leaned over to press a kiss to the crease between her brows as she pressed a bowl into her hands and Kya almost melted at the gesture.

“Yeah. It just feels never-ending sometimes, you know?” Lin hummed in understanding; she certainly did know what Kya meant. “The camps are still awful, but at least we’re starting to see some improvements. How about you?”

The waterbender took a huge bite of noodles and practically moaned in contentment. Lin’s cooking always reminded her of the woman herself; hearty, rich in flavour and unfailingly comforting. Lin smirked at her over her chopsticks and Kya tossed her a wink.

“The triads aren’t showing any signs of slowing down this idiotic turf war, that’s what’s been keeping me at work so late. Mako’s working on a couple of promising leads though.”

They lapsed into light conversation as they ate, not needing to say much else. After both dealing with such chaos at work, they were grateful just to sit down and enjoy each other’s company for the first time in far too many days. Once their bowls were empty, Lin swiped Kya’s before she could even protest and stood up to clear everything away. The healer questioned her when she returned, but Lin only shrugged and sat back down on the couch with a huff. Not wanting to push her any further, Kya chose to say nothing else and instead shifted so that she was sitting against her wife’s side, smiling as Lin wrapped her arm around her shoulders. Her exhaustion was still a burden, but the reassuring presence of her wife at her side made it so much easier to deal with.

When Kya had first moved back to the city to be with Lin, she had been constantly on edge waiting for the urge to run to take over again and ruin everything. But it never came. She had never expected to be someone who would happily settle down, coming home to the same place and the same person every day, but here she was; she had made a home at Lin’s side and she had never felt safer or more at peace.

“Thank you,” she muttered, twisting so that she could look her wife in the eyes.

Lin cocked her head, “For what?”

“For caring about me.” Lin looked surprised, so Kya clarified, “I’ve never had anyone care about me like you do.”

Kya could count on one hand the amount of time she’d seen Lin’s eyes get as soft as they did then. She never had her guard up when they were alone together anymore, but it was still rare for her emotions to show so clearly on her face. It made the healer lean up and kiss her softly before she could even start to speak.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Lin said when they separated, her voice barely above a whisper as she rubbed her nose against Kya’s affectionately, “I couldn’t help it if I tried.”

adoration prompts

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Mate in Three

Pairing: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts Rating: M Word Count: 2653

Summary:

It's not a matter of if Beth can seduce Benny, it's a matter of when.

The first thing Beth decides is that it doesn’t matter whether Benny knows she’s doing it on purpose. Not for a moment does she believe herself to be wilier than him, therefore her attempts to seduce him cannot go unnoticed. She’s already revealed her intentions—at the bar in Ohio—and he’s made his own position clear. Both halves of it. He wouldn’t have needed to put an unambiguous ban on sex if it weren’t at least partly for his own benefit, as a reminder to keep their relationship professional, trainer and trainee. She still smiles to herself over how he reacted when she swept the hair from his eyes. All he’s done is silently place a handicap on her play: she’ll have to accomplish it all without touching him.

The drive to New York is for revision, repetition, exercises, and, amusingly, bonding. Benny’s still Benny behind the wheel, but this is something more straightforward than playing Benny Watts for fans and the press. He’s at ease. He even unstraps the knife from his belt ahead of them setting off.

“For comfort,” he claims, explaining that he doesn’t want the sheath digging into his leg the entire trip.

“Does this mean you don’t believe you need to protect yourself from me?” Beth jokingly inquires.

He holds her teasing stare a second too long and clears his throat as he redirects his attention to the road ahead of them.

It takes her a couple of days to find her feet after arriving at Benny’s apartment. She’s never been to New York and the noises outside are as jarring as the grim interior. Her host trailing the end of that open robe around feels like the equivalent of the smug smirks some of Beth’s earliest opponents wore when they mistakenly supposed they’d made a brilliant move against her. She wiped those smiles off easily enough; proving that Benny’s no match for her shouldn’t be any tougher.

Once she adapts to the lack of natural light inside the space and having to blow up her bed every evening, Beth is ready to commence. Benny’s already training her, started the first morning, but now she shifts to playing a simultaneous. This is the game beneath the game. Sure that she can win, what she’s most curious to discover is how many moves it’ll take. Though the apartment is unelaborate and their lives within the unadorned rooms routine, she finds opportunities. Poverty, followed by the monk-like existence at Methuen—every space communal, precious few meaningful possessions scattered between nearly two dozen girls—has made her wickedly resourceful.

Taking responsibility for feeding them is straightforward. It makes sense for her to buy the groceries as a way of repaying him for letting her stay, plus her numerous pointed looks upon opening a cupboard or the refrigerator to expose the slim pickings have Benny half-convinced before Beth even asks to take over food shopping duties. The only things he’s really attached to (besides coffee) are his morning eggs. She notices. She plots before falling asleep, unfurling scenarios in her mind as she stares at the ceiling and folds her hands over the placket of her satiny pink pajamas. Then, she starts eating his eggs.

“Why do you buy all this other stuff if that’s what you want to eat?” Benny questions, standing next to her at the stove, using a greasy fork to gesture towards the egg she’s frying.

Beth shrugs, surveying as he goes back to scraping at the bacon where it’s sticking to his pan. Even now, his upper body is bare under the robe and she’s suppressing the urge to warn him about the pain of hot splatter. She transfers her weight onto the foot farthest from him and watches the bacon sizzle.

“Maybe I just like eggs,” she says.

And, truly, she doesn’t mind them. However, Beth, who has preferred her eggs scrambled since childhood (a common breakfast at the orphanage and the most tolerable meal they offered), unfailingly prepares every egg at Benny’s over easy.

They take their positions across the table and the board from each other, plates on their laps, coffee always just shy of being knocked to the ground by their propped elbows. She lets him ramble. He seems to enjoy beginning every session with a little chess history—and, of course, the Benny Watts perspective on it. Finally, he moves his first piece with a decisive tap, but Beth concentrates on her egg. She splits it with the side of her fork and quickly moves the bite to her mouth.

Confused by her failure to respond to his opening move, Benny looks up. Beth feels immense satisfaction in witnessing the impatient gaze he shoots at her eyes melt as it drops to the yellow yolk dribbling from the corner of her lips. She wipes at it with feigned embarrassment, as though she hadn’t been pressing the egg against the roof of her mouth with her tongue until she felt the gush.

He blinks and shifts in his seat.

“You going to play or what?”

“Yes.”

Benny wins the first match by too much because she was distracted, but Beth’s loss is bearable to her. She gained ground in the other game. Although he recovered promptly, what she now thinks of as the Egg Variation did get his attention.

When devising the second move of her endgame, she thinks of Harry. His love for her was as plain as the nose on his face, but she suspects that this next tactic will work just as well on someone far less blatant about their feelings. Watching a woman dance must be where concealed lust and transparent devotion meet. Just as she stripped Benny of his queen at the Ohio tournament, she aims to strip him of the persistent disinterest in her that hangs from him like one of his necklaces.

He has a small radio. She’s only ever seen him listen to it in the morning, either sitting on the steps across the room from where she sleeps (presumably trying not to wake her with the noise) or at the table while she’s frying up her provocative prop/breakfast. One night, Beth waits for Benny to turn in, then grabs the radio. She has it on low at first, swaying her head side to side. But when she starts inflating her mattress, the thump of the pump depressing drowns out the music. Well, there’s only one thing for her to do about that.

Eyes on the closed bedroom door, Beth twists the dial to increase the volume. She swiftly sets the radio on the floor and places her foot on the pump, heart fleetly beating. Benny doesn’t come out, so she finishes her task, anticipation mounting. She adjusts the volume again.

Because they left right from Ohio, she traveled with a limited wardrobe. Taking pleasure in both strategizing and dressing herself well, Beth made sure to have the correct clothes clean on the correct day—including today. Especially today. That’s why, when the music sufficiently interferes with his attempt to get to sleep, Benny storms out only to halt in his tracks at the sight of Beth dancing, the navy skirt she wore the day before she trounced him twirling around her thighs.

“Sorry,” she says when she catches him staring. She’s grinning. “We sit all day and I… needed to move.”

“Right now?” he asks, crossing his arms over his bare chest. He taps a finger against his arm and she notices he’s removed his bracelet and ring. It’s oddly intimate to view him without jewellery.

“Well, you don’t give me any other time.”

“That’s because I’m training you to be a chess champion, not a ballerina.”

Benny tilts to rest his shoulder against the wall. He’s still watching her and she’s still dancing, wiggling her shoulders and hips in place, though no longer hopping around. Just meeting his gaze has her out of breath. Do something, she dares him with her eyes.

“Relax, Benny,” she impishly commands. “I promise this won’t make me worse at chess.”

“Will it make you better?”

Beth shuns his challenging tone, swinging around to put her back to him and dancing more vigorously. She almost thinks she hears the smack of his bare feet crossing the floor to join her, but when she turns, Benny’s about to step back into his bedroom. He stops himself though, hand braced flat on the wall. She quits dancing as, slowly, he looks sideways at her. His eyes race over her faster than she can be sure of what he’s taking in. Her skirt and her plan, or just her noisy presence, keeping him awake? As he turns his head and disappears for the night, she spots the way he smiles to himself. She wants to drag him back out here. Instead, with a sigh, she shuts off the radio.

She can feel it—she can always feel a victory. Her self-assurance in this talent has never been rattled. When Benny beat her in Vegas, it didn’t surprise her. No, she watched it coming from half a dozen moves off, which was enough to lend his win the same terrifying inevitability as the oncoming truck that met Beth’s mother’s car on a bridge and killed her on impact. Beth was as incapable of escaping defeat at the US Open as she was of grabbing the wheel from the backseat and steering her mother to safety. The sense of an approaching victory is free of what-ifs and regrets. It simply is.

Following the employment of the Egg Variation and the midnight dance, she’s certain the seduction requires a single move more. And she’s US Champion Beth Harmon. She has just the thing.

The abominable dearth of privacy where the shower is concerned makes it an obvious choice. Too obvious? In her mind, no more obvious than engaging Benny in a trading of queens in Ohio after being defeated by him in that same manner in Las Vegas. His ego made him believe he was invincible, blind to the fact that Beth would never make the same mistake twice. Equally keen to avoid a blunder here, she gives the backdrop of the strike that will be her last a good test run. And tries not to enjoy it too much. (Outwardly.)

Usually, she collects her clothes for the day—or pajamas, when she showers at night—and places them next to the shower. Close enough to reach, far enough to avoid the rogue spray that makes it past the curtain. Hidden by that same curtain, Beth towels off, then sticks an arm out to snatch up her clothing and dress in everything but shoes before stepping out. During her test run, Beth forgets to bring her clothes. She dries herself like normal, then, when she hears the door to Benny’s bedroom snap open, presents herself with his threadbare towel twisted around her, the end tucked in beneath her arm. She blinks at him as though startled and laughs with modest embarrassment.

“Forgot my—”

“Oh,” he says and steps back, practically trips back, slamming the door.

Beth waltzes across the room, head held high to breathe the air of imminent conquest. She almost begins to hum. What must he be thinking as he keeps himself caged in his room? Is he frozen or pacing? Running his fingers through his hair or his palm over his mouth? Has he flung himself to the far back of his bedroom, as far from her as he can get, or does he wait just inside the door, battling every second against the compulsion to wrench it wide?

“Just you wait,” she singsongs under her breath, smiling as she wrings water from her hair and pops on a headband.

After the trial comes the play for all the marbles (as her mother would’ve said). Beth doesn’t wait, doesn’t grace Benny with any time to cool down and get a handle on his refusal to acknowledge her as a potential sexual partner. The very next time she showers, she forgets the towel.

“Benny?” she shouts.

She’s knows he’s preoccupied; he was reading a book—on chess, what else—when he retreated to his bedroom for her privacy. His belated answering shout confirms that she’s only won a piece of his attention. Beth bites her lips together to discourage herself from smiling.

“…Yeah?”

“Could you come out here? I need your help.”

Controlling her expression, Beth pokes her head around the edge of the shower curtain.

“Well,” she hears him say loudly as his door opens, “that’s the first time you’ve said—”

His eyes scan the room for her and, locating her, he sighs. She gives him a delicate wave, just a fluttering of her fingers.

“Hi, Benny.”

“Yeah,” he responds heavily. “Hi.”

“I forgot my towel.”

“I bet you did.”

“And? Are you going to get it for me? I’m getting cold.”

She sees him slide his lower jaw to the side in frustration and contemplation, but, raising his eyebrows in a quick flick, he nods. The towel isn’t hard to find; she left it perfectly visible on purpose so he wouldn’t have to waste time searching. He walks towards her, shifting his gaze from her face to the floor and back. She understands the look—it’s that of a person trying to find a way out. They’ve alternated wearing it when sitting across from each other at a chessboard. He stops in front of the shower and extends the towel towards her, wearing a different expression: a man accepting that he’s been outmaneuvered.

“Thanks.”

Her arm shoots out as she takes it from him and snaps the curtain shut again. The reaction is clearly not what he was expecting because she hears him chuckle to himself.

“You’re cruel, Beth.”

She frowns, drying herself with unprecedented speed. She can see his silhouette through the curtain.

“How so?”

“You finally get me right where you want me and then you decide to toy with me.”

