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ilikemesometaetaes · 4 years

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Set Me Free (M)

Min Yoongi Oneshot

•••> Author: @ilikemesometaetaes

•••> Summary: You are just an ordinary woman with a strange aura about you that Yoongi can’t seem to resist- even past the compulsion of his mentor. The question is: why?

•••> Pairing(s): Yoongi/Reader

•••> Requested by @itsgottabeyoo-ngs : “Hi daddy, One shot request with vampire Yoongi x brat reader. Bonus points for adding in choking or spitting idk make it filthy k thanks love you byeeeee xoxoxoxox”

•••> Word Count: 10.95k

•••> Rating: 18+

•••> Warnings: smut, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, murder, attempted murder, slight choking/strangulation, dirty talk, biting, blood drinking, spitting, violence, horror, vampire/human relationship, cursing, mental attachment, thirsty Yoongi, Yoongi thinks he’s scary, but he’s totally not

Thank you for the request, babe! This one is a bit to unpack, as you can see. I hope you enjoy :)

~#~

Yoongi never claimed to have his thirst under complete control.

He stands before his brothers once every week for the feed, snarling as he consumes his share of blood, while the others bear witness so as to provide him ceremonial protection- a vampire is very vulnerable while he consumes blood. The polydipsia made one lose all form of reason and sense of mind, driven to the brink of animalistic insanity when it was in the process of mildly quenching the eternal hunger.

Polydipsia, used to describe his level of thirst, was the word made just for him in his own little world.

It wasn’t normal thirst, like a human, but the savage-like impulse to drink and drown until he could swim in a river of blood and take deep lungfuls of the crimson fluid. The impossible desire to consume and be completely consumed by blood until he became it himself always loomed over his mind in his early days as a Deadblood- a vampire youngling- causing him to search for a word that could completely describe his affliction.

Then the Greeks begun transforming their language, perfecting the word that he could use to chronicle his need. He had mulled over the thought throughout the few centuries that the word came into existence, truly connecting with it on a level that was deprived of him when his soul was taken from his body.

But the word was not only used to describe normal thirst; it described the abnormal desire to drink as a symptom of disease- and a disease is what Min Yoongi had.

From the days he explored the lands of Goryeo as a young teenage boy, he knew that disease racked every inch of the world. Street beggars, riddled with sicknesses and incurable illnesses, asked him for coin, food, clothing, and any necessities that could potentially carry them through the night into another sunrise. But the one thing that they begged for the most was water.

Liquid life. Yoongi thinks back on the ironic turn of events and how, even as a privileged boy of nobles, he understood just how desperate a person got when they were deprived of the one, singular fluid that supported life as he knew it.

As Yoongi approached adulthood, he was promoted and bestowed larger honors in the name of the Min clan, allowing him to provide more for the beggars and lower-class individuals that he came across on the streets every day- not that his father would find out.

Until he did.

Yoongi recalls the moment he knew that his father figured out that his son was spoiling the family riches on the lower class. They weren’t sitting down for dinner and having a conversation nor taking a stroll along the river like the two of them normally would- it was quite surprising, really. Yoongi had to applaud his father for the creativity of the circumstance.

He knew that his father figured out his whereabouts when he found himself bleeding out in the middle of the woods with three arrows, adorned with the Min clan crest carved into the wood, sticking out of his chest. He was sent to look for his supposedly lost little sister under the direction that she was probably at a watering hole- which Yoongi had never heard about- about forty-five minutes from the edge of Goryeo’s walls.

Many people ventured outside of the city to fend for food and necessities, or to find civilization elsewhere, so it wasn’t surprising to him that his curious baby sister wanted to see for herself what life was like outside of the city’s limits.

As Yoongi lay dying on the soil of the earth, staring up at the greenery of the trees above while they lightly swayed in the breeze, he realized that everyone, regardless of social-class or physical health, was fighting the same, universal disease: death. No one could escape it and no one was safe. At least, that’s the epiphany he had in an effort to comfort himself while he felt his heart painfully struggle to beat with an arrowhead lodged into it. Copious amounts of blood spurt out with each pulse of his damaged organ.

And then the universe decided to set him free from death with a cure worse than the disease itself.

Yoongi doesn’t remember who his creator was. He doesn’t remember how long he spent on the forest floor with the arrows still in his chest. He doesn’t remember waking up.

His memory of his new life started from the moment his consciousness returned, in the exact second that he found a set of vocal cords clutched in the palm of his hand, dripping with crimson, after apparently ripping them out of a young boy who was actively collapsing in front of him. The boy, who Yoongi immediately recognized from the streets of Goryeo, was choking on his own gore as he clutched at his now nonexistent throat, staring up at his killer with a jumbled expression that silently begged for help yet withdrew from terror.

It took Yoongi five years of trekking everywhere and no where while attempting to control his thirst before he found new meaning. He mostly had a hold on the scorch in his throat by staying away from the city and surrounding villages before he met another and figured out what he became.

The woman- no, girl?- appeared young yet spoke as if she had seen countless winters, the wisdom of a million middays glowing behind her carmine eyes. She was the first person he had met who did not end up dead within the first two minutes of scenting them on the wind.

“You are a vampire. You survive purely on the life essence of others. You are still a young Deadblood. Judging by your age, you should become a Redblood soon.” She sat with her back to him, overlooking the valley below the then-unnamed Odaesan mountain that they sat perched upon. “Do you know who created you?”

“Created me?” He asked. “What do you mean? My parents?”

She turned, her vibrant red eyes continuing to shock him. Did his own orbs look like this?

“I mean, who turned you?” She seemed to look at him incredulously, shocked by his lack of knowledge. “Who gave you their venom- their shi?”

“I…” Yoongi tried very hard to remember anything before the burning sensation that scraped like rocks against the insides of his bones and flesh, but all he could see and feel was fire and agony- and then blood. He couldn’t help but think with a grain of salt, disbelieving of the method in which he was born into his new life. “I don’t know. I just remember from my first kill.”

“Strange.” The other vampire muttered, returning her gaze to the valley. “Strange, indeed.”

Yoongi was always the silent type, only interacting when he needed to as a habit formed to avoid the questioning glare of his father when he returned home late on certain occasions.

But he couldn’t help the burning desire of curiosity within him, a welcome distraction from the need to feed within him. He had so many questions.

“You may ask your questions, Min Yoongi.” The woman sighed, not even bothering to spare him a glance whilst she spoke. The man was shocked to find that she knew his name without him telling her.

“How do you know my name?” The new revelation took precedent in his mind, hoping that she was not an enemy of his clan.

“A valid question.” She mused. “Anticipated, but valid. I suppose I’ll answer your question to the best of my ability.”

Yoongi shifted his position in preparation, a new habit that he formed in his new life. He learned from the first time he moved to stretch that his body did not need to be stretched as it usually did. He never ached, never cramped, never tired, and never lost energy. Despite the lack of his emotions in their usual form, he knew that it should have been unsettling to find such a new change within him, so he did the sensible thing of pretending that he needed to.

He pretended he needed to breathe- after two hours at the bottom of a lake he stumbled upon in his aimless journey, he was amazed to find that he required no oxygen to continue existing- and that he didn’t need to sleep nor use the bathroom. He would practice taking breaths, trying to inhale and exhale evenly without becoming allured to the pungent yet undeniably attractive scent of animal blood so that he could finally smell the forest again. He pretended to go to sleep and wake up with the urge to relieve himself of the noneixstent pressure in his bladder despite not having any of the instincts he once had.

The woman spoke, answering his first question.

“I can hear your thoughts. They’re not necessarily specific, but I can hear when you are wistful- like you are now- or when you are curious or sad or angry. I can hear the causes of these emotions.” She paused. “It comes with the gift of my second life. A form of protection, if you will.”

“Why would I need protection when I am invincible? I’ve seen the things I can do and what my body can endure.” He briefly recalled repeatedly jumping from a cliff, automatically landing on his feet no matter how hard he tried not to. Before, he had a will to survive with a choice of dying, but now? There was no comprehensible choice. “There is nothing that can hurt me.”

Yoongi couldn’t help cocking his head to the side like a confused dog when the woman let out a breathless laugh.

“Because, young one,” She looked at him with her eyes again, a look of mock endearment filling them. “You are not invincible.”

For a moment, Yoongi did not believe her. He believed that the liquid running through his veins was pure ichor, an essence of the gods, but when he returned her look of sincere truth, he understood that dying was still very much possible.

Thanking the gods, Yoongi looked to the ground and began toying with his fingers at his revelation. He could stop murdering people, willing to die in order to do so.

The woman shook her head. “No, Min Yoongi. You do not have to die to stop killing humans. In fact, it is the reason I have not killed you yet. You are unaware of the possibilities.”

His head perked up at the comment, suddenly eager to learn.

“How? How can I live without killing?” All he could see was the young boy that he had murdered in cold blood; the boy’s warm brown eyes staring up at him as he watched the life drain from them burned into his memory- he didn’t even know the boy’s name. The boy could not have been older than his own sister.

“I never told you that you could continue to live without killing. Of course, you have to kill. But you do not have to kill people.” The woman nodded her head down the mount. “Do you smell that? Do you smell the life that lives throughout this mountain?”

Yoongi attempted to focus on his senses but could only feel the thirst once again tormenting his throat. As soon as the woman shifted his attention back to the aroma of life, he salivated. Of course, he smelled the animal’s scents, but he could also detect traces of human life upwind that completely took away his desire for anything but humans.

“Push the thirst aside to open your senses. Embrace them. Embrace your power and your abilities. Focus on those.”

Again, he tried to push the scorch in his throat to the side, only to find that it was an impossible feat seeing as he had not fed in several months. He wanted human blood so badly.

“Poor child. I did not realize how weak you were.” She let a grimace morph her features, the first true expression of genuine emotion that Yoongi had seen on her. “Come sit in front of me. I will help you.”

For a moment, Yoongi hesitated. Was she going to kill him? He was not sure, but after a few more thoughts to himself, he realized that he had nothing to lose. Following her direction obediently, he moved to sit with his legs crossed in front of the woman.

“Now, close your eyes and listen to my voice.” She raised her hands to his head, placing her fingertips on his temples, and began whispering while he let his eyes flutter closed.

He felt as if he was mentally hit by a charging bear.

The woman’s words echoed in his mind, seating themselves amongst every corner and crevice that they could touch before Yoongi could understand what was happening. Shocked by the feeling of being intruded upon, he tried to push back against the mind-numbing force of her words, uncomfortable and feeling violated by the sensation. Instead of stopping them, her voice just broke down his amateur attempt at a mental barrier and pushed its way further into his brain. He was helpless to her superior mental awareness and gift.

“You will not focus on the thirst. You will focus on your abilities. Focus on the blood of animals and the blood of those already dead.”

And Min Yoongi had no option but to obey for he was forced into a dieted life.

But as he stands, thousands of years later, in the middle of your kitchen whilst watching you silently with the inferno of the blazing sun in his esophagus, he couldn’t help the need that overcame him. He could not obey his mentor; miraculously and horrifyingly, the gift of his mentor did not work with you.

He was impelled by his mentor’s gift, effectively removing most of the bloodlust he had for humans. In his lifetime, after the unavoidable command was bestowed upon him, he had only killed a handful of humans when he was consumed by the thirst after living in self-induced exile for so long. But standing before you, he may have needed to add a finger to that handful depending on what you did next.

Yoongi first clocked you on his radar the moment you walked into the small coffee shop he was occupying for the later part of the morning.

Building a friendship with you was quite easy.

You were bright and warm and everything wonderful upon meeting him. Your smile was just shy of naive, yet he couldn’t help the alien tugs on his heart when watching you giggle.

“How old are you, Yoongi?” You asked while circling the straw in your caramel macchiato.

“Old enough.” He chuckled, looking down with what you perceived as shyness.

“Oh?” You laughed with him. “And how old is enough for you?”

“I could ask you the same question. How old do you think I am?” He met your eyes, once again shocking you with their beautifully vibrant shade of brown.

“Well…” You trailed off, studying his facial features closely- the hint of a permanent smile line, fresh haircut, and no wrinkles alluded that he couldn’t be over thirty. “I’m gonna say… twenty-five?”

The man across from you smiled. “Very close. I’m twenty-seven.”

So he wasn’t that much older than you. You could totally do him.

Yoongi noticed the flash of lust that ghosted through your pupils for a split second, recognizing the dilation of them as you glanced at him. He watched you stick your chest out a bit more, begin fiddling with your hair more often, and part your lips while you let the thoughts of sexual satisfaction run across your mind.

“Twenty-seven, huh? That’s not bad at all.” You smiled, letting your tongue lightly swipe along your bottom lip unconsciously.

Yoongi zeroed in on the action with a piercing gaze, watching as the muscle seemed to move in slow motion tauntingly, daring him to dig his fangs into it savagely before tearing it from your mouth to feel the blood pouring from your lips onto his face.

His body reacted sensibly, blood rushing like fake adrenaline to awaken his better instincts- rushing everywhere- and making his jeans become uncomfortably tight as they restrained his filling manhood.

Blood drinking was as exciting as it was satisfying for a vampire. An extremely personal and holy moment, consuming lifeblood was the most raw and sexual moment to experience. A vampire could not experience real sexual desire without it.

He dug his fingers into the faux leather of his side of the booth until they broke through the material to restrain himself from attempting to attack you in the middle of the day.

Quickly, gaining his sense of mind once again, he tore more holes into the leather to round out the punctures so that it could appear as if the holes were from wear and tear.

The scent of your blood transpierced by the hormones and adrenaline beginning to flow through your veins made it just that much more implausibly alluring. Yoongi admitted that you were a beautiful and kind woman from the conversation throughout the morning. He also knew that you had a deviant side due to the surprisingly quick appearance of your lust-filled gaze.

Yet he couldn’t help the urge to murder you on the spot.

He knew that he couldn’t touch you. The supernatural safety of the sun that shone on your body prevented him from laying a finger on your skin without his own lighting aflame. He learned the protection of sun rays on humans the hard way.

His fifth human victim, a monk who travelled the heights of Mount Odaesan- Yoongi’s sanctuary and home- for a religious trial, travelled early in the morning as the sun was rising. Yoongi smelt the sweat dripping from the man’s skin instantly. In the small cove he called home, he tried to resist the urge to kill the man for he hadn’t smelt human blood in several years.

His mentor’s words were ever present. ‘Focus on the blood of animals and the blood of those already dead.’

Despite having those words affecting his instincts, Yoongi had managed to convince himself that the monk was a dead man standing once he smelled remnants of a virus tainting his scent, effectively bypassing the impulsion of the woman’s mind control.

Yoongi found himself rushing at the man without a second thought, fangs bared and fingers curled in preparation to tear the man’s limbs from his body. However, before he could get within two feet of the vulnerable monk, he was thrown back by an invisible and boiling hot force that left him screaming in agony and flying through the air.

The monk quickly ran back down the mountain in terror, yet Yoongi could pay no mind as he lay on the forest floor, ready to die once again as his skin singed and fell from his flesh like swamp sludge.

As his throat tore itself raw from his wails of misery, his body writhed in and out on itself in complete and utter anguish. The smell of burnt flesh overwhelmed his nostrils, pungent and nauseating in every possible way. How he was able to focus on something other than the pain was beyond him.

Despite the burning, Yoongi could feel his aflame skin beginning to heal itself. Clawing through the dirt, he felt the blood stored in his stomach rushing through his veins to the broken and severed ones, rebuilding them and recreating the network of arteries necessary to begin restoring his expanse of skin.

Before long, the pain subsided and Yoongi was no longer screaming. The entire ordeal lasted approximately twenty minutes- long enough that Yoongi no longer heard the footsteps of the monk and long enough for him to process the events that had just happened.

He was thankful that he became a Redblood with the ability to use consumed blood throughout his body, unsure of what would have happened to him if he had been a Deadblood at the time. Deadbloods burned through consumed blood quicker than a spark from a flint could ignite kindling into a flame.

He definitely needed to ask the woman, Zizi, about it. And he definitely needed to track that monk until sundown so that he could get rid of any loose ends.

Yoongi grimaced slightly, remembering the occurrence like it was yesterday, as he sat across from you.

You were still looking down at your cup in blissful unawareness of his inner turmoil and life that he’s lived thus far. You definitely were not dense enough to not notice his gaze on your skin, but you were definitely ignorant of the fact that he was thinking about what would happen if he could just get you to move a few feet to the right to gain cover from the direct line of the sun. He just needed to get you into the shadows.

“Y/N,” He called your name. You instantly looked up in response. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.” You teased him back with his own words. He let a small smile thin his lips before he looked down to hide it. When you followed his gaze and noticed that he didn’t have a drink, you jumped to the opportunity.

“Can I buy you a drink, Min Yoongi?” You asked him.

“Oh, I’m not particularly craving coffee at the moment.” He paused and held his breath, as if trying to find the words to say. “I just like to sit here sometimes and enjoy watching the street.”

“Well,” Ask him! Ask him out! Yes! Do it! Your head screamed at you to be confident. You knew he was the shy type; you would be waiting all day for him to make a move and you just didn’t have the time nor patience for that. “Let me get you a drink at my bar?”

The man looked mildly impressed for a moment. “You own a bar?”

“A small one.” You swiftly added. “It’s not a big popular one or anything but I didn’t want a place too big. I like the smaller things.”

Yoongi couldn’t help but smile. You were a kind and beautiful woman living a simple life. He dreaded the moment that he was going to have to kill you.

“I take it you’re pretty well off then?” He asks. “And please don’t take this as me digging around. I’m just curious.”

“Don’t worry about it. Yeah, actually.” You laughed and sat back in your chair, looking out the window onto the street as people and cars passed by. “I’ve always been pretty lucky for some reason. The gods always seem to be in my favor and give me what I want.”

Yoongi smirked for a moment. If she wants me, she can have me. Then, I’ll have her.

When Yoongi found himself in the prime position to attack you in your kitchen, several weeks later, he knew. He finally had you where he wanted you.

A handful of dates that he found quite pleasant were all it took.

You turned out to be just what he thought- a strangely attractive and alluring woman, the scent of your blood aside. You exhumed an odd magnetism about you that Yoongi had never felt from a human. He regretted the decision of waiting so long to kill you seeing as he was considering letting you live. But he knew that he couldn’t do that.

With your back turned to him, busying yourself with dinner, he could easily snap your neck so that you wouldn’t scream and struggle- and you would be dead almost instantly. A quick and nearly painless death was what you deserved. He didn’t want you to suffer at all.

However, just as he crouched in preparation to lunge at you, you spoke.

“Are you ready for dinner, babe?” You asked him.

He smiled devilishly, venom filling his mouth as he salivated. “Yes, I am. I’m starving.”

You chuckled. “Okay.”

“Go and sit down at the table.”

It was the most simple of commands. Telling Yoongi to sit down wasn’t an order. You weren’t demanding him to do it. You never demanded anything of him. It was a mere suggestion in your eyes.

Yet Yoongi felt his body moving to the dinner table without a second thought, unable to resist obeying your words.

What in the everliving fuck.

He sat quickly, impotent to move from his spot while he waited for you to bring the food from the counter. His thirst obliterated his throat, causing it to seize up and restrict any air that he could previously breathe, but he sat in wonder as you seemed to hold power over him that he had never felt before.

You turned with both of your dinner plates in hand and he quickly smothered the panic on his face, wondering what in the world had just happened.

“I’m not at all a chef, but you better eat everything.” Yoongi tested your words, seeing if the inclination to finish your food was present, only to find a slight mental nudge- as he expected. You didn’t tell him to do anything; you merely made an ‘or else’ statement.

No longer desperate to kill you for the time being, Yoongi sat still and waited for your next words. Once you sat the plate in front of him, you uttered a joke.

“Dig in.”

And dig in Yoongi did. He picked up his fork and scooped into the pasta you made without any willingness to deny you.

The pasta wasn’t fantastic in any sort of the word- It was plain, although it could be due to the fact that it wasn’t at all what he truly craved and needed. It was like eating a piece of stale bread while he was offered a perfectly cooked and outright juicy steak on a silver platter. The food that he ate wouldn’t be consumed by his body and used for nutrients; the shi in his stomach would burn it to nothingness within the next few hours.

Uncontrollably, Yoongi shoved mouthful after mouthful into his mouth- he couldn’t stop. Once he finished chewing one bite, his hand was immediately bringing him another, and then another. Despite lacking the need to breathe, Yoongi felt himself suffocating with each bite as the realization that he could do nothing except eat his food settled in his mind.

“I see you were hungry.” You laughed, unaware of his predicament. Yoongi’s eyes shot up to yours and silently hoped you would give him another command so that he could stop the foolishness.

You, however, just sat there feeling sort of proud of yourself- not only for making an edible meal, but for making one Yoongi seemed to enjoy. Even though it was slightly shocking to see him out of his usually cool character, acting like a man suffering from hunger, you couldn’t help but find it undeniably cute.

Eating slowly while watching him, you let your feelings for him come to the surface.

Yoongi was utterly beautiful. His black hair that fell over his face while he was cleaning up the last bits of his plate was just long enough to cover his eyes, yet as he looked at you without reservation, you felt he had a clear line of sight straight into your soul.

His skin was nearly flawless save for the light and narrow scar that cut into his right eye. Others found the scar intimidating and ugly, but you found it rather attractive. Yoongi, with his uncanny physical allure, was undeniably the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Your body was alight with joy and content. In the few weeks that you got to know him, liking him was incredibly easy and having him in your home, in a domestic setting, lit your heart on fire with the possibility of falling in love with him.

He was incredibly easy to love, you discovered. Everything about him begged you to fall for him. As if the universe created him just for you, Min Yoongi was the epitome of perfection- in your eyes, anyway.

Briefly, you had shown a photo of him to your mother. She became unsettled instantly by his appearance.

“He’s so pale. And a little scary-looking.” She squinted at the photo you took of him when he wasn’t looking. You never brought him up again to your mother, disliking the fact that she didn’t like your potential boyfriend and found him scary.

The picture just happened to be your favorite- being because he didn’t like pictures and it was the only one you had of him.

He kindly asked you to not take photos of him. When you prompted him as to why during one of your more intimate moments at your bar, he only answered playfully as he held you close to him, lips begging for you to kiss them.

“Because I don’t want to leave evidence.” He whispered, breath tickling your nose. His body was warm and sturdy, muscles rippling under your touch as you clung to his shoulders.

“Evidence from what?” You asked breathily. The heat in your panties had increased tenfold over the last few minutes as his eyes grew hungrier with want. Yoongi’s fingers dug into your waist painfully, pulling you so close that you barely had room to expand your lungs to breathe, yet you couldn’t help the edgy feeling of how rough he could be with you.

“From when I eat you up.”

Thinking back on the memory, you shivered involuntarily, hoping that tonight might be the night you actually get to have him. He’d made you wait for a little over a month and you had no idea why. You definitely felt him straining through his pants a few times. But no kisses or anything further than the pressing of your bodies was accomplished.

Yoongi finished his plate and sat upright briskly, pulling you from your wishful thinking with a jump.

“Y/N,” He nearly growled, shocking you. “What else do you want me to do?”

The fork you were holding clattered to your plate instantly. Wow. He’s sizzling hot.

“I-“ You stuttered a bit. “I- uh.”

“Spit it out.” He hissed. You jumped again, trying to find the words to say with the heat growing in your panties.

Quickly, you answered him. “I want you to take me to my bedroom.”

“Thank god.” He groaned, getting up slowly with a smirk on his face. “Is that just a request? Because I can walk out now if you don’t actually want this.”

“Take me to my bedroom, Yoongi.” You stood slowly, carefully, as if you were afraid to trigger him.

Yoongi pushed in his chair and moved towards you at a speed that was almost inhuman. You yelped in astonishment as Yoongi attempted to control himself- he couldn’t bring you to your bedroom at his natural speed or else he would have a very motion-sick human to worry about. Instead, he trembled with the effort to resist your command at full force, knowing that the only way it was possible was due to the fact that he was still, in fact, taking you to your bedroom.

Picking you up was easier than breathing. You weighed absolutely nothing in his arms because of his advanced strength, so when he felt you trying to assist him in carrying you by holding your body stiffly, he huffed out a laugh whilst he walked.

“Relax, woman. You are as light as a feather.”

You blushed under his words, leaning into his chest to hide your cheeks.

“Stop that.” He growled, entering your bedroom. You looked up at him and he couldn’t tear his eyes from the blood that rushed to your cheeks. “I can’t resist if you do that.”