The sound of his feet scuffing across the floor reaches her as he walks away. Draped in the towel, she jerks the curtain open and chases him in stuttering steps. He turns and she freezes. Instinct makes her cross her arms behind her back, a habit from childhood that Mrs. Deardorff once told her to break as it made her appear secretive. Which she was.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I had to stretch it a moment longer. I don’t know what made me do it.”

“I do,” Benny tells her, squaring himself to face her fully. He grins. “Revenge.”

“Revenge? But I already—”

“Sure, you took the title from me, but you never got me back for discovering the flaw in your game against Beltik.”

Beth opens her mouth to argue only to close it again in a smile.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I am, you know. Some of the time.”

He doesn’t disguise how his gaze rides a water droplet running down the side of her neck, over her collarbone, and into the towel after following the swell of her breast. She lets him look, then extends her hand, businesslike.

“Do you resign?”

Benny smiles and grips her hand.

“You play ruthlessly.”

“I play to win,” she corrects.

His fingers tighten around her hand and he tugs her in. Their first kiss has the force of a merciless endgame assault—true to form for them both. The noise that escapes her as the pressure of his mouth on hers tips her head back farther calls out to him. He clutches her against him and she feels the imprint of his hand distinctly through the towel. Unable to push him, she pulls instead, guiding him around until she advances on his bedroom backwards, fingers hooked in the neck of his black t-shirt.

In lieu of a king, Beth topples Benny—straight into his bed.

[mimik-u]

Archive

Summary: As a part of the extensive process for documenting the war, Pearl and Blue Diamond prepare to have a conversation about Pink.

Prompt: One of the Diamonds interacts with a Pearl (either “our” Pearl, our “their” Pearl) post-CYM

Note: My gift to @runrundoyourstuff​ for our holiday gift exchange. Dani, your writing always inspires me—I’m always looking to it for your complex understanding of characters, your depth, and the beautiful way you have with words (always so thoughtful, even to the syllable). Thank you for all the wonderful conversations that we have. I’m so lucky to have you in my life!! And please check out her gift to me—Seasons! I’m so excited to read it, too!!!!

AO3 Link

—

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Steven reminds her for the fifteenth time since he woke up this morning and bounded down from the loft to interrupt her daily newspaper reading. He’s sitting on the corner of her desk in Little Homeschool now, one of his jacket sleeves scrunched up at the elbow and the other rolled down, leveling her a serious look beneath his bushy brow, mouth pressed into a thin line.

It strikes Pearl suddenly, and for no readily available reason, that her little boy has grown up somewhere in the space and span of two measly years.

Soon, if he keeps growing, he’ll be even taller than she is.

“Yes, you’ve made sure I’m aware of that,” she returns wryly, absently reshuffling her notes again. They’re half-English, half-gem glyph in a shorthand that only she understands, alternating languages from line to line depending on when glyphs were not sufficient enough to capture all those once-foreign concepts to gemkind: love, romance, the depths of sacrifice. Gems didn’t need symbols to encode for these complex sensations, even if they felt them, and perhaps especially if they did.

It was scary to love someone on Homeworld.

It was terrifying to love them so powerfully that you would risk your very gem for them.

Traitors were duly punished.

Survivors were rare in Era One.

(Garnet can attest to that.)

“I’m just sayin’,” he protests playfully, sounding rather like Amethyst, and even resembling her when he raises both of his palms in mock surrender. “I know this project is important and all, but it’s not as important as me knowing that you’re comfortable…”

Pearl places her papers down and straightens them neatly, all the while feeling the force of Steven’s expectant gaze.

The strength of his love.

It warms her all over.

It colors her pale face.

But when she finally glances up at him, even though her cheeks are assuredly pink, she keeps her voice and resolve firm.

(Though she’ll never say this to him, not now, not anymore—never again—he reminds her so much of his mother sometimes.)

(His kindness, his warmth, his goodness.)

(Because Rose wasn’t all bad—not really. Not to her, at least.)

“I’m fine, Steven,” she reassures him. “I promise. I wouldn’t have agreed in the first place if I wasn’t. This isn’t the first time I’ve done one of these recordings, and it won’t be the last either.”

“But never about… this, you know”—he makes a vague pointing gesture with his hand, struggling for the right words—“and never with a Diamond.”

He says the word Diamond nervously, like it’s one of the expletives that Amethyst has gotten more comfortable in dropping now that Steven is a bonafide teenager, and he’s simply waiting to see Pearl’s response, how she’ll react.

She certainly did give Amethyst one hell of a scolding the other day.

“This is history,” she returns quietly. “It’s painful history, yes… but that can’t be helped.”

“But it can!” He argues pointedly, his eyes wide and incredulous, his voice scratched around its strained edges. “You don’t have to share the things that have hurt you for the entire galaxy to see, Pearl. That isn’t what this is all about.”

“But I want to.” And there’s a sense of finality in her tone that closes a mouth that had already been half-wrenched open in preemptive protest. Pearl takes the opportunity to reach over then and place a hand on Steven’s jean-enclosed knee, smiling gently. “Of course, there are a couple of details I’ll keep to myself—keep between you and me—but for the most part, I’m ready to tell this part of the story. Indeed, I think it’s essential that I do.”

“For archival purposes?” Steven asks dryly, resignation in his voice, a little teenage petulance, too.

Pearl pats his knee once, laughs lightly, and then withdraws her hand.

“For closure,” she says simply, but then, because she knows it’s not enough for him, and she wants it to be enough for him, elaborates. Explains. (It isn’t quite justification, though.) “Two years ago, I was bound by your mother’s final command to never talk about what we did. And most of the time, I didn’t want to… I don’t think I could have forced myself to even if I tried. As you got older, though, as you learned more about your mother and all of her many… complexities…  as you began to have questions—so many important questions—I knew I needed to but couldn’t. And now…”

“You have a choice,” Steven finishes for her, realization washing across his face, unbending the protective sharpness in it.

“Exactly,” she nods approvingly, “and so I’ve thought about it… I’ve weighed everything out carefully… and I’ve come to the conclusion that this is what I want—to claim our history… even  though it’s painful, even if it still hurts. I’ve had trouble doing that before, even with secrets in my own volition, and I don’t want… I refuse to let that be me anymore, Steven. I don’t want to live with thousands-year old ghosts anymore.”

Though his brow remains furrowed, though there’s something in the dark of his eyes that remains a little unsure, Steven nonetheless blinks to show that he’s heard her and nods solemnly to indicate that he understands.

It’s a simple gesture.

It means a lot.

And she smiles at him in radiant, weary relief.

A few months ago, Homeworld and Little Homeschool scholars had a conference to determine how best to record, preserve, and proliferate the history of the war, and all the events that resulted in Era Three. There are extensive gaps in Homeworld’s own archives, which had been scrubbed free of mentions of it in obedience to Yellow Diamond’s commands, and Little Homeschool, of course, being relatively new, doesn’t have an archive so much as it has a file cabinet in Pearl’s office that’s at the very least meticulously alphabetized. And so, they decided upon creating a universally accessible Archive, a series of recordings and documents and interviews delivered by gems and humans from both sides of the war, giving accounts of all that has happened in six thousand elapsed years.

Most of the Crystal Gems have done several recordings.

Garnet, Bismuth, and Pearl did one just last week on the Battle of the Ziggurat.

Biggs and a few other defected Homeworld soldiers have covered some of the minor battles.

Yellow and Blue Pearl have recorded a few on what it was like to be in the palace during the war.

And even the Diamonds themselves have proffered their perspectives whenever they’ve had the time.

Because the scholars emphasized early on that it was essential for all sides of the story to be brought to the table in order for the universe to get the fullest canvas of what it meant that Pink Diamond started a war that her half-human son would one day finish.

The minutiae of Homeworld politics.

All of the many battles.

The rebellion.

The beauty of Earth.

The aching desolation of Homeworld after the faked shattering.

Gems’ encounters with humans.

Humans’ encounters with gems.

The casualties.

The grief.

And what that does to a gem—to hold her comrade’s shards in her hands.

What it does to people.

The various townies have given their accounts of what it was like to live through alien invasion after alien invasion, to see their beloved Beach City upended so many times, right before their eyes.

War.

“When does it start?” Steven asks in a would-be-casual voice, straightening up from her desk and stretching his arms over his head before pulling them back down again. With a meticulousness she fancies he inherited from her, he finally fixes his sleeves, dragging the cuff of his left arm to perfectly match the length of the other.

“In ten minutes,” she replies.

“Do you want me to stay?” Lines crease his eyes even as he offers it. “I can if you need me to.”

He glances at the still dormant Holo-Crystal on the desk and just as quickly glances away, finding her face.

Searching her own gaze, even at the very moment she searches his, the both of them looking for something to be concerned about and unfailingly finding love.

Pearl knows for a fact that he doesn’t want to listen, that he’d rather not hear the sordid story all over again.

He’s seen it.

Goodness, he’s half-lived it through the mire of her own head.

But she also knows that if she asked him to, he would do it.

Just for her.

He’s selfless like that.

He’s Steven.

“Go,” she smiles softly at him, leaning back in her chair. “Get out of here. If you and Amethyst will grab the stuff from the store, I’ll make cookies for dessert tonight.”

Steven returns the gesture crookedly, and the relief in his eyes is almost mistakable for excitement.

“Chocolate chip?” His voice young, almost childlike.

“Do you even need to ask?” Her voice fond, always motherly.

“Thanks, Pearl!” He chuckles. He half-skips. He snatches his car keys from the desk and all but slaps the door handle. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He winks his final goodbye, twists the knob and in a brief flash of golden sunlight, disappears into the day. The door clicks to a merry close behind the shuffle and haste of his heels.

And Pearl is left alone, hands templed delicately in her lap, staring at a deadened Holo-Crystal that’s lying almost forlornly on its side. 

Her smile slips away from her mouth like falling sand the moment she thinks she’s safe.

She shuffles her papers again.

She stares, very quietly, at the crystal.

She looks, just as pointedly, away.

Occupies herself by touching her notes again, raking her fingers over all the words that give a form to the one secret she had kept to herself for thousands upon thousands of years—not entirely out of her own will.

She wasn’t lying to Steven when she said that she wanted to do this.

She was lying about the fact that she was fine to do it.

Somehow, in the tangle of her own head, it makes sense to her that these sensations are not mutually exclusive. It’s perfectly compatible to want to do something that’s scary and still feel intensely scared about doing it.

Fear doesn’t stop at the threshold of a made decision. 

After all, if fear had ever stopped her from doing what she wanted, then she would have never loved Rose Quartz.

So she stares at the Holo-Crystal, and then she emphatically doesn’t.

Tries to distract herself.

(Eight minutes til…. seven.)

Fails. 

Abruptly gets out of her chair, a sudden restlessness in her lanky limbs, and begins to pace the floor, sunlight from the nearby window dusting her skin gold in square patches, in slivers. When only one minute remains, and the Holo-Crystal suddenly glows a bright, electric blue as a warning alert to a scheduled call, she throws herself back into the chair as forcibly as possible and tries to arrange her face into an expression that’s just as equally cool.

Focused.

Put together.

Fifty seconds…

She pushes a hand through her hair and hates herself for doing so; assuredly, she just ruffled it, and now her hair will be a rumpled mess on a hologram for time immemorial.

Thirty seconds…

What in stars’ name does she do with her hands? Arrange them on the desk? Temple them on her lap? Place them stiffly by her sides? She settles for some awkward combination of the three—templing them on the smooth surface of her desk with her elbows at stiff angles.

It’s highly uncomfortable.

Twenty seconds…

She could bail now, and Steven wouldn’t think the worse of her for it. She’d join him at the beach house after he returned from the grocery store, and he’d help her make the cookie dough and never say a word as to her cowardice. Perhaps he would even be relieved that she decided not to go through with her intentions in the first place. After all, they weren’t strictly necessary… that was one of his arguments even… someone else could do it… could tell her story… and it would all be the same.

Ten seconds…

But she wouldn’t be relieved.

She wouldn’t be proud of herself.

She could live with herself, yes, but she wouldn’t be able to forget that when the opportunity came to speak her truth freely, she refused to, denying a voice that had already been long denied.

So many times over.

From the very first moment she emerged into the world as a gem whose highest and only pleasure was to serve.

Five seconds… the Holo-Crystal begins to blink rapidly, throwing its frenetic hues in quick pulses across her desk.

And so she has to do this then.

Four seconds…

She wants to.

Three seconds…

It’s her narrative and no one else’s.

Two seconds…

Not even Rose’s.

One second…

Maybe especially not hers, even if she isn’t ready to admit that yet, to face that raw fact.

In a diamond shaped burst of energy, the Holo-Crystal throws its projection upwards with a series of gem glyphs that she reads with both trepidation and ease: ACCEPT FEED? YES OR NO?

Breaking the solemn temple of her fingers, swallowing her electric, jangling nerves, Pearl, against all her better judgment, presses yes, and the glyphs fall away, replaced by a live portrait of a gem who somehow looks exactly like Pearl feels. 

Arctic eyes wide.

Charcoaled beneath with thousands of years worth of shadows.

Brow furrowed with indecision.

With hesitancy.

With all the indelicate trappings of fear.

“Blue Diamond,” Pearl greets coolly, jerking her head in a stiff nod. Somewhere deep in her gem, an odd impulse to salute pulls at her facets.

“Pearl,” the Diamond returns softly, almost wonderingly—as though the name is unfamiliar on her tongue. In a way, it likely is. The Diamonds once viewed the Pearls as objects as opposed to gems and referred to them in such a way.

The Pearls.

Our Pearls.

They were interchangeable.

They were possessions.

In the Reef, they even came with accessories: staffs and wands and batons.

“Thank you for consenting to do this,” Pearl continues in that same clipped but professional tone. “I think this will be an important entry in the Archive.”

“Aye,” comes the quiet reply, thoughtful. “Yellow and White don’t quite understand it entirely yet, but there is rationality in this—in proffering the fullest account of our history for anyone to access it if they so choose. It’s about preserving her… all of our legacies—the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

Pearl is suddenly reminded that of the three remaining Diamonds, Blue was the one who upheld the human zoo, who perceived it as a relic and immortalized it as such.

Steven had told her about all of those bubbled Rose Quartzes.

Dozens of them.

Hundreds.

Made to cover the illusion of Rose’s identity.

Punished for a crime that they didn’t perpetrate. 

Perfectly preserved in stasis and purgatory for thousands of aching years.

“And so often the ugly,” Pearl emphasizes scathingly, and it’s a condemnation of them all—of Rose for making the Quartzes, of Pearl for being complicit, of Blue Diamond for imprisoning them and calling it mercy.

“Yes,” Blue agrees faintly, new lines forming beneath her eyes. “We did some terrible things…”

Her demureness and her honesty irritate Pearl for some reason—perhaps because she didn’t expect them, or perhaps because she very well did and still finds that they ring false, insincere, affected. How could they not in the face of millennia worth of cruelty and injustice? How can two years of positive growth overturn the effects of two hundred thousand?

Perhaps it’s simply that she believes in action as correctives and atonements.

Perhaps she doesn’t trust mere words, even though this is what this entire event is all about in the end—mere words. 

Perhaps she wants to see it in Blue Diamond’s eyes for herself—the change in them, the repentance.

And perhaps, at the very same time, she doesn’t want to look too closely in case she finds precisely what she’s looking for.

“Yes,” she repeats primly. “You did, and today is about looking backwards to that, about assessing all the things we did and didn’t do—on both sides of the war.”

Blue Diamond absorbs this all quietly, looking downwards, strands of silvery-blue hair falling from her neat parting and across her tall forehead.

“How exactly do we do that?” She asks. “Where do we even begin?”

Admittedly, they’re both excellent questions, and now it’s Pearl’s turn to glance down, to recognize the scrawl of all her neatly organized notes and suddenly realize that they feel insufficient for the task at hand, bare.

The word love crops up so many times, but nothing is said about the overwhelming force of that love—the all-consuming dimensions of it.

How Pearl would have been content to stay in Rose’s presence forever, and that alone would have been enough.

And how complicated that same love was.

How it was sometimes tangled in programming and servitude.

And how at other times, it was dangerous, bold, revolutionary, transcendent.

And how it hurt sometimes.

Perhaps even all the time.

Love so deep that it felt like pain.

Even English doesn’t have the capacity to describe those complexities of emotion.

Even language itself.

“Well,” she begins hesitantly, before she has all of her words in order, “when I press record… we simply have to… you know… talk about it, about everything that led up to the Corruption Song, sparing no detail.”

“Simple, is it?” Blue Diamond asks quietly, and there is slight admonishment in the question, ancient sadness in her geometric eyes, in all the lines and shadows beneath them.

“No,” Pearl replies, glancing away from the screen. “Not at all.”

Loving Pink Diamond was so many things.

It was not, in fact, simple.

“But it’s important,” she continues, her voice gaining strength, “maybe even necessary for us to at least try to tell our stories as fully as we can because she never felt like she could tell her own.”

“That must have been so lonely for her,” Blue whispers, anguished, the words half-caught in her throat.

Pearl forces herself to look at the diamond portrait again.

To search the other’s expression.

To acknowledge the truth in it.

The love.

The pain.

The love that feels so much like pain.

“It was, I think,” Pearl murmurs. “She wanted to be everyone else but herself—on that day. On all the days afterwards as we recovered the shards of our companions, as we had to fight their corrupted selves. Maybe even until the very end when she became Steven.”

And this, she thinks, is the fundamental truth of Rose Quartz above all, one she doesn’t think she’ll share with the rest of the universe, one she thinks will keep between herself and Steven and now… Blue Diamond.

Rose loved the entire world.

She was moved by it. Endlessly.

She loathed herself.

And seemingly the entire world—Pearl included—pedestalized her.

“We did that to her,” Blue says, and there’s venom in her voice, an air of admission. She brings her tall hands upwards and spiders them across her face. “We… I… never told her that she was good enough. I required her facets to be perfect and scolded her—punished her—every time she so much as toed our harsh lines.”

“You never told her that you loved her,” Pearl says, and there’s solemnity in her voice, an air of accusation. She clenches her own hands on top of the surface of her notes.

Glyphs interspersed with words.

Pain.

Love.

Grief.

“And when you finally showed that you did,” Pearl continues, closing her eyes at the memory of a world being swallowed in white light, of a sky being rent by the echoes of so many thousands of gems screaming to the same tune of the Diamonds’ feral, wailing song, “you destroyed nearly an entire population to do it… all of you… together.”

“Yes,” Blue Diamond can only utter between the gaps in her fingertips.

There is nothing else she can really say.

No defense against the indefensible.

“This is the story we have to tell,” Pearl finishes unsparingly, and yet, at the very moment she does, she leans backwards in her chair, suddenly exhausted, completely drained, as though she’s already done all the telling and the reckoning and the processing and the labor.

But she’s only scarcely begun.

They both have.

“Not only for this project… but for ourselves, too. We owe ourselves that, at least—the ability to claim everything that we’ve done.”

“Or”—Blue finally lets her hands fall away from her face, leaving only the carnage of overbright eyes behind—“that has been done to you.”

She’s talking about her own atrocities—this Pearl immediately intuits—but Pearl thinks about a different Diamond instead.

A covered mouth.

A hibiscus flower.

And command to never speak of this again.

Because no one can know.

“Yes,” Pearl can only utter.

There is nothing else she can really say.

No defense against the indefensible.

They lapse into silence then, the static from the hologram’s particles humming in the still air.

“It’s a tragic story,” Blue Diamond says, “but I believe you're correct… we have to tell it anyway. For that very reason—so other gems will know the truth… and remember it… remember her.”

Pearl slowly reaches forward to grab the Holo-Crystal, her fingers hovering just above the recording mechanism.

“It’s a story about love,” she quietly asserts, renegade defiance in her voice. “About all different kinds of it, really.”

“The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

And so often the ugly.

“It was complicated,” Pearl only says and presses record.

It’s not an admission here; she's already admitted to this fact—several times over.

To anyone who will listen.

(No one really does.)

Rather, it's a tiny kindness.

Maybe to Blue Diamond.

Maybe to herself.

And maybe even to the memory of the long dead ghost who sits in the space of the thousands of lightyears between them, hands beneath her chin, smiling gently at some beautiful thing that she just saw.

A flower, perhaps.

A human.

An infinite, changing sky.

A world where she could perhaps learn to love herself in the same way that she loved others.

Entirely.

[astromechs]

slipped away into a moment in time ('cause it was never mine)

taylor swift made me do it. expect more, because the entire folklore album was basically angst fodder.

also on ao3!

i.

All things considered, Gamora has been through worse. Fought through worse.

There’s a lot of blood, but the gash across her thigh, courtesy of one of Annihilus’s minions, isn’t terribly deep — no exposed bone, nothing that would suggest any long-term damage. Still, though, when the Front has made its retreat to the makeshift camp and the wounded are being ushered into a medical shelter, when the skies clear over this rocky planet she’s already forgotten the name of, when the surroundings are quiet and there’s no longer a fight to focus on, a spasm of pain seizes her entire leg when it bears weight, and for a second, just one split-second, she winces.

You know what happens when you show weakness, Gamora. The voice of Thanos in her head, right on cue. That voice is right, of course; she knows what happens next, knows that it’s a mistake that’ll cost her.

Instantly, her hand reaches for the hilt of her sword, hanging on her hip; if someone’s coming to take advantage of that weakness, she’ll be ready for them. She’ll be ready for anything.

“Hey. You okay?”

Except, maybe, for this.

It’s not that she hadn’t heard Richard Rider, Nova Prime, Commander of the United Front, coming; that man doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body, and his steps would’ve likely been noticeable from several clicks away. He could never sneak up on her, but — something about him always seems to throw her off balance. Something about the perpetual kindness in his eyes, even through the worst of this war. Something about the gentle tone of his voice, a stark contrast to the power he holds in his hands.

No one like him has ever existed in her reality, and even now, months after joining a war effort that seems more destined to lose by the day, she still doesn’t know what to make of… any of it.

Her hand drops back down by her side, and she’s the picture of perfectly cool, even, with the requisite: “It’s nothing.”

She doesn’t quite see it under his helmet, but it’s obvious from the expression on his face that he’s raising a skeptical eyebrow. He’s a lot smarter than she’d initially given him credit for; maybe strategy isn’t his strength, no, but he knows those working under him, every single one — by name, by capability, by his own keen intuition that alerts him to anything that might be amiss.

There’s no getting past him. She knows in the instant before he says, “Doesn’t seem like nothing. You should go to medical.”

His voice isn’t chiding — just genuinely concerned. Again, she feels the ground shift under her feet; again, she feels so unsteady she could topple over. Instead, though, she swallows down a strange lump forming in her throat, hating the way her own voice sounds more strained than it should when she insists, “I’ll be fine.”

The conversation should end there; she owes him nothing more. But something tugs in her, prompts her to offer one useful piece of wisdom, perhaps in some attempt at equivalent exchange:

“Kindness will get you killed one day, Richard Rider.”

Then, she turns on her heel and leaves without another word, head held high, doing her best to ignore the limp in her steps.

ii.

He’s been staring aimlessly out the flagship’s viewport for hours.

She hasn’t been keeping track, not really; she’s purely exhausted her need for sleep on this particular night cycle, and in all the times she’s wandered by, he hasn’t moved, not even the arms folded across his chest. Nothing’s coming for them in this stretch of space, so any effort to keep vigil is pointless at best.

But she knows this isn’t that. Even if in this war, they’ve been handed nothing but defeat, Richard takes every single one of them hard, personally shoulders the weight of every life lost under his command. It’s a risky quality to have in a leader, and she’s still certain in what she’d told him before. Still certain that, one day, kindness will kill him. Break him.

She doesn’t want to see it happen.

Instead of moving on, she stops. Watches him for a moment longer, eyes lingering, before crossing the floor to stand next to him. If he’s heard her approach, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and so, for a time, she lets the silence hang in the air between them. Until —

“People die. This is war.” Her voice isn’t cold when she says it, nor is it any semblance of gentle or comforting, because she’d never been built for that; it simply is, another piece of factual wisdom that she’s trying to impart.

He exhales a long breath, and when he turns to look at her finally, expression haggard, he looks much older than anyone as young as him has a right to. “I know.”

Perhaps it’s that, above all, that tugs at something deep in her core, past years of hard-learned truths and carefully constructed armor; it aches in her chest, this sudden thought that maybe, in some ways, they’re not so different.

A hand reaches for one of his, winding their fingers together.

After a beat, he squeezes back.

iii.

Gamora gives him whatever small pieces of inconsequentials that she’s capable of giving. She gives him her nights, saves a spot for him in her bed. Gives him release from the pressure he threatens to crack under some days, gives him just one place where he doesn’t have to make all the calls.

Sometimes, she gives him an extra hour of the sleep that’s so difficult for him to find.

Already, she’s declined four pings on his comm this morning, but sooner or later, someone will come looking for him. He’s important, after all. And he would be angry at himself over missed duties.

“Richard-Human.” Her hand reaches for his forehead, gently brushes the hair from his forehead.

At that, one bleary eye opens to peer at her, followed by another. His hair is sticking up in all directions on the pillow, and he looks completely ridiculous. “Hey,” he says, raspy but soft.

His smile, though, lopsided as it cracks his face — his smile is bright enough to light up a star.

She thinks she could burn under the force of it, because for someone who’s spent most of her life in the dark, it’s almost too much to bear. The eye contact certainly is in this moment; her gaze drops, fixating on the tangled sheets that still cover them both. Time’s ticking on these moments she’s stolen, she knows — this thing they have, whatever it is, can only live in a warzone, and if they both make it out of this alive, he’ll go on to a life that certainly doesn’t include her. That’s what he deserves. What….

Fingers brush the lines of her jaw, graze over the skin of her face, and pull her out of her thoughts. Bring her eyes back up to meet his. She drifts closer, ever closer, until their lips meet and everything else fades away.

She lets herself have this.

For now.

iv.

The Kree prisoners fall under her sword. Their deaths are quick under barely more than a single stroke; their blood rains down, soaks the ground below.

If you find nothing useful, her teachings would tell her, wipe them out.

By them, she had done well.

She wipes the blade and sheaths it, steps delicately over a body that’s still warm. And —

Meets a pair of eyes that she’d never wanted to disappoint, their cold stare cutting through her like daggers.

It’d only been a matter of time. She’s so skilled in exploiting limits that it’s practically reflex to her; sooner or later, she’d have found the limits of his affection, his naive faith in her, too.

She’ll never see those eyes again. She’s sure of it.

v.

The first thing she thinks is that she feels — empty. Cold.