“Then don’t.” You whispered. Your heart pounded in your chest, begging him to hear it. “Don’t resist.”

His fangs came forth immediately, for he could not resist your command while he flew to your bed to throw you down. Despite your unknowing of what you were telling him to do, he fostered no opposition to what he was about to do.

The roughness of his throw startled you for a moment as you looked up at his vastly approaching figure, only to grow terrified when you caught sight of his face.

The veins protruding out of his temples and cheeks pumped blood straight into the whites of his eyes, turning them completely bloodshot, as they framed the now-crimson irises. Long incisors protruded from his mouth as he opened it with a hiss, revealing the way his human teeth shifted apart to allow his inhuman ones to break through the gums. Instantly, you parted your lips to scream.

Yoongi was upon you instantly, hand covering your mouth and silencing your cry while he snarled menacingly, yet he couldn’t help but feel remorse for killing you.

“I’m sorry.” He whimpered through his animalistic demeanor. “I can’t stop.”

You were screaming below his hand and, instantaneously, he had an idea.

He was leaning forward slowly, able to slow himself in the process of not resisting you. “Y/N,” He strained, changing the frequency of his talent, and waited for you to silence yourself in order to listen to him. He took his hand off of your mouth slowly after he heard your heart calm itself past your weeping. “Tell me to stop.”

“Stop!” You sobbed whilst clawing at his chest and kicking at his legs. “Don’t kill me!”

Not a second passed before Yoongi flew off of you, throwing his back to your wall with a loud thud while he cursed lowly.

You scrambled to the headboard of your bed, pressing your back against it in an attempt to gain some distance between the two of you. Your eyes were wide, chest heaving with your breath short, as you looked at the man in front of you.

“I-“ Yoongi stuttered for the first time in decades. “I’m sorry.”

“Your eyes!” Your burst out. You were unable to contain your fear and shock, so you displaced it into your curiosity. “Y-your- Your face! Your teeth!”

Yoongi stood against the wall, breathing just as hard as you, with his eyes cast to the floor in the process of trying to control his facial features. He could no longer kill you. The thought revolted him- every time he considered drinking your blood, the idea was banished from his mind with a sense of nausea following. Good god. She is unaware of her ability yet I am completely at her mercy.

“I apologize. I couldn’t help myself.” He breathed. What Yoongi forgot to take into account was the fact that he began implementing the gift of his second life on you the moment he stepped foot through your threshold, so your mind was completely scrambled by this point.

It was nighttime now; he could not leave your house no matter how hard he tried. He knew of the fallacy that vampires needed to be invited in and he found himself giggling from time to time at how close humans got to the actual lore of his kind.

He could enter your house, uninvited, during the day. He could lurk every corner of your abode without a bother, yet when night fell and the sun finally set, he would be stuck inside until morning. He knew he would be staying the night in your house the moment he agreed to have dinner with you. If he attempted to enter through your door during the night, however, he would have no luck- the night’s protection would convince his brain to walk away from your home without any further reconsideration until he was a good distance from it.

He was in the first position now.

He wished that he could leave you and disappear from your life without a trace so that you could live a peaceful and happy life without him, but he was afraid that it was impossible now with sundown a mere two hours prior. Your powers were no match for the natural protection of the earth. The both of you had a long night ahead of yourselves.

So he used his ability. Yoongi gave you control- rational thought, rather. His gift allowed him to grant organization of the mind and precise focus to others, but he could also take it away.

Upon entering your home, he began the process of slowly but surely ebbing away your barriers and logical thought- he couldn’t do it too fast or else you would panic like you were now. With a presently impossible-to-kill human whose heart was beating out of her chest and a command to not kill you forcing him into submission, he was obligated to prevent you from having a heart attack that was caused by him.

With laser-like focus, he channeled his gift straight into your open mind. Yoongi rebuilt the walls he had previously broken down over the past few hours, restocked your jumbled thoughts into their proper spaces, and flowed his energy through each corridor of judicious conception so that you could continue to develop your focus into that of supernatural proportion. He hoped that you, with a new mind, would tell him to get away from you and to kill himself. Dying by the hands of such a robust ability wouldn’t be too bad of a way to go.

You, however, never had such a decisive mind. Your mind was never clearer and you had never felt such clarity in your thoughts before. It allowed you to feel the magnetism that he radiated.

You knew he was a vampire. You don’t remember how you knew or how you recognized it, but you knew that he was not the first of his kind you had come across. Maybe it was the obvious fangs that gave it away.

“Yoongi,” You whispered. “You’re a vampire.”

His eyes, now back to their normal gorgeously coffee-bean shade, flicked up to yours in surprise.

“You know what I am?” He spluttered, flabbergasted. “You don’t think I’m a demon? Or the devil?”

“I’m not stupid. I know a vampire when I see one.” Your tone did not waver nor shake despite being a potential victim to a vampire. Was it the adrenaline?

“Then you know that I am a danger to you.” He said lowly, shock still evident on his face, while he began gravitating towards your bedroom door to leave.

“No. Stay.” You found yourself pining for his presence while he froze up in his spot. You eyed the action analytically. “If you were a danger to me, I wouldn’t be alive right now. You had plenty opportunity to kill me.”

“That’s the thing,” His hands pressed to the wall and scratched into it with the effort to move further from you. “I don’t have much of a choice anymore.”

“And why is that?” You relaxed your body and slowly slid your way across the bed towards him.

“Because I can’t.” Yoongi actually gasped for air as you stood from your bed to slowly approach him. “Y/N. Don’t come near me.”

“Why don’t you have a choice?” You ignored his warning, fully aware of the risk you were taking yet uncaring of the consequences. You were too focused on the fact that you actually wanted him.

Yoongi could not move from his spot, a side effect of your command to stay, but he refused to meet your eyes. The irresistible scent of your blood clashing with the order to not kill you fucked with his mind in ways he never experienced, creating an excruciatingly splitting headache between his temples. He wanted to drink from you so bad yet he could not move a single muscle.

“You can tell me to do anything. You can tell me to stay away from you. You can tell me to leave you alone. Hell, you can tell me to kill myself and I’d do it.” He ground out, attempting to press his back further into the wall as he felt your body heat against his skin. You came too close. He could smell your hormones lacing through your blood, triggering a wash of his shi over his dry tongue and a yearning to tear you apart overriding his senses.

He wanted to sink his fangs into your flesh so badly that he was beginning to scare himself. Allowing his venom to seep into your system would undoubtedly send you into ecstasy; you would only feel a pinch of pain as his saliva instantly burned through your nerves and set them alight. He could kill you while you were in pleasure; you wouldn’t feel anything but bliss as he drained the life from you.

“And why do you, a powerful creature such as yourself, allow me to have this power over you?” You asked. Was he in love with you? You definitely could love the man with how much you felt drawn to him but, for crying out loud, it had only been a few weeks.

“I don’t allow it. You are a gifted human. You possess this power over me.” Although Yoongi enjoyed having a calm conversation with you, he couldn’t help but feel bad that he used his gift on you. It was almost an unfair playing card- a “get-out-of-jail” card.

Because you should be running, terrified and screaming, even with his ability active in your mind. Maybe he had used it too much? Yoongi recalled the one time he went overboard with his gift, driving a man to suicide as he focused too much on the meaning of life and the regretful things he had done. Immediately concerned, Yoongi reached out a mental tether- a rare talent amongst his kind- to gauge your stability.

What he found, instead, was a dark and curling line attaching to his, pulling it in as quickly as Yoongi offered it. Before he could reel back away from it, it was fully intertwined and pulling his line to attach to you, only to rear back and completely obliterate his senses when it entered his head.

No. No no no. It’s impossible.

Yoongi was moving forward and caging you against the bed at full speed before he could stop himself, nestling his body between your eagerly opening legs as a hiss escaped his lips. Immediately, he realized that he broke through your command unwavered. The thirst came back at full force when you moaned from the friction on your heat.

“You’re-“ He tested the sensation of true, sexual arousal with a slow grind of himself into you, gasping with a jerk of his dick when his action squeezed his member between his body and yours. “You’re my-“

You moaned again, sitting up slightly to try and capture his lips with your own, unable to control the desire that surmounted in your heart. When he resumed his look of shock, backing away from your advance so that he could look at where your bodies touched, you spoke through the heady emotion. “I’m your what?”

“It can’t be.” He whispered. After a single beat, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours with a crushing pressure that split your lip instantly.

The pain seared across your bottom lip and distracted you for a moment, emitting a groan deep in your throat that he matched when the taste of your blood exploded onto his tastebuds. Instead of swallowing it like he wanted to, he brought a hand to your chin and opened your lips to spit your blood, along with his venom, back into your mouth so that it would take your pain away.

For a moment, you held the mix of liquids on your tongue, unsure of what to do as no one had ever spit in your mouth before. You looked up to him with confusion extremely evident in your arched brows.

“Swallow it.” He growled.

The taste of iron and an almost sugary sweet tang of saliva was too strong for you to keep sitting on your tongue, so you did as he told you to before he kissed you again to repeat the same action. Slowly, you got into the rhythm of swallowing what he gave you.

Before long, he simply gave you his tongue, allowing you to suck the saliva from his mouth greedily. You didn’t understand why, but the taste was addicting and adding to the pulsing feeling that radiated between your legs. Were you getting lightheaded? No. This sensation was much more blissful and exciting.

He pulled away after sucking on your wounded lip once more, spitting the mixture into your awaiting mouth for a final time before sitting up to look down at your body.

His venom was already taking effect. He could smell it on your skin as it flowed through your veins and filled your system just like a virus would. It would be simple to turn you at this point. You would be his for eternity, bonded to him in ways only the Fated One of a vampire would. Yoongi shook the thought from his head as he wasn’t even sure that you were, indeed, his.

“What am I to you?” You asked genuinely, swollen lip slightly obstructing your speech.

“Don’t worry about that right now, Y/N. Right now, I am going to fuck you, okay?” He met your gaze with his dark eyes filled with confidence, knowing that you would be unable to deny him if his belief was true.

“Yes. Yes, please Yoongi.” You breathed, begging him almost drunkenly. “Please. I’m yours.”

His mind was nudged forward by a different force this time, warranting unknown instincts to play into action.

He felt his center of gravity shift. His skin grew tight and uncomfortable around his body from the emotion that wished to burst through the surface. He breathed with you. Perfectly aligned were your rhythms; his heart soared alongside your own galloping one, desperate to match you in every aspect. The sensations in his body were difficult to ignore as he felt the ancient and sacred pull of a bond lacing itself through his limbs.

Instead of pondering over the reality of it any further, he slid his hand from your chin to your shirt and pinched the fabric between his fingers. You nodded in reassurance.

Your clothes tore form your body like paper. Wrapping his fingers around your arm to keep your body in place, Yoongi ripped your thin blouse from you easily. Your breasts, made plump by the bra you wore, caught his attention the moment they were revealed. Perfect.

Instead of looking like a moron seeing exquisite breasts for the first time, he moved his hand to your dress pants so that he could rid your body of them. In under ten seconds, Yoongi had you almost bare below him. Perfect.

Not even realizing it until you brought your thumb to his lips to swipe his shi from the corner of his mouth, Yoongi shook his head at the fact that the sight of you wriggling and bare-skinned beneath him made him literally drool, but his instincts went haywire when he watched you place your thumb in your mouth to suck his venom off yourself with a low moan of appreciation at the taste.

Yoongi’s hands couldn’t move faster as he tore the clothes from his body, stripping himself bare to reveal himself to you. He wanted to give you everything. To open his mind and spread everything out for you to see- he hoped you could handle it.

You, on the other hand, were laying below him with the desperate need to have him inside you.

You wanted him everywhere. You wanted him to sink himself into you- it seemed to be the only fathomable option. You wanted him to hold you and kiss you and surround you with everything him.

As you stared up at him with a needy look in your eyes, you couldn’t help but want him in every facet possible.

You saw yourself making love to him, holding him, kissing him- loving him. The new sensation brought on you by the psychic connection- that was all you could call it when you felt the mental attachment- brung passionate emotions through your body in an onslaught that you could barely handle. It was too much to deal with without him inside you to be with you through it yet you didn’t know if you could handle what would follow.

Yoongi could smell you through your panties; a delicious scent of the most raw tease he had ever allowed himself to indulge in. Unable to help himself, he moved down your body quickly, throwing your legs open- rather roughly- to give himself room to press his nose straight into your heat. Your aroma filled his nose as he expanded his lungs, triggering his natural instincts to push out his fangs and load his vision with blood to enhance it despite his eyes being closed. Fuck, he wanted to consume you.

You keened at the contact, closing your thighs around his head to trap him there. You felt his groan vibrate on you, driving you closer to the brink of insanity.

Without any further time wasted, he grabbed onto your panties and ripped them from you to expose your pulsating pussy to his mouth without moving his nose away from your intoxicating scent. Not a beat passed before he dug his tongue into you to scoop up your DNA-laced juices. Fuck.

Yoongi lost himself in you immediately. You whined out a small cry, unable to keep yourself from grabbing onto his hair and yanking when all you felt were his lips and tongue laving over your opening relentlessly. There was no skill nor technique in his movements; he was simply devouring you without a mind to pay attention to your bundle, yet you couldn’t stop the sensitivity from boggling your mind and driving you to an instant orgasm.

His hands squeezed your thighs around his head and, for a brief moment, he opened his eyes to look at you. The color of his eyes staring back at you was unexpected- a solid, snow white color filled his orbs and contrasted starkly with the red hue of his engorged veins and bloodshot scleras.

“Yoongi,” You whimpered from another swipe of his tongue and suck from his lips. “Y-Your eyes.”

He pulled away from you instantly at the comment, eyes widening and wet mouth hanging agape, while you let out a groan of relief- or sadness- at the lack of attention to your incredibly sensitive core.

“What color are they?” He asked.

“White.” You struggled to speak, voice cracking under the post-orgasm glow.

He took a moment to look down at your heaving body and messy pussy, jerking forward slightly at the sight of your delicious juice smeared all over your thighs. Once he had a handle on his thirst again, Yoongi met your eyes as the white faded from his irises. “Then you are her.”

“I’m who?” You reached for him, needing to hold him anywhere you could get your hands on. Yoongi caught this action immediately, the same desire to grasp you evident in his hand rushing to meet yours. It was natural to intertwine your fingers while he leaned over you to press his lips to yours in a short, uncharacteristically loving kiss.

“You are my Fated One- my mate. You hold my soul in the palm of your hand, as I do yours.” He murmured, feathering his lips over yours as he spoke.

Under normal circumstances, you don’t think you’d be able to comprehend his words with your current position with him. You were exposed to him and he was exposed to you, making you feel vulnerable and turned on beyond belief. Yoongi was reaching behind you to unclasp your bra while you took in what he had said. His thumb was brushing over your bare nipple before your bra even hit the floor.

“So-” You had to clear your throat again. “So you’re mine? Like, completely?”

He chuckled warmly at your question and you couldn’t stop yourself from reciprocating the smile.

“Yes, Y/N, I am yours.” He brought his hand down to grip your thigh and move it to the side. “I belong to you.”

Yoongi placed his dick against your folds and you watched him so do. You felt his tip capture onto your clit several times as he lathered it with your arousal languidly, preparing himself so that he could slide into you easier. “However,”

“However?” You looked up at him with a questioning look accentuated by your eyebrows.

“You are also mine.” Yoongi stopped his movement so that the head of his cock finally caught onto your opening, kickstarting your heart into a pace that you were afraid would kill you. “Do you understand that?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

Torturously, he began to push inside you. You widened your legs to accompany his approaching hips. As you warbled out a cry when he decided to drop his control and fill you completely in the next second, Yoongi began speaking again.

“Do you understand that everything about you,” He reared back and pushed inside you again, forcing your legs open to take him while he did so. “-is mine?”

You couldn’t respond. Your emotions were running rampant with your mind overflowing from too much stimuli while he fucked you. He spoke again without your reply and you could only pull him closer to you and take the feeling of his cock caressing your insides.

“Your lips,” Thrust. “your eyes,” Thrust. “your hair, your hands, your skin;” He punctuated each part of your body with a ram of his dick into you. “Everything, Y/N.”

Yoongi took a moment to look down at your joining bodies, smirking softly at the sight of how easily he slid inside. “-Especially this greedy little cunt of yours.”

You watched his smirk drop while he bit his lip and ground himself into you, lips parting again with a low moan whilst keeping his gaze transfixed on the sinful sight. You watched him in awe as his cock plunged so deep that it felt like it was in your throat.

He snapped his eyes to yours quickly, repeating his prior question. “Do you understand?”

Expecting to be interrupted by a thrust, you sucked your bottom lip in your mouth and braced yourself, only to be grabbed by the neck while he leaned down to bring you face-to-face. You could no longer breathe as he pulled his lips back to reveal his fangs. “I asked you if you understood, Y/N.”

With your airway restricted, you could only nod with your lip still stuck between your teeth. Did you taste blood? Promptly, you remembered that Yoongi busted your lip, yet you were confused as to why you hadn’t felt the pain of it since he first kissed you.

“And are you okay with that?” Yoongi began to nose his way down your neck once he turned your head to the side and slowed the rhythm of his hips. Right before you could answer, he released your neck to look at your face, allowing a large rush of air to enter your lungs just as you were attempting to give him an answer.

“Yes!” You released your lip to scream out at the welcome sensation of oxygen and the feel of his dick pushing it right back out of you. “I’m yours! Everything is yours!”

“Good, my love. Good.” He whispered, smiling down at you. His smile was wiped clean off his face in a heartbeat, his thrusts into you completely ceased, as he zeroed in on your lips. You licked them subconsciously, immediately tasting blood and internally cringing at the flavor of iron coating your tongue.

Yoongi attached his lips around your bottom one quickly and you felt him suck it into his mouth. Your walls squeezed tightly around his at the sensation of his tongue swiping over the spli in your engorged lip again and again. You knew that your lip would be swollen yet you couldn’t find yourself to care because it, surprisingly, didn’t hurt at all. The small bits of Yoongi’s saliva that slipped into your mouth were enough to keep you on edge, tasting like raw sugar at that point.

He began moving inside you again, starting a slow and steady pace. You whimpered into his mouth as he began taking his fill of your blood and you mirrored his thirst with the need to taste his mouth again. Your lips pressed closer to his in order to, hopefully, get a bit more of his spit.

You felt your orgasm building laggardly. It was creeping in at a speed that you were able to prepare yourself for your ascent towards ecstasy. You tightened your legs around his waist and dug your heels into the globes of his ass, pulling him in.

It wasn’t until you were bordering on your climax that Yoongi pulled away from your lip with your pop and sat up to focus on fucking you, his peace of mind obviously waning.

You saw it in his face; you saw the way he couldn’t control his veins from darkening his face; you saw the way his eyes burned white and the way he was attempting to hold himself back from attacking you.

So you did him a favor.

“Yoongi.” You mumbled past your swollen lip. “Bite me.”

Min Yoongi had no option but to obey your command.

He surged forward, pressing himself against your clit deliciously and bottoming out as he lunged for your neck with his fangs fully protruded and a warbled hiss scratching its way out of his throat. With barely enough time to prepare, you bared your neck to him once more and clutched onto his arms for dear life, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too bad.

What you weren’t expecting was for it to feel unreservedly good.

The sensation took you by surprise, warranting a loud moan to escape from your lips before you could stop it. Why did his fangs feel so good in your flesh? It should definitely be hurting. But all you could do was moan and whine like a madwoman as you felt his lips close over the puncture wounds and begin to drink your blood straight from your flesh. His tongue continuously swiped over the teeth marks in your neck, keeping them clear from your body’s natural ability to scar itself and begin blocking the escaping blood. Every lick he delivered sent a pulse straight to your clit and an automatic instinct to tighten yourself around him.

Your pussy quivered around him uncontrollably. You were so close to cumming that you could practically taste the release on your tongue. In the few moments that Yoongi took his sips from your body, his slow propulsions forward into you had become more rough and insistent- as if he was trying to split you in two. Even as you felt your life essence leave your body, you were being filled time and time again by his cock at a deep and passionate rhythm.

At the first sign of getting lightheaded from blood loss, you came- hard.

Your juices squirted around him every time he reared himself back and your eyes rolled to the back of your head while you craned your neck back into your very-bloody pillow. With no where to go, unable to still him with his supernatural strength, you were only able scream out his name.

His speed increased through your orgasm and your sweet exclamations of pure bliss drove Yoongi into a lunatic, freeing himself of control and using his uncanny speed to fuck into you. Your extremely drenched pussy, still convulsing around him was battered and raw, yet he could not find it in himself to care as he desperately surged into you over and over again so that he could fill you with the cum of several centuries. Picturing the image of your cunt spewing his release from it had him closing his jaws and pulling on your wounds harder to get more blood from you.

He knew that he couldn’t drain you. Hearing the pulse of your heart weaken slightly was enough to make him detach his teeth and lick over your wound so that his shi could assist it in healing- it would be completely sealed and unblemished in the next few hours. Instead of worrying too much about your neck, he reared back to look down at you again while he grabbed onto your hips with fervor.

You saw the drops of blood running down from Yoongi’s mouth and chin drip onto your breasts and stomach, creating an erotic and utterly unwholesome image of carnage and horror on your body, but you were unable to help yourself in feeling unsettlingly drawn to the wicked image. With a new flash of desire exploding through your body and reawakening your lust, you reached up and grabbed his neck, pulling him back down to trap him in your embrace.

The oversensitivity of your last orgasm was enough to send you hurtling to the edge of another orgasm- You just needed his fangs in you one more time. Silently begging for it, you kept your grip on his nape and softly nudged him back in the direction of your neck.

Yoongi was close. You could tell. But even past his stupor, he spoke.

“Y/N. I can’t. I took too much.” He almost whined with need, struggling to form words past his fangs.

“Just-“ Your body jolted wildly as he desperately tried to cum. “Just do it!”

Yoongi was able to deny your command, which he figured was due to not being a specific one, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave it unanswered as his body built in preparation to release.

“I fucking can’t!” He was close to roaring at this point, gums aching to meet your flesh as he pressed his fangs into you and filled you with his essence. He wanted to so badly.

“Drink from me, dammit!” Your eyes were welling with tears of frustration, needing that small push from him to make you orgasm again- his dick hammering your cervix was too much to handle without that small bit of pain to ground you. And without hesitation nor the choice to deny you, he did.

Your orgasms were perfectly in sync as he placed his fangs back into your wounds, delicious blood spilling across his tongue once again. Liquid life. It was the perfect few words for how you tasted.

Your pussy ached with the force of how tight you squeezed around him and Yoongi groaned lowly against your neck as he pressed himself so tightly to you that you knew his hands would be leaving bruises on your hips and ass.

“Yoongi.” You sobbed as his cum filled you, pulsing spurt after warm spurt of the hot liquid onto your abused cervix. The thought of him taking your blood while he gave you his cum was too sinful for you to bear, an outburst of emotion causing you to chant his name over and over again. Never before in your life had you felt so complete and free.

You could feel your blood levels draining as you slowly came down from your climax, knowing that you would not be awake for much longer if he kept drinking.

“That’s enough.” You whispered tiredly, head becoming truly lightheaded. Yoongi, unable to rescind his teeth from your neck, kept drinking from you as the thirst and aggression of the first mating actuated his movements. “Yoongi.”

He tried to pull away- he really did- but the feeling of your blood coating his tastebuds was like finding a quarry in the middle of the Sahara Desert. He lacked the true thirst for humans for thousands of years- and now he was suffering the polydipsia for blood all over again.

“Yoongi, stop.” You commanded, testing your supposed ‘power.’

Yoongi ceased to drink from you yet his fangs were still embedded in your skin, vibrating with pleasure and need. As he stopped, he couldn’t help but whine and then growl savagely with want. The vibration of of his throaty sound in your flesh did things to your body. Unable to resist the temptation, your body clenched involuntarily around his softening cock.

Yoongi groaned again, retracting his fangs and face from your neck, and sat up once more to look at your body. With a slow hand, he stuck out his index and middle finger to smear the droplets of blood on your stomach in small circles aimlessly, picturing you as a canvas made just for him to ruin. “You’re quite the minx, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” You giggled deliriously, needing sleep as soon as possible.

“I mean,” Yoongi reached down to smear a droplet of blood across your hip before digging his thumb and fingers into the bone and the flesh of your ass harshly. “Your cunt is playing games with me right now.”