It’s a feeling she’s far from a stranger to. For years, it’s been her constant companion as she’s drifted, from one planet to the next, one galaxy to the next, between wars fought for causes and jobs taken for nothing at all, looking for something that’s long eluded her: purpose. Richard had been imbued with it every single day like it’d been effortless, conviction burning brighter than the force of a star that had propelled him — and she’d wanted that, more than anything, wanted to experience even just a fraction of what that could feel like.

Eventually, she had found it, buzzing through her veins with every directive from the Phalanx. Purpose. As part of a whole, part of something beyond herself, she could keep moving forward on a clear path with a set destination; weeds like guilt and regret had withered, making everything… blissfully uncomplicated.

And now it’s gone. It’s gone, and all she feels is cold.

They’re cured, Richard says, with his particular brand of bright-eyed earnestness, like all the universe’s problems are fixed, just like that, but it isn’t a solution at all. It puts her right back where she flarking started, and she’s — she’s tired, down to her cybernetic bones. Tomorrow, she’ll have to start drifting again.

But today, with his steady hands there to pick up the pieces, she allows herself to break.

It’s as ugly as she is inside, full of ragged breaths and stumbling words, full of the kind of weakness that would get someone killed. She hates it, she hates this entire situation — and she hates herself most of all.

But in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that not an hour ago, she’d been ready to kill him, blade pointed at his throat, he doesn’t waiver. She doesn’t deserve anything that this man doesn’t hesitate or question giving — not his comfort, not his acceptance. Doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near the presence of someone so unfailingly kind and good.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says into her hair, both arms wrapped tightly around her as he pulls her close to his chest.

Foolishly, she doesn’t fight it. But what’s most foolish of all is that in the warmth of his embrace, she almost lets herself believe him.

coda.

She hasn’t cried in decades; Thanos had firmly seen to that. Tears had been considered a weakness, and like every other she’d once carried, they’d been removed under the cut of a knife, her back strapped to a table, screams so long-buried that they hadn’t even attempted to rise to her throat. Several times since, in the private silence of cold nights, she’s waited, head bowed, for some kind of reminder that she can still feel, that she lives and breathes beyond being someone’s object.

But even if she could cry, could let tears cloud her vision and allow for some kind of release for the heaviness in her chest, she doesn’t think she would now.

There’s no point in crying over what she’s long known to be inevitable.

When her passport activates and the Cancerverse fades from view, when the familiar sights and sounds of Knowhere fill her senses once again, she doesn’t even get angry. There’s no point in that, either, she thinks.

Hope is fleeting, a flower that can sometimes manage to grow even in the hardest and driest of dirt — but it will always get crushed out of existence. Light can never overtake the dark; this is the way of things.

Richard Rider’s days have always been numbered; a light that brilliant could’ve never stayed.

The universe returns to balance.

[yeoldontknow]

15 questions tag game

tagged by @chillingtae to do this fun game. thank you so much bright angel!! <3 i dont think ive ever seen questions like these around here so this is fun <3 

placing this under a cut because it is long !

1. It’s your birthday! What did you ask for and did you receive it?

uhm...im an old bean, and ive found that over time ive stopped asking for things necessarily and request more experiences. time spent with people matters more to me than items - i can pretty much buy things on my own if i want them. if im asking for anything id ask for money to put towards bills or savings or trips. this year i asked my parents for some money to convert to yen before i went to japan, which they gave me. of my friends, i asked if we could go for dinner and drinks which was a lovely evening <3 

2. What was the last song or album you listened to?

song = Kvrt in Space by Fraunhofer Diffraction

album = 1 Billion Views by EXO-SC

3. What is your go to snack when you’re hungry or bored?

depends on my energy level. usually chips and veggies with hummus because i dont have to make anything. my ultimate snack is popcorn so i have to be careful about how often i have it because i could eat an entire trucks worth and not feel the least bit guilty.

4. What is your morning routine?

check emails. text parents. catch up on group chats. roll out of bed and wash up. feed the cat. start the day!

5. What mythical/cryptic creature would you be?

god probably some bog witch or oracle on a mountain

6. How do you interact with someone that you don’t like?

i dont. if they are interacting with me i will be polite but the conversation will be curt and brief. 

7. How do you define a toxic person?

=> habits of  dishonesty, manipulation, gaslighting, deflection of blame for wrong doings  => reacting to criticism or conflict rather than responding => engaging or meddling or perpetuating drama simply for the attention, thrill/endorphins of it => someone who drains your energy in their company rather than heals it => inability to admit they were wrong or let situations go

8. Have you ever been to a concert or fan meet type of event? If not, would you want to?

ive been to a significant amount of concerts in my life. i love love love concert going and, before quarantine, i would list this activity as one of my favorite hobbies. while not a fan meet event, ive wound up meeting and becoming acquainted with a number of musicians - either by running into them on the street, working with them in some capacity, waiting in the queue before doors, waiting after a show, etc. i once was able to attend an after party of a show with @queenoftheimpala because i knew what a tubulum was after a band member jokingly posted about it on twitter and we started talking. one of my all time favourite bands provides ticket packages which are both a ticket to the show and an earlier event in which there are panels with therapists discussing the importance of mental health etc etc. 

regarding kpop, i have not attended a fanmeet and tbh i dont think i would. the set up feels unnatural, and it is not that i want to spend hours talking with an artist but it feels very rushed and not entirely personal enough for me to express what id truly want to say. this is just my opinion. i know many fans have attended these events and have had a wonderful time. i just dont think this would suit my energy as im quite introverted and feeling rushed would make me anxious.

9. Do you believe in astrology? Why or why not?

oh for sure i do. when you research charts, planets, alignments, etc etc it can be quite revealing when it comes to personality traits, needs, expectations. while i dont believe it accounts for every single thing about a person (upbringing and societal/cultural influence matter too) it can account for the fundamentals. astrology, tarot, and light work have seen me through some extremely difficult situations in my life and reading tarot/charts has helped me understand why i feel what i feel on certain days.

10. If you had only one sense (hearing, touch, sight, etc.), what would you want?

i rely so heavily on all my senses that i just...dont even know how to pick this. i think id go with touch. taste is a sense omg you mean i cant taste food anymore? oh god. ok uh yeah im still gonna go with touch. touch helps you feel the connection with other people - hugs, hand holding. sounds have waves which you can feel on the body. the earth has texture. touch is how the body relates spatially to other and to itself so yeah i would go with touch.

11. Who is your favourite celebrity or idol?

non kpop = prince, david bowie, chris corner, maynard james keenan....mostly its women. rihanna or sabrina claudio or rosalia. women in the root of their power and sensuality. they are unforgiving in their bodied expressions and i respect them so much. they are unforgiving in their femininity. 

kpop = chanyeol lmao like....unfailingly so

12. If you could talk to your favourite celebrity(s) for a limited time, what would you tell them?

for the non kpop celebrities = im usually just really supportive of women in the entertainment/arts industries so id love to just hear their stories. in this instance i dont think me saying anything is beneficial, more that its important we listen to their journies and their path to success. they have a lot to teach us. chris corner ive met several times and have had many amazing conversations with so in this instance, id just ask if hes doing well, how california is, how his dogs are, give him the update on my tattoo plans etc. for maynard...idk just cry because hes the celebrity ive loved since i was like 4 years old.

kpop = if i had the chance to talk to chanyeol i think like...id just like to talk about his music, thank him for having women as his video editors/videographers, ask his genre tastes, talk about the sheer amount of retro/nostalgia modes on the recent sc album. maybe talk about astronomy. thank him for his power and remind him to eat and that he doesnt need to master everything. achieving perfection is a pursuit of pain, all he has to achieve is happiness within himself. again, remind him to eat.

13. I’m taking you out on a date and it’s your choice. Where are we going?

oooo lets go to an arcade and for dinner. theres some really great barcades in lower manhattan and on LES we can get some amazing dumplings for really cheap and just have a night of talking, playing games, drinking. then maybe walk along the river before we catch the trains home

14. Do you like sweet or savory foods?

my sweet tooth has a limit so while i do like sweet im more into savory

15. Do you have any band merchandise or merchandise from any of your favourite artists? If so, what?

i have a lot of band tees, signed posters, albums of theirs theyve signed for me. i have some drum sticks given to me by a few bands, signed set lists. one band gave me a turntable slip cover. i have a few first press or numbered records that ive framed. i have some lightsticks from when i attended some kpop shows. ive got lots of stuff!

tagging: @yehet-me-up @queenoftheimpala @kyungseokie @jenmyeons @j-pping @yoonia @jamaisjoons @ditzymax @jiminiethot @blackberrykai @hkynm @ninibears-erigom @readyplayerhobi @imdifferentshadesofpurple @red-exo and anyone else who wants to do this. as always please only do so if youre comfortable <3 

[areusittingcomfortably]

Their tragic sense of life

Part 4

That might have been the end of their friendship.

But, the truth was that they were both adrift with nowhere else to be, questioning everything they’d ever known. They needed the security net the other provided more than either cared to admit. His tendency to wallow in misery, and hers to get lost in rage and addiction were, for the most part, comfortable bedfellows. Without the sex.

There were many reasons they never went there.

Chief among them was that Raffi had fucked up her marriage so royally she had no intention of sleeping with someone she actually cared about. She’d had her fair share of meaningless encounters since her marriage fell apart, and that was the way she preferred to keep it.

The first night they met that was exactly what was on her mind. His handsome face, his thick dark hair, the broody philosophical air with just enough of an edge beneath it to make him interesting… yeah, she could have gone there. But, it turned out that what she really wanted, really needed, was someone as burned as she was, to just be with. No questions, no commitment, just acceptance. Someone to exist with.

Ríos had his own reasons. Which, true to form, he kept to himself.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it.

Raffi on the dancefloor, her hair escaping from any attempt to tame it, grooving and grinning and getting lost in music, was intoxicating. Equal parts beguiling and intimidating. It was hard to look away. More than once he’d had to slip away to the men’s room to take care of himself. But, Cristóbal Ríos had made one serious mistake in his life, and he wasn’t going to let himself get romantically entangled with anyone again.

So, they kept each other company, as comrades, until any initial attraction had long since passed.

With a ship to pilot, Ríos began to feel a sense of purpose. The obvious thing to do was to find cargo to move.

That’s where Raffi came in. With her skill in research and coding, she was able to find clients who needed to move things through unofficial channels – like a non-Federation freighter. Around the edges of the Federation and beyond, there was a surprising amount of black market trade and credits exchanged. Not enough to get rich on, particularly when you were trying to steer clear of the dealing with the Ferengi, but enough to get by.

Ríos handled the flying and logistics, and Raffi was the ‘facer who handled research and negotiation. They made a good team. Raffi made no claim on La Sirena. That had been all Cris’s doing, his risk, his reward. But they split the profits of their trade 50/50.  

*****

A year had passed since they’d fled Earth in the stolen ship.

In that time, Raffi had mostly stayed off the drugs, and on the few occasions that she didn’t, Ríos said nothing, knowing that she’d come down before too long. They flew together, drank together, played cards and soccer, planned cargo jobs, and when they happened to be on a planet with compatible life forms and alcohol, Raffi would hook up for a night or two, and Ríos would have the ship to himself.

Returning slightly drunk in the early hours of one morning, she found him sitting in the pilot’s chair reading a hefty volume of German poetry.

“What is it with you?” she demanded, slightly more aggressively than she’d intended, “Why don’t you ever go out and have fun? Meet some women. Or men. Or… whatever your thing is. This moody existential thing isn’t healthy.”

The EMH popped into being, all brisk concern. “That’s what we keep telling him, Ms. Musiker. It’s not…”

“Deactivate EMH” snapped Ríos, before turning to Raffi with a raised eyebrow “Pot, calling kettle…”

“Yeah, yeah, deflect, why don’t you. You didn’t answer my question. Who – or what – is your type?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Cris ignored her and turned back to his book.

“Uh uh, no you don’t. Raffi wants an answer. Why are you sitting alone reading at 3am when you could be out having fun?” She took the book out of his hands and put it down on the console. Ríos said nothing but glared at her.

“Replicator: Cachaça, por favor.” A bottle of the spirit appeared in Raffi’s hand.

“Raffi, let me be. I’m not in the mood for drinking games.”

“No? Okay then, so, here’s how this is gonna play out. Raffi’s gonna ask you a question, and you’re going to answer, or Raffi’s going to drink.” she challenged.

“Knock yourself out.” he muttered, simultaneously annoyed at her insistence and vaguely amused by it.

“First question. Does Cristóbal Ríos prefer men or women?”

No answer. No change in expression.

“Okay then.” She took a long swig.

“Second question. Does Cristóbal Ríos prefer to stay home and play with his holos?

He made a face at that, but didn’t answer, so she took another swig.

“Officers or regular crew?” A slight raise of the eyebrow. Swig.

“Humans or Vulcans?”

“Seriously?”

“Answer the question.”

“No.” trying not to laugh. Raffi took another swig.

“Is Cristóbal Ríos in love with himself?”

He rolled his eyes at that one.

“No,” Raffi said slowly, “no, I already know the answer to that one. Cristóbal Ríos doesn’t even like himself.” She declared triumphantly, congratulating herself with another swig.

“Fuck’s sake, Raffi!” Cris growled, snatching the bottle out of her hand. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”

“Not that drunk.” she leaned back against the console and dropped the teasing tone. “I’m right though, aren’t I? You don’t like yourself. Why is that, Cris?”

She rarely used his preferred name. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you clearly like people, I mean, hell, you even like me.”

“Do I?” he challenged, but without any venom.

“Yeah, you do. You like most people, but you avoid them. You were unfailingly polite to every bartender and patron at every bar we ever went to. You’re nice to everyone. But, you leave all the negotiating to me, and barely ever leave this ship. I’ve never even heard you raise your voice at anyone but the holos, which are basically just versions of you. So, if it’s not that you don’t like other people, but still avoid them, it must be that you don’t like, or maybe don’t trust, yourself.”

She stuck her hand out, challenging Ríos to say something or give her back the bottle.

“Maybe I don’t.”

“Why?” Raffi looked at him, genuinely curious. “I like you, and I can barely stand most people.”

“Raffi…” he sighed, at a loss.

She grabbed the bottle out of his hand and took a big swig. “Talk to me or I will down the rest of this bottle in one.”

“Cabrona.” he swore softly, shaking his head, holding out his hand for the bottle and taking a swig himself “Tabien. First Officer Cristóbal Ríos of the USS ibn Majid made a very very big mistake. One he can’t forgive himself for. That he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven for. There. Happy?”

Raffi waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“That’s it? Everybody makes mistakes, Cris.”

“Not mistakes that cost lives.” he stated flatly.

Raffi was silent a moment. “Are you saying that you killed people? Deliberately? When you weren’t under attack?”

He didn’t answer.

“What then? What did you do that you can’t forgive yourself for?”

“I trusted someone I was romantically involved with, and as a result of that, people I loved died.”

Raffi frowned. Either Ríos was being deliberately obtuse, or she was a little more drunk than she thought she was, possibly both, because he wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. Probably both.

She was about to ask a heap more questions, but the look on his face stopped her. He looked anguished in a way she hadn’t seen before, leaning forward, gripping the edge of the chair like he was about to be physically sick or trying to stop himself punch something. Possibly himself.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Okay. I’m gonna let you off the hook this time. But, one day, you’re going to confess everything to Sister Raffaella, and let her absolve you. I don’t know what happened on the ibn Majid, but I know that underneath all your misery, you’re a good man, Cris. Go to bed, get a good night’s sleep.”

He shook his head, helplessly. “I can’t.” he admitted.

She realised with amazement, he was crying silently.

“Hey,” she reached out to him awkwardly, standing with her arms around him as he sobbed against her stomach.

*****

She did take him to bed that night, but only to hold him. He slept fitfully, and in the morning they were both exhausted.

They never spoke of it again, but something shifted between them after that. There was an ease between them. It levelled the playing field a bit.

Ríos had arguably saved her life by getting her out of the destructive spiral she’d been in, looking out for her when she wasn’t looking out for herself. And it had made Raffi uncomfortable having the scales tipped so far in his favour. Now she had a chance to return it and get things on a more equal footing. She figured she still owed him, big time, but at least it wasn’t all one way traffic.

She didn’t ask him about what happened on the USS ibn Majid again, but she looked it up. At least, she tried to. But, there was absolutely no trace the ship had ever existed. And no record of a First Officer Cristóbal Ríos either. She hacked into his training records, his medicals, his early career, everything exemplary until the records simply stopped. 

She sought out his personal comms, and there was a normal amount of traffic up until 4 or 5 years ago, a few girlfriends, or could Jo have been a man? and then it mysteriously dried up. A few bland communications here and there. But in all that time, nothing whatsoever about his location, career, or colleagues, as though absolutely everything to do with the ship and its crew had been surgically removed and wiped clean.

She’d never seen – or more accurately, not seen – anything like it before. If it had been anyone else, she would have questioned if they were lying, but this was Ríos, and she trusted him completely. Besides, she had her own reasons not to trust Starfleet. If the man said he’d served as XO on the ibn Majid, he had.

It was easier to work out why he was in the habit of staying up all night and disappearing for hours at a time during the day, which he’d been doing even when they were hanging out in the bar. He slept during the day, fully dressed, a phaser beside him on the bed, with all the lights on. The holos that let it slip when she expressed concern about him. The EMH or the ENH, she found it hard to distinguish between their clothing and accents. In retrospect, she probably should have been a bit more careful and bit less spiteful with reskinning them.

Despite the way he treated them, they seemed to be fiercely loyal to their Captain, and concerned about his welfare, though that was likely just their programming.

“Aha!” thought Raffi, in a sudden moment of clarity, “That’s why he doesn’t like them. He doesn’t know if they’re being genuine or just programmed to look out for him.” The only one he seemed to like was the one who clearly didn’t give a shit.

In any case, it was obvious to both Raffi and the EMH, who’d been trying with no avail to get the Captain to take sleeping pills and drink less, that whatever had happened to First Officer Cristóbal Ríos of the ibn Majid, was likely the cause of his sleeping disorder and nightmares.

And so, the friendship of Raffaella Musiker and Cristóbal Ríos continued.

[obsessedwithbbandsuju]

In Love | Part 1

If someone had said that to Jungsoo just a few months ago, he would have laughed a little. No, he would have laughed a lot. Falling in love with her? Not near likely.

Pairing: Park Jungsoo/Son Taeyeon

Warnings: Subtle references to depression, murder, and suicide, panic attacks

___

sunbaenim: a word used by a junior to refer to a senior in the industry

___

Jungsoo was in love.

It wasn’t a difficult thing, to fall in love with Son Taeyeon. If someone had said that to Jungsoo just a few months ago, he would have laughed a little. No, he would have laughed a lot. Falling in love with her? Not near likely.

It wasn’t like he hated her. He didn’t. But he did find that he had developed a rather profound dislike of Pandora’s leader during their time working together on Super Junior’s MAMACITA album.

When he’d heard that she was due to work with them, he – and the rest of the members, barring Heechul who was already good friends with her – had been amazed and thrilled. An opportunity to work with Son Taeyeon, someone who was considered a phenomenal and successful songwriter, composer, and producer, among other things, wasn’t something they had ever expected. Especially when their companies were two of the biggest in the industry, and it was a general consensus that they were in competition.

On the day of recording in the studio, meeting her first outside of broadcasts, Jungsoo had been ridiculously nervous. He couldn’t place why – maybe it was just the prospect of working with Son Taeyeon that had his nerves on edge and his palms feeling sweaty. She was going to be their producer for some of the album’s songs; there was some childish part of him that wanted to show her just how well Super Junior could do. And, just… the thought of seeing her outside of broadcasts, someone whom he was a massive fan of, was flustering.

Actually meeting her… that was a surprising, and disconcerting, experience. She wasn’t what he had expected at all, and not quite in a good way.

He’d heard all the rumors and seen the articles about her, yes. Some said she was nothing but a spoiled, demanding brat, the fame and success that her group had gotten since their debut going to her head. Others said she was frequently inappropriate, flirting with men left and right. There were still others that claimed that she was stuck-up, arrogant, rude, after all the praise she received about being talented and gorgeous and all the love she had from Pandora’s enormous fanbase.

And, well, she wasn’t arrogant or rude. She didn’t, not consciously, act like she was superior to them, nor did she make any inappropriate or suggestive comments that were unsuitable for business relationships. But Son Taeyeon seemed, if only internally, if only very slightly… smug. Jungsoo couldn’t pinpoint quite what it was about her that rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was the fact that she was detached and brisk when greeting the members. She smiled, shook hands, introduced herself and listened to introductions, but it was as if there was always a gap between her and the members, like she was holding herself aloof. Like, with all her accomplishments and all her talents and all her fame, she didn’t really want to completely open herself to people like them.

That was the closest he could come to explaining his dislike of her. Really, Jungsoo knew it wasn’t logical, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that it was, but the instant disapproval that he felt from first impression was undeniable. It wouldn’t go away, even after he tried to tell himself that he was being ridiculous, even when Taeyeon was responsive and courteous and, on top of it all, considerably charming to everyone.

And that distaste soured their interactions. Taeyeon caught on quickly; Jungsoo suspected from the first day of her working together with Super Junior, she was aware of his dislike. He couldn’t explain how he knew or why he was almost certain that she had noticed that he wasn’t too fond of her, but he just did.

It wasn’t like she really let it show that she knew. She was always unfailingly polite and relatively friendly with him, although by no means open, and that almost imperceptible air of superiority was always surrounding her. Still, they didn’t come into any sort of conflict, even if it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence that Leeteuk often found himself wondering how Heechul could be such close friends with someone like Taeyeon. He talked about her so fondly, like she was someone who matched just perfectly with him, and Leeteuk couldn’t see what about her fit so well with Heechul.

And it was even more confusing that it was clear that the rest of the members liked her. They liked her a lot. Youngwoon threw flirty comments a bit shamelessly, as usual, but Jungsoo often saw him and Taeyeon speaking together, laughing at each other’s words – he clearly liked her sense of humor. Shindong interacted with her more often than he usually did with people who worked with them, and seemed keen to get to know her – something he hardly ever did when it came to business partners. Sungmin was always friendly to everyone, but he seemed extra attentive whenever Taeyeon spoke, something like respect gleaming in his eyes when he looked at her. Hyukjae accommodated her with a schoolboy grin on his face, listening eagerly to her every word. He threw cheeky joke after cheeky joke, beamed when Taeyeon laughed at them. Donghae was shy at first (as he always was), seemingly a tad bit wary of approaching someone who was as imperious and bold as Taeyeon was on stage, but she quickly eased him out of it with her friendliness and soon, they were making natural conversation. Siwon, a natural with people, got along with her smoothly. Ryeowook and Kyuhyun’s sharp wit agreed instantly with hers, and the three of them soon hit it off, jokingly roasting the other members and each other.

There wasn’t a single person in the group that spoke badly of Taeyeon or seemed to sense that air of subtle cockiness that was always settled around her. When she was brought up outside of their working on the album, none of them ever had anything bad to say. “She’s down-to-earth. Easy to get along with.” “Heechul-hyung, I can see why the two of you are such good friends. She, miraculously, has the patience to deal with you.” “She’s so intense on stage, it’s kind of a surprise to see that she’s so laid-back usually. I like it, though.”

Jungsoo didn’t want to ruin the experience of working with her for them with his attitude, either, so he stayed quiet about his personal feelings and worked amiably enough with Taeyeon.

Then, a little over a week into her collaboration with Super Junior, the two of them had been left fairly secluded in the building after a business meeting. Jungsoo had been sitting at the now abandoned meeting table, reading over the notes he’d taken that day, when Taeyeon placed a coffee down next to him. He glanced up, not having heard her come in, then down at the cup. It was his favorite type of coffee.

“How did you know I liked this?” Jungsoo asked, struggling to mask the distaste in his voice. Something told him she hadn’t gotten him the coffee just to be nice or try to loosen things up between them.

“I just watch, sunbaenim,” she replied simply. She didn’t sit down.

Jungsoo was about to ask her what she was here for, but she opened her mouth and knocked him speechless for a second with her bluntness.

“You dislike me, don’t you?” Her stare on his face was steady and intent. She said it so matter-of-factly, like she knew it was absolutely true but also like it didn’t bother her in the slightest. Jungsoo suspected that it didn’t.

“Excuse me?” he very nearly sputtered, so taken off-guard by the complete straightforwardness with which she asked him that question.

Taeyeon took a sip of her coffee with infuriating casualness and gave him a small smile. There was no ill will in that smile, or any resentment at his apparently obvious dislike of her. At the same time, it wasn’t particularly friendly or seemed to be seeking to alleviate his negative feelings toward her.

“Frankly, sunbaenim, I don’t know why,” she continued, calm, “and I don’t particularly care. But we should agree to not let it interfere with work, don’t you think?”

Irritation flickered in Jungsoo’s chest again. Realistically, he knew there was no reason for it – Taeyeon, the disliked party, had come to him, the one who disliked her, to alleviate the tension between them as to prevent it from affecting their business relationship. If anything, he should respect how professional she was – but something about the way she spoke was irksome. It was that disinterested indifference, that relaxed casualness with which she was interacting with him – him, someone whom she knew disliked her. As if his dislike for her, and more than that, just dislike for her in general, was so completely inconsequential and beneath her scope of caring that she wasn’t at all nervous about speaking to people with those less-than-pleasant opinions of her – like himself.

Nothing at all seemed to faze her, and it was a serious contribution to her constant air of smugness.

Nevertheless, by all logic she was making a reasonable – maybe even expected – request.

“Of course,” Jungsoo grit out between his teeth, not looking at her.

“You could just say no.”

That made him look at her sharply. Jungsoo was sure his annoyance was now showing in his eyes, but Taeyeon met them without blinking. “I mean,” she said, “there’s clearly something else that’s keeping you irritated with me. Should we talk about it, sunbaenim?”

Jungsoo made himself take a breath. “That’s not necessary,” he said.

“I’m sorry if you think I’m being pushy, but I think it is.”

Exasperation began boiling over into fury. He was fast running out of patience with Taeyeon and her insistence on talking about the matter; if she could so clearly see that he obviously disliked her, couldn’t she just leave him alone?

“I can assure you that I know my own feelings better than you do,” Jungsoo replied, making one last effort to be cordial before he blew his top. At his response, Taeyeon regarded him intently, but not with interest – more with something that could only be described as professional curiosity.

“Alright then,” she said finally, but there was an undercurrent of doubt in her voice. “If you’re confident your feelings won’t put a damper on our work.”