“How so?” You tilted your head to the side in mock confusion.

The vampire pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed almost disdainfully. You gasped as you felt his dick jerk within you, filling to stiffness once more and awakening a new cloud of lust despite the exhaustion you felt. “Well, if you want to play clueless, you can play clueless. We have eternity to teach you how to not play games with me, my mate.”

For eternity? You kind of liked the sound of that.

~#~

If you’d like to read more of my work, feel free to check out my Series Masterlist! If you’d like to read my first fic, check out the DHYB Masterlist!

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allisondraste · 3 years

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Announcing: Ambivalence

It has been exactly one year to the day since I published the final chapter of my Nathaniel Howe/F!Cousland long-fic, Temperance, and I could not think of a better time to unveil it’s first sequel, which I have had on the back-burner while I took a much-needed hiatus from writing.

This will be a far briefer story than it’s predecessor, but tells an important part of Nate and Liss’ story.

I hope you all enjoy!

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe x Female Cousland

Story Summary: It has been just over a year since Nathaniel Howe and Elissa Cousland were reunited, childhood friendship forged into a love that endured a decade apart. However, every love is tested at some point. Presented with circumstances that could either make or break their relationship, Nate and Liss are no different.

[AO3 Link]

Chapter 1: Pity and Pride

Chapter Summary: It is no secret that there is trouble in paradise, and Nathaniel is quickly becoming tired of his friends’ concern.

Vigil’s Keep, Solace 9:33 Dragon

Sunlight poured into the room, undeterred by curtains carelessly drawn open the night before, forming a halo around the woman who lay next to him with bare limbs draped comfortably across his body. It was rare that he awoke before her, rarer still to catch a glimpse of her sleeping peacefully, features unmarred by the nightmares that so often plagued her rest. It was difficult to fret over their privacy when the uncovered window painted such a beautiful portrait. How many years had he longed for moments such as this, fleeting and perfect, always just out of his reach?

And now Liss was there, snoring softly and tangled in bedsheets. Unable to quell the urge to touch her, to make sure she was real, he reached forward and brushed a lock of hair from her face before allowing his fingertips to settle on her cheek. She stirred, thick brows pressing together as her eyes flickered open, rich, brown, and sparkling with a groggy smile.

“Good morning, Nate,” she said quietly, voice hoarse as she shifted beneath the sheets and brought her hand up to cover his, an intricate ring glittering on her finger.

“My love,” he whispered, allowing his eyes to blink closed just briefly.

Then, he awoke.

Nathaniel sighed as his eyes opened, not to a lovely sun-soaked room in Antiva, but rather to his own tomb-like quarters in Vigil’s Keep, with nothing but low-burning sconces illuminating the depressing stone walls and floors. It was too cold, and he rolled over to be closer to the warmth of his bed partner, stretching out an arm to drape across her.

However, his arm fell only against a mound of blankets, his dreams having played a cruel trick on him once again. This was not the first time in recent days that he’d woken up to find his bed empty, the woman who had lain with him the night before gone without a trace other than the turned back sheets and coverlet on her side of the bed. In fact, it seemed that he woke up alone more often than not.

“Liss,” he asked the empty room, as if it could summon her for him, as if he did not know she was already up and running about the Keep pretending that everything was fine.

When the room did not answer him, he sighed and sat up begrudgingly, shivering as the chilly air met his bare skin, and slid out of bed. Without any windows, discerning the hour proved difficult, yet he figured it was past time that he got ready and behaved as an acting Warden-Constable anyway.

In peace, vigilance , and all of that.

A rustling from his closet drew him from his thoughts and his head darted toward the direction of the noise out of instinct. Cautiously, he made his way over to the door and placed an ear up against it, hoping to get a better idea of what lay inside.

Meow .

Nathaniel sighed and shook his head as he opened the door, glancing down to a pair of bright green eyes examining him. Ser Pounce-A-Lot was a ridiculous name for a creature who only ever snuck about and examined the world with cold calculation, pouncing very little, if at all.

“This,” he grumbled, stepping out of the animal’s way, “Is how curiosity kills your kind . ”

The cat tilted his head in an almost unnatural way before mewing again and sauntering forward, snaking himself around Nathaniel’s leg and purring gratuitously for several long moments.

“You are keeping me from my duties, Your Lordship ,” Nathaniel said, glaring down at Ser Pounce, who appeared wholly undeterred, before stopping, blinking up at him, and then chomping down on the back of his heel. He hissed in pain and pulled away reflexively.

Reaching down to give the cat a scratch behind the ears, Nathaniel said,“Perhaps you were meant to be a war beast after all.”

Ser Pounce nuzzled into his hand, gave a final meow, and pranced out of the room as if nothing had transpired. He wondered how he had ended up caring for the damnable creature in the first place. Then again, it was not as if Anders had been in any sort of condition to care for a pet when he fled the Keep, nor was Nathaniel certain Justice would have allowed him to. He shook his head free of the disappointing, bitter memories of his friends. He had more pressing matters to attend.

It took him little time to dress himself in his Warden attire. The days had been short and peaceful since The Mother and her spawn were destroyed, yet he preferred to dress the part of a Grey Warden, armed and prepared for an attack at any moment. In the aftermath of Loghain’s slanderous campaign against them, and with the decision to allow Amaranthine to fall looming over their heads, the Wardens had ample other enemies now, enemies that the Darkspawn threat had once held at bay. Anything could happen.

Appropriately equipped, Nathaniel straightened his posture and stepped out into the hallway.

It was an odd experience to reside in his childhood home, yet on an entirely different floor and wing. When Delilah assumed control of the arling, she had kindly offered that he keep his old room, as part of the Howe family. He promptly declined, having no fond feelings for the room to which he’d been unfairly banished more times than he could count. Besides, he preferred to stay with the other Wardens, his new family.

Nathaniel made his way through several dark corridors and down multiple flights of stairs, feet guided more by muscle memory than sight, until he’d reached the ground floor. He couldn’t say for certain he would find Liss in the great hall, but it was as good of a place as any to start.

The largest room in Vigil’s Keep, was the only room with any semblance of warmth. One of the longest-standing, impregnable fortresses in Ferelden had no use for stained glass windows, open courtyards, or natural lighting of any kind. His father had always declared that it was called a keep and not a castle for a reason, an underhanded criticism of the things Nathaniel pretended not to love about Castle Cousland when he was a child.

He scanned the space before him, nearly vacant with the exception of pages and scouts milling about waiting to be assigned tasks. He thought to approach one of them to ask if they’d seen Liss, but thought better of it. They likely had no idea who she was or what she looked like, and they no doubt had better things to do than participate in this unnecessary game of hide-and-seek.

“Morning, Nathaniel,” called a voice off to his side, a voice he did not particularly wish to hear at present. He turned to see Alistair standing several feet away, wearing that lopsided, cheerful grin that usually occupied his face. The younger man had thickened up slightly since they’d first met over a year prior, an effect of safety, security, and not carrying the weight of a Blight on his back. He looked healthy and happy, and Nathaniel envied his ability to bounce back.

“Morning, Alistair” Nathaniel replied dryly. He paused, eyes darting around the room in another cursory sweep before returning to the other man. “Have you seen Liss, by any chance?”

Alistair flinched at the question. “You mean, you haven’t seen her this morning?”

“No.”

“Damn...” he shifted his weight, laughing nervously and bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his head, “I, um.. I haven’t seen her either.”

“Wonderful,” Nathaniel muttered, shaking his head.

“Listen, you know how she is,” Alistair said, placing a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder in what was undoubtedly an attempt at reassurance, a gesture of pity. “She probably just got one of those wild hairs of hers, ran off to the library in the middle of the night, and is now passed out under a pile of books. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

Nathaniel blinked at him several times, then looked down to glare at the hand that was resting on his shoulder. “Uh…huh.”

The other man withdrew his hand awkwardly, frowning. “Sorry,” he remarked pointedly, holding his hands up in defeat, “Remind me to wait until you’ve woken up properly next time I decide to show you basic human decency.”

Nathaniel deflated at Alistair’s words. “No, I apologize. I am just a bit tense as of late.”

“Yeah.” Alistair looked down at the floor and kicked at the stone with the toe of his boot before looking back up. “I know. For what it’s worth, if I was in your shoes I’d… I don’t know what I’d do. Probably fling myself into the nearest body of water.”

Nathaniel snorted derisively. “Thanks.”

“That sounded bad didn’t it? What I meant is--”

“I know what you meant.”

“Right.” Alistair let out a nervous laugh and shook his head. “I’m going to stop talking now, before I put my other foot in my mouth.”

Nathaniel offered him a hint of a smirk to indicate that there had been no real harm done, then teased, “I believe that is a wise decision.”

Alistair smiled in return and nodded. “Anyway, I was actually meant to inform you that the commander would like to speak with you. She’s in her study right now.”

“I shall see her at once.”

“And if I run into our Dear Lady Cousland, I will tell her you were looking for her.”

“Please, do.”

Concluding his conversation with Alistair, Nathaniel headed immediately toward the corridor that led back to the commander’s study, the room that had previously belonged to his father’s portraits and trophies. As a child, he’d spent many hours hiding away in that damned room, dreaming himself up a better father than Rendon would ever be. He was grateful Lucia now occupied the space, her solemn kindness and humility painting over the history that had once lived there, and he hoped that with time, she would eliminate his father’s stain completely.

The large wooden door was left slightly ajar, a small band of lamplight leaking out into the hallway. He still stopped and decided to knock, rather than just entering as others would have. Despite her open-door policy, he refused to startle her without need. Three quick raps, and he waited for her response.

“You can come in, Nathaniel,” she called just loud enough for him to hear her.

He pushed the door open and entered, laughing. “How did you know it was me?”

Lucia looked up at him with a hint of a smile. “You’re the only person I know who knocks when the door is open.”

“Right,” he replied, pressing the door closed behind him.

The young woman he called his friend and commanding officer stood bent over her desk, despite a perfectly adequate chair sitting just behind her. She propped herself up with one hand flat on the surface of the desk, as she thumbed through pages of some antiquated tome with the other. Though her long, dark hair was styled in a low ponytail, it still fell down and cast a shadow over her face. Surrounding her were stacks of other old texts and scrolls.

Lucia had been rather consumed by research as of late. An unassuming journal had found its way into her hands, one with writings that had been identified as Warden-Commander Duncan’s. In it, he had documented an encounter with their very own Architect. She hoped the record would provide them with some valuable information about the unsettling creature, and it had. But it had also made mentions of an unnamed Grey Warden, a mage, who was freed from her calling, tainted blood healed and unable to be re-joined.

Ever since, Lucia had been pouring over Grey Warden lore and history and manuscripts about obscure magics, no doubt searching for something they all wanted deep down: A cure. As honorable as membership in the order sounded, the same power that granted them their Blight-stopping capabilities became an unbearable curse in peaceful times, each moment that passed one breath closer to The Calling. The commander was so young, and he understood her newfound compulsion to find a solution. She was not the only one struggling to cope with the reality of a Grey Warden’s fate.

“You asked to speak to me,” he stated tentatively, almost as a question.

Lucia’s gaze darted up to him, and she straightened her posture. “Yes, I did.”

“And?”

She walked around her desk to stand in front of him, piercing eyes searching his face for an answer to a question she had yet to ask. “How are you holding up?”

A twinge of irritation sparked through him. “Holding up?”

“Perhaps it is presumptuous of me to say as your commanding officer, but we are also friends, and as your friend I feel obligated to point out that things with Elissa have been a bit… tense since you two returned from Highever.”

“That is presumptuous,” Nathaniel replied through his teeth, “Even as my friend.”

Lucia stood, unfazed and blinking. “You can be annoyed with my concern if you wish, but that won’t make it go away.”

“Your concern is wasted.” His words were clipped, and he crossed his arms. “I am fine.”

“Nate,” she urged him, dropping her typical formality and reaching forward to place a hand on his arm, a gesture of which he was quickly tiring. Still, they were friends, and he wondered if it might give him some clarity to discuss the matter with the woman.

He opened his mouth, prepared to provide a more honest answer, but clamped it shut as a knock rang out on the door behind him. He released the breath he’d been holding, never more grateful for an interruption.

“Who’s there,” Lucia asked.

“It’s Liss. I just spoke with Alistair, and he said you wanted to see me.”

Nathaniel glared at Lucia waiting for an explanation that she did not provide. Instead, she released his arm and moved to sit down in the chair at her desk. “You can come in.”

The door creaked open slowly, and Nathaniel turned to see Liss. She froze in the doorway when their eyes met, wincing as if his presence had inflicted physical pain. Then she blinked suspiciously between him and the commander before flashing a smile and bouncing into the room. ”

“Good morning, Lucia,” she announced cheerfully, as she moved to stand beside Nathaniel, giving him a confusing, playful nudge with her elbow. ”Hey Nate.”

“Now that you’re both here,” Lucia began formally, “I have an assignment for you two.”

“Oh?” Liss perked up, and fidgeted excitedly.

“Some sort of Warden business, I presume,” Nathaniel asked, making every effort to hide both his discomfort and his relief.

“Yes. ” Lucia nodded. “As you know, a new Junior Warden was transferred to us from the Warden Fortress at Montsimmard last week.”

“The woman from Kirkwall?”

“Her name’s Bethany,” Liss corrected with a quick laugh, “I met her in passing near the baths. She didn’t seem too keen on having a conversation with me at the time.”

“Warden Bethany has been through quite an ordeal in the past six months,” Lucia explained, “She is an apostate who was living as a refugee in Kirkwall with her family after they fled Lothering during the Blight. She was Joined by a contingent of Orlesian Wardens after an encounter with darkspawn in the Deep Roads.”

Nathaniel frowned and brought his hand to his chin. “The Deep Roads? What was she doing in the Deep Roads?”

“It seems pretty fortunate that she would have stumbled into a group of Grey Wardens, too,” Liss chimed in.

“It had nothing to do with fortune,” Lucia continued, words stern and direct. She stood up, clenching her fists at her sides. “Bethany and her older sister were part of an expedition into the Deep Roads to search for artifacts and treasure, accompanied by one of our own, who provided them with confidential Warden maps to help them navigate.”

The palpable vitriol from Lucia meant one thing, and one thing only.

“Anders,” Nathaniel asked.

“Yes,” she responded defeatedly, “According to Bethany he’s been living in Kirkwall ever since he deserted, running some sort of healing clinic. He is the reason they were able to find the other Wardens.”

“Wow,” Liss remarked, “That all seems uncharacteristically noble of him.”

“Uncharacteristic of Anders, perhaps,” Nathaniel stated, “But not of Justice.”

“Right.” Lucia’s gaze was fixed on the ground, deep in thought. She looked up at them before sighing and speaking again, “As unorthodox as it may seem to assign a mission based upon personal feelings, I believe my reasoning is sound. Anders is still a Grey Warden, one who I conscripted, which makes him my responsibility. I would like for you two, along with Bethany, to travel to Kirkwall and pay him a visit. ”

“And do what exactly,” he asked, annoyed by what felt like a waste of time, “Drag him back to the Keep by his collar?”

“That would be a sight.” Liss chuckled at his side and he rolled his eyes. “Ten silvers he sets your little chin hairs on fire.”

“He would have to catch me first. Twelve silvers.”

She smiled and winked at him. “It’s a bet.”

“If I am being completely honest about my intentions, I just want you to check in on him, “Lucia continued more softly, paying no heed to their irreverence to the task, “Make sure that he is safe and warn him against sharing too many delicate Warden secrets.”

“So this is not “official” Warden business then,” Nathaniel asked.

“I’m not sure the Wardens ever do anything ‘officially,’” Liss stated flatly.

“This is just for my peace of mind,” Lucia answered with a sad smile, “Besides, I thought you two might enjoy some time away together.”

Her investment in their relationship shamed him, causing his face to flush. Lucia had so many other things that she could and should have been fretting over instead. He flicked his eyes over to Liss, wondering if she felt as he did.

She only frowned and shrugged out a reply. “I could use a vacation.”

“Kirkwall is a shithole,” Nathaniel told her frankly, words more pointed than he’d intended,”It won’t exactly be a vacation.”

“Not with that attitude, it won’t be,” she chirped, not missing a beat.

“Will you go,” Lucia asked.

“Of course,” he replied, with a reassuring smile. Liss nodded along with him.

“Thank you both.” Lucia seemed to relax, and sat back slowly into her chair. “You all should prepare to head out to Amaranthine first thing in the morning. I’ve arranged passage for you there.”

Nathaniel nodded in acknowledgement, noticing Liss do the same as she spoke, “Is there anything else you needed, Commander?”

“No,” she shook her head, “You are free to go. Safe travels.”

When he turned to face Liss , she was biting her lip and appeared to be lost in thought, a small wrinkle between her brows. It was ridiculous to ache for someone who slept beside him each night, to miss her. And yet he did. Maker did he miss her. That their companions sensed some sort of tension between them was not inaccurate, and had he been honest with Alistair and Lucia, he would have admitted that things were not “fine.” He just was not ready to broach the topic of what happened in Highever with anyone other than Liss, and she had been all but avoiding any opportunity they had to discuss it for the better part of two weeks.

Shaking himself free of his own thoughts, he nudged Liss with his elbow and held his arm out to her. There was no guarantee that she would accept it, but he would be damned if he did not offer it to her. When she glanced over to him, then down at his arm, and back up to meet his gaze, her face lit up, bright and warm, and relief washed over him. Thank The Maker he could still make her smile.

Without hesitation, she looped her arm through his and blinked up at him expectantly. “Shall we?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. “Of course, my lady.”

Liss had always been adept at filling silences, or at the very least making them comfortable; however, as they left Lucia’s study together, arm-in-arm, an oppressive and awkward quiet fell over them. Nathaniel was no stranger to uncomfortable silences, but to share one with Liss was an entirely new experience. He racked his mind for anything to talk about that would not cause her to withdraw from him, but came up short. Hopefully he would be able to suffer his own discomfort until they made it back to their shared quarters.

“So,” she spoke up suddenly, much to Nathaniel’s relief, “Kirkwall. Just the two of us… and that Bethany person, of course. This’ll be fun.” She held his arm more tightly and let her head fall to rest against his shoulder.

“You really think so,” he asked, amused at her optimism.

She pulled away suddenly to look up at him, a pain he did not intend to inflict buried in her expression. “You don’t?”

“That’s not what I—” he paused, immediately frustrated and attempting to keep his composure— “It wasn’t meant to be serious.”

Liss continued to glare up at him, tears welling in her eyes, and he did not have a shred of an idea how to respond. She had never been a rational person, but this was a bit extreme. He squeezed and released his hands at his side as he fought the urge to reach out to her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she muttered, looking down at the ground, “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just—”

“Liss,” he urged, hoping that she would finally open up to him, give him some clue as to why she kept pushing him away and erecting walls between them that had never been there before.

“Nate,” she whispered, a single tear falling from her lashes and rolling down her cheek.

Without thinking he reached forward to wipe it away with his thumb, allowing his hand to linger on her cheek. Her gaze softened at the touch, and for a moment he thought her defenses might falter, that she might let him in. She brought her hand up to cover his, briefly allowing her eyes to flutter closed. When she opened them again, there was steel in her expression and she grabbed his hand, gently pulling it away from her face. With that, he withdrew his hand completely and stared back at her in disbelief, jaw clenched.

“Talk to me,” he pleaded, voice hushed, “Please.”

“I can’t… do this right now.” She shook her head frantically, emotions barely held beneath the surface. “I’m sorry.”

“This is not something you can run from and hope it disappears, Liss,” he replied tersely, his frustration getting the better of him, “You can’t keep avoiding me.”

“I’m going to get some air,” she snapped, indignant and completely ignoring his remarks, “We can prepare for our journey after I come back.

“Liss, wait—”

“I’ll talk to you later, Nate,” she interrupted as she turned to walk away toward the front door.

They had done this dance too many times for him to be taken aback or even confused. No, the only thing he felt at the moment was exhausted. Countless times since they’d returned, he’d tried to get her to discuss how she was feeling, or to at least listen to how he felt, but she’d consistently found excuses or other ways to escape an actual conversation. It was ridiculous and immature, and he was at a complete and utter loss.

Ego bruised and chest aching, he made his way over to the bench along a nearby wall and sank down, resting his elbows on his knees as his face dropped into the palms of his hands. What was he to do next except give her space and hope that things would be sorted out with time?

His ruminations were cut short as his ears caught the distinct shuffle of footsteps that slowed to a stop as they neared him and a hushed murmur of women’s voices. He could not make out what they were saying, but the voices were familiar, and it was obvious they were attempting discretion and failing miserably.

“You two are not subtle,” he said with a sigh as he looked up to see the elf and dwarf blinking at him sympathetically, a look that had become all too common since he’d returned from Highever. Did people sincerely believe him to be so pitiable? His friends, especially, should have known better.

Velanna glanced between Nathaniel and the empty space beside him on the bench, brow furrowing slightly as she asked, “May I?”

“Be my guest,” he replied motioning to the seat, then letting his head fall to his hands again briefly before sitting up straight and watching as she sat down beside him. Sigrun remained standing, but moved to lean against the wall.

Nathaniel glanced from one to the other several times, noting their heavy silence and persevering looks of pity. He settled on Velanna, whose pinched expression he presently found the most irritating and asked, “Is there something you wished of me? Or do you intend to continue staring at me as if I were a lost puppy?”

“We are not—” Velanna began to retort, words echoing off the walls. She sighed and continued more quietly, “We are simply concerned for you.”

“There is no reason to be concerned for me,” Nathaniel protested, “I am fine.”

“Hah,” Sigrun interjected, laughing, “You don’t think we’re going to buy that, do you?”

“You don’t have to,” he retorted sarcastically, turning to face his other friend, “I am offering it to you for free.”

“Come on, Nate. We’re your friends, and we know better,” she pressed, “Besides, with the way you’ve been moping about the Keep these past two weeks, there are lost puppies I feel less sorry for.”

He bristled at her words, muscles tensing as he clenched his fists. Just as he was about to snap, Velanna’s hand fell on his shoulder and his gaze darted back to her instead.

“ Lethallin ,” she said firmly, a word from her own language. She’d once told him it was a term of endearment for her People, one used to signify the closeness between friends. He relaxed slightly, and she withdrew her hand to rest on her lap. “Was it not you who once told me I needed to stop viewing every expression of sympathy as a personal attack.?”

“That does sound like something I would say.” Nathaniel shook his head, snorted out a laugh, and slouched forward. “I can’t say I expected that to come back and bite me in the arse.”

It was silent for several beats, then he continued, apologizing for what seemed like the thousandth time in just an hour or so. “I am sorry, truly. Everyone is so concerned about me, and I know that I should be appreciative, but... if I am being completely honest, it’s humiliating.”

“That is…” Velanna said, “Understandable.”

Sigrun nodded her agreement. “Definitely.”

“I—” he began to speak again, but was interrupted by the loud bang of a door slamming back against the wall. Several scouts and pages gasped in surprise at the form that entered the hall, battle axe slung effortlessly over his shoulder. “Nevermind,” Nathaniel muttered quickly.

“Never fear, Ol’ Oghren’s back and better than ever,” Oghren shouted at the far end of the hall as the door slammed closed behind him. He appeared to scan the room, perking up when his gaze met Nathaniel’s, and immediately sauntering over to the bench.

Velanna sighed and rolled her eyes as Sigrun straightened up to wave and greet him.“Hey Oghren! How’s the family?”

The dwarf had been away for just over a month visiting with Felsi, and their brood. Ever since the turmoil in Amaranthine had ended, and most of the resulting mess cleared up, he’d been taking intermittent leave to be a more present husband and father. He was certainly rough around every edge, but he was trying to be better, and that was admirable.

“Oh you know, same ol’, same ol’,” he answered jovially, stopping as he stood just a few feet away from the rest of them. He brought one hand up and stroked his elaborately-plaited auburn beard proudly. “Felsi’s expectin’ again.”

“Maker’s Blood, man! Are you intending to father a legion?” Nathaniel exclaimed with a laugh that was cut short by a sudden realization. He squinted at Oghren and continued, “Wait. Congratulations and all, but... how is that even possible?”

Oghren shrugged. “Beats the shit out of me. The Commander told me Grey Wardens weren’t s’posed to be able to… y’know...”

His words trailed off into a low chuckle and he waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a groan of disgust from Velanna. At the same time, a mischievous smirk crossed Sigrun’s face and she tilted her head, crossed her arms and said with faux innocence, “No, Oghren, I actually don’t think we know.”