Jungsoo didn’t know what about that was the final straw. Maybe it was because she was still doubting his words. Maybe it was just that she sounded so matter of fact. Maybe it was that he was tired and sleep-deprived and worried sick and constantly swamped with thoughts about his father and his grandparents and – and didn’t want to deal with her demeanor of superiority anymore. Whatever it was, he stood up sharply.

“You are possibly the most arrogant person I’ve ever had the displeasure of dealing with,” Jungsoo snapped, turning so the two of them stood facing each other. He was considerably taller and she had to tilt her chin upwards to look him in the eyes – something that, as exhaustingly, irritatingly expected as it was, didn’t seem to bother Taeyeon in even the slightest. She arched her eyebrows, and a flicker of annoyed amusement crossed over her face.

“I think I’ve been polite enough to someone who arbitrarily decided to dislike me right upon our first time speaking off camera.” Her tone was slightly sharper than he’d ever heard it, making Jungsoo suspect that, this time, she was genuinely irritated.

As petty as it was, it felt good. The fact that he’d irritated her, who always seemed so unflappable, felt good. He wanted to keep going. Keep annoying her.

“Sorry, but I can’t think much of anything good about someone like you.”

“Someone like me, hm?” She even put the emphasis in the same place. “I’m sure you’re an expert on that topic. So?” She tilted her head sideways, daring him to go on. “How much do you know about me?”

“I know that you’re stuck-up, spoiled, inappropriate, and unprofessional.” The words, devoid of honorifics, left his mouth before he could stop them, surprising even himself. He normally wasn’t this hasty or hotheaded, but just her, coupled with the absolutely abysmal mood he’d been in lately – since that – since that happened – was enough to even catch him off guard, it seemed.

“Really?” She had dropped the honorifics too – something that, for a junior, was considered unacceptable, but Jungsoo dimly thought that they’d already both long crossed the line between being acceptable and not acceptable. “What makes you think I’m stuck-up, spoiled, inappropriate, and unprofessional?”

“There are more than enough rumors, trust me.” Jungsoo realized that he was very nearly sneering.

Then something flared in Taeyeon’s eyes, and she outright did sneer. Her gaze became sharper, derision dripping from her every pore as she regarded him. “Have you seen it?” she challenged – and it was most definitely a challenge. “Have you seen me acting stuck-up? Turning up my nose like I’m better than everyone else? Have you seen me acting spoiled? Demanding what I want at every second and refusing to take no for an answer? Have you seen me acting inappropriate and unprofessional? Saw me flirting with a few men, I suppose?”

Jungsoo stared at her, startled and rendered silent by how disgusted she sounded. It was so far beyond the annoyance that she’d displayed previously – this was blatant, unfiltered scorn. But more than that, he couldn’t find the right words to respond. You had an air of smugness about you wasn’t really a good reason to act like someone was so terribly arrogant – he recognized that. So why was it that he’d been so completely convinced that Taeyeon was just that stuck-up?

“Who are you to judge me?” Her voice was soft – very pretty, Jungsoo just noticed – and extremely venomous, low and enunciated and full of spite. “What gives you the right? A few rumors flitting from mouth to mouth, stirred up by people who’ve never even seen me in person before in their lives? The idiots who judge as if they know everything just from reading articles by soulless reporters and treating others like trash because of it… you’re the one who’s just like them.” Her gaze flickered down to the cup of coffee she’d brought him just minutes earlier, then back to him. Contempt was still dripping from her eyes, and suddenly, Jungsoo found it so much harder to hold her stare.

“Enjoy your coffee.” The smile she gave him was anything but friendly, and then she turned on her heel and left the room. Jungsoo stared after her. Her words were affecting him more, much more, than he wanted to admit. What gives you the right to judge me? It wasn’t an unfair question. What was it that gave him the right to decide that Taeyeon just had to feel superior to him and the others, when she’d never acted like it in the slightest? Now that he thought about it, she had always been pleasant, had always been professional, had always made sure to avoid making the production of the album a completely unilateral process, had always made sure to ask the members’ opinions instead of just deciding matters on her own. Besides his thoughts that she just… just slightly seemed to consider herself better than them, he couldn’t name a single thing that Taeyeon had done wrong.

So why? Why had he been so convinced that she was arrogant, when absolutely nothing concrete that she’d done or said gave any impression of the sort? Jungsoo didn’t know what to tell even himself. He wasn’t usually someone who was quick to judge, especially not off of baseless articles. He knew all too well how many of those were just grabs for attention. And besides, people made mistakes, people had bad days, people had problems that were gnawing at their minds – he should know that, of everyone. So really, what had made him so quick to judge Taeyeon? Was it because of what had recently happened with his father––or something else? He had definitely been feeling below the weather constantly nowadays, but even so…

Jungsoo thought of the few times he’d encountered her before their collaboration for the Mamacita album. Mostly they’d met on Strong Heart, both of their groups frequenting that particular show, although he could name a few others. Like most idols on variety shows, she’d promoted her music, and her group’s music, through teaser-like performances. Taeyeon’s… they’d always been particularly startling. She was bold, after all, and what she came up with rarely ever fit well into what was considered proper – especially for a female idol, especially back then. Confidently sexy, critical of society, and straightforward weren’t exactly concepts that people thought pretty young women like Taeyeon should do. Things were better now, and the box that women were expected to push themselves into was widening, but even Jungsoo, a man, could see that it was suffocating and restrictive back then (and still was today). And Taeyeon often completely broke out of that box, back then and now. It was part of the reason why she was so well-known and popular, and also part of the reason why she had a substantial number of vocal antis on social media. “She’s so classless.” “Doesn’t she even know how cheap and desperate she looks?” “She’s probably the kind of slut that throws herself at men left and right.” “If she seriously thinks she looks good doing that, then her head must be shoved far up her ass.” “Can you imagine how arrogant you’d have to be to be doing trash like that?”

Jungsoo had been one to scoff when he saw comments like that. He thought, clearly, they just couldn’t accept the idea of a woman who was so absolutely unconcerned with fitting their expectations. He’d even thought it was more than a little pathetic; sure, Taeyeon might be maverick, and he’d been caught off guard more than a few times by her, too, but it was far from something to be so hateful about. But, thinking of it now, maybe he hadn’t been so high and mighty, either. The articles and rumors about her being inappropriately sexual, entirely spoiled, or haughty and arrogant, combined with his shock at her daring conceptual and musical variety – they must have swayed his opinion of her more than he realized.

That was why he had been so convinced Taeyeon considered herself superior, even though there was nothing concrete or logical supporting that conclusion. He hadn’t known it for years, but he��d been buying into the same prejudices that he scoffed at.

After that realization, it was difficult to even be around Taeyeon. She was, amazingly, even a little off-puttingly, cordial with him when they had to interact, although she remained reserved and distant and was clearly not too thrilled when she did. Jungsoo, on the other hand, couldn’t find it in himself to be as composed. He found it hard to look her in the eye when they spoke, and quickly took to just trying to avoid her altogether, outside of when it was strictly necessary. The last thing he needed was the members noticing his awkwardness around Taeyeon. And especially Heechul would be wondering why there seemed to be so much tension between them, two of his close friends. So he just tried to stay away from her as best as he could. If Jungsoo did say so himself, he was pretty successful.

Until one night. He was the last one to be recording on that day, and all the other members had gone home. It was just himself, Taeyeon, and a producer, in the studio, and the recording wasn’t going as smoothly as they could have hoped. Taeyeon was meticulous with the details of the song’s vocals, and Jungsoo was rather particular when it came to recording, too, which made for a difficult pair to please. The frustration was threatening to burst over inside him, and it didn’t help that he had to hide it. He had to smile and keep apologizing to Taeyeon and the other producer when all he wanted to do was groan and run an exasperated hand through his hair – not to mention the fact that she was watching his every mistake. What made things worse was that she didn’t seem irritated at all, even though he knew she must be – how could she not? But she stayed calm, her tone levelheaded, laid-back. “Again, please.” “A little higher?” “Will you put a tad bit more emphasis on that syllable?” Jungsoo would have preferred that she just let him see her annoyance; he’d feel less apologetic that way, and feeling less apologetic would mean he felt less embarrassed.

Eventually, Taeyeon had asked if he wanted to take a break before continuing. Jungsoo, needing some time to cool down, had agreed, and she’d left the room, saying she’d be back in ten minutes. The other staff member took his temporary leave as well, probably tired of sitting in the studio for so long. When he was alone, Jungsoo sat down on one of the couches, sighing.

He thought he just needed a moment to gather himself, but his frustrations crept up behind him and piled up, swamping his mind. The frustrations turned to insecurities quickly, and, to his horror, he thought he could hear his father’s voice, his father’s words, echoing in his head. “Do you think you came all this way because of your hard work?”

And really, had he? He tried his best to be a leader, to keep his group together, to mediate between the members and comfort them when things were hard, but in reality? Jungsoo had no fucking idea what he was doing. He had no clue had to handle all the things that came their way. He wasn’t a leader, he’d never been someone with strong leadership. He could barely handle himself, so how could he possibly be the leader that the other members deserved? He hadn’t been able to stop Hangeng from leaving – hadn’t even noticed that his friend was dissatisfied until he sued and left – and he hadn’t been able to do anything about Heechul’s near decision to leave the group. He was supposed to be a pillar, an anchor, something that his members could cling on to when things became difficult for them and trust to keep them upright, but he could only just stay standing, himself. You can’t do anything. You’re useless. You’re no help to anyone. You’re called the leader of the group, but just what are you good for, really?

Jungsoo realized he was shuddering. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the motion caught in his chest. The trembling wouldn’t stop. His muscles felt tight, too tight, and his heart was beating too hard and too fast in his chest. He felt both hot and cold at the same time, like he had a fever, and the hollow area behind his eyes felt too light, too airy, to be normal. His head pounded violently, making his temples ache. He couldn’t control his breathing. His ribcage felt like it was being compressed. Panicked, he gripped desperately at the sofa, trying to ground himself, but his body flew away from him in bounds, and soon, he could vaguely hear the sound of his own ragged, irregular breaths. A sob ripped its way harshly, almost painfully, from his throat. Then another. Then another. Then another, until he was openly crying as he trembled, curling into a ball on the sofa with his arms wrapped around himself.

Worthless. Weak. Incompetent. Pathetic. Coward.

Coward. Useless. Weak. Incompetent. Pathetic.

Pathetic. Weak. Worthless. Useless. Incompetent.

He dimly heard the door opening again and someone walking in, and Jungsoo wanted – really wanted – to pull himself together, because he just couldn’t be seen like this. But his body wouldn’t listen to him. He tried to take a deep breath, only for it to get stuck in his throat, then forced painfully back out by another cry. His grip of own hands clutching his forearms was too strong, too tight, to the point where it was painful, but he was completely unable to loosen his fingers.  

Incompetent. Coward. Pathetic. Worthless. Weak.

‘Sunbaenim? Sunbaenim.’

Weak. Coward. Incompetent. Worthless. Pathetic.

‘Leeteuk-sunbaenim? Can you hear me? Sunbaenim?’

Pathetic. Weak. Worthless. Useless. Pathetic––

“Jungsoo!”

The sound of his name – his real name – pulled him out of the quagmire, if only for a moment of hazy confusion. Struggling to move through the waves of panic crashing over him, the violent shuddering that was overtaking his body, he lifted his head, feebly looking around. Turning his gaze, just barely, to the left, he caught a flash of dark hair tugged into a hasty ponytail, pale pink lips, and wide brown eyes staring at him in a mixture of shock and concern.

It was Taeyeon, he realized dimly, over another choked sob, on the sofa next to him. Her body was positioned towards his, as if she wanted to make contact with him, but no part of her was touching any part of him. It was like she was wary of letting them even so much as brush against each other.

Her voice, though, seemed to touch him, trickling into his ears, at first without completely comprehension. He could hear the words she was saying, but his brain refused to understand them at first over the sound of his heart thumping, the tightness in his chest, the lightness in his head.

“…alright. It’s all going to be fine. I’m here now. I have you.”

Fine.

I’m here.

I have you.

Those words – those words, just the fact that someone was saying them sounded like music to Jungsoo’s ears. At least, that was what he had time to think, before his body tensed further, something he hadn’t even thought was possible, and another cry wracked him. Another overwhelming wave of something – something – swamped his psyche, rendering Jungsoo unable to even attempt to cry for help. He felt damp and hot and somehow frozen all over, everything, everything, spiraling out of his control.

Incompetent. Coward. Pathetic. Worthless. Weak.

Worthless. Weak. Incompetent. Pathetic. Coward.

Weak. Coward. Incompetent. Worthless. Pathetic.

“Is it okay if I touch you?”

Touch me? Jungsoo nodded, only just barely – nowhere near enough to convey how badly he wanted her to touch him, how badly he wanted anyone to touch him. Human contact. Someone else. He needed it, and if that was going to be her, he needed her. He desperately tried to reach out towards the fellow human body on the couch, but his hands, his arms, they wouldn’t listen to him.

It didn’t matter, though, because in that instant, her hands were on him, gripping his arms and fighting to break the chokehold he had on his own body. Once she had pried his hands from himself, she clasped one of them in her own, ignoring how hard he must have been squeezing her, and began to rub his back in slow circles. “It’s alright,” he heard her say. “I’m here for you. Just listen to me, you can do this. Breathe.”