“Do not encourage him, lethallan ,” Velanna scolded, standing up as if preparing to escape.

To Nathaniel’s surprise, Oghren ignored the opportunity to pop off with an inappropriate joke, and instead looked at him, a hint of a genuine smile sparkling in his eyes, but hidden beneath his beard. “So, Howe, I figure congratulations are in order for you too, eh?”

Nathaniel stiffened, heart sinking like lead into his abdomen. He shook his head and let out a laugh that was more bitter than he had hoped. “No. No that won’t be necessary.”

“Wait… what?” Oghren scowled and examined Nathaniel for a moment before protesting. “Don’t tell me you changed your mind? Didn’t take you to be a chickenshit.”

“I didn’t.” Nathaniel stood up abruptly at the words, startling the others. “And I’m not.”

“Shit, I—”

“I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Nate,” Sigrun said gently, grabbing his arm.

He shrugged her off and stepped away. “I should go prepare for my trip to Kirkwall.”

“Nathaniel,” Velanna urged him, “Wait.”

“Thank you for talking with me,” he said flatly, glancing between Velanna and Sigrun, then over to Oghren, “It is good to have you back, my friend.”

“Yeah… sure.”

With that, Nathaniel gave his friends a nod, and turned to make his way to the nearest stairwell, heart racing as he struggled to remain calm.

“What crawled up his breeches,” he heard Oghren ask behind him.

Nathaniel did not linger to hear Velanna and Sigrun brief Oghren on the events that had transpired while he was away. He did not need to be reminded.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age origins awakening #nathaniel howe #nathaniel howe x cousland #my writing #ambivalence tag

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neverendingparable · 3 years

Text

KuroŌji

This wouldn’t leave my mind until I wrote it. Inspired by the fact that no matter how cool a black butler AU would be, there’s no way Phobos would go around serving a human being (probably?). And so...

@sassycompanions

TW for mentions of torture through sleep deprivation, death, and demon shenanigans.

Sleep deprivation did all kinds of things to you.

He knew it well by now, the familiar agonizing ache of forced wakefulness, how it felt like to be so tired he wanted to sob or whimper or beg for mercy.

But the experiments kept on going, relying on his unwilling participation to find and remove whatever obnoxious part of the human mind robbed society those precious eight hours of their lives.

If they could cure sleep, they would change the world. And get very, very rich. And that sort of purpose is enough to dismiss a few human lives no one would truly mourn for.

Hallucinations were common. They twisted at the edges of his vision at first, then crept closer, getting bolder and more frequent. He'd hear breathing next to his ear and see no one there when he'd turn his head. Or the soft murmur of voices roused him from his miserable thoughts, lingering even when he'd focus.

Sometimes he'd like to imagine they were his shadowy friends, unable to help other than keeping him company for however long he had left. Or he'd imagine this was a horrid nightmare he could wake up from, that the cage and the needles and the never ending torture for the sake of science were nothing but a mean trick his mind was playing on him when in reality he was tucked away safely in some bed, safe and loved, the real world's whispers seeping into his dreams.

But as vivid as they were, they never interacted much with him, their shapes disappearing when he'd grasp at them.

So when one night, one of the shadows reached through the bars of his cage and gave him a curious prod, he knew something was off.

The sudden touch startled him so badly, he nearly leapt across the cramped space to get away from the shadowy hand whose owner, a dim face half visible in the darkness, was now watching him with amusement.

They stared at each other for a couple of moments.

This is a vivid dream, he thought finally.

Ah, not quite~ a voice responded in his head. It was melodic, with a hint of an accent he couldn't quite place. None of the previous voices were this coherent.

I've gone insane, haven’t I? Took long enough, I suppose.

Darling, you're not even halfway there yet.

The experiment closed his eyes and shook his head fiercely. When he opened it again, the shadow hadn't disappeared.

You're still here?

Did you think it would be that easy?

Who are you?

The shadow's smile stretched wider, inhumanely so and despite all the horrors he had gone through before, the sight struck him with dread. Its voice scratched on the inside of his mind like fingernails on bone, making him shudder.

เ ค๓ ץ๏ยг ฬ๏гรt ภเɠђt๓คгє

He wanted to scoff, laugh and tell the shadow it was a little too late to the party. But then it twisted its form, for just a minute, and the face that leered out from behind the shadows made his heart stop in terror. A beat later it was back to being indistinct, floating between the cage bars, amused at his ever growing fear.

Have you come to kill me? He thought, unsure what answer he was hoping for.

No, it grinned back.

Then...

Don't you remember? You called me. You want to make a deal with the ๔єvเl, you foolish human.

But don’t you see that no matter they do to you, เ ςคภ ๒є ๓ยςђ ฬ๏гรє~?

It prodded his forehead with a shadowy finger and he believed it. The experiments here could break his body before his spirit but this...demon, it could reach into his mind and cut the very cords that tethered him to sanity. It could probably rip his soul out if it wanted to.

But it was looking for something. It wouldn't have come just to kill an abomination that would be dead in less than a few weeks. He felt another thing right then, something more painful than the hellish torment his body had endured and with this tiny flame of hope burning inside of him, he reached out and asked to be saved.

Protect me, he begged. And I'll serve you however you want.

The being reached into the cage and he placed a hand in its cold palm. It seemed pleased.

We have a deal.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"Just kill me already, please." Mason moaned, staring at the list of tasks he had just been handed with a mix of despair and annoyance.

Rooms to clean.

Supplies to stock up on, which meant a trip into town.

Writing and sending off letters address to various partners of his Lord, shady or dangerous people who dropped off packages and signed contracts even he didn't get to look at.

Tending to rose bushes, watering the garden, just to name a few.

"Tsk, that would go against our contract." Came the reply, filled with feigned indignance.

Mason's head snapped up and glowered at the man lounging on the regal couch, watching him with obvious mirth.

A butler who complained about work was worthless in most households and would be replaced by yes men who followed every command with a docile bow. But that would be too boring, wouldn’t it?

His Lord allowed him the occasional grumble without any severe reprimanding because Phobos took great delight in his suffering and never missed an opportunity to point out how serving a high maintenance prince was a hell of a lot better than rotting away in some moldy cage.

He was right, of course.

"I restocked this yesterday!" Mason continued regardless. "And we don't have any guests over for at least another week, why do I need to clean the rooms out now?"

"You can't possibly know that," the prince replied, calmly picking up a porcelain tea cup with a graceful hand. "I may be expecting guests."

"Shouldn’t you tell me then? Seeing how I am your butler and need to know if we are expecting company?"

"Ah, do you?" Phobos' eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. "It seems like you spend more time arguing and whining than being useful."

Mason opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Of course, my Lord." He sighed, giving him a disingenuous bow. "I apologize."

Phobos dismissed him with a wave that meant 'now don’t bother me again unless it has something to do with food, wine or actual entertainment' and Mason withdrew back into the kitchen to check with Charlotte if they have enough food for any surprise visits Phos the future threw at them.

(He was convinced that Phobos sometimes threw impromptu balls just to watch him scramble around desperately arranging catering and schedules at last second.)

When the shadowy figure had first pulled him out of that hell hole, Mason had expected a lot of things. A culling, perhaps. Hell. A place of punishment.

Instead, he got a butler costume, his name back and a grand, luxurious dark castle to look after, spoiled prince included.

Learning to serve was hard but Phobos refused to go easy on him, giving him elaborate instructions of how he wanted things and forcing him to spend hours perfecting the chores. When Charlotte eventually came into their midst, he was happy to hand over the cooking to someone else.

Mason never figured out why the prince kept them around - maybe out of loneliness or boredom or a hidden sinister plan yet to be discovered - but he kept up his end of the deal.

A few times, someone came for Mason. Their bodies never left the castle and he burned the remains in the basement's hearth.

Months after his rescue, a rich doctor stopped by for a visit. He had only one servant along, a sickly looking maid with hollow eyes. What had happened behind closed doors was unknown to them both, but when Mason came to serve tea, he found the doctor, lying in a pool of his own blood. He had sent the maid back into the kitchen before she could see the mess and wordlessly cleaned the blood off his Lord's hands.

Thus Charlotte joined their little party.

Mason learnt a few things about Phobos too, in the time they spent together.

He had a different name, once upon a time and a past he spoke of occasionally with a hint of derision and disgust. He had been a powerful tyrant, reflected in the way his guests spoke in his presence. He had a curse that tore him apart and left him exhausted, his room always smelling faintly of blood afterwards. None of Mason's questions were ever answered directly, so he learned to keep spare bed sheets and healing flasks at hand, knew how to recognize the signs of pain when his Lord was too proud to ask for help and ended up on a first name basis with the witches in town in his search for a cure.

You can't cure a demon, Phobos mocked him constantly.

Mason disagreed.

If a soul could be redeemed by a deal with the devil, then he felt quite confident of attempting the impossible.

#drabble #black butler au #sassycompanions #the masochist #torture tw #kinda open ended too?#i guess this just leaves room for more headcanons later

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likeshipsonthesea · 4 years

Note

oh my GOD if you wrote something for "i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight" and nurseydex I'm pretty sure I'd combust pls do it

hello hi it’s been a while. so truth be told i wrote this, or started this, a long time ago, when you first sent in this prompt, and i didn’t like it, but then i read it again and ended up finishing it and..once again didn’t like it. and then i read it last night and thought it was pretty cool and now i’m posting it. fun story, i know.

warning for religious imagery/issues and internalized/referenced externalized homophobia.

nurseydex for the prompt i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight from Hozier’s Dinner & Diatribes. enjoy!

On the first night back from spring break, Dex sits across the living floor from Nursey and thinks about Easter mass.

It’s blasphemous, really. A rough rug, older than him, scratches at the exposed skin of his ankles, his wrists. The team around him laughs and mellows in waves. Bitty’s most recent pie sits cooling in the kitchen, chilled breezes from the open window carrying the scent of it into the living room. Dex ignores it all to watch Nursey bring the mouth of a bottle to his own mouth, rest the glass on the soft dip in his bottom lip. He tilts back his head, jaw lengthening, dropping. He swallows, and his throat bobs. A tendon in his neck guides Dex’s gaze up, up to his stubble, to his mouth, to the regal slant of his nose. His eyes.

Nursey is looking. Half lidded. Green, burning. Forest fire.

Dex thinks about Easter mass. Scratchy shirt cuffs rubbing red against bony wrists. The too-thin pages of the Bible like receipt paper on his fingertips, half imagining that the print came off with his touch. Songs about sacrifice, and love, and being beholden to a man who is at once so very human, and so very, very not. Ethereality in kindness. The sweet smell of wine, tasteless wafer. A body, given.

Nursey looks away—back to Chowder, back to conversation.

Dex wonders what he would give to be looked at like that for a moment longer. Condensation builds between his fingertips and his beer, and he takes a sip that tastes sweeter than it should. He reckons Nursey is some kind of holy. The descendant of a God long forgotten in name, but never spirit. The kind of God who loved rich smells and smart words, who knew the value of respect, and laughter. The kind of God who looked at love as something to be given, not sacrificed.

Worship no other God before me. Dex’s beer turns bitter on his tongue.

Blasphemous.

Dex watches Nursey hands and imagines the punishment he’d endure. Each hit bloody, bruising. Would Nursey’s hands be smooth? Nails short, light scratches, pinkened skin. Dex would cry out, likely, as hard as he would try not to, under the onslaught. The sounds Nursey would make would be soothing, caressing and lovely and breathy and loud. Dex would shut his eyes and imagine in the darkness that he couldn’t see their frothing rage. Nursey, spread across bedsheets, hair haloed on pale pillowcase, eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheeks, smiling.

During a lull in the silence, when everyone is busy, Dex stands up from the living room floor. He goes into the kitchen and grabs himself a bottle of water, prodding at the pie to see if it’s cool enough. Back to the doorway, he hears footsteps.

“Not in the mood to chat tonight, Poindoodle?”

Dex closes his eyes. Nursey’s voice lilts, laughter concealed in vowels outstretched and pointed consonants upturned. When he’s sleepy, or drunk, his words link together like holding hands, drifting thumbs tucked delicately against sweaty palms. Nursey talks with his hands. Sometimes Dex feels the words more than he hears them.

“Tired, I guess,” Dex says, because all of this is too much to say outside of a confessional. He does not turn around.

Nursey hums. “How was break?”

Dex sways into his hands, feeling the pressure between the calluses on the inside of his knuckles and the vaguely floured countertop. “Good,” Dex says. It almost isn’t a lie.

The nearly normal has become the best outcome he can hope for. Half beats between conversations about school, hockey, fall into place as if the music called for them all along. It is a tune now ingrained in him, even if the words never make sense, or make him sad. He remembers bits of songs they taught in Sunday school and hopes that one day this will be dulled as well. Home is this, and so it must be good, because by any other metric he might not go home again and the Bible has something to say about that, too.

A hand on his shoulder. Warm, heavy. Nursey does not say anything. Dex counts the words he doesn’t say until he loses track trying to keep his tongue tamed. I love you. I miss you. I wish I was enough. I wish I could live in a world where what I am is enough. I wish you would touch me. What do I do to make you touch me?

Nursey’s hand falls. “It’s nice to see you,” he says, and he waits a minute, a passage of time, full of breathing and not breathing, and Dex follows along intently. Nursey leaves the room. Dex counts the bones in his hands and bathes in the bloody faded pink of his knuckles.

That night, after the drinks are gone and the lights are out and they’re all in their beds, like they should be, Dex shifts under his sheets and drags his own incompetent hands against his skin. Wrinkled elbows and knobbed shoulders, shuddering ribcage bones and fleshy sides. He prays, like he hasn’t in years, to someone he doesn’t know but is somehow surer about than whatever it is that stares at him as he sits in hard pews, scratchy and burning. Let me have this, he thinks, eyes shut, lips pressed together. Let me give myself to this.

Somehow, his feet bring him to the hall side of a closed door. He cannot hear mumbling. Nursey talks in his sleep.

I would suffer anything to know, Dex thinks, eyes tracing the lines carved into the wood. Let me know.

He knocks.

The door opens.

Nursey stands, rumpled and perfect, one hand curled around the doorknob, holding himself up. His green eyes are deep, mossy, Maine-like and worried. “Dex,” he says, no fanfare. “What’s wrong?”

“Let me in?” Dex licks his lips. They’re sweet.

Nursey moves his body to make room for Dex and it takes all the restraint his church has taught him not to fill it up completely. Door closed, Dex inside, a foot and a half between their bodies. Dex’s fingers twist in his sweatpants.

Nursey stares, expectation heavy. The weight of it, in this creaking room, in this darkness, is heady, not suffocating. Dex takes a deep breath.

“I—” Dex knows what swallowed words taste like. Metallic and copper, razor blades on his tongue, kept safe by his teeth, lips, until his mouth fills with blood. He wants to say it, he wants Nursey to know, and yet he stares long enough for his eyes to adjust to the faded Maine green reflecting back at him.

“Is everything alright?” Nursey finally asks, quiet, whispered.

The question shudders his bones. Instead of answering, Dex says, “I missed you.”

The shock of surprise is like a thunderstorm over the water, flashing quick and then muffled. “Oh?”

Dex’s fingers knot up the material of his sweatpants. It leaves his ankles cold. “I did.”

Harsh exhale, then slow. “Dex,” he says, he says Dex’s name again, not Poindoodle or Dexington or anything else. “What are you—” Swallowed words, razor blades.

“I always miss you,” Dex says, because the rest of the words are rusted over with sweetened wine and this seems to be the truest thing he has inside him.

“Dex,” Nursey says, and Dex would like to cry, sort of, because that name on those lips with that kind of homesick color staring at him wide and open feels more like coming home than two weeks of being in Maine and that aches in so many different, good and bad, kind of ways and he doesn’t think Nursey knows, he doesn’t think he could explain, all the things he’d go through to hear Nursey call him Dex, look at him like this.

“Please,” Dex says, and he knows it doesn’t make any sense, any of it, but nothing does, really, and he thinks Nursey gets it anyway because in the next moment his mouth is parted over Dex’s and he tastes nothing like razorblades, nothing like wine, just sleep stale toothpaste and a sigh.

Dex releases his sweatpants to curl his hands over Nursey, his hips, his back, the roundness of his elbow. Nursey does not pull back, he does not flinch away. He slips his thumb under the waistband of Dex’s sweatpants and just leaves it there, warm, like a promise.

#nurseydex #dexnursey #check please #dex #william poindexter #nursey #derek nurse #my writing #sort of fic #ficlet #not even going to complain that tumblr is STILL deleting formatting in asks #hozier prompts #one left my dudes!!!#and i have no idea what to do for it #lol #enjoy whatever this is #60s au comes out probably sometime this week

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imperiuswrecked · 4 years

Note

So...I really would like to see your take in Namor/Maximus, it can be anything that comes to your mind I'm not picky (any universe, situation, gender...just make it gay 👀)

Sorry this took so long! I choose the 616 Verse because it’s really the one I know most and wanted to write this. The answer to who gave Namor those band aids when he got beaten up by Thanos.

Short fic under the cut~

Pain. It had been a constant companion to Namor throughout his life, and now just as when he was a child, he endured that pain alone. He had retreated retired to his rooms for the evening after his humiliation at Thanos’s hands. He winced as he sunk into his pool, an accommodation he had insisted on when he chose his room which he had filled with salt water, the cuts burning as the salt entered them. He lays at the bottom for some hours, too lost in his mind mulling over recent events. So much death, so much destruction, and for what? they were no closer to making sure his world was safe. Every new threat that came, he crushed, but the Cabal was out of control.

Namor at first had ignored the signs, the bloodthirsty leering of the group as though they were some pack animals getting excited at the scent of death, telling himself it was necessary to align himself with Thanos and his Black Order, but as each new body fell, as each new world was bathed in blood, he felt less and less sure of himself. Now he was going to be watched carefully, he had to find a way to get a message to Richards and the rest of the Illuminati who was still around. His wounds had slowed considerably while in the water and now he kicked off from the bottom of the deep pool to break is head on the surface, his lungs taking in the first cool gasp of air. His gills were fine for underwater but there was a sense of relief that one only got from taking in those deep clearing breathes.

“Do you have to resurface? Or can you stay there as long as you please?”

The lilting voice of Maximus the Max rings out in the empty room and Namor swivels in the water to look behind him. The Inhuman Prince lay stretched out on fainting couch, eating from the bowl of fruit that lay on the small table beside him. His happy light cadence was at odds with the blood on his hands. Namor eyes the man carefully. He did not know much about him, only that he would be an asset to the team with his scientific genius which is why Namor had brought him on. Since then he had not much time around the man, since they usually only saw each other when another incursion occurred.

“I can live the rest of my life in water and pray that the humans leave me and my people alone, and never would I surface.”

Namor lies, not to others, but to himself. He would try and fool himself thinking if he had peace he would never roam, but Namor knew he would always have this urge to see the world of his father. As some people would say the sea called them, so did the land to Namor. Max pops another grape into his mouth, as Namor swims towards the edge nearest the Prince. He eyes Namor with a appreciative expression as the Sea Prince lifted himself out over the edge, his naked body on display as water rivulets ran down the length of his form. Namor always swam naked when he was alone and he was never shy, he noted the Inhuman Prince’s stare as he walked to the couch where at the end he had left a towel and his suit. He ignores the sharp intake of breath as he nears. Many people found his form beautiful, but he wondered if they would still want him if they saw him for who he really was? A man willing to snap the neck of any living being if it meant further his goal of keeping Atlantis and his people safe another day.

“What are you doing here Prince?” Namor asks as he dries himself off, Max’s gaze is hungry as he looks at him, he knows that look. Many a maid, and man, would then speak in breathy whispers, and try to persuade them to bed them.

“I was tired after our last massacre, Thanos had us hop to another world to kill not even one under incursion, just because he had been denied his last world... by you.”

So that was why he had not been visited by anyone, even Black Swan for the last few hours.

“That does not answer my question, you have your own rooms to retire in, why are you here?”

Namor drops his towels and pulls on his suit, Max sits up now, and swings his legs off the couch.

“Who else would patch up your wounds?” Max pats the seat next to him and smiles up at Namor. The Prince had dark shining hair, and bright blue eyes, his smaller build meant Namor towered over him but it did not deter the Prince even when Namor glowered at him.

“I am already healing, the water rejuvenates me, soon even these small cuts will disappear. I don’t need you to administer your... care.” Namor says in an acidic tone, “Don’t you have bombs to build? Or other innocents to murder?”

“Ah just for that, now the choice of my Hello Kitty band-aids are off the table.” Max says in a pouting tone, “Come now, you can growl at me all you want as I bandage you.” He scoots a bit more, “I will tell you all about my bombs and then you will ask me how to send a message to my idiot brother and his friends without any of Cabal knowing you sent it.”

Namor’s expression must have shown his shock, Max giggles a bit, coming from the grown man it sounded strange and if there was a lesser man standing there, he might have been unnerved by the Inhuman. Namor simply sits and turns to face Max who hastily moves them about until Namor’s legs are stretched out and Max is straddling his waist. He opens his white and black coat to reveal the inside pockets did indeed hold Hello Kitty Band Aids as well as normal white band aids and a number of other unusual objects including; different sized remote controls, tiny silver tools, a small jar of jam, a set of earrings, a tv guide to soap operas, and a single apple that looked like it had been swiped from his bowl of fruit.

“Ah ah.” Max saying in his sing song voice, “No kitty for you.” He selects the white bandages and sets himself to work, Namor allows the man to touch him. He need to get this information, and most importantly he need to make sure Max wouldn’t tell the others, even if that means killing him after Max gave him a way to contact the others. Max covers the small cuts over Namor’s face, one on his nose and other’s on his cheeks. Namor had survived bombs, and bullets, and the Hulk, all without anything ever cutting through his tough skin, but Thanos strength had been enough to shatter Namor, he was only lucky that Atlanteans could heal fast and he faster than most. Max’s fingers were nimble and his hands were gentle. It had been a long time since anyone had been nice to Namor and the man almost did not know how to react.

“Why are you doing this? Why help me at all?” Namor’s voice is low, and Max lifts his gaze his own voice is soft and breathy, “Why not? You’ve never hurt me or mine, I don’t think we are enemies my Prince, and if we aren’t enemies then that means we are allies, and what do allies do if not help one another?” He muses as he continues, “Maybe I am getting this ally thing wrong, my brother would know what to say if he were here, the man never shuts up when it comes to telling me what is right and what is wrong.” He laughs softly at his little joke. His eyes turning back to the cuts.

“Will you tell the others that I will be speaking to the Illuminati?” If Max said yes, Namor would have to snap his neck, he couldn’t let his plan fail, even if that meant killing someone who was showing him kindness.

“That depends.”

“On?” Namor growls, his hands twitched.

“On what you will bribe me with to shut me up.” He smiles slyly at Namor, like a cat who had been caught in the canary cage.

“You seem to have planned for everything that might happen before you walked into this room, so tell me Lord Maximus, what is it that you want?”

Max places the last bandage on Namor’s arm, setting away his kit he turns back to the Atlantean.

“I’ll settle for a kiss, to keep my lips shut.”

Namor blinks, he would have thought the Inhuman would demand more than that, money, power, riches, or even a night in Namor’s bed from his earlier admiration. He speaks slowly so that there is no confusion in the terms of their deal, “For a kiss, you will stay silent about any plans I have to dismantle this Cabal?”

“Scout’s Honor!”

Maximus does a small sign with his fingers, and Namor has no clue what he is talking about, or what Scout he might mean. Still he has to trust someone, if Max did end up betraying Namor like so many others in his life then Namor would deal with it then.

He sits up a bit and places one hand behind Max’s head, pulling the Prince in for a kiss, soft lips brush Namor’s and he had meant it to be a quick action but he found himself falling deeper into their kiss. Max’s hands hold his shoulders and the Prince moans slightly as Namor presses his lips harder against Max’s. It is a few moments later that they part, both men breathing a bit harder than before. Namor’s heart pounding as though he had just swum a hundred miles. Namor stares at Max, noting the slight blush to the man’s cheeks as Max smiles.

“A kiss to seal the deal.” Max says softly and he later is good on his word.

Later after he hangs up from the call Namor leans back in his chair and thinks about the kiss, his fingers brushing his lips. He hopes Maximus knows how to survive what is coming, because Namor doesn’t know if he will save him.

A Namor/Max fan art by me for @esteicy-blog : I’m very sorry for the bad quality, but I will keep practicing so I can make more Namor ship art!

#namor #maximus boltagan #namor the sub-mariner #maximus the mad #madmariner #mim writes a thing #thanks for asking!#esteicy-blog

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wonderlandmind4 · 6 years

Text

Delicate Stages: Chp 2

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x OFC Ana Rios

Summary: Bucky Barnes agrees to participate in Deprogramming Sessions. What he gets is not anything like he expected.

Bucky is seriously considering going back on his decision, and his feet shift towards the exit of their own accord. The thing is, as easy as it would be to just leave, to slip into the shadows, he does not want to run anymore. He is tired of it.

Warnings for this Chapter: Language, Slight anxiety, slight self doubt, an over use of coffee consumption.

Words: 2,959

A/N: I feel like this is just jumping in there. Mainly because I can not write opening chps for shiz. Feel free to ask questions if confused. Also, my “keep reading” function keeps messing up words, idk why. (tagged) @justreadingfics @nerdyandproud9 (gif not mine)

Another round of coffee has been poured into Ana's cup. Bucky has a feeling she only went for a refill to give him some time to adjust after their greeting. He appreciates it, but finds that he doesn't really need it. He hasn't felt like he's a flight risk around her yet, so he doesn't mind not adjusting. He still appreciates it though.

"So," Ana begins, after she's sat down again. She uses the thick heel of her boot to rock herself back and forth in the chair. "Eventually, I would like us to be honest with one another, otherwise this won't work very well."

Bucky agrees. "Makes sense."

“We'll just talk today. It can be about anything. If you’re curious about anything, the weather, me. I'm all ears, James.”

Other people have called him by his first name, or last, or even Sergeant, and he always corrects them. This time, that name just doesn't sound right coming from her mouth.

“Bucky. Please call me Bucky," He insists, giving her a tentative smile.

"Okay. So, Bucky, any questions?"

"Are you a shrink?” The question blurts from his lips before he can stop it.

Ana snorts again, falling forward in her chair. “God no. That would be way too much for me. Not saying that psychologists are bad, that just wasn’t my route.”

“What is? What exactly do you do here?”

“I’m…I don’t really have a title to be honest.”

“You seem to have a high level of authority here.”

“Thanks to Steve,” Ana admits with a nonchalant shrug.

"What?"

“Well, you obviously know why he brought you here. Not just for Deprogramming, but for all the other stuff that comes with it. Mentally, for one. Emotionally, physically. He’s talked to you about this right?”

They talked about it on the car ride up. That the possibility of a full body deprogramming is high, that much Bucky tells her. He didn't expect the process to go easy; one, two, three, out the door. It's going to take time and mental, emotional, and physical endurance. It's been seventy years in and out of brainwashing and that damn ice chamber.

“There are going to be side effects," She continues lightly, "probably some long days, some sleepless night. It’ll take a toll on you in every aspect, I’m here to help you through it all. Steve cares for you, and I care for people. I guess they call me, unofficially, a Psychological Healer. I'm a non-combated agent. I typically just work within the Healing Ward helping with psychological and sociological elements."

A hard swallow. A flare in his heart rate. “A Healer? Orders from Steve?”

“Not orders, and I am going to make this very clear, Bucky. You are not, and will never be my orders. You are not an assignment, a project, or a mission.”

Bucky locks his eyes with hers, and he counts the golden specks laced within the rich brown irises; nine. He doesn’t know why, but his heart is pounding a little harder, but not from anxiety. It feels different, warm, comforting…accepted. It feels human.

“Understood?” Ana prompts firmly.

“Yes,” He breathes out.

Ana smiles at him. “I’m here to help you. No orders. Steve just thought I was the best choice. I want to help you, so I am going to help you.”

Bucky oddly finds himself wanting to believe her. Hears the open sincerity in her voice. The way she has been looking into his eyes since they met with no fear. She is looking at him like he is a human being, not a weapon for another cause.

“We can stop if you want,” Ana offers, leaning back in her seat again. “Sometimes I overwhelm people, too much too soon. Headstrong, runs in the family.”

“In a good way,” Bucky replies, suddenly having the need to reassure her.

Ana gives him a strange look. “Thanks?”

"So, not a doctor?"

"Nah, I'm just very...empathetic," She answers with a touch of mirth in her smooth voice. “Though I do have a degree in Psychology and Sociology.”

Bucky lifts his mug to his lips and says, "So he put you in charge of me?"

"If you're into that sort of thing."

The coffee Bucky just took a sip of nearly goes down his airway. He coughs once against the ceramic, blinks rapidly so his eyes don't water and stares at the woman sitting across from him. She has her face turned to the side, lips to the rim of her cup, but her eyes are wide. There's a slight tint of a blush on her cheeks, but other than that, she remains perfectly calm. Something is rising in him, from his stomach and making it's way up his chest.

Bucky laughs.

"Sorry! It just slipped out," Ana groans, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb.

Bucky will take this quick witted, sharp tongued, nonjudgmental...beautiful girl over anyone else who may had wanted her position. A small surge of hope shoots through him again. This is nothing like how he thought today would go.

"Want to see your room?"

***

When Ana first entered the lab, with Agent Sharp yacking in her ear condescendingly, she had no idea how the day would go. She saw Bucky Barnes sitting patiently, if rather skittish, on her desk. She had no idea if it was due to his first day, or the guards on the second level watching him with subtle, sharp vicious eyes. She saw them idling about, but Ana knew how focused they truly were. Of course no one in the room was going to just let the Winter Soldier sit unguarded. It churned her stomach the wrong way.

She just hopes she didn't come off too strong. Though she figured jumping in with her quirky way of doing things was better than walking on eggshells. Captain Rogers told her to do exactly that, so she did, and if Steve gave her permission, then who was she to refuse. She could've held back on the coffee bit though. No one seems nearly as excitable about coffee as she does.

As Ana leads Bucky to his room, she feels a light buzz in her blood, prickles softly at her skin. She tampers it down, locks the sensation away for another time. She has been a little worried since meeting him, if only because she doesn't want Bucky believing she has ulterior motives. She doesn't, she really hopes she can convey that. Sooner rather than later, but the nervousness makes her own energy and emotions act up. She does what she does best, and pushes them aside for the moment.

Ana reaches their destination, opening the door. Bucky glances around the spacious room, with two windows that face the woods and an en-suite. The bed frame, with its black headboard, dawns a queen-sized mattress raised off the dark hardwood flooring, with four pillows and a dark blue comforter. There’s a single dresser pressed against the opposite wall, a desk opposite and a closest adjacent to that. The electronics on the wall look advanced, sleek, standing out against the light gray walls.

“This is for me?” Bucky inquires quietly, bypassing her and stepping in further.

“Yes. It’s not much, since people are greedy and took the rooms closer to the kitchen. I hope it’s okay,” Ana notices the way his eyes flit around the room, expression calm yet calculating.

He’s looking for exits.

“There’s also a way to escape via the bathroom window in the shower,” She tells him casually.

He turns to give her a quizzical look.

“It’s wide enough to lift yourself up and push it out. I just hope that won’t be necessary. This room is yours for as long as you want it to be. I know it must be hard to settle here, to believe that nothing and no one is after you. But I hope this place can be a safe haven for you one day.”

“Are you sure you can’t read minds?” He quips, quirking an eyebrow.

“I’m just very perceptive. Comes with what I do,” Ana shrugs.

Bucky hums understanding. His face twitches for a moment, like he’s self-conscious about something. ”I don’t have many possessions."

"I think Steve said he'll help with that," She points to the closet. "By the way, that backpack of yours is in there."

There's a split second of a break in Bucky's expression, relief flooding his blue eyes. He goes to open the closet door, finding his backpack suspended on a hanger. Ana is content to watch him as he unzips the bag, and rummages through it. Whatever he had in there is important and holds meaning to him.

She watches the muscles of his back shift, the tension in his shoulders from earlier have subsided a little. Ana's phone buzzes in her back pocket. She pulls it out, checking the message she received.

She clears her throat. "I have to go now."

Bucky looks over his shoulder at her, as if he forgotten she was there.

"You're welcomed to explore the area or stay here, or nap,” She suggests. “Whichever. We usually have dinner around, well, depends on who is cooking. Six-thirty or seven. I'll see you then?"

Bucky blinks, his arm still in the bag. "Thank you,” He sounds sincere, if a little shy.

Ana flashes her friendliest smile. Her goal for the moment is to make him feel as welcomed as she can. She gives a little wave, backs up and bumps into something. She glares at the object.

"That's a door," She states obviously. "Right. See you later." She ignores the amused smirk Bucky gives her, and leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her.

While she's walking down the hall, she looks at her phone again. Steve has requested a briefing with her regarding the Deprogramming Sessions. She makes her way out to the living compound, heading down the walkway that will lead to the facility.

As first time meetings go, that one with Bucky went pretty well. Minus her irritation at Agent Sharp. She hopes Bucky over looks that, and that the energy within that moment remained calm, positive. For him.

She ends up having a long phone conversation with Pepper after the meeting. To which her cousin informed her that Tony kept certain information from her about who was leading the Deprogramming Sessions. Ana reassures Pepper that she is fully capable of handling it. It doesn't stop the apprehension in her chest though, the dark cloud of her past looming in the confides of her mind.

They had fallen silent after that, and Ana senses that Pepper knows she isn't 100% sure about it either. Not yet at least. It's just, the last time she even considered toying with the idea that she could help someone, it didn't end well. Pepper insists it isn't her fault, but Ana will forever blame herself.

Before they hung up, Pepper wished her all the luck and made her promise to visit soon. Ana is left with a bittersweet notion of that promise. She doesn't think she will be able to leave for a while, and she misses her cousin. She's the only close family member she has, being Ana's father's niece. Distant family members are scattered across the country and Puerto Rico but they don’t speak to each other often.

Ana sits up from the lounge chair on the rooftop, overlooking the lush trees. The wind is a little heavy today, but it feels nice. It's not bitterly cold like it was a month ago. It says Spring is around the corner, and soon the temperatures will being to warm again. She sits there just enjoying the view and the sounds of nature for a while longer. When her phone tings with a text informing her that dinner is ready, Ana gets up.

She walks over to the trap door across from the main roof entrance, pulling it open. Carefully, she makes her way down the small latter, and hops down the last step into her room through the window. She was very excited she got a room with roof access. Gives her an escape when emotions, energy and people get too much. She plugs her phone in, and exists her room

Being that her room is the last one down the long hallway, Ana passes three more bedrooms. They're all spread out far enough that it makes for good privacy. She passes Wanda's room, then Sam's because he wanted the middle one with the giant window, the diva. The last room she passes before the hall turns left towards the lounge area, is the newly occupied one.

The door to Bucky's new room is closed, and she debates if she should knock or not. Ana can smell the food from where she's standing, which means he can certainly smell it too. Maybe he chose to get settled rather than meet a rather boisterous group of people. Who he has probably fought with before...right. It makes sense.

Ana continues walking, makes it to the end of the hall, then turns back. She's going to invite him anyway because she wants him to feel welcomed. This is his home now, he shouldn't feel ostracized.

"I already told him," Steve says from behind her. Ana turns again. "Said he just wants an early night in."

“Alright,” Ana sighs in understanding. She walks up to Steve, hooking her arm with his. "Did Sam make lasagna?"

"Yeah," Steve chuckles as they walk into the lounge. "Opened that new bottle of red too."

"Goddammit, Wilson!" That’s her bottle of red wine.

A heartily laugh echos around the room.

Nearly two hours passed after dinner, Ana and Wanda cleaning up the last of the dishes. There's a plate set aside with two pieces of lasagna, some salad and garlic bread. The bread and lasagna are still warm from sitting in the food warmer, Ana having added the salad after she took it out. Her eyes drift over to the hallway, digging her teeth into her bottom lip.

"Just go give it to him already," Wanda speaks up, nudging her elbow. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"What if he's sleeping?" Ana glances at the clock. It's only a quarter past eight.

"If he doesn't answer, then just leave it in the fridge. He'll find it."

"I just want him to feel accepted."

"Let him feel accepted by you first, that's the important thing, yes? Plus, his energy feels off. Being around us tonight would've made him more nervous."

"You feel that too?"

Wanda levels her with an unimpressed look. "You feel it tenfold, Ana. Don't pretend."

"I'm trying to tamper it down. He doesn't know about it yet."

"Not something you talk about upon a first greeting?" She teases.

Ana rolls her eyes. "Right. Because going, ”Hey, I'm an Energy Alchemist and Empathetic Healer which means I can feel every single one of your emotions and feelings without your permission”, would be a great way to start that off. Good trust building tacit right there."

Wanda's fingers glow for a moment and a crumpled napkin hits Ana in the face. "Don't be a smart ass. You don't do it without people's permission. Give yourself some credit. Just go bring him food."

Ana throws the napkin back at her, but her friend just sends it to the trash. Wanda is right though. Ana is stalling and she doesn't really know why. Maybe it feels a little like invading his privacy on the first night by knocking on his door. Something is hovering from the corner of her eye, Ana glares.

"Fine! I'll bring him dinner." She grabs the floating, red glowing plate from mid air.

"Finally. You've wanted to all night. I'll finish up here." Wanda offers.

Ana smiles at her. She grabs a clean napkin, a knife and fork as well, and heads towards the hallway. She can see that Sam's door is closed, but the soft music emitting from it says he is still up. Everyone else seemed to beg off early as well, and that makes for a nice quiet night.

Once she reaches the door to Bucky's room, she takes in a short breath. She exhales, gently tapping her knuckles against the wood. He doesn't answer. Ana listens for a few moments, hears nothing but silence. She tries once more, knocking a little harder. If he doesn't answer, then she'll just put the food away.

Nothing. Ana turns, taking a few steps down the hall when she hears the door click open. She whirls back around, smiling at Bucky's head poking out from the small gap.

"I brought you dinner, in case you were hungry," She informs, closing the space between them to hand him the plate.

Bucky opens the door wider, he's wearing soft gray sweatpants and a black tee shirt. With a tentative smile, he accepts the plate. His hair is pushed back behind his ears, and he looks sleepy. Like he really was going to bed early.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" Ana questions. She'd feel bad.

"Nah, I was just..." Bucky trails off, like he doesn’t know he should say the next words. "Writing."

Ana doesn't press. "Alright, well, enjoy."

"Thank you."

"Sam made it, so thank him if it's good."

"I meant for today," Bucky clarifies. "Just...thank you."

She doesn't know exactly what he's thanking her for, but she smiles anyway. "Of course. See you tomorrow?"

"Seven?"

"Who the hell is up at seven in the morning?" Ana scoffs, offended. "Why would anyone willing get up that early?"

Bucky chuckles. "Not a morning person?"

"Not even a little. Nine. Nine o'clock."

"Nine it is then."

Ana huffs, muttering. "That's still too early."

"Goodnight, Ana."

"Goodnight," She grins at him.

Turning on her foot, she heads towards her room. Ana hears the door close quietly behind her. Despite her nerves of the entire day, she doesn't think it could have gone better.

*****************************************************

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#bucky barnes x ofc #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #fanfiction #my fics #marvel #MCU #delicate stages #OFC #i said there was going to be alot of coffee #chp 2

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dfroza · 3 years

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what we choose to do sexually matters.

sex is pure and sacred and created by God, but it is meant for the right context when shared in the marital bond. every life on earth is conceived at a genesis spark and born in pure virginity, which is also sacred and to be guarded. just as marriage is to be guarded, kept pure. unadulterated.

in Today’s reading of the Scriptures Paul writes of judging immoral behavior within the community of believers in the 5th chapter of the Letter of First Corinthians:

Because of my deep love for you, I must express my concern about the report brought to me regarding the lewd and immoral behavior exhibited in your community. This scandal has come to my attention because this kind of thing is unheard of even among the outsiders around us: I understand a man is having sexual relations with his father’s wife. You have turned into an arrogant lot who refuse to see the tragedy right in front of your eyes and mourn for it. If you would face these hard realities, the one living in this sin would be removed from the community.

Despite the fact that I am not physically present with you, I am there in spirit and already have spoken judgment against the man who has engaged in this conduct. When you gather in the name of the Lord Jesus and I am present with you in spirit, and the infinite power of our Lord Jesus is present also, I direct you to release this man over to Satan so his rebellious nature will be destroyed and his spirit might be rescued in the day the Lord Jesus returns.

Your proud boasting in this matter is terrible. Don’t you understand that the tiniest infraction can bring about an unwelcome chain of events? That just a little yeast causes all the dough to rise? Get rid of all the old yeast; then you’ll become new dough, just as you are already a people without sin’s leavening influence. You see, the Anointed One is our Passover lamb; He has been sacrificed for us. So let the real feast begin. Get rid of all the old yeast, the yeast of hatred and evil. Throw it out so we can feast on the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

In the letter I wrote to you previously, I made it clear that you are not to band together with those who have embraced immoral lives. Don’t misunderstand; I’m not telling you to hole up and hunker down from the rest of the world. That’s impossible. The world is filled with immoral people consumed by their desire for more; they steal from one another without hesitation and will worship man-made idols with no shame at all. If you attempted to avoid these people, you would have to leave the world itself. What I was saying is that you should not associate with someone who calls himself a brother or sister but lives contrary to all we stand for: committing immoral sexual acts, consumed with desire for more, worshiping tangible lifeless things, using profanity, drinking into oblivion, swindling and cheating others. Do not even sit at the table with a person like this. Why would I ever attempt to judge those outside the church? Aren’t we called to judge those within the church? God judges the outsiders. Your job is this: “Expel the wicked from your own community.”

The Letter of 1st Corinthians, Chapter 5 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 40th chapter of the book (scroll) of Isaiah that points to a time of forgiveness and proclaiming God’s message of grace, of which we have been entrusted to do with the New Covenant revealed in the Son:

“Comfort, comfort My people,” says your God.

“With gentle words, tender and kind,

Assure Jerusalem, this chosen city from long ago,

that her battles are over.

The terror, the bloodshed, the horror of My punishing work is done.

This place has paid for its guilt; iniquity is pardoned;

its term of incarceration is complete.

It has endured double the punishment it was due.”

A voice is wailing, “In the wilderness, get it ready! Prepare the way;

make it a straight shot. The Eternal would have it so.

Straighten the way in the wandering desert

to make the crooked road wide and straight for our God.

Where there are steep valleys, treacherous descents,

raise the highway; lift it up;

bring down the dizzying heights.

Fill in the potholes and gullies, the rough places.

Iron out the shoulders flat and wide.

The Lord will be, really be, among us.

The radiant glory of the Lord will be revealed.

All flesh together will take it in. Believe it.

None other than God, the Eternal, has spoken.”

A voice says, “Declare!”

But what shall I declare?

All life is like the grass.

All of its grace and beauty fades like the wild flowers in a field.

The grass withers, the flower fades

as the breath of the Eternal One blows away.

People are no different from grass.

The grass withers, the flower fades;

nothing lasts except the word of our God.

It will stand forever.

Ascend a high mountain,

you herald of good tidings, O Zion;

With a clear, strong voice make known to everyone

the joy that belongs to God’s chosen place,

O, Jerusalem, You herald of good tidings!

Make the news ring out! Don’t be afraid!

Say to these cities, this Judah: “Behold your God!”

The Lord, the Eternal, comes with power, with unstoppable might;

He will take control without question or delay.

He will see to it that wages are paid,

repairs are made, and all is set right again.

He will feed His fold like a shepherd;

He will gather together His lambs—the weak and the wobbly ones—into His arms.

He will carry them close to His bosom,

and tenderly lead like a shepherd the mother of her lambs.

Who has taken count and measured out all earth’s waters in a single, cupped palm

and determined heaven’s expanse with an outstretched hand?

Who has counted out exactly how many grains of dirt are here on earth,

and weighed the mountains and hills on scales?

Who has directed the Spirit of the Eternal One?

Can anyone claim to be His advisor?

To whom did God turn for advice or instruction?

Whom did He consult about right and wrong?

Who directed Him down the path of justice or imparted to Him knowledge

or taught Him the way of understanding?

Face it; the nations are nothing but a drop in the bucket,

only a smidgen on the scales by the reckoning of God.

He can pick up entire islands as if they are grains of dirt.

Even if we had all the resources of Lebanon—

all of its trees to burn for fuel, all of its animals for burnt offerings—

How could we think that we’ve got enough to give to God?

All the countries of the world don’t add up to anything. In the eyes of God

they are less than nothing;

they are empty wastelands.

So would you try to find someone to compare to Him?

Can you think of anything that has a likeness to God?

An idol? Hardly. They are made by human hands.

Even if they are overlaid with gold, decorated with silver,

And shaped by the world’s best artisans,

they are subject to tarnish, tearing, and breaking.

Those who cannot afford such an extravagant offering

select a choice hardwood that will not rot,

And seek a skilled artisan to fashion an image

that will not totter and fall.

Don’t you know, haven’t you heard or even been told

from your earliest memories how the earth came to be?

Who else could have done it except God, enthroned high above the earth?

From such a vantage people seem like grasshoppers to Him.

Who else but God could stretch out the skies as if they were a curtain,

draw them tight, suspend them over our heads like the roof of a tent?

God reduces the rulers and judges,

the rich and powerful of the earth, to nothing;

They scarcely are planted, take root and start growing,

before God blows a withering breath,

And storm winds carry them away like chaff.

The Holy One asks, “Do you really think you can find

someone or something to compare to Me? My equal?”

Look at the myriad of stars and constellations above you.

Who set them to burning, each in its place?

Who knows those countless lights each by name?

They obediently shine, each in its place,

because God has the great strength and strong power to make it so.

Why, then, do you, Jacob, inheritors of God’s promise,

you, Israel, chosen of God—

Why do you say, “My troubled path is hidden from the Eternal;

God has lost all interest in My cause”?

Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?

The Eternal, the Everlasting God,

The Creator of the whole world, never gets tired or weary.

His wisdom is beyond understanding.

God strengthens the weary

and gives vitality to those worn down by age and care.

Young people will get tired;

strapping young men will stumble and fall.

But those who trust in the Eternal One will regain their strength.

They will soar on wings as eagles.

They will run—never winded, never weary.

They will walk—never tired, never faint.

The Book (Scroll) of Isaiah, Chapter 40 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, july 18 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that looks at the True Temple who is the Lord the eternal King:

Yeshua foretold the destruction of the Second Temple when he lamented: "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! Behold, your house is left unto you desolate. For I tell you, you will not see me again, until you say, Barukh Haba Ba'shem Adonai: 'Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.' Yeshua then left the Temple and was going away, when his disciples came to point out to him the buildings of the Temple. But he answered them, "You see all these, do you not? Truly, I say to you, there will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down." (Matt. 23:37-24:2). Note well that we are not awaiting the construction of the "Third Temple" which will be hastily erected during the time of Jacob’s Trouble during the Great Tribulation, but we await the "Fourth Temple," that is, the Temple that will be built by Tzemach Tzaddik (צֶמַח צַדִּיק), namely, the Messiah the Son of David (מָשִׁיחַ בֶּן־דָוִד) who will come again to establish the Kingdom of Zion upon the earth in fulfillment of the promises of God (Zech. 6:12; Jer. 23:5). At that glorious time the mourning of the Jewish people will be forgotten, as it is written: "Thus says Adonai Tzeva'ot (יהוה צְבָאוֹת): The fast of the fourth month (Tammuz), and the fast of the fifth month (Tishah B'Av), and the fast of the seventh month (Gedaliah), and the fast of the tenth month (Asarah b'Tevet), will be to the house of Judah for joy and rejoicing and for pleasant appointed seasons. Therefore love truth and peace" (Zech. 8:19). In that coming day, "The LORD will be king over all the earth. On that day the LORD will be one and his name one."

As I’ve mentioned over the years, the word “Zion” (i.e., tziyon: צִיּוֹן) is mentioned over 160 times in the Scriptures. That’s more than the words faith, hope, love, and countless others... And since Zion is a poetic form of the word Jerusalem, the number of occurrences swells to nearly 1,000! It is therefore not an overstatement to say that God Himself is a Zionist.... “Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God shines forth” (Psalm 50:2). Zion represents the rule and reign of God in the earth and is therefore synonymous with the Kingdom of God. The entire redemptive plan of God -- including the coming of the Messiah Himself and our very salvation -- is wrapped up in the concept of Zion. It is the “historiography” of God -- His “philosophy of history,” if you will.