Breathe. Jungsoo tried. He tried to pull air into his mouth, down his throat, and into his lungs, but only part of the oxygen he’d breathed in went further than his windpipe. The rest stuck fast and harsh against an invisible, intangible, but somehow still very much existent, lump in his chest. A sound that vaguely resembled a hiccup made his entire body jerk. He sobbed again, his ribcage feeling awfully, terrifyingly compressed, like there was a physical force pushing the two halves together.

“Breathe.” The voice was firmer now. “Just follow my voice. I have faith in you, Jungsoo. Here – in… out… in… out… in… out… in – that’s right, just like that. You can do it. Out… in… out… in… out… in…”

There was no telling how long she’d been there next to him, but when Jungsoo regained enough of himself to realize that the panic was abating, she was still there. Turning his head, he looked in her direction, staring at her face – her intent, concerned gaze, the way her lips were slightly parted in concern, the deftness with which her eyes scanned over his face – and he saw her for the first time.

Humiliation flooded over Jungsoo, mixing with the still present and intense distress from just minutes earlier, coalescing into a mass that was altogether unpleasant. And when he cried again, tears leaking from his eyes and blurring her face, there were no words in any language’s vocabulary to express how sorry he was.

And then, she hugged him. Pulling him gently against her so he could feel the warmth of her body soaking through her clothes and his, reminding him that she was there – that someone was there. Her hand slid over his back, resting lightly just at the base of his spine. Shuddering, Jungsoo buried his face in her shoulder, trying to control his trembles.

“You’re alright,” she murmured in an impossibly comforting voice. “I’m right here. You’re going to be fine.”

“I – I’m sorry––” Jungsoo gasped as another sob gripped him. “I’m so sorry.” She shouldn’t have to see him like this, she shouldn’t be having to deal with him like this. Especially not after he was so––

One of her hands left his back to reach upwards, softly caressing the back of his head. “Don’t apologize. Just focus on breathing. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

It must have taken another five minutes for the attack to subside completely, and Jungsoo found himself clinging desperately to Taeyeon, like a child who’d found his mother after a long separation. Her hand was locked in his, but he didn’t want to let go. He needed the feeling of their hands joining to remind him of her words. It’ll be okay. I promise. He sniffled, just now feeling the tears drying on and spilling over his cheeks. Another cry bubbled from his chest and forced its way out through his mouth, but it was softer now, more controlled. Jungsoo pulled away from the embrace, but he didn’t let go of her hand. He wasn’t ready to.

As he drew back, Taeyeon squeezed his fingers reassuringly in her own. “It’s all good,” she said, soothingly. “You’re alright.” Reaching up, she wiped his tears away with her thumb, her palm settling gently and briefly on his cheek. Her skin was soft against his face.

Jungsoo finally managed to take a full breath. It was tremulous, shuddering, and made his eyelids flutter from the effort, but it was a full breath. “I – I’m sorry,” he stuttered, his voice hoarse and thick from his crying. “You didn’t – need to see me like – like this.” They were just colleagues, just one-time colleagues at that… and two people who’d gotten into a vicious argument just days earlier, because he was unreasonable and he was irrational and he was the one who had been a pretentious asshole. Oh God, what was he going to do?

“No, no.” She patted his hand gently. “I understand. It’s okay. I won’t ask what happened, but I’m here for you. You can talk to me about it if you want, but you don’t have to.”

Jungsoo dragged another breath through his teeth, cringing at the harsh gasping sound it produced. Taeyeon didn’t even flinch. She continued looking at him with that same encouraging gaze, keeping her hand firmly intertwined with his. He still didn’t want to let go. She didn’t look the same as she had just ten minutes ago, leaving the studio and telling him that she’d be right back; she looked like an angel sent by God. Jungsoo knew it sounded cliché, but she really, truly, did seem like a holy being from a higher dimension that had come to Earth to help him.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice weak and tremulous, but at least he could control it now. “Thank you. For helping me. I… I – thank you.” He didn’t think he could express in words how grateful he was, for being there next to him, holding his hand, instructing him through his breaths… hugging him.

Her sweater was damp where he’d buried her face in her shoulder and cried.

“I’m s-sorry,” Jungsoo managed, apologizing again as shame tickled his skin. “Your sweater…”

Taeyeon followed his gaze and seemed to only then see the wet stain covering the fabric. “It’s nothing,” she said, her tone entirely, effortlessly, and most of all, sincerely, dismissive. “Are you feeling better? Can you breathe?”

Overwhelmed by her kindness, Jungsoo nodded.

“Good. Do you think you can stand? We can get you to someone who can help.”

Again, Jungsoo nodded, unable to find words. The corners of Taeyeon’s lip curled up in a small, reassuring smile. She stood, offering a supporting hand to Jungsoo. Tentatively, he took it, and, supporting himself with his hand against the arm of the couch, pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt unsteady, and he was suddenly so exhausted that he wasn’t sure he could walk, but Taeyeon’s arm wrapping around his waist and letting him lean against her helped him avoid falling down like an idiot. She was surprisingly strong. At such a close proximity, the smell of her vanilla perfume wafted gently over his nose.

Jungsoo realized his heart was pounding. It wouldn’t stop, even as Taeyeon helped him out of the studio and to the staff, who took him from there. Taeyeon called after him, telling him to take care, and the last of her that Jungsoo saw before he was helped out of the studio by the staff was her staring after him. Her brows were pulled together, lips parted slightly, eyes intent, in an expression of worried concern. 

Maybe it was his imagination, but his heart pounded harder.

[tiberiusmadhouse]

@biigbcss said:“Come for me, darling.” @ Lucifer mainverse

     Fingers gently skimmed his skin, between his shoulder blades, and Lucifer looked over his shoulder. There was no one there, and for a moment he entertained the idea that he’d simply imagined it. But in the wake of the touch was heat, seeping into the muscle, causing them to twitch as his wings attempted to materialize. Gritting his teeth, he focused on the music, the notes harder, the pitch deeper, and managed to suppress the memory. 

     He was eyeing someone in the VIP section, the woman’s arms resting on the railing as she smiled down from the balcony. A feather-light touch skimmed up the line of his throat, the liquor in his mouth almost inhaled, his hand lifting to swipe at his skin. Jaw warming, he slowly lowered his head and began walking, moving away from other people as he ground his teeth. He was in no mood for games, and hadn’t been three days ago when he’d been trying to enjoy playing his piano.

     There was a distributor that was trying to negotiate placing his whiskey on Lucifer’s shelves, and didn’t seem to mind the idea of making a deal with the devil for the cash it would bring him. Listening intently as the man sold himself, and his booze, Lucifer felt a kiss on the back of his neck. Felt teeth scrape across the skin, his fingers tightening where his chin rested on the heel of his hand. Another kiss, at the base of his neck, hot, insistent, Lucifer’s gritting his teeth as he kept his expression blank. 

     Unlike the two previous times, the heat didn’t go away, dragging down between his shoulder blades, and he tensed swallowing back the noise that threatened to escape him. Warmth slowly traveled up his side, cutting across to skim up his sternum and wrap around his throat, just the barest hint of pressure, and he couldn’t stop his chin from lifting slightly. Lucifer acted as if he’d been looking towards the elevator, completing the movement as smoothly as possible as the sensations faded. 

“Well, it does seem like you’ve got a product that might be worth tacking my name onto.’ Lucifer said slowly, entire body on high alert. “But I do think you’re attempting to fleece me with the price you’re asking for wholesale.’

     Light banter back and forth as the two haggled until Lucifer was happy. It wasn’t a question of money, it was the principle of the thing. A warm breeze brushed his ear, and the jaw that had only just relaxed grew taut again, lifting his hand to tug at his ear as he teased the man about talking a bit too much. His eyelids fluttered feeling the heat low on his belly and moving lower, refilling the glasses between them, his hand only slightly unsteady feeling a light grip cup him, and the squeeze. 

     A delicate pressure ran along the underside of his cock, the hand that had been lifting to take a drink pausing, stilling midway to his mouth as his breath caught. Hiding that with a cheeky half salute with his glass, he placed the glass against his lower lip and tossed his head back to finish the lot. It was getting harder to focus, the warmth seemed to be moving everywhere, along the side of his neck, the tender line of skin and muscle between his shoulder blades, along his inner thighs, up his ribs before becoming scalding hot when it reached his nipple. 

“When do you think you can make the first delivery.’ 

     He was very proud that his voice wasn’t shaky, but it had taken a supreme amount of effort, looking down at his hand to hide his eyes as he focused on keeping his breathing steady. Reaching out for the contract, he almost crumpled the paper, leaning forward slightly as the heat traveled down his spine to his hips. Offering the man a smile, Lucifer grinned and reached for his cigarettes with a half apology about having run out of his own. Which was true, he’d been becoming more and more stressed anticipating another assault, he’d smoked four packs, each cigarette in succession. 

     Cock aching, he tried not to think of the way the heat circled it, or the pressure that ran from base to tip, then back down squeezing just a little tighter. He was going to scream, soon, he could feel it building in his chest, the scalding heat coming and going in random places. Thankfully the man was eager to leave, no doubt to brag to his partner about the new sale. Which was fine with Lucifer, it was getting harder not to squirm, not to run his hands over those places as if he could shoo the heat away. 

     And if he squeezed the man’s hand a little too hard in the handshake to end their meeting, Lucifer couldn’t be arsed. Or if the man was a little offended that he hadn’t stood to see him out, which did rankle him slightly. He was almost unfailingly polite with business associates. The moment the elevator doors closed, he gasped, fingers moving to his belt to yank it undone before shrugging out of the suit jacket to leave it bunched behind him. If only to himself, he had to admit that it was easier this way, without having to see His eyes watching him, a low moan escaping him as his spine bowed. The Divinity that he’d been trying so fruitlessly to ignore was thick in the air now, heat brushing across his lower lip and he unconsciously opened his mouth feeling it caress his tongue. Fuck

     The soles of his shoes rasped against the floor as his feet slid, trying to find some purchase as the pleasure built, a sharp ache blossoming on his left pectoral, heat like a freshly forged iron collar wrapping its way around his throat. Head falling back on the chair, his spine bowed as that same heat scalded him, from sternum to cock before tightly winding around it and squeezing. If he had to explain it, and thankfully he never would, he’d have to compare it to slowly being cast in gold still white hot from the fire. The way it trickled along his skin, seeped into the muscle. It was having too many hands on him, holding him, brushing along his skin, pinching it, soothing it. 

     It was too much, and not enough, Lucifer panting as he writhed on the leather chair, with nowhere to place his hands, nothing to hold onto as a sharp twist of his nipple drew a cry from his throat. Clawing at the fastening of his slacks, Lucifer’s eyes fell shut feeling the fire around his throat press, constrict, his breathing shallowing and coming faster as he finally managed to get the hook undone, and the zipper down. Not that it offered any relief, a soft sound that was too close to a sob escaping as the pressure rolled up and down his length, his entire body feeling like it was filled with light. 

     He just had to ride it out, it would be over soon, even as a small, greedy voice in the back of his mind didn’t want it to, fingers curving into claws that couldn’t find purchase. There was a soft huff of warm air past his ear again, and instinctively his face turned towards it, eyes almost closed leaving only a glimmer of golden sunlight breaking through his lashes. But there was no one, nothing, there, his entire body tensing feeling a pinprick of heat trailing along the exposed side of his neck like a laser. Pressure on his tongue made him close his mouth, a frustrated noise escaping him when he remembered that it was empty, teeth grinding as the stroking sensation along the length of his cock slowly increased its pace. 

“Remember, Lord God on High, your gentle compassion.’ Lucifer murmured softly in Enochian, letting out a sigh as the intensity eased for a moment, the collar of heat around his throat easing. “And tender mercy...’

     For a brief moment, he could breathe again, a sensation akin to a calm before the storm, or more accurately managing to make your way into the eye of a hurricane. Slowly turning his head, so the back of it rested against the chair, Lucifer lifted a hand that was trembling to rest low on his belly and work it upwards. The other moved to cradle his head as he took the opportunity to breathe. The fabric rasped across his skin, his hands splayed as it dragged slowly over his slick skin to rest over where his heart was pounding frantically, leaving his stomach framed by black leather, and night sky blue satin. 

“Which you once showed to me in days of old.’ Catching the hem of his slacks under the heels of his shoes, Lucifer arched his body and they slowly revealed his hips, and lower. 

 “Do not recall, with ire, the sins of my youth.’ He gasped the words, spine curving in perfect arc to drag his nails down his body, leaving crimson lines behind that seeped blood from the body of the rib cage to his belly button. “And my rebellious ways that caused you such heartache.’

“According to your love, remember me,  for you, beloved Elohim, are good….’ Running the tip of his finger laterally across, he used the blood to paint the symbol of Yahweh low on his hip. “Good and upright… is the Lord God, therefore He instructs lost sinners in His ways…’ 

     The pleasure which had been a low hummed threat in the room, the build up before a lightning strike, did just that. It tore through Lucifer’s body, his eyes opening wide, the irises a bright white gold as he stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, unable to breathe around it. He knew that was going to be what got him, unable to fully appreciate winning when his entire body felt as if it were being stroked all the way to his core. 