In a sense, the great vision of Zion is the heart of the Gospel message and the focal point of God’s salvation in this world. Zion represents our eschatological future -- our home in olam haba (the world to come). Even the new heavens and earth will be called Jerusalem -- “Zion in her perfection” (Rev. 21). "This is what Adonai Tzeva’ot says: I am very jealous for Jerusalem and Zion, but I am very angry with the nations that feel secure" (Zech. 1:14-15). "For Zion's sake I will not keep silent, for Jerusalem's sake I will not remain quiet, till her righteousness shines out like the dawn, her salvation like a blazing torch" (Isa 62:1). "The builder of Jerusalem is God, the outcasts of Israel he will gather in... Praise God, O Jerusalem, laud your God, O Zion" (Psalm 147:2-12). [Hebrew for Christians]

7.16.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

July 18, 2021

Why Parables?

“And with many such parables spake he the word unto them, as they were able to hear it. But without a parable spake he not unto them: and when they were alone, he expounded all things to his disciples.” (Mark 4:33-34)

There is confusion concerning the parables of Jesus Christ. Was Jesus advocating an alternative form of teaching by using parables? Typically, parables were not the primary method used to impart truth. Look at the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7). Our Lord presented truth clearly in 105 verses and concluded with a parable made up of only five verses.

So, what are biblical parables? A simple definition of a parable comes from the Greek word parabole. The meaning of this word is “throwing” (bole) “alongside” (para), as in the words comparison, illustration, and analogy. With parables there is a connection between spiritual truth and common practice. The lawyer in Luke 10:29 asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbour?” Our Lord answered him by packaging a salvific truth in a parable, using a fictitious gracious Samaritan who lived out in practice what the law demanded. Jesus called out this lawyer’s superficial self-righteousness by calling him to repentance and concluded the story by saying, “Go, and do thou likewise” (Luke 10:37).

While parables explain spiritual truths to the followers of our Lord, they also have the purpose of disguising truth to those hardened hearers who oppose Christ. Understanding parables takes careful detective work. As one pastor warns, “It takes care, hard work, and the Holy Spirit’s guidance to help get it right.”

We must always remember that parables reveal precious nuggets of spiritual truth to believing followers and disguise truth to those antagonistic to the faith. On which side of the equation do you stand? CM

A tweet by the ICR:

@ICRscience: ⛰️ The presence of actual undecayed tissues in fossils found at virtually every level of the geologic column completely undermines evolution's deep-time paradigm.

#FossilRecord #QuoteOfTheDay

7.17.21 • 5:00pm • Twitter

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isayeed-blog · 4 years

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Death, Disbelief and Doctorates

That secular modernity has not come to South Asia has been a source of embarrassment for Western academics and our local intelligentsia, influenced by the former. This should not have come as a surprise if we consider the literature of the region in modern times, especially in its treatment of death. Death is not a problem in South Asia, as it became a problem in Western society. Consider Shakespeare’s reassuring view of death:

Men must endure

Their going hence, even as their coming hither;

Ripeness is all.

And Edmund Spenser happily urged:

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

The poetry produced had a cheerful aspect, which is not to say that dark themes were not discussed. Thus, Hamlet reflects on death, and its afterwards:

To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause

Here, we see every man and woman’s anxiety regarding the posthumous life, if any.

With the Romantics, things appear darker: Death is now a problem. “It is at these extremes of human nature which they know so well how to explore, where horror and delight, love and hate, cruelty and tenderness are indistinguishable, that the Romantics sought a heightened, transformed, superhuman existence which might abolish life as it is actually lived; nationalism is the political expression of this quest....Nationalism looks inwardly, away from and beyond the imperfect world. And this contempt of things as they are, of the world as it is, ultimately becomes a rejection of life, and a love of death (Elie Kedourie, Nationalism (London: Hutchinson & Co Ltd, 1969), p 87).”

But I would add that the loss of religious faith beginning to be felt led to a meaninglessness regarding death, and nationalism as a new secular religion would eventually command men’s allegiance as religion had done.

As Benedict Andersen observes: “...in Western Europe the eighteenth century marks not only the dawn of the age of nationalism but the dusk of religious modes of thought. The century of the Enlightenment, of rationalist secularism, brought with it its own modern darkness. With an ebbing of religious belief, the suffering which belief in part composed did not disappear. Disintegration of paradise: nothing makes fatality more arbitrary. Absurdity of salvation: nothing makes another style of continuity necessary. What then was required was a secular transformation of fatality into continuity, contingency into meaning. As we shall see, few things were (are) better suited to this end than an idea of nation (Imagined Communities, Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 2006) pp 10-11.)” The great religions provide the existential answers to immemorial questions: “Why was I born blind? Why is my best friend paralysed? Why is my daughter retarded?”

In addition, language confers a sort of vicarious immortality - the syllables survive as soul. As Andersen quotes: “Yes, it is quite accidental that I am born French; but after all, France is eternal (p 12).”

Peter Berger put his finger on it when he wrote that religion - the “sacred canopy” - protects the believer, and his or her community, from the possibility that life has neither meaning nor purpose (Grace Davie, The Sociology of Religion (New Delhi, SAGE: 2008), p 53). “What happens to us when we die?”, according to Davie (p 19), has become a pivotal social and sociological question today.

How wonderful is Death,

Death and his brother Sleep!

Thus begins Shelley’s utopian poem, Queen Mab. But he went on to be more personal than that: in Stanzas Written in Dejection near Naples, he contemplates his death as a release from despair. Like a tired child, he would lie down and weep away a life of care

Till death like sleep might steal on me,

And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea

Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

The atheist, evicted from Oxford for his polemic The Necessity of Atheism, still yearned for immortality which he found in scenes of desolation:

I love all waste

And solitary places; where we taste

The pleasure of believing what we see

Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be

Byron’s perfervid regret at being alive echoes even today with lyrical pathos:

Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen,

Count o’er thy days from anguish free,

And know, whatever thou hast been,

’Tis something better not to be.

And every schoolchild knows Keats’s famous death-wish:

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.

These dark themes fructify, if that’s the word, into “the beginning of the coming universal wish not to live”, as the advanced doctor informs Jude in the novel by Thomas Hardy, inspired, again, if that’s the word, by the dour philosophy of Schopenhauer.

Modern Bengali literature dates, somewhat inauspiciously, from the founding of Fort William College in 1800. Education was soon to be Anglicised - and occidentalised. Lord William Bentinck put an end to the employment of the vernacular. From 1830, public instruction was to be in English.

The era of Rabindranath Tagore (1890-1930) witnessed the poet’s prolific output. Translations can ill convey the lyrical beauty of his poetry. He was heavily influenced by the Romantics, not only in the form of his poetry, but also in his love of nature. However, he - and his successors - showed little preoccupation with life’s absurdity and hardly shared the former’s obsession with death. Death is not a problem in South Asia. Indeed, it seems difficult for the South Asian mind to think beyond religion. The other function of religion - to promote social bonding, as Davie observes (p 19) - seems eminently fulfilled in these parts: the group encapsulates one throughout one’s entire lifetime. A poet may die so young, as Auden put it, but here he or she will scarcely ever live for years alone. Although the Hofstede individualism index must be treated with caution, a low score for Bangladesh rather adequately describes the “embeddedness” of the individual in society. “Bangladesh, with a score of 20 is considered a collectivistic society. This is manifest in a close long-term commitment to the member ‘group’, be that a family, extended family, or extended relationships. Loyalty in a collectivist culture is paramount, and over-rides most other societal rules and regulations. The society fosters strong relationships where everyone takes responsibility for fellow members of their group.”

The expectation that religion will, or should disappear, is a Western expectation. And when it doesn’t, the outcome is considered illegitimate. That would not have mattered had the disappointment been restricted to Western scholars and academics. Our academics, heavily influenced, share the expectation, turning the universities into citadels of alienation (as Hugh Tinker observed with regard to communism). The international “faculty club” observed by Peter Berger, the globalisation of academia, shares a subculture of animosity towards religion, just as it shared animosity towards capitalism at one time during the Cold War. Scholars bring back more than PhDs from the London School of Economics.

“If Europe is not the global prototype,” intones Grace Davie in defence of her book, “both Europe and European scholars have everything to learn from cases other than their own. Not least among such lessons is the importance of taking the religious factor seriously, and in public as well as private life. Taking religion seriously, moreover, is greatly facilitated by the assumption that you expect it to be there, as an integral, normal part of modern as well as modernising societies. That is the assumption embedded in the argument of this book (p 109).”

The 2001 British Census threw up a surprise. Those with “no religion” did not happen to be clustered in the large conurbations of the industrial North of Britain, but in “a markedly different group of cities in the South, very often those where a university and its employees form a sizeable section of the population (p 92).”

Analytic thinking predisposes people to religious scepticism, argues Ara Norenzayan. As an example, he picks a puzzle from Daniel Kahneman’s book Thinking, Fast and Slow.

A bat and a ball cost $1.10 in total. The bat costs $1.00 more than the ball. How much does the ball cost?

The intuitive answer - 10 cents - is wrong. The correct answer is 5 cents. “Participants who were more likely to overrule the intuitive answer were also less likely to believe in God (Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), p 182).” Slow thinking, rather than fast thinking yields greater caution in belief.

“What about entire subcultures where analytic thinking is the gold standard, inculcated every day? These subcultures are called universities. And indeed, this link between analytic thought and disbelief might explain the overrepresentation of disbelievers among the more educated classes (p 185).”

He ought to have added, “In WEIRD societies.” [= White, Educated, Industrialised, Rich, Democratic] For this doesn’t appear to happen here. For evidence that socialisation rather than analytic thinking makes us cautious in belief-claims, look no further than the hatriots churned out of universities in Bangladesh. These people are in a cultural fix: with their Western drinking-buddies, they must don an analytic hat; with their local confreres, they must doff the cap. For our university graduates have more in common with high school dropouts in Paris than with the Sorbonne graduates: they are as nationalist as the National Rally voters and not at all likely, in private, to receive with approbation Emmanuel Macron’s elitist barb: the leprosy of nationalism.

He echoes and amplifies the words of Norman Davies regarding Europe before the Great War: “The educated, multilingual cosmopolitan elite of Europe grew weaker, the half-educated national masses, who thought of themselves only as Frenchmen, Germans, English or Russians, grew stronger.”

Collective life will always trump individual rationality in Bangladesh, and, indeed, South Asia.

#rationalisty #religion #secularisation #south asia #bangladesh #nationalism

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naturepointstheway · 7 years

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“Inanimate” Chapter 5

Finally, the last chapter of “Inanimate”! I would especially like feedback on the first part with Agathe and the prince and Adam, as it seems too...quick. So it’d be awesome to get feedback on that before I put it on AO3 and ff.net. Otherwise, enjoy the final installment in this fic! Make sure you have a spot of time, as it’s just over 7000 words!

Tagging @morgaine2005 @chooseandact

Inanimate - Chapter Five

He isn’t sure if she is mocking him with her cool greeting, but either way, he grips on tighter to Belle’s hand, as though to give him strength to help him hold his temper at bay. He could control his temper far better now than before, but damn if there were moments like now where it threatened to rip loose out of him.

I can’t lose my temper now, not if I want my servants free again.

He has to control his temper, has to show he’s worthy of being listened to this time. Prove that he has changed for the better, that he is no longer the selfish and tempestuous man he used to be before the curse was laid upon the castle.

For all the thoughts that are whirling through his head right now in search of anything, anything to say to this Enchantress, he only manages a single word.

“Why?”

The enchantress tilted her head at the question, but did not dignify him with an answer.

“Why?” he demanded again, drawing to full height, “Why save me and not my servants? The Italian musicians?”

“I saw Belle loved you. I heard her confession of love as I watched by the petal-less rose.”

His world spun for a moment, even in the midst of his indignation.

It had fallen. The last petal had fallen.

“Adam?”

Belle’s arm had come around his waist, supporting him. He took a deep breath, steeling his shoulders, his will, eyes never wavering from the Enchantress’s.

“If you could save me even after the last petal had fallen, then why not the servants? If you could bring me back to full human form, then why not them?”

“But you love Belle.”

Of course I love Belle! Why—

Then Belle said it, her voice angry and somehow betrayed at the same time.

“Romantic love isn’t the only kind of love worthy of recognition, Agathe!”

Agathe tilted her head, looking over at Belle now. “Isn’t it the most important to humankind?”

This time, both Belle and Adam spoke the same word, emphatic in its single sound, firm and quietly furious.

“No.”

“The first love anyone knows when they’re born, Agathe,” Belle began, her voice hard and yet compassionate at the same time, “Is that of a family’s love. Do you not understand that?”

I understand, Adam thought, recalling when he had seen Belle at her most vulnerable moment when she discovered what had happened to her mother.

“She’s right,” Adam agreed, holding her closer to him, “It is a mother’s love—is that love any less or more worthy than romance?”

“And a—” Belle stopped herself midsentence, her eyes locking with his, shining with tears, “A good father’s love.”

He dropped a quick, devoted kiss on the top of her head, sure that it was impossible to have fallen even more in love with her than before.

“Yes, Belle,” he murmured, and letting her go, he stepped toward the Enchantress, voice shaking with hidden fury. “Would you dare look me in the eyes and say my love for my dear, departed mother is unworthy? Say it, Agathe. Say it. Tell me that my mother’s, and Belle’s mother and father’s love is less important than romantic love. Say it!”

“Why do you wish me to say it?”

“Because you clearly believe it to be so.” His words grew in volume, untethered in their indignation, “Tell me if I’m wrong, but do you believe the love of friends and family insignificant in the presence of romantic love?” Adam’s glare is hot iron, burning into her eyes as he continued. “Will you refuse to acknowledge the pain you must know I’m going through right now, knowing my friends—who were as close as family—are gone, forever, and knowing every hour of every day since that I am at fault for it too.”

“He’s right,” Belle agreed, “He loved his servants, and his servants loved him in return, despite his flaws.”

“He was spoilt, selfish, and unkind.”

“So you cursed him for being human? You cursed the servants for simply not doing anything?” Belle demanded. “What could they have done against a king?”

“More,” the Enchantress responded, face still neutral as ever, but the prince is sure he saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

“They were servants,” the prince argued, “They had jobs at stake! If they disobeyed the king, even in good intentions, they would have been fired…or worse.” He swallowed, trying not to imagine all the gruesome ways his father could have executed the servants before his own eyes as a child—and his father would have made damn sure he witnessed every second of it. “If they ever were at fault, then it was for wanting to keep their jobs at the castle and their own goddamn lives at worst. And thank God for that—because now I know how lifeless the castle is without them. No laughter, no love, no warmth. Why?”

His heart nearly stopped mid-step as another terrible thought hit him.

The Enchantress as good as executed them and left their remains for me to find.

Of all the things his father could have done, now he knew none would have been as graphic as any execution the Enchantress could—and had—come up with.

“And why me and my household in particular? Why not any one of hundreds of others out there who possess no hearts?”

“Remember Gaston?” Belle cut in, “Or the other villagers who made it known how they felt about me? Why not them?”

“They are not the rulers of a village.” Agathe said, “They did not tax the poor to fill their house with grandeur.”

Adam’s shoulders sagged. “Actions I look back upon and regret.”

“They showed more compassion than the prince had to an old beggar woman—”

“Gaston would never have shown you the least of compassion, let alone take you in to their home! Agathe, many in the village saw you as just “that old spinster”.” Belle argued, “How are they any different than how the prince had been before you turned him into a Beast?”

“They do not have riches to tax their people with, as princes and nobles do.”

Belle shook her head. “You can be poor and still a terrible person, Agathe. Have you not seen how the village treated me, aside from the very few who treated me well? For all the people there, it was a lonely village. Almost as lonely as the prince’s castle.”

Now even lonelier with the loss of my servants.

“I have my own reasons for why I did what I had to do,” the Enchantress said, “I only wished to warn the Prince if he doesn’t change, worse would be to come.”

“Like what?” Adam demanded.

She simply turned unreadable eyes on him. “France is changing, and her monarchy and nobility will soon be in fatal straits. You are one of the few who still had an inkling of warmth in his heart. Forgotten too long, but then remembered in time.”

“What is it that you see changing?”

“It is not for me to reveal what the future will hold. This is all I can tell you, I have told you as many of my reasons as I could, Prince Adam, for why I had to do what I did.”

“Why are you being so cryptic?”

“The future is not to be divulged to those unknowing of it,” the Enchantress now offered a small smile, “I’m afraid I cannot tell you more than what I have.”

The prince would have continued to argue with her, but a sudden, heavy tiredness sagged into his bones, the fatigue of sorrow and forgotten hunger now returning to him. Strange how even a conversation—especially an emotional one—just wore him out so much more easily now. He was just so…tired, the energy of confrontation having drained him much too easily in the midst of all this pain and sorrow.

Whatever future she can see, I don’t want any part in it, if my servants are not free and human too.

Closing his eyes, the image of his servants in their inanimate forms flashed against the undersides of his eyelids. He tried to remember what they had looked like once upon a time, tried to imagine them being human again, free to do anything, even leave the castle.

I wouldn’t stop them either.

He opened his eyes, and turned to gaze upon Belle one last time, hoping she saw all the love he had for her.

I love you, Belle.

Turning back again, he drew closer to the Enchantress, who did not waver from where she stood. He was ready to do anything, anything so long as his servants were returned to human life.

“I have told Belle once that I would willingly endure the pain of returning to Beast form, giving up my humanity for good, if it meant my servants—my family, blood relatedness be damned—will be human again. I love Belle with all my heart, but I love my servants too, perhaps just as much.”

The Enchantress’s eyebrows arched up to her hairline in a show of surprise.

“You would give up your humanity in exchange for theirs?”

“Yes. My servants—my friends—didn’t abandon me even when I was at my worst, and I will not abandon them to their fate if I can help it. If you can bring me back to humanity, then you can give them back their humanity too. If it takes me returning to Beast form forever to do it, then I, Prince Adam, command you to do it. Even at the cost of my humanity, if not my own life.”

The Enchantress quietly considered him, eyes never wavering from the prince’s face.

“And the villagers,” he added, “If it means the villagers will remember their loved ones at the castle again, and reunite with them. My life and memories for theirs, Enchantress.”

Was it just his imagination, or did the Enchantress’s lips curl at one corner in the smallest hint of a smile?

“You have changed, Prince Adam.”

He shook his head. “I do not care to know how much I have changed, as long as I am too aware that my servants have not regained their own human forms.”

“You are willing to sacrifice your own humanity for your servants’ lives, and the villagers’ memories.”

The Enchantress regarded him and Belle for what felt like forever, before she finally spoke again, but whatever Adam expected her to say, it certainly wasn’t what he thought it would be.

“Take me to your castle.”

The prince expected another long walk back to the castle, and he wondered how on Earth they would get there before nightfall. It would be a long, dark walk through the forest, even with a bright moon up.

“Why are you taking us back to the castle, Agathe?” Belle asked of her, her voice fraying with her own impatience. “What is the point of this?”

“You will see,” was their only answer.

“See what?” Adam demanded, almost tripping over an unseen rock, hand gripping Belle’s shoulder to steady himself, “See what I have done to all those who live in the village and the castle? Believe me—”

“No, it is not for that.”

“Then what is it for?”

“You will see. Stop.”

They halted in their tracks as Agathe held up a hand, before pointing off in another direction. The sun had already set below the treeline, cool rays filtering through the leaves, coating them in weak light. It would not be long before stars peeked through shivering leaves as owls hooted softly from high in the branches.

“We must have sustenance before moving on,” she told them, “My home is this way.”

“Wait, you have a house?” Belle asked, surprise plain for all to hear.

“It’s modest, but comfortable.”

Modest and comfortable were the perfect adjectives to describe the Enchantress’s small abode in a well-hidden part of the forest. But it was the scents that caught Adam’s attention first—earthy herbs, wildflowers, and fresh soil danced in his senses. He flinched a little when he heard the screech of some sort of unseen animal.

“Athena, yes, I’m home.” On Belle and Adam’s enquiring look, she explained, “Athena is my owl.”

Agathe’s home was a small wooden home with an outside porch sheltered by overhanging tree branches and a small roof. On the porch stood several careworn chairs that nonetheless looked achingly inviting to Adam’s weary body which was now crying out for somewhere to rest his aching feet upon.

I do not think I have ever walked this much in one day in my whole life.

“Take a seat, any seat,” Agathe waved over at the seats on the porch, “We will rest and eat for a few hours before continuing. There is a bright moon out tonight.”

Belle and Adam took their places on the largest sofa next to each other, his beloved snuggling into his side, her head resting on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. She always looked so peaceful with her eyes closed, and he couldn’t resist stroking the side of her face, smiling when her lips curved up in a small smile at his tender touch.

Oh Belle, how could I ever tell you how deep my love runs for you? I love you, God as my witness, I love you so much more than anyone could ever say.

The food and drink Agathe served up was simple—large bready buns heavy with herbs, and some peculiar slightly bitter-tasting liquid in small mugs. At first, Adam had been wary of the food—as had Belle—but hunger won out. When he bit into the floury bread, he suddenly realised just how little he had been eating the last couple days. Maybe Agathe had put some enchantment in the food and drink, but his stomach suddenly became more welcoming of the sustenance without so much as a complaint or hint of reluctance. He even managed to have a second bun, but declined to have another sip of the bitter drink with what he presumed to be herbs floating in the liquid. When he and Belle finished their little meal, Agathe offered another small smile.

“Now you have more energy to continue the trek, if you are ready.”

At least Agathe was right about the bright moon tonight, shining through leaves stencilled against the stars, lighting the earthy path as the Enchantress led them onward to the castle. The heavy bread and bitter drink felt heavy in his stomach, but nor did he feel ill from the meal. His legs did not wobble with weariness, nor his feet ache with fatigue. Nor did he feel drowsy, though sure that the hour must have been growing late. Time didn’t seem to exist, how late the hour a complete mystery. All he could do now was follow the Enchantress, praying she would finally put things to right, that his servants would once again be human. All he could do now in the presence of owls’ hoots and a restless breeze rustling through the trees was hold on to Belle’s hand, hers just as tight on his.

After what seemed to him like hours of walking—at least a couple hours anyway, judging by how much the moon had moved in the sky overhead—they finally arrived at their destination, the palace shining in the moonlight. Adam’s heart clenched as he saw just how dark it was inside. There was always at least a few torches lit, especially outside, but not even one wick burned tonight. No light but for the moon staring down at the land far, far below. The castle gates loomed before them, the iron rungs glinting and glowing with the moonlight falling over them. The shadows of the rungs fell over the ground, stretching over their feet where they stood.

“Allow me to open them,” Agathe whispered, raising a hand to the gate. “I have done it once before.”

A loud, metallic clang rang in the couple’s ears, telling them the lock had been undone, even though all the Enchantress had done was raise a hand, and had not touched the gate at all.

“Follow me.”

As Belle and Adam followed the Enchantress, the gates creaking shut behind them, he allowed his mind to wander over the sight of the courtyard bathed by the light of the moon. Flowers looked so different at night, their blooms closed to the stars, waiting for the sun to rise again. The water spouting from the marble fountains turned into streams of liquid pearl under the moon’s touch, dissolving in the water at its base, winking with broken moonlight. Something about it gave him that utter sense of calmness, soothing his sorrows like fine red wine.

The magic of the moment shattered when they came upon the steps of the main entrance into the castle. Though the moonlight cast the silent musicians mostly into shadow, the silhouettes of a wardrobe and harpsichord still stood out in sharp relief. And now, to Adam’s stricken eyes, the moonlight suddenly became cold and harsh, delivering a slap to his face with the reminder of all that had been done.

He clenched his eyes shut, trying not to sway too much on his feet, desperately thinking of Belle’s warm hand clutching his.

Belle is here, she’s right here, holding my hand. Belle, Belle, Belle…

“These were the musicians, am I not mistaken?”

His eyes fluttered open, seeing that Agathe had stopped right between the wardrobe and the harpsichord.

“Yes,” Adam managed, “Madame de Garderobe and Maestro Cadenza. And we would have brought them inside too, were they not so impossible to carry in their forms.”

“And the others?”

Adam started to explain, but his voice caught in his throat, choking out any words that might have come.

“He laid them to rest in the servants’ quarters—Lumiere and Plumette with each other, and Mrs Potts with Chip,” Belle explained on his behalf, “And believe me, I was there when we carried them there. If you had seen how he broke down in my arms after, perhaps you would have realised how much he loved them.”

Adam inhaled a shaky breath, gesturing at the harpsichord and wardrobe with his hands. “I may have met them before that night, but believe me, I care about the Maestro and Madame too.” His voice hardened, summoning more courage from somewhere in him. “Now is your chance, Enchantress, to show you will return them to human form.”

Silence from the Enchantress, silence that seemed to stretch forever, her silhouette framed by moonlight. When she finally spoke, it was in a voice no louder than a whisper.

“When the sun rises, Prince Adam, all will be well within the castle, everyone returned to humanity. The villagers will awake at sunrise, their memories restored.”

“Promise?”

Silence, and then—

“Yes. Now go, sleep, and you will see all is well in the morning at sunrise.”

Without another word, the Enchantress glided past them, back down the steps, not looking back at them even once. Belle and Adam remained silent, arms around each other, as they watched her disappear into the darkness of the courtyard, the distant creak of gates cutting through the night as she returned to the forest.

“I don’t think I could sleep tonight,” Belle confessed.

“Nor will I,” the prince agreed, leaning his head on Belle’s, “But much as I distrust her, she is right. We must at least sleep even a little while.”

Arm in arm, they walked up the rest of the steps, both turning at the same time to look at the wardrobe. Belle began to reach out toward the wardrobe, but then withdrew her hand, hesitant, instead letting it drop back by her side.

“She sung so beautifully,” Belle murmured, “I can’t help but miss her singing now.”

“Europe has been bereft of her voice and memory for far too long.”

“You will sing again, Madame,” Belle said to the wardrobe that once was the opera singer, “And as a human, not a wardrobe.” A pause, then, to the prince, “She won’t hear me, yet…”

“It’s alright, Belle,” Adam stopped her, “It’s not silly at all. I did it all the time in my mother’s rose garden. Until—until father stopped me. Said only fools did that.”

“He was absolutely wrong,” Belle declared, sounding indignant on his behalf, “I don’t think it is foolish at all.”

“I don’t think so either, my love.”

With that mutual reassurance, they fell quiet again, regarding the wardrobe they prayed would be human again come the sunrise. Adam looked down to see the footstool, remembering how it had once been the opera singer’s lapdog.

“You were a good boy,” he told it, “You didn’t deserve any of this—the Enchantress had better restore you too.”

Standing up, he turned around, as did Belle at the same time, to regard Cadenza, or at least, the harpsichord that once had been the musician.

“Europe needs your music, Maestro. I only hope you will be allowed to make fine music again as a man, not a harpsichord.”

If only they could somehow hear us, even now.

Taking one last look at Cadenza, Garderobe, and Frou-Frou, the couple turned to face the entryway into the castle. A chill ran down Adam’s spine as he stared into the darkness of the entranceway, yawning away into what seemed to be nothing but the pitch black of night.

Is this how Belle and her father felt the first time they walked into this dark, still castle?

Suddenly, he wanted to stay out here, even though the air had already become cool enough that goose-bumps leapt up along his arms. But he had to be strong, he had to believe that the castle would return to its days in the sun.

Taking a deep breath, holding Belle close to his side, he slowly made his way into the castle, but not to their own rooms. Instead, they headed down the hall leading to the servants’ wing, where they could stay in the sitting area until dawn finally swept over the castle. The thought of getting a few hours’ sleep made him feel even sleepier than before, a deep drowsiness overcoming him, and he had to force his eyes to stay open.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Belle asked just as his hand touched the door handle. “We can turn and go back to our rooms now.”

The prince stalled as he asked himself how sure he was that he wished to return to what he knew was a wing devoid of life.

If the Enchantress keeps her promise, it won’t so lifeless by dawn.

“Stay with me,” he murmured.

Opening the door, the prince stepped inside, letting out a slow breath in an effort to steady himself, to try to keep himself together. He had Belle at his side, she would not abandon him, not now, not ever. He would not be completely alone in here, as long as she was at his side.

“Perhaps we should look for some blankets?” Belle suggested, “I believe there are spare ones in my room.”

A shiver up his spine from the cool night air had him nodding and murmuring his agreement.

“I won’t take too long,” she promised, “Just sit down somewhere. I’ll be back.”

Feeling his way into the room as Belle departed to find some blankets, the prince eventually found a sofa to flop down on, lying back on it with his head tucked up against one armrest, and his feet against the other. The cushions and material was so soft, so comforting, like a warm embrace. Or did it only feel comfortable because he was so sleepy?

I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes…

Someone was shaking him awake, gently calling his name. With a jolt, he woke up, only to find it was Belle leaning over him, her facial features just discernible in the deep blue pre-dawn light. He realised sub-consciously that a couple blankets had been draped over him—Belle’s work, no doubt.

“Adam?”

“Mm—I’m awake.”

“Adam, it’s just dawn now,” Belle whispered, “I had thought I should go down to be with Maestro Cadenza and Madame de Garderobe to be with them when they become human again. But I can stay here if you desire me to. I just thought if you’d rather have a few minutes alone with the servants while I’m with the musicians, I will understand.”

Much as he would have loved to have Belle with him, at the same time, he felt he would be grateful for a few minutes alone with his servants. Besides, the musician couple outside would be confused were they to turn human again only to find no one else around.

“Thank you, Belle—best you keep the musicians company so there’s someone there with them when they become human.”

“Are you sure?”

Adam managed a weak smile. “Very sure.”

“Then it’s settled.”

They shared a soft kiss for a few moments, before Belle pulled back, tucking strands of his hair behind his ear with tender fingers.

“I love you, Adam.”

“You too, my love.”

One last, quick kiss on the lips, and Belle straightened up, turning and walking away, departing from the servants’ wing, leaving Adam alone with his still sleepy thoughts. But he couldn’t go back to sleep now that it fully hit him that it was dawn.

Pushing the blanket off himself, the prince raised himself to his feet, walking to a window that faced east over the gardens. Though the sun had not yet peeped out from beyond the horizon, the eastern sky glowed yellow, melting into the pale blue unique to dawn. The clouds hovering in the east seemed to glow with an intense red-orange hue, spilling lighter shades of pink onto other clouds in the sky. He tried to imagine that same light flowing over the rose garden that had been so dear to his mother, and how the flowers would be brushed in soft dawn hues. Somewhere, he could hear a chorus of birds heralding the coming dawn, and he closed his eyes, praying in that moment that once sunrise came, the servants would be able to see and hear the peace of dawn once again.

It would be even more enchanting, if only you were all human again.

A memory, unbidden, tip-toed into his head of how he would often sit on his mother’s lap as a small child, cuddled up in her arms, watching at a window as the dawn stretched sleepily over the sky, staining the clouds with puddles of pink and brushes of orange and red. How she would sing her favourite lullaby to him as the east yawned golden light, leaving behind wonderful colours as it stretched into the sky.

Days in the sun, where my life has barely begun…

Casting his eyes away from the dawn, Adam looked around at the silent quarters, still so quiet, the doors shut, leaving them to rest in peace. They had all been so loyal to him all his life, never leaving even when they could have done so. How did he ever deserve such loyalty and love from them? They didn’t have to stay, not even when they were still humans, and yet they did, even despite his cruellest and darkest days as a prince before the curse. How could he ever repay their loyalty and love?

Not until my whole life is done, will I ever leave you.

But as the dawn lightened until everything inside and outside was in sharp relief, his tension and deep fear grew. He tried to push the thoughts away, the ones that asked what if it was a lie, but still they persisted. What if the Enchantress had tricked them? What if the sun rose and rose until it was already midday, and still it was all too still in the castle, the spell still upon his subjects?

No—no, I have to be strong. For their sake. For Belle’s sake. For mine.

Then—the first peek of the sun, an intensely bright sliver of gold flashing on the eastern horizon. He tried to listen for anything, anything that would tell him all was well, closing his eyes as he strained his ears as much as possible.

Please come back, please come back…

His shoulders tensed, arms wrapping around himself as he stood there, brow furrowed, eyes shut, desperately begging for a sign, any sign that all was well. The sun was already rising, its light intensifying under his closed eyelids.

His eyes flew open at the sound of a door clicking open, its movement caught in his peripheral vision. Forgetting the sunrise, he whirled around, eyes wide, barely breathing, hardly daring to believe it was real. But there—there! One of the doors was opening, opening—slowly pushed aside to reveal a very stunned-looking Chapeau, who stood in the doorway to his own room.

Human, he’s human, not a cloak hanger.

Chapeau was as tall as the prince remembered him to be—or was he just a little taller than before, as though some remnant of the tall cloak hanger remained in him? His clothes were as immaculate as ever, golden shoes—once the feet of a cloak hanger—standing out against the man’s otherwise all black attire.

Chapeau. He’s Chapeau. Human. Human again.

Chapeau turned his head, face breaking out in an expression of great astonishment on seeing the prince. His mouth opened once, twice, as though he wanted to say something, but the words would not come. Giving up on verbalising whatever he had intended to say, Chapeau simply bowed—as deep a bow as the prince ever had seen him do--in Adam’s direction, and when he straightened up again, there was a great, relieved grin on his face. The prince couldn’t help but smile back in return, a small one to be sure, but no less relieved than Chapeau’s.

“Human again!” Chapeau exalted as he held up his pale hands, staring from one to the other in amazement, before looking back at the prince again, “Thank you, my Prince.”

Adam could only nod in acknowledgement of Chapeau’s gesture of gratitude and respect.

Both men turned their heads to the sound of another door handle jiggling, Adam watching with bated breath as it, after what seemed an eternity, finally opened to reveal Cogsworth leaning on his cane, a monocle held up to an eye. No longer a clock made of springs and gears and wood and metal. Now he was once again an elderly stout man, decorated in medals of past victories in battles, his buttons’ engraved Roman numerals a ghost of the clock he once had been. Now, at last, he was human again. Adam could breathe just a little easier now.

Cogsworth. Chapeau.

Cogsworth’s mouth fell open when he finally made eye contact with the prince, blue eyes wide with surprise at the sight of the human prince still standing at the window.

“Prince Adam!” he exclaimed, all smiles and movement as he began to shuffle in the prince’s direction. “True love really did save the day!”

Adam swallowed back his guilt, trying to smile anyway, glad Cogsworth and Chapeau didn’t seem any the wiser about what had happened—for now anyway. Perhaps when Belle came back, and he knew everyone were no longer inanimate, lifeless house-ware, then he might gather together whatever strength he could to explain.

“True love,” Adam echoed, as Chapeau walked across the room to join him and Cogsworth as well. “At first, anyway.”

He hoped neither would notice how his voice cracked, choked back with unshed tears of relief, or see the way his eyes shifted downward, or how his hand tightened on the window sill as he leaned heavily on the wall next to it. But despite that hope he had somehow hid his turmoil from them, Chapeau had apparently seen through it anyway.

“Something amiss, Prince Adam?” Chapeau asked.

Prince Adam bit back a sigh, lifting his head back up, not quite meeting their concerned gazes.

“I think…it is better if I explain when Belle returns,” was all he managed before he couldn’t trust his voice not to shake, not to halt or choke midsentence.

“I did wonder why I was back in my room,” Cogsworth mused aloud.

“As did I,” Chapeau agreed.

“When Belle—” Adam took a deep breath, “When she returns…”

“Speaking of, where is the girl?” Cogsworth looked around the room, turning a little to look behind him.

“She is with the Maestro and Madame outside—so they won’t be alone when they become human, after all that has happened.”

Chapeau turned to look at him, “What had happened?”

But before Adam could try to muster up the strength to explain, another door opened—this time, Mrs Potts’ room. But the first person to emerge was not the woman, but Chip, who was no longer a little teacup, but a human boy all of four or five years of age. He froze as soon as he spotted the three men standing together, but his eyes fixated completely on the prince.

“MAMA!” he shrieked back into the room, running back inside, “Mama, come quick!”

Not half a second later, Chip re-emerged, now pulling a broadly smiling Mrs Potts by her hand.

She’s alive. Chip and Mrs Potts are alive. They’re here! Human!

“Mrs Potts!” Adam blurted out, his legs now finding enough strength to rush him to where the lady was, “Chip!”

The prince stopped short of Mrs Potts, who looked at him with bright, proud eyes, the smile, if possible, becoming even more delighted as she reached out to take his face in her hands, reminding the prince of how his own mother used to do the same.

“I knew you could do it, Adam,” she said, “See? We’re all here now.”

Adam’s vision wavered, a burning behind his eyes as he threw his arms around Mrs Potts in a tight embrace, leaning his forehead on her shoulder, savouring the feeling of hugging another real, living person he’d had come to care about so much since childhood. No longer a fragile teapot who had to watch what she did lest she broke, but now a fully grown human woman whom, while nurturing and warm, was also refreshingly honest and no-nonsense.

Her hands came up and alighted on his back in a small, but no less heartfelt, hug, giving him a small comforting pat with a hand.

“It’s alright now,” she assured him, “We’re all here again. I foresee no cold tea in your future.”

Adam managed the weakest of laughs as he lifted his head off her shoulder, letting go of her. He could see her eyes were brighter than before.

“I’m proud of you, and I like to think we all are.”

The prince nodded, too moved to trust himself to speak—but Mrs Potts seemed to understand anyway. An insistent tugging on his shirt diverted his attention downward toward Chip, who was grinning up at him, the gap between his front teeth an echo of the crack in the rim of his old teacup form.

“I’m a little boy again!” he exclaimed at the prince, “Can I hug you?”

How could anyone, least of all the prince, say no to such a charming request? At once, Adam knelt down to the boy’s level, and pulled him into a warm hug, feeling the little boy’s arms curl around his neck.

“I like you lots more as a human than as a Beast,” Chip commented.

“Chip!” his mother admonished gently.

But Adam didn’t mind a bit—to be honest, he rather agreed a hundred percent with the child. Pulling back from the hug, his hands on the boy’s shoulders, he raised a hand to ruffle Chip’s hair playfully.

“I like me better as a man than a Beast too, Chip.”

Standing up, he took a moment to glance around the room, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Plumette and Lumiere were nowhere to be seen. A tremor of fear crawled down his spine.

Oh dear God, don’t tell me they’re still inanimate.

Cogsworth seemed to have noticed this as well.

“Where’s Lumiere and Plumette?” he asked, a deep concern setting into his aged features.

“I put both of them in Lumiere’s room,” the prince explained, remembering all too vividly when he and Belle had carried the couple to the servants’ quarters, “I didn’t want to part them even as inanimate objects. If they’ve…returned, I expect they’re likely having a private moment together.”

A little shiver seemed to go through Cogsworth as he turned around to stare intently at the prince, some sort of realisation deep in his eyes.

“Stop me if I am mistaken, Master, but from what you are saying, you saw us in our inanimate forms after we had…faded away.”

A nod. Cogsworth bowed his head in deep empathy.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“And you brought us all up here?” Chapeau asked.

“Belle and I—we both did.” A deep breath here, looking around at the gathered household staff and Chip, “I—I cannot begin to put into words how—how terrible it was,” he caught Mrs Potts’ eye, “I didn’t think I would experience a worse loss than when mother passed away, but for the last two days…”

Chapeau exhaled audibly, his face white, clearly shaken. Cogsworth appeared stricken by the news, hand tightening on his cane.

“Two days?” Cogsworth echoed.

Adam felt more than saw Mrs Potts approach his side, one of her arms coming up to hug his shoulders, squeezing gently with her hand. When he glanced at her, he could see a tear rolling down her cheek.

“I cannot imagine how awful you must have felt, even if you had Belle for company.” Cogsworth shook his head with unspoken regret for all that his prince had to go through.

“If it weren’t for her, I believe I probably would’ve just…wasted away,” Adam confessed, “It was only because of her insistence that I had eaten anything at all.” He offered Mrs Potts a small, ironic smile. “I may have drank one or two cups of cold tea. In the dark.”

Mrs Potts looked like she was searching for something else to say to this, but everyone’s attention was then distracted by the last door starting to open. Adam’s breath caught in his throat, heart pounding—were Plumette and Lumiere alright after all?

Adam exhaled in dizzying relief when the head that popped out of the door to look out at them all was Plumette’s. Her eyes stared up at them in wonder, her face breaking out into a small, relieved smile before she disappeared back into the room, but did not close the door. Adam could only presume she was talking to Lumiere, and he wasn’t wrong, for the door was then pushed open all the way, revealing the maitre’d in full human form, no longer a cold, unlit candelabra. What once had been lifelessness was now a grown man full of his old life and energy. The prince could not think of a time when he had been more relieved to see Lumiere’s human features, no longer encased in stiff, immovable gold. Once again, he had the familiar blue eyes Adam knew so well—gone now were the embossed gold irises that passed for eyes in his candelabra form.

“Oh! My prince!” Lumiere greeted Adam, bowing to the prince with a great flourish of an arm, still as theatrical as always. Adam couldn’t help but smile in overwhelming relief at this.

As Adam paced from where the others were standing, toward Plumette and Lumiere, he paused as the former gave a little curtsey to him.

“Plumette,” he addressed her, “Thank heavens you’re here.” Then he turned to Lumiere, who was holding his arms out as if expecting a hug. Rendered speechless again by emotion, the prince threw his arms around Lumiere in a fierce embrace, closing his eyes in relief that he finally had his closest friend back too—now full of life and human again. This was the Lumiere he knew, full of vivaciousness and cheerfulness, not sombre, lifeless, his spark stolen by the last petal of that cursed rose.

Lumiere finally pulled back from the embrace, still grinning, hands clasping Adam’s arms—were they always that warm before? But at least now they were warm, and not replaced by candlesticks.

“Hello old friend.”

Adam nodded, managing a genuine smile himself—it was hard not to with Lumiere’s infectious cheer—relief singing through him that he knew at least now they were all here—and he sorely hoped the same could be said for the musicians too.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Adam conceded, before Lumiere pulled him into another strong hug, quicker than the first one, but no less sincere.

They parted their embrace when another distant sound, the most beautiful, wonderful sounds floated up from down the hallway, Adam’s heart in his throat.

Is that the musicians? Say it is so!

Then—his heart soared to the heavens on hearing Belle’s shouting that the musicians were well, my love! The musicians are human again! Frou-Frou was a dog again! All was well! The Enchantress had promised them the truth after all! Adam’s jaw dropped when he saw that indeed the musicians were both human again, resplendent in their dramatic costumes from the night the Enchantress had visited.

“Adam!” Belle gasped, hands clapping over her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at the now-human castle residents. “Oh Adam! All is well!”

He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help tearing away from the others to grab her in a strong embrace, dipping her with a fierce, thankful kiss, feeling it returned with equal fervour.

We are alive, so, so, alive!

When they finally parted the kiss, then there was Chip’s exuberant voice again, shouting for Belle’s attention.

“Belle! It’s me! It’s Chip!”

Adam could see Belle was barely holding herself back from bursting into tears when she bent down to give him a hug as he ran into her arms with infectious happiness. While Belle was reuniting with Chip, Adam looked over at Madame de Garderobe and Maestro Cadenza, bowing his head in quiet thankfulness, pleasantly surprised when they bowed and curtseyed in return, their hands still clasped tight, clearly refusing to let go of each other, not for a long time now they were together again.

“Thank you, Prince Adam. Thank you.” Maestro Cadenza said, as he affected another deep bow, “You have our eternal gratitude for the rest of our days.”

Adam sunk into the nearest armchair and let his head sink in his hands, shoulders shaking not only from such utter, deep, wordless relief that everyone had their humanity returned to them, but also in the release of all the pain and grief he could now let go.

Their days in the sun had finally come shining through.

#Beauty and the Beast #batb fanfiction

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eleves · 7 years

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Letters to a Young Poet

Worpswede, near Bremen July 16, 1903

About ten days ago I left Paris, tired and quite sick, and traveled to this great northern plain, whose vastness and silence and sky ought to make me well again. But I arrived during a long period of rain; this is the first day it has begun to let up over the restlessly blowing landscape, and I am taking advantage of this moment of brightness to greet you, dear Sir.

My dear Mr. Kappus: I have left a letter from you unanswered for a long time; not because I had forgotten it - on the contrary: it is the kind that one reads again when one finds it among other letters, and I recognize you in it as if you were very near. It is your letter of May second, and I am sure you remember it. As I read it now, in the great silence of these distances, I am touched by your beautiful anxiety about life, even more than when I was in Paris, where everything echoes and fades away differently because of the excessive noise that makes Things tremble. Here, where I am surrounded by an enormous landscape, which the winds move across as they come from the seas, here I feel that there is no one anywhere who can answer for you those questions and feelings which, in their depths, have a life of their own; for even the most articulate people are unable to help, since what words point to is so very delicate, is almost unsayable. But even so, I think that you will not have to remain without a solution if you trust in Things that are like the ones my eyes are now resting upon. If you trust in Nature, in what is simple in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. Perhaps you do carry within you the possibility of creating and forming, as an especially blessed and pure way of living; train yourself for that but take whatever comes, with great trust, and as long as it comes out of your will, out of some need of your innermost self, then take it upon yourself, and don't hate anything. Sex is difficult; yes. But those tasks that have been entrusted to us are difficult; almost everything serious is difficult; and everything is serious. If you just recognize this and manage, out of yourself, out of your own talent and nature, out of your own experience and childhood and strength, to achieve a wholly individual relation to sex (one that is not influenced by convention and custom), then you will no longer have to be afraid of losing yourself and becoming unworthy of your dearest possession.

Bodily delight is a sensory experience, not any different from pure looking or the pure feeling with , which a beautiful fruit fills the tongue; it is a great, an infinite learning that is given to us, a knowledge of the world, the fullness and the splendor of all knowledge. And it is not our acceptance of it that is bad; what is bad is that most people misuse this learning and squander it and apply it as a stimulant on the tired places of their lives and as a distraction rather than as a way of gathering themselves for their highest moments. People have even made eating into something else: necessity on the one hand, excess on the other; have muddied the clarity of this need, and all the deep, simple needs in which life renews itself have become just as muddy. But the individual can make them clear for himself and live them clearly (not the individual who is dependent, but the solitary man). He can remember that all beauty in animals and plants is a silent, enduring form of love and yearning, and he can see the animal, as he sees plants, patiently and willingly uniting and multiplying and growing, not out of physical pleasure, not out of physical pain, but bowing to necessities that are greater than pleasure and pain, and more powerful than will and withstanding. If only human beings could more humbly receive this mystery which the world is filled with, even in its smallest Things, could bear it, endure it, more solemnly, feel how terribly heavy it is, instead of taking it lightly. If only they could be more reverent to ward their own fruitfulness, which is essentially one, whether it is manifested as mental or physical; for mental creation too arises from the physical, is of one nature with it and only like a softer, more enraptured and more eternal repetition of bodily delight. "The thought of being a creator, of engendering, of shaping" is nothing without its continuous great confirmation and embodiment in the world, nothing without the thousand-fold assent from Things and animals - and our enjoyment of it is so indescribably beautiful and rich only because it is full of inherited memories of the engendering and birthing of millions. In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love come to life again and fill it with majesty and exaltation. And those who come together in the nights and are entwined in rocking delight perform a solemn task and gather sweetness, depth, and strength for the song of some future poet, who will appear in order to say ecstasies that are unsayable. And they call forth the future; and even if they have made a mistake and embrace blindly, the future comes anyway, a new human being arises, and on the foundation of the accident that seems to be accomplished here, there awakens the law by which a strong, determined seed forces its way through to the egg cell that openly advances to meet it. Don't be confused by surfaces; in the depths everything becomes law. And those who live the mystery falsely and badly (and they are very many) lose it only for themselves and nevertheless pass it on like a sealed letter, without knowing it. And don't be puzzled by how many names there are and how complex each life seems. Perhaps above them all there is a great motherhood, in the form of a communal yearning. The beauty of the girl, a being who (as you so beautifully say) "has not yet achieved anything," is motherhood that has a presentiment of itself and begins to prepare, becomes anxious, yearns. And the mother's beauty is motherhood that serves, and in the old woman there is a great remembering. And in the man too there is motherhood, it seems to me, physical and mental; his engendering is also a kind of birthing, and it is birthing when he creates out of his innermost fullness. And perhaps the sexes are more akin than people think, and the great renewal of the world will perhaps consist in one phenomenon: that man and woman, freed from all mistaken feelings and aversions, will seek each other not a opposites but as brother and sister, as neighbors, and will unite as human beings, in order to bear in common, simply, earnestly, and patiently, the heavy sex that has been laid upon them.