     Writhing when it became too much, his nails dug furrows in his skin, Divinity filled veins glowing under his skin. He may hate Adonai, but the rush was almost worth the pain that came along with it, the ache to taste it again, the fear that he wouldn’t. Fingers skimmed along the underside of his jaw, Lucifer forcing his vision to focus enough to see the familiar face that his father chose when attempting to seem less dangerous. Almost human. There was a hunger to his expression, Lucifer licking his lower lip as he stared up at Him.

“For the sake of Your name, Adonai’ He whispered, feeling the tension in the fingers that were trying so hard to gently hold his jaw. “Forgive me my iniquity, the shame of it is greater than I can bear.’

     The form shivered, as if unable to contain the pulse of power that ran through Him as Lucifer finished the prayer, the hand cupping the underside of his jaw shifting, fingers skimming down his torso as He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Lucifer’s forehead. It meant nothing really, Lucifer would not be going back to the Silver City, and once Adonai left he’d be left reeling beneath the heavy weight of so much Divinity pounding through his body like a stampede of wild mustangs. 

“Come for me, darling.’ 

     And Lucifer felt the command resonate through him, eyes staring up at Adonai sent another pulse of Divinity through him that made his heart stop for a moment as his body reacted. It was so intense that it hurt, the sound caught in his throat as the pleasure roared through him like an ocean wave and then left him limp in the chair, shivering in the aftermath. Every inch of him was raw, his skin didn’t want to be touched, even by itself, but his head still followed the touch of His hand as His fingers traced the side of his face, stroking over his hair.

“My Morningstar, how you shine for me.’

“Always.’ Lucifer hummed, feeling the light pulsing softly through every pore, before the sharp bite of reality reminded him where he was, and why. “And one day I hope it blinds you.’

[supergirlfics]

. Maybe you could do depressed B!D isolating herself and because Kara and Alex are so busy it takes a few days for them to notice and when they find B!D it’s ugly, not the nice looking depression people write but real stuff. Like she hasn’t showered in a week, hasn’t slept but also hasn’t left the bed. She won’t talk to them so Maybe Alex and Kara gently pick her up and bathe her until she finally comes around and talks to them? Maybe please thank you if not it’s okay.

A/N: I’m gonna add a trigger warning for depression with this one. Please read with caution. And remember that people love you and care about you. If you feel like you’re alone, I am somebody that you can talk to. Please talk to me if you need someone. 

“Y/N!” Kara called. “Are you home?”

You didn’t answer, only buried yourself further under your blankets.

“I heard that. Alex, she’s in her bedroom.”

You heard two sets of footprints that stopped next to your bed, then the blanket was thrown off.

“What’s going on?” Alex asked. “You look terrible.”

You didn’t answer, only tried to pull the blanket back over you. Kara held it firmly, leaving you with no chance. “Nuh - uh. No way. You are not going to hide. Talk to us, kiddo.”

You didn’t so much as look at your sisters. 

You could feel the weight shift on the bed as Alex sat down. “Talk to us. Come on, hon. You look like you haven’t left this bed in a week. Your eyes are bloodshot. You’re cold. Kara and I are here for you if you. You just have to let us in.”

“Y/N?” Kara asked. “Just say one thing. Please?”

When you still didn’t answer, your sisters exchanged a worried look. “Let’s get her cleaned up,” Alex suggested. “Maybe it’ll help. I’ll go draw a bath. Will you bring her in?”

“Of course,” Kara said. She rubbed your arm. “You’re going to be okay. I love you so much, Y/N. We’ll get you feeling better, okay?” 

Your sister lifted you with ease. She had to adjust you in her arms because you simply allowed yourself to hang limply. She got you into the bath with little trouble, despite the fact you did literally nothing to help out. 

“We got you,” Alex promised. She shielded your face with her hand before gently pouring water over your hair. 

“I’m going to lean you forward,” Kara said. “So we can get your back.”

Your hands gripped the side of the tub as Kara pushed you forward. Alex rested her hand on top of yours and Kara finished washing you up.

“Everything’s wrong,” You mumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “What was that?”

“I can’t do anything right. I’m a failure.”

“No,” Alex said. “You’re not. Why are you talking this way?”

“I don’t deserve you guys. I should be alone.”

“Stop that,” Kara said. She lifted you out of the tub and Alex wrapped a soft towel around you. “I do not want to hear those words come out of your mouth ever again. You do deserve us. Okay?”

“I don’t know why you think that. I’m so useless.”

“Sweetheart,” Alex said. “No you’re not. You are good at so many things. You’re unfailingly loyal. You’re always here for us and all of your friends. You are strong, Y/N. You need to remember that.”

You didn’t answer. You let your sisters dress you and Kara carried you to the couch, where your sisters sat down on either side of you. “What brought this on?”

“You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve me bringing you down all the time. I’m too emotional and unstable. You have enough to deal with without me. I just make your lives hard.”

“How long have you been thinking this way?” Alex asked. 

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it. Sweetie, it’s important.”

“A while I guess. Can I go back to bed now?”

“Absolutely not,” Kara said. “I’m not letting you go back into that dark hole you c all your bedroom.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then you can sleep here. After you finish talking to us.”

“Do I have to? I don’t want to talk. I just want to sleep.”

“Honey, it sounds like you have depression. It’s easy to get help for it. We can get you into a doctor or a therapist and you can be treated.”

“I don’t like doctors.”

“And you don’t like talking to people,” Kara said. “But you need to. We’ll go with you. We won’t leave you alone.”

“This is what I mean. You always have to take care of me. You have better things to do. I’m just ruining your lives.”

Alex rubbed her hands over her face. She didn’t know how to get through to you and it had her extremely worried. “I’m going to make an appointment. And you will be going. No arguing, no hiding. You’re seeing a doctor.”

“And in the meantime,” Kara added. “Alex and I will be keeping a close eye on you. One of us will be with you one hundred percent of the time so we can make sure you’re sleeping and eating like you should be.”

“I’m a burden,” You said.

“You’re not a burden,” Kara said. “You’re my baby sister and it’s a privilege to take care of you. You mean the world to me, Y/N. I couldn’t dream of having anything better to do right now than spend time with you.” Kara squeezed you tightly and pressed a kiss to your forehead. She continued to hold you for most of the night, as the three of you watched TV and Alex forced food down your throat.

It was just after ten when you burst into tears. You weren’t sure where they came from, but you couldn’t get yourself to stop. Alex’s arms wrapped around you as well, which felt good, but also made you cry harder until you fell asleep on Kara’s shoulder.

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One:  The Dark Curse

Chapter 78: Useful Information

He should have known. He could have guessed, the moment that Nimue had told him a Dark One had tracked the potion he needed to Oz, it should have been unfailingly obvious that it would be with Zelena. How could it not be? That girl spent all her time in the Emerald City, in the palace that had been built by the Wizard, who had collected magical artifacts to use with others. Naturally, the Elixir of the Wounded Heart would have been with him. Or rather it had been until Zelena turned him into a flying monkey. Now the Elixir was in her possession. He hadn't a clue if she even knew what she truly possessed, but he knew one thing…he couldn't go after it himself.

Zelena was smart, she was a clever little witch, and though they'd been moved she'd had those shoes in her possession long enough to do who knew what with him. Even if she hadn't planned on despising him and leaving the day that they'd parted ways, he trusted that her castle was fortified against him. He trusted that if he appeared in that realm, she would know about it and have none of it. No, she couldn't kill him, but he also couldn't risk her finding out the reason that he was there. If he wasn't successful, then she'd protect that potion with her life, and he'd never see it…if it was even necessary. Nimue had said that the issue with his heart going black was a risk, but one that was a long way away. He didn't even know if he'd ever come to truly need it in his lifetime.

Still, he'd searched through the bobbles and instructions that Jefferson had left him and found only one way into the Land of Oz. It was a single potion that when sloshed onto a mirror would take the individual to the room of doors they'd encountered when they'd gone to the Land Without Color. This meant that it wasn't a direct line to Oz; it was simply a direct line to any realm someone wished to go to. That made the potion highly valuable. Was this really what he was willing to waste it on?

No, he wasn't. At least not at first. It would be years, Nimue had said, and so he'd begun to bother himself with other things, like master the use of the fairy wand he'd acquired so long ago. But while Nimue had said the change to his heart was not a threat, it was clear that one of the Dark Ones disagreed. The moment he'd made up his mind not to use the potion, he'd felt that sting across his chest once more. He'd diverted the magic, used his own to chase it away. But someone in his head was playing tricks on him, and every time he got too involved in doing something else, the pain would spike. Clearly, someone disagreed with the great Nimue, and they were sending him the message the only way they could, but who was it? If he knew who he could talk to them himself and not just through Nimue! He could search through memories and materials, it would give him a hint! But when he tried to isolate a voice, come up with the name of the Dark One he should speak to about the pain, none arrived, and he was certain that if he talked to Nimue again, she'd give him the same answer. That left him with one option. He had to send someone for the cordial. It was the only way he'd get peace and be able to work.

So who was he to send? Well, the most straightforward answer was the least likely at the moment. Jefferson. He could talk to Jefferson, the boy still had his hat, he could simply have him go and retrieve it, and then he'd have no use for the potion at all.

But he couldn't. He'd been watching Jefferson ever since he'd left to go to his wife and new baby. Six months ago, his wife had died. He'd been left alone with his daughter, and his mental state…it was dark. He watched him enough to know that when he was with his daughter, his face lit up brighter than the sun, but the moment she was asleep, he hung his head, he cried, he surrendered to a different kind of mad darkness. He considered asking the old fellow to help, even wondered if it might give him a sense of purpose again, but as he watched him sit by the fireplace one night, head in his hands, shoulders hunched…he couldn't bring himself to do it. It had been years since Jefferson had gone to Oz, even then, he'd had issues with Zelena and the Wizard, now he was grieving and out of practice. Maybe one day he'd be fit for service again, but at the moment he was far from the ideal candidate.

He needed someone else. Someone talented enough to sneak into Oz undetected, fetch the cordial, and bring it back. He needed someone who could be bought, someone desperate enough that they might try something crazy.

"Show me the one I need," he ordered his glass ball one night when he'd been fiddling with his potions and felt the tug on his heart again. The image that appeared before him was of a boy, someone he'd never seen before. He was handsome, golden locks that he was sure women would swoon over. He appeared to be at a pub, sitting alone, nursing an ale. As he idly twisted the cup in front of him, he could make out the image of a lion tattoo on his wrist. Interesting, though he wore an apron, there was a hint of something more to him. But what was it?

He gasped.

He felt his hand automatically clutch the crystal ball in his hand, ensuring that he wouldn't drop it, but then surrendered himself to the inevitable. This was a vision. One of the future but the very near future.

Tomorrow.

It would happen tomorrow.

As soon as he knew it, he registered the fact that he was seeing back inside that pub his mystery man had been sitting in. That very man was now working the bar, pouring ale, getting drinks, but also listening to a man who was sitting there.

John, the Seer whispered in his ear. Little John.

Looking the man over, he suddenly had a new definition for the word irony.

"I have a fresh lead," the man stated to his potential thief. "King Midas's carriage is passing through town tomorrow, and he'll only have a few of his guards with him."

"You know I haven't so much as lifted a penny since Marian and I got married," the man retorted. "Look around. This is my new life."

"But you're not a barkeep…you're a thief."

Ah yes, his potential thief was gaining more and more of that potential every moment. And now he had a name for the wife. Marian. That was useful information.

But before he could contemplate the importance of that, the vision shifted. The pub he was in was suddenly very quiet. And his thief was talking to a man dressed in black clothes. A guard…one of Regina's? It was the right color. That gave him a potential location, somewhere in Regina's Kingdom.

"Well, I had to see this for myself," the guard stated in a mocking tone. "Robin of Locksley walking the straight and narrow. Nice apron. M'lady…"

Suddenly the vision was filled with a pretty woman, olive skin and dark hair, who appeared less than excited to see the man before her. He on the other hand was very excited. Robin of Locksley and his wife Marian. Not only did he have their names but also a location. Locksley located just north of Sherwood Forest and certainly a part of Regina's Kingdom.

That was all valuable information, but he could feel his chest squeezing now for a reason far different than his heart problems. He'd be damned if he forced this vision to end now. He wanted every last detail of it. Even the unamused "Sheriff" reply the woman gave was informative.

It told him she detested him with every bone in her body.

"What can I do for you, Nottingham?" Robin questioned, pulling the guard's attention off of his wife. It was a very telling kind of attention he'd been paying her. The kind that made his own stomach curdle. He may have been the Dark One, but at least he had a moral standard he'd never sink below, unlike this fellow.

"What can you do for me?" the Sheriff asked, helping himself to some ale. "Well, for starters, your taxes are overdue."

There was a bang. In his head, he saw someone pound a notice into the door. Tax notice. More useful information.

"I need time," the man insisted.

"Well, because I'm in a generous mood, I'm giving you two days. After that, I'll have no choice but to shutter your tavern and throw you in debtor's prison. And poor old Marian here will have no arms to hold her but mine."

"She'd never be with you," Robin growled, staring at the man.

"I can speak for myself," Marian insisted. "I'd never be with you," she stated, looking at the Sheriff with even more disgust than he'd thought was possible to muster.

"Well, when you are on the street, and your husband is in jail, perhaps you'll see my appeal."

"I'll find your money. Somehow."

"Really? Two days."

He pulled himself out of his vision with a smile. This conversation hadn't happened yet. Tomorrow afternoon it would, and then the countdown would begin. In three days, he'd have his potion.