But everything that may someday be possible for many people, the solitary man can now, already, prepare and build with his own hands, which make fewer mistakes. Therefore, dear Sir, love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away, you write, and this shows that the space around you is beginning to grow vast. And if what is near you is far away, then your vastness is already among the stars and is very great; be happy about your growth, in which of course you can't take anyone with you, and be gentle with those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don't torment them with your doubts and don't frighten them with your faith or joy, which they wouldn't be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn't necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again; when you see them, love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust. Avoid providing material for the drama, that is always stretched tight between parent and children; it uses up much of the children's strength and wastes the love of the elders, which acts and warms even if it doesn't comprehend Don't ask for any advice from them and don't expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.

It is good that you will soon be entering a profession that will make you independent and will put you completely on your own, in every sense. Wait patiently to see whether your innermost life feels hemmed in by the form this profession imposes. I myself consider it a very difficult and very exacting one, since it is burdened with enormous conventions and leaves very little room for a personal interpretation of its duties. But your solitude will be a support and a home for you, even in the midst of very unfamiliar circumstances, and from it you will find all your paths. All my good wishes are ready to accompany you, and my faith is with you.

Yours,

Rainer Maria Rilke

#rainer maria rilke #letters to a young poet #4 #rilke

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reputablehqs · 6 years

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E U N O I A.

(noun). | yooˈnoiə |

a well mind

beautiful thinking

NAME: levi calderon

AGE: twenty-three

PRONOUNS: he/him

OCCUPATION: associate investment banker at calderon maddox

SECRET: he is selling his father’s company’s stock and donating the money to charity.

FC: xavier serrano

R E L A T I O N S H I P with S T E L L A

They grew up together, their families practically one thanks to their family’s businesses being tied together at the name. Levi and Stella’s great-grandfathers had created their own wealth, using their intelligence and charm to create what would become the most successful investment banking group the city had ever seen. They were babysat together whenever their parents had events to attend, and when they were old enough, they made fun of the snobby, rich couples trying to suck up to their parents’ wealth. Levi and Stella had always been friends, but it always felt as though their friendship was built artificially, not through genuine interactions. Although they were thick as thieves when they were kids, they slowly grew apart as time passed, realizing that there were others that they clicked better with, who maybe accepted them better for who they were.

Still, they were never completely out of each others’ lives – they attended the same university, were in similar social circles, and of course, the dinners and galas never stopped requiring their attendance, so they would see each other now and then. Having been one of the few people who actually knew his mother personally, she was even there for him (albeit briefly) after his mother’s passing. It was at one charity event (a Saturday after the longest week Levi could remember) when he spilled. Too much whiskey was consumed on his end, and quickly, he was unloading his frustrations as she listened intently – of course, Levi himself has no memory of her helping him back to his apartment, no memory of her telling him that she was planning to disappear soon. After she actually disappeared, Levi had shrugged it off, and was even happy for Stella, who had told him at a young age how she dreamed of living along the coast of the French Riviera, indulging in fine champagne and sitting front-row at the Monte-Carlo Masters and marrying a famous tennis player. He thought she was going to go live out her dreams – never in a million years did he think she’d actually disappear. Never in a billion years did he think that she would return, especially with information he never remembered telling her. Levi is scared shitless, to say the least, and with an unsatisfied mind, he is determined to figure out what is behind all the strings she’s been pulling.

E U N O I A is currently closed. BIOGRAPHY FOUND UNDER THE CUT.

Despite being two weeks early and causing his mother to endure a surprise caesarean section, Levi Christian Calderón was born into the world with big, curious, hazel eyes,. His mother had called it–she believed he would one day have the knowledge and power to bring a force, a change to the world. Little did she know, as frail and and in-awe that she was, how right she would be. From pointing to the Van Gogh and Picasso originals lining the walls of the Calderón Mansion in the Upper East Side in his high chair, to highlighting newspaper articles for new vocabulary words, Levi never stopped wanting to learn. What’s this, how’s that–the boy simply did not stop asking questions. He’d read books until 3 AM as a kid, snuggled up in his father’s desk chair with a blanket wrapped around his knees, flipping pages until he conquered his latest endeavor.

With all the questioning and shoulder-tapping, most would have thought that Alejandro and Jane Calderón, Levi’s loving (and madly-in-love) parents, would have grown tired of answering questions that prompted thought, perspective, and impartiality. In fact, Alejandro, who was the Chairman and CEO of Maddox Calderón, only the most prominent investment banking group in the world (the position, naturally, was populated only by the offspring of Levi’s great-grandfather and his partner, James Maddox, the original founders of the company), was ecstatic to realize how dangerously smart his son would be when he became of age to succeed his role. On the flip side, Jane, one of the loveliest and humblest women to grace the streets of the Upper East Side, was simply overjoyed to see that her son shared the same curious mind she possessed. Jane, the founder of the international non-profit organization called Enfantisse, was quick to feed into Levi’s spirit of inquiry, inviting him along on her global trips to conferences and visits to teach him about the cultures of the world.

Levi, of course, jumped at this chance: as a young child, despite his closeness with books, he was ready to escape the confines of the spacious, crown-molded rooms and explore the genuine, colorful tastes of the world. From age seven, Levi jumped willingly onto his mother’s private jets, notebook in hand, ready to learn. They traveled to African cities where he helped install plumbing and painted desks for local primary schools, taught kids his age in Thailand how to read and write in between games of soccer, and most of all, absorbed every piece of knowledge he could. Cultures, recipes, jokes, signs–but the most important thing he came back with was a passion to learn languages. Upon entering St. Jude’s, Levi picked up verbs, words, and conjugations like no other, mastering several languages before even reaching his high school years. During his holidays, he’d fly off with his mother once again, ready to show off his newfound Swahili skills to the locals he had met just a summer prior. Simply put, he loved seeing the beauty in the world, and believed that the more he knew, the more he could understand, and the more he could appreciate about the world.

As Enfantisse grew, Levi’s mother’s job became less about the hands-on experiences she had once spent all her time doing, and more about spreading awareness, attending conferences, and educating others of the Calderóns’ status about their work. Slowly, the trips decreased, probably just around the time when Levi’s father started pressing him to focus on his schoolwork–he had reached the start of his high school career, after all. He excelled in his work, becoming a model student in his humanities classes, but struggled in his STEM-related coursework–it wasn’t that he wasn’t smart enough to understand, his mind was just elsewhere. For Levi, his thoughts were at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, or climbing the steps of the temples of Kathmandu, not solving second differentials or determining the molarity of an acid. He was brilliant–any one of Levi’s teachers could see that, he just needed a little guidance on where to prioritize his thoughts. You could often see him reading a book on his way home from school, tucking a pencil in his pocket so it could be ready for him to underline profound passages whenever he pleased.

With a little help from his parents and his guidance counselors, Levi blossomed into one of the best students St. Jude’s had ever seen–acceptances letters were thrown in every which way (although, his last name did help in that regard), and soon, Levi was moving out of the Calderón house and into a dorm room at Columbia, the school his entire family had attended since his great-grandfather first immigrated to the United States. For once, Levi’s father was not worried about his son’s future in the banking business–Levi was smart beyond measure, talented, passionate, and charming, and finally knew where to put his head. Twenty-year old Levi was just beginning to get his life in order when his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Since the moment her medical results came back, the Calderon family was in shambles. The lively Spanish culture that once colored the family turned into a monochrome grey, with smiles seen seldom around the house. The joy and love that was once flooded the halls of the Calderón Estate vanished; once Jane’s fight with cancer ultimately ended, nothing was the same. Alejandro turned cold, channeling all his energy and anger into his work, never really giving Levi the time of day. As father and son grew apart, so did Levi’s drive and commitment to his family.

It was one day, after Levi and his father held another heated argument in his father’s study, when Levi slammed the door, eyes watering, and bounded up the stairs to revisit his mother’s old studio. A photographer, Jane had always loved to capture her moments around the world and write journal entries about the things she had learned, the cultural differences, and what she would have wanted to do better in each location she visited. He found her desk untouched, her camera still loaded with pictures from her most recent trip to Paraguay. Immediately, the tears that had pooled up in his eyes started flowing down his cheeks, the beauty of the world through his mother’s eyes overwhelming him completely. He missed her, dearly, missed her perspective, her knowledge, her passion, her compassion. Levi took the camera and her journal home with him, spending hours reading through her entries and looking at her photographs. It was then when realized that Levi fell in love with storytelling, and knew that he wanted to continue her legacy.

Between long hours at the office (of course, at Maddox Calderón), Levi found time to teach himself photography. Slowly, still life became landscapes, landscapes became portraits, and portraits made Levi sorely miss his time traveling. He checked in on Enfantisse from time to time, and while they were still steadily increasing their outreach to children all over the world, Levi wanted more for them. He wanted to build a school year, hire more staff there–most of all, he wanted to be out there himself, just as his mother had done just years prior. In his daily life, he felt almost sick handling money the size of some nations’ GDPs, and wondered just how far one transaction could go. He crunched numbers in his bed at home, chipping at the little free time he had to figure out how he could siphon some money out to help the kids he had known growing up.

Little by little, he started selling minute percentages of stocks that came to his desk, making sure that the money he would take would be small and insignificant enough that no one would notice–and immediately began donating this money under an anonymous name to his late mother’s organization. Today, he still juggles between hiding from his father (not that he truly gives much attention to Levi anyway, aside from social events and company business), and struggling to come to terms with what he truly wants to do with the rest of his life. While he wants to honor his family by taking on the job of running their company after his father retires, Levi cannot help but feel drawn to the travels and the concept of continuing his mothers work–and writing about and photographing the world, just like she did.

#rp #new rp #nyc rp #secrets rp #gg rp #eunoia #male #taken #bio #eunoiabio

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realityhelixcreates · 3 years

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Beta, Theta, and Me Chapter 8: Civil Disobedience

Chapters: 8/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now),

Characters: Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags: A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary: In direct defiance of Loki’s orders, you make life easier for him.

“Like he got mad that you were asking questions?” Stark asked over the phone. “If he starts getting like that, you don't have to keep asking.”

“No, not like that at all!” You exclaimed, back to the door, trying to speak over the sound of cursing and thumping from the penthouse outside. “He wanted to tell me! He was trying to, but it was like something clamped his mouth shut, and he couldn't get it out. Looked like it really hurt.”

“Damn. That's way worse than just withholding the information. What the hell is even with this guy? If it's not one weird thing, it's some other weird thing. Okay, well don't put yourself in danger if you don't have to.”

“Yeah. I'm just...hanging out now.” You said nervously. The crashing was still going on. “Gonna be fine though.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah! It's fine! Talk to ya later, boss!” You hung up the phone. You didn't want Stark to hear the disturbance. You definitely didn't want him sending anyone up here to 'calm things down'; that would only end badly for everyone involved, but probably Loki most of all.

He was still injured. And this tantrum couldn't be helping, with all the expended magic, and undue stress on his neck.

And you didn't actually want to leave yet. You knew this wouldn't last forever. Logically, you knew. Loki would heal, and you would move on. It was inevitable. Nothing stayed.

But you didn't want it to be over yet. You didn't want him to be carted off to the hospital or jail just yet. You didn't want to be relocated or let go yet. There were other factors at play now. The territorial desire for a place to call your home. The pride that wouldn't allow you to admit failure, even if you hadn't actually failed anything. The burning curiosity. Now, more than ever, you wanted to know what had happened to him! But obviously you couldn't just come out and ask him about it.

The shouting and crashing had died down outside your door, replaced by coughing. You cracked your door and peeked out.

You could just barely see Loki, red-faced and clutching his armrests tightly. His teeth were bared in a gritted snarl, but the coughing was a rhythmic sound repeating itself as though he was laughing. After a moment you realized that wasn't it. He was sobbing.

He had told you-ordered you-not to come back today.

But you were out in the hall anyway, grabbing up a box of tissues on your way to him.

“Insubordinate fool.” He gasped. “How dare you defy me?”

“Mhm.” You began carefully blotting up his tears.

“I could kill you. Instantly.”

“Any second.”

“And still you disobey! I should punish you most severely for this.”

“Yeah. You should really bring out your worst.”

You found yourself in his lap somehow; it was really the only position you could be in, in order to reach his face and stroke his hair, offer him the comfort he had obviously been craving for so long.

“You cannot imagine the frustration!” He raged, and you clucked, and cooed, and agreed. You probably didn't really understand. Something had obviously been done to him that was far and away from the trauma you had experienced. So you continued to caress his cheeks and let him get his ranting out.

“I deeply wish you had not seen that.” He admitted, once he had a better grip on himself.

“I'm a servant, right?” You said. “I don't really have any impact on your reputation. Besides, I'm your omni-servant, aren't I? She who does all? Didn't you have, like, councilors on Asgard?”

“Of course. But it was...unseemly...for someone of my station...and then it was too late.”

Sheer force of will kept you from rolling your eyes. Of course there was a stigma against him getting the help he needed. Because he was a prince, or an Alpha, or a man. It was just one more stupid flaw of Alpha-run societies. It was just the same here on Earth.

“How is your neck?” You asked. “Do you need any painkillers or anything?”

“Uncomfortable, and no.” He answered, letting you stand once again. “Your drugs are useless to me. And we do not profane our bodies with such anyway. It's an insult to our physical purity.”

“Oh my god, Loki. Are you an anti-vaxxer?”

“A what? No, it's just that Asgardians are impervious to viruses, and so am I. And there is no pain so great that I cannot endure it. Think me weak, simply because of this?” He gestured to his neck brace. “My pain is pure. I do not need to do anything about it, save endure.”

“Not weak, just that there's nothing wrong with-”

“I do not require that kind of sympathy.” He interrupted. “Your comfort was a gift, but you need not press it further.”

“All right, all right!” You said. Was this some kind of Asgardian thing? “No painkillers, I get it. How is it though? Is it still broken, or is that even what happened in the first place?”

He stared at you with the wariness of a wild animal. “It was...” He paused. Nothing happened. “It was broken.”

“How?” Who could do that to a god?

He hissed in pain.

“I mean, how did you survive?” You amended swiftly. Whatever had done it must be tied to whatever was enforcing his silence.

“I...I...was in space. In a sort of torpor. It has happened before. So too, was my brother. A ship came, ostensibly in response to our distress call, but more realistically to salvage any valuables from the wreck. They found Thor, and something possessed them to bring him aboard. He woke there, and for once-for once-he refused to leave me behind.

Their captain came out to find me. He is human, and a sentimental fool, like all your kind. When he saw that my neck was wrong...I do not know what it is about your people that drives them to do such things without even thinking about it...like some kind of strange instinct...he straightened my head. Damn fool has phenomenal luck. He got it just right. I woke up right out there in space with him, mostly unable to move. He went back immediately to get me an old style of space helmet; it was so thick and bulky that it acted as a makeshift brace just long enough for them to put together a real one.

The whole crew of that ship is irrevocably insane, lunatics, all of them. But I owe my life to human sentimentality.”

“So we aren't all bad, huh?” That was a heck of a story, if you'd ever heard one. He was right though; that was incredibly lucky. How easily he could have died.

“You are exhausting. Well. You specifically are not. But that crew was. Whoever heard of an Omega captaining such a ship? He was such an odd one. Already claimed, of course, not that he was my type.”

“How long do you think it will take to heal? Did a doctor look at you when you got here?”

“Yes, a human doctor saw to me. Tried to pierce my skin with a needle. Tried to give me a dose of something called 'morphine'! I informed him of his impertinence when the needle broke. Idiot. His tools could do nothing. To injure me took the power of an inf-fi-fff-AHG!”

He broke off, gagging.

“Loki! Loki, Loki, shhh, shhhh, I get it, he couldn't help you. Okay.”

A few moments passed while Loki caught his breath.

“The nature...of my injury...slows its healing. As does my use of magic, as does my distance from Asgard, as does the constant strain of just living my life.” He wheezed.

The nightmares. The curse, or whatever it was that hurt him when he tried to talk about it. All of those stresses must be constantly re-injuring him, keeping him from healing properly.

“What can I do?” You asked. In the back of your head, you were yelling at yourself not to get any further involved, not to offer any more of yourself, but you didn't take it back.

“You? You can do nothing, what do you think you could possibly do?” Loki scoffed. “You already take some pressure off. I do not have to use as much magic with you around.”

“Is there anything else I can do? So you can use less magic? Is there anything left of Asgard that can be brought here? Do you think, I dunno, lullabies or warm milk before bed would help with the nightmares? I can learn to sing better!”

He stared at you, expression severe and hard to read. Maybe you had overstepped again.

“I'll think about it.” He said. “For now, I am tired...warm milk? Really? Am I an infant?”

“No milk? Not even with cinnamon?”

Loki's lip curled. “Disgusting.”

“Man, you really are a picky eater.”

He had you leave him by the fireplace with is books, and prepare dinner. You went with pot roast this time, dumping all the ingredients into a slow cooker, and washing the prep dishes, while thinking to yourself.

You were so done with suffering. It had been all around you for so long, inescapable, the greater portion of your lived experience. There had to be something else. You'd caught tantalizing glimpses of another way of life, like peeking through the slats of a fence. But every time you thought you had found a way to slip through, somebody boarded it up. Even now, when the sun was out, and things were looking up, you couldn't help but look at this man, and see the rich, velvety layers of misery he was swaddled in.

Perhaps it was just another symptom of the human sentimentality he so scorned. To see someone in pain, and instinctively want to alleviate it. It was so integral to the core of humanity that your people had to be bombarded with a constant blitz of propaganda designed specifically to erode your compassion and empathy, just so you would stop. But it didn't stop you, not all of you. There were still protests, and strikes, and mutual aid, and community action. The urge was still there; it could not be stripped from all of you.

You returned to his side while waiting for dinner to cook. It would be a few hours yet, in which you didn't have much to do, so you sank down on the cushion he had taken to leaving near the fireside for you. Loki was staring into the sparks, as if trying to glean meaning from their dance.

“Would it offend your sensibilities overmuch to help me dress?” He asked. “It would reduce my magic use by a small amount.”

“Yeah, I could probably do that.” You said. That wouldn't be so bad, especially since he was mostly wearing robes during his convalescence. The underthings would be a challenge, simply because of the basic embarrassment that nudity always brought on. But if you could get past the awkwardness, it shouldn't be difficult.

“Are you certain? You will be exposed to certain things that could dishonor you.” He said.

“Dishonor?” You snorted. “What's there to dishonor? You already said you weren't gonna do anything to me.”

“Ah, but I do not wish to make you suffer the temptation.”

“Not gonna be a problem, trust me.” You said. Embarrassment, maybe. Temptation? Never. It was an advantage, you told yourself. Over and over again, you told yourself. At the back of every man who walked out your door, you told yourself. It was an advantage. The pheromones didn't effect you. It made you free.

But Loki frowned slightly. “Very well.” He said, slightly miffed. “You can bathe me as well, if it means so little to you.”

And there it was again. The pride always bruised like an overripe pear.

“I probably can, yeah.” You said, holding on to feigned nonchalance. That was somewhat more difficult, because it meant you would have to be physically touching more of him than you would by just dressing him. But cleaning himself probably took a lot more magic that getting dressed did. And the touch would just be kind of inconvenient, and then there was the brace...

“What do I do about the brace?” How would you wash his hair and face without getting it wet? How would you wash his neck?

“Unfortunately, I will have to use a little bit of magic to keep it dry.” Loki admitted. “Still, it will be less than before. Are you truly sure about this?”

“Never know if I don't try.” You said.

“Strange little thing. To be so cavalier. Well, we shall see how brave you are when the time comes.”

******

The time had come, and now you knew why Loki's tub was so damn big. It was built to accommodate his incredibly long legs, as well as any helpers he might require.

And probably a bit of debauchery as well. You couldn't discount that possibility, unlikely as it was that he would have partners over any time soon.

You stood in hot water just up to your thighs, wielding a soapy scrubbing pad, while Loki lounged submerged nearly to his shoulders. Things were going well so far.

Stripping him down hadn't actually been so bad; the man was built like a Geefs sculpture, like a statue of the Devil so beautiful it had to be removed from the church. He had done almost nothing to hide his privates from your view, almost challenging you, but it didn't matter. That wasn't what drew your eyes.

No, your gaze was held by the roadmap of scars that meandered across his torso, around his back, over his shoulders. A hundred human lifetimes of cuts and stabs, of burns and gashes. A cicatrix as long as your hand just to the side of his sternum caught and trapped your attention. What could do that? What could do that to him? It had a brother, a twin less than an inch from his spine. It must have been a blade. It must have severed ribs.

“It was an abomination, since you are wondering.” Loki had said, catching your horrified stare. “Like legends of old, we became each other's demise.”

“But...”

“Does it disgust you? Am I so ugly to you now that you have seen all of me?”

“No! You're just...” Like an exaltation of form that had inspired artists for millennia. An expression of beauty that could be appreciated so much farther than just the carnal. Even the marks that scrawled across his body like a cuneiform tablet only added to the story of him. The tantalizing story of a being ages old and aeons away.

He'd sunk slowly into the water with an appreciative moan, shameless, ruling the moment like the prince he was.

He'd given you a different uniform for this activity. It was basically a one-piece bathing suit, but it retained the aesthetic of your Asgardian uniform. How did he just have these things? It wasn't an immodest garment by any means, but you felt almost as revealed as he was while wearing it.

The soap was definitely something special; luxurious and sudsy, it was actually moisturizing, and smelled like a forest in Autumn. You kept your little exfoliating pad frothy with it, and used it to limit the amount of physical contact with him. He wasn't making it easy; he kept stretching out and posing, leaning into your touch, moaning at your gentle ministrations. You were being gentle, even though you just wanted to scrub him off and get this over with, but he was clearly in a roguish mood.

He flicked water at you in playful little splashes.

“Why are you trying so hard to stay dry, you prim little thing? There is plenty of room. You can relax too, just as long as you do your job.”

You shied away from the water droplets. “It's bad luck to mix work and play. Always comes back to bite me.”

“I don't bite that hard, do I?” He asked.

“Don't want to find out. You already threatened to drink my blood once, remember?”

He gave a fake frown. “That was before I realized how sour you were. No respectable bloodsucker would be able to stand two drops of you.”

“Then I'll keep my precious blood to myself. Now show me your back.”

“With pleasure.” He stood up to turn around, deliberately giving you a view of his marble ass. You were tempted to give it a hard pinch. After all, if he was going to act like an exasperating child, you might as well treat him like one. However, you also felt it was more likely that you would break your fingers squeezing before he even felt the slightest sting.

He paused a moment before sitting back down, just making sure you got a good eye full. What a brat. Was he like this as a kid? You couldn't imagine what kind of royal terror he must have been, with his tempers and his tricks. He didn't seem terribly hard to please though.

You set about scrubbing his back, taking note of the many scars there. Many of them seemed similar to each other, as if they had all been inflicted by the same awful weapon. Long, thin, and criss-crossed. You didn't know what could have caused them, but he flinched the first time you touched them, quickly regaining control.

“Does that hurt?” You asked. They didn't look fresh, but that didn't mean anything. “What made these?”

“Lash.” He said, but cut you off with a sharp hand gesture when you started to ask more questions.

Was it related to the things he couldn't say, or just another bad memory? A whip? There were so many of those marks.

You carefully washed his hair, probably the least stressful part of the whole affair, though you did watch his face carefully for any signs of discomfort regarding his neck.

You were just about to declare him clean and step out of the tub, when his hand shot out and caught you by the wrist.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” He asked. You noticed the suppressed mirth in his voice and didn't know if you liked it.

“Don't think I am, no.” You said. He gestured to the water. Specifically, he gestured to the water that was currently covering his crotch.

Oh, it was going to be like that? A challenge? Bratty to the last.

“How could I have possibly forgotten?” You drawled sarcastically. You reached down into the water and grabbed him without any ceremony or gentleness. He went instantly hard in your hand.

Perhaps this had been a bad idea.

But as you held up the rough scrubbing pad and saw the merriment drain from his expression at the realization of what was coming, vengeful satisfaction settled in your soul. He barely had time to protest before you plunged the pad underwater and gave the whole area the cleaning he'd demanded.

When you were done, and his muffled yelps had subsided, you tossed the pad aside, and climbed out of the water.

“All done!” You announced with fake cheer.

Loki glared at you, his lips pressed so tight, they almost disappeared. There wasn't any anger in his gaze, but you slipped out of the bathing room quickly, lest the heat of it bore into your back.

#betathetaandme #loki (marvel)#loki x reader

